The Fantastic City

The Presidio 'carried on' socially as well as militarily through the war years and afterward. So many gallant officers I knew are forgotten now. Vivid, dashing figures they were, many of them distinguished for service to their country. Their blue uniforms with brass buttons, and white stripes down the trousers for infantry, yellow stripes for cavalry, and red for artillery, are bright flashes of color in my memory of old San Francisco. General McDowell succeeded General Albert Sidney Johnston as commandant and brought with him from Washington, his aides, handsome Captain Jim Cutting, of New York, and Captain Franklin Haven, of Boston, both West Point men. Later, the General's aides were Colonel William Neal Dennison, son of Governor Dennison of Ohio, and General Whittier, who was a Bostonian and had the Beacon Hill reserve of manner, which was odd in the West. Also he was conspicuous by reason of being 'clean-shaved' when other men were wearing elaborate hirsute adornments. It was a day of something like facial landscape gardening for men. Hedges, parterres, and veritable jungles trimmed their features.

When General Halleck arrived, full of Civil War honors, to be Commander-in-Chief of the Pacific Department, his aides were Colonel Bob Scott and Captain Henry Huntington, and their wives, with Mrs. Halleck, made a charming trio. Mrs. Scott as Bessie Casey had been known as the prettiest girl in the Army. Mrs. Huntington was called the tea-rose for her lovely skin. Mrs. Halleck, imperious and handsome, was proud of her relationship to Alexander Hamilton, as any one might well be.

The Hallecks lived in a large house at Folsom and Second Street near Rincon Hill, where they gave a ball every winter, and where Captain Sumner and I once danced figures of the cotillion for the terpsichorean edification of other guests. It was the popular dance in New York, imported from Paris to supersede the Lancers.

The tall, ecclesiastic figure of Colonel Coppinger looms in recollections of the Halleck balls. Ecclesiastic except for the long Dundreary whiskers he wore — 'weepers' we sometimes called them, I suppose because they faintly suggested streams of tears flowing down either side of the face. He was tall and thin and dark, with an interesting austerity probably acquired during his service in the Papal Zouaves; an Irishman by birth, but a citizen of the world. He had come to America from Rome to fight in the Civil War, and from a private in the Federal Army had risen to the rank of Colonel.

A blithe spirit was Colonel Smedberg, who had served gallantly in the war and been severely wounded. Whenever a party dragged, Colonel Smedberg would suggest singing and proceed to open the program with 'Marching Through Georgia' in a fine baritone. The rest of the party joined in the chorus, and then Major Calif would contribute 'When I was in the Army,' a favorite number at the minstrels. As soon as there was an opening, Cutler McAllister would lift his voice in 'One Fish-Ball' intoned with appropriate melancholy: 'The waiter roared it through the hall, "We don't give bread with one fish-ball,"' many times.

Pilot-boat parties were popular and the little tugboats chartered for a day would be scrubbed and polished with flag flying in honor of guests, cruising with them about the bay to stop at Sausalito, where a champagne lunch was always served. General Whittier gave one that I remember and unbent very pleasantly to join the chorus of 'One Fish-Ball' when it floated over the waters.

Grand opera arrived in '68. There had been opera in other years, but the Carl Rosa Company brought the first really grand season with all its social exhilaration. Audiences filled Maguire's Opera House dressed in their best, the women carrying nosegays in lace-paper holders to throw at the feet of the prima donna, statuesque Parepa Rosa. She was the wife of the manager, a towering Scottish Juno, while he was a slight, little Englishman whose name had been plain Charles Rose. The company sang in English and this was an interesting novelty. Italian opera had always before been sung in Italian. There was a handsome basso named Karl Formes, who remained in San Francisco when the company departed and for many years was a leader in musical affairs.

Mrs. Hall McAllister gave a party for Madame Parepa, who proved full of sparkle and high spirits. In spite of their incongruous figures, Madame and her husband danced well together, peasant steps in which she held her skirts high at the sides, and a charming tarantella. One of the guests who had heard Madame carol several numbers at the home of Felix Pioche a few evenings before, asked if she would sing.

Madame declined. 'Only when it is an engagement for money, I sing,' she explained with amiable frankness.

'But Madame,' the gentleman persisted, 'you sang at Mr. Pioche's the other night.'

