In San Francisco according to “Mark Twain:” White, Green, Johnson, Thompson—all the police—get splendid watches from multitudes of people on their beats who have fallen dead in love with them—who adore them—who worship them—who cannot live out of the dear presence of their sweet, faithful policeman—who know no happiness, no Heaven more blissful than to “lallygag” with their d—d policemen. Sick! Oh, what nasty, nauseating hog-wash is this twaddle about “the numerous friends of Officer J. Smith, who have known and admired and appreciated his faithful services in his arduous duties for the past three months, met together last evening and surprised (?) him with a superb official star and double-case hunting watch, both of massive gold. It was a noble compliment, well bestowed.” Now isn’t that bosh? People don’t fall in love with policemen without an object. You can go before a magistrate and swear to it! Whenever you see anything of that kind going on, you just move out of that policeman’s beat—because some of his “numerous friends” are going to “go through” that locality shortly.
January 7, 1866