en
parties severally situated in Boston and the city of San Francisco,
California. As we consider the whole transaction rather _rich_, we
transcribe it for the diversion it may furnish.

Simmons, the "Oak Hall" man, of Boston, had set up a shop in San
Francisco, to which he was almost daily sending all sorts of cheap
clothing, and making, on the same, more money than a horse could pull;
and in his package, he was in the habit of sending articles for friends,
&c. A gentleman recently gone to the gold country, from Boston,
acquainted with Simmons, and Simmons with him, found, upon looking
around San Francisco, that his own business, _lawing_, wasn't worth two
cents, as many of his craft were turning their attention to matters more
useful to the human family--digging cellars, wheeling baggage, driving
teams, &c. So lawyer Bunker _turned_ his attention from Blackstone,
Chitty, Coke on Littleton, and those fellows of deep-red, blue-black
law, to the manufacture of quack nostrums. Bunker found that the great
appetite we Yankees have for quack medicines, pills and powders,
suffered no diminution in the gold country; on the contrary, the
appetite became rather sharpened for those luxuries, and Bunker found
that a New York butcher, with whom he became acquainted, was absolutely
making his fortune, by the manufacture of dough pills, spiced with
coriander, and a slight tincture of calomel.

"Egad!" says Bunker, "_I'll_ go into medicine. I'll write to a friend in
Boston, to send me _out_ a few medicine and receipt books, and a lot of
pulverized liquorice, quinine, &c., with a pill machine, and I guess
I'll be after my New York butchering friend in a double brace of
shakes."

Now, it may be premised that as Bunker was a lawyer, he wrote a
first-rate hand; in fact, he might have bragged of being able to equal,
if not surpass, the "Hon." Rufus Choate, whose scrawl more resembles the
scratchings of a poor half-drowned in an ink-saucer spider, meandering
over foolscap, than quill-driving, and as unintelligible as the marks of
a tea-box or hieroglyphics on the sarcophagus of ye ancient Egyptians!
In short, Counsellor Bunker's manuscript was awful; a few of his most
intimate friends, only, pretending to have the hang of it at all; and to
one of these friends, Bunker directs his message, transmits it by Uncle
Sam's mail _poche_, and in fever heat he awaits the return of the
precious combustibles that were to make his fortune. In course