A Backward Glance at Eighty written by Charles A. Murdock

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A BACKWARD GLANCE AT EIGHTY

Recollections & Comment

by

CHARLES A. MURDOCK

Massachusetts 1841
Humboldt Bay 1855
San Francisco 1864

1921

[Illustration: A CAMERA GLANCE AT EIGHTY]

THIS BOOK IS GRATEFULLY DEDICATED
TO THE FRIENDS WHO INSPIRED IT

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. NEW ENGLAND
II. A HIDDEN HARBOR
III. NINE YEARS NORTH
IV. THE REAL BRET HARTE
V. SAN FRANCISCO--THE SIXTIES
VI. LATER SAN FRANCISCO
VII. INCIDENTS IN PUBLIC SERVICE
VIII. AN INVESTMENT
IX. BY-PRODUCT
X. CONCERNING PERSONS
XI. OUTINGS
XII. OCCASIONAL VERSE
EPILOGUE

ILLUSTRATIONS

A CAMERA GLANCE AT EIGHTY
HUMBOLDT BAY, WINSHIP MAP
FRANCIS BRET HARTE (Saroney, 1874)
THE CLAY-STREET OFFICE THE DAY AFTER
THOMAS STARR KING (Original given Bret Harte)
HORATIO STEBBINS, SAN FRANCISCO, 1864-1900
HORACE DAVIS, HARVARD IN 1836
OUTINGS: THE SIERRAS, HAWAII

FOREWORD

In the autumn of 1920 the Board of Directors of the Pacific Coast
Conference of Unitarian Churches took note of the approaching eightieth
birthday of Mr. Charles A. Murdock, of San Francisco. Recalling Mr.
Murdock's active service of all good causes, and more particularly his
devotion to the cause of liberal religion through a period of more than
half a century, the board decided to recognize the anniversary, which
fell on January 26, 1921, by securing the publication of a volume of Mr.
Murdock's essays. A committee was appointed to carry out the project,
composed of Rev. H.E.B. Speight (chairman), Rev. C.S.S. Dutton, and Rev.
Earl M. Wilbur.

The committee found a very ready response to its announcement of a
subscription edition, and Mr. Murdock gave much time and thought to the
preparation of material for the volume. "A Backward Glance at Eighty" is
now issued with the knowledge that its appearance is eagerly awaited by
all Mr. Murdock's friends and by a large number of others who welcome
new light upon the life of an earlier generation of pioneers.

The publication of the book is an affectionate tribute to a good
citizen, a staunch friend, a humble Christian gentleman, and a fearless
servant of Truth--Charles A. Murdock.

MEMORIAL COMMITTEE.

GENESIS

In the beginning, the publication of this book is not the deliberate act
of the octogenarian. Separate causes seem to have co-operated
independently to produce the result. Several years ago, in a modest
literary club, the late Henry Morse Stephens, in his passion for
historical material, urged me from time to time to devote my essays to
early experiences in the north of the state and in San Francisco. These
papers were familiar to my friends, and as my eightieth birthday
approached they asked that I add to them introductory and connecting
chapters and publish a memorial volume. To satisfy me that it would find
acceptance they secured advance orders to cover the expense.

Under these conditions I could not but accede to their request. I would
subordinate an unimportant personal life. My purpose is to recall
conditions and experiences that may prove of historical interest and to
express some of the conclusions and convictions formed in an active and
happy life.

I wish to express my gratitude to the members of the committee and to my
friend, George Prescott Vance, for suggestions and assistance in
preparation and publication.

C.A.M.

CHAPTER I

NEW ENGLAND

My very early memories alternate between my grandfather's farm in
Leominster, Massachusetts, and the Pemberton House in Boston. My father
and mother, both born in Leominster, were schoolmates, and in due time
they married. Father was at first a clerk in the country store, but at
an early age became the tavern-keeper. I was born on January 26, 1841.
Soon thereafter father took charge of the Pemberton House on Howard
Street, which developed into Whig headquarters. Being the oldest
grandson, I was welcome at the old homestead, and I was so well off
under the united care of my aunts that I spent a fair part of my life in
the country.

My father was a descendant of Robert Murdock (of Roxbury), who left
Scotland in 1688, and whose descendants settled in Newton. My father's
branch removed to Winchendon, home of tubs and pails. My grandfather
(Abel) moved to Leominster and later settled in Worcester, where he
died when I was a small boy. My father's mother was a Moore, also of
Scotch ancestry. She died young, and on my father's side there was no
family home to visit.

