Urban Sketches

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With these slight drawbacks my suburban residence is charming. To the
serious poet, and writer of elegiac verses, the aspect of Nature, viewed
from my veranda, is suggestive. I myself have experienced moments when
the "sad mechanic exercise" of verse would have been of infinite relief.
The following stanzas, by a young friend who has been stopping with me
for the benefit of his health, addressed to a duck that frequented a
small pond in the vicinity of my mansion, may be worthy of perusal. I
think I have met the idea conveyed in the first verse in some of Hood's
prose, but as my friend assures me that Hood was too conscientious to
appropriate anything not his own, I conclude I am mistaken.


LINES TO A WATER-FOWL.

(Intra Muros.)

I.

Fowl, that sing'st in yonder pool, Where the summer winds blow cool,
Are there hydropathic cures For the ills that man endures? Know'st thou
Priessnitz? What? alack Hast no other word but "Quack?"

II.

Cleopatra's barge might pale To the splendors of thy tail, Or the
stately caravel Of some "high-pooped admiral." Never yet left such a
wake E'en the navigator Drake!


III.

Dux thou art, and leader, too, Heeding not what's "falling due," Knowing
not of debt or dun,--Thou dost heed no bill but one; And, though scarce
conceivable, That's a bill Receivable, Made--that thou thy stars mightst
thank--Payable at the next bank.




ON A VULGAR LITTLE BOY


The subject of this article is at present leaning against a tree
directly opposite to my window. He wears his cap with the wrong side
before, apparently for no other object than that which seems the most
obvious,--of showing more than the average quantity of very dirty face.
His clothes, which are worn with a certain buttonless ease and freedom,
display, in the different quality of their fruit-stains, a pleasing
indication of the progress of the seasons. The nose of this vulgar
little boy turns up at the end. I have noticed this in several other
vulgar little boys, although it is by no means improbable that youthful
vulgarity may be present without this facial peculiarity. Indeed, I
am inclined to the belief that it is rather the result of early
inquisitiveness--of furtive pressures against window-panes, and
of looking over fences, or of the habit of biting large apples
hastily--than an indication of scorn or juvenile superciliousness. The
vulgar little boy is more remarkable for his obtrusive familiarity. It
is my experience of his predisposition to this quality which has induced
me to write this article.

My acquaintance with him began in a moment of weakness. I have an
unfortunate predilection to cultivate originality in people, even when
accompanied by objectionable character. But, as I lack the firmness and
skilfulness which usually accompany this taste in others, and enable
them to drop acquaintances when troublesome, I have surrounded myself
with divers unprofitable friends, among whom I count the vulgar little
boy. The manner in which he first attracted my attention was purely
accidental. He was playing in the street, and the driver of a passing
vehicle cut at him, sportively, with his whip. The vulgar little boy
rose to his feet and hurled after his tormentor a single sentence of
invective. I refrain from repeating it, for I feel that I could not do
justice to it here. If I remember rightly, it conveyed, in a very few
words, a reflection on the legitimacy of the driver's birth; it hinted
a suspicion of his father's integrity, and impugned the fair fame of
his mother; it suggested incompetency in his present position, personal
uncleanliness, and evinced a sceptical doubt of his future salvation. As
his youthful lips closed over the last syllable, the eyes of the vulgar
little boy met mine. Something in my look emboldened him to wink. I did
not repel the action nor the complicity it implied. From that moment I
fell into the power of the vulgar little boy, and he has never left me
since.

He haunts me in the streets and by-ways. He accosts me, when in the
company of friends, with repulsive freedom. He lingers about the gate
of my dwelling to waylay me as I issue forth to business. Distance
he overcomes by main strength of lungs, and he hails me from the next
street. He met me at the theatre the other evening, and demanded my
check with the air of a young foot-pad. I foolishly gave it to him,
but re-entering some time after, and comfortably seating myself in the
parquet, I was electrified by hearing my name called from the gallery
with the addition of a playful adjective. It was the vulgar little boy.
During the performance he projected spirally-twisted playbills in my
direction, and indulged in a running commentary on the supernumeraries
as they entered.