'Ah, Mr. Pioche gave me a bracelet,' she answered, displaying on her rounded arm a circlet made of gold quartz medallions, the largest adorned with the letter 'R.' in diamonds.

For a while it was considered amusing to visit Professor Coombs and have one's head charted. Phrenology was the new way of fortune-telling, clearly more scientific than tea-leaves. Professor Coombs's parlors were crowded with patrons. He made a map of one's skull and read character, with prognostications, from its topography. But the Professor was eccentric and became more so. A person of benevolent aspect, he bore a certain resemblance to portraits of the first President, and people remarked on this until the poor man's head was turned and he took to wearing a Continental hat with knee-breeches, and calling himself 'Washington the Second.' For years he was a figure in the street scene, standing on corners or promenading Montgomery Street in buff colonial costume, holding aloft a banner inscribed with his title. Every one called him 'Uncle Freddie Coombs.'

So many quaint gentlemen, who in a modern city would face the indignity of being 'run in,' passed unmolested in Montgomery Street. 'Emperor' Norton was a favored ward of the town who could dine in any restaurant and imperially ignore the cost, buy theater tickets in any box office with no more than an imperial nod of thanks, and draw checks on San Francisco banks, although he owned not a dollar on earth. By common consent in the banking fraternity, his checks were honored, and he never drew one for more than twenty-five cents through some canny sense of restraint that preserved the imperial privilege.

During shopping hours one saw him in Kearney or Montgomery Street, walking toward some destination which I fancy was never reached, his old army uniform and military cap with its rakish feather worn with an air. A sword hung from his sword-belt and he sometimes carried a short, knotted stick which might have been a scepter. The whole
town knew him.

Every now and then one of Emperor Norton's proclamations would appear in the press. They were relative to a number of things and newspapers always printed them. One dated August 12, 1869, dissolved and abolished the Republican and Democratic parties in the interest of peace, since it had been imperially remarked that their existence engendered dissensions. Another referred to the Emperor's wardrobe and requested replenishment. His uniform was always shabby, but some especial disintegration inspired the proclamation which read:

"Know ye whom it may concern that W. Norton I, Emperor Dei gratia of the United States and Protector of Mexico, have heard serious complaints from our adherents and all that our imperial wardrobe is a national disgrace, and even His Majesty the King of Pain has had his sympathy excited so far as to offer us a suit of clothing, which we have a delicacy in accepting. Therefore we warn those whose duty it is to attend to these affairs that their scalps are in danger if our said need is unheeded."

Little was known of the Emperor's past. He had come to California from England in the fifties and for a time was a successful merchant. Business reverses had left him ruined financially, but with the pleasant delusion of grandeur which endured until his death in 1880.

Some time in the sixties the Great Unknown appeared in Montgomery Street to stir speculation and surmise. No one knew who he was or whence he came. He was faultlessly attired, but from beneath his polished silk hat fell a thick mane of black hair, and he walked with a curious flourish suggestive of the theater, his gold-headed cane held behind him. Some Hamlet drifted into harmless histrionic eccentricities, he might have been; or a person of note somewhere — here concealing his identity. He spoke to no one, preserving the aura of mystery, and went his way unconcerned by the staring public. Every afternoon he promenaded Montgomery Street absorbed in his own meditations. After a time curiosity waned and the queer figure was taken for granted. When finally newspapers announced that the Great Unknown would give a reception in Pacific Hall and there disclose his identity, admission twenty-five cents, no one was interested. A few newspaper reporters gathered to hear the secret, and to these the unknown revealed that he was a retired German tailor named William Frohm, which was scarcely worth twenty-five cents. Yet regarded as color in the pageant of the streets, William Frohm, with his mystery and picturesque presence, surely had his value.

Likewise the 'Razor-Strop Man,' who ambled through the rush of downtown neighborhoods in Quaker's garb, with an aspect of mild detachment. His baggy brown coat and trousers were topped by a broad-brimmed hat of yellow plush, and he was conspicuously clean-shaven in a day when priests and Quakers almost alone eschewed hirsute decoration. On his arm he carried a basket of razor strops, and with them, bottles of his own cough remedy which cured everything, including colds.

Striding by him one might see 'The American Eagle,' well nicknamed, for the tall, thin man, in tightly buttoned Prince Albert coat, stooped as he strode and a huge beak of a nose protruded from beneath his heavy black beaver hat. He peered from under the brim with cruel eyes — the most relentless of bill collectors, terror of delinquents in the eighteen sixties.

