USA > California > San Francisco County > San Francisco > Men and memories of San Francisco in the "spring of '50" > Part 5
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Kemble was on the editorial staff of the Cali- fornia Star, afterwards continued under the name of the Alta California. He was a very elegant-looking young fellow in those days; and, when we in our unsophisticated youth first saw him cavaliering along Montgomery street, on his showy, black, high-stepping charger, with full, flowing mane and tail, saddle and bridle profusely decked with glittering, jingling silver ornaments, we thought surely this is some hi- dalgo. He sat so proudly in the saddle; his broad-brimmed sombrero worn with such a Cas- tilian air; his rich waving hair, black, arching
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eyebrows, and long, fringing lashes; his blue coat and gold buttons, and long, bright, buck- skin gauntlets, were a picture to look upon. We thought our informant was jesting when he said ' twas only an editor; he looked so like an Andalusian grandee. In after years, we became well acquainted with Kemble, and found him a real good fellow-fully equal to any " grandee'' we ever knew.
In the Polynesian of June 27, 1846, we read: "The arrival of the Brooklyn, 136 days from New York, with 178 emigrants for California, has created no little interest in our town.'' In the same article we read: " Mr. Brannan has a press with him, and intends establishing a paper, to be called the California Star."
In the Mercantile Library rooms on Bush street, are bound volumes of the California Star, published by S. Brannan, Kemble editor. These volumes were presented to the library by Messrs. Barry & Patten.
"Tip" was no insignificant attache of the Alta office. Many men remember "Tip," a big terrier, black and brown-more brown than black. Every man and boy who knew the Alta knew "Tip." His office was no sinecure. Rats were in San Francisco by the million in those days, and if we could have a dollar, or even a
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dime, for every rat who received his quietus from "Tip," we should have far more capital than some of the bankers commenced with in carly times. The rats of San Francisco and Sacra- mento in 1850, and up to the middle of the year 1853, were something wonderful. Should those pests swarm the stores, houses and streets to-day, as they did then, people would be fright- ened, and not without cause. The little, four- footed, rodent devils worked damage only second to the fires of that time. Warehousemen were put to their wits to circumvent them. Zinc and tins were nailed about the floors and lower boarding, like sheathing on a ship, and signs assuring "rat-proof storage" were plentiful and necessary. At dusk, the rats ventured boldly out upon the streets, racing and scampering in- cessantly ; darting in every direction -- squeaking and fighting with that vicious spitefulness nat- ural to them. Pedestrians and new comers felt, as they walked among the countless swarm, a constant apprehension of treading upon the wicked little vermin; nor was the new comer alone so annoyed. We never could eure our- selves at times, of suddenly halting and lifting our hands quickly upward, when some big fellow sprang within an inch of us, or struck us full and heavy, as was not uncommon. Sometimes, a
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very venomous rat, when struck at by the promenader, would show fight and be killed, rather than retreat. A terrier dog, or a good cat, commanded a big price in those times. The captain, cabin-boy, cook, or sailor who chanced to bring with him one of those much- coveted creatures, found solid consolation in separating from his faithful companion of the voyage.
Every dog or cat of them, however, became poisoned and off duty, on the sick-list very soon, the result of their incessant labors. As time went on, and brought more dogs and cats, the rat com- mune was thinned out, defeated and reduced to the ordinary number; so that the citizen of to- day cannot, like the early resident, distinguish the rat of Valparaiso, the rat of Canton or Sing- apore, the long, white, pink-eyed rice-rat of Batavia, the New York, Boston or Liverpool wharf-rat, nor yet the kangaroo rat from Aus- tralia-so well known and readily recognized in the days when they held high carnival in our streets, warehouses and dwellings.
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CHAPTER IX.
