p547-082 PHŒNIX AT THE MISSION DOLORES.

[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]

Mission of Dolores, 15th January, 1855.

It was my intention to furnish you, this month, with an
elaborate article on a deeply interesting subject, but a serious
domestic calamity has prevented. I allude to the loss of
my stove-pipe, in the terrific gale of the 31st December.

There are few residents of this city whose business or
inclination has called them to the Mission of Dolores, that
have not seen and admired that stove-pipe. Rising above
the kitchen chimney to the noble altitude of nearly twelve
feet, it pointed to a better world, and was pleasantly suggestive
of hot cakes for breakfast. From the window of my
back porch, I have gazed for hours upon that noble structure;
and watching its rotary cap, shifting with every breeze, and
pouring forth clouds of gas and vapor, I have mused on politics,
and fancied myself a Politician. It was an accomplished
stove-pipe. The melody accompanying its movements, inaptly
termed creaking by the soulless, gave evidence of its

[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]

taste for Music, and its proficiency in Drawing was the
wonder and delight of our family circle. It had no bad
habits—it did not even smoke.

I fondly hoped to enjoy its society for years, but one by
one our dearest treasures are snatched from us: the soot fell,
and the stove-pipe has followed soot. On the night of the
31st of Dec., a gale arose, perfectly unexampled in its terrific
violence. Houses shook as with tertian ague, trees were
uprooted, roofs blown off, and ships foundered at the docks.
A stove-pipe is not a pyramid—what resistance could mine
oppose to such a storm? One by one its protecting wires
were severed; and as it bowed its devoted head to the fury
of the blast, shrieks of more than mortal agony attested the
desperate nature of its situation. At length the Storm
Spirit fell upon the feeble and reeling structure in its wrath,
and whirling it madly in the air with resistless force, breaking
several tenpenny nails, and loosening many of the upper
bricks of the chimney, dashed it down to earth. But why
harrow up the feelings of your readers by a continuation of
the distressing narrative. The suffering that we have endured,
the tears that have been shed since this loss will be
understood, and commiserated, when I add—the next morning
the kitchen chimney smoked, and has been doing it intermittently
ever since!

Since my last, scarcely a gleam of fun has come to illumine
the usual dull monotony of the Mission of Dolores,—


“The days have been dark and dreary
It rains, and the wind is never weary.”

[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]

A little occurrence at the toll-gate, the other day, is worthy
of notice, perhaps, as betokening “the good time a-coming.”
A well-known gentleman of your city, who frequently drives
forth on the Plank Road, perched on one of those little gigs
that somebody compares to a tea-tray on wheels, with the
reins hanging down behind, like unfastened suspenders, in an
absent frame of mind, drove slowly past the Rubicon without
bifurcating the customary half-dollar. Out rushed the enthusiastic
toll-gatherers, shouting, “Toll, sir, toll! you've
forgot the toll!” “Oh! don't bother me, gentlemen,” replied
the absent one, in a lachrymose tone, and with a most
woful expression, “I'm an orphan boy!” This appeal to
the sympathies of the toll-men was effective; their hearts
were touched, and the orphan went on his way rejoicing.

It is amusing to observe the shifts a maker of Poetry will
resort to, when compelled to make use of an irrelevant subject
to eke out his rhyme to convince himself and his readers
that the faux pas was quite intentional, the result of study,
and should be admired rather than criticised. In a poem
called “Al Aaraaf,” by Edgar A. Poe, who, when living,
thought himself, in all seriousness, the only living original
Poet, and that all other manufacturers of Poetry were mere
copyists, continually infringing on his patent—occurs the following
passage, in which may be found a singular instance of
the kind alluded to:

[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

Observe that note: “The Albatross is said to sleep on
the wing.” Who said so? I should like to know. Buffon
didn't mention it; neither does Audubon. Coleridge, who
made the habits of that rare bird a study, never found it out;
and the undersigned, who has gazed on many Albatrosses,
and had much discourse with ancient mariners concerning
them, never suspected the circumstance, or heard it elsewhere
remarked upon.

I am inclined to believe that it never occurred to Mr.
Poe, until having become embarrassed by that unfortunate
word “toss,” he was obliged to bring in either a hoss, or an
albatross; and preferring the bird as the more poetical, invented
the extraordinary fact to explain his appearance.

The above lines, I am told, have been much admired; but
if they are true poetry, so are the following:

[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]

A note for me, and the man waiting for an answer, said ye?
Now, by the shade of Shadrach, and the chimney of Nebuchadnezzar's
fiery furnace! 'tis the bill for the new chimney!
Bills, bills, bills! How can a man name his child William?
The horrid idea of the partner of his joys, and sorrows, presenting
him with a Bill!—and to have that Bill continually
in the house—constantly running up and down stairs—always
unsettled,—Distraction's in the thought! Tell that
man, Bridget, I'm sick; and, lucky thought, say it's the
smallpox; and ask him to call again when I've got better,
and gone to San Diego for my health.—He's gone. I see
him from a hole in the window curtain, flying off in a zigzag
direction, and looking back timorously, like a jacksnipe,
with his long bill. I shall write no more; like that bill, I
feel unsettled. Adieu!

p547-087 SQUIBOB IN BENICIA.

[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]

Benicia, October 1st, 1850.

Leaving the metropolis last evening by the gradually-increasing-in-popularity
steamer, “West Point,” I `skeeted' up
Pablo Bay with the intention of spending a few days at the
world-renowned seaport of Benicia. Our Captain (a very
pleasant and gentlemanly little fellow by the way) was named
Swift, our passengers were emphatically a fast set, the wind
blew like well-watered rose bushes, and the tide was strong
in our favor. All these circumstances tended to impress me
with the idea, that we were to make a wonderfully quick
passage, but alas, “the race is not always to the Swift,” the
“Senator” passed us ten miles from the wharf, and it was nine
o'clock and very dark at that, when we were roped in by the
side of the “ancient and fishlike” smelling hulk that forms
the broad wharf of Benicia. As I shouldered my carpet bag,
and stepped upon the wharf among the dense crowd of four
individuals that were there assembled, and gazing upon the

[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]

mighty city whose glimmering lights, feebly discernible through
the Benician darkness, extended over an area of five acres, an
overpowering sense of the grandeur and majesty of the great
rival of San Francisco, affected me.—I felt my own extreme
insignificance, and was fain to lean upon a pile of water melons
for support. “Boy!” said I, addressing an intelligent specimen
of humanity who formed an integral portion of the above
mentioned crowd, “Boy! can you direct me to the best hotel
in this city?”—“Aint but one,” responded the youth, “Winn
keeps it; right up the hill thar.” Decidedly, thought I, I will go
in to Winn, and reshouldering my carpet bag, I blundered down
the ladder, upon a plank foot-path leading over an extensive
morass in the direction indicated, not noticing, in my abstraction,
that I had inadvertently retained within my grasp the
melon upon which my hand had rested. “Saw yer!” resounded
from the wharf as I retired—“Saw yer!” repeated several individuals
upon the foot-path. For an instant my heart beat
with violence at the idea of being seen accidentally appropriating
so contemptible an affair as a water-melon; but hearing
a man with a small white hat, and large white monstache,
shout “hello!” and immediately rush with frantic violence up
the ladder, I comprehended that Sawyer was his proper name,
and by no means alluded to me or my proceedings; so slipping
the melon in my carpet bag, I tranquilly resumed my
journey. A short walk brought me to the portal of the best
and only hotel in the city, a large two-story building dignified
by the title of the “Solano Hotel,” where I was graciously
received by mine host, who welcomed me to Benicia in the

