When Fremont Older became editor of The Bulletin it had a circulation
of about 9,000 and was losing $3,000 a month.
The owners expected the paper to be out of the red within a year, and
so the staff was cut to five or six.
I was dramatic critic, society editor, literary editor, special writer,
I knew nothing about reporting, nothing about dramatic criticism and,
being a newcomer, nothing about society. I had a desk, but no salary. Others
of the staff were trained newspapermen.
I dreaded interviewing; it seemed impertinent to ask even bandit Chris
Evans daughter about her fathers crimes.
Soon, however, I interviewed such celebrities as John L. Sullivan who
modestly said, I was Number One my class, and I guess if I had gone into
the army, I would have been a fellow like Napoleon.
Riding on a cable car down the California street hill with the Theosophist
leader, gray- haired Anna Besant, who believed in reincarnation, I
heard her say as she looked at me with her steel-gray eyes:
I know Shakespeare. Hes a friend of mine.
What a scoop for the Bulletin! Eagerly, I asked: Where does he live?
Oh, that I couldnt reveal. It would be misunderstood.
Tall, handsome, bearded, heel-clicking Prince Francis Joseph,
of Battenburg (Mountbatten), great-uncle of queen Elizabeths consort,
Prince Philip, stopped at the Occidental Hotel, treated me like royalty,
thanked me for coming, sent greetings to my husband.
One interview that I shall never forget was with Sarah Bernhardt, who
was coming, with Coquelin on her special train from New York.
By this time The Bulletin had shot ahead of its competitors, the Report
and Evening, Post, and Fremont planned to scoop the other papers with my
Fortunately, I could speak a little French. Through her manager. Fremont
arranged to have me board her train at Cheyenne and interview her even
before the morning papers did.
Bidden To Dinner
One bleak, winter day I boarded her train at Cheyenne and spent the
afternoon talking with her beauty doctor, traveling with her.
About seven word came that Madame Sarah Bernhardt would receive me
at dinner. Her entourage always spoke of her as Madame Sarah Bernhardt.
Already Coquelin was standing by the dinner table when Madame Sarah
Bernhardt swept in with an aureole of honey-colored hair, wearing
a loose trailing white satin gown, with décolletage filled in with cream
lace, covering flesh-tinted chiffon, that extended up to her chin
and had high points almost touching her ears.
She explained to me that she was happy in white satin, always wore
it, had the material especially made for her. She showed me a piece of
it, heavy as broadcloth.
Comic Was Dour
Coquelin, the comedian, seemed rather dour. I recall that he remarked
that Napoleons Marie Louise was an imbecile.
Evidently, Madame Sarah Bernhardt was displeased with her manager,
Mark Grau, because during dinner, several times she jabbed the table cover,
addressing it angrily as she struck it with her fork, MarCUS. MarCUS!
Had Mark Grau been present, Madame Sarah Bernhardt might have jabbed
him with that fork.
When good-nights were said about 9 I asked if I might sit at the
table and write my article for The Bulletin. Madame Sarah Bernhardt was
My child, youre not going to write an article tonight?
Oh, I must. My husband sent me here to write it and telegraph it tonight.
Impossible! That is cruel. Telegraph your husband that you have a
Wanted A Scoop
Had I sent that telegram of excuse instead of an article, I WOULD have
had a headache. I explained that my husband wished to have the article
before any other paper. She then gave me permission to write at her table.
During the entire evening Coquelins valet stood watching write his
sole remark being: I wish I were a journalist, Madame.
During the night I got [off] the train, in the midst of a Nevada storm,
telegraphed two columns to The Bulletin.
Fremont was delighted and wired immediately for me to send another
article, which I did.
Warned of Wrinkles
Madame Sarah Bernhardts beauty doctor told me I shouldnt wear such
high collars, theyd wrinkle my neck. I replied: But Madame Sarah Bernhardt
Yes, Madame, but youre young and she is old. She wears them to conceal
her wrinkled neck.
Back in San Francisco, Fremont and I had a dramatic feast, attending
every Bernhardt and Coquelin performance.
When Frances Jolliffe became our dramatic critic, she went to interview
Caruso, who spoke neither French nor English.