My mother's father was Deacon Charles Hills, descended from Joseph
Hills, who came from England in 1634.

Nearly every New England town was devoted to some special industry, and
Leominster was given to the manufacture of horn combs. The industry was
established by a Hills ancestor, and when I was born four Hills brothers
were co-operative comb-makers, carrying on the business in connection
with small farming. The proprietors were the employees. If others were
required, they could be readily secured at the going wages of one dollar
a day.

My grandfather was the oldest of the brothers. When he married Betsy
Buss his father set aside for him twenty acres of the home farm, and
here he built the house in which he lived for forty years, raising a
family of ten children.

I remember quite clearly my great-grandfather Silas Hills. He was old
and querulous, and could certainly scold; but now that I know that he
was born in 1760, and had nineteen brothers and sisters, I think of him
with compassion and wonder. It connects me with the distant past to
think I remember a man who was sixteen years old when the Declaration
of Independence was signed. He died at ninety-five, which induces
apprehension.

My grandfather's house faced the country road that ran north over the
rolling hills among the stone-walled farms, and was about a mile from
the common that marked the center of the town. It was white, of course,
with green blinds. The garden in front was fragrant from Castilian
roses, Sweet Williams, and pinks. There were lilacs and a barberry-bush.
A spacious hall bisected the house. The south front room was sacred to
funerals and weddings; we seldom entered it. Back of that was grandma's
room. Stairs in the hall led to two sleeping-rooms above. The north
front room was "the parlor," but seldom used. There on the center-table
reposed Baxter's "Saints' Rest" and Young's "Night Thoughts." The
fireplace flue so seldom held a fire that the swallows utilized the
chimney for their nests. Back of this was the dining-room, in which we
lived. It had a large brick oven and a serviceable fireplace. The
kitchen was an ell, from which stretched woodshed, carriage-house,
pigpen, smoking-house, etc. Currant and quince bushes, rhubarb,
mulberry, maple, and butternut trees were scattered about. An apple
orchard helped to increase the frugal income.

We raised corn and pumpkins, and hay for the horse and cows. The corn
was gathered into the barn across the road, and a husking-bee gave
occasion for mild merrymaking. As necessity arose the dried ears were
shelled and the kernels taken to the mill, where an honest portion was
taken for grist. The corn-meal bin was the source of supply for all
demands for breakfast cereal. Hasty-pudding never palled. Small incomes
sufficed. Our own bacon, pork, spare-rib, and souse, our own butter,
eggs, and vegetables, with occasional poultry, made us little dependent
on others. One of the great-uncles was a sportsman, and snared rabbits
and pickerel, thus extending our bill of fare. Bread and pies came from
the weekly baking, to say nothing of beans and codfish. Berries from the
pasture and nuts from the woods were plentiful. For lights we were
dependent on tallow candles or whale-oil, and soap was mostly home-made.

Life was simple but happy. The small boy had small duties. He must pick
up chips, feed the hens, hunt eggs, sprout potatoes, and weed the
garden. But he had fun the year round, varying with the seasons, but
culminating with the winter, when severity was unheeded in the joy of
coasting, skating, and sleighing in the daytime, and apples, chestnuts,
and pop-corn in the long evenings.

I never tired of watching my grandfather and his brothers as they worked
in their shops. The combs were not the simple instruments we now use to
separate and arrange the hair, but ornamental structures that women wore
at the back of the head to control their supposedly surplus locks. They
were associated with Spanish beauties, and at their best estate were
made of shell, but our combs were of horn and of great variety. In the
better quality, shell was closely imitated, but some were frankly horn
and ornamented by the application of aquafortis in patterns artistic or
grotesque according to the taste and ability of the operator. The horns
were sawed, split, boiled in oil, pressed flat, and then died out ready
to be fashioned into the shape required for the special product. This
was done in a separate little shop by Uncle Silas and Uncle Alvah. Uncle
Emerson then rubbed and polished them in the literally one-horsepower
factory, and grandfather bent and packed them for the market. The power
was supplied by a patient horse, "Log Cabin" by name, denoting the date
of his acquisition in the Harrison campaign. All day the faithful nag
trod a horizontal wheel in the cellar, which gave way to his efforts and
generated the power that was transmitted by belt to the simple machinery
above.