[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]

most winning manner. After slightly refreshing my inner
man with a feeble stimulant, and undergoing an introduction
to the oldest inhabitant, I calmly seated myself in the bar-room,
and contemplated with intense interest the progress of a game
of billiards between two enterprising citizens; but finding after
a lapse of two hours, that there was no earthly probability of its
ever being concluded, I seized a candlestick and retired to my
room. Here I discussed my melon with intense relish, and
then seeking my couch, essayed to sleep.—But, oh! the fleas!
skipping, hopping, crawling, biting! “Won't some one establish
an agency for the sale of D. L. Charles & Co's. Flea
bane, in Benicia?” I agonizingly shouted, and echo answered
through the reverberating halls of the “Solano Hotel,” “Yes,
they won't!” What a night! But every thing must have an
end (circles and California gold excepted), and day at last
broke over Benicia. Magnificent place! I gazed upon it
from the attic window of the “Solano Hotel,” with feelings
too deep for utterance. The sun was rising in its majesty,
gilding the red wood shingles of the U. S. Storehouses in the
distance; seven deserted hulks were riding majestically at
anchor in the bay; clothes-lines, with their burdens, were
flapping in the morning breeze; a man with a wheelbarrow
was coming down the street!—Every thing, in short, spoke of
the life, activity, business, and bustle of a great city. But in
the midst of the excitement of this scene, an odoriferous
smell of beef-steak came, like a holy calm, across my olfactories,
and hastily drawing in my cabeza, I descended to breakfast.
This operation concluded, I took a stroll in company

[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]

with the oldest inhabitant, from whom I obtained much valuable
information (which I hasten to present), and who
cheerfully volunteered to accompany me as a guide, to the
lions of the city. There are no less than forty-two wooden
houses, many of them two stories in height, in this great
place—and nearly twelve hundred inhabitants, men, women
and children! There are six grocery, provision, drygoods,
auction, commission, and where-you-can-get-almost-any-little-thing-you-want-stores,
one hotel, one school-house—which is
also a brovet church—three billiard tables, a post-office—from
which I actually saw a man get a letter—and a ten-pin-alley,
where I am told a man once rolled a whole game, paid $1.50
for it, and walked off chuckling.—Then there is a “monte
bank”—a Common Council, and a Mayor, whom my guide
informed me, was called “Carne,” from a singular habit he
has of eating roast beef for dinner.—But there isn't a tree
in all Benicia. “There was one,” said the guide, “last year—
only four miles from here, but they chopped it down for
firewood for the `post.' Alas! why didn't the woodman spare
that tree?” The dwelling of one individual pleased me indescribably—
he had painted it a vivid green! Imaginative
being. He had evidently tried to fancy it a tree, and in the
enjoyment of this sweet illusion, had reclined beneath its
grateful shade, secured from the rays of the burning sun, and
in the full enjoyment of rural felicity even among the crowded
streets of this great metropolis. How pretty is the map of
Benicia! We went to see that, too. It's all laid off in
squares and streets, for ever so far, and you can see the pegs

[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]

stuck in the ground at every corner, only they are not exactly
in a line, sometimes; and there is Aspinwall's wharf, where
they are building a steamer of iron, that looks like a large pan,
and Semple Slip, all divided on the map by lines and dots, into
little lots, of incredible value; but just now they are all under
water, so no one can tell what they are actually worth. Oh!
decidedly Benicia is a great place. “And how much, my dear
sir,” I modestly inquired of the gentlemanly recorder who
displayed the map; “how much may this lot be worth?” and
I pointed with my finger at lot No. 97, block 16,496—situated
as per map, in the very centre of the swamp. “That, sir,”
replied he with much suavity, “ah! it would be held at about
three thousand dollars, I suppose.”—I shuddered—and retired.
The history of Benicia is singular. The origin of its
name as related by the oldest inhabitant is remarkable. I put
it right down in my note-book as he spoke, and believe it
religiously, every word. “Many years ago,” said that aged
man, “this property was owned by two gentlemen, one of
whom, from the extreme candor and ingenuousness of his
character, we will call Simple; the other being distinguished
for waggery, and a disposition for practical joking, I shall
call, as in fact he was familiarly termed in those days—Larkin.
While walking over these grounds in company, on one
occasion, and being naturally struck by its natural advantages,
said Simple to Larkin. `Why not make a city here, my
boy? have it surveyed into squares, bring up ships, build
houses, make it a port of entry, establish depots, sell lots, and
knock the centre out of Yerba Buena straight.' (Yerba

[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]

Buena is now San Francisco, reader.) `Ah!' quoth Larkin with
a pleasant grin diffusing itself over his agreeable countenance
`that would be nice, hey?”' Need we say that the plan was
adopted—carried out—proved successful—and Larkin's memorable
remark “be nice, hey,” being adopted as the name of the
growing city, gradually became altered and vulgarized into its
present form Benicia! A curious history this, which would
have delighted Horne Took beyond measure. Having visited
the Masonic Hall, which is really a large and beautiful building,
reflecting credit alike on the Architect and the fraternity,
being by far the best and most convenient hall in the country,
I returned to the Solano Hotel, where I was accosted
by a gentleman in a blue coat with many buttons, and a sanguinary
streak down the leg of his trowsers, whom I almost
immediately recognized as my old friend, Captain George P.
Jambs, of the U. S. Artillery, a thorough-going adobe, as the
Spaniard has it, and a member in high and regular standing
of the Dumfudgin Club. He lives in a delightful little cottage,
about a quarter of a mile from the centre of the city—
being on duty at the Post—which is some mile, mile and
a half or two miles from that metropolis—and pressed me so
earnestly to partake of his hospitality during my short sojourn,
that I was at last fain to pack up my property, including the
remains of the abstracted melon, and in spite of the blandishments
of my kind host of the Solano, accompany him to his
domicile, which he very appropriately names “Mischief Hall.”
So here I am installed for a few days, at the expiration of
which I shall make a rambling excursion to Sonoma, Napa

[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]

and the like, and from whence perhaps you may hear from
me. As I set here looking from my airy chamber, upon the
crowds of two or three persons, thronging the streets of the
great city; as I gaze upon that man carrying home a pound
and a half of fresh beef for his dinner; as I listen to the bell of
the Mary (a Napa steam packet of four cat power) ringing for
departure, while her captain in a hoarse voice of authority, requests
the passengers to “step over the other side, as the larboard
paddle-box is under water;” as I view all these unmistakable
signs of the growth and prosperity of Benicia, I cannot
but wonder at the infatuation of the people of your village,
who will persist in their absurd belief that San Francisco
will become a place, and do not hesitate to advance the
imbecile idea that it may become a successful rival of this
city. Nonsense!—Oh Lord! at this instant there passed by
my window the—prettiest—little—I can't write any more
this week; if this takes, I'll try it again.

p547-094 SQUIBOB IN SONOMA.

[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]

Sonoma, October 10, 1850.

I arrived at this place some days since, but have been
so entirely occupied during the interval, in racing over the
adjacent hills in pursuit of unhappy partridges, wandering
along the banks of the beautiful creek, whipping its tranquil
surface for speckled trout, or cramming myself with grapes
at the vineyard, that I have not, until this moment, found
time to fulfil my promise of a continuation of my travelling
adventures. I left Benicia with satisfaction. Ungrateful
people! I had expected, after the very handsome manner in
which I had spoken of their city; the glowing description of
its magnitude, prosperity and resources that I had given, the
consequent rise in property that had taken place; the manifest
effect that my letter would produce upon the action of
Congress in making Benicia a port of entry; in view of all
these circumstances I had, indeed, expected some trifling
compliment—a public dinner, possibly, or peradventure a delicate
present of a lot or two—the deeds inclosed in a neat and

[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]

appropriate letter from the Town Council. But no!—the
name of Squibob remains unhonored and unsung, and, what is
far worse, unrecorded and untaxed in magnificent Benicia.
“How sharper than a serpent's thanks it is to have a toothless
child,” as Pope beautifully remarks in his Paradise Lost.
One individual characterized my letter as “a d—d burlesque.”
I pity that person, and forgive him.

