Chapter 1

The Lure of San Francisco

A Romance Amid Old Landmarks

By Elizabeth Gray Potter and Mabel Thayer Gray

Illustrated By Audley B. Wells

Paul Elder & Company Publishers San Francisco

Copyright, 1915, By Paul Elder & Co. San Francisco

To Our Mother

Preface

The average visitor considers California's claim to historic recognition as dating from the discovery of gold. Her children, both by birth and adoption, have a hazy pride in her Spanish origin but are too busy with today's interests to take much thought of it. They know that somewhere over in the Mission is the old adobe church. They rejoice that it escaped the fire but have no time to visit it. They will proudly tell their eastern friends of its existence and that the Presidio received its name from the Spaniards but further narration of the heritage is lost in exclamations over the beauty of the drives and the views, while the historic significance of Portsmouth Square is smothered in the delight over Chinese embroideries, bronzes and cloisonné.

May this little book aid in the general awaking of the dormant love of every Californian for his possessions and be a suggestion to the casual visitor that we are entitled to the dignity of age.

Contents

Preface The Mission and its Romance A view from Twin Peaks--The city with its historic crosses. A visit to the old church--Its past, and the romance of Lüis Argüello. The Presidio, Past and Present The Spanish Fortifications and the love story of Concepcion and Rezánov. The Plaza and its Echoes A Chinese restaurant. Yerba Buena and the reminiscences of a forty-niner. Telegraph Hill of Unique Fame The Latin quarter. The signal station of '49 and a view of the city as it was. The Golden Gate.

List of Illustrations

The Mission "The modern structures crowd upon the low adobe building." Prayer Book Cross "A granite cross just visible above the trees in Golden Gate Park." At Lotta's Fountain "We watched the people purchasing flowers on the corner." The Officer's Club House at the Presidio "Of a different generation from its neighbors." A Street in Chinatown "We must take a look at the spot where the first house stood." Portsmouth Square "The entire history of San Francisco was made around this Plaza." A Fountain in the Latin Quarter "Stooping to drink from his hand on the edge of a little pool." A Sunset Thro' the Golden Gate "The last rays gilded the cliffs on either side."

The Mission

A view from Twin Peaks--The city with its historic crosses. A visit to the old church--Its past, and the romance of Lüis Argüello.

The Mission and Its Romance

"Tickets to the city, Sir?" The conductor's voice sounded above the rumble of the train. As my companion's hand went to his pocket he glanced at me with a quizzical smile.

"I should think you Oaklanders would resent that. Hasn't your town put on long skirts since the fire?" There was an unpleasant emphasis on the last phrase, but I passed it over unnoticed.

"Of course we have grown up," I assured him. "We're a big flourishing city, but we are not the city. San Francisco always has been, and always will be the city to all northern California; it was so called in the days of forty-nine and we still cling affectionately to the term."

"I believe you Californians have but two dates on your calendar," he exclaimed, "for everything I mention seems to have happened either 'before the fire' or 'in the good old days of forty-nine!' 'Good old days of forty-nine,'" he repeated, amused. "In Boston we date back to the Revolution, and 'in Colonial times' is a common expression. We have buildings a hundred years old, but if you have a structure that has lasted a decade, it is a paragon and pointed out as built 'before the fire.' Do you remember the pilgrimage we made to the historic shrines of Boston, just a year ago?"

"Shall I ever forget it!" I exclaimed.

He smiled appreciatively. "Faneuil Hall and the old State House are interesting."

"Oh, I wasn't thinking about the buildings! I don't even recall how they look. But I do remember the weather. I was so cold I couldn't even speak."

"Impossible!" he cried, "you not able to talk!"

"But it's true! My cheeks were frozen stiff. I wore a thick dress, a sweater, a heavy coat and my furs, and, still I was cold while all the time I was thinking that the fruit trees and wild flowers were in blossom in California. If it hadn't been for the symphony concerts and the opera, I never could have endured an Eastern winter."