THOSE who had eaten at the French restau- rants, the LaFayette, the Jackson and the Franklin, until they were tired of the same flavors and odors, however changed and dis- guised by the artistic chef; or if not satiated by the complications and mysteries of the cuisine, if it chanced that finances were rather low, and ways and means were to be considered, and four bits instead of a dollar and a half must suffice for breakfast-one could get it for that sum, and very well cooked too, at the New York Bakery, on the same spot where it now stands, on the east side of Kearny street, between Clay and Commercial-though there was no Com- mercial street west of Montgomery street then. To be sure, the breakfast was not elaborate-a cup of coffee, two hot biscuit and a plate of baked beans-but they were very good; and though we went there first from necessity, we often went afterwards when we had plenty of the collateral, because the meals were so very
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good, so relishing, and such an agreeable diver- sion from richer, costlier and less digestible food. The Irving House, when it was opened, on the spot where Montgomery Block now stands, was a pleasant change to crowds of men without homes and family comforts; men who, as most all did in those days, slept in their offices or stores, taking their meals anywhere and everywhere, at French, Italian, Spanish, German or Chinese restaurants. So, when the Irving House was opened by Du Martrey & Mason, in the New York style, neat, clean, with quiet attendants and good cooking, with the welcome and familiar buckwheats and golden syrup, the San Franciscan began to feel as he skimmed the " Alta" or " Herald," while waiting for breakfast, as if the city of his adoption were becoming quite Americanized.
On the west side of Kearny, between Clay and Sacramento, was a little restaurant kept by Madame Rosalie, a vivacious little French woman, with the most piquant manner and con- versation, and bewitching toilette. Her chef was an artist, and her little salle a manger was cosy and comfortable, the table linen and the equipage nice and clean, and her patronage the better class of citizens. We remember going in one morn- ing to breakfast, and as we stopped a moment at
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the counter, to wish the fair hostess " Good morn- ing!" a gentleman was asking if he could have some fresh eggs for breakfast. "How would Mon- sieur like zem?" inquired the polite little woman. "Boiled, if you please!" said he. "Oh!" said the Madame, her face assuming, quick as thought, the expression of one who had lost everything worth retaining ;on earth, her shoulders raising in the most expressive of shrugs, her little, speaking hands outstretched with upturned palms, and her whole manner the perfection of pantomimic apology, "Oh, par- don, Monsieur! very good for ze omelette, but not for ze bouillie!"
Raphael's restaurant was on Pike street, be- tween Clay and Washington; a dingy, little yel- low casa, externally, and dingier, smaller still, within. The bill of fare could be readily ascer- tained by a sensitive nasal organ, on entering the salle a manger which was separated from the kitchen by a dingy, tattered curtain, of un- known material, which offered no impediment to sound or odor from the chef's domain, nor softened in the least the high key of Raphael's loud vociferation, profuse in the profane mor- ceaux of many nations, which he glibly hurled at French, Italian, Spanish, Portugese and En- glish cooks and waiters. His vocalization had
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a running accompaniment of clashing fire-irons, rattling crockery and cooking utensils.
Breakfast in the main saloon, a room about fifteen by twenty feet, was one dollar without the extras, such as eggs, claret, etc. In the ex- clusive apartment, a little, hot, smoky coop, closer to the kitchen fire, and raised by a few steps from the common room, from which it was separated by a curtain, breakfast was half a dollar extra. Many of Raphael's patrons had known him in the Parker House, in Boston, and knowing his accomplishments as a chef, wel- comed him to San Francisco, and are still loyal to him, wherever he wears the white cap.
After the guests became too numerous for the little place on la rue de Pike, Raphael came down to Sacramento street, on the north side, just above Montgomery, No. 51, where the busi- ness flourished, and his voice raised a semitone, and his loquacity increased. Of course he didn't stay here long. No one could remain in undisturbed prosperity in those days; it would have been too much good fortune. The fire soon swept everything away. Subsequently, this distinguished chef took the restaurant of the Tehama House, and to tell of all the places where he has since tickled the gastronome, would fill by far too many pages of this volume.