Uncle Emerson generally sung psalm-tunes as he worked. Deacon Hills, as
he was always called, was finisher, packer, and business manager. I was
interested to notice that in doing up the dozen combs in a package he
always happened to select the best one to tie on the outside as a
sample. That was his nearest approach to dishonesty. He was a
thoroughly good man, but burdened and grave. I do not know that I ever
heard him laugh, and he seldom, if ever, smiled. He worked hard, was
faithful to every duty, and no doubt loved his family; but soberness was
inbred. He read the _Cultivator_, the _Christian Register_, and the
almanac. After the manner of his time, he was kind and helpful; but life
was hard and joyless. He was greatly respected and was honored by a
period of service as representative in the General Court.

My grandmother was a gentle, patient soul, living for her family, wholly
unselfish and incapable of complaint. She was placid and cheerful,
courageous and trusting. I had four fine aunts, two of whom were then
unmarried and devoted to the small boy. One was a veritable ray of
sunshine; the other, gifted of mind and nearest my age, was most
companionable. Only one son lived to manhood. He had gone from the home,
but faithfully each year returned from the city to observe Thanksgiving,
the great day of New England.

Holidays were somewhat infrequent. Fourth of July and muster, of course,
were not forgotten, and while Christmas was almost unnoticed
Thanksgiving we never failed to mark with all its social and religious
significance. Almost everybody went to meeting, and the sermon, commonly
reviewing the year, was regarded as an event. The home-coming of the
absent family members and the reunion at a bountiful dinner became the
universal custom. There were no distractions in the way of professional
football or other games. The service, the family, and plenty of good
things to eat engrossed the day. It was a time of rejoicing--and
unlimited pie.

Sunday was strictly observed. Grandfather always blacked his boots
before sundown of Saturday night, and on Sunday anything but going to
meeting was regarded with suspicion, especially if it was associated
with any form of enjoyment. In summer "Log Cabin" was hitched into the
shafts of the chaise, and with gait slightly accelerated beyond the
daily habit jogged to town and was deposited in the church shed during
the service. At noon we rejoined him and ate our ginger-bread and cheese
while he disposed of his luncheon of oats. Then we went back to
Sunday-school, and he rested or fought flies. In winter he was decked
with bells and hitched in the sleigh. Plenty of robes and a foot-stove,
or at least a slab of heated soap-stone, provided for grandmother's
comfort.

The church when it was formed was named "The First Congregational." When
it became Unitarian, the word, in parentheses, was added. The Second
Congregational was always called "The Orthodox." The church building was
a fine example of early architecture. The steeple was high, the walls
were white, the pews were square. On a tablet at the right of the pulpit
the Ten Commandments were inscribed, and at the left the Beatitudes
were found.

The first minister I remember was saintly Hiram Withington, who won my
loyalty by his interest manifested by standing me up by the door-jamb
and marking my growth from call to call. I remember Rufus P. Stebbins,
the former minister, who married my father and mother and refused a fee
because my father had always cut his hair in the barberless days of old.
Amos A. Smith was later in succession. I loved him for his goodness.
Sunday-school was always a matter of course, and was never dreaded.

I early enjoyed the Rollo books and later reveled in Mayne Reid. The
haymow in the barn and a blessed knothole are associated with many happy
hours.

Reading has dangers. I think one of the first books I ever read was a
bound volume of _Merry's Museum_. There was a continued story recounting
the adventures of one Dick Boldhero. It was illustrated with horrible
woodcuts. One of them showed Dick bearing on a spirited charger the
clasped form of the heroine, whom he had abducted. It impressed me
deeply. I recognized no distinction of sex or attractiveness and lived
in terror of suffering abduction. When I saw a stranger coming I would
run into the shop and clasp my arms around some post until I felt the
danger past. This must have been very early in my career. Indeed one of
my aunts must have done the reading, leaving me to draw distress from
the thrilling illustrations.

A very early trial was connected with a visit to a school. I was getting
proud of my ability to spell small words. A primer-maker had attempted
to help the association of letters with objects by placing them in
juxtaposition, but through a mistake he led me to my undoing. I knew my
letters and I knew some things. I plainly distinguished the letters
P-A-N. Against them I was puzzled by a picture of a spoon, and with
credulity, perhaps characteristic, I blurted out "P-a-n--spoon," whereat
to my great discomfiture everybody laughed. I have never liked being
laughed at from that day to this.