For the last few days of my stay in Benicia, that city
was in a perfect whirl of excitement. The election was
rapidly approaching, and Herr Rossiter was exhibiting feats
of legerdemain at the California House. Individuals were
rushing about the streets proffering election tickets of all
shapes and sizes, and tickets for the exhibition were on sale
at all the principal hotels. One man conjured you to take a
ticket, while another asked you to take a ticket to see the
man conjured, so that what, with the wire-pulling by day,
and the slack wire performance by night, you stood an excellent
chance for getting slightly bewildered. Public meetings
were held, where multitudes of fifty excited individuals surrounded
the steps of the “El Dorado,” listening with breathless
interest to a speech in favor of McDaniels, and abusive to
Bradford, or in favor of somebody else and everlastingly condemnatory
of both. Election meetings, any where, are always
exciting and interesting spectacles, but the moral effect
produced by the last which I attended in Benicia, when (after
some little creature named Frisbie had made a speech, declaring
his readiness to wrap himself in the Star-spangled Banner,
fire off a pistol, and die like a son of—Liberty, for

[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]

the Union) Dr. Simple slowly unfolded himself to
his utmost height, and with one hand resting upon the
chimney of the “El Dorado,” and the other holding his
serape up to Heaven, denounced such sentiments, and declaring
that California had made him, and he should go his
length for California, right or wrong, union or disunion.
The moral effect, I say, produced, was something more than
exciting; it was sublime; it was tremendous! “That's a
right-down good speech,” said my fair companion; “but my!
how the General gave it to him! didn't he, Mr. Squibob?”
“He did so,” said I. The candidates were all Democrats, I
believe, and all but one entertained the same political sentiments.
This gentleman (a candidate for the Senate), however,
in the elucidation of his political principles, declared
that he “went in altogether for John C. Calhoun, and
nothing shorter.” Now I'm no politician, and have no wish
to engage in a controversy on the subject; but, God forgive
me if I am in error, I thought Calhoun had been dead for
some months. Well, I suppose some one is elected by this
time, and the waves of political excitement have become
calm, but Benicia was a stormy place during the election, I
assure you. I succeeded in borrowing one dollar at ten per
cent. a month (with security on a corner lot in Kearney
street, San Francisco), purchased a ticket, and went to see
Herr Rossiter. Gracious! how he balanced tobacco pipes,
and tossed knives in the air, and jumped on a wire, and sat
down on it, and rolled over it, and made it swing to and fro
while he threw little brass balls from one hand to the other

[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]

The applause was tremendous, and when, after a solo by the
orchestra (which consisted of one seedy violin, played by an
individual in such a state of hopeless inebriation that his
very fiddle seemed to hiccough), he threw a back-handed summerset,
and falling in a graceful attitude, informed the audience
that “he should appear again to-morrow evening with a
change of performance.” We enthusiastically cheered, and
my friend, the man in the red vest, who had sat during the
whole evening in a state of rapt admiration, observed with a
profound ejaculation, “that it went ahead of any thing he
had ever seen in his life, except the Falls of Niagara!” I
made many friends in Benicia. I don't like the place much,
but I do like the people; and among my acquaintances, from
Dr. Simple to my friend Mr. Sawyer, which two gentlemen
may be termed the long and short of the place;—I have
never met with more kindness, more genuine hospitality than
from the gentlemen of Benicia. The ladies are pretty, too;
but, to use an entirely original metaphor, which, I presume,
none of your readers ever heard before or will hear again:
they are “like angels' visits, few and far between.” There
isn't a more moral place on the face of the earth than
Benicia. Ephesus, where the stupid people, a few years
since, used to worship Diana, wasn't a circumstance to it.

Sonoma is twelve miles from Napa, and is—but I shall
defer my description until next week, for I have scarcely
made up my mind with regard to it, and my waning paper
warns me I have said enough at present. Yours for ever.

p547-098 SQUIBOB IN SAN FRANCISCO.

[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]

October 15th, 1850.

Time! At the word Squibob comes cheerfully up to the
scratch, and gracefully smiling upon his friends and supporters,
lets fly his one, two, as follows;—

Sonoma is a nice place. As my Sabbath school instructor
(peace to his memory) used to add, by way of a
clincher to his dictum—Piety is the foundation of all Religion—
“thar can't be no doubt on't.” Situated in the
midst of the delightful and fertile valley which bears its name,
within three miles of the beautiful creek upon whose “silvery
tide, where whilom sported the tule boats of the unpleasant
Indians, the magnificent (ly little) steamer Georgina
now puffs and wheezes tri-weekly from San Fransicso; enjoying
an unvaryingly salubrious climate, neither too warm
nor too cold. With little wind, few fleas, and a sky of that
peculiarly blue description, that Fremont terms the Italian,
it may well be called, as by the sentimentally struck travelling
snob it frequently is, the Garden of California. I

[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]

remained there ten whole days—somewhat of a marvel for so
determined a gad-about as myself—and don't remember of
ever passing ten days more pleasantly. It is useless for me
to occupy time, and trespass upon your patience by a lengthy
description of Sonoma. If any of your readers would know
the exact number of houses it contains, the names of the
people who dwell therein, the botanical applications of the
plants growing in its vicinity, or any thing else about it that
would be of any mortal use to any one, without being positively
amusing, let them purchase Revere, or some other
equally scientific work on California, and inform themselves;
suffice it to say that there is delightful society, beautiful
women, brave men, and most luscious grapes to be found
there; and the best thing one can possibly do, if a tired and
ennuyeed resident of San Francisco, Benicia, or any other
great city of all work and no play, is to take the Georgina
some pleasant afternoon and go up there for a change. He'll
find it! General Smith and his staff reside at Sonoma, and
a small detachment of troops have their station and quarters
there. I saw a trooper in the street one day; he wore a
coat with a singularly brief tail, and a nose of a remarkably
vivid tinge of redness. I thought he might have just returned
from the expedition, for his limbs were evidently weakened
by toil and privation, and his course along the street slow in
movement and serpentine in direction. I would have asked
him to proceed to the Sink of Mary's River, and recover an
odd boot that I left there last fall, but he looked scarcely fit
to make the journey. I feared he might be Jenkins, and

[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]

forbore. But it's a glorious thing to reflect that we have an
army at our disposal in this country, and a blessed reflection,
that should we lose any old clothing in the wilderness, we
can get Mr. Crawford to get that branch of the service to
pick it up.

