SAN FRANCISCO--THE SIXTIES
We are familiar with the romantic birth of San Francisco and its
precocious childhood; we are well acquainted with its picturesque
background of Spanish history and the glorious days of '49; but I doubt
if we are as well informed as to the significant and perhaps equally
important second decade.
It was my fortune to catch a hurried glance of San Francisco in 1855,
when the population was about forty-five thousand. I was then on the way
from New England to my father's home in Humboldt County. I next saw it
in 1861 while on my way to and from attendance at the State Fair. In
1864 I took up my residence in the city and it has since been
continuous.
That the almost neglected sixties may have some setting, let me briefly
trace the beginnings. Things moved slowly when America was discovered.
Columbus found the mainland in 1503. Ten years later Balboa reached the
Pacific, and, wading into the ocean, modestly claimed for his sovereign
all that bordered its shores. Thirty years thereafter the point
farthest west was named Mendocino, for Mendoza, the viceroy ordering the
expedition of Cabrillo and Ferrelos. Thirty-seven years later came
Drake, and almost found San Francisco Bay. But all these discoveries led
to no occupation. It seems incredible that two hundred and twenty-six
years elapsed from Cabrillo's visit to the day the first settlers landed
in San Diego, founding the first of the famous missions. Historically,
1769 is surely marked. In this year Napoleon and Wellington were born
and civilized California was founded.
San Francisco Bay was discovered by a land party. It was August 6, 1775,
seven weeks after the battle of Bunker Hill, that Ayala cautiously found
his way into the bay and anchored the "San Carlos" off Sausalito. Five
days before the Declaration of Independence was signed Moraga and his
men, the first colonists, arrived in San Francisco and began getting out
the timber to build the fort at the Presidio and the church at Mission
Dolores.
Vancouver, in 1792, poking into an unknown harbor, found a good
landing-place at a cove around the first point he rounded at his right.
The Spaniards called it Yerba Buena, after the fragrant running vine
that abounded in the lee of the sandhills which filled the present site
of Market Street, especially at a point now occupied by the building of
the Mechanics-Mercantile Library. There was no human habitation in
sight, nor was there to be for forty years, but friendly welcome came
on the trails that led to the Presidio and the Mission.
An occasional whaler or a trader in hides and tallow came and went, but
foreigners were not encouraged to settle. It was in 1814 that the first
"Gringo" came. In 1820 there were thirteen in all California, three of
whom were Americans. In 1835 William A. Richardson was the first foreign
resident of Yerba Buena. He was allowed to lay out a street and build a
structure of boards and ship's sails in the Calle de Fundacion, which
generally followed the lines of the present Grant Avenue. The spot
approximates number 811 of the avenue today. When Dana came in 1835 it
was the only house visible. The following year Jacob P. Leese built a
complete house, and it was dedicated by a celebration and ball on the
Fourth of July in which the whole community participated.
The settlement grew slowly. In 1840 there were sixteen foreigners. In
1844 there were a dozen houses and fifty people. In 1845 there were but
five thousand people in all the state. The missions had been disbanded
and the Presidio was manned by one gray-haired soldier. The Mexican War
brought renewed life. On July 9, 1846, Commodore Sloat sent Captain
Montgomery with the frigate "Portsmouth," and the American flag was
raised on the staff in the plaza of 1835, since called Portsmouth
Square. Thus began the era of American occupation. Lieutenant Bartlett
was made alcalde, with large powers, in pursuance of which, on February
27, 1847, he issued a simple order that the town thereafter be known as
San Francisco,--and its history as such began.
The next year gold was discovered. A sleepy, romantic, shiftless but
picturesque community became wide-awake, energetic, and aggressive. San
Francisco leaped into prominence. Every nation on earth sent its most
ambitious and enterprising as well as its most restless and
irresponsible citizens. In the last nine months of 1849, seven hundred
shiploads were landed in a houseless town. They largely left for the
mines, but more remained than could be housed. They lived on and around
hulks run ashore and thousands found shelter in Happy Valley tents. A
population of two thousand at the beginning of the year was twenty
thousand at the end. It was a gold-crazed community. Everything consumed
was imported. Gold dust was the only export.
From 1849 to 1860, gold amounting to over six hundred million dollars
was produced. The maximum--eighty-one millions--was reached in 1852. The
following year showed a decline of fourteen millions, and 1855 saw a
further decline of twelve millions. Alarm was felt. At the same ratio of
decline, in less than four years production would cease. It was plainly
evident, if the state were to exist and grow, that other resources must
be developed.