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Jim D-, who came to San Francisco in 1847,-a happy, reckless, generous boy, ever ready for a spree, or real hard work to aid a friend; liberal to a fault; the best man for you, and the worst you could have against you,-was up from his ranch of many leagues, once upon a time, on a little pasear in San Francisco, when late one night he found himself sitting on a doorstep on the Washington street side of the Plaza. We have said he found himself sitting there-we should have said police-officer E -- found him sitting there, for Jim was lost-in meditation. Officer E- came along, stopped a moment, and touched Jim upon the shoulder, but receiving no response, shook him gently. "What is it?" inquired Jim, without troubling himself to raise his head. "You must move on," said E -. "Oh, no, you're mistaken!" said Jim. "I'm very comfortable here; you
had better move on yourself!" "Come, no nonsense," said E-, "you musn't sit here.'' "Well, I'll bet you cinco pesos that I do sit here just as long as I want to!" " Ah, indeed!" said the officer, " I see that I shall have to take you in." At this stage of the proceedings, Jim, for the first time condescended to raise his head. "Hallo !" he exclaimed in a surprised tone, "Isn't this E -? " " Yes, sir," answered 7
-
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the guardian of the night "I'm Officer E -. " "Well, now, listen to me!" said Jim, putting his head a little forward and inclining it to one side, closing his twinkling black eyes, and purs- ing up his mouth in his own peculiar manner- "Listen! If you don't move on yourself and let me alone, I'll hiss your wife the first time I see her on the stage!" We must explain that Mrs. E-,was a member of the dramatic com- pany then performing in the city-a charming actress, and most exemplary woman; and Officer E -- being a good husband and sensible man, moved on. It is unnecessary to say to anybody who knew Jim D -- that he never would have carried out so ungallant a threat; but his sense of humor and ready invention at ruse de guerre, would not allow him to lose the opportunity.
Apropos of humor and invention, we recall a very good thing of Ned B-, whose erratic doings and sayings were as familiar as amusing to all the old citizens. If Ned made ten dol- lars by writing ten lines of notarial manuscript, or ten thousand by some speculation, 'twas all the same. His object was to get rid of the money at once, in the quickest possible way- a dinner at the La Fayette or the Jackson House, a conflict with the striped king of the jungle, or a costly gift to some fair acquaintance. We
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remember that on the occasion of some wedding, reception, ball, or festivity of some kind, a young lady had said in Ned's hearing that she intended to wear a japonica in her hair, if her brother succeeded in finding one. Now, japonicas, or any other cultivated flowers, were rather costly in those days; a little bunch of violets, or a tiny bouquet, such as might be purchased to- day for two bits, was worth from two dollars and a half to ten dollars, as circumstances com- manded. But this was nothing to be consid- ered by Ned B-, who at once proceeded to the nearest florist's, where one solitary japonica was the cynosure of eyes. Several flower-hunt- ers were eager to negotiate, but were appalled at the terms. "Have you any japonicas ?" said
Ned, bustling in. " There's the last one, sir," said the florist, with all the cool sang froid of one, master of the situation. "How much is it?" inquired Ned. "Fifty dollars!" said the modest disciple of Flora. "I'll take it," said B -- , tossing down an auriferous octagonal, and calmly walking away to win one smile.
Some years later, when japonicas were more plentiful, but when, alas! "the root of all evil" had become inconveniently scarce, and expe- dients were absolutely necessary, Ned had a notarial commission, and his office was on Mont-
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gomery, near Merchant street. One morning a notice appeared in the daily papers, requesting the creditors of Saml. W. -
and Frank T- ,
formerly residents of San Francisco, but at that time living in the city of New York, to present their claims against the above named gentlemen on or before the date mentioned in the adver- tisement. Early the next morning, the office of Mr. B- seemed to be doing an unusual business. Many people were awaiting the ad- vent of the notary who was collecting the claims against Messrs. S. W. and F. T. These kind people, in every trade and profession, old and young of both sexes, who had believed in the probity of S. W. and F. T., presented their re- spective accounts, which were carefully entered upon a formidable looking book, and each claim- ant requested to swear to his claim and pay the notarial fee of one dollar, which they cheerfully did, leaving the office and their claims, but tak- ing with them new hopes. It was said at that time that six hundred and twenty-nine claims were left in the hands of the enterprising no- tary, for which privilege each individual paid the regular fee of one dollar.
It was also stated, but with what foundation we cannot say, that the claims averaged $200 each, making an aggregate of $125,800. From
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our personal knowledge of these "former resid- 'ents," we conjecture that many confiding ac- quaintances either failed to read the notary's advertisement, or declined to present their " little bills." However, Ned B -- sported new and jaunty attire, and a rose-bud in his button-hole immediately subsequent to the fil- ing of the claims at one dollar each.
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CHAPTER X.
LEIDESDORFF street, as we have previously said, was originally a little levee, built along the beach, from a point near Sacramento street to Clay street, and a great convenience in those days it was, to come up in your boat alongside this levee, and step directly ashore, and pass up your baggage, without the necessity of wading and hauling your shallop up the beach.
On Clay street wharf, at the end of Leides- dorff, were the zinc-front stores occupied by Ferdinand Vassault, Simmons, Hutchinson & Co., J. J. Chaviteau, Selim and Edward Frank- lin, and the office of "up-river" steamboats.