Tired at last of monotony, even in beautiful Sonoma, I
packed up my carpet bag, and taking the two-mule stage,
passed through pretty little “Napa” again, and found myself,
one evening, once more at Benicia. It had increased
somewhat since I had left it. I observed several new clothes
poles had been erected, and noticed a hand cart at the corner
of a street, that I had never seen before. But I had little
time for observation, for the “New World” came puffing up
to the hulks as I arrived, and I hastily stepped on board.
Here I met my ancient crony, and distinguished friend Le
Baron Vieux, who was on his way from Sacramento to
the metropolis. The Baron is a good fellow and a funny man.
You have frequently laughed over his drolleries in the “True
Delta,” and in his usually unimpeachably “good style,” he
showed me about the boat, introduced me to the captain,
pointed out the “model artists” who were on board, and
finally capped the climax of his polite attention by requesting
me to take a drink. I didn't refuse, particularly—and we
descended to the bar. And “what,” said the Baron with a
pleasant and hospitable smile, “what, my dear fellow, will you
drink?” I chose Bine and Witters,—the Baron himself
drinking Bin and Gitters. We hob-a-nobbed, tossed off our
glasses, without winking, and, for an instant gazed at each

[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]

other in gasping, unspeakable astonishment. “Turpentine
and aqua fortis!” shuddered I. “Friend!” said the Baron,
in an awful voice, to the bar-keeper, “that drink is fifty cents;
but I will with pleasure give you a dollar to tell us what it
was we drank.” “We call it,” replied that imperturbable
man, “Sherry Wine, but I don't know as I ever saw
any one drink it before.” Quoth the Baron, who by this
time had partially recovered his circulation and the consequent
flow of his ideas: “I think, my friend, you'll never see
it drank before or behind, hereafter.” The New World is
an excellent and, for California, an elegant boat. Her Captain
(who don't know Wakeman?) is a pleasant gentleman.
Her accommodations are unequalled—but, and I say this
expressly for the benefit of my brethren of the “Dumfudgin
Club,” never call for “wine and bitters” at her bar. Ascending
to the cabin on the upper deck, I had the satisfaction of a
formal presentation to Dr. Collyer and his interesting
family. Sober, high-toned, moral and well-conducted citizens
may sneer if they please; rowdies may visit, and with
no other than the prurient ideas arising from their own obscene
imaginations, may indorse the same opinions more
forcibly by loud ejaculations and vulgar remarks; but I
pretend to say that no right-minded man, with any thing like
the commencement of a taste for the beautiful and artistic,
can attend one of these “Model Artist” exhibitions without
feeling astonished, gratified, and, if an enthusiast, delighted.
As our gallant boat, dashing the spray from her bow, bore
us safely and rapidly onward through the lovely bay of San

[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]

Pablo, the moon tipping with its silvery rays each curling
wave around us, and shedding a flood of yellow light upon
our upper deck, “I walked with Sappho.” And “oh,
beautiful being,” said I, somewhat excited by the inspiring
nature of the scene, and possibly, the least thought, by the turpentine
I had imbibed, “do you never feel, when in the pride
of your matchless charms you stand before us, the living,
breathing representation of the lovely, poetic, and ill-fated
Sappho; do you never feel an inspiration of the moment, and,
entering into the character, imagine yourself in mind, as in
form, her beauteous illustration?” “Well—yes,” said she,
with the slightest possible indication of a yawn, “I don't
know but I do, but it's dreadful tearing on the legs!”

Hem! a steamer's motion always made me feel unpleasantly,
and the waves of San Pablo Bay ran high that
evening. The Baron and I took more turpentine immediately.
We landed in your metropolis shortly after, and succeeding
in obtaining a man to carry my valise a couple of squares,
for which service, being late, he charged me but thirty-two
dollars, I repaired to, and registered my name at, the St.
Francis Hotel, which being deciphered with an almost imperceptible
grin by my own and every other traveller's agreeable
and gentlemanly friend, Campbell, I received the key of
No. 12, and incontinently retired to rest. What I have seen
in San Francisco I reserve for another occasion. I leave for
San Diego this evening, from which place, I will take an
early opportunity of addressing you. I regret that I cannot
remain to be a participant in the coming celebration, but my

[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]

cousin Skewball, a resident of the city, who writes with a
keen if not a “caustic pen,” has promised to furnish you an
elaborate account of the affair, which, if you print, I trust you
will send me. Write me by the post orifice. Au reservoir.

p547-104 PHŒNIX INSTALLED EDITOR OF THE SAN DIEGO HERALD. *

[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]

“Facilis decensus Averni,” which may be liberally, not literally
translated, it is easy to go to San Francisco. Ames has
gone; departed in the “Goliah.” During his absence, which
I trust will not exceed two weeks, I am to remain in charge
of the `Herald,' the literary part thereof—I would beg to be
understood—the responsible portion of the editoral duties
falling upon my friend Johnny, who has, in the kindest manner,
undertaken “the fighting department,” and to whom I
hereby refer any pugnacious or bellicose individual who may
take offence at the tone of any of my leaders. The public at
large, therefore, will understand that I stand upon “Josh

[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]

Haven's platform,” which that gentleman defined some years
since to be the liberty of saying any thing he pleased about
any body, without considering himself at all responsible. It
is an exceedingly free and independent position, and rather
agreeable than otherwise; but I have no disposition whatever
to abuse it.

It will be perceived that I have not availed myself of the
editorial privilege of using the plural pronoun in referring to
myself. This is simply because I consider it a ridiculous affectation.
I am a “lone, lorn man,” unmarried (the Lord be
praised for his infinite mercy), and though blessed with a consuming
appetite “which causes the keepers of the house where
I board to tremble,” I do not think I have a tape worm, therefore
I have no claim whatever to call myself “we,” and I
shall by no means fall into that editorial absurdity.

San Diego has been usually dull during the past week,
and a summary of the news may be summarily disposed of.
There have been no births, no marriages, no arrivals, no departures,
no earthquakes, nothing but the usual number of
drinks taken, and an occasional “small chunk of a fight” (in
which no lives have been lost), to vary the monotony of our existence.
Placidly sat our village worthies in the arm-chairs in
front of the “Exchange,” puffing their short clay pipes, and
enjoying their “otium cum dignitate,” a week ago, and placidly
they sit there still.

The only topic of interest now discussed among us is the

[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]

approaching election, and on this subject I desire to say a
few words:

To those old soldiers who were with us before the
adoption of the Constitution, and, in consequence, are entitled
to vote, I would say: remember, my lads, that the duty
of a good soldier in time of peace is to be an estimable citizen,
and, as such, to assist in the election of good men to office.
The man who seeks your vote for any office by furnishing you
with whiskey, gratis, and credit at his little shop (if he happens
to keep one), is by no means calculated to be either a
good maker or dispenser of the laws. Drink his whiskey, by
all means, if you like it, and he invites you, but make him no
pledges, and on the day of election vote any other ticket than
that he gives you. You know well enough, oh! my soldiers,
how much he cares for you, and can appreciate his professions
of attachment. They amount to precisely the same as
those of Jacob, who bought the birthright of Esau for a mess of
pottage. Don't barter yours for a little whiskey, and make for
the county a worse mess than Esau could ever have concocted.

Should any gentleman, differing with me in opinion, feel
anxious “to give utterance to the thought,” I can only say,
my dear sir, the “Herald” is an Independent paper, and
while I have charge of it, its light shall shine for all; express
yourself, therefore, fully, but concisely, in an ably written
article; hand it to me, and I will, with pleasure, present it to
the world, through the columns of this wide-spread journal,
merely reserving for myself the privilege of using you up, as

[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]

I shall infallibly do, and to a fearful extent, if facts are facts,
reason is reasonable, and “I know myself intimately,” of
which, at present, I have no manner of doubt.

And thus having said my say, in a plain, straightforward
manner, I shall close, for the present, with the assurance to
the public, that I remain their very obedient, and particularly
humble servant.

Mr. Kerren drove the Chaplain to the Mission from Old
Town last Sunday, after the performance of the afternoon
service—

The rattling 2.40 pace at which they tore along, was rather
too much for the worthy preacher.

