Joshua Abraham Norton (1818-1880), known almost universally after 1859 as “Emperor Norton,” is undisputedly one of the more singular figures in nineteenth-century American urban history in general and in Jewish history in particular. For two decades, he paraded through the streets of San Francisco issuing imperial proclamations, drafting edicts that ranged from the comic to the unexpectedly prescient, and winning for himself an affectionate, if eccentric, place in the city’s civic imagination.
Much has been written about the theatrical elements of his “reign” and the popular tolerance that allowed a self-declared emperor to roam a major American city free of serious harassment. Less standard, but fascinating and historically important, are the facts and ambiguities involving his Jewish identity, his family background, and the relationship between his public persona and the Jewish community of San Francisco.
Norton was born in Deptford (now part of Greater London) the son of John Norton and Sarah (née Norden), and, when he was about a year old, the family emigrated to the Cape Colony (South Africa) in the 1820s as part of the so-called 1820 Settlers scheme. They were among 4,000 British citizens, reportedly including about 100 Jews, who were brought by the English government to colonize the eastern province of the colony, and the family settled on farming land near Angola Bay (now Port Elizabeth). In 1837, John gave up farming and opened a store in Grahamstown, where Joshua and his brother clerked to help the family business.
A Jew who raised his family Jewishly, John was among the organizers of Congregation Tikvat Israel in Capetown, the first synagogue in South Africa. Joshua lived his early life in a mixed colonial context – English settlers in a largely non-European South Africa – and his migration to South Africa put him in contact with Jewish communities of the Cape and with colonial networks of trade and commerce, experiences that likely shaped his adult life and his early success in commerce before the catastrophes that preceded his later eccentric public persona.
When his father’s small mercantile store declined into insolvency, he decided to go to California at the time of the Gold Rush to begin life anew and to seek his fortune, arriving in San Francisco on November 5, 1849. Two months later he opened a mercantile shop and quickly established himself as a successful commodities merchant, with his name frequently appearing in shipping and real estate transactions, and he was well-regarded in business circles. He was often described as a rice and shipping speculator during the boom years that accompanied the California Gold Rush and he amassed a fortune by speculating in shipping contracts. However, his fortunes collapsed in the mid-1850s after a disastrous investment in Peruvian rice when his attempt to corner the market was upended after unexpected imports flooded in, sending prices plummeting, which was soon followed by a devastating fire to his store. After years of lawsuits and financial ruin, he vanished from public notice for a time and, according to some sources, he may have sustained a nervous breakdown.
On September 17, 1859, he dramatically re-entered the public sphere by sending a letter to the San Francisco Daily Evening Bulletin in which he bizarrely proclaimed himself “Emperor of these United States.” The Bulletin ran the following article:
Have We an Emperor Among Us? The world is full of queer people. This forenoon, a well-dressed and serious looking man entered our office, and quietly left the following document, which he respectfully requested we would examine and insert in the Bulletin. Promising him to look at it, he politely retired, without saying anything further. Here is the paper:
At the peremptory request and desire of a large majority of the citizens of these United States, I, Joshua Norton, formerly of Algoa Bay, Cape of Good Hope, and now for the last 9 years and 10 months past of San Francisco, California, declare and proclaim myself Emperor of these United States; and in virtue of the authority thereby in me vested, do hereby order and direct the representatives of the different States of the Union to assemble in Musical Hall, of this city, on the 1st day of February next, then and there to make such alterations in the existing laws of the Union as may ameliorate the evils under which the country is laboring, and thereby cause confidence to exist, both at home and abroad, in our stability and integrity.
— NORTON I.,
Emperor of the United States
Norton held himself out as the natural son of King George IV of England (and as the first cousin of Queen Victoria); announced that his entitlement to nobility was by right; and that his right to ascend to the American throne had been validated by the California legislature.
The editors, perhaps sensing an opportunity for good copy, printed the letter as a curiosity and what probably should have been dismissed as a madman’s fantasy took on a life of its own. The city’s response – an odd mixture of indulgence, amusement, and a surprisingly warm civic tolerance – produced the social conditions that allowed Norton to preside, in person and through proclamation, over San Francisco’s streets and print culture for the next twenty years, as he regularly appeared in elaborate military-style dress and patrolled the streets of San Francisco with the regal bearing of a monarch. Perceiving that Mexico, like the United States, was being mismanaged with an inefficient government, he expanded his title to “Emperor of the United States and Protector of Mexico” when Napoleon III’s troops invaded Mexico in 1861. He claimed that his ascension was necessary to remedy the nation’s political corruption, social unrest, and sectional divisions.
