USA > California > San Francisco County > San Francisco > Men and memories of San Francisco in the "spring of '50" > Part 4
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In many places these odd patches of sidewalk ended with astonishing abruptness, as the un- wary stranger, walking that way after dark, very
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suddenly discovered, as he plunged forward, jarring his entire frame, jerking off his hat into the mud or dust (as the season rendered propi- tious), biting his tongue, and altogether anger- ing and discomposing himself, if he were not so unfortunate as to fall at full length, soiling and tearing his clothing or dislocating his limbs. The northern end of Kearny street, between Washington street and the Graham House (af- terwards used as the City Hall), was the abode and resort of Mexicans, Peruvians, and Chile- nos; while the southern part of the street was occupied by Germans and French, displaying Gast-haus and Café sign-boards, wine-mer- chants and bier- halles, Pharmacie - Francaise and Deutsche-Apotheke. The old Kearny street, with its narrow way; its slopy, uneven, rick- etty, pitfall-sidewalks; its toppling, unsightly buildings and aggravating doorsteps, viciously projecting half way across the footpath; its ankle-deep sand of summer and knee-deep mud of winter, at the crossings ;- that old Kearny street has passed away-thank Heaven, for- ever! What a contrast the corner of Post and Kearny presents. Where the dingy, old gro- cery once stood, with its stolid, phlegmatic proprietor, in soiled shirt-sleeves and unkempt locks, pipe in mouth, and hands in his pockets,
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obstructing his own doorway,-we now look upon the spacious and elegant White House- its grand show windows of clear plate-glass, displaying with artistic arrangement the cost- liest fabrics from the looms of India and Eu- rope. Laces, too exquisite for man to describe or appreciate, but gazed upon by the gentler sex with the heightened color, parted lips, and sparkling eyes, betokening full recognition of their value. Everything in dry goods, from the soft, thick, warm, downy blanket, delighting the eye of poor, old, rheumatic women, to the float- ing folds of vaporous fabric, wonderfully orna- mented for a bridal veil; and story upon story, piled with linens, silks and velvets, and shawls of every value. We are lifted, noiselessly, in a luxurious car, from floor to floor, where well- dressed, courteous, gentlemanly clerks, and our " old time" friends, George Huntsman and Raphael Weill, anticipate our slightest wish. And was it here that the old, dingy grocery and Assembly Hall stood? Surely, the late Horace M. Whitmore, who first projected this improve- ment, was no false prophet, when he said, "I'll alter Kearny street so that its oldest inhabitant will fail to recognize it!"
Lütgen's Hotel stands to-day in the same spot on Montgomery street, where it was origi-
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nally built in 1849-just opposite where the Russ House now stands. It is a strong wooden building, of two stories, and a high, sloping roof. The second story originally projected in a kind of balcony over the sidewalk, its stout timbers hav- ing some little pretensions to carving; remind- . ing one of quaint, old buildings in the cities and provincial towns of Europe. This building had a substantial, old-fashion appearance, greatly at variance with the pine-board shanties and wide-crannied structures usual at that time. Until quite recently this building presented its original front to the street. We miss the old, familiar object-its sturdy, honest timbers had stood so long, firm and unscathed by time, or change, or oft-repeated conflagration,-doing good service in these later years to set aright the puzzled visitor from the interior, who, once so familiar with the street, now seemed a stranger in a strange land, until the old land- mark gave him his bearings, and sent him on his way, musing on reminiscences tiempo pasado.
Many of our well known German citizens boarded at Lütgen's in '49 and '50, and later still. Nicolas Luning and A. Von der Meden were there when we first knew them. It was quite remote from the city's bustle then. Es- pecially did it seem so at night, so dark and
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still-no street lamps; no illuminated shop- windows-the deep sand muffling every footfall; a long, lonesome way to California street- plodding on in the soft, unstable sand-longer and more dreary than can be realized to-day by him who walks from Meyer's ivory-turning shop-that's where Lütgen's stood-to Wells, Fargo & Co's corner. Yet, the old citizen can remember the sigh of satisfaction with which he stepped upon the narrow strip of sidewalk in front of Howard & Green's iron store, south of California street, even if that sidewalk were but a narrow plank, laid for single file prome- nading.
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CHAPTER VII.