In the neighborhood of the Stock Exchange, one saw the 'Money King,' whose name was really King and who assumed 'Money' as a sort of trademark. He was a moneylender conducting business on any curb, and during the Bonanza years, the hope of derelicts and 'mud hens' to whom he lent small sums. A small gold badge in the lapel of his coat was his sign, engraved 'Money King.' In spite of the fact that his stovepipe hat was very dingy, his clothes shabby, and the shovel beard always in need of trimming, it was said the Money King was actually a prosperous gentleman who speculated wisely in stocks. It was his pleasure, as well as his business, to stand at the corner of Pauper Alley near the Stock Exchange and lend money.

'Mud hens' were depressing creatures — women who haunted the financial district speculating in stocks with all the feverish intensity of gamblers; or scuttled along Pine Street hugging some loss or gain to their souls. There was one whose husband had lost his fortune and died. She spent the rest of her days in the shadow of the Stock Exchange, buying when she could borrow from his friends and having no life beyond the street where fortunes vanished and appeared in figures chalked on blackboards.

We had, in these years, I am constrained to state, a few adventures with earthquakes. But slight tremors of the earth, occasionally classed as such by alarmists, were given, generally, very little attention. One in '65 was definitely an earthquake. It came on a Sunday morning of October while I sat in our pew at Grace Church listening to the Reverend Giles Easton preach the Word. Suddenly the
church swayed and its timbers creaked. Every one started in alarm. Dr. Easton in the pulpit rose easily to the occasion.

'Be calm, my friends,' he said with lifted hands. 'It is all over.' Just then there was another shake and many of the congregation dived under pews. Dr. Easton repeated reassuringly, 'There is no danger, friends.'

His assurance did not impress me. Transfixed, I wondered whether to dive or dash for the doors when a third shock set the walls to grinding on their foundations, and I fled down the aisle, out into Powell Street. There stood Dr. Easton in his white robes. He had made better time through the vestry doors.

The shake of '68 that did much damage to buildings on 'made ground,' the section where shallows of the bay had been filled in, seemed less severe to me, but we passed most of that day out-of-doors, since slight shocks followed the first one and swinging chandeliers or rocking-chairs that gently rocked by themselves strained the nerves.

After the war the city was filled with visitors. Travelers in America turned to California with its gold and romance which the late unpleasantness had left undimmed, and celebrities were thick among them. There was that curious personage, Sir Edward Shelley, who dined with us several times. He was a nephew of the poet. — 'Ah, did you once see Shelley plain?' — Browning's line comes to me as I write this, but Sir Edward would have answered no. His glorious young uncle left England before our friend's day. Yet he must have heard many intimate reminiscences in the family.

Sir Edward was an adventurous soul to whom civilization was just something to be endured while he was in it, and speedily escaped. As a young man he resigned a commission in the British Army to explore Africa, and for long, lived among the Kaffirs. He could tell of meeting Livingstone, who recorded the encounter in the heart of Africa. Most of his conversation was of wild places of the earth. San Francisco was a way station on his journey to the South Seas. He sailed away for Honolulu and that was the last we saw of him; a tall, sun-browned man with English blue eyes set oddly in his dark face.

Somewhere in these years came Sir Richard Burton — then Captain Burton — who was the first European to penetrate the Holy of Holies at Mecca. He had learned the Koran by heart and could quote verses of it in strange-sounding words. With the British Consul, George Lane Booker, who was a pillar of society in San Francisco for thirty years or more, he dined at our home and told tales of his adventuring.

Like Sir Edward Shelley, he was burned brown by alien suns, but Burton's eyes were dark and piercing, and with his sunburn, gave him a deceivingly Oriental appearance which he fostered for disguises assumed in his travels. Once, starting on a railway journey, he had found it expedient to depart as a corpulent Arab. Beneath his robes he tied an air pillow, well inflated, and the effect was gained. Well out of the railway station, disguise was no longer necessary, so when the train entered a tunnel, Burton quietly removed the stopper from the cushion and allowed his corpulence to deflate. When the train emerged into daylight again, his collapsed appearance naturally astonished fellow travelers who stared at him in bewilderment and apprehension for the rest of the journey.

Then there was young Lord Richard Grosvenor so determined to see the Wild West that he made the tiresome trip across the plains by stage-coach. Delightedly he told of meeting Brigham Young in Salt Lake and 'three Mrs. Youngs!' There were twenty-one altogether, he added for climax.