Norton appeared everywhere in his “royal uniform,” consisting of an aqua coat with long tails, bright blue trousers with red side-stripes, gold epaulettes, and headgear of either a high hat with red cockade and long aigrette or a general’s cap with a heron’s plume. He always wore a red rose in his coat lapel and a brightly-colored silk kerchief in his breast pocket and, on special occasions, he proudly wore a sword. His proclamations varied widely in seriousness and scope, with some displaying unexpected foresight and others that were whimsical, absurd, or cryptic. His twenty-year “reign” produced a wealth of colorful anecdotes, many of which became part of San Francisco folklore.
In the handwritten and signed Proclamation of Emperor Norton exhibited here, Norton proclaims that:
Whereas, on the 10th day of April 1856, the Representatives of Great Britain, Austria, France, Prussia, Russia, Sardinia & Turkey established as a fixed principle of International Law, that Privateering was & should remain abolished &
Whereas, deeming in consequence that the U. S. of A. shall not remain the Ismaelites of the world
Now, therefore, We Norton I., by the Grace of God & the National Will Emperor of the U. S. of A., do hereby establish the same principle of the International Law, on behalf of the U. S. of A.
And we hereby command our Navies to capture & deal out the most prompt & effective punishment to all & every persons found engaged in such Piratical Pursuits, whether between the Different portions of our Common Country or a Foreign Foe.
Given under our hand and seal at San Francisco, Cala 10th June 1861
Decades before the Bay Bridge or Transbay Tube became reality, Norton decreed in the early 1870s that a suspension bridge and an underwater tunnel should connect San Francisco and Oakland, ideas that were later hailed as prophetic. He ordered both the Republican and Democratic parties to disband, asserting that their quarrels endangered the unity of the nation; he declared a ban on the use of the word “Frisco,” which he considered a disrespectful nickname inappropriate for his imperial city, and he fined offenders $25; and he sometimes issued proclamations about royal alliances, including (probably) tongue-in-cheek “engagements” to Queen Victoria.
Norton often appeared at construction sites or public events, inspecting them “in person” as laborers joyfully greeted him with mock salutes. Calling for a new Congress, he summoned representatives of the states to meet in musical hall in San Francisco to draft “better laws;” long before the actual creation of the League of Nations, he called for a global coalition to arbitrate disputes, an early nod to internationalism; and he proposed a “Norton dollar” backed by the imperial treasury (in reality, printed on script he sometimes used to pay for goods, which many merchants cheerfully accepted). During rising anti-Chinese sentiment in the 1870s, he reportedly placed himself between an angry mob and Chinese laborers, reciting the Lord’s Prayer until the crowd dispersed; when he dined gratis in some of the best establishments without paying, owners would reap great financial reward from advertising that “the Emperor himself” had dined there; and he printed his own “notes” in denominations from 50 cents to $10, bearing his signature and imperial title, which merchants accepted at face value. Some of his proclamations were so cryptic they defied interpretation, including fragments of elaborate imperial decrees that read more like riddles than policies.
The City Council declared him the city’s first and only “free citizen.” He extracted “taxes” from willing (and amused) San Franciscans in small amounts usually ranging from five to ten dollars, but he spent only a small portion of the money he raised on his own modest accommodations and personal necessities, as he generously distributed most his “taxes” to the poor and needy of the city. The California State Senate in Sacramento reserved a special chair for him, and he regularly attended Senate sessions. The only time that he spoke up at a Senate session was when President Grant announced that he would seek a third term as president; Norton vociferously urged the California Senate to issue a formal protest.
San Francisco newspapers frequently published Norton’s proclamations, sometimes verbatim, sometimes with sly editorial embellishments; cartoonists loved him; street photographers sold his portrait alongside views of city landmarks; businesses played along; and theaters saved him a seat, restaurants fed him without charge, and tailors sometimes supplied his elaborate uniforms. Children trailed after him in the streets and when tourists sent letters addressed simply to “Emperor Norton, San Francisco,” the post office delivered them without hesitation. When his imperial uniform became shabby, officers of the U.S. Army at the Presidio presented him with a new one, complete with gold braid and epaulettes.
Norton was often accompanied by two stray dogs, Bummer and Lazarus, mascots of the city who became so well-known that when one of the dogs died, the newspapers ran full obituaries. In March 1864, he ordered Abraham Lincoln and Jefferson Davis to appear before him so that he could effectively end the Civil War. During the post-War economic depression, he issued one-dollar “Norton treasury certificates” bearing 7% interest, which quickly sold out.
