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.