A few years later, on a visit to Salt Lake I myself met several Mrs. Youngs, plain, disillusioned-looking women who lived together in 'The Beehive,' with 'Amelia's Palace,' the luxurious home of the favorite, just down the block. Brigham himself commanded any one's admiration for his qualities of leadership, his justice, and his honor in all business dealings. I heard it said many times by men who had business relations with him, 'His word is as good as another man's bond.'

Mr. and Mrs. Charles Kean played a season of tragedy at Maguire's in the sixty's, and at a reception given by General and Mrs. McDowell we met this quaint old couple of the theater, who had long left youth behind them, but were still effective players. Mrs. Kean as Ellen Tree had been the Ellen Terry of her day and had traces still of great beauty. But the whimsical face of her husband, set with odd little features, made him look more like the 'comic relief' in melodrama than a tragedian. Yet in younger days he had played 'Hamlet' with success and he was still finely impassioned in 'The Corsican Brothers' — almost great as Louis XI. I enjoyed talking with him at the McDowell party and told him of hearing Fanny Kemble in Dublin, and her display of temper.

'Just like her,' he said; adding that he remembered as a boy the death of her aunt, the great Siddons, whom Reynolds painted as 'The Tragic Muse.' Charles was a son of Edmund Kean who played with Mrs. Siddons. I was sorry to read of his death a year or so later in England at the end of his tour of the world. The Keans had gone on to Australia from San Francisco.

General and Mrs. McDowell were indefatigable hosts in these post-war years. For the Duc de Penthièvre who came on a tour of the world, they gave a garden party at Fort Mason which was a splendid affair. This young Frenchman, cousin of Louis Philippe, had been a student at Annapolis for a time and was filled with friendliness for all Americans. Van Ness Avenue was not then cut through to Black Point on which the army post is built. To reach it, guests were conveyed in the army and navy tugboats which plied between Market Street docks and the bay posts, landing at a little wharf under the hanging gardens of Fort Mason. It was even then one of the most picturesque of army stations. A grove of black pines, which gave the Point its name, set off the gardens with their flower-trimmed lawns terraced down to waters of the Golden Gate. When it was en fête with striped marquees, groups of guests in uniforms and light gowns and many bright parasols against the background of hills and bay, the scene was altogether worthy of Penthievre's enthusiasm which he freely expressed in perfect English. A review of troops in his honor before the party had greatly impressed him.

Mark Twain I never met, but we heard of him here and there after his return from the Sandwich Islands — were in the audience at Maguire's when he made his début as a lecturer and amused us to hilarity with the story of his trip. Mrs. Low, wife of the Governor, was in a box with his friends that evening — every one of importance was there; and long afterward I read with delight Mark Twain's account of his agreement with the Governor's wife to look up at her when his quips went slowly, whereupon she would ripple forth her ready laughter to start the house. He tells that once in a slight pause, after some bit of pathos, his glance wandered idly over the house taking in Mrs. Low's box, where inadvertently it caught her eye.

I remember Mrs. Low in the box that evening, and her rippling laughter.

The young man's Hawaiian letters had been appearing in the 'Sacramento Union,' which was then read all over the State, and he was taken up by local literary lights, foregathering with Bret Harte and Charles Warren Stoddard in offices of the 'Golden Era,' which was then printing Harte's stories and verses. When, after he departed California, his 'Innocents Abroad' letters were published in the daily 'Alta-Californian,' of San Francisco, every one read them little as any one guessed they were the first printing of an American masterpiece, destined for immortality as we reckon it.

Since Sir Francis Drake passed it by sailing northward, many British admirals have turned into the Golden Gate to anchor their ships in the bay. Admiral Farquhar came for long visits. He was an old friend of my mother's, a jolly little Scotchman she had known before her marriage, and they had always much to talk of, recalling days of their youth. One of his port calls was made during the Franco Prussian War when his ship, the Zealous, remained in the harbor for many weeks, keeping in touch by telegraph and cable with London.

We had a house in San Rafael, across the bay from the city, that summer, and on his last Sunday in port, the Admiral came to tell us good-bye. It was in the heyday of the Sunday picnic when noisy picnickers crowded ferry boats on the Sabbath, bound usually for Fairfax Park near San Rafael. Poor Admiral Farquhar, crossing the bay found himself in the midst of an Irish picnic party — a Fenian picnic at that, and he in his British uniform! It was at the height of one of the Fenian agitations.

