From Alamo he seems to have gone directly to Tuolumne County, and it must have been late in 1856. His delightful sketch "How I Went to the Mines" is surely autobiographical. He says: "I had been two years in California before I ever thought of going to the mines, and my initiation into the vocation of gold-digging was partly compulsory." He refers to "the little pioneer settlement school, of which I was the somewhat youthful, and, I fear, not over-competent master." What he did after the school-teaching episode he does not record. He was a stage messenger at one time. How long he remained in and around the mines is not definitely known, but it seems clear that in less than a year of experience and observation he absorbed the life and local color so thoroughly that he was able to use it with almost undiminished freshness for forty years.

It was early in 1857 that Bret Harte came to Humboldt County to visit his sister Margaret, and for a brief time and to a limited extent our lives touched. He was twenty-one and I was sixteen, so there was little intimacy, but he interested and attracted me as a new type of manhood. He bore the marks of good breeding, education, and refinement. He was quiet of manner, kindly but not demonstrative, with a certain reserve and aloofness. He was of medium height, rather slight of figure, with strongly marked features and an aquiline nose. He seemed clever rather than forcible, and presented a pathetic figure as of one who had gained no foothold on success. He had a very pleasant voice and a modest manner, and never talked of himself. He was always the gentleman, exemplary as to habits, courteous and good-natured, but a trifle aristocratic in bearing. He was dressed in good taste, but was evidently in need of income. He was willing to do anything, but with little ability to help himself. He was simply untrained for doing anything that needed doing in that community.

He found occasional work in the drugstore, and for a time he had a small private school. His surviving pupils speak warmly of his sympathy and kindness. He had little mechanical ability. I recall seeing him try to build a fence one morning. He bravely dug postholes, but they were pretty poor, and the completed fence was not so very straight. He was genial and uncomplaining, and he made a few good friends. He was an agreeable guest, and at our house was fond of a game of whist. He was often facetious, with a neatness that was characteristic. One day, on a stroll, we passed a very primitive new house that was wholly destitute of all ornaments or trimming, even without eaves. It seemed modeled after a packing-box. "That," he remarked, "must be of the Iowan order of architecture."

He was given to teasing, and could be a little malicious. A proud and ambitious schoolteacher had married a well-off but decidedly Cockney Englishman, whose aspirates could be relied upon to do the expected. Soon after the wedding, Harte called and cleverly steered the conversation on to music and songs, finally expressing great fondness for "Kathleen Mavourneen," but professing to have forgotten the words. The bridegroom swallowed the bait with avidity. "Why," said he, "they begin with 'The 'orn of the 'unter is 'eard on the 'ill.'" F.B. stroked his Dundrearies while his dark eyes twinkled. The bride's eyes flashed ominously, but there seemed to be nothing she felt like saying.

In October, 1857, he removed to the Liscom ranch in the suburbs at the head of the bay and became the tutor of two boys, fourteen and thirteen years of age. He had a forenoon session of school and in the afternoon enjoyed hunting on the adjacent marshes. For his convenience in keeping run of the lessons given, he kept a brief diary, and it has lately been found. It is of interest both in the little he records and from the significant omissions. It reveals a very simple life of a clever, kindly, clean young man who did his work, enjoyed his outdoor recreation, read a few good books, and generally "retired at 9 1/2 P.M." He records sending letters to various publications. On a certain day he wrote the first lines of "Dolores." A few days later he finished it, and mailed it to the Knickerbocker.

He wrote and rewrote a story, "What Happened at Mendocino." What happened to the story does not appear. He went to church generally, and some of the sermons were good and others "vapid and trite." Once in a while he goes to a dance, but not to his great satisfaction. He didn't dance particularly well. He tells of a Christmas dinner that he helped his sister to prepare. Something made him dissatisfied with himself and he bewails his melancholy and gloomy forebodings that unfit him for rational enjoyment and cause him to be a spectacle for "gods and men." He adds: "Thermometer of my spirit on Christmas day, 1857, 9 A.M., 40 deg.; temperature, 12 A.M., 60 deg.; 3 P.M., 80 deg.; 6 P.M., 20 deg. and falling rapidly; 9 P.M., at zero; 1 A.M., 20 deg. below."

His entries were brief and practical. He did not write to express his feelings.

At the close of 1857 he indulged in a brief retrospect, and an emphatic statement of his determination for the future.