THE fire of May 4th, 1851, originated in the paint store of Mr. Oliver, on Clay street, Plaza, above Kearny, about eight o'clock on a Satur- day evening, and its progress was so rapid, that people occupying houses a block away were unable to remove their goods. The roofs of buildings, seemingly too remote for danger, caught fire like powder, the flames creeping from street to street like a laid train, finding fresh combustible in the dry board walls, paper and cloth interiors; and the wind-sleeping at the fire's commencement-now roaring like a pyro- maniac, tossed the blazing brands and glowing embers far away, igniting new fires upon distant roofs, till people thought incendiaries were con- summating preconcerted deviltry, adding new horror to the dire confusion. The streets were crowded with loaded drays; the snorting teams, hurried by greedy drivers to some place of safety to unload, rush back and close with the highest bidder for another freight. Frantic men stood at
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their store doors, tossing their hands in the air, offering twenty! forty! fifty dollars a load, for the removal of valuable goods; but soon the streets became so blocked with teams and furniture and bales of goods, and hurrying, crowding men and mules, that the excited drivers, hoarse with shouting, in the vain effort to haul their goods, and win the rich harvest of fire-tariffs, were glad to unload and escape with teams and vehicles, some of them having only time to un- hitch their animals, leaving their loaded drays to burn-losers in the battle, despite two or three loads at fire prices. Men stayed by their stores, hoping against hope, until the heat was unendurable, then ran for their lives, and many there were who lost the dreadful race. Ten or twelve bodies, charred beyond all recognition, were found in the streets after the fire subsided. Several men remained in the store of Taaffe & McCahill, corner of Sacramento and Mont- gomery, believing it to be fire-proof. When the heat became too intense, they tried to es- cape, but the swollen iron doors prevented. They fled to the cellar, seeking safety in a mas- sive vault, where their remains were found. One of these unfortunate victims was Captain Vincent, the father of Mr. Vincent, of Vincent & Lewis, now of this city.
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Mygatt & Bryant were the proprietors of the Washington Baths, corner of Washington street and Maiden Lane. The fire of May, '50, wiped out their establishment. They built it up again, painted and decorated it in good style, and were to open on the fourteenth of June; but, on that day, another fire came, saving them the trouble. Calvin Nutting had his iron works on Maiden Lane, between the bath rooms of Mygatt & Bryant and Jackson street. Mr. Nutting met the bath-house proprietors in the lane-or on the ground where the lane used to be-the day of the fire, and asked them if they were going to build again. They said, not unless they could build fire-proof, which, they supposed, was impossible. Mr. Nutting assured them that he could build them a fire-proof house; and before they parted a verbal contract was made.
The work was commenced in a few days, and satisfactorily finished; Mr. Nutting receiv- ing his money in weekly or semi-monthly pay- ments, as suited the convenience of Messrs. M. & B., until the contract was fully and faithfully complied with. We do not remember the cost of iron shutters and iron work for the fire-proof buildings in those times; but we know that it was very steep, and, when the fiery ordeal came, very few of the so-called fire-proof buildings stood the test.
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We remember, as well as if it were but yester- day, being in front of Jo. Bidleman's fine, three-story brick, fire-proof store, on the cast side of Montgomery street, between Washing- ton and Jackson, when the fire of May 4th, 1851, reached it. Every one said, "Oh, the fire will stop there! It can't get through those walls and shutters!" But when the dreadful heat had turned its all-devouring breath upon the firm, thick walls, and bolted, massive shutters, the moments of suspense for the spectator were but few. He saw, along the iron window-shut- ter's edge, a line of thin, smoky fringe, like an angola edging for a lady's robe. For a moment it slowly curled about the window-casing; then, with a sudden puff, the delicately waving bor- der quickly changed to a thick frame of wool- like smoke. The doubled sheets of bolted iron trembled and filled out like window-curtains shaking in a breeze, then burst their fastenings, belching long-tongued flames, that soon con- sumed the costly structure. We ran away from the fearful heat to the corner of Jackson street, and stopped to look upon the walls, melting like snow drifts, piled upon the edge of a long sleeping crater, suddenly aroused to angry vio- lence. Our faith in "fire-proof" was shaken. Turning away, we saw the deep hollow on the
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northwest corner of Jackson and Montgomery -a weedy basin in dry weather, a murky pool in winter-filled with goods of all descriptions, rescued from the flames. We looked around, thinking how strange that all those goods should have been hurried there to save them from fire, and left wholly unprotected, no one watching them; the owners returned for more; gone for some refreshment, wearied to sleep, or what not? No one was there; all seemed deserted; .- and yet, half a block away, the shouts of frenzied men and bellowing roar of flames were unabated. Lying upon some boxes in the pro- miscuous pile, we saw the silver-plated frame and plate-glass of a jeweler's show case, with its velvet lining, and diamonds in their various styles of setting,-rings, brooches, pins, ear drops and bracelets, displayed in their caskets, as when spread for sale.