"A fine compliment to me when I spent days taking you to points of historic interest."

I sent him an appreciative glance. "It was good of you," I acknowledged, "and do you remember that I promised to take you on a similar pilgrimage when you came to San Francisco?"

He laughed. "And I was foolish enough to believe you, since I had never been to the Pacific Coast."

The train came to a stop in the Ferry Building and we followed the other passengers onto the boat. "San Francisco is modern to the core," he continued. "Boston dates back generations, but you have hardly acquired your three score years and ten."

"If you don't like fine progressive cities, why did you come to California?" His fault-finding with San Francisco hurt me as if it had been a personal criticism.

"You know why I came," he said gently, with his eyes on my face.

I felt the blood creeping to my cheeks and turned quickly to look for an out-of-doors seat. In the crowd we were jostled by a little slant-eyed man of the Orient, resplendent in baggy blue silk trousers tied neatly at the ankles and a loose coat lined with lavender, whose flowing sleeves half concealed his slender brown hands.

"There's a man who has centuries at his back." My companion's eyes traveled from the soft padded shoes to the little red button on the top of the black skull cap. "Even his costume is the same as his forefathers'."

"If you are interested in the Chinese, I'll show you Oriental San Francisco. It lies in the heart of the city and its very atmosphere is saturated with Eastern customs. It is much more sanitary but not as picturesque as it was before the fire." I flushed as I saw his amusement, and quickly called his attention to the receding shores where the encircling green hills had thrown out long banners of yellow mustard and blue lupins. To the right was Mt. Tamalpais, a sturdy sentinel looking out to the ocean, its summit pressed against the sky's blue canopy and its base lost in a network of purple forests. In front of the Golden Gate was Alcatraz Island, like a huge dismantled warship, guarding the entrance to the bay, and before us, San Francisco rested upon undulating hills, its tall buildings piercing the sky at irregular intervals. We made our way to the forward deck in order to have the full sweep of the waterfront.

"You should see it at night!" I said, "it is a marvelous tiara. The red and green lights on these wharves close to the water's edge are the rubies and emeralds, while above, sweeping the hills, the lights of the residences sparkle like rows and rows of diamonds."

A crowd of passengers surged around us as the boat poked its nose into the slip. "There was nothing left of this part of the city but a fringe of wharves, after the fire." I bit the last word in two, for it was evident the expression was getting on his nerves. I was thankful that the clanging chains of the descending gang plank and the tramp of many feet made further conversation impossible.

"Hurry," he urged, "there's the Exposition car." We were in front of the Ferry Building and the crowd was jostling us in every direction.

"You surely are not going to the Exposition!" I exclaimed in mock surprise.

"Of course I am. Where else should we go?"

"But, my dear Antiquary, those buildings are only a few months old!"

He laughed good naturedly. "It ought to suit you Westerners, anyway," he retaliated. Then taking my arm, "Let us hurry! Look, the car is starting!"

"I am going to take the one behind," I announced. "There must be something old in San Francisco and I am going to find it."

"You'll have a long hunt," rejoined the skeptic, and with his eyes still on the tail of the disappearing Exposition car, he reluctantly followed me.

"Lots of strangers in San Francisco for the Fair," he remarked, as from the car window he watched the big turban of a Hindoo bobbing among the crowd on the sidewalk; then his eyes wandered to a Japanese arrayed in a new suit of American clothes and finally rested on a bright yellow lei wound about the hat of a swarthy Hawaiian. I smiled as I nodded to the Japanese who had worked in my kitchen for three years, and recognized in the dusky Hawaiian one of the regular singers in a popular café.

