INEXPLICABLE NEWS FROM SAN JOSE
We have before us a letter from an intelligent correspondent, dated "Sarrozay, (San Jose?) Last Sunday;" we had previously ordered this correspondent to drop us a line, in case anything unusual should happen in San Jose during the period of his sojourn there. Now that we have got his chatty letter, how ever, we prefer, for reasons of our own, to make extracts from it, instead of publishing it in full. Considering the expense we were at in sending a special correspondent so far, we are sorry to be obliged to entertain such a preference. The very first paragraph in this blurred and scrawling letter pictured our friend's condition, and filled us with humiliation. It was abhorrent to us to think that we, who had so well earned and so proudly borne the appellation of "M. T., The Moral Phenomenon," should live to have such a letter addressed to us. It begins thus:
"Mr. Mark Twain - Sir: Sarrozay's beauriful place. Flowers - or maybe it's me - smells delishs - like sp-sp-sp(ic ! )irits turpentine. Hiccups again. Don' mind them had 'em three days."
As we remarked before, it is very humiliating. So is the next paragraph:
"Full of newsper men - reporters. One from Alta, one from Flag, one from Bulletin, two from MORRING CALL, one from Sacramento Union, one from Carson Independent. And all drunk - all drunk but me. By Georshe! I'm stonished."
The next paragraph is still worse:
"Been out to Leland of the Occidental, and Livingston in the Warrum Springs, and Steve, with four buggies and a horse, which is a sp splennid place splennid place."
Here follow compliments to Nolan, Conductor of the morning train, for his kindness in allowing the writer to ride on the engine, where he could have "room to enjoy himself strong, you know," and to the Engineer for his generosity in stopping at nearly every station to give people a "chance to come on board, you understand." Then his wandering thoughts turn again affectionately to "Sarrozay" and its wonders:
"Sarrozay's lovely place. Shade trees all down both sides street, and in the middle and elsewhere, and gardens - second street back of Connental Hotel. With a new church in a tall scaffolding - I watched her an hour, but can't understand it. I don' see how they got her in - I don' see how they goin' to get her out. Corralled for good, praps. Hic! Them hiccups again. Comes from s-sociating with drunken beasts."
Our special next indulges in some maudlin felicity over the prospect of riding back to the city in the night on the back of the fire-breathing locomotive, and this suggests to his mind a song which he remembers to have heard somewhere. That is all he remembers about it, though, for the finer details of its language appear to have caved into a sort of general chaos among his recollections. The bawr stood on the burring dock, Whence all but him had f-flowed - f-floored - f-fled -
The f-flumes that lit the rattle's back
Sh-shone round him o'er the shed -
"I dono what's the marrer withat song. It don't appear to have any sense in it, somehow - but she used to be abou the fines' f-fusion - "
Soothing slumber overtook the worn and weary pilgrim at this point, doubtless, and the world may never know what beautiful thought it met upon the threshold and drove back within the portals of his brain, to perish in forgetfulness. After this effort, we trust the public will bear with us if we allow our special correspondent to rest from his exhausting labors for a season - a long season - say a year or two.
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