Very disapprovingly the Fenians eyed the British officer with a disapproval that might at any moment become belligerent. As the ferry-boat ploughed past the Zealous, lying at anchor in the bay, one burly son of Erin addressed the Admiral:

'I've been tellin' these men,' he said, indicating a group 'that they wasn't worth egg-broth or they'd have blown that ship out of the water where she stands. But have no fear, Sir, we'll not harm you.'

'Fear!' exclaimed the Admiral, safely at our house, 'my only fear was that some American newspaper reporter might discover me. I could see the headlines in the press — "British Admiral attends Fenian picnic! Indorses Movement!!"'

During this summer Mrs. Paran Stevens came out from New York with a party of friends who included young Lord Walter Campbell, son of the Duke of Argyle, and one Sunday when Lord Walter was our guest Admiral Farquhar invited us all, in his honor, to divine service on the deck of the Zealous. It was a blue-and-gold morning on the bay, and the uniforms of officers and men were bright in the sunlight. The trained voices of four hundred sailors chanting the Litany sounded across the waters like unearthly music; and never in a cathedral have I felt so deeply the beauty and inspiration of the service.

For contrast there was a frivolous occasion on another day when we were dancing on the same deck, and General Sherman, visiting San Francisco, came to call on the Admiral. The salute fired from one of the ship's big guns shook her from stem to stern and abruptly ended a dreamy waltz. I remarked that day that Lieutenant Leith danced often with Miss Lucy January, a pretty St. Louis girl who came on board with San Francisco friends. It was the beginning of a romance. They were engaged before the Zealous sailed, and as soon as he could thereafter, Lieutenant Leith resigned his commission and went to St. Louis to marry Miss Lucy. He made a fortune in the Southern city and then became Lord Leith of Fyvie with estates in Scotland. So they lived happily ever afterward.

Mrs. Stevens was a remarkable woman who might have had a success in politics had she been a man. She was not handsome, but irresistibly vivacious. No one could be dull in her presence. Countless stories of her homely wit were told, and her social success was as much due to personality as to wealth and determination. Her daughter Minnie, afterward Lady Paget, was a decidedly pretty girl. They came from New York in Mrs. Stevens's private car with a party of assorted guests who included Lord Walter, Mr. and Mrs. Joe Stone, of Cincinnati; a young Mr. Laird, son of the British ship-builder; Dr. de Lakst, Belgian banker; and Lord Walsingham, an entomologist who hoped to find in California a certain rare species of butterfly which he vainly sought in San Rafael gardens. At the Palace Hotel, where they stopped, Mrs. Stevens discovered Cyrus, late bellhop at the Fifth Avenue Hotel in New York which her husband had owned, now answering bells at the Palace.

Mr. and Mrs. Rulofson, of New York, who were living temporarily at the Grand Hotel adjoining the Palace, gave a party for the visitors. Invitations were for an informal evening, so guests were arrayed accordingly, all save Mrs. Stevens whose toilette would have served for a Royal Drawing-Room, and who wore necklaces and bracelets galore with her décolleté gown. It may be explained, however, that several necklaces were then the fashion. A diamond dog collar, favorite adornment of the Princess of Wales, would be combined with ropes of pearls; and if one fancied the idea and owned the jewels, a string of emeralds or rubies, or both, could be added to the display.

Supper was served that evening at one end of the long corridor on which the Rulofson suite opened. While we sat at table, some one asked Mr. Laird if his father's plant had not built an American battleship. 'Ah, yes,' answered the Britisher, a bit loftily. 'We built the Alabama, you know.'

'Ssh!' hushed another guest. 'Not so loud. These rooms [indicating doors in the corridor] are occupied by Captain Winslow, who sank the Alabama, you know.'

I doubt if Mrs. Stevens met Senator Fair's family on this visit, but Tessie Fair, who must have been a very small girl then, was, as Mrs. Hermann Oelrichs, to live for years in Mrs. Stevens's white marble chateau in New York, a picturesque house at Fifth Avenue and Fifty-Seventh Street, bought from the Stevens estate. Virginia Fair was married there to William K. Vanderbilt, Jr.