“Kerren,” gasped his anxious reverence, as he held firmly
by the back seat, after a flying leap over a stone of unusually
large dimensions, “do you know why you are like the
Pharisees?” “No, sir,” said Kerren, touching up his off
leader. “Why,” rejoined the good old man, “ye appear
unto men too fast.”

Kerren gave a deep groan, and the horses struck a religious
walk, which they adhered to until their arrival at the
Mission.

[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]

“The Squire's Story.”—“Oh!” says the squire, “I
wish't I was married and well of it, I dread it powerful—I'd
like to marry a widow—I allers liked widows since I knowed
one down in Georgia that suited my ideas, adzactly.

“About a week after her husband died, she started down
to the grave-yard whar they'd planted of him, as she said, to
read the prescription onto his monument. When she got
there, she stood a minute a looking at the stones which was put
at each end of the grave, with an epithet on 'em that the minister
had writ for her. Then she bust out, `Oh! boo hoo,'
says she, `Jones—he was one of the best of men; I remember
how the last time he come home, about a week ago, he
brought down from town some sugar, and a little tea, and
some store goods for me, and lots of little necessaries, and a
little painted hoss for Jeems, which that blessed child got his
mouth all yaller with sucking of it, and then he kissed the children
all round, and took down that good old fiddle of his'n
and played up that good old tune,

“Here,” says the Squire, “she begin to dance, and I
just thought she was the greatest woman ever I see.”

“The Squire” always gives a short laugh, after telling
this anecdote, and then filling and lighting his pipe, subsides
into an arm-chair in front of the “Exchange,” and indulges
in calm and dreamy reflection.

[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]

Wanted.—Back numbers of the Democratic Review
speeches and writings of Jefferson, Coffroth, Calhoun, Bigler
Van Buren and others. Copies of the San Joaquin Republican
(with George's daguerreotype), Files of the Times and Transcript
(a few at a time), and a diagram representing the construction
of the old United States Bank for the use of a young
man desirous of turning Democrat.—Apply at this office (by
firing a gun, or punching on the ceiling, he being deeply engaged
in study in the garret), to

The Comedy of Errors.—We have been accused, with
great injustice, of a “reckless propensity to lampoon.” We
disclaim, with indignation, any such propensity. On the contrary,
such has been our anxiety to avoid personalities, or unpleasant
allusions, that we have actually suppressed some of
the very funniest things we have ever heard—little drolleries
over which we have laughed, ourselves, in the sanctity of the
sanctum, until the “arm-chair” has cracked again, and wondering
men in the billiard room below, have poked up against
the ceiling with their cues (that they might take their cue
from us), simply because the mention of some name, Jones,
Brown or Muggins, has rendered us unable to present them to
the public. The conductor of a public journal is responsible
for every thing that he presents, and he should never indulge in
personalities, however humorous they may appear, or however
much they may amuse himself, or be calculated to amuse his
readers.

[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]

It is for this reason that we forbear publishing the following
capital thing, dramatized expressly for our paper, and
which we are solemnly assured, occurred very nearly, if not
exactly, as represented.

Scene.—The interior of the City Post Office at San Francisco, Gov. B —.
discovered, sitting, holding a copy of the San Francisco Herald at armslength,
in a pair of tongs, and reading it with every mark of scorn and deep
disgust. Enter Judge A. from the South, Editor of the San Diego Herald.

Judge A. Ah! Governor, your most obedient; how do you
do, sir?

Governor B. (Putting the Herald in a bucket of water, and
laying down the tongs). How do you do, A., how d'ye do?
Well, how are matters going on in San Diego county?

Judge A. Oh! admirably; you may depend on the unanimous
support of that county, sir, the Herald has an immense,
a commanding influence there, it will be felt, sir. I have
left the paper in the charge of an able literary friend there,
sir, Mr. Phœnix, probably you may have heard of him, a man
of great ability; I expect an admirable paper from him this
week, sir.

Governor B. (With a bland smile).—Ah! thorough Democrat,
eh?

Judge A. Oh! certainly; I never thought to ask him,
but—oh, of course, certainly he is a Democrat.

Governor B. Oh! certainly; I shall be glad to see his
paper, Mr. A., ah! very glad, sir.

Here the mail is opened, the Judge eagerly receives a

[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]

bundle of the first Phœnix Herald, hastily tears off the envelop,
hands one copy to the Governor, and takes another himself.
Each put on spectacles and glance at the first column, where
appears in fatal capitals the respectable name of William
Waldo. Grand Tableau!!! The Governor and the Judge
gaze at each other over the tops of their respective papers,
the one, with wrathful and indignant glance, the other, with
the most concentrated expression of horror and misery of
which the human countenance is capable.

[Here the Ghost of old Squibob himself (ought to have been)
seen rising, and hovering for an instant over the pair in
an attitude of benediction, murmuring, “Bless ye, my
children,” larfs and disappears in a “sweet scented”
cloud.]

We forebear to give the conversation that ensued—this is
a Christian community in which we live, and the introduction
of excessive profanity in the columns of a public journal
even as a quotation, would not and ought not to be tolerated.

We have received by the Goliah, an affecting letter from
Judge Ames, beseeching us to return to the fold of Democracy
from which he is inclined to intimate we have been
straying. Is it possible that we have been laboring under
a delusion—and that Waldo is a Whig! Why! lor! How
singular! But anxious to atone for our past errors, willing
to please the taste of the Editor, and above all, ever solicitous
to be on the strong side, we gladly abjure our former
opinions, embrace Democracy with ardor, slap her on the
back, declare ourselves in favor of erecting a statue of

[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]

Andrew Jackson in the Plaza, and to prove our sincerity, run
up to-day at the head of our columns, a Democratic ticket for
1855, which we hope will please the most fastidious. Being
rather hard up for principles for our political faith, we have
commenced the study of the back numbers of the Democratic
Review, and finding therein that “Democracy is the supremacy
of man over his accidents,” we hereby express our
contempt for a man with a sprained ankle, and unmitigated
scorn for any body who may be kicked by a mule or a
woman. That's Democratic, ain't it? Oh, we understand
these things.—Bless your soul, Judge, we're a Democrat.

Late—Passing by one of our doggeries about 3 A. M.,
the other morning, from which proceeded “a sound of revelry
by night,” a hapless stranger on his homeward way paused to
obtain a slight refreshment, and to the host he said. “It appears
to me your visitors are rather late to-night.” “Oh
no,” replied the worthy landlord, “the boys of San Diego
generally run for forty-eight hours, stranger; it's a little late
for night before last, but for to-night! why, it's just in
the shank of the evening.” Volumes could not have said
more.

Wanted—By the subscriber, a serious young man, with
fixed principles of integrity and sobriety, to make beds,
sweep a room, black boots and bring water. For a youth of

[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]

religious principles, to whom a large salary is not of so much
object as a knowledge of the business, an eligible situation is
here offered.

The best of references given and required.

An Apt Quotation.—His Reverence coming into the
Colorado House last Sunday afternoon, was invited by the
urbane proprietor to irrigate. Being in an arid state, he
consented to take a glass of lemonade, but accidentally took
a brandy cocktail which had been mixed for Mr. Mariatowskie,
and drank it off without noticing his mistake. “Why, Doctor,”
said Frank, when he observed the disappearance of his
sustenance, “that was my horn you drank.” Ah, my young
friend, quoth the good old man, with a benevolent smile and
a smack of his lips, while the moisture stood on the inside of
his venerable spectacles—“Ah, my young friend, the horn
of the ungodly shall be put down.” Psalms 75: 10.

For Sale.—A valuable Law Library, lately the property
of a distinguished legal gentleman of San Francisco, who has
given up practice and removed to the Farralone Islands. It
consists of one volume of “Hoyle's Games,” complete, and
may be seen at this office.