He Bored Older
Fremont sent me along to act as interpreter because I spoke a little
Frances and I went up to Sacramento to meet Caruso on his first visit
to San Francisco. At this time we lived at the Palace Hotel, always dining
at 6. Caruso also had an early dinner, to rest before the opera, and so
he came and sat at our table. Fat, clumsy and good-natured, he bored
Fremont, who said that his I.Q. was about like that of Jim Jeffries, the
prizefighter. He had a derby hat, but instead of putting it on straight,
he liked to place it from ear to ear across his heada 10-year-old
He did caricatures of himself on the menus, gave them to us or the
waiters, or anyone who happened along.
Irked By Delay
He was completely unspoiled and because of his divine voice, women
wanted to meet him.
I asked some friends to join us after the opera. I hesitated about
mentioning it to Fremont until we were in the carriage going to the Opera
House. He grunted displeasure.
After the opera the women lingered in our room chatting and prettying
up. When we arrived at our reserved table in the Palace courtyard Caruso
had already come.
Seated opposite him was Fremont glaring murder because we had left
him with that Jim Jeffries, who couldnt speak a word of English.
Our guests, however, had a good time and they were delighted with the
I enjoyed first nights at the theatersthe Baldwin, Columbia, and
It seems to me that aside from Bernhardt, the most memorable first
night was when Nance ONeil, a San Francisco girl, first, appeared on the
stage a star.
Born Gertrude Lamson, her religious father, an, auctioneer, denounced,
his daughter in church, for going on the stage, and asked the congregation
to pray for her.
She drifted away under the management of McKee Rankin, who made her,
a star in Australia. London also acclaimed her before she returned to her
home town. When she rushed onto stage in Leah the Forsaken, wild-eyed,
hair disheveled, fleeing from her pursuers, it seemed to me that I was
looking at Siddons or Ristori. Indeed, she wore Ristoris jewels.
Nance had genius that made all other actresses, except Bernhardt, seem
The small audience, gave her curtain call after curtain call. Next
morning I was surprised to find all the critics lukewarm. I said to Fremont:
I dont know what to write.
He replied: Pay no attention to the other critics. Write just as you
So I wrote that the San Francisco girl was a genius.
She changed her program every night and I attended each performance.
For a week she didnt draw, and then suddenly the theater was crowded.
Later, she appeared under David Belasco, but she was too long with
Rankin to fulfill the promise that she gave.
Turned to Home
After The Bulletin began making a profit I gave up my jobs and remained
home, which was always the California, Palace or Fairmont Hotel, with the
Hotel Rafael in summer.
Here I read and tried to write books. I read every word of Fremonts
favorites, Dickens, Thackeray and Scott.
I believe that Fremont Older knew more about Dickens than anyone who
ever lived. Not a day passed but he mentioned something from Dickens. When
he read a book he seemed to devour it and it went into his bloodstream.
Once I asked him to recite the names of Dickens characters. I counted
up to 50 and grew tired.
Many a time he woke me to listen to something from Dickens at 3 or
4 in the morning.
I want to sleep.
You can sleep any time. This is great.
So, I was forcibly fed Dickens. Hed also read a great deal about Napoleon.
But Napoleon was no longer Fremonts hero. I spent a year, however, reading
nothing but books about Napoleon, his wars and his family. In Europe I
never failed to visit a house where a Bonaparte lived and I would still
like to go to Corsica.
I had read Plato at Syracuse University but knew nothing about him.
Fremont discovered Plato at 50 and read him as if he were a whodunit. Fremont
had little tracts with quotations from Plato, struck off in the printing
office and distributed them among his friends commanding, Read the greatest
thing ever written. Pauline Jacobson nick-named Fremont Socrates.
Once at the Hotel Rafael Fremont called me out of the dining room where
I was lingering after dinner to chat with friends. Then he read to me Platos
A friend asked me what Fremont wanted that was so, important. When,
I told her, she said, Id get a divorce from a man like that. Montaigne
he read as avidly as Plato, with excitement and enthusiasm.
Fremont was the first editor of a metropolitan newspaper to employ
a woman as city editor. She was Virginia Brastow, a small, frail spinster.
She had endless ambition and was determined to have a job.
Day after day she sat in The Bulletin office waiting to be employed,
but was ignored.
One day a big story broke and there was no other reporter in the office.
Fremont sent her out and she did the story so well that she not only had
a job but was soon city editor. Her strength, however, gave out, and she
The Bulletins editorial writer, Eustace Cullinan, later had a fine
career as a lawyer. Ex-Congressman E. J. Livernash also wrote editorials.
Another member of the staff was John Coghlin, who became a lawyer, and
recently retired as vice president of the Pacific Gas and Electric Company.