After referring to the fact that he was a tutor at a salary of twenty-five dollars a month and board, and that a year before he was unemployed, at the close he writes: "In these three hundred and sixty-five days I have again put forth a feeble essay toward fame and perhaps fortune. I have tried literature, albeit in a humble way. I have written some passable prose and it has been successfully published. The conviction is forced on me by observation, and not by vain enthusiasm, that I am fit for nothing else. Perhaps I may succeed; if not, I can at least make the trial. Therefore I consecrate this year, or as much as God may grant for my services, to honest, heartfelt, sincere labor and devotion to this occupation. God help me! May I succeed!"

Harte profited by his experience in tutoring my two boy friends, gaining local color quite unlike that of the Sierra foothills. Humboldt is also on the grand scale and its physical characteristics and its type of manhood were fresh and inspiring.

His familiarity with the marsh and the sloughs is shown in "The Man on the Beach" and the "Dedlow Marsh Stories," and this affords fine opportunity for judging of the part played by knowledge and by imagination in his literary work. His descriptions are photographic in their accuracy. The flight of a flock of sandpipers, the flowing tides, the white line of the bar at the mouth of the bay—all are exact. But the locations and relations irrelevant to the story are wholly ignored. The characters and happenings are purely imaginary. He is the artist using his experiences and his fancy as his colors, and the minimum of experience and small observation suffice. His perception of character is marvelous. He pictures the colonel, his daughters, the spruce lieutenant, and the Irish deserter with such familiarity that the reader would think that he had spent most of his life in a garrison, and his ability to portray vividly life in the mines, where his actual experience was so very slight, is far better understood.

Many of the occurrences of those far-away days have faded from my mind, but one of them, of considerable significance to two lives, is quite clear. Uniontown had been the county-seat, and there the Humboldt Times was published; but Eureka, across the bay, had outgrown her older sister and captured both the county-seat and the only paper in the county. In frantic effort to sustain her failing prestige Uniontown projected a rival paper and the Northern Californian was spoken into being. My father was a half owner, and I coveted the humble position of printer's devil. One journeyman could set the type, and on Wednesday and Saturday, respectively, run off on a hand-press the outside and the inside of the paper, but a boy or a low-priced man was needed to roll the forms and likewise to distribute the type. I looked upon it as the first rung on the ladder of journalism, and I was about to put my foot thereon when the pathetic figure of Bret Harte presented itself applying for the job, causing me to put my foot on my hopes instead. He seemed to want it and need it so much more than I did that I turned my hand to other pursuits, while he mounted the ladder with cheerful alacrity and skipped up several rungs, very promptly learning to set type and becoming a very acceptable assistant editor.

In a community where popular heroes are apt to be loud and aggressive, the quiet man who thinks more than he talks is adjudged effeminate. Harte was always modest, and boasting was foreign to his nature; so he was thought devoid of spirit and strength. But occasion brought out the unsuspected. There had been a long and trying Indian war in and around Humboldt. The feeling against the red men was very bitter. It culminated in a wanton and cowardly attack on a tribe of peaceful Indians encamped on an island opposite Eureka, and men, women, and children were ruthlessly killed. Harte was temporarily in charge of the paper and he denounced the outrage in unmeasured terms. The better part of the community sustained him, but a violent minority resented his strictures and he was seriously threatened and in no little danger. Happily he escaped, but the incident resulted in his return to San Francisco. The massacre occurred on February 5, 1860, which fixes the approximate time of Harte's becoming identified with San Francisco.

His experience was of great advantage to him in that he had learned to do something for which there was a demand. He could not earn much as a compositor, but his wants were simple and he could earn something. He soon secured a place on the Golden Era, and it became the doorway to his career. He was soon transferred to the editorial department and contributed freely.

For four years he continued on the Golden Era. These were years of growth and increasing accomplishment. He did good work and made good friends. Among those whose interest he awakened were Mrs. Jessie Benton Fremont and Thomas Starr King. Both befriended and encouraged him. In the critical days when California hung in the balance between the North and the South, and Starr King, by his eloquence, fervor, and magnetism, seemed to turn the scale, Bret Harte did his part in support of the friend he loved. Lincoln had called for a hundred thousand volunteers, and at a mass meeting Harte contributed a noble poem, "The Reveille," which thrillingly read by Starr King brought the mighty audience to its feet with cheers for the Union. He wrote many virile patriotic poems at this period.

In March, 1864, Starr King, of the glowing heart and golden tongue, preacher, patriot, and hero, fell at his post, and San Francisco mourned him and honored him as seldom falls to the lot of man. At his funeral the Federal authorities ordered the firing of a salute from the forts in the harbor, an honor, so far as I know, never before accorded a private citizen.

