Phoenixiana: Or Sketches and Burlesques [Paperback]

Dropping my bag at the counter I drew lot #7 on a small laminated card and proceeded to browse the shop. My first contemplation was in admiration of the fresh lumber and fine mitering used in the wood shelving and a calculation as to capital investment versus probability of return and the obviously positive hopes of the proprietor that the expensive lighting fixtures would sell many books. A used bookstore is an idealistic venture unlike a coffee shop that often results in a spiritual uplifting of a literate minority to the detriment of a survivable profit to the owner. But I will pass on quickly to the finding of the book and leave the used bookstore to it's own career.

Passing the usual fare of pulp fiction then arriving to the HUMOR section I espy staring out from the modern paperback rabble a hardbound dark blue binding with faded gold lettering. At the top of the spine a sun face facing a moon face, leading me to believe we are talking loo literature, then below the rusticated flowing title. Ah, the bird of rebirth, such a compelling myth is the phoenix that it causes one to continually return to a zesty bounce once mentioned and certainly does weather well after all mundane passions of life's drudgery have burnt themselves cold. Then the vertical quill of a pen enwrapped by what appears to be an anemic devil replete with Mohawk hair (suspecting silver studs in the upraised eyebrows), a pointed tail and protruding tongue -- the quill appearing expectant to dip an ink bottle that has a uncooperative face, arms and legs. This is a much different creative iconography than HTML text and desktop publishing.

On the embossed front cover there is a phrenologic wonder of a sly faced head with receding hairline, long nose in the shape of a sweet Italian frying pepper, Spock ears. Lips reminding one of the bucket of a coal shovel enframe a set of teeth possibly trained on a mix of carrion and buckshot, possibly explaining the protrusion of dental gaps. The woolen jacket of what one nowadays may consider a hybrid Nehru to Sergeant Pepper's style with a high straight collar, large buttons, and what can only best be described as a bow tie tied by a beast with no thumbs.

On opening to the frontispiece we find that this character is none other than John P. Squibob, a friend of the likewise legendary John Phoenix. At this juncture in life knowing nothing of Derby, Squibob and Phoenix but obviously being taken by a book that despite saying it is a 7th edition even so claims publication in 1856 by the D. Appleton and Company residing at 346 & 348 Broadway. This is to say that though the book originated one hundred forty-one years prior to my handling it did so from a building not too terribly distant from the geographic event of my afternoon discovery on July 7, 1997.

All muted excitement lest I give away my valuation of this prolific ancient tome, and delaying the commencement of my business meeting, I quickly went to the front counter of the bookstore and handed over my money and the laminated #7. Oh, forgive me if I lie, somewhere along the short labyrinth of the bookshop, possibly tucked in one of many pockets usually filled with pens, keys, rocks and camera -- or dropped on the floor near the psychology section, I had clumsily lost the laminated #7 and had to make prodigious apology and genuflection to the proprietor in order to escape unscathed. But I could hardly care as I had not only struck golden prose, but as well had struck upon a noble precedent of a blathering and bumbling idiot to rival my own turbid prognostications.

The wonder of this book, and possibly the enduring memory of Derby, is the result of humorous pieces occasionally published in the San Diego Herald during the California gold and silver rushes, which were subsequently gathered up by his friends and published as a single volume. Derby, as a result of his firm but mild disposition, has been called the first of the great American humorists, preceding both the careers of Charles Farrar Browne and Samuel L. Clemens.

Not all here is to be rediscovered of an even and steady hand. The subjects bounce from piece to piece in accord with a life lived fully and then written as time and whimsy permit. Not all reads well for timely interest in our present day. The lectures on astronomy leave one short of landing on the moon, but the complaints against the illustrated books excel in subtle humor. The finest example being the portrayal of the shell of an oyster once eaten by General Washington, showing the General's manner of opening oysters. The illustration, very simply put, is on the left the split halves of a single oyster shell mystically bolstered on the right by the arm and hammer we may often associate with an advertisement for baking soda.