Once Fremont appeared at the Fairmont Hotel with tall, slender, pale,
dark-eyed young man, John Francis Neylan, whom he had just employed
for the paper. They stayed only a few minutes and left.
At dinner that night he said What did you think of Neylan?
I replied I think hes going to do something remarkable.
I think so too, he said.
I brought him up to see what you thought of him. I was greatly flattered
that he cared.
Ida Tarbell told Fremont about Robert Duffus, then at Stanford, who
became one of the editors of the New York Times. Duffus brought Maxwell
Anderson, who became a distinguished playwright.
Bruce Bliven of the New Republic, author of several scientific books,
was another Stanford man who became a member of the staff.
My brother, Hiland Baggerly, came out from Union College and joined
One, of his first assignments was the Durrant murder mystery and I
recall how, on Easter morning, he came to our rooms at the California Hotel
The body of the second murdered girl has just been discovered in the
belfry of the Baptist Church, where the other girl was found.
My brother employed Robert Ripley, a Santa Rosa boy, for the sports
department. Ripley afterwards created Believe It or Not, which became
a part. of the language. Cartoonist Tad Dorgan was another of his finds.
Pauline Jacobson wrote a letter to the paper which was so brilliant
that Fremont replied by asking her to come to the office and take a job.
Bessie Beatty was a popular member of the staff, with her Happyland
girls camp in the Santa Cruz Mountains and her organization to distribute
People who wanted gifts wrote to the paper and she sent me, as well
as others, to investigate the requests.
Ill never forget that two days before Christmas I visited a prosperous
house in the Mission and found a woman who said:
I dont care what you bring so long as it is a Christmas present.
Ive been married to a mean man for 40 years and he never gave me a gift.
Id like anything.
At a house in the sand dunes near the park I fond a woman and their
four children all barefoot. They had neither clothing or food. They needed
a truckload of things.
As I made the list, a little 7-year-old boy said, Mama,
I told you, Santa Claus would come.
The woman showed me a branch of a tree, decorated with little strips
of newspaper. The boy had broken off the branch from a tree in the park.
The mother said: We went over this morning, got this Christmas tree
and decorated it. He has been saying all day that Santa Claus would come.
Barry Joins Staff
Harvard graduate John D. Barry was an established writer from the East
who joined the staff and became popular as a public speaker and lecturer.
Rose Wilder Lane, who had been selling real estate in Santa Clara County,
wrote several serials and later became a magazine writer, as well as a
novelist. She is now in New York.
Fremont asked Sophie Treadwell, daughter of Judge Treadwell, to disguise
herself as a prostitute, go from church to church, and see how she, as
an outcast, would be treated.
Sophie burst into tears, but afterwards, wrote An Outcast at the Christian
She married Bill McGeehan, who invented the expression higher-ups,
and later became editor for the New York Herald Tribune. Sophie had several
plays produced and lives in New York.
Idea For Serial
Sophies story attracted much attention and gave Fremont the idea for
a serial concerned with the life of a woman of the underworld. Ernest Hopkins
ghosted the story of Alice Smith A Voice from the Underworld.
Today the serial wouldnt have been a shocker, but at that time womens
clubs whereased against it.
Immediately, Fremont brought out The Healing of Sam Leake, which
probably had the widest influence of any serial he ever published.
Of a good family, Leake had been a prominent publisher, but had lost
his paper and position through drink.
His friends thought he was a down-and-outer who couldnt
live long, when he met a woman, Dr. Lomax, a Christian Science practitioner,
who performed what seemed the impossible, the cure of Sam Leake.
Fremont persuaded Leake to relate his story for publication in The
The impact was terrific. Alcoholics crowded The Bulletin office, brought
by wives and mothers, begging Leake to heal them. He gave them aid and
ended by becoming a healer himself. His widely published story has been
translated into several languages.
Our life did not become turbulent until Fremont entered political battles.
Election night we never dreamed of dining. We sat in the office trying
to figure out whether our candidate would win. Almost invariably we lost.
One success was when Fremont brought about the candidacy for mayor
of James D. Phelan, who probably did, more for San Francisco than any mayor
of the city ever had.
It was he who planned the Civic Center and it was he who took the first
steps toward bringing the $300,000,000 Hetch Hetchy water system into the
Phelan was followed by Eugene Schmitz, with over-smart Abraham
Ruef as boss. Soon, Fremont said he could smell graft in San Francisco.