In the first decade there were periods of great depression. Bank and
commercial failures were very frequent occurrences in 1854. The state
was virtually only six years old--but what wonderful years they had
been! In the splendor of achievement and the glamour of the golden
fleece we lose sight of the fact that the community was so small. In the
whole state there were not more than 350,000 people, of whom a seventh
lived in San Francisco. There were indications that the tide of
immigration had reached its height. In 1854 arrivals had exceeded
departures by twenty-four thousand. In 1855 the excess dropped to six
thousand.
My first view of San Francisco left a vivid impression of a city in
every way different from any I had ever seen. The streets were planked,
the buildings were heterogeneous--some of brick or stone, others
little more than shacks. Portsmouth Square was the general center of
interest, facing the City Hall and the Post Office. Clay Street Hill was
higher then than now. I know it because I climbed to its top to call on
a boy who came on the steamer and lived there. There was but little
settlement to the west of the summit.
The leading hotel was the International, lately opened, on Jackson
Street below Montgomery. It was considered central in location, being
convenient to the steamer landings, the Custom House, and the wholesale
trade. Probably but one building of that period has survived. At the
corner of Montgomery and California streets stood Parrott's granite
block, the stone for which was cut in China and assembled in 1852 by
Chinese workmen imported for the purpose. It harbored the bank of Page,
Bacon & Co., and has been continuously occupied, surviving an explosion
of nitroglycerine in 1866 (when Wells, Fargo & Co. were its tenants) as
well as the fire of 1906. Wilson's Exchange was in Sansome Street near
Sacramento. The American Theater was opposite. Where the Bank of
California stands there was a seed store. On the northeast corner of
California and Sansome streets was Bradshaw's zinc grocery store.
The growth of the city southward had already begun. The effort to
develop North Beach commercially had failed. Meiggs' Wharf was little
used; the Cobweb Saloon, near its shore end, was symbolic. Telegraph
Hill and its semaphore and time-ball were features of business life. It
was well worth climbing for the view, which Bayard Taylor pronounced the
finest in the world.
At this time San Francisco monopolized the commerce of the coast.
Everything that entered California came through the Golden Gate, and it
nearly all went up the Sacramento River. It was distinctly the age of
gold. Other resources were not considered. This all seemed a very
insecure basis for a permanent state. That social and political
conditions were threatening may be inferred when we recall that 1856
brought the Vigilance Committee. In 1857 came the Fraser River stampede.
Twenty-three thousand people are said to have left the city, and
real-estate values suffered severely.
In 1860 the Pony Express was established, bringing "the States," as the
East was generally designated, considerably nearer. It took but ten and
a half days to St. Louis, and thirteen to New York, with postage five
dollars an ounce. Steamers left on the first and fifteenth of the month,
and the twenty-eighth and fourteenth were religiously observed as days
for collection. No solvent man of honor failed to settle his account on
"steamer day."
The election of Lincoln, followed by the threat of war, was disquieting,
and the large southern element was out of sympathy with anything like
coercion. But patriotism triumphed. Early in 1861 a mass meeting was
held at the corner of Montgomery and Market streets, and San Francisco
pledged her loyalty.
In November, 1861, I attended the State Fair at Sacramento as
correspondent for the _Humboldt Times_. About the only impression of San
Francisco on my arrival was the disgust I felt for the proprietor of the
hotel at which I stopped, when, in reply to my eager inquiry for war
news, he was only able to say that he believed there had been some
fighting somewhere in Virginia. This to one starving for information
after a week's abstinence was tantalizing.
After a week of absorbing interest, in a fair that seemed enormously
important and impressive, I timed my return so as to spend Sunday in San
Francisco, and it was made memorable by attending, morning and evening,
the Unitarian church, then in Stockton near Sacramento, and hearing
Starr King. He had come from Boston the year before, proposing to fill
the pulpit for a year, and from the first aroused great enthusiasm. I
found the church crowded and was naturally consigned to a back seat,
which I shared with a sewing-machine, for it was war-time and the women
were very active in relief work.
The gifted preacher was thirty-seven years old, but seemed younger. He
was of medium height, had a kindly face with a generous mouth, a full
forehead, and dark, glowing eyes.
In June, 1864, I became a resident of San Francisco, rejoining the
family and becoming a clerk in the office of the Superintendent of
Indian Affairs. The city was about one-fifth its present size, claiming
a population of 110,000.