I am glad that I left New England early, but I am thankful that it was
not before I realized the loveliness of the arbutus as it braved the
snow and smiled at the returning sun, nor that I made forts or played
morris in the snow at school.

I have passed on from my first impressions in the country perhaps
unwarrantedly. It is hard to differentiate consistently. I may have
mixed early memories with more mature realization. I did not live with
my grandmother continuously. I went back and forth as convenience and
others' desires prompted. I do not know what impressions of life in the
Pemberton House came first. Very early I remember helping my busy
little mother, who in the spring of the year uncorded all the bedsteads
and made life miserable for the festive bedbugs by an application of
whale oil from a capable feather applied to the inside of all holes
through which the ropes ran. The re-cording of the beds was a tedious
process requiring two persons, and I soon grew big enough to count as
one. I remember also the little triangular tin candlesticks that we
inserted at the base of each of the very small panes of the window when
we illuminated the hotel on special nights. I distinctly recall the
quivering of the full glasses of jelly on tapering disks that formed
attractive table ornaments.

Daniel Webster was often the central figure at banquets in the
Pemberton. General Sam Houston, Senator from Texas, was also
entertained, for I remember that my father told me of an incident that
occurred many years after, when he passed through San Antonio. As he
strolled through the city he saw the Senator across the street, but,
supposing that he would not be remembered, had no thought of speaking,
whereupon Houston called out, "Young man, are you not going to speak to
me!" My father replied that he had not supposed that he would be
remembered. "Of course I remember meeting you at the Pemberton House in
Boston."

I remember some of the boarders, regular and transient, distinguished
and otherwise. There was a young grocery clerk who used to hold me in
his lap and talk to me. He became one of the best of California's
governors, Frederick F. Low, and was a close friend of Thomas Starr
King. A wit on a San Francisco paper once published at Thanksgiving time
"A Thanksgiving proclamation by our stuttering reporter--'Praise God
from whom all blessings f-f-low.'" In my memory he is associated with
Haymaker Square.

I well remember the famous circus clown of the period, Joe Pentland,
very serious and proper when not professionally funny. A minstrel who
made a great hit with "Jim Crow" once gave me a valuable lesson on table
manners. One Barrett, state treasurer, was a boarder. He had a standing
order: "Roast beef, rare and fat; gravy from the dish." Madame
Biscaccianti, of the Italian opera, graced our table. So did the
original Drew family.

The hotel adjoined the Howard Athenaeum, and I profited from peeping
privileges to the extent of many pins. I recall some wonderful trained
animals--Van Amberg's, I think. A lion descended from back-stage and
crawled with stealth upon a sleeping traveler in the foreground. It was
thrilling but harmless. There were also some Viennese dancers, who
introduced, I believe, the Cracovienne. I remember a "Sissy Madigan,"
who seemed a wonder of beauty and charm.

There was great excitement when the Athenaeum caught on fire. I can see
the trunks being dragged down the stairs to the damage of the banisters,
and great confusion and dismay among our boarders. A small boy was
hurried in his nightie across the street and kept till all danger had
passed. A very early memory is the marching through the streets of
soldiers bound for the Mexican War.

Off and on, I lived in Boston till 1849, when my father left for
California and the family returned to Leominster.

My first school in Boston was in the basement of Park Street Church.
Hermann Clarke, son of our minister, Rev. James Freeman Clarke, was a
fellow pupil. Afterward I went to the Mayhew Grammar School, connected
in my mind with a mild chastisement for imitating a trombone when a
procession passed by. The only other punishment I recall was a spanking
by my father for playing "hookey" and roaming in the public garden. I
remember Sunday-school parades through certain public streets. But the
great event was the joining of all the day schools in the great parade
when Cochituate water was introduced into the city. It was a proud
moment when the fountain in the frogpond on the Common threw on high the
water prodigiously brought from far Cochituate.

Another Boston memory is the Boston Theater, where William Warren
reigned. Cinderella and her pumpkin carriage are fresh in my mind. I
also recall a waxwork representation of the Birth in the Manger. I still
can see the heads of the cattle, the spreading horns, and the blessed
Babe.