Bribers and bribe takers were everywhere. French restaurants, houses
of prostitution, gambling establishments, even shoeshine stands, paid tribute
to the boss.
Fremont determined to do something about the wholesale corruption and
daily he attacked the mayor and Ruef. He tried to defeat Schmitz at the
polls but failed.
At that time Francis J. Heney, who was prosecuting land frauds for
the federal government in Oregon, said in a speech: If you want me to,
Ill come back and put Abe Ruef in prison.
Fremont went to Washington and met Heney who agreed to come if Detective
William J. Burns could also come. President Theodore Roosevelt agreed to
release Henry and Burns to clean up San Francisco.
Back in town, Fremont, enlisted the financial support of Phelan and
Rudolph Spreckels. Spreckels gave most of the money.
Skillfully, Burns trapped supervisors into confessions that indicted
the mayor and several capitalists, including Patrick Calhoun, president
of the United Railways.
Of course, the guilty fought back. Fremont was threatened with warnings.
He was told to keep away from the beach.
Our recreation at that time was going on a streetcar to the park entrance
and walking rapidly, three miles to the ocean for a dip, after which we
had dinner at Mrs. Gunns home cooking place, adjoining our car house.
After Fremonts life was threatened, he had a special officer come
to the beach while we dined. This saved our lives because a man afterwards
confessed that he had placed a bomb under our car to blow us up.
Violence followed violence. During Ruefs trial the house of one of
the supervisors, who had turned states evidence, was dynamited, and Heney
was shot down in the courtroom by a juror when the latter was revealed
as an ex-convict. The man afterwards killed himself.
Hiram W. Johnson stepped into Heneys place, laying the foundation
for his career as governor and United States senator.
Ruef was found guilty and sentenced to 14 years in San Quentin. Schmitz
was also found guilty but, escaped through a technicality.
At that time the graft prosecution was applauded, but after the indictment
of Calhoun on a charge of giving a $200,000 bribe, only the valiant stood
by the prosecutor. It was then that Fremont nearly lost his life.
We were giving a dinner at a restaurant for some sympathizers with
the prosecution, but Fremont didnt appear. I was anxious because his life
was always being threatened. Why didnt he telephone?
I returned to the Fairmont Hotel where we lived. No husband. Troubled
and fearful, I went to bed. It was difficult to sleep.
At 2 oclock in the morning Eustace Cullinan rapped, on my door. Mr.
Older is all right.
Eustace told me what had happened. Fremont was in Heneys office talking
with his partner, Charlie Cobb, when he was called to the telephone and
asked to come to a hotel on Van Ness avenue for important information on
In leaving Fremont said to Cobb: This may be a trap. If dont come
back, tell Spreckels.
When Fremont reached Van Ness avenue, two men sprang from an automobile.
One presented a papera Los Angeles warrant for your arrest on a criminal
Take me to Judge Cooks court said, Fremont.
A gun was placed against Fremonts side and he was driven, not to Judge
Cooks court, but down the peninsula followed by a car in which were Luther
Brown, Calhouns chief detective and Porter Ashe, the Calhoun lawyer.
Fremont was told he would be shot if he made any attempt to escape.
At Redwood City he was put on the Los Angeles train with four of the men,
including the detective.
Fremont tried to send a telegram to Spreckels, but it never arrived.
His life was saved by a stranger, a young San Francisco lawyer, who
overheard conversations among the men that made him suspicious that the
editor was to be taken off the train at San Luis Obispo, driven through
the mountains and shot while attempting to escape.
The lawyer, who never wanted his name revealed, got off the train at
Salinas, and telegraphed The Call. Next morning the Call screamed: OLDER
Immediately, the San Francisco lawyers telegraphed Santa Barbara and
editor Thomas W. Storke and Franklin K. Lane obtained a writ of habeas
corpus for Fremonts release. An excited crowd appeared at the station.
Hero For A Day
Fremont returned to San Francisco a hero for a day only. Soon he was
charged with hurting business and was so ostracized at the Bohemian Club
that he resigned. Society was divided into two classes, pro-graft
prosecution and against.
We werent unhappy about ostracism, for we sustained by certainty that
we were doing the, right thing.
Only Ruef was punished. Fremonts kidnapers and the alleged bribe-givers
all went free. Fremont thought this was a mockery of justice and spent
many years working for the release of Ruef, but was unable to reduce his
sentence even one day.