It was while we were living in San Rafael that Mr. and Mrs. Bret Harte were our neighbors and spent many evenings at our home. Mrs. Harte had a well-cultivated contralto voice, so there was always music when they came, with Bret Harte's irradiant wit to amuse us. His burlesques of people and everyday scenes, whether at the University of California where he lectured on modern literature, or in editorial offices of the 'Overland Monthly,' were wildly funny.

Harte was writing a play for Lawrence Barrett that summer, and the actor crossed the bay often to offer moral support and discuss its characters. They never did reach perfect agreement on it, and would argue until Mrs. Harte said they were unfit for human companionship. Then they would all come over to our house. Barrett was almost as amusing as Harte, and together they were better than the theater, although it was all so light and inconsequential that I remember none of their nonsense now. I do recall Barrett's saying he dreaded parts in modern drama; how he hated to wear a swallow-tail on the stage. 'Give me a toga every time,' he added. 'I'd rather play a noble Roman than any other character.'

The play, 'Two Men of Sandy Bar,' was not completed until long afterward in the East, where Stuart Robson and Charles Thorne finally produced it with indifferent success.

Harte was a good-looking man who would have been handsome except for the scars of smallpox which marred his face. His dark hair was thick and wavy, and with his mustache he wore a pair of slight 'side-burns' which extended hallway down the face from the temples in a masculine fashion that succeeded 'weepers.' There were two small sons in the Harte family then, the younger named for Thomas Starr King, who, of all Harte's California friends, was the one he genuinely admired. His poem, 'Relieving Guard,' written after Dr. King's death in '64, is, I think, his finest bit of verse. I have never been able to read it unmoved.

Mr. and Mrs. Harte were very happy together that summer, and we heard with much regret of their separation when Harte went abroad to live and his wife with the children remained in America. Neither ever came back to California.

Admiral Joseph Denman sailed through the Golden Gate on the old Sutlej when she paid her second call at our port. He was a brother of Lord Denman. With him was his wife, the Honorable Mrs. Denman, for wives of British navy officers were then permitted to accompany their husbands on voyages. Mrs. Denman was musical and had her piano on board. She liked to sing duets with Lieutenant Sir Lambton Lorraine, who had a powerful baritone and confided to me that he had to mute his tones almost to a whisper to avoid drowning out her little trill. Sir Lambton afterward distinguished himself in an accident in New York Harbor when he was in command of the Niobe, which rescued Americans from a burning ship, the Virginius. He was honored for this by the 'freedom of the city.' To this day I have no idea what that means. Free street-car rides that the police enjoy suggest themselves, but they hardly seem adequate.

Lord Charles Beresford was a junior officer on the Sutlej, a rollicking youth already noted as a wit and raconteur. He was delicious in an imitation of two sailors on the Sutlej reprehensibly burlesquing their commander's wife and her timidity. Lord Charles was walking his watch when he overheard them.

The Sutlej, it may be explained, carried sails for propelling power to add to steam, as many ships did then.

Said one sailor in Mrs. Denman's gentle tones, 'Oh, Joey, dear, isn't it very rough?'
'Yes, Grace, love, it is,' replied the other in the Admiral's accents.
'Joey, dear, won't you have the sails taken down?'
'Yes, Grace, love, it shall be done.'

At this point Lord Charles deemed it expedient to walk away, officially unaware of the dialogue.

The irrepressible young man went with me one morning when I selected a bonnet at a millinery shop in Clay Street and offered advice and criticism to the suppressed delight of the salesgirl and my own helpless mirth. The purchase finally accomplished, Lord Charles insisted on carrying the bandbox until we started home in a hired hack. Lord Charles and Cutler McAllister were, I think, the happiest spirits I have ever known with laughter always near them.

Poor little 'Sir' Robert Bridges! I remember him with profound sympathy, one titled visitor who appeared unhappy in the rôle of social lion. He was, in fact, terrified, and fled one day, bag, baggage, and samples. For he was no baronet; merely a timid little London salesman sent by his firm to the Wild West, where life was dangerous and lawless disorder prevailed according to his conviction. It occurred to him that a title might insure respect and civil treatment from the outlaws. So in the register of the Occidental Hotel he wrote 'Sir' before his name with no ulterior motive on earth. It did more than he hoped. With respect and civility it precipitated social attentions that were terribly disconcerting. He was bombarded with invitations. All that it was possible to refuse were refused, but one he had vainly tried to evade was to Mrs. Shillaber's 'Salon,' for so she called her weekly receptions where French was the language of the evening, although no one spoke it. There we met 'Sir' Robert, a harassed-looking little man who dropped his h's everywhere. A few days afterward he decamped leaving his confession behind him and no one mentioned him thereafter to Mrs. Shillaber. But for a long time Mrs. Shillaber's experience with 'Sir' Robert made hostesses wary of strange titles.

