PHOENIX AT THE MISSION DOLORES MISSION OF DOLORES, 15th January, 1855. Ir 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 stovepipe. 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 taste for Music, and its proficiency in Drawing was the wonder and de light 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 stovepipe 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.” 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: "Ligeia! Ligeia! My beautiful one! Will to melody run : Oh is it thy will, On the breezes to toss; Or capriciously still, Like the lone Albatross, Incumbent on Night, (As she on the air), To keep watch with delight On the harmony there?" 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: "Highflier! Highflier! My long-legged one! Whose mildest idea Is to kick up and run: Oh, is it thy will Thy switch-tail to toss ; Or caper viciously still, Like an old sorrel horse, [pron. ‘hoss,'] Incumbent on thee, As on him, to rear, [pron. ‘rare,'] And though sprung in the knee, With thy heels in the air?" |