Victory At Last
Wed had so many defeats that we could hardly believe victory was ours
when Hiram W. Johnson, as an independent candidate of the Lincoln Roosevelt
League, was elected governor.
Johnson campaigned in a car, driven by his son, Hiram Jr., speaking
from his car, saying in his organ-like voice: Well kick the Southern
Pacific out of politics. And he did. That night, I recall, we all went
to Johnsons office and hugged him. While Fremont visited Ruef at San Quentin,
he became interested in the stories of Donald Lowrie, an alcoholic burglar,
from a respectable New York family, who was serving a sentence.
Fremont obtained Lowries parole from San Quentin so that he could
write his serial My Life in Prison.
Moved To Hills
By this time we had moved to our ranch in the Saratoga hills and Lowrie
finished his story there.
I came up to town for some hardware for our new house.
Go right back to the Ranch, said Fremont, and see that Lowrie doesnt
get drunk. What will become of his serial?
Fremont had to stop in town that night, and when I heard something
like rocks falling in the hall, it was Lowrie.
Our houseman who sometimes got drunk himself, appeared, but he disdained.
helping Lowrie I, a teetotaler, had to guide the alcoholic to his room.
Lowries My Life in Prison was a best seller, and Thomas Mott Osborne,
millionaire warden of Sing Sing, urged him to come east as an assistant.
He sent $500 for Lowries expenses.
En route, Lowrie left the train and telegraphed for another $500. But
he finally arrived, and worked with Osborne for a year or two.
Lowrie was soon back in a Pennsylvania penitentiary. He wrote another
serial, Back in Prison, Why?
Lowrie had writing genius. Under a different name he sent out stories
from prison and sold them.
Again released, he married and had a child, but liquor sent him back
to prison in Arizona., He was writing another serial for The Call-Bulletin
when he died.
The, last chapter was finished by Evelyn Wells, whom Fremont sent down
to take notes while he was dying.
Haven For Cons
Lowrie was one of several prisoners who came to the ranch, living in
the old-fashioned ranch house. Our new house, was up the hill.
Fremont had many paroled men, always paid at current labor prices.
Everyones favorite was a stage robber, Charlie Dorsey, 7O, who had served
20 years in San Quentin for killing a deputy sheriff during a holdup. Wells-Fargo,
has his picture in their Museum Under the name of Charles Thorne, the
most desperate man they ever captured.
Charlie was tall, wrinkled, white-haired, with big nose and chin
and a black felt hat always tilted a bit. He had been one of Quantrells
raiders in the Civil War.
Charlie was from Missouri, and he thought he had done nothing when
he had cut a cord of Wood a day.
Charlies friend, bandit Buck English, ill and dying, came to visit
Charlie. All of Bucks brothers had either gone to San Quentin or had been
One day Buck looked at Charlie and said: Charlie, take off that hat.
You look like a sheriff.
Hill plowing was too hard for 70-year-old Charlie, and after
a year or two Fremont got him a job in Golden Gate Park where he was a
favorite of John McLaren.
Saving his money, he bought a little place near Los Angeles, brought
out his niece from the Middle West, made her his heir, and died respected.
Jack Black was another ranch favorite. He also was from Missouri. You
Cant Win appeared as a serial in The Call-Bulletin, was one of MacMillans
best sellers, has been translated into Russian, Swedish and French, as,
one of the best crime books.
After it appeared, for several years he lectured at womens clubs,
but lived in New York. Summers, he occupied our little adobe house by the
MacMillan asked him for another book, but he was too weak even to swim,
and he didnt write it.
He returned to New York and Fremont thought Jack did what he always
said any down-and-outer should do, fill his pockets with rocks
and take a header into the bay. Jacks body was never found.
Our experience was that bandits and highway robbers were dependable.
Alcoholics, forgers and sex offenders were repeaters.
In his last days Fremont said, You cant make people over. All we
can do is be kind to them.
Often, Ive been asked, Werent you afraid to have paroled men at
I never was but once, and that was when our housekeeper and her husband
had gone to San Francisco to stop overnight.
I never learned to cook, and our housekeeper left chicken and vegetables
for the men.
Fremont was in town that night, and up from the old ranch house came
Lowrie and Frank Ballard, another highwayman, for dinner.
In a few minutes there was a rap on the kitchen door. Frank answered
and returned saying, Theres a man outside who hasnt had anything to
eat in two days.
Bring him in, I replied.
In came an unprepossessing man about 40. I asked him to be seated and
served the men food.