I want to give an idea of San Francisco's character and life at that
time, and of general conditions in the second decade. It is not easy to
do, and demands the reader's help and sympathy. Let him imagine, if he
will, that he is visiting San Francisco for the first time, and that he
is a personal friend of the writer, who takes a day off to show him the
city. In 1864 one could arrive here only by steamer; there were no
railways. I meet my friend at the gangplank of the steamer on the wharf
at the foot of Broadway. To reach the car on East Street (now the
Embarcadero), we very likely skirt gaping holes in the planked wharf,
exposing the dark water lapping the supporting piles, and are assailed
by bilge-like odors that escape. Two dejected horses await us. Entering
the car we find two lengthwise seats upholstered in red plush. If it be
winter, the floor is liberally covered by straw, to mitigate the mud. If
it be summer, the trade winds are liberally charged with fine sand and
infinitesimal splinters from the planks which are utilized for both
streets and sidewalks. We rattle along East and intersecting streets
until we reach Sansome, upon which we proceed to Bush, which practically
bounds the business district on the south, thence we meander by a
circuitous route to Laurel Hill Cemetery near Lone Mountain. A guide is
almost necessary. An incoming stranger once asked the conductor to let
him off at the American Exchange, which the car passed. He was surprised
at the distance to his destination. At the cemetery end of the line he
discovered that the conductor had forgotten him, but was assured that he
would stop at the hotel on the way back. The next thing he knew he
reached the wharf; the conductor had again forgotten him. His
confidence exhausted, he insisted on walking, following the track until
he reached the hotel.
In the present instance we alight from the car when it reaches
Montgomery Street, at the Occidental Hotel, new and attractive, well
managed by a New Yorker named Leland and especially patronized by army
people. We rest briefly and start out for a preliminary survey. Three
blocks to the south we reach Market Street and gaze upon the outer edge
of the bustling city. Across the magnificently wide but rude and
unfinished street, at the immediate right, where the Palace Hotel is to
stand, we see St. Patrick's Church and an Orphan Asylum. A little
beyond, at the corner of Third Street, is a huge hill of sand covering
the present site of the Glaus Spreckels Building, upon which a
steam-paddy is at work loading flat steam cars that run Mission-ward.
The lot now occupied by the Emporium is the site of a large Catholic
school. At our left, stretching to the bay are coal-yards, foundries,
planing-mills, box-factories, and the like. It will be years before
business crosses Market Street. Happy Valley and Pleasant Valley,
beyond, are well covered by inexpensive residences. The North Beach and
South Park car line connects the fine residence district on and around
Rincon Hill with the fine stretches of northern Stockton Street and the
environs of Telegraph Hill. At the time I picture, no street-cars ran
below Montgomery, on Market Street; traffic did not warrant it. It was a
boundary rather than a thoroughfare. It was destined to be one of the
world's noted streets, but at this time the city's life pulsed through
Montgomery Street, to which we will now return.
Turning from the apparent jumping-off place we cross to the "dollar
side" and join the promenaders who pass in review or pause to gaze at
the shop windows. Montgomery Street has been pre-eminent since the early
days and is now at its height. For a long time Clay Street harbored the
leading dry-goods stores, like the City of Paris, but all are struggling
for place in Montgomery. Here every business is represented--Beach,
Roman, and Bancroft, the leading booksellers; Barrett & Sherwood,
Tucker, and Andrews, jewelers; Donohoe, Kelly & Co., John Sime, and
Hickox & Spear, bankers; and numerous dealers in carpets, furniture,
hats, French shoes, optical goods, etc. Of course Barry & Patten's was
not the only saloon. Passing along we are almost sure to see some of the
characters of the day--certainly Emperor Norton and Freddie Coombs (a
reincarnated Franklin), probably Colonel Stevenson, with his Punch-like
countenance, towering Isaac Friedlander, the poor rich Michael Reese,
handsome Hall McAllister, and aristocratic Ogden Hoffman. Should the
fire-bell ring we will see Knickerbocker No. Five in action, with Chief
Scannell and "Bummer" and "Lazarus," and perhaps Lillie Hitchcock. When
we reach Washington Street we cross to make a call at the Bank Exchange
in the Montgomery Block, the largest structure on the street. The
"Exchange" is merely a popular saloon, but it boasts ten billiard tables
and back of the bar hangs the famous picture of "Samson and Delilah."
Luncheon being in order we are embarrassed with riches. Perhaps the Mint
restaurant is as good as the best and probably gives a sight of more
prominent politicians than any other resort; but something quite
characteristic is the daily gathering at Jury's, a humble
hole-in-the-wall in Merchant Street back of the _Bulletin_ office.
Four lawyers who like one another, and like good living as well, have a
special table. Alexander Campbell, Milton Andros, George Sharp, and
Judge Dwinelle will stop first in the Clay Street Market, conveniently
opposite, and select the duck, fish, or English mutton-chops for the
day's menu. One of the number bears the choice to the kitchen and
superintends its preparation while the others engage in shrimps and
table-talk until it is served. If Jury's is overflowing with custom,
there are two other French restaurants alongside.
