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San Francisco, June 13th, 1353.

On assuming the responsible position of poetical critic for the
Herald, I applied to my friend Mr. Parry for permission to
place in one corner of his San Francisco renowned establishment,
a cigar-box, with a perforated sliding cover, for the
reception of poetical contributions, a request which that
gentleman most urbanely granted. Knowing that “Parry's”
was the favorite resort of the wits, literati and savans of the
city, I hoped and believed that this enterprise would be
crowned with the success that it merited; but either our
city poets are unable to find quarters in that establishment,
or there is dearth of that description of talent at present;
for with the exception of two or three contributions of “old
soldiers” and a half-dollar deposited by an inebriated

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member of the last Legislature, on the representation of his
friends that the box was placed there for the relief of distressed
Chinese women, nothing has come of it.

Diurnally, after imbibing my morning glass of bimbo (a
temperance drink, composed of “three parts of root beer
and two of water-gruel, thickened with a little soft squash,
and strained through a cane-bottomed chain),” have I
gazed mournfully into that aching void, and have turned
away to meet the sympathetic glance of Batten, who, being
a literary man himself, feels for my disappointment, and
shakes his head sadly as in reply to my mute inquiry, he
utters the significant monosyllable “Nix.” But this morning
my exertions were rewarded: “I had a bite.” In my
box I found the following contribution, and feeling delighted
at my success, and to encourage others who may
dread criticism, I shall publish it without remark or annotation,
merely premising that I know nothing whatever of
M. W., but that he appears to be a worthy and impulsive
young fellow, who, having become possessed of five dollars,
invested it very properly in the purchase of a ticket at the
American Theatre, where he incontinently fell in love with
Mrs. Heald (as possibly others may have done before him),
and where he hastily “threw off” the following lines, written
doubtless on the back of a playbill, immediately after the
conclusion of the Spider Dance, when he probably found
himself in a sweet state, compounded of love, excitement
and perspiration, caused by a great physical exertion, in psoducing
the encore. Here it is:

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Now isn't this — but I promised not to criticise. Try
it again, M. W.—you'll do! Winn, who is looking over my
shoulder, and is a connoisseur in this description of poetry,
says it is very fair—but he will persist in inquiring “what
chain is alluded to in the last line but one?” He thinks
“there is a link wanting there to complete the connection.”
But never mind this, M. W.; he would be glad enough
to reward you liberally for a similar article laudatory
of buckwheat cakes and golden syrup. Don't be

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disheartened! Just you go on and fill the cigar box, confident
of deserving the “smiles” of Parry, the “cheer” of
Batten, and the appreciation, with a “first-rate notice,” of
your admiring

p547-185

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