Bret Harte wrote a poem of rare beauty in expression of his profound grief and his heartfelt appreciation:

RELIEVING GUARD.

Came the relief. "What, sentry, ho! How passed the night through thy long waking?" "Cold, cheerless, dark—as may befit The hour before the dawn is breaking."

"No sight? no sound?" "No; nothing save The plover from the marshes calling, And in yon western sky, about An hour ago, a star was falling."

"A star? There's nothing strange in that." "No, nothing; but, above the thicket, Somehow it seemed to me that God Somewhere had just relieved a picket."

This is not only good poetry; it reveals deep and fine feeling.



Through Starr King's interest, his parishioner Robert B. Swain, Superintendent of the Mint, had early in 1864 appointed Harte as his private secretary, at a salary of two hundred dollars a month, with duties that allowed considerable leisure. This was especially convenient, as a year or so before he had married, and additional income was indispensable.

In May, 1864, Harte left the Golden Era, joining Charles Henry Webb and others in a new literary venture, the Californian. It was a brilliant weekly. Among the contributors were Mark Twain, Charles Warren Stoddard, and Prentice Mulford. Harte continued his delightful "Condensed Novels" and contributed poems, stories, sketches, and book reviews. "The Society on the Stanislaus," "John Brown of Gettysburg," and "The Pliocene Skull" belong to this period.

In the "Condensed Novels" Harte surpassed all parodists. With clever burlesque, there was both appreciation and subtle criticism. As Chesterton says, "Bret Harte's humor was sympathetic and analytical. The wild, sky-breaking humor of America has its fine qualities, but it must in the nature of things be deficient in two qualities—reverence and sympathy—and these two qualities were knit into the closest texture of Bret Harte's humor."

At this time Harte lived a quiet domestic life. He wrote steadily. He loved to write, but he was also obliged to. Literature is not an overgenerous paymaster, and with a growing family expenses tend to increase in a larger ratio than income.

Harte's sketches based on early experiences are interesting and amusing. His life in Oakland was in many ways pleasant, but he evidently retained some memories that made him enjoy indulging in a sly dig many years after. He gives the pretended result of scientific investigation made in the far-off future as to the great earthquake that totally engulfed San Francisco. The escape of Oakland seemed inexplicable, but a celebrated German geologist ventured to explain the phenomenon by suggesting that "there are some things that the earth cannot swallow."

My last recollection of Harte, of a purely personal nature, was of an occurrence in 1866, when he was dramatic critic of the Morning Call at the time I was doing a little reporting on the same paper. It happened that a benefit was arranged for some charity. "Nan, the Good-for-Nothing," was to be given by a number of amateurs. The Nan asked me to play Tom, and I had insufficient firmness to decline. After the play, when my face was reasonably clean, I dropped into the Call office, yearning for a word of commendation from Harte. I thought he knew that I had taken the part, but he would not give me the satisfaction of referring to it. Finally I mentioned, casually like, that I was Tom, whereat he feigned surprise, and remarked in his pleasant voice, "Was that you? I thought they had sent to some theater and hired a supe."

In July, 1868, A. Roman & Co. launched the Overland Monthly, with Harte as editor. He took up the work with eager interest. He named the child, planned its every feature, and chose his contributors. It was a handsome publication, modeled, in a way, on the Atlantic Monthly, but with a flavor and a character all its own. The first number was attractive and readable, with articles of varied interest by Mark Twain, Noah Brooks, Charles Warren Stoddard, William C. Bartlett, T.H. Rearden, Ina Coolbrith, and others—a brilliant galaxy for any period. Harte contributed "San Francisco from the Sea."

Mark Twain, long after, alluding to this period in his life, pays this characteristic acknowledgment: "Bret Harte trimmed and trained and schooled me patiently until he changed me from an awkward utterer of coarse grotesqueness to a writer of paragraphs and chapters that have found favor in the eyes of even some of the decentest people in the land."

The first issue of the Overland was well received, but the second sounded a note heard round the world. The editor contributed a story—"The Luck of Roaring Camp"—that was hailed as a new venture in literature. It was so revolutionary that it shocked an estimable proofreader, and she sounded the alarm. The publishers were timid, but the gentle editor was firm. When it was found that it must go in or he would go out, it went—and he stayed. When the conservative and dignified Atlantic wrote to the author soliciting something like it, the publishers were reassured.

