ASSOCIATES BAR GREAT FINANCIER FROM CONFERENCE AND SOON AFTER
HIS BODY IS FOUND IN THE BAY.
_Fortune Plays Cruel Trick; At Height of Ralston’s Power His Big
Bank Is Forced to Close Its Doors._
Ralston succeeded D. O. Mills as president of the Bank of California,
in 1872. While conceding the titular supremacy to another, and
contenting himself with the station of cashier, Ralston had always been
the actual head. In all matters of policy and large accommodation his
word was law. After the withdrawal of Mills, the directors practically
gave him a free hand.
All through the ascendancy of Ralston, the institution had the splendid
reputation that the Bank of California enjoys to-day. It not only
possessed the fullest confidence of the community, but ranked as one
of the strongest banks of the United States, with agencies throughout
the civilized world and unlimited credit everywhere. The splendor of
Ralston’s hospitality, the immense enterprises in which he was engaged,
and his vast holdings in real estate and corporate concerns, gave him
the standing of a man whose wealth was almost beyond computation. There
was not an intimation of embarrassment when, on August 25, 1875, the
Bank of California closed its doors.
I was not a witness of what followed. I was living quietly in my home
in Kentucky. But from what I have heard, it was one of the most intense
moments in the history of the West. For blocks around the Bank of
California stood a packed mass of pale-faced men, anticipating ruin.
What might have become an unparalleled panic and almost universal
wreck, was happily averted by the closing of the stock exchange and the
practical suspension of business for a period long enough to allow the
community to catch its breath.
Ralston stood the ordeal with all the resources of fortitude, met many
patrons of the bank, admitted the grave conditions of its finances, but
contended that its assets were very large. Everything he possessed in
the world, he said, would be used to make good.
On the afternoon of August 27 the directors called a meeting. Ralston
was on hand as usual, but was barred from attendance by D. O. Mills.
The incident, it is said, touched him to the quick. Every director had
profited by his friendship in the days of his power and prosperity.
This seemed a harsh return in the hour of his deep distress. He left
the meeting with a dazed and haggard face.
He proceeded to his home and thence to North Beach, where he was
accustomed to take a swim in the bay when the weather was opportune.
There are a number of living witnesses of what followed. Shortly after
he entered the water other swimmers noticed that something was amiss.
His body did not sink, but he was floating face downward. A boatman was
quickly at his side. This boatman declared that the banker was still
living. Be that as it may, when he reached the shore with his burden
the once master spirit of the Pacific Coast was dead.
How great was the hold that Ralston had on the hearts and minds of
men could only be illustrated by the passion of grief under which the
whole city bent. His death was looked on as a common calamity. No
spectacle has ever been witnessed in modern times such as his funeral
presented. By common consent, business of every kind was suspended in
San Francisco. You might say that the population of the city of more
than 150,000 inhabitants turned out en masse. The proudest and the
humblest touched shoulders at his grave. Such tribute was never paid to
any potentate or prince.
There were even some who found it convenient to make an exhibition of
immoderate sorrow who might have been more fittingly employed elsewhere.
I once heard a story of a French gentleman who had suffered a domestic
bereavement. A friend met him shortly after and tendered the customary
condolences.
“Ah! My poor wife! Yes, it was indeed a great loss!” sighed the
Frenchman.
“I was at your house during the funeral,” continued the sympathetic
friend, “and was deeply touched by your manifestations of grief.”
“Ah! You saw me at the house,” exclaimed the bereaved Gaul. “Many
thought that fine. But you should have seen me at the grave. There I
raised hell.”
Very much in the same way, there was one man at Ralston’s obsequies
conspicuous for his ostentatious sorrow, who was more responsible for
his downfall than anyone else and profited largely by his death. But
after the funeral he was able to speak of the tragic event with much
fortitude and a certain degree of complacency. Ralston’s death, he
said, was extremely opportune--in fact, the best thing that could have
happened, for it made easy going for everyone.
But nothing can be more true than the cynical words that Shakespeare
puts into the mouth of Marc Antony. The evil a man does lives after
him. The good is buried with his bones. The city went about its
business, forgot its sorrow, which is necessary and proper, unless the
world is to be draped with perpetual mourning weeds, forgot much of the
great services Ralston rendered California; although to this day, among
the old-timers and their descendants his name still stirs a thrill. But
all his human weaknesses have been remembered and handed down, duly
magnified, to posterity.
Not only that, but his memory has been assailed by accusations of the
gravest nature, relating to the failure of the Bank of California.
These charges reached me in Kentucky, and as they did not proceed from
an authoritative source and, moreover, seemed totally inconsistent with
the character of my old friend, I made a special visit to the Pacific
Coast to investigate the circumstances immediately preceding and
associated with his death, for the better satisfaction of myself and of
the world at large.