We remember being in the office of the steamer " McKim," one afternoon in June, 1850, on some business with E. W. Bourne, purser of the "McK."' when a very stately individual, dressed in a very nice, new suit of navy blue, a glazed cap with brass buttons, a voluminous white collar, a la Byron, walked in. The dig- nified stateliness of his step, the manner of
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crossing his hands over his folded, but unbut- toned coat, his short neck, heavy features and long, dark hair, combed smoothly behind his cars, attracted our attention. Two or three by- standers touched their hats and saluted him as "Capitan!" as he walked on to an old-fashioned counting-house desk, at which stood an auburn- haired man, busy at his ledger. Some conver- sation ensued, which was not pleasing to the industrious clerk, who exploded with wrath. "Who the d-1 cares whether you like it or not?" said he. "You can go to-" (here he named an exceedingly sultry climate) "if you don't like it!" Here the "Captain" drew himself up with impressive dignity, and at- tempted to speak, but the auburn-haired man rattled on: "Who the d-1 do you expect to scare? You are nothing but a Mississippi steamboat clerk! You haven't been Captain long enough to know how to treat people, and you'd better go about your business and try to learn it." Completely vanquished, the "Cap- tain" walked out in a manner strikingly differ- ent from that of his entrance; he of the auburn hair continuing a volley of complimentary shots, which gradually subsided as the defeated disappeared.
"Who is he?" inquired we of E. W. B., in-
-
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dicating by a nod of our head toward the departed. "That's Captain Charley B-, of the 'McKim.'" "Who is he?" nodding toward the still growling man at the desk. "That is Tom. B-, the clerk!" "He will get his
walking ticket, won't he?"' "Not much!" said our friend, laughing loudly. "The boot is on the other leg-this is California!"
We walked away, musing upon the poten- tiality of circumstances.
The Pacific Mail Steamship Company had their office in Wm. D. M. Howard's building on Long Wharf, southeast corner of Leidesdorff, until the fire of June 14th, 1850, when they built at the corner of Sacramento and Leides- dorff, where they remained until the completion of their new wharf and offices, almost or quite twenty years.
Dall & Austin were on the southwest corner of Sacramento and Leidesdorff until the four- teenth of June fire, when they built a pier at the junction of Sansome and Sacramento streets.
Gay & Lovering were on the south side of Sacramento street, on the corner of a little alley which led through to California street, navigable, excepting at excessively high tides.
Robert. Wells & Co. were commission mer- chants on Howison's Pier.
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Locke & Morrison were commission merchants at the foot of Sacramento street. Wilmot Mar- tin was with L. & M. in those days.
Hussey, Bond & Hale were on Howison's Pier at a later day.
B. Triest's store was on Sacramento, between Sansome & Battery-Howison's Pier.
Benjamin H. Freeman, stair builder, was on the corner of Sacramento and Montgomery, twenty-two years ago; his office to-day is in the Board of Fire Commissioner's rooms, of which Board he is a worthy and respected member.
Nathaniel Gray, now on the corner of Sac- ramento and Webb, was, in the "spring of '50," on the corner of Sacramento and Dupont. His advertisement in the " Alta California" of that date, informed the public that he sold metallic burial cases, exchange on New York, purchased gold dust, and gave particular attention to the undertaking business. By easy analogy, we next come to those whose profession it is to execute the testamentary wishes of the men whose mortal remains have been consigned to the dust from whence they came.
Halleck, Peachy & Billings were occupying offices on Sacramento street, between Mont- gomery and Kearny. Subsequently they re- moved to chambers in their own building-
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Montgomery Block, on the southeast corner of Washington and Montgomery. Gen. Halleck's history is world-wide, and Messrs. Peachy & Billings are both too well known to require any comment in these pages.
Lambert & Co. (F. F. Low was the Co.) had their store on Sacramento, between Kearny and Montgomery streets.
Fitzgerald, Bausch, Brewster & Co. were on the same street, near Lambert & Co.
Everett & Co. (Theo. Shillaber) were on Howison's Pier.
Joseph S. Spinney's shipping office was on the wharf, at the foot of Sacramento street.