To-day has evidently been a dull one with him. I observe he whistles
the popular airs of the period with less shrillness and intensity.
Providence, however, looks not unkindly on him, and delivers into his
hands as it were two nice little boys who have at this moment innocently
strayed into our street. They are pink and white children, and are
dressed alike, and exhibit a certain air of neatness and refinement
which is alone sufficient to awaken the antagonism of the vulgar little
boy. A sigh of satisfaction breaks from his breast. What does he do? Any
other boy would content himself with simply knocking the hats off their
respective heads, and so vent his superfluous vitality in a single act,
besides precipitating the flight of the enemy. But there are aesthetic
considerations not to be overlooked; insult is to be added to the injury
inflicted, and in the struggles of the victim some justification is to
be sought for extreme measures. The two nice little boys perceive their
danger and draw closer to each other. The vulgar little boy begins
by irony. He affects to be overpowered by the magnificence of their
costume. He addresses me (across the street and through the closed
window), and requests information if there haply be a circus in the
vicinity. He makes affectionate inquiries after the health of their
parents. He expresses a fear of maternal anxiety in regard to their
welfare. He offers to conduct them home. One nice little boy feebly
retorts; but alas! his correct pronunciation; his grammatical
exactitude, and his moderate epithets only provoke a scream of derision
from the vulgar little boy, who now rapidly changes his tactics.
Staggering under the weight of his vituperation, they fall easy victims
to what he would call his "dexter mawley." A wail of lamentation goes up
from our street. But as the subject of this article seems to require
a more vigorous handling than I had purposed to give it, I find it
necessary to abandon my present dignified position, seize my hat, open
the front door, and try a stronger method.




WAITING FOR THE SHIP.

A FORT POINT IDYL.


About an hour's ride from the Plaza there is a high bluff with the
ocean breaking uninterruptedly along its rocky beach. There are several
cottages on the sands, which look as if they had recently been cast up
by a heavy sea. The cultivated patch behind each tenement is fenced in
by bamboos, broken spars, and driftwood. With its few green cabbages and
turnip-tops, each garden looks something like an aquarium with the water
turned off. In fact you would not be surprised to meet a merman digging
among the potatoes, or a mermaid milking a sea cow hard by.

Near this place formerly arose a great semaphoric telegraph with its
gaunt arms tossed up against the horizon. It has been replaced by an
observatory, connected with an electric nerve to the heart of the great
commercial city. From this point the incoming ships are signalled, and
again checked off at the City Exchange. And while we are here looking
for the expected steamer, let me tell you a story.

Not long ago, a simple, hard-working mechanic had amassed sufficient by
diligent labor in the mines to send home for his wife and two children.
He arrived in San Francisco a month before the time the ship was due,
for he was a western man, and had made the overland journey and knew
little of ships or seas or gales. He procured work in the city, but as
the time approached he would go to the shipping office regularly every
day. The month passed, but the ship came not; then a month and a week,
two weeks, three weeks, two months, and then a year.

The rough, patient face, with soft lines overlying its hard features,
which had become a daily apparition at the shipping agent's, then
disappeared. It turned up one afternoon at the observatory as the
setting sun relieved the operator from his duties. There was something
so childlike and simple in the few questions asked by this stranger,
touching his business, that the operator spent some time to explain.
When the mystery of signals and telegraphs was unfolded, the stranger
had one more question to ask. "How long might a vessel be absent before
they would give up expecting her?" The operator couldn't tell; it would
depend on circumstances. Would it be a year? Yes, it might be a year,
and vessels had been given up for lost after two years and had come
home. The stranger put his rough hand on the operator's, and thanked him
for his "troubil," and went away.

Still the ship came not. Stately clippers swept into the Gate, and
merchantmen went by with colors flying, and the welcoming gun of the
steamer often reverberated among the hills. Then the patient face, with
the old resigned expression, but a brighter, wistful look in the eye,
was regularly met on the crowded decks of the steamer as she disembarked
her living freight. He may have had a dimly defined hope that the
missing ones might yet come this way, as only another road over that
strange unknown expanse. But he talked with ship captains and sailors,
and even this last hope seemed to fail. When the careworn face and
bright eyes were presented again at the observatory, the operator,
busily engaged, could not spare time to answer foolish interrogatories,
so he went away. But as night fell, he was seen sitting on the rocks
with his face turned seaward, and was seated there all that night.

When he became hopelessly insane, for that was what the physicians
said made his eyes so bright and wistful, he was cared for by a
fellow-craftsman who had known his troubles. He was allowed to indulge
his fancy of going out to watch for the ship, in which she "and the
children" were, at night when no one else was watching. He had made up
his mind that the ship would come in at night. This, and the idea that
he would relieve the operator, who would be tired with watching all day,
seemed to please him. So he went out and relieved the operator every
night!

For two years the ships came and went. He was there to see the
outward-bound clipper, and greet her on her return. He was known only
by a few who frequented the place. When he was missed at last from his
accustomed spot, a day or two elapsed before any alarm was felt. One
Sunday, a party of pleasure-seekers clambering over the rocks were
attracted by the barking of a dog that had run on before them. When they
came up they found a plainly dressed man lying there dead. There were a
few papers in his pocket,--chiefly slips cut from different journals of
old marine memoranda,--and his face was turned towards the distant sea.