After luncheon we have a glimpse of the business district, following
back on the "two-bit" side of the street. At Clay we pass a saloon with
a cigar-stand in front and find a group listening to a man with bushy
hair and a reddish mustache, who in an easy attitude and in a quaintly
drawling voice is telling a story. We await the laugh and pass on, and I
say that he is a reporter, lately from Nevada, called Mark Twain. Very
likely we encounter at Commercial Street, on his way to the _Call_
office, a well-dressed young man with Dundreary whiskers and an aquiline
nose. He nods to me and I introduce Bret Harte, secretary to the
Superintendent of the Mint, and author of the clever "Condensed Novels"
being printed in the _Californian_. At California Street we turn east,
passing the shipping offices and hardware houses, and coming to Battery
Street, where Israelites wax fat in wholesale dry goods and the clothing
business. For solid big business in groceries, liquors, and provisions
we must keep on to Front Street--Front by name only, for four streets on
filled-in land have crept in front of Front. Following this very
important street past the shipping offices we reach Washington Street,
passing up which we come to Battery Street, where we pause to glance at
the Custom House and Post Office at the right and the recently
established Bank of California on the southwest corner of the two
streets.
Having fairly surveyed the legitimate business we wish to see something
of the engrossing avocation of most of the people of the city, of any
business or no business, and we pass on to Montgomery, crossing over to
the center of the stock exchange activities. Groups of men and women
are watching the tapes in the brokers' offices, messengers are running
in and out the board entrances, intense excitement is everywhere
apparent. Having gained admission to the gallery of the board room we
look down on the frantic mob, buying and selling Comstock shares. How
much is really sold and how much is washing no one knows, but enormous
transactions, big with fate, are of everyday occurrence. As we pass out
we notice a man with strong face whose shoes show dire need of patching.
Asked his name, I answer, "Jim Keane; just now he is down, but some day
he is bound to be way up."
We saunter up Clay, passing Burr's Savings Bank and a few remaining
stores, to Kearny, and Portsmouth Square, whose glory is departing. The
City Hall faces it, and so does Exempt Engine House, but dentists'
offices and cheap theaters and Chinese stores are crowding in. Clay
Street holds good boarding-houses, but decay is manifest. We pass on to
Stockton, still a favorite residence street; turning south we pass, near
Sacramento, the church in which Starr King first preached, now proudly
owned by the negro Methodists. At Post we reach Union Square, nearly
covered by the wooden pavilion in which the Mechanics' Institute holds
its fairs. Diagonally opposite the southeast corner of the desecrated
park are the buildings of the ambitious City College, and east of them
a beautiful church edifice always spoken of as "Starr King's Church."
Very likely, seeing the church, I might be reminded of one of Mr. King's
most valued friends, and suggest that we call upon him at the Golden
Gate Flour-mill in Pine Street, where the California Market was to
stand. If we met Horace Davis, I should feel that I had presented one of
our best citizens.
Dinner presents many opportunities; but I am inclined to think we shall
settle on Frank Garcia's restaurant in Montgomery near Jackson, where
good service awaits us, and we may hear the upraised voices of some of
the big lawyers who frequent the place. For the evening we have the
choice between several bands of minstrels, but if Forrest and John
McCullough are billed for "Jack Cade" we shall probably call on Tom
Maguire. After the strenuous play we pass up Washington Street to Peter
Job's and indulge in his incomparable ice-cream.
On Sunday I shall continue my guidance. Churches are plentiful and
preachers are good. In the afternoon I think I may venture to invite my
friend to The Willows, a public garden between Mission and Valencia and
Seventeenth and Nineteenth streets. We shall hear excellent music in the
open air and can sit at a small table and sip good beer. I find such
indulgence far less wicked than I had been led to believe.
When there is something distinctive in a community a visitor is
supposed to take it in, and in the evening we attend the meeting of the
Dashaway Association in its own hall in Post Street near Dupont. It
numbers five thousand members and meets Sunday mornings and evenings.
Strict temperance is a live issue at this time. The Sons of Temperance
maintain four divisions. There are besides two lodges of Good Templars
and a San Francisco Temperance Union. And in spite of all this the city
feels called upon to support a Home for Inebriates at Stockton and
Chestnut streets, to which the supervisors contribute two hundred and
fifty dollars a month.
I shall feel that I am derelict if I do not manage a jaunt to the Cliff
House. The most desirable method demands a span of horses for a spin out
Point Lobos Avenue. We may, however, be obliged to take a McGinn bus
that leaves the Plaza hourly. It will be all the same when we reach the
Cliff and gaze on Ben Butler and his companion sea-lions as they disport
themselves in the ocean or climb the rocks. Wind or fog may greet us,
but the indifferent monsters roar, fight, and play, while the restless
waves roll in. We must, also, make a special trip to Rincon Hill and
South Park to see how and where our magnates dwell. The 600 block in
Folsom Street must not be neglected. The residences of such men as John
Parrott and Milton S. Latham are almost palatial. It is related that a
visitor impressed with the elegance of one of these places asked a
modest man in the neighborhood if he knew whose it was. "Yes," he
replied, "it belongs to an old fool by the name of John Parrott, and I
am he."
