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.