Harte had struck ore. Up to this time he had been prospecting. He had early found color and followed promising stringers. He had opened some fair pockets, but with the explosion of this blast he had laid bare the true vein, and the ore assayed well. It was high grade, and the fissure was broad.

"The Luck of Roaring Camp" was the first of a series of stories depicting the picturesque life of the early days which made California known the world over and gave it a romantic interest enjoyed by no other community. They were fresh and virile, original in treatment, with real men and women using a new vocabulary, with humor and pathos delightfully blended. They moved on a stage beautifully set, with a background of heroic grandeur. No wonder that California and Bret Harte became familiar household words. When one reflects on the fact that the exposure to the life depicted had occurred more than ten years before, from very brief experience, the wonder is incomprehensibly great. Nothing less than genius can account for such a result. "Tennessee's Partner," "M'liss," "The Outcasts of Poker Flat," and dozens more of these stories that became classics followed. The supply seemed exhaustless, and fresh welcome awaited every one.

It was in September, 1870, that Harte in the make-up of the Overland found an awkward space too much for an ordinary poem. An associate suggested that he write something to fit the gap; but Harte was not given to dashing off to order, nor to writing a given number of inches of poetry. He was not a literary mechanic, nor could he command his moods. However, he handed his friend a bundle of manuscript to see if there was anything that he thought would do, and very soon a neat draft was found bearing the title "On the Sinfulness of Ah Sin as Reported by Truthful James." It was read with avidity and pronounced "the very thing." Harte demurred. He didn't think very well of it. He was generally modest about his work and never quite satisfied. But he finally accepted the judgment of his friend and consented to run it. He changed the title to "Later Words from Truthful James," but when the proof came substituted "Plain Language from Truthful James."

He made a number of other changes, as was his wont, for he was always painstaking and given to critical polishing. In some instances he changed an entire line or a phrase of two lines. The copy read:

"Till at last he led off the right bower, That Nye had just hid on his knee."

As changed on the proof it read:

"Till at last he put down a right bower, Which the same Nye had dealt unto me."

It was a happy second thought that suggested the most quoted line in this famous poem. The fifth line of the seventh verse originally read:

"Or is civilization a failure?"

On the margin of the proof-sheet he substituted the ringing line:

"We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor,"

—an immense improvement—the verse reading:

"Then I looked up at Nye, And he gazed unto me, And he rose with a sigh, And said, 'Can this be? We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor!' And he went for that heathen Chinee."

The corrected proof, one of the treasures of the University of California, with which Harte was for a time nominally connected, bears convincing testimony to the painstaking methods by which he sought the highest degree of literary perfection. This poem was not intended as a serious addition to contemporary verse. Harte disclaimed any purpose whatever; but there seems just a touch of political satire. "The Chinese must go" was becoming the popular political slogan, and he always enjoyed rowing against the tide. The poem greatly extended his name and fame. It was reprinted in Punch, it was liberally quoted on the floors of Congress, and it "caught on" everywhere. Perhaps it is today the one thing by which Harte is best known.

One of the most amusing typographical errors on record occurred in the printing of this poem. In explanation of the manner of the duplicity of Ah Sin, Truthful James was made to say:

"In his sleeves, which were long, He had twenty-one packs:"

and that was the accepted reading for many years, in spite of the physical impossibility of concealing six hundred and ninety-three cards and one arm in even a Chinaman's sleeve. The game they played was euchre, where bowers are supreme, and what Harte wrote was "jacks," not "packs." Probably the same pious proofreader who was shocked at the "Luck" did not know the game, and, as the rhyme was perfect, let it slip. Later editions corrected the error, though it is still often seen.

Harte gave nearly three years to the Overland. His success had naturally brought him flattering offers, and the temptation to realize on his reputation seems to have been more than he could withstand. The Overland had become a valuable property, eventually passing into control of another publisher. The new owners were unable or unwilling to pay what he thought he must earn, and somewhat reluctantly he resigned the editorship and left the state of his adoption.

Harte, with his family, left San Francisco in February, 1871. They went first to Chicago, where he confidently expected to be editor of a magazine to be called the Lakeside Monthly. He was invited to a dinner given by the projectors of the enterprise, at which a large-sized check was said to have been concealed beneath his plate; but for some unexplained reason he failed to attend the dinner and the magazine was given up. Those who know the facts acquit him of all blame in the matter; but, in any event, his hopes were dashed, and he proceeded to the East disappointed and unsettled.