We shall leave out something distinctive if we do not call at the What
Cheer House in Sacramento Street below Montgomery, a hostelry for men,
with moderate prices, notwithstanding many unusual privileges. It has a
large reading-room and a library of five thousand volumes, besides a
very respectable museum. Guests are supplied with all facilities for
blacking their own boots, and are made at home in every way.
Incidentally the proprietor made a good fortune, a large part of which
he invested in turning his home at Fourteenth and Mission streets into a
pleasure resort known as Woodward's Gardens, which for many years was
our principal park, art gallery and museum.
These are a few of the things I could have shown. But to know and
appreciate the spirit and character of a city one must live in it and be
of it; so I beg to be dismissed as a guide and to offer experiences and
events that may throw some light on life in the stirring sixties.
When I migrated from Humboldt County and enlisted for life as a San
Franciscan I lived with my father's family in a small brick house in
Powell Street near Ellis. The Golden West Hotel now covers the lot. The
little houses opposite were on a higher level and were surrounded by
small gardens. Both street and sidewalks were planked, but I remember
that my brother and I, that we might escape the drifting sand, often
walked on the flat board that capped the flimsy fence in front of a
vacant lot. On the west of Powell, at Market, was St. Ann's Garden and
Nursery. On the east, where the Flood Building stands, was a stable and
riding-school.
Much had been accomplished in city building, but the process was
continuing. Few of us realize the obstacles overcome. Fifteen years
before, the site was the rugged end of a narrow peninsula, with high
rock hills, wastes of drifting sand, a curving cove of beach, bordered
with swamps and estuaries, and here and there a few oases in the form of
small valleys. In 1864 the general lines of the city were practically
those of today. It was the present San Francisco, laid out but not
filled out. There was little west of Larkin Street and quite a gap
between the city proper and the Mission.
Size in a city greatly modifies character. In 1864 I found a compact
community; whatever was going on seemed to interest all. We now have a
multitude of unrelated circles; then there was one great circle
including the sympathetic whole. The one theater that offered the
legitimate drew and could accommodate all who cared for it. Herold's
orchestral concerts, a great singer like Parepa Rosa, or a violinist
like Ole Bull drew all the music-lovers of the city. And likewise, in
the early springtime when the Unitarian picnic was announced at Belmont
or Fairfax, it would be attended by at least a thousand, and heartily
enjoyed by all, regardless of church connection. Such things are no
more, though the population to draw from be five times as large.
In the sixties, church congregations and lecture audiences were much
larger than they are now. There seemed always to be some one preacher or
lecturer who was the vogue, practically monopolizing public interest.
His name might be Scudder or Kittredge or Moody, but while he lasted
everybody rushed to hear him. And there was commonly some special fad
that prevailed. Spiritualism held the boards for quite a time.
Changes in real-estate values were a marked feature of the city's life.
The laying out of Broadway was significant of expectations. Banks in the
early days were north of Pacific in Montgomery, but very soon the drift
to the south began.
In 1862, when the Unitarian church in Stockton street near Sacramento
was found too small, it was determined to push well to the front of the
city's growth. Two lots were under final consideration, the northwest
corner of Geary and Powell, where the St. Francis now stands, and the
lot in Geary east of Stockton, now covered by the Whitney Building. The
first lot was a corner and well situated, but it was rejected on the
ground that it was "too far out." The trustees paid $16,000 for the
other lot and built the fine church that was occupied until 1887, when
it was felt to be too far down town, and the present building at
Franklin and Geary streets was erected. Incidentally, the lot sold for
$120,000.
The evolution of pavements has been an interesting incident of the
city's life. Planks were cheap and they held down some of the sand, but
they grew in disfavor. In 1864 the Superintendent of Streets reported
that in the previous year 1,365,000 square feet of planks had been laid,
and 290,000 square feet had been paved with cobbles, a lineal mile of
which cost $80,000. How much suffering they cost the militia who marched
on them is not reported. Nicholson pavement was tried and found wanting.
Basalt blocks found brief favor. Finally we reached the modern era and
approximate perfection.