Norton was beloved not only for his quirks and peculiarities, but also because of his kindness and his concern for “his subjects.” He was a passionate adversary of corruption and fraud of all kinds, political, corporate, and personal; he supported the right of women to vote; he defended the people’s right to fair taxation and basic services, including well-maintained streets, ferries, and trains; and he was an advocate for technological innovations that advanced public welfare. He was a persistent and passionate voice for fair treatment and enhanced legal protections for immigrants and racial/ethnic minorities; for example, he demanded that African Americans be allowed to ride public streetcars and that they be admitted to public schools; he “ordered” that the Chinese be treated as equal citizens; and he declared that all acts of discrimination or fraud against “the Indian tribes” and “their chiefs” would be publicly punished. He originated the term “king for a day” by regularly issuing this aristocratic title to children who needed cheering up. In short, he was a kind man who, despite his “nobility,” bore the common touch.
While Norton’s “reign” was mostly met with affection, there were occasional critics. Some in the press viewed him as a lunatic whose treatment as a mascot risked making light of mental illness, and a few self-styled rationalists criticized the public’s indulgence as sentimental foolishness. The harshest criticisms came from occasional city officials or policemen who believed that Norton’s presence encouraged vagrancy; in fact, a police officer arrested Norton in 1867 for vagrancy. The backlash was immediate: the newspapers excoriated the arrest, citizens protested, and Police Chief Patrick Crowley was forced to issue a formal apology. When Norton was released, he graciously issued an imperial pardon for all those involved with his arrest and brief incarceration and the police thereafter would salute him when he passed.
The San Francisco city government’s stance toward Norton evolved into one of tacit recognition. While, obviously, it never formally acknowledged his imperial authority, they extended informal courtesies, such as free passage on public transport, invitations to official events, and respectful public treatment. At the state level, Norton’s proclamations were largely ignored, though they sometimes amused legislators; for example, when he famously “ordered” the dissolution of Congress or the arrest of state officials, it was treated as satire. In an era of intense political divisions, Norton and his harmless edicts offered comic relief.
Newspapers across the United States reprinted his more entertaining proclamations, often with editorial commentary about “the Emperor of the United States.” Internationally, his fame was spotty but real; some British papers mentioned him in humorous side columns and there were reports (most likely exaggerated) that Queen Victoria herself was aware of the eccentric “monarch” in San Francisco. One curious episode occurred in 1870, when Norton received mock recognition from soldiers in the British garrison at Victoria, British Columbia who saluted him during a visit, adding to his legend. His fanciful letters to foreign heads of state sometimes reached their intended destinations, though there is no evidence they were ever taken seriously.
All this background matters for the Jewish question: Norton’s childhood Judaism and commercial success place him within the global mercantile networks through which many Jewish families of the British Empire operated in the nineteenth century. His later poverty and theatrics, however, put him in a different position relative to communal expectations and to the respectability politics of San Francisco’s Jewish elite.
Norton attended services at San Francisco’s Congregation Emanu-El and he could often be seen on Saturday mornings in the balcony of the Sutter Street synagogue. The Emperor Norton Trust – the chief modern repository of documents and archival research on Norton – explicitly records that Norton “attended synagogue services at Congregation Emanu-El every Saturday” and that “on Saturdays, the Emperor [sic] always could be found in the balcony of Temple Emanu-El.” Local Jewish press pieces, later commemorative events, and the recollections recorded in civic histories of San Francisco corroborate the image of Norton as a recognizable, regular presence at Emanu-El services.
However, attendance at synagogue does not, by itself, settle the question of private religious observance, such as keeping kashrut, but contemporaneous references and the trust’s archival documentation provide strong support for the proposition that that he publicly identified with Jewish worship and took an active part in synagogue life as an observer and participant.
Norton’s proclamations reveal occasional sensitivity to religious minorities’ rights in the city. One frequently-cited example is a proclamation opposing the unequal enforcement of “Sunday laws,” so-called blue laws that required Sunday closure of businesses while allowing Saturday operations. Such laws and their enforcement practices disadvantaged Jewish shabbat-observant merchants and ethnic German shopkeepers whose worship schedules or cultural habits differed from the dominant Protestant norms. Norton’s opposition to the enforcement of Sunday laws is consistent with his broader public posture as a tolerant pluralist who sought to minimize sectarian coercion.
While Norton’s Jewish birth and synagogue attendance are relatively well documented, and he regularly read and studied the Bible, the characterization of his overall religious identity is more complex. Biographers and historians stress that he cultivated a civic religious pluralism in his later proclamations; for example, he regularly counseled against sectarian conflict, spoke of “the Universal Religion” in tones of tolerant humanism, and sometimes attended a variety of services rather than cultivating a single denominational identity. He was known to attend religious services of every major denomination; however, although he spoke often of “G-d” in his proclamations, he never mentioned the Christian savior/deity. He is often described as a religious humanist and pluralist who favored separation of church and state and who, perhaps in part to avoid sectarian jealousy, made a practice of attending different services.