As I recall my early boyhood, many changes in customs seem suggested.
There may be trundle-beds in these days, but I never see them. No
fathers wear boots in this era, and bootjacks are as extinct as the
dodo. I have kept a few letters written by my mother when I was away
from her. They were written on a flat sheet, afterward folded and
fastened by a wafer. Envelopes had not arrived; neither had
postage-stamps. Sealing-wax was then in vogue and red tape for important
documents. In all well-regulated dwellings there were whatnots in the
corner with shells and waxworks and other objects of beauty or mild
interest. The pictures did not move--they were fixed in the family
album. The musical instruments most in evidence were jew's-harps and
harmonicas. The Rollo books were well calculated to make a boy sleepy.
The Franconia books were more attractive, and "The Green Mountain Boy"
was thrilling. A small boy's wildest dissipation was rolling a hoop.

And now California casts her shadow. My father was an early victim. I
remember his parting admonition, as he was a man of few words and seldom
offered advice. "Be careful," he said, "of wronging others. Do not
repeat anything you hear that reflects on another. It is a pretty good
rule, when you cannot speak well of another, to say nothing at all." He
must have said more, but that is all that I recall.

Father felt that in two years he would return with enough money to
provide for our needs. In the meantime we could live at less expense and
in greater safety in the country. We returned to the town we all loved,
and the two years stretched to six. We three children went to school, my
mother keeping house. In 1851 my grandfather died, and in 1853 my
grandmother joined him.

During these Leominster days we greatly enjoyed a visit from my father's
sister, Charlotte, with her husband, John Downes, an astronomer
connected with Harvard University. They were charming people, bringing a
new atmosphere from their Cambridge home. Uncle John tried to convince
me that by dividing the heavens I might count the visible stars, but he
did not succeed. He wrote me a fine, friendly letter on his returning
home, in 1852, using a sheet of blue paper giving on the third page a
view of the college buildings and a procession of the alumni as they
left the church Sept. 6, 1836. In the letter he pronounced it a very
good view. It is presented elsewhere, in connection with the picture of
a friend who entered the university a few years later.

School life was pleasant and I suppose fairly profitable. Until I
entered high school I attended the ungraded district school. It was on
the edge of a wood, and a source of recess pleasure was making
umbrageous homes of pine boughs. On the last day of school the school
committee, the leading minister, the ablest lawyer, and the best-loved
doctor were present to review and address us. We took much pride in the
decoration. Wreaths of plaited leaves were twisted around the stovepipe;
the top of the stove was banked with pond-lilies gathered from a pond in
our woods. Medals were primitive. For a week I wore a pierced ninepence
in evidence of my proficiency in mental arithmetic; then it passed to
stronger hands.

According to present standards we indulged in precious little amusement.
Entertainments were few. Once in a while a circus came to town, and
there were organizations of musical attractions like The Hutchinson
Family and The Swiss Bell Ringers. Ossian E. Dodge was a name with which
to conjure, and a panorama was sometimes unrolled alternating with
dissolving views. Seen in retrospect, they all seem tame and unalluring.
The Lyceum was, the feature of strongest interest to the grownups.
Lectures gave them a chance to see men of note like Wendell Phillips,
Emerson, or William Lloyd Garrison. Even boys could enjoy poets of the
size of John G. Saxe.

Well do I remember the distrust felt for abolitionists. I had an uncle
who entertained Fred Douglass and was ready at any time to help a
fugitive slave to Canada. He was considered dangerous. He was a
shoemaker, and I remember how he would drop his work when no one was by
and get up to pace the floor and rehearse a speech he probably never
would make.

Occasionally our singing-school would give a concert, and once in a
farmers' chorus I was costumed in a smock cut down from one of
grandfather's. I carried a sickle and joined in "Through lanes with
hedgerows, pearly." I kept up in the singing but let my attention wander
as the farmers made their exit and did not notice that I was left till
the other boys were almost off the stage. I then skipped after them,
swinging my scythe in chagrin.

In the high school we gave an exhibition in which we enacted some Scotch
scene. I think it had to do with Roderick Dhu. We were to be costumed,
and I was bothered about kilts and things. Mr. Phillips, the principal,
suggested that the stage be set with small evergreen trees. The picture
of them in my mind's eye brought relief, and I impulsively exclaimed,
"That will be good, because we will not have to wear pants," meaning, of
course, the kilts. He had a sense of humor and was a tease. He pretended
to take me literally, and raised a laugh as he said, "Why, Murdock!"

One bitterly cold night we went to Fitchburg, five miles away, to
describe the various pictures given at a magic-lantern exhibition. My
share was a few lines on a poor view of Scarborough Castle. At this
distance it seems like a poor investment of energy.

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