We thought the people mad-leaving those jewels there-and proposed taking them from their caskets, wrapping them in our handker- chiefs, and advertising them, after the fire. One thought we'd better leave them alone; another said: "Don't open the case! some one might be concealed among these piles of goods, watching them; and, taking us for thieves, shoot us!" We fell back at this, arguing the question.
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One said that he was sure he knew the goods; they were Hayes & Lyndall's, in Clay street; and, knowing them to be good fellows, it was wrong in us to leave their goods to be stolen ; to which another answered: "It isn't reason- able to suppose they are left unguarded." While thus conversing, we had slowly moved from the immediate neighborhood of the treasure, half-turned towards, and looking at it, when a gang of drunken, shouting vagabonds- just such as hung about the dens on the hill- side at the heads of Montgomery and Kearny streets-came along Montgomery, from the burning buildings, and, sauntering into the hollow, saw the show-case and sprang upon it, tearing it open, snatching the contents, pushing and fighting for their booty, and yelling in drunken, thieving triumph.
The day after the fire of May 4th, 1851, two young men who had roomed together, and had lost by the conflagration all, save the clothes in which they stood, and a few dollars in their pockets, were hunting for a place in which to sleep. It was about noon, and they were very much fatigued and weary of going from one public house to another, finding them all full, crowded with men who had been sleeping in their stores and offices, as was customary in
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those days. Wandering on, they came to the St. Francis Hotel, on the corner of Dupont and Clay, and ascending the outside stair, walked along the balconies that reached around each story of the building. Finding one door ajar, they pushed it open carefully and looked in. The room seemed deserted and unfurnish- ed, save a small stretcher for a single cot- just the wooden frame and canvas stretcher- no bedding. Stepping into the room, supposing it to be unoccupied, they were surprised to see a man standing just behind the door. He was a tall, powerfully built man, and stood with his head drooping upon his chest; his hands, or rather his wrists, crossed, as if he wished to keep his hands from touching anything. As the two intruders began to apologise for their unceremonious entrance, the man raised his head and waved his hands, with a gesture deprecating any apology, saying, in strangely muffled, indistinct speech, "Excuse me, but I do not know where I am, or how I came here." Just then-becoming accustomed to the dim light of the room, which so obscured everything on their entrance out of the bright sunlight-the friends saw that the man was dreadfully burned, his lips so swollen and dis- torted as almost to preclude intelligible utter-
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ance ; his eyes closed, and the lids entirely indistinguishable ; his quivering hands, which he held away from himself lest contact should increase their torture, so shockingly burned that the spectators sickened at sight of them. The beard was gone, and all the hair below the line of his hat-brim was completely gone. His head was uncovered; his scorched and bat- tered hat lying in the middle of the floor, and all around and on the crown of his head were thick, light-red curls. There was something in the figure and action of the man -- something even in his voice, muffled and disguised as it was, through his burned, shapeless lips-which seemed strangely familiar to the two men, as they listened intently, with great difficulty comprehending the statement of the sufferer. As he was telling them how he remained too long in his office, getting valuable papers to- gether, in case the fire should reach the build- ing and compel him to remove them to a place of safety; how he was unable to get out when the building took fire; and the iron doors, closed for safety, were so swollen by heat, that he could not effect his escape until aided by some people outside, attracted by his cries-he suddenly paused, and asked, "Don't you know me? I am Austin, your counselor!" It was Elbridge
.