Checker-board street planning was a serious misfortune to the city, and
it was aggravated by the narrowness of most of the streets. Kearny
Street, forty-five and one-half feet wide, and Dupont, forty-four and
one-half feet, were absurd. In 1865 steps were taken to add thirty feet
to the west side of Kearny. In 1866 the work was done, and it proved a
great success. The cost was five hundred and seventy-nine thousand
dollars, and the addition to the value of the property was not less than
four million dollars. When the work began the front-foot value at the
northern end was double that at Market Street. Today the value at Market
Street is more than five times that at Broadway.
The first Sunday after my arrival in San Francisco I went to the
Unitarian church and heard the wonderfully attractive and satisfying Dr.
Bellows, temporary supply. It was the beginning of a church connection
that still continues and to which I owe more than I can express.
Dr. Bellows had endeared himself to the community by his warm
appreciation of their liberal support of the Sanitary Commission during
the Civil War. The interchange of messages between him in New York and
Starr King in San Francisco had been stimulating and effective. When the
work was concluded it was found that California had furnished one-fourth
of the $4,800,000 expended. Governor Low headed the San Francisco
committee. The Pacific Coast, with a population of half a million,
supplied one-third of all the money spent by this forerunner of the Red
Cross. The other states of the Union, with a population of about
thirty-two million, supplied two-thirds. But California was far away and
it was not thought wise to drain the West of its loyal forces, and we
ought to have given freely of our money. In all, quite a number found
their way to the fighting front. A friend of mine went to the wharf to
see Lieutenant Sheridan, late of Oregon, embark for the East and active
service. Sheridan was grimly in earnest, and remarked: "I'll come back a
captain or I'll not come back at all." When he did come back it was with
the rank of lieutenant-general.
While San Francisco was unquestionably loyal, there were not a few
Southern sympathizers, and loyalists were prepared for trouble. I soon
discovered that a secret Union League was active and vigilant. Weekly
meetings for drill were held in the pavilion in Union Square, admission
being by password only. I promptly joined. The regimental commander was
Martin J. Burke, chief of police. My company commander was George T.
Knox, a prominent notary public. I also joined the militia, choosing the
State Guard, Captain Dawes, which drilled weekly in the armory in Market
Street opposite Dupont. Fellow members were Horace Davis and his brother
George, Charles W. Wendte (now an eastern D.D.), Samuel L. Cutter, Fred
Glimmer of the Unitarian church, Henry Michaels, and W.W. Henry, father
of the present president of Mills College. Our active service was mainly
confined to marching over the cruel cobble-stones on the Fourth of July
and other show-off occasions, while commonly we indulged in an annual
excursion and target practice in the wilds of Alameda.
Once we saw real service. When the news of the assassination of Lincoln
reached San Francisco the excitement was intense. Newspapers that had
slandered him or been lukewarm in his support suffered. The militia was
called out in fear of a riot and passed a night in the basement of
Platt's Hall. But preparedness was all that was needed. A few days later
we took part in a most imposing procession. All the military and most
other organizations followed a massive catafalque and a riderless horse
through streets heavily draped with black. The line of march was long,
arms were reversed, the sorrowing people crowded the way, and solemnity
and grief on every hand told how deeply Lincoln was loved.
I had cast my first presidential vote for him, at Turn Verein Hall, Bush
Street, November 6, 1864. When the news of his re-election by the voters
of every loyal state came to us, we went nearly wild with enthusiasm,
but our heartiest rejoicing came with the fall of Richmond. We had a
great procession, following the usual route--from Washington Square to
Montgomery, to Market, to Third, to South Park, where fair women from
crowded balconies waved handkerchiefs and flags to shouting
marchers--and back to the place of beginning. Processioning was a great
function of those days, observed by the cohorts of St. Patrick and by
all political parties. It was a painful process, for the street pavement
was simply awful.
Sometimes there were trouble and mild assaults. The only recollection I
have of striking a man is connected with a torchlight procession
celebrating some Union victory. When returning from south of Market, a
group of jeering toughs closed in on us and I was lightly hit. I turned
and using my oil-filled lamp at the end of a staff as a weapon, hit out
at my assailant. The only evidence that the blow was an effective one
was the loss of the lamp; borne along by solid ranks of patriots I clung
to an unilluminated stick. Party feeling was strong in the sixties and
bands and bonfires plentiful.
At one election the Democrats organized a corps of rangers, who marched
with brooms, indicative of the impending clean sweep by which they were
to "turn the rascals out." For each presidential election drill crops
were organized, but the Blaine Invincibles didn't exactly prove so.
The Republican party held a long lease of power, however. Governor Low
was a very popular executive, while municipally the People's Party,
formed in 1856 by adherents of the Vigilance Committee, was still in the
saddle, giving good, though not far-sighted and progressive, government.
Only those who experienced the abuses under the old methods of
conducting elections can realize the value of the provision for the
uniform ballot and a quiet ballot box, adopted in 1869. There had been
no secrecy or privacy, and peddlers of rival tickets fought for
patronage to the box's mouth. One served as an election officer at the
risk of sanity if not of life. In the "fighting Seventh" ward I once
counted ballots for thirty-six consecutive hours, and as I remember
conditions I was the only officer who finished sober.
During my first year in government employ the depreciation in
legal-tender notes in which we were paid was very embarrassing. One
hundred dollars in notes would bring but thirty-five or forty dollars in
gold, and we could get nothing we wanted except with gold.
My second year in San Francisco I lived in Howard Street near First and
was bookkeeper for a stock-broker. I became familiar with the
fascinating financial game that followed the development of the Comstock
lode, discovered in 1859. It was 1861 before production was large. Then
began the silver age, a new era that completely transformed California
and made San Francisco a great center of financial power. Within twenty
years $340,000,000 poured into her banks. The world's silver output
increased from forty millions a year to sixty millions. In September of
1862 the stock board was organized. At first a share in a company
represented a running foot on the lode's length. In 1871, Mr. Cornelius
O'Connor bought ten shares of Consolidated Virginia at eight dollars a
share. When it had been divided into one thousand shares and he was
offered $680 a share, he had the sagacity to sell, realizing a profit
of $679,920 on his investment of $80. At the time he sold, a share
represented one-fourteenth of an inch. In six years the bonanza yielded
$104,000,000, of which $73,000,000 was paid in dividends.
The effect of such unparalleled riches was wide-spread. It made Nevada a
state and gave great impetus to the growth of San Francisco. It had a
marked influence on society and modified the character of the city
itself. Fifteen years of abnormal excitement, with gains and losses
incredible in amount, unsettled the stability of trade and orderly
business and proved a demoralizing influence. Speculation became a
habit. It was gambling adjusted to all conditions, with equal
opportunity for millionaire or chambermaid, and few resisted altogether.
Few felt shame, but some were secretive.
A few words are due Adolph Sutro, who dealt in cigars in his early
manhood, but went to Nevada in 1859 and by 1861 owned a quartz-mill. In
1866 he became impressed with the idea that the volume of water
continually flowing into the deeper mines of the Comstock lode would
eventually demand an outlet on the floor of Carson Valley, four miles
away. He secured the legislation and surprised both friends and enemies
by raising the money to begin construction of the famous Sutro Tunnel.
He began the work in 1859, and in some way carried it through, spending
five million dollars. The mine-owners did not want to use his tunnel,
but they had to. He finally sold out at a good price and put the most
of a large fortune in San Francisco real estate. At one time he owned
one-tenth of the area of the city. He forested the bald hills of the San
Miguel Rancho, an immense improvement, changing the whole sky-line back
of Golden Gate Park. He built the fine Sutro Baths, planted the
beautiful gardens on the heights above the Cliff House, established a
car line that meant to the ocean for a nickel, amassed a library of
twenty thousand volumes, and incidentally made a good mayor. He was a
public benefactor and should be held in grateful memory.
The memories that cluster around a certain building are often
impressive, both intrinsically and by reason of their variety. Platt's
Hall is connected with experiences of first interest. For many years it
was the place for most occasional events of every character. It was a
large square auditorium on the spot now covered by the Mills Building.
Balls, lectures, concerts, political meetings, receptions, everything
that was popular and wanted to be considered first-class went to Platt's
Hall.
Starr King's popularity had given the Unitarian church and Sunday-school
a great hold on the community. At Christmas its festivals were held in
Platt's Hall. We paid a hundred dollars for rent and twenty-five dollars
for a Christmas-tree. Persons who served as doorkeepers or in any other
capacity received ten dollars each. At one dollar for admission we
crowded the big hall and always had money left over. Our entertainments
were elaborate, closing with a dance. My first service for the
Sunday-school was the unobserved holding up an angel's wing in a
tableau. One of the most charming of effects was an artificial
snowstorm, arranged for the concluding dance at a Christmas festival.
The ceiling of the hall was composed of horizontal windows giving
perfect ventilation and incidentally making it feasible for a large
force of boys to scatter quantities of cut-up white paper evenly and
plentifully over the dancers, the evergreen garlands decorating the
hall, and the polished floor. It was a long-continued downpour, a
complete surprise, and for many a year a happy tradition.
In Platt's Hall wonderfully fine orchestral concerts were held, under
the very capable direction of Rudolph Herold. Early in the sixties
Caroline Richings had a successful season of English opera. Later the
Howsons charmed us for a time. All the noteworthy lecturers of the world
who visited California received us at Platt's Hall. Beecher made a great
impression. Carl Schurz, also, stirred us deeply. I recall one clever
sentence. He said, "When the time came that this country needed a
poultice it elected President Hayes and got it." Of our local talent
real eloquence found its best expression in Henry Edgerton. The height
of enthusiasm was registered in war-time by the mighty throng that
gathered at Lincoln's call for a hundred thousand men. Starr King was
the principal speaker. He had called upon his protégé, Bret Harte, for a
poem for the occasion. Harte doubted his ability, but he handed Mr. King
the result of his effort. He called it the "Reveille." King was greatly
delighted. Harte hid himself in the concourse. King's wonderful voice,
thrilling with emotion, carried the call to every heart and the audience
with one accord stood and cheered again and again.
One of the most striking coincidences I ever knew occurred in connection
with the comparatively mild earthquake of 1866. It visited us on a
Sunday at the last moments of the morning sermon. Those in attendance at
the Unitarian church were engaged in singing the last hymn, standing
with books in hand. The movement was not violent but threatening. It
flashed through my mind that the strain on a building with a large
unsupported roof must be great. Faces blanched, but all stood quietly
waiting the end, and all would have gone well had not the large central
pipe of the organ, apparently unattached, only its weight holding it in
place, tottered on its base and leaped over the heads of the choir,
falling into the aisle in front of the first pews. The effect was
electric. The large congregation waited for no benediction or other form
of dismissal. The church was emptied in an incredibly short time, and
the congregation was very soon in the middle of the street, hymnbooks
in hand. The coincidence was that the verse being sung was,
"The seas shall melt,
And skies to smoke decay,
Rocks turn to dust,
And mountains fall away."
We had evening services at the time, and Dr. Stebbins again gave out the
same hymn, and this time we sang it through.
The story of Golden Gate Park and how the city got it is very
interesting, but must be much abridged. In 1866 I pieced out a modest
income by reporting the proceedings of the Board of Supervisors and the
School Board for the _Call_. It was in the palmy days of the People's
Party. The supervisors, elected from the wards in which they lived, were
honest and fairly able. The man of most brains and initiative was Frank
McCoppin. The most important question before them was the disposition of
the outside lands. In 1853 the city had sued for the four square leagues
(seventeen thousand acres) allowed under the Mexican law. It was granted
ten thousand acres, which left all land west of Divisadero Street
unsettled as to title. Appeal was taken, and finally the city's claim
was confirmed. In 1866 Congress passed an act confirming the decree, and
the legislature authorized the conveyance of the lands to occupants.
They were mostly squatters, and the prize was a rich one. Congress had
decreed "that all of this land not needed for public purposes, or not
previously disposed of, should be conveyed to the persons in
possession," so that all the latitude allowed was as to what "needs for
public purposes" covered. There had been agitation for a park; indeed,
Frederick Law Olmstead had made an elaborate but discouraging report,
ignoring the availability of the drifting sand-hills that formed so
large a part of the outside lands, recommending a park including our
little Duboce Park and one at Black Point, the two to be connected by a
widened and parked Van Ness Avenue, sunken and crossed by ornamental
bridges.
The undistributed outside lands to be disposed of comprised eighty-four
hundred acres. The supervisors determined to reserve one thousand acres
for a park. Some wanted to improve the opportunity to secure without
cost considerably more. The _Bulletin_ advocated an extension that would
bring a bell-shaped panhandle down to the Yerba Buena Cemetery, property
owned by the city and now embraced in the Civic Center. After long
consideration a compromise was made by which the claimants paid to those
whose lands were kept for public use ten per cent of the value of the
lands distributed. By this means 1,347.46 acres were rescued, of which
Golden Gate Park included 1,049.31, the rest being used for a cemetery,
Buena Vista Park, public squares, school lots, etc. The ordinances
accomplishing the qualified boon to the city were fathered by McCoppin
and Clement. Other members of the committee, immortalized by the streets
named after them, were Clayton, Ashbury, Cole, Shrader, and Stanyan.
The story of the development of Golden Gate Park is well known. The
beauty and charm are more eloquent than words, and John McLaren, ranks
high among the city's benefactors.
The years from 1860 to 1870 marked many changes in the character and
appearance of San Francisco. Indeed, its real growth and development
date from the end of the first decade. Before that we were clearing off
the lot and assembling the material. The foundation of the structure
that we are still building was laid in the second decade. Statistics
establish the fact. In population we increased from less than 57,000 to
150,000--163 per cent. In the first decade our assessed property
increased $9,000,000; in the second, $85,000,000. Our imports and
exports increased from $3,000,000 to $13,000,000. Great gain came
through the silver production, but greater far from the development of
the permanent industries of the land--grain, fruit, lumber--and the
shipping that followed it.
The city made strides in growth and beauty. Our greatest trial was too
much prosperity and the growth of luxury and extravagance.