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 Sep, 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.

I wonder if modern education has not made some progress in a generation. Here was a boy of fourteen who had never studied history or physics or physiology and was assigned nothing but Latin, algebra and grammar. I left at fourteen and a half to come to California, knowing little but what I had picked up accidentally.

A diary of my voyage, dating from June 4, 1855, vividly illustrates the character of the English inculcated by the school of the period. It refers to the “crowd assembled to witness our departure.” It recounts all we saw, beginning with Washacum Pond, which we passed on our way to Worcester: “of considerable magnitude, ... and the small islands which dot its surface render it very beautiful.” The buildings of New York impressed the little prig greatly. Trinity Church he pronounces “one of the most splendid edifices which I ever saw,” and he waxes into “Opalian” eloquence over Barnum’s American Museum, which was “illuminated from basement to attic.”

We sailed on the “George Law,” arriving at Aspinwall, the eastern terminal of the Panama Railroad, in ten days. Crossing the isthmus, with its wonders of tropical foliage and varied monkeys, gave a glimpse of a new world. We left Panama June 16th and arrived at San Francisco on the morning of the 30th.

Let the diary tell the tale of the beginning of life in California: “I arose about 4-1/2 this morning and went on deck. We were then in the Golden Gate, which is the entrance into San Francisco Bay. On each side of us was high land. On the left-hand side was a lighthouse, and the light was still burning. On my right hand was the outer telegraph building. When they see us they telegraph to another place, from which they telegraph all over San Francisco. When we were going in there was a strong ebb tide. We arrived at the wharf a little after five o’clock. The first thing which I did was to look for my father. Him I did not see.”

Father had been detained in Humboldt by the burning of the connecting steamer, so we went to Wilson’s Exchange in Sansome near Sacramento Street, and in the afternoon took the “Senator” for Sacramento, where my uncle and aunt lived.

The part of a day in San Francisco was used to the full in prospecting the strange city. We walked its streets and climbed its hills, much interested in all we saw. The line of people waiting for their mail up at Portsmouth Square was perhaps the most novel sight. A race up the bay, waiting for the tide at Benicia, sticking on the “Hog’s Back” in the night, and the surprise of a flat, checkerboard city were the most impressive experiences of the trip to Sacramento.

A month or so on this compulsory visit passed very pleasantly. We found fresh delight in watching the Chinese and their habits. We had never seen a specimen before. A very pleasant picnic and celebration on the Fourth of July was another attractive novelty. Cheap John auctions and frequent fires afforded amusement and excitement, and we learned to drink muddy water without protest.

On the 15th the diary records: “Last night about 12 o’clock I woke, and who should I behold, standing by me, but my father! Is it possible that after a separation of nearly six years I have at last met my father? It is even so. This form above me is, indeed, my father’s.” The day’s entry concludes: “I have really enjoyed myself today. I like the idea of a father very well.”

We were compelled to await an upcoast steamer till August, when that adventurous craft, the steamer “McKim,” now newly named the “Humboldt,” resumed sea-voyages. The Pacific does not uniformly justify the name, but this time it completely succeeded. The ocean was as smooth as the deadest mill-pond not a breath of wind or a ripple of the placid surface. Treacherous Humboldt Bar, sometimes a mountain of danger, did not even disclose its location. The tar from the ancient seams of the Humboldt’s decks responded to the glowing sun until pacing the deck was impossible, but sea-sickness was no less so. We lazily steamed into the beautiful harbor, up past Eureka, her streets still occupied by stumps, and on to the ambitious pier stretching nearly two miles from Uniontown to deep water.

And now that the surroundings may be better understood, let me digress from the story of my boyhood and touch on the early romance of Humboldt Bay its discovery and settlement.