[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]

Our friend Charley Poole was complaining bitterly the
other morning of the muddy quality of the water brought him
for his daily ablutions, when he was consoled by a remark of
“Phœnix,” that he was probably a descendant of old Pool
of Bethesda, mentioned in the Scriptures, and that, the angel
that used to “come down and trouble” his ancestor's water,
still continued his attentions to the family.

“There's many a slip 'tween the cup and the lip.”
Proverbs 53: 14.—It was my intention to have devoted
about two columns of this journal, this week, to an exposition
of the nefarious scheme of the “Water Front Extension,” at
San Francisco, and the abuse of the gubernatorial power that
has been exercised in the matter of the “State Printing,”
during the past year.

But I have been deterred from doing all this by two
good and sufficient reasons. In the first place, I can find
but one man in the county who ever intended to vote for
Bigler, and I have labored with him to prove the errors of
opinion into which he has fallen, to that extent, that partly
from the effects of the Fiesta, at San Luis Rey (where, as a
matter of course, he became excessively inebriated), and
partly from agitation of mind produced by my arguments, he
has fallen into a violent fit of sickness, from which his physician
thinks he cannot possibly recover before the day of
election. And, secondly, I have a horrible misgiving that
the editor de facto will return before this edition has gone to

[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]

press, in which case, coming down on me from San Francisco
“like a young giant refreshed with new wine,” and finding
(what he would consider) such abominable heresy in his columns,
he would doubtless knock the whole matter into pi, and
perhaps, in the extremity of his wrath, inflict some grievous
bodily injury on me, all of which would be intensely disagreeable.
Moved by these considerations, therefore, I shall
let John Bigler entirely alone, and in case of his re-election,
shall make a great merit of having done so, and apply to him
immediately for a commission as Notary Public.

The great event of the past week has been the Fiesta at
San Luis Rey.—Many of our citizens attended, and a very
large number of native Californians and Indians collected
from the various ranchos in the vicinity. High mass was
celebrated in the old church on Thursday morning, an Indian
baby was baptized, another nearly killed by being run over
by an excited individual on an excited horse, and that day
and the following, were passed in witnessing the absurd
efforts of some twenty natives to annoy a number of tame
bulls, with the tips of their horns cut off. This great national
amusement, ironically termed bull-fighting, consists in
waving a serape, or handkerchief, in front of the bull until he
is sufficiently annoyed to run after his tormentor, when that
individual gets out of his way, with great precipitation. The
nights were passed in an equally intellectual manner.

[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]

The “Phœnix Ticket” generally, appears to give general
satisfaction. It was merely put forward suggestively, and not
being the result of a clique or convention, the public are at
perfect liberty to make such alterations or erasures as they
may think proper. I hope it may meet with a strong support
on the day of election; but should it meet with defeat,
I shall endeavor to bear the inevitable mortification that
must result, with my usual equanimity.

Like unto the great Napoleon after the battle of Waterloo,
or the magnanimous Boggs after his defeat, in the gubernatorial
campaign of Missouri, I shall fold my arms
with tranquillity, and say either “C'est fini,” or Oh shaw, I
know'd it!”

Though this is but my second bow to a San Diego audience,
I presume it to be my last appearance and valedictory, for
the editor will doubtless arrive before another week elapses—
the gun will be removed from my trembling grasp, and the
Herald will resume its great aims, and heavy firing, and I
hope will discharge its debt to the public with accuracy, and
precision. Meanwhile “The Lord be with you.” “Be virtuous
and you will be happy.”

&hand; We have received for publication, an article signed
“Leonidas,” from the pen of an old and esteemed friend of
ours, intended to counteract the effect of our leader last
week, which we should publish were it not for its length,
and the rather strong style in which it is written. Many of

[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]

the principal points of “Leonidas”' opposition are removed
in this issue of the paper, and we doubt if it would serve
any useful purpose to publish extracts from his letter, or if
he would be pleased with our doing so.

He winds up by exhorting the Democrats “to keep together”
(we hope they will, it would give us unfeigned regret
to see any man explode or fall to pieces), and by calling
us, indirectly, “a rabid Whig.”

In this, “Leonidas,” you are mistaken. Our ideas on
political matters are precisely those of the lamented Joseph
Bowers, who when running for the office of — in the state
of — was asked by the — committee, “Mr. Bowers, what
are your politics?” To which he replied, “Gentlemen, I
have no politics”—“What,” exclaimed the committee in
surprise,—“no politics.” “No, gentlemen,” rejoined the
imperturbable Joseph, “not a d—d politic.”

He was elected unanimously, as many of our readers
from — will doubtless remember, and we hope, should it
ever come to pass, that we are a candidate for public office,
we may meet with the like good fortune.

So farewell, oh Leonidas, we trust you are not yet “boiling
with indignation;” but if unhappily that is the case, we
can only placidly remark—“Boil on.”

As an incident of the election we are told that late
in the afternoon an elderly gentleman, much overcome by
excitement and spirituous potations, was found like Peter

[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]

“weeping bitterly,” as he reclined on the cold cold ground,
behind the Court House. “I'm an old man, gentle-men,”
sobbed he, “and a poor old man, and a d—d ugly old man,
and I've gone and voted for Bigler!” “Well, you have
done it,” remarked one of the crowd, and with this expression
of sympathy, the unhappy old fellow was left to the
stings of his conscience. A melancholy instance of misplaced
attachment.

A Game of Poker.—An Eastern paper mentions the case
of an individual in Terra Haute, Ind., who attacked his wife
with a poker, and was arrested by a gentleman attracted by
the lady's screams. Ah, the gentleman passed, the lady
saw him and called.

&hand; We carelessly threw a bucket of water from our
office door the other day, the most of which fell upon an
astonished Spaniard, sitting upon his horse, before tho Colorado
House. He made the brief remark “Carajo,” meaning
that we were courageous, and on observing his stalwart form,
and the forocity of his expression and moustaches, we thought
we were.

A Syllogism.—David was a Jew—Hence, “the Harp of
David” was a Jewsharp. Question—How the deuce did
he sing his Psalms and play on it the same time?

[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]

We recommend this difficult question to “Dismal Jeems”
for solution, the answer to be left at Barry and Patten's,
directed to “Phœnix.”

“Te Deum Laudamus.”—Judge Ames has returned!
With the completion of this article my labors are ended;
and wiping my pen on my coat-tail, and placing it behind
my sinister ear, with a graceful bow and bland smile for my
honored admirers, and a wink of intense meaning for my
enemies, I shall abdicate, with dignity, the “Arm-Chair,” in
favor of its legitimate proprietor.

By the way, this “Arm-Chair” is but a pleasant fiction
of “the Judge's,”—the only seat in the Herald Office being
the empty nail keg, which I have occupied while writing my
leaders upon the inverted sugar box, that answers the purpose
of a table. But such is life. Divested of its poetry
and romance, the objects of our highest admiration become
mere common-places, like the Herald's chair and table.
Many ideas which we have learned to love and reverence,
from the poetry of imagination, as tables, become old sugar
boxes on close inspection, and more intimate acquaintance.
“Sic—but I forbear that sickening and hackneyed quotation.