Soon after arriving at New York he visited Boston, dining with the Saturday Club and visiting Howells, then editor of the Atlantic, at Cambridge. He spent a pleasant week, meeting Lowell, Longfellow, and Emerson. Mrs. Aldrich, in "Crowding Memories," gives a vivid picture of his charm and high spirits at this meeting of friends and celebrities. The Boston atmosphere as a whole was not altogether delightful. He seemed constrained, but he did a fine stroke of business. James R. Osgood & Co. offered him ten thousand dollars for whatever he might write in a year, and he accepted the handsome retainer. It did not stimulate him to remarkable output. He wrote four stories, including "How Santa Claus Came to Simpson's Bar," and five poems, including "Concepcion de Arguello." The offer was not renewed the following year.

For seven years New York City was generally his winter home. Some of his summers were spent in Newport, and some in New Jersey. In the former he wrote "A Newport Romance" and in the latter "Thankful Blossom." One summer he spent at Cohasset, where he met Lawrence Barrett and Stuart Robson, writing "Two Men of Sandy Bar," produced in 1876. "Sue," his most successful play, was produced in New York and in London in 1896.

To earn money sorely needed he took the distasteful lecture field. His two subjects were "The Argonauts" and "American Humor." His letters to his wife at this time tell the pathetic tale of a sensitive, troubled soul struggling to earn money to pay debts. He writes with brave humor, but the work was uncongenial and the returns disappointing.

From Ottawa he writes: "Do not let this worry you, but kiss the children for me, and hope for the best. I should send you some money, but there isn't any to send, and maybe I shall only bring back myself." The next day he added a postscript: "Dear Nan—I did not send this yesterday, waiting to find the results of last night's lecture. It was a fair house, and this morning—paid me $150, of which I send you the greater part."

A few days later he wrote from Lawrence, the morning after an unexpectedly good audience: "I made a hundred dollars by the lecture, and it is yours for yourself, Nan, to buy minxes with, if you want to."

From Washington he writes: "Thank you, dear Nan, for your kind, hopeful letter. I have been very sick, very much disappointed; but I am better now and am only waiting for money to return. Can you wonder that I have kept this from you? You have so hard a time of it there, that I cannot bear to have you worried if there is the least hope of a change in my affairs. God bless you and keep you and the children safe, for the sake of Frank."

No one can read these letters without feeling that they mirror the real man, refined of feeling, kindly and humorous, but not strong of courage, oppressed by obligations, and burdened by doubts of how he was to care for those he loved. With all his talent he could not command independence, and the lot of the man who earns less than it costs to live is hard to bear.

Harte had the faculty of making friends, even if by neglect he sometimes lost them, and they came to his rescue in this trying time. Charles A. Dana and others secured for him an appointment by President Hayes as Commercial Agent at Crefeld, Prussia. In June, 1878, he sailed for England, leaving his family at Sea Cliff, Long Island, little supposing that he would never see them or America again.

On the day he reached Crefeld he wrote his wife in a homesick and almost despondent strain: "I am to all appearance utterly friendless; I have not received the first act of kindness or courtesy from anyone. I think things must be better soon. I shall, please God, make some good friends in good time, and will try and be patient. But I shall not think of sending for you until I see clearly that I can stay myself. If worst comes to worst I shall try to stand it for a year, and save enough to come home and begin anew there. But I could not stand it to see you break your heart here through disappointment as I mayhap may do."

Here is the artistic, impressionable temperament, easily disheartened, with little self-reliant courage or grit. But he seems to have felt a little ashamed of his plaint, for at midnight of the same day he wrote a second letter, half apologetic and much more hopeful, just because one or two people had been a little kind and he had been taken out to a fest.

Soon after, he wrote a letter to his younger son, then a small boy. It told of a pleasant drive to the Rhine, a few miles away. He concludes: "It was all very wonderful, but Papa thought after all he was glad his boys live in a country that is as yet pure and sweet and good—not in one where every field seems to cry out with the remembrance of bloodshed and wrong, and where so many people have lived and suffered that tonight, under this clear moon, their very ghosts seemed to throng the road and dispute our right of way. Be thankful, my dear boy, that you are an American. Papa was never so fond of his country before as in this land that has been so great, powerful, and so very hard and wicked."

In May, 1880, he was made Consul at Glasgow, a position that he filled for five years. During this period he spent a considerable part of his time in London and in visiting at country homes. He lectured and wrote and made many friends, among the most valued of whom were William Black and Walter Besant.