The train had now left commercial San Francisco behind and was climbing the hills to where the nature loving citizens had perched their houses in order to obtain a better view of the bay. We abandoned the car and following an upward path, finally stood on the lower shoulder of Twin Peaks. Tired from our exertions we sank upon the soft grass. The hills had put on their festival attire, catching up their emerald gowns with bunches of golden poppies and veiling their shoulders in filmy scarfs of blue lupins. The air was filled with Spring and the delicate blush of an apple-tree told of the approach of Summer. Below, the city, noisy and bustling a few moments ago, now lay hushed to quiet by the distance and beyond, the sun-flecked waters of the bay stretched to a girdle of verdant hills, up whose sides the houses of the towns were scrambling. To the left, resting on the top of Mt. Tamalpais, could be seen the "sleeping maiden" who for centuries had awaited the awakening kiss of her Indian lover.

"What a glorious play-ground for San Francisco." His voice rang with enthusiasm. "Look at the ferryboats plowing up the bay in every direction. A man could escape from the factory grime on the water front and in an hour be asleep under a tree on a grassy hillside."

"It is a splendid country to tramp through, but if a man wants to sleep, why not spend less time and money by selecting a nearer place? There are plenty of trees and grassy mounds in the Presidio and Golden Gate Park."

His eyes followed mine to the green patch edging the entrance to the bay and then ran along the tree-lined avenue to the parked section extending almost from the center of the city to the Pacific Ocean. Suddenly he stood up and took his field glasses from his pocket.

"There's a granite cross just visible above the trees in Golden Gate Park." He focused his glasses for a better view. "It's quite elaborate in design and seems to be raised on a hill."

He offered me the glasses but I did not need them. "It's the Prayer-Book Cross and commemorates the first Church of England service held on this Coast by Sir Francis Drake in 1579. I think it is a shame that we haven't also a monument for Cabrillo, the real discoverer, who was here nearly forty years earlier. If Sir Francis hadn't stolen a Spanish ship's chart, he would never have found the Gulf of the Farallones. Cabrillo sailed along the coast more than half a century before Massachusetts Bay was discovered," I added maliciously.

"I had forgotten the old duffer," he smiled back at me. Raising his glasses again, he scanned the sombre roofs to the right. "There's another monument," he volunteered, "rising out of the heart of the city."

I followed the direction indicated to where the outstretched arms of a white wooden cross were silhouetted against the sky.

"If I were in Europe," he continued, "I should call it a shrine, for the sides of the hill on which it stands are seamed with paths running from the net-work of houses to the foot of the cross."

"It is a shrine at which all San Francisco worships. Wrapped in mystery it stands, for when it was placed there no one knows. It comes to us out of the past--a token left by the Spanish padres. Three times it has fallen into decay, but always loving hands have reached forward to restore it, and as long as San Francisco shall last, a cross will rise from the summit of Lone Mountain."

"The Spanish padres!" The ring in his voice bespoke his interest. "Are there any other relics left?"

I pointed to the level section below. "Do you see that low red roof almost hidden by its towering neighbors? That is the old Mission San Francisco de Asis, colloquially called Dolores, from the little rivulet on whose bank it was built."

Through his field glasses he scrutinized the expanse of substantial houses and paved streets. "I can't find the rivulet," he announced.

"Of course you can't, you stupid man!" I laughed. "If you'll use your imagination instead of your glasses you will see it easily. The stream arose, we are told, between the summits of Twin Peaks, and tumbling down the hill-side, made its way east, emptying into the Laguna."

"I don't see a laguna!" Again the skeptic surveyed the field of roofs.

"Put down your glasses and close your eyes," I commanded. "When you open them the houses from here to the bay will have disappeared and the ground will be covered with a carpet of velvety green, dappled here and there by groves of oak trees and relieved by patches of bright poppies."

"And fields of yellow mustard," he supplemented.

"No, your imagination is too vivid. The padres brought the mustard seed later. A little south of the present mission," I continued, "you will see a group of willows bending to drink the crystal waters of the Arroyo de los Dolores, so named because Anza and his followers discovered it on the day of our Mother of Sorrows, and to the east is the shining laguna."

"It's clear as a San Francisco fog," he laughed. "I'd like to take a look at the old building! Is there a car line?"

