One home, now devoted, I think, to an art institute, had, in the front hallway, a terra-cotta dado with Greek heads running around it; and, lest there should be no mistake, the name of each hero was painted below. But the artist was no Greek scholar. Many words were misspelled, and in several cases (worse still) the feminine article η was placed, instead of ο, before a masculine name. What cared the lady of the house for a small thing like that, when she could take me up in an elevator (almost an unknown thing at that time) and show me, stowed away in her attic, fifteen bales of Oriental rugs? And I had tried to sell her one!
Quite in contrast with this residence was that of David Colton—pure white marble of Greek architecture, with a beautiful lawn sloping down to a hedge of enormous calla lilies. Some months after leaving San Francisco, I heard of Mr. Colton away up in the Shasta Mountains. I was working out my poll tax by mending roads, when an Irishman, working with me for the same reason, stopped and, leaning on his shovel, asked me if I knew any of “the bloods” in San Francisco. Dave Colton had started when he did and far outstripped him, but had never ceased to be his friend.
The Haggins’ was another of these homes where one felt the evidences of good taste and refinement. I shall never forget one party I attended there. One of the family had been to our store in the afternoon and purchased some merchandise, placing special stress on the necessity of having it delivered that day, as it was needed for the reception in the evening—the same to which I had been invited. In the rush of closing the store, it was noticed that these things had been overlooked, and, as the Haggin house was on my way home, I agreed to deliver them myself. Accordingly, I proceeded to the back door and handed these sundry brooms and saucepans to the butler, who received them from me in shirt sleeves as man to man. Later in the evening, with a friend from Harvard whom the young ladies especially desired to meet, I alighted at the house from a carriage, this time at the front door. The butler, who was English, received me with a suspicious air, but let me get into the drawing-room, when all of a sudden, with the light of memory in his eye, he made rather a threatening movement toward me, but, thinking better of it, made his way up to Mr. Haggin and, drawing him aside, whispered excitedly in his ear. That gentleman burst out into loud guffaws of laughter and could not refrain from telling the joke. The butler had whispered the awful news that I was a tradesman!
No Britisher, even a servant, could possibly be expected to understand the Californian of that day. The bigness was not confined to the natural characteristics of the country, but seemed to have invaded the spirit of the people, making them pleasure-loving and easy-going, and, above all, gave them a magnificent, even if childlike, sense of humor. Then the richness of the land and the abundance of everything made them careless of property. Imagine a city where every humble clerk owned a horse and carriage; imagine, if you can, that same horse and carriage to be absolutely at the disposal of anyone—a friend or stranger—so that if you came out of a building onto the sidewalk, and your own vehicle had disappeared, you simply hopped into the nearest one and proceeded to your destination. Think of the president of the Stock Exchange being driven out of his seat by beanshooters operated by the members! Business was slack that day, and this was merely a form of amusement. Bring them any sort of a new toy, and they were ready to play with it immediately. We had an oversupply of ice cream freezers at the store, so I made up my mind to get rid of them. Every day at a certain hour I gave a demonstration out on the sidewalk, lecturing all the time I was freezing the cream, and handing out free samples of the stuff to the assembled crowd. These same members of the Stock Exchange thought it a great joke to join the antics and chaff me, while trying to force me to accept five-dollar gold pieces for the ice cream. Of course they bought out the entire stock of freezers; Californians are always eager to pay for their fun.
Every once in a while there were earthquakes. The small ones were ignored, but the large ones would send everyone tumbling out of the buildings onto the sidewalks. It was excitement, and we lived on it. During the Sunday sermon in one of the churches the building began to shake, and it is told that the clergyman rose and said:
“Remember that you are in the hands of God here in church as well as outside....”
At that a piece of plaster fell on the pulpit and he finished:
“But the vestry is good enough for me!”
It was through the store that I met Laura Fair. Hers was a tragic life. One of those women born to be a companion to men—she was not strong enough (or was it hard enough) to withstand the buffeting of manmade laws. Up in Virginia City, where she lived when young, it was said that “the front of her house always looked like a country funeral,” so many one-man teams. It was here during the Civil War that she got into her first trouble. Wrapping herself in the Stars and Bars, she paraded the streets, daring anyone to stop her; and over her house, which was the resort of the leading Secessionists, she flew the Confederate flag, saying she would kill anyone who attempted to lower it. One day a Union man pulled it down and she shot him dead.
A. P. Crittenden, a lawyer from South Carolina, then championed Mrs. Fair’s cause, and she was acquitted, due to his passionate and eloquent appeal at the trial. A close relationship between the two ensued and they moved to San Francisco, where she was known as the attorney’s common-law wife. After some years, Crittenden decided to send East for his legal wife and family. Laura Fair told him directly that she would kill him if he did. Walking up to the family group as they stood on the Oakland ferryboat, she quickly drew a revolver from beneath her cloak and shot him, saying: