His name was Fagg--David Fagg. He came to California in '52 with us,
in the SKYSCRAPER. I don't think he did it in an adventurous way. He
probably had no other place to go to. When a knot of us young fellows
would recite what splendid opportunities we resigned to go, and how
sorry our friends were to have us leave, and show daguerreotypes and
locks of hair, and talk of Mary and Susan, the man of no account used to
sit by and listen with a pained, mortified expression on his plain face,
and say nothing. I think he had nothing to say. He had no associates
except when we patronized him; and, in point of fact, he was a good deal
of sport to us. He was always seasick whenever we had a capful of wind.
He never got his sea legs on, either. And I never shall forget how
we all laughed when Rattler took him the piece of pork on a string,
and--But you know that time-honored joke. And then we had such a
splendid lark with him. Miss Fanny Twinkler couldn't bear the sight of
him, and we used to make Fagg think that she had taken a fancy to him,
and send him little delicacies and books from the cabin. You ought
to have witnessed the rich scene that took place when he came up,
stammering and very sick, to thank her! Didn't she flash up grandly and
beautifully and scornfully? So like "Medora," Rattler said--Rattler knew
Byron by heart--and wasn't old Fagg awfully cut up? But he got over it,
and when Rattler fell sick at Valparaiso, old Fagg used to nurse him.
You see he was a good sort of fellow, but he lacked manliness and
spirit.

He had absolutely no idea of poetry. I've seen him sit stolidly by,
mending his old clothes, when Rattler delivered that stirring apostrophe
of Byron's to the ocean. He asked Rattler once, quite seriously, if he
thought Byron was ever seasick. I don't remember Rattler's reply, but I
know we all laughed very much, and I have no doubt it was something good