[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]

During the period in which I have had control over the
Herald, I have endeavored to the best of my ability to amuse
and interest its readers, and I cannot but hope that my good
humored efforts have proved successful. If I have given
offence to any by the tone of my remarks, I assure them that
it has been quite unintentional, and to prove that I bear no
malice, I hereby accept their apologies. Certainly no one
can complain of a lack of versatility in the last six numbers.
Commencing as an Independent Journal, I have gradually
passed through all the stages of incipient Whiggery, decided
Conservatism, dignified Recantation, budding Democracy
and rampant Radicalism, and I now close the series with an
entirely literary number, in which, I have carefully abstained
from the mention of Baldo and Wigler, I mean, Wagler and
Bildo, no—never mind—as Toodles says, I haven't mentioned
any of 'em, but been careful to preserve a perfect
armed neutrality.

The paper this week will be found particularly stupid.
This is the result of deep design on my part; had I attempted
any thing remarkably brilliant, you would all have
detected it, and said, probably with truth;—Ah, this is
Phœnix's last appearance, he has tried to be very funny, and
has made a miserable failure of it. Hee! hee! hee! Oh!
no, my Public, an ancient weasel may not be detected in
the act of slumber, in that manner. I was well aware of all
this, and have been as dull and prosy as possible to avoid it.
Very little news will be found in the Herald this week: the
fact is, there never is much news in it, and it is very

[figure description] Page 112.[end figure description]

well that it is so; the climate here is so delightful, that
residents, in the enjoyment of their dolce far niente, care
very little about what is going on elsewhere, and residents
in other places, care very little about what is going on in
San Diego, so all parties are likely to be gratified with the
little paper, “and long may it wave.”

In conclusion, I am gratified to be able to state that
Johnny's office (the fighting department), for the last six
weeks, has been a sinecure, and with the exception of the
atrocious conduct of one miscreant, who was detected very
early one morning, in the act of chalking A S S on our office
door, and who was dismissed with a harmless kick, and a
gentle admonition that he should not write his name on other
persons' property, our course has been peaceful, and undisturbed
by any expression of an unpleasant nature.

So, farewell Public, I hope you will do well; I do, upon
my soul. This leader is ended, and if there be any man
among you who thinks he could write a better one, let him
try it, and if he succeeds, I shall merely remark, that I could
have done it myself if I had tried. Adios!

The Thomas Hunt had arrived, she lay at the wharf at
New Town, and a rumor had reached our ears that “the

[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]

“Judge” was on board. Public anxiety had been excited to
the highest pitch to witness the result of the meeting between
us. It had been stated publicly that “the Judge”
would whip us the moment he arrived; but though we
thought a conflict probable, we had never been very sanguine
as to its terminating in this manner. Coolly we gazed
from the window of the Office upon the New Town road; we
descried a cloud of dust in the distance; high above it waved
a whip lash, and we said, “the Judge” cometh, and “his
driving is like that of Jehu the son of Nimshi, for he driveth
furiously.”

Calmly we seated ourselves in the “arm chair,” and continued
our labors upon our magnificent Pictorial. Anon, a
step, a heavy step, was heard upon the stairs, and “the
Judge” stood before us.

“In shape and gesture proudly eminent, stood like a
tower:...... but his face deep scars of thunder had intrenched,
and care sat on his faded cheek; but under brows
of dauntless courage and considerate pride, waiting revenge.”

We rose, and with an unfaltering voice said: “Well,
Judge, how do you do?” He made no reply, but commenced
taking off his coat.

We removed ours, also our cravat.

The sixth and last round, is described by the pressman
and compositors, as having been fearfully scientific. We held

[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]

“the Judge” down over the Press by our nose (which we
had inserted between his teeth for that purpose), and while
our hair was employed in holding one of his hands, we held
the other in our left, and with the “sheep's foot” brandished
above our head, shouted to him, “say Waldo,” Never! he
gasped—


Oh! my Bigler he would have muttered,
But that he `dried up,' ere the word was uttered.
At this moment, we discovered that we had been laboring
under a “misunderstanding,” and through the amicable intervention
of the pressman, who thrust a roller between our
faces (which gave the whole affair a very different complexion),
the matter was finally settled on the most friendly
terms—“and without prejudice to the honor of either
party.” We write this while sitting without any clothing,
except our left stocking, and the rim of our hat encircling our
neck like a `ruff' of the Elizabethan era—that article of
dress having been knocked over our head at an early stage
of the proceedings, and the crown subsequently torn off,
while the Judge is sopping his eye with cold water, in the
next room, a small boy standing beside the sufferer with a
basin, and glancing with interest over the advertisements on
the second page of the San Diego Herald, a fair copy of
which was struck off upon the back of his shirt, at the time
we held him over the Press. Thus ends our description of
this long anticipated personal collision, of which the public
can believe precisely as much as they please; if they

[figure description] Page 115.[end figure description]

disbelieve the whole of it, we shall not be at all offended, but
can simply quote as much to the point, what might have been
the commencement of our epitaph, had we fallen in the
conflict,

p547-125 ILLUSTRATED NEWSPAPERS.

[figure description] Page 116.[end figure description]

A year or two since a weekly paper was started in London,
called the “Illustrated News.” It was filled with tolerably
executed wood cuts, representing scenes of popular interest,
and though perhaps better calculated for the nursery than the
reading room, it took very well in England, where few can
read, but all can understand pictures, and soon attained an
immense circulation. As when the inimitable London Punch
attained its world-wide celebrity, supported by such writers
as Thackeray, Jerrold and Hood, would-be funny men on this
side of the Atlantic—attempted absurd imitations—the “Yankee
Doodle”—the “John Donkey,” &c., which as a matter of
course proved miserable failures; so did the success of this Illustrated
affair inspire our money-loving publishers with hopes
of dollars, and soon appeared from Boston, New York and other
places, Pictorial and Illustrated Newspapers, teeming with
execrable and silly effusions, and filled with the most fearful
wood engravings, “got up regardless of expense” or any thing

[figure description] Page 117.[end figure description]

else; the contemplation of which was enough to make an
artist tear his hair and rend his garments. A Yankee named
Gleason, of Boston, published the first, we believe, calling it
“Gleason's Pictorial (it should have been Gleason's Pickpocket)
and Drawing Room Companion.” In this he presented
to his unhappy subscribers, views of his house in the
country, and his garden, and for aught we know, of “his ox
and his ass, and the stranger within his gates.” A detestable
invention for transferring Daguerreotypes to plates for engraving,
having come into notice about this time, was eagerly
seized upon by Gleason, for farther embellishing his catchpenny
publication, duplicates and uncalled for pictures were
easily obtained, and many a man has gazed in horror-stricken
astonishment on the likeness of a respected friend, as a “Portrait
of Monroe Edwards,” or that of his deceased grandmother,
in the character of “One of the Signers of the Declaration
of Independence.” They love pictures in Yankeedom;
every tin peddler has one on his wagon, and an itinerant lecturer
can always obtain an audience by sticking up a likeness
of some unhappy female, with her ribs laid open in an
impossible manner, for public inspection, or a hairless gentleman,
with the surface of his head laid out in eligible lots,
duly marked and numbered. The factory girls of Lowell, the
Professors of Harvard all bought the new Pictorial. (Professor
Webster was reading one, when Dr. Parkman called on
him on the morning of the murder.) Gleason's speculation
was crowned with success, and he bought himself a new
cooking stove and erected an out-building on his estate, with

[figure description] Page 118.[end figure description]

both of which he favored the public in a new wood cut immediately.

Inspired by his success, old Feejee-Mermaid-Tom-Thumb-Woolly-horse-Joyee-Heth-Barnum,
forthwith got out another
Illustrated Weekly, with pictures far more extensive, letterpress
still sillier, and engravings more miserable, if possible,
than Yankee Gleason's. And then we were bored and buffeted
by having incredible likenesses of Santa Anna, Queen
Victoria and poor old Webster, thrust beneath our nose, to
that degree that we wished the respected originals had never
existed, or that the art of wood engraving had perished with
that of painting on glass.

