In November, 1861, I attended the State Fair at Sacramento as correspondent for the Humboldt Times. About the only impression of San Francisco on my arrival was the disgust I felt for the proprietor of the hotel at which I stopped, when, in reply to my eager inquiry for war news, he was only able to say that he believed there had been some fighting somewhere in Virginia. This to one starving for information after a week's abstinence was tantalizing.
After a week of absorbing interest, in a fair that seemed enormously important and impressive, I timed my return so as to spend Sunday in San Francisco, and it was made memorable by attending, morning and evening, the Unitarian church, then in Stockton near Sacramento, and hearing Starr King. He had come from Boston the year before, proposing to fill the pulpit for a year, and from the first aroused great enthusiasm. I found the church crowded and was naturally consigned to a back seat, which I shared with a sewing-machine, for it was war-time and the women were very active in relief work.
The gifted preacher was thirty-seven years old, but seemed younger. He was of medium height, had a kindly face with a generous mouth, a full forehead, and dark, glowing eyes.
In June, 1864, I became a resident of San Francisco, rejoining the family and becoming a clerk in the office of the Superintendent of Indian Affairs. The city was about one-fifth its present size, claiming a population of 110,000.
I want to give an idea of San Francisco's character and life at that time, and of general conditions in the second decade. It is not easy to do, and demands the reader's help and sympathy. Let him imagine, if he will, that he is visiting San Francisco for the first time, and that he is a personal friend of the writer, who takes a day off to show him the city. In 1864 one could arrive here only by steamer; there were no railways. I meet my friend at the gangplank of the steamer on the wharf at the foot of Broadway. To reach the car on East Street (now the Embarcadero), we very likely skirt gaping holes in the planked wharf, exposing the dark water lapping the supporting piles, and are assailed by bilge-like odors that escape. Two dejected horses await us. Entering the car we find two lengthwise seats upholstered in red plush. If it be winter, the floor is liberally covered by straw, to mitigate the mud. If it be summer, the trade winds are liberally charged with fine sand and infinitesimal splinters from the planks which are utilized for both streets and sidewalks. We rattle along East and intersecting streets until we reach Sansome, upon which we proceed to Bush, which practically bounds the business district on the south, thence we meander by a circuitous route to Laurel Hill Cemetery near Lone Mountain. A guide is almost necessary. An incoming stranger once asked the conductor to let him off at the American Exchange, which the car passed. He was surprised at the distance to his destination. At the cemetery end of the line he discovered that the conductor had forgotten him, but was assured that he would stop at the hotel on the way back. The next thing he knew he reached the wharf; the conductor had again forgotten him. His confidence exhausted, he insisted on walking, following the track until he reached the hotel.
In the present instance we alight from the car when it reaches Montgomery Street, at the Occidental Hotel, new and attractive, well managed by a New Yorker named Leland and especially patronized by army people. We rest briefly and start out for a preliminary survey. Three blocks to the south we reach Market Street and gaze upon the outer edge of the bustling city. Across the magnificently wide but rude and unfinished street, at the immediate right, where the Palace Hotel is to stand, we see St. Patrick's Church and an Orphan Asylum. A little beyond, at the corner of Third Street, is a huge hill of sand covering the present site of the Glaus Spreckels Building, upon which a steam-paddy is at work loading flat steam cars that run Mission-ward. The lot now occupied by the Emporium is the site of a large Catholic school. At our left, stretching to the bay are coal-yards, foundries, planing-mills, box-factories, and the like. It will be years before business crosses Market Street. Happy Valley and Pleasant Valley, beyond, are well covered by inexpensive residences. The North Beach and South Park car line connects the fine residence district on and around Rincon Hill with the fine stretches of northern Stockton Street and the environs of Telegraph Hill. At the time I picture, no street-cars ran below Montgomery, on Market Street; traffic did not warrant it. It was a boundary rather than a thoroughfare. It was destined to be one of the world's noted streets, but at this time the city's life pulsed through Montgomery Street, to which we will now return.
Turning from the apparent jumping-off place we cross to the "dollar side" and join the promenaders who pass in review or pause to gaze at the shop windows. Montgomery Street has been pre-eminent since the early days and is now at its height. For a long time Clay Street harbored the leading dry-goods stores, like the City of Paris, but all are struggling for place in Montgomery. Here every business is represented—Beach, Roman, and Bancroft, the leading booksellers; Barrett & Sherwood, Tucker, and Andrews, jewelers; Donohoe, Kelly & Co., John Sime, and Hickox & Spear, bankers; and numerous dealers in carpets, furniture, hats, French shoes, optical goods, etc. Of course Barry & Patten's was not the only saloon. Passing along we are almost sure to see some of the characters of the day—certainly Emperor Norton and Freddie Coombs (a reincarnated Franklin), probably Colonel Stevenson, with his Punch-like countenance, towering Isaac Friedlander, the poor rich Michael Reese, handsome Hall McAllister, and aristocratic Ogden Hoffman. Should the fire-bell ring we will see Knickerbocker No. Five in action, with Chief Scannell and "Bummer" and "Lazarus," and perhaps Lillie Hitchcock. When we reach Washington Street we cross to make a call at the Bank Exchange in the Montgomery Block, the largest structure on the street. The "Exchange" is merely a popular saloon, but it boasts ten billiard tables and back of the bar hangs the famous picture of "Samson and Delilah."
Luncheon being in order we are embarrassed with riches. Perhaps the Mint restaurant is as good as the best and probably gives a sight of more prominent politicians than any other resort; but something quite characteristic is the daily gathering at Jury's, a humble hole-in-the-wall in Merchant Street back of the Bulletin office.
Four lawyers who like one another, and like good living as well, have a special table. Alexander Campbell, Milton Andros, George Sharp, and Judge Dwinelle will stop first in the Clay Street Market, conveniently opposite, and select the duck, fish, or English mutton-chops for the day's menu. One of the number bears the choice to the kitchen and superintends its preparation while the others engage in shrimps and table-talk until it is served. If Jury's is overflowing with custom, there are two other French restaurants alongside.
After luncheon we have a glimpse of the business district, following back on the "two-bit" side of the street. At Clay we pass a saloon with a cigar-stand in front and find a group listening to a man with bushy hair and a reddish mustache, who in an easy attitude and in a quaintly drawling voice is telling a story. We await the laugh and pass on, and I say that he is a reporter, lately from Nevada, called Mark Twain. Very likely we encounter at Commercial Street, on his way to the Call office, a well-dressed young man with Dundreary whiskers and an aquiline nose. He nods to me and I introduce Bret Harte, secretary to the Superintendent of the Mint, and author of the clever "Condensed Novels" being printed in the Californian. At California Street we turn east, passing the shipping offices and hardware houses, and coming to Battery Street, where Israelites wax fat in wholesale dry goods and the clothing business. For solid big business in groceries, liquors, and provisions we must keep on to Front Street—Front by name only, for four streets on filled-in land have crept in front of Front. Following this very important street past the shipping offices we reach Washington Street, passing up which we come to Battery Street, where we pause to glance at the Custom House and Post Office at the right and the recently established Bank of California on the southwest corner of the two streets.