A new administration came in with 1885 and Harte was superseded. He went to London and settled down to a simple and regular life. For ten years he lived with the Van de Veldes, friends of long standing. He wrote with regularity and published several volumes of stories and sketches. In 1885 Harte visited Switzerland. Of the Alps he wrote: "In spite of their pictorial composition I wouldn't give a mile of the dear old Sierras, with their honesty, sincerity, and magnificent uncouthness, for a hundred thousand kilometers of the picturesque Vaud."

Of Geneva he wrote: "I thought I should not like it, fancying it a kind of continental Boston, and that the shadow of John Calvin and the old reformers, or still worse the sentimental idiocy of Rousseau and the De Staels, still lingered." But he did like it, and wrote brilliantly of Lake Leman and Mont Blanc.

Returning to his home in Aldershot he resumed work, giving some time to a libretto for a musical comedy, but his health was failing and he accomplished little. A surgical operation for cancer of the throat in March, 1902, afforded a little relief, but he worked with difficulty. On April 17th he began a new story, "A Friend of Colonel Starbottle." He wrote one sentence and began another; but the second sentence was his last work, though a few letters to friends bear a later date. On May 5th, sitting at his desk, there came a hemorrhage of the throat, followed later in the day by a second, which left him unconscious. Before the end of the day he peacefully breathed his last.

Pathetic and inexplicable were the closing days of this gifted man. An exile from his native land, unattended by family or kin, sustaining his lonely life by wringing the dregs of memory, and clasping in farewell the hands of a fancied friend of his dear old reprobate Colonel, he, like Kentuck, "drifted away into the shadowy river that flows forever to the unknown sea."

In his more than forty years of authorship he was both industrious and prolific. In the nineteen volumes of his published work there must be more than two hundred titles of stories and sketches, and many of them are little known. Some of them are disappointing in comparison with his earlier and perhaps best work, but many of them are charming and all are in his delightful style, with its undertone of humor that becomes dominant at unexpected intervals. His literary form was distinctive, with a manner not derived from the schools or copied from any of his predecessors, but developed from his own personality. He seems to have founded a modern school, with a lightness of touch and a felicity of expression unparalleled. He was vividly imaginative, and also had the faculty of giving dramatic form and consistency to an incident or story told by another. He was a story-teller, equally dexterous in prose or verse. His taste was unerring and he sought for perfect form. His atmosphere was breezy and healthful—out of doors with the fragrance of the pine-clad Sierras. He was never morbid and introspective. His characters are virile and natural men and women who act from simple motives, who live and love, or hate and fight, without regard to problems and with small concern for conventionalities. Harte had sentiment, but was realistic and fearless. He felt under no obligation to make all gamblers villains or all preachers heroes. He dealt with human nature in the large and he made it real.

His greatest achievement was in faithfully mirroring the life of a new and striking epoch. He seems to have discovered that it was picturesque and to have been almost alone in impressing this fact on the world. He sketched pictures of pioneer life as he saw or imagined it with matchless beauty and compelled the interest and enjoyment of all mankind.

His chief medium was the short story, to which he gave a new vogue. Translated into many tongues, his tales became the source of knowledge to a large part of the people of Europe as to California and the Pacific. He associated the Far West with romance, and we have never fully outlived it.

That he was gifted as a poet no one can deny. Perhaps his most striking use of his power as a versifier was in connection with the romantic Spanish background of California history. Such work as "Concepcion de Arguello" is well worth while. In his "Spanish Idylls and Legends" he catches the fine spirit of the period and connects California with a past of charm and beauty. His patriotic verse has both strength and loveliness and reflects a depth of feeling that his lighter work does not lead us to expect. In his dialect verse he revels in fun and shows himself a genuine and cleanly humorist.

If we search for the source of his great power we may not expect to find it; yet we may decide that among his endowments his extraordinary power of absorption contributes very largely. His early reference to "eager absorption" and "photographic sensitiveness" are singularly significant expressions. Experience teaches the plodder, but the man of genius, supremely typified by Shakespeare, needs not to acquire knowledge slowly and painfully. Sympathy, imagination, and insight reveal truth, and as a plate, sensitized, holds indefinitely the records of the exposure, so Harte, forty years after in London, holds in consciousness the impressions of the days he spent in Tuolumne County. It is a great gift, a manifestation of genius. He had a fine background of inheritance and a lifetime of good training.