Some of our English visitors were all unprepared to find the degree of civilization which actually existed in this remote city, and came with sadly deficient wardrobes. The old Duke of Manchester and his son, Viscount Mandeville, hadn't a suit of evening clothes between them, but serenely accepted all invitations. With perfect aplomb and extraordinary effect, the Duke appeared at dinners and balls in a suit of brick-red tweeds with blue flannel shirt — his preconceived idea of a correct costume for the Wild West. 'I am a traveler,' he would blandly explain, 'traveling with as little luggage as possible. You will forgive my tweeds.'

No doubt he could have borrowed a dress suit for occasions, but he never did and was probably wiser in this than little Lord Milton, who likewise hadn't supposed 'swallow-tails' were found in California. Lord Milton raided the wardrobe of a stalwart friend and wore a suit six sizes too large for him, with trousers in thick rolls at the bottom and his hands pathetically lost in long, flapping sleeves.

Two young hunters, Lord Waterspark and Lord Berkeley Paget, came hunting bears in San Francisco and were surprised to find them only in a zoo. Crossing the plains they had brought down a buffalo and they longed for a bear to add to this triumph, but birds and rabbits were all they found in expeditions near the city. Mother was sympathetic and gave them a letter to Ned Beale at El Tejon, his ranch in the South. If there were no bears in the hills of El Tejon, she could rely on Ned Beale to 'plant' one. But it was not necessary. The hunters found two natives on this vast estate, which covered thousands of acres. It was one of the great ranches of California where old Spanish customs and traditions were preserved. General Beale, distinguished and witty, was a prince of hosts. A youth filled with adventures had furnished him an endless supply of stories, all colored with his rich humor. As a young officer just out of Annapolis, he had fought in the Mexican War, and a sword which hung on the wall at El Tejon was the gift of brother officers to commemorate some conspicuous bravery. After the Mexican War he resigned from the Navy to take charge of Indian affairs in the Southwest for the Federal Government. With General Stephen Kearny he marched into California from New Mexico in 1846. Kit Carson was their guide. He could tell with flashes of comedy of meeting his old commander, Commodore Stockton, in San Diego, and of holding the lazy little Spanish town, with General Kearny sick in bed, while Stockton went on to raise the American flag over Los Angeles. Commodore Sloat was then flying the Stars and Stripes over Monterey, and young Beale sailed north to meet him. From that year until his death, California was his home, although he served as American Minister to Austria under Grant and made many trips abroad. One of his daughters married a diplomat, Bakhmetieff, the Czar's last Ambassador in Washington. Another became Mrs. John R. McLean and a son married James G. Blaine's daughter Harriet for his first wife.

The Beales had a home in San Francisco as well as at El Tejon. Mrs. Beale drove the first private carriage in the city, a large barouche drawn by two powerful horses imported with it from the East. The street stared when the Beale carriage passed, but soon there were broughams and landaus, Mrs. Donahue's glass coach, and the huge green clarence of the Baron Walkinshaws to keep it company.

Driving excursions were over the Howard Street planked road, which for part of its length was lapped by waters of the bay, to Mission Dolores; then down San Bruno Turnpike to the San José stage-road and on to Tony Oakes's, a wayside inn where horses of the San José stage were changed. Tony Oakes was the name of the proprietor. Some time in the sixties the Cliff House was built overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and then the fashionable drive was out Point Lobos Road to this historic resort.

On bright afternoons a procession of vehicles with many a spanking pair and fast trotter passed out O'Farrell Street to turn into Point Lobos Road, past the waste of undulated sand which became Golden Gate Park, to the ocean beach. For a short time the Ocean Side House was a favorite resort. The Hall McAllisters gave a dance there and we drove out another night for Mrs. John Felton's dance. But the place soon deteriorated into a shabby beer-hall.