It was, therefore, with the most intense delight that we
saw a notice the other day of the failure and stoppage of
Barnum's Illustrated News; we rejoiced thereat, greatly, and
we hope that it will never be revived, and that Gleason will
also fail as soon as he conveniently can, and that his trashy
Pictorial will perish with it.

It must not be supposed from the tenor of these remarks
that we are opposed to the publication of a properly conducted
and creditably executed Illustrated paper. “On the contrary,
quite the reverse.” We are passionately fond of art ourselves,
and we believe that nothing can have a stronger
tendency to refinement in society, than presenting to the public,
chaste and elaborate engravings, copies of works of high
artistic merit, accompanied by graphic and well written
essays. It was for the purpose of introducing a paper containing
these features to our appreciative community, that we

[figure description] Page 119.[end figure description]

have made these introductory remarks, and for the purpose
of challenging comparison, and defying competition, that we
have criticised so severely the imbecile and ephemeral productions
mentioned above. At a vast expenditure of money,
time and labor, and after the most incredible and unheard of
exertion, on our part, individually, we are at length able to
present to the public an Illustrated publication of unprecedented
merit, containing engravings of exceeding costliness
and rare beauty of design, got up on an expensive scale, which
never has been attempted before, in this or any other country.

We furnish our readers this week with the first number,
merely premising that the immense expense attending its
issue, will require a corresponding liberality of patronage on
the part of the Public, to cause it to be continued.

Portrait of His Royal Highness Prince Albert.—Prince
Albert, the son of a gentleman named Coburg, is the husband

[figure description] Page 120.[end figure description]

of Queen Victoria of England, and the father of many of her
children. He is the inventor of the celebrated “Albert
hat,” which has been lately introduced with great effect in
the U. S. Army. The Prince is of German extraction, his
father being a Dutchman and his mother a Duchess.

Mansion of John Phœnix, Esq., San Diego, California.

House in which Shakespeare was born, in Stratford-on-Avon.

Abbotsford, the residence of Sir Walter Scott, author of
Byron's Pilgrim's Progress, &c.

The Capitol at Washington.

[figure description] Page 121.[end figure description]

Residence of Governor Bigler, at Benicia, California.

The Battle of Lake Erie, of which our Artist presents a
spirited engraving, copied from the original painting, by
Hannibal Carracci, in the possession of J. P. Haven, Esq.,
was fought in 1836, on Chesapeake Bay, between the U. S.
Frigates Constitution and Guerriere and the British Troops
under General Putnam. Our glorious flag, there as everywhere
was victorious, and “Long may it wave, o'er the land
of the free, and the home of the slave.”

Fearful accident on the Camden & Amboy Railroad!!
Terrible loss of life!!!

[figure description] Page 122.[end figure description]

View of the City of San Diego, by Sir Benjamin West.

Interview between Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe and the
Duchess of Sutherland, from a group of Statuary, by Clarke
Mills.

Bank Account of J. Phœnix, Esq., at Adams & Co.
Bankers, San Francisco, California.

Gas Works, San Diego Herald Office.

[figure description] Page 123.[end figure description]

Steamer Goliah.

View of a California Ranch.—Landseer.

Shell of an Oyster once eaten by General Washington;
showing the General's manner of opening Oysters.

There!—this is but a specimen of what we can do if liberally
sustained. We wait with anxiety to hear the verdict
of the Public, before proceeding to any farther and greater
outlays.

Subscription, $5 per annum, payable invariably in advance.

INDUCEMENTS FOR CLUBBING.

Twenty Copies furnished for one year, for fifty cents.
Address John Phœnix, Office of the San Diego Herald.

p547-133 SANDYAGO—A SOLIQUY.

[figure description] Page 124.[end figure description]

[figure description] Page 125.[end figure description]

“The Judge” looks melancholy!—He knows that this is
Phœnix's Last, and that's exactly “where the shoe pinches.”
This squib is adapted to the comprehension of the meanest
shoemaker.

p547-135 FOURTH OF JULY CELEBRATION IN SAN DIEGO.

[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]

(Reported expressly for the San Diego Herald.)

Tuesday last, the 4th of July, being the anniversary of the
discovery of San Diego by the Hon. J. J. Warner, in 1846
as well as that of our National Independence (“long may it
wave,” &c.), was celebrated in this city with all that spirit
and patriotism for which it has ever been distinguished.

Every citizen, with the exception of those who had retired
in a state of intoxication, was aroused at 2 A. M. by the soulstirring
and tremendous report of the Plaza Artillery, which
had been carefully loaded the previous evening with two
pounds of powder, and half a bushel of public documents
franked to this place by our late honorable representatives.
Each citizen on being awakened in this manner (if he imitated
the example of your respected reporter), reflected a
moment with admiration on our glorious institutions; with
pride on our great and increasing country, and with gratitude

[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]

on the efforts of those patriotic spirits who had thus aroused
him, and after murmuring some aspiration for their future
happiness, was about to sink again to sleep, when—Bang!
No. 2, more powder, more public documents, effectually
aroused him again, to go through the same train of thought,
murmur the same aspirations, a little warmer, perhaps, this
time, and again become sleepy in time for Bang! No. 3. In
this agreeable manner the attention was occupied, and the
mind filled with patriotic ideas until just before daylight,
when the powder unfortunately gave out, though four bushels
of public documents still remained (but they wouldn't go off),
and the firing ceased. At sunrise the National Banner would
have unfolded its “broad stripes and bright stars” to the
breeze, but for the unlucky circumstance of there being no
halliards to our flag-staff. We are gratified to learn that a
new set will probably be furnished by the Board of Trustees
before the next anniversary.

At 8 A. M. a procession was formed, and moved to the
sound of an excellent military band, consisting of a gong and
a hand-bell, across the Plaza, where it separated into two
divisions, one proceeding to the Union House, the other to
the Colorado Hotel. At each of these excellent establishments
an elegant dejeuner was served up, of the sumptuousness
of which the following bill of fare will give some faint
idea:—

BREAKFAST BILL OF FARE.

Coffee.	Cafe, con sucre.
Bread.	Pan.
Butter.	Mantequilla.
Fried beefsteaks.	Carne.
Hash.	No se

[figure description] Page 128.[end figure description]

At 9 A. M. precisely, the San Diego Light Infantry in full
uniform, consisting of Brown's little boy in his shirt-tail,
fired a National salute with a large bunch of fire crackers.
This part of the celebration went off admirably; with the exception
of the young gentleman having set fire to his shirt-tail,
which was fortunately extinguished immediately, without
accident.

At 12 M. an oration was delivered by a gentleman, in the
Spanish language, in front of the Exchange, of which your
reporter regrets to say he has been unable to remember but
the concluding sentence, which, however, he is informed contains
many fine ideas. It was nearly as follows:

“Hoy es el dia de Santa Refugia! Hic, Los Americanos
son abajos, no vale nada! (Hic,) nada, nada, nada, (hiccup.)
Mira! hombre, dar me poco de aguadiente Caramba.”

This oration was remarkably well received, and shortly
after, the band commencing its performance, the procession
was again formed, and dividing as before, moved off to dinner.

The afternoon passed pleasantly away, in witnessing the
performances of a gentleman who had been instituting a series
of experiments to test the relative strength of various descriptions
of spirituous liquor, and who becoming excited and enthusiastic
thereby, walked round the Plaza and howled dismally.

Upon the whole, every thing passed off in the most creditable
manner, and we can safely say that never in our recollection
have we witnessed such a celebration of the glorious
anniversary of our Nation's Independence.