Bret Harte was also gifted with an agreeable personality. He was even-tempered and good-natured. He was an ideal guest and enjoyed his friends. Whatever his shortcomings and whatever his personal responsibility for them, he deserves to be treated with the consideration and generosity he extended to others. He was never censorious, and instances of his magnanimity are many. Severity of judgment is a custom that few of us can afford, and to be generous is never a mistake. Harte was extremely sensitive, and he deplored controversy. He was quite capable of suffering in silence if defense of self might reflect on others. His deficiencies were trivial but damaging, and their heavy retribution he bore with dignity, retaining the respect of those who knew him.

As to what he was, as man and author, he is entitled to be judged by a jury of his peers. I could quote at length from a long list of associates of high repute, but they all concur fully with the comprehensive judgment of Ina Coolbrith, who knew him intimately. She says, "I can only speak of him in terms of unqualified praise as author, friend, and man."

In the general introduction that Harte wrote for the first volume of his collected stories he refers to the charge that he "confused recognized standards of morality by extenuating lives of recklessness and often criminality with a single solitary virtue" as "the cant of too much mercy." He then adds: "Without claiming to be a religious man or a moralist, but simply as an artist, he shall reverently and humbly conform to the rules laid down by a great poet who created the parables of the Prodigal Son and the Good Samaritan, whose works have lasted eighteen hundred years, and will remain when the present writer and his generations are forgotten. And he is conscious of uttering no original doctrine in this, but only of voicing the beliefs of a few of his literary brethren happily living, and one gloriously dead, [Footnote: Evidently Dickens.] who never made proclamation of this from the housetops."

Bret Harte had a very unusual combination of sympathetic insight, emotional feeling, and keen sense of the dramatic. In the expression of the result of these powers he commanded a literary style individually developed, expressive of a rare personality. He was vividly imaginative, and he had exacting ideals of precision in expression. His taste was unerring. The depth and power of the great soul were not his. He was the artist, not the prophet. He was a delightful painter of the life he saw, an interpreter of the romance of his day, a keen but merciful satirist, a humorist without reproach, a patriot, a critic, and a kindly, modest gentleman. He was versatile, doing many things exceedingly well, and some things supremely well. He discerned the significance of the remarkable social conditions of early days in California and developed a marvelous power of presenting them in vivid and attractive form. His humor is unsurpassed. It is pervasive, like the perfume of the rose, never offending by violence. His style is a constant surprise and a never-ending delight. His spirit is kindly and generous. He finds good in unsuspected places, and he leaves hope for all mankind. He was sensitive, peace-loving, and indignant at wrong, a scorner of pretense, independent in thought, just in judgment. He surmounted many difficulties, bore suffering without complaint, and left with those who really knew him a pleasant memory. It would seem that he was a greater artist and a better man than is commonly conceded.

In failing to honor him California suffers. He should be cherished as her early interpreter, if not as her spirit's discoverer, and ranked high among those who have contributed to her fame. He is the representative literary figure of the state. In her imaginary Temple of Fame or Hall of Heroes he deserves a prominent, if not the foremost, niche. As the generations move forward he must not be forgotten. Bret Harte at our hands needs not to be idealized, but he does deserve to be justly, gratefully, and fittingly realized.



CHAPTER V

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 protege, 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.



CHAPTER VI

LATER SAN FRANCISCO

In a brief chapter little can be offered that will tell the story of half a century of life of a great city. No attempt will be made to trace its progress or to recount its achievement. It is my purpose merely to record events and occurrences that I remember, for whatever interest they may have or whatever light they may throw on the life of the city or on my experience in it.

For many years we greatly enjoyed the exhibits and promenade concerts of the Mechanics' Institute Fairs. The large pavilion also served a useful purpose in connection with various entertainments demanding capacity. In 1870 there was held a very successful musical festival; twelve hundred singers participated and Camilla Urso was the violinist. The attendance exceeded six thousand.

The Mercantile Library was in 1864 very strong and seemed destined to eternal life, but it became burdened with debt and sought to extricate itself by an outrageous expedient. The legislature passed an act especially permitting a huge lottery, and for three days in 1870 the town was given over to gambling, unabashed and unashamed. The result seemed a triumph. Half a million dollars was realized, but it was a violation of decency that sounded the knell of the institution, and it was later absorbed by the plodding Mechanics' Institute, which had always been most judiciously managed. Its investments in real estate that it used have made it wealthy.