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Gerry Austin, the friend and legal adviser of the two men whom accident had led to the res- cue. With increased interest and sympathy they hurried out, obtained a vehicle, tenderly placing him therein, and conveyed him to the house of Mr. C. W. Jones (of George N. Shaw & Co.), just south of Pine street, near Battery, where he was kindly nursed to recovery by the wife of his old friend and hospitable host. Min- istering to the needs of one so much more un- fortunate than themselves, quite banished all thoughts of their own troubles-newly impress- ing the dos amigos with a just appreciation of the value of health and unimpaired faculties; and walking back across the smoking ruins to that portion of the city undevastated, they found quarters with Bowman & Thacher, who, just burned out at the corner of Clay and Mont- gomery, had leased storeroom on board. the storeship Arkansas, lying on the north side of Pacific wharf, between Sansome and Battery. Satisfied with the good work chance had placed in their hands, and weary with forty-eight hours of action, the two friends fully enjoyed their sleep in the comfortable old state-room pro- vided for them.
Another incident of the same conflagration we recall. Two young fellows who came to-
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gether to San Francisco, and were room-mates, losing all, save one little trunk-full of toilet indispensables, retreated before the devastating flames until they found themselves on the hill- side, where Montgomery street led to Telegraph Hill, and here they sat down to watch the flames. Jaded out, and perfectly aware of the useless- ness of fighting the devouring element, they concluded to climb the hill and seek some nook where they might sleep undisturbed. They soon reached a little valley or level spot, just beyond the first hill, about half-way to the summit, and saw a little cottage with sheltering veranda- extremely inviting to houseless vagrants. There was no light or evidence of life within. All seemed supernaturally quiet; the first faint gray of dawn was in the eastern sky; the elevation of the land toward the city hid the dense clouds of smoke, and the low, lurid flames, well nigh exhausted by their carnival. So strange seemed the stillness after the nerve-straining babel of ex- citement during the past seven or eight hours, that, actuated by a simultaneous impulse, they hurried to the little eminence and looked down upon the smoking ruins. The fire was low and darkly red, like a great bed of lava, and the black smoke rolled over the bay, as silent as a picture. Not an audible sound came to their 6
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ears; the shouting of men had ceased; the fire's exulting roar was hushed; both man and the scourging element seemed exhausted. Turning back, thoughtful and silent from the strange sight, they placed their trunk upon the veranda and laid down to rest. Just as they were sink- ing into unconsciousness, a woman's voice aroused them, inquiring why they were there. Hastily rising, they explained. The woman was much surprised, saying that just after her- self and husband had retired, there came a mes- senger from Dewitt & Harrison's store, on San- some, near Broadway, where her husband was the porter, requesting him to come down, as there was a big fire under way which might reach their building. The high wind, awakened by the fire, had blown the noise away from the remote and quiet locality, and she had gone to sleep all unconscious of the great calamity. With genuine hospitality and womanly sym- pathy, she invited them in, apologising for their scanty accommodations, and regretting that she had no bed to offer them, but refusing, despite all their entreaties, to allow them to sleep in the cold morning air, until she had prepared them some breakfast. By the time that day- light came, a hot breakfast with delicious coffee was set before them, filling them with refresh-
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ing comfort, and banishing all thoughts of sleep or weariness. With grateful hearts they ex- pressed their many thanks, and departed. Often since has their gratitude been expressed, and the incident never will be forgotten.
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CHAPTER VIII.
THE Baltimore Boys always took a prominent part in. the affairs of San Francisco, and on the right side of all momentous local issues.
Peter Stroebell was one of the good men of our early days-a man with a woman's heart and lion's frame, noble in stature and in nature, full of generous impulses and great integrity- as incapable of a mean action as of wearing the garments of a little man.
Mr. Stroebell went from San Francisco to Melbourne, Australia, on board the steamer Monumental City, of which he was agent and a large owner. The steamer was lost there, and Mr. Stroebell perished with her. The news of his death made sad the heart of every one who had known him.
George Hossefross was another Baltimorean; as true as steel, as open and honest as the sun, seeking with full hands the needy, and happiest when making others happy. He was one of the founders of the Monumental Engine Company,
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and was chief engineer of the San Francisco Fire Department.
James Hassan was a Baltimorean and a wor- thy confrére of his fellow citizens in California.
Hillard & Rider were Baltimoreans. John Rider died (we believe) in Nicaragua. B. F. Hillard is with the San Francisco Stock Ex- change.
Ross Fish was, for many years, in San Fran- cisco; but for the past ten years has been in the Treasury Department in Washington.