I was surprised that the stranger didnt eat his chicken, and something
in the manner of all three, men made me suspect that they had met before.
When they said goodnight and went down the hill to the ranch house,
I was nervous because I couldnt understand their secrecy.
Here I was alone with two holdup men and a mysterious stranger. I took
my dog, went to my room, locked the door and piled all the furniture against
Next morning the stranger appeared at breakfast with the other two
men. They revealed that they had met him in Cupertino the day before, recognized
him as an ex- convict and invited him over for the night.
The stranger was a regular Mr. Fix-it, and he remained three months
doing odd jobs.
In the midst of making a terrace in the garden he quit, saying, The
St. Francis Hotel sent for me to be their chef. Within a week he was back
in the San Jose jail, San Quentin-bound. Yet, for three months he
had worked skillfully.
After Fremont became editor of The Call he came from the office one
day jubilant. I found a writer! She can do serials.
He asked me to read three or four paragraphs in the paper written by
She wrote Chickie and many widely read serials that were syndicated
throughout the United States and filmed at Hollywood.
Elsie Joins Call
Elsie Robinson had been writing in Oakland, but she moved over to The
Call office with Listen, World, a column that brought her national fame
and an income of $30,000 a year.
Evelyn Wells came to Fremont with a letter from the divorced wife of
the famous economist, Stanfords Thorstein Veblen.
Fremont thought Evelyn was just a pretty brown-eyed 18-year-old
girl, and he didnt want to be bothered with her.
Trying to get rid of her, he gave her what he thought was an, impossible
task. Write a story about an 18-year-old girl.
He hadnt got rid of her. Back she came in a month with a story about
an 18-year-old girl that he couldnt resist.
Fremonts last crusade was to free Tom Mooney. He had been sentenced
to death for alleged participation in bombing the Preparedness Day parade,
but his sentence had been commuted by President Woodrow Wilson.
For several years Fremont devoted much energy to collecting evidence
that Mooney was innocence.
Sometimes Fremont was discouraged about Mooneys unpleasant letters
from prison, but he never showed them to me. If I were imprisoned for
a crime I hadnt committed, he said I suppose Id be bitter too.
It wasnt until Evelyn Wells wrote Fremonts biography after his death
that I knew what Mooneys letters contained: If you had kept your old
nose out of my business, Id been out of here long ago.
Two or three years before Fremont died William Randolph Hearst asked
him to write his biography, but he tried to avoid the assignment. He didnt
like to explain that he had angina pectoris.
Mr. Hearst insisted by telephone and letter and Fremont said that I
must do it.
I told him that I couldnt. It would be like writing the biography
of Napoleon or Caesar in their lifetime and expect them to be pleased with
Id written several novels, but the Hearst biography scared me to death.
The book, however, had to be written and I had to do it. Writing William
Randolph Hearst, American was a great experience. We went to San Simeon,
stood on the terrace, looked at sea and mountains, one of the most beautiful
spots in the world.
At dinner I usually sat next to Mr. Hearst, plying him with questions
about his life.
Although I did this many times I never felt that I understood more
than one facet of that complex genius, and I dont believe anyone else
I was assisted in writing the San Simeon chapters by architect Julia
Morgan, who built the castle and guest house.
Devoted To Pet
One of Fremonts great devotions was to his dog, Friend, a puppy from
the pond, with blazing black eyes, a white face and mischievous wagging
We all fed Friend except Fremont and yet the dogs supreme devotion
was to his master.
When about 9 years old, he went down to the valley for his last fight.
Returning, he walked around the dining room and dropped dead.
Fremont said Friends death was his greatest sorrow since his mothers
Until then, he had wished to be cremated, but after we buried Friend
in the forest, he said he would like to be placed near him.
There he was laid after we attended a camellia show at Sacramento.
While waiting for us to see the camellias he had half- completed an
article on Montaigne.
Driving home, angina pectoris attacked and Fremont slumped at the wheel.
Montaignes work, one page torn out by the puppy, lies atop his set
of Dickens on his bedside table and they have been undisturbed for 20 years.
No formal headstone marks his resting place, but roses have been brought
by friends from all over the world to decorate his grave.
When I flew to London for the Coronation, the last thing I did before
enplaning for home was to drive down to Dickens Gadshill, near Rochester,
sit in Dickens chair, and pick up a rock in the garden, to place with
the others bordering Fremonts grave.
San Francisco, October 10, 1955
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