"Let's follow in the footsteps of the padres," I begged. "They used often to climb this hill and it isn't very far."

He looked dubiously down the rugged side and mentally measured the distance from the base to the low tiled roof.

"All right," he said at last, "if you'll let me take a ten minutes nap before we start." He stretched himself at full length on the soft grass and pulled his hat low over his eyes.

I was glad to be quiet for a time and let my imagination have full sweep. I seemed to see, toiling up the peninsula, a little band of foot-sore travelers, the leathern-clad soldiers on the alert for hostile Indians, the brown-robed friars encouraging the women and children, and the sturdy colonists bringing up the rear with their flocks and herds. At last the little company come to a sparkling rivulet and stoop to drink eagerly of the cool water. The commander examines his chart and nods to the tonsured priest who falls on his knees and raises his voice in thanksgiving. Stretching out his arms in blessing to his flock, he exclaims: "Rest now, my children. Our journey is at an end. Here on the Arroyo de Nuestra Señora de los Dolores, we will establish the mission to our Father San Francisco de Asis."

"If we want to see the old building before lunch time, we shall have to be moving," said a sleepy voice at my elbow.

"Come on, then, I'll be your pathfinder," and we raced down the hill-side until the paved streets reminded us that city manners were expected.

We followed the former course of the Arroyo de los Dolores down Eighteenth to Church street, then turned north. Two, blocks further on I laid a detaining hand on my companion's arm.

"Hold, skeptic," I whispered, "thou art on holy ground."

He looked up at the two-story dwelling house before us, let his eyes wander down the row of modest residences and linger on the pavements where a tattered newsboy was shying stones at a stray cat; then his glance came back to my face with a smile. "My belief in your veracity is unlimited. I uncover." He stood for an instant with bared head. "Just when did this sanctification take place, was it before the fire or--"

"It was on October 9th, 1776," I tried to speak impressively, "the year the Colonies made their Declaration of Independence. The procession began over there at the Presidio," I pointed to the north. "A brown-robed friar carrying an image of St. Francis led the little company of men, women and children over the shifting sand-dunes to this very spot where a rude church had been erected. Its sides were of mud plastered over a palisade wall of willow poles and its ceiling a leaky roof of tule rushes but it was the beginning of a great undertaking and Father Paloú elevated the cross and blessed the site and all knelt to render thanks to the Lord for His goodness."

"But I thought you said the church still existed." His eyes again sought the row of dwelling houses.

"This was only for temporary use and later was pulled down. Six years after the fathers arrived, a larger and more substantial church was built one block farther east. But before you see that you must get into the spirit of the past by imagining a square of four blocks lying between Fifteenth and Seventeenth streets and Church and Guerrero, swept clean of these modern structures and filled with mission buildings. At the time when you New Englanders were pushing the Indians farther and farther into the wilderness, killing and capturing them, we Californians were drawing them to our missions with gifts and friendship. While you were leaving them in ignorance we were teaching them--"

He stooped to get a full look at my eyes. "I never knew a Spaniard to have eyes the color of violets. Look up your family tree, my dear enthusiast, and I think you will find that you are we."

"I'm not," I declared indignantly. "I'm a Californian. I was born here and even if I haven't Spanish blood in my veins, I have the spirit of the old padres."

"But the spirit has not left a lasting impression. Indeed civilization whether dealt out with friendly hands or thrust upon the natives at the point of the bayonet seems to have been equally poisonous on both sides of the continent."

"True, philosopher, but would you call the work of these padres impressionless, when it has permeated all California? The open-hearted hospitality of the Spaniards is a canonical law throughout the West, and their exuberant spirit of festivity still remains, impelling us to celebrate every possible event, present and commemorative."

We had reached Dolores Street, a broad parked avenue where automobiles rushed by one another, shrieking a warning to the pedestrian. Suddenly I found myself alone. My companion had darted across the crowded street to a little oasis of grass where a mission bell hung suspended on an iron standard.