Wm. H. Hoburg was in business on Clay street in 1849-'50 with Bennett & Kirby, near Pioche, Bayerque & Co.'s store. Subsequently he was State Gauger. He is the same to-day as he was twenty-four years ago. Impulsive as a boy; utterly unable to be a hypocrite; every- thing for truth, but nothing for policy. Wet feet on Sherman's Island are, with him, far preferable to the dry shoes of some San Fran- cisco Honorables.
Charley Warner possessed all the noble traits of his companions. His life was a bitter dis- appointment. Brought up to a mercantile life in a prominent South American house, with the promise of a partnership in the firm, after a term of years. The promise was a falsehood; and Warner, after serving faithfully for years,
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was displaced to give his well-earned position to a nephew of the man who had deceived him. From this wrong he never rallied; and although now beyond all earthly disappointment, still, his living friends to-day are touched with sad- ness at the recollection of his sorrows.
Dr. A. J. Bowie is from Baltimore. His skill as a surgeon is too well known for any mention in these pages. We could not describe his con- versational powers, however great our desire. Madame de Stael, Talleyrand, Agassiz, Daniel Webster, Theodore Parker or Starr King, could have found enjoyment in listening to Dr. Bowie.
Julius C. McCeny is from Baltimore and a pioneer. He came to California when a lad, made money sufficient to study and graduate with honors at Harvard College, and returned to practice law in the Courts of California.
Winter & Latimer were Baltimoreans. A. B. McCreery was one of their employees in '49 and '50.
Dungan, Moore & Pendergast, on California street, were Baltimoreans.
James H. Wethered was from Baltimore; he was very successful, and had every prospect of wealth; but by some rascally maneuvering he was robbed of a fortune. We have heard him state the character and standing of the distin-
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guished gentleman (with an "Hon." prefixed to his name) who robbed him, and use every taunt to call him to a personal account; but the hon- orable gentleman always withdrew with celerity at Mr. Wethered's approach.
Wm. Divier, the former Superintendent of Streets, Beverly C. Saunders, Jo. Capprise, Tom. Hamilton, Robert Bennett, Tom. Lamb and John L. Durkee were from Baltimore; but John Whitehead was not, as many supposed, a native of the "Monumental City," but a North End Boston Boy.
There used to be in '49-'50 and on into '51, a man, who stood every morning on the corner of Long Wharf (now Commercial street) and Montgomery street, selling the " Alta California." He always stood on the southeast corner, just at the curbstone, his broad-brimmed felt hat down over his eyes, hiding them and the ex- pression of his face. He held the papers over his left arm, his left hand extended beyond the piled-up papers, just from the press. He stood like an automaton, never moving from his position, never raising his head, but exclaiming, at regular intervals, ."Mornin' Pa-p-u-z! Mornin' Pa-p-u-z!" the accent on the last syllable of the second word. The fingers of
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the extended hand closed on each two-bit piece, as it was dropped into it, when the right hand came swinging slowly towards the coin, dropped upon it like some slow, awkwardly moving machinery, grappled it, and slowly swung it to the capacious pocket in the right side of his heavy pilot-cloth monkey-jacket, the action and movement reminding one of a der- rick-crane lightering coals. We never heard any one ask the price of a paper; we never saw any hesitation on the part of seller or pur- chaser; everybody seemed to understand that
it was "dos reales." We have stood long and often, to see if the old fellow would utter some- thing more than the stereotyped "M-o-r-n-i-n' P-a-p-u-z!" but he never did; nor did he ever sell any other paper than the "Alta," notwith- standing his cry of M-o-r-n-i-n' P-a-p-u-z!" The plural, doubtless referred to the number of " Altas," and he did sell a goodly number for many, many mornings, and realized a nice little sum in disseminating the news of the day and the well-written editorials of Frank Soulé, Durivage and the late lamented Gilbert and McDermott.
The Alta California office was on Washington street, just at the upper northwest corner of
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the Plaza, in 1850. Gilbert, Durivage and Kem- ble were editors. Frank Soulé and McDermott were subsequently on the editorial staff. Paul Morrell, of the Sacramento Union, was foreman of the Alta printing-office. One evening, we were walking up Washington street, when we met Mr. Morrell. "Turn about!" said he, "Come and see me win a diamond-cluster pin which is to be raffled in the Bella Union." " How many tickets have you," we inquired. "One! that is all that's required," he said. "Yes, if you happen to hold that particular one," we replied. "Here it is," said Don Pablo, holding up a ticket. We went in, and he did win it, and wears the same pin to-day.
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