Visitors were invariably driven out to the Cliff House, where the barking amphibians of Seal Rocks were considered a great attraction. For many years Old 'Ben Butler' sunned himself on the highest rock, occasionally lifting his head to bay like a dog at the moon, above the clamor of the other seals. When he died, old Ben's huge body was dragged ashore and stuffed to adorn the museum of Sutro Baths.

The Cliff House was a little flat-roofed building perched on the edge of the cliff at the entrance to the Golden Gate. From its balcony high above the breakers one gazed through binoculars at the seals or sighted ships beyond the Farallones. On clear days these distant islands were silhouetted against the horizon. There was an excellent cuisine at the Cliff House, specializing in fried Eastern oysters, and a bar famous for its mixed drinks. Mixed spirits, however, were never served to ladies. On cold afternoons we sipped port or sherry on the balcony while men drank high-balls, cocktails, or Tom-and-Jerry at the brass rail indoors.

A towering promontory back of the Cliff House was bought by Adolph Sutro, one of the Nevada millionaires, who built his home there with windows overlooking the sea, and gardens that are now a public park. Sutro was the most intellectual of the plutocrats, an English Jew who had gone to Nevada in the silver rush. The Sutro Tunnel, considered a brilliant piece of engineering, simple as it appears to be, had made his fortune. It was merely proving his idea that the Comstock Lode could be reached by boring into the base of the hill in which it was buried, instead of interminably down from the top. Sutro was allowed to try the horizontal approach and drew his line straight to the rich deposits of ore.

In San Francisco he lived very quietly. His ways were reclusive, although he served as Mayor of the city for a time and planned many public benefactions. But he had a taste for books and preferred his library to Nob Hill diversions. The library at Sutro Heights was that of a bibliophile. He was a lover of trees as well as of books, and eucalyptus groves of California are his memorial. It was he who first imported the Australian gum trees that have become so much a part of the landscape. The original arrivals were set in Sutro Gardens, where now they tower above all other trees with their long draperies of foliage. Sutro Forest, covering a waste of sand south of Golden Gate Park, was another of his contributions to the beauty of San Francisco.

'Stevedore,' the Vandewaters' old white horse, drawing a comfortable rockaway, was a familiar friend on the Cliff House Road; and likewise,' San Mateo,' driven by D. O. Mills in a shining buggy, usually teamed with another fast-stepping bay. Often he drove them from the city to Milbrae, where he built a chateau and established a dairy. In the art gallery at Milbrae hung Reid's spirited painting of 'Sheridan's Ride' which had attracted much attention in the East. Countless chromo copies of it were made.

Lucky Baldwin was a sensation one day on the Point Lobos Road, tooling the first four-horse English coach to come to the West. James Ben Ali Haggin drove the second with a pair of bays and a pair of iron-grays. A pair of iron-gray carriage horses and a spotted coach dog were a fashionable combination for landau or barouche.

One equipage in the procession always attracted especial interest — Mrs. S. J. Hensley's blue seashell carriage drawn by four horses and filled with guests. The flowered bonnets of the ladies bobbed above white fur robes in the flaring blue shell with an effect attractively theatrical. Mrs. Milton Latham's brown barouche with yellow wheels, lined with light blue satin and drawn by two milk-white horses — the first to be seen in San Francisco — was another bright detail; with Mrs. Latham seated therein in all her piquant prettiness.

Art and the Old Masters became matters of popular interest in '66, when R. B. Woodward opened to the public the gallery of his home out on Mission Street. It was an unusual and interesting benefaction.

Woodward had commissioned Virgil Williams, a local artist who had studied abroad, to copy Old Masters in European galleries, until a collection of over one hundred was made. Williams took a studio in Rome and for several years worked on the curious commission. The results were excellent reproductions of Titians, Tintorettos, Leonardos, and Botticellis, among others; hung in the Mission Street gallery they doubtless were a cultural influence in the new city.

The private park surrounding the Woodward house was also opened to the public to become, as Woodward's Gardens, the most famous of San Francisco's old open-air resorts. It covered a sloping hillside, and the little valley, with gardens, artificial lakes and fountains, and an added zoo, was the delight of children. In a large tank, overlooked by a grand-stand, were barking seals and sea lions whose feeding was the crowning event of a day at Woodward's. Men carrying great baskets of raw meat, and long pitchforks to toss it, passed through the grounds on their way to the tank and were followed like the Pied Piper of Hamelin by an ever-growing company. The seals and the Old Masters were rival attractions.