A gala day of 1870 was the spectacular removal of Blossom Rock. The early-day navigation was imperiled by a small rock northwest of Angel Island, covered at low tide by but five feet of water. It was called Blossom, from having caused the loss of an English ship of that name. The Government closed a bargain with Engineer Von Schmidt, who three years before had excavated from the solid rock at Hunter's Point a dry dock that had gained wide renown. Von Schmidt guaranteed twenty-four feet of water at a cost of seventy-five thousand dollars, no payment to be made unless he succeeded. He built a cofferdam, sunk a shaft, planted twenty-three tons of powder in the tunnels he ran, and on May 25th, after notice duly served, which sent the bulk of the population to view-commanding hills, he pushed an electric button that fired the mine, throwing water and debris one hundred and fifty feet in the air. Blossom Rock was no more, deep water was secured, and Von Schmidt cashed his check.

On my trip from Humboldt County to San Francisco in 1861 I made the acquaintance of Andrew S. Hallidie, an English engineer who had constructed a wire bridge over the Klamath River. In 1872 he came to my printing office to order a prospectus announcing the formation of a small company to construct a new type of street-car, to be propelled by wire cable running in a conduit in the street and reached by a grip through a slot. It was suggested by the suffering of horses striving to haul cars up our steep hills and it utilized methods successfully used in transporting ores from the mines. On August 2, 1873, the first cable-car made a successful trial trip of seven blocks over Clay Street hill, from Kearny to Leavenworth. Later it was extended four blocks to the west. From this beginning the cable-roads spread over most of the city and around the world. With the development of the electric trolley they were largely displaced except on steep grades, where they still perform an important function. Mr. Hallidie was a public-spirited citizen and an influential regent of the University of California.

In 1874 there was forced upon the citizens of San Francisco the necessity of taking steps to give better care and opportunity to the neglected children of the community. A poorly conducted reform school was encouraging crime instead of effecting reform. On every hand was heard the question, "What shall we do with our boys?" Encouraged by the reports of what had been accomplished in New York City by Charles L. Brace, correspondence was entered into, and finally The Boys and Girls Aid Society was organized. Difficulty was encountered in finding any one willing to act as president of the organization, but George C. Hickox, a well-known banker, was at last persuaded and became much interested in the work. For some time it was a difficult problem to secure funds to meet the modest expenses. A lecture by Charles Kingsley was a flat failure. Much more successful was an entertainment at Platt's Hall at which well-known citizens took part in an old-time spelling-match. In a small building in Clementina Street we began with neighborhood boys, who were at first wild and unruly. Senator George C. Perkins became interested, and for more than forty years served as president. Through him Senator Fair gave five thousand dollars and later the two valuable fifty-vara lots at Grove and Baker streets, still occupied by the Home. We issued a little paper, Child and State, in which we appealed for a building, and a copy fell into the hands of Miss Helen McDowell, daughter of the General. She sent it to Miss Hattie Crocker, who passed it to her father, Charles Crocker, of railroad fame. He became interested and wrote for particulars, and when the plans were submitted he told us to go ahead and build, sending the bills to him. These two substantial gifts made possible the working out of our plans, and the results have been very encouraging. When the building was erected, on the advice of the experts of the period, two lockups were installed, one without light. Experience soon convinced us that they could be dispensed with, and both were torn out. An honor system was substituted, to manifest advantage, and failures to return when boys are permitted to visit parents are negligible in number. The three months of summer vacation are devoted to berry-picking, with satisfaction to growers and to the boys, who last year earned eleven thousand dollars, of which seven thousand dollars was paid to the boys who participated, in proportion to the amount earned.

William C. Ralston was able, daring, and brilliant. In 1864 he organized the Bank of California, which, through its Virginia City connection and the keenness and audacity of William Sharon, practically monopolized the big business of the Comstock, controlling mines, milling, and transportation. In San Francisco it was the bank, and its earnings were huge. Ralston was public-spirited and enterprising. He backed all kinds of schemes as well as many legitimate undertakings. He seemed the great power of the Pacific Coast. But in 1875, when the silver output dropped and the tide that had flowed in for a dozen years turned to ebb, distrust was speedy. On the afternoon of August 26th, as I chanced to be passing the bank, I saw with dismay the closing of its doors. The death of Ralston, the discovery of wild investments, and the long train of loss were intensely tragic. The final rehabilitation of the bank brought assurance and rich reward to those who met their loss like men, but the lesson was a hard one. In retrospect Ralston seems to typify that extraordinary era of wild speculation and recklessness.