This pluralism should not be read as proof of apostasy or abandonment of Jewish identity. For many urban nineteenth-century Jews, particularly those of immigrant or colonial backgrounds, religious identity could be flexible: public participation in synagogue life could coexist with a broadly humanist, civic, or even mystical religious language. Norton’s public persona demanded theatrical inclusivity and civic impartiality. Thus, Norton was born Jewish and participated publicly in Jewish worship, but in public life, he cultivated an ecumenical, quasi-secular civic religiosity that was part performance and part genuine conviction.
On January 8, 1880, Norton, wearing his imperial uniform and carrying only a few dollars in his pocket, collapsed on California Street and died before help could arrive. Crucially for the Jewish question, he was not afforded a Jewish funeral ritual, but the immediate public response and the subsequent burial arrangements are revealing about his ambivalent relationship to San Francisco’s Jewish community and the civic culture more broadly. The funeral itself, which was held at the Masonic Cemetery in San Francisco, involved only a modest number of actual mourners at the graveside, but contemporary newspaper reports, including a black-bordered obituary published by the San Francisco Chronicle, show that tens of thousands of citizens turned out to view Norton’s body before the funeral. The San Francisco Chronicle led its article on Norton’s funeral with the headline Le Roi Est Mort. (“The King is dead”) and there is no dispute that popular affection for Norton’s persona was very broad and that his viewing generated a significant public presence.
While Norton, who died a pauper, was originally buried in the Masonic Cemetery, his remains were later exhumed in 1934 and reinterred in Woodlawn Memorial Park in Colma; that gravesite is today the recognized location of his memorial stone, which bears the inscription “Norton I, Emperor of the United States and Protector of Mexico.” Modern commentators, Jewish and secular, have often noted the conspicuous absence of a Jewish burial rite at his death; some have speculated that San Francisco’s Jewish leadership at the time preferred not to associate the still-eccentric Norton with the established British-style respectability they were cultivating for the community. Others suggest embarrassment or social distancing from an eccentric public figure; still others suggest that the practicalities of his demise – lack of any immediate family, the city’s handling of his estate – made a Jewish ritual burial less likely. The Emperor Norton Trust and the Jewish community have called this omission a “snub,” and, in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, members of Congregation Emanu-El have organized commemorations to recognize Norton’s Jewish birth and attendance at synagogue – efforts intended in part to redress the historical absence of formal Jewish funeral rites. Indeed, local Jewish press and Congregation Emanu-El archival notes attest to later attempts by synagogue leaders to commemorate him.
The manner in which Norton was handled by the Jewish community at the time of his death and the later effort to give him a symbolic Jewish memorial shed important light on the social strategies of nineteenth-century Jewish elites who were balancing respectability, assimilationist pressures, and the desire to avoid public association with eccentricity. That negotiation of communal identity is central to the history of American Jewish integration and the question of how communities police boundaries of representative membership. This episode – death without Jewish rites and later symbolic restitution – evidences the complicated politics of communal identity in a rapidly changing, status-conscious immigrant community. Norton’s theatrical monarchy and eccentricities made him a public treasure in one register but a liability in the register of respectability politics that the Jewish bourgeoisie often enacted to counter anti-Jewish prejudice and to secure civic acceptance.
In January 1980, ceremonies were conducted in San Francisco to honor the 100th anniversary of the death of “the one and only Emperor of the United States.” In April 2023, San Francisco Mayor London Breed approved a February 2023 resolution of the San Francisco Board of Supervisors to add “Emperor Norton Place” as a commemorative name for the 600 block of Commercial Street.
Mark Twain, who resided in San Francisco during part of Emperor Norton’s public life, modeled the character of the King in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn on him. Robert Louis Stevenson, who made Norton a character in his novel, The Wrecker (1892), noted:
Of all our visitors I believe I preferred Emperor Norton, the very mention of whose name reminds me I am doing scanty justice to the folks of San Francisco. In what other city would a harmless madman who supposed himself emperor of the two Americas have been so fostered and encouraged? Where else would even the people of the streets have respected the poor soul’s illusion? Where else would bankers and merchants have received his visits, cashed his cheques, and submitted to his small assessments. Where else would he have been suffered to attend and address the exhibition days of schools and colleges? Where else in G-d’s green earth, have taken his pick of restaurants, ransacked the bill of fare and departed scatheless?
Stevenson’s stepdaughter, Isobel Osbourne, may have best summarized Norton in her autobiography This Life I’ve Loved: “He was a gentle and kindly man, and fortunately found himself in the friendliest and most sentimental city in the world, the idea being ‘let him be emperor if he wants to.’ San Francisco played the game with him.”