Mohler, Caduc & Co. had an office on Howi- son's Pier-Phil. Caduc built the pier. M. & C. were in the ship-storage business. They had the brigs Piedmont and Casilda off the end of the pier. Ship-storage was profitable for those in the business, and very safe and fortunate for the owners of the goods, when one of the sweeping conflagrations came. It was also con- venient for lightering goods to the up-river steamers, saving wharfage and drayage. Our amiable friend Caduc appears to-day just as he did twenty-three years ago. We do not see any difference in his bright eye, black hair and beard, or in his erect figure and quick step.
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He has taken life very coolly for many years, supplying our ardent and impetuous fellow- citizens with ice. Mohler, his former partner, we have not heard of for many years.
Howison's Pier commenced at the corner of Leidesdorff and Sacramento streets, on the south side of Sacramento street, as if it were a continuation of the south sidewalk, a narrow, little strip, just wide enough for a hand-car tramway, and room each side for one person to walk. When you came to Sansome street (or the line of it, for there was no street then) there was a little pier, built out from Howison's Pier, running north, and on the east line of San- some street. This pier or wharf was just long enough to accommodate the store of Dall & Austin.
The store-ship Thomas Bennett was on the south side of Howison's Pier, at the corner of Sansome street, and was headquarters for the Baltimore boys, Messrs. Stroebell, Ayer, Ross Fish, Hoburg, Hillard, Ryder, Warner, Bennett, McCeny, Hossefross, Hassam, the Gough broth- ers, John L. Durkee, Billy Buckler and many others.
The corners of Sansome, Battery and Sacra- mento streets were originally built of piles- little piers, just large enough to accommodate
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the stores and premises forming the junction of the streets. At high tide goods could be lightered from the shipping to the stores, and from the stores to the Sacramento and Stockton steamers. After a while, a narrow row of piles was driven from Sacramento street (Howison's pier) to Commercial and on to Clay street, and then extended to Washington, on to Jack- son and to Pacific. Upon the head of these piles was nailed a narrow plank walk, about four feet wide, without rail or protection of any kind whatever. Along this narrow way pedestrians passed and repassed in the dark, foggy nights, singing and rollicking, as uncon- cernedly as if their path was broad Market street, instead of an unprotected four foot wide plank walk, with drowning depth of water await- ing the unwary traveler who might miss his footsteps.
Near Jackson street, a coffee-house was built and kept by W. Meyer, where the traders of Pacific, Jackson and Clay street wharves, and the masters of ships in that vicinity, could get the best coffee in town, without the inconvenience of walking all the way to Portsmouth Square.
When the plank-road was built to the Mission Dolores, the tollgate was placed on Third street,
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west side, about the southern line of Stevenson street. In those days, when you had turned the corner of Third street to Mission street, go- ing west, you were pretty well out of town. Opposite the Howard cottages, where the How- ard Presbyterian Church now stands, was quite a lagoon, never wholly dry in summer, and in the rainy season, deep enough to drown any- body. When you had gone along the plank- road as far as Sixth street, you came to a bridge, across a marsh. Just before reaching this bridge, on the right hand side of the road, was the entrance to the Yerba Buena Cemetery. On the left of the road, nearly opposite the cemetery gate, was the residence of C. V. Gillespie, a pleasant, home-like residence, grateful to eyes becoming familiarized with board shanties, tents, and one-story, oblong, flat-roofed dwellings, shooting forth long, blackened, unstable stove- pipes. This pretty dwelling, with its high en- closure and quiet seclusion, its climbing vines, its bright window-panes and neat curtains, its substantial sheltering roof and chimneys, stand- ing upon the eminence just before you began to descend to the bridge, was so unlike our homes in the California of those days, and so like the old homes on the Atlantic shore, that we often used to think it was more affectingly eloquent
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to the giddy, prosperous, thoughtless young men who galloped past, to and from the Mission and the milk punch, than the most solemn sermons preached at stated hours in all the churches.
When past the bridge, and going up the rise the other side, we saw a little house, not much larger than a full-sized Saratoga trunk, from the roof of which bravely pointed a flagstaff, with the stars and stripes, and on the door of which was the word " Pipesville." This was the country-seat and poet's corner of the well known "Jeems Pipes," Stephen C. Massett, whose songs and music are far better than thousands over which the world makes more noise and gives far greater credit; whose recita- tions, imitations and essays, both humorous and pathetic, are so genuinely good, that we are puzzled by the reflection-why is he not rich ? and recall the old adage, "A prophet has no honor in his own country."
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