We generally pay a visit to the Picayune [1] sanctum on our occasional trips to this city of New Orleans, and we find the editors involved in manuscript, and exchange papers, the latter of which they thrust in your hand, ask you to take a seat, while they pursue the “ train of thought,” with a steadiness of purpose that shows the thought, is well trained. Of course one of the chief lions, is “ ex-Santa Fe.” There he sits in a corner, dressed in a suit of clothes mixed up in styles, between the slovenly Englishman, and the exquisite “ a la Paris.” His eyes dilate he has an idea by the tail—the fine phrenzy is upon him, when a voice outside is heard asking “ if Mr. Kendawl is har.” Another instant, the “ magic square,” made by narrow green baize, hung on an iron railing, is invaded by a tall amphibious looking subject, having a singular look that makes it hard to place him in the social scale ; pantaloons, perhaps, where the military stripes on them are not yet worn off by lounging—the coat minus one skirt, of the latest civil fashion—light red beard, and dark red hair—the particulars generally comical—the whole “ feruchus,” hat on one side of his head, and a segar nearly used up—he belches forth a cloud of smoke, as acrimonious as the gasses that effervesce off of a demijohn of vitriol, and asks “ the ex-Sante Fe prisoner” “ if he knows what has become of ‘ Jim Dobbs ?’ ”

“ Never heard of him,” is the terse reply.

“ Well, perhaps you don’t remember me,” said the segar smoker, drawing himself out at full length.

“ Can’t say I do,” [1] said ex-Sante Fe, arranging a chain on his neckerchief that acted as a band of matrimony to two very ill-assorted breast-pins.

“ That ar is strange,” soliloquizes the expiring segar. “ Don’t you remember that [3] time when we crossed the ‘ Wild Cat Ridge,’ when the Cumanches chased us and stole my yellow mule,” he continued.

“ George’s” mind still wandered in doubt.

“ Well,” insisted the unacknowledged, “ you certainly don’t forget the night we got that jug of whiskey, and had such a frolic on the Swandango Forks.”

The great questioned seemed to have some faint recollections, and said “ he did remember one or two frolics of that kind.”

“ Exactly,” continued the questioner, “ and the next day we got chased off from ‘ San Vola de Nogos,’ because the old Spaniard said we looked like a couple of––––.”

“ Yes ! yes ! yes !” exclaimed “ George,” perfectly satisfied. “ Why, old boy,” he continued with great animation, slapping the fellow on the back making the dust fly in a cloud, “ Certainly, yes ; Dobbs got killed just before we get to Mexico ; we got a very compassionate fellow to take charge of us, and he shot him because he fell lame and could’nt walk,”

“ Poor fellow !” ejaculated the ‘ acknowledged,’ and we decamped, leaving the two as thick as pickpockets, busily fighting over the battles, and recalling the terrors of the Santa Fe Expedition.

Concordia Intelligencer.


Source: New York Spirit of the Times, 14.6 (6 April 1844): 63. (University of Virginia Alderman Library).
Erin Bartels prepared this typescript.

[1] Original text reads “Picayoune.”

[2] Original text substitute a single quotation mark for a double.

[3] Original text reads “rememberthat.”

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