"It marks 'El Camino Real,'" he reported as he rejoined me.

"The King's Highway," I translated. "It must have been wonderful at this season of the year, for as the padres traveled northward, they scattered seeds of yellow mustard and in the spring a golden chain connected the missions from San Francisco to San Diego. Over there nearer the bay," I nodded toward the east where a heavy cloud of black smoke proclaimed the manufacturing section of the city, "lay the Potrero--the pasture-land of the padres--and the name still clings to the district. Beyond was Mission Cove, now filled in and covered with store-houses, but formerly a convenient landing place for the goods of Yankee skippers who, contrary to Spanish law, surreptitiously traded with the padres."

We turned to the massive façade of the old church, where hung the three bells, of which Bret Harte wrote.

"Bells of the past, whose long forgotten music Still fills the wide expanse; Tingeing the sober twilight of the present, With the color of romance."

As we entered the low arched doorway, we seemed to step from the hurry of the twentieth century into the peace of a by-gone era. Outside, the modern structures crowd upon the low adobe building, staring down upon it with unsympathetic eyes and begrudging it the very land it stands on, while inside, hand-hewn rafters, massive grey walls, and a red tiled floor slightly depressed in places by years of service, point mutely to the past, to the days when padres and neophytes knelt at the sound of the Angelus. Within still stand the elaborate altars brought a century ago from Mexico, before which Junipero Serra held mass during his last visit to San Francisco. On the massive archway spanning the building, can be seen the dull red scroll pattern, a relic of Indian work.

"Sing something," my companion suggested. "It needs music to make the spell complete."

"It does," I assented, "but you must stay where you are," and climbing to a balcony at the end of the building, I concealed myself in the shadow.

He glanced up at the first notes, then sat with bowed head. I filled the old church with an Ave Maria, then another. As I sang, the candles seemed to have been lighted on the gilded altars, and the brown friars and dusky Indians took form in the dim enclosure.

"More," he urged, but I would not, for I feared that the spell might be broken. So he came up to see why I lingered, and found me mounted on a ladder peering up at the old mission bells and the hand-hewn rafters tied with ropes of plaited rawhide.

My song must have attracted a passer-by, for a voice greeted us as we descended.

"Did you see the bells?" he asked eagerly. "They're a good deal like some of us old folks, out of commission because of age and disuse, but nevertheless they have their value. One has lost its tongue, another is cracked and the third sags against the side wall, so they're useless as church bells, but still they seem to speak of the days of the padres and the Indians."

"Were there many Indians here?" questioned the Bostonian.

"Often more than a thousand. I was born in the shadow of this building, in the year when the Mission was secularized, but my father knew it in its glory and used to tell me many stories about the good old padres."

Seeing the interest in our faces, the dark eyes brightened and he patted the thick adobe wall affectionately. "This church was only a small part of the Mission in those days. The buildings formed an inner quadrangle and two sides of an outer one, all a beehive of industry. There were the work rooms of the Indians, where blankets and cloth were woven; great vats for trying out tallow and curing hides, and also huge storehouses for grain and other foodstuffs, all built and cared for by the Indians."

"Quite a change from their lazy roving life," suggested the Easterner.

"Still the padres were not hard taskmasters," insisted the stranger. "The work lasted only from four to six hours a day and the evenings were devoted to games and dancing. All were required to attend religious services, however, and at the sound of the Angelus, they gathered within these walls. There was no sleeping through long prayers in those days," he added with an amused smile, "for a swarthy disciple paced the aisles and with a long pointed stick aroused the nodding ones, or quieted the too hilarious spirits of the small boys."

"A good example for some of our modern churches," remarked my companion, as we followed our guide to the altar at the end of the chapel. The light streaming through the mullioned window fell full upon the carved figure of a tonsured monk clad in a loose robe girdled with a cord. "It is our father, St. Francis," explained the old man. "It was in accordance with his direct wish that this Mission was founded."

"Yes?" questioned the skeptic.