HE Republic is opportunity," so wrote the great sage that has ennobled every river and woodland of all Massachusetts-and made Concord the sacred Mecca of all who revere American literary life. But shades of our American Bard of Avon! Did you ever contemplate the contingency that the opportunity" included the election of a violinist as Mayor of San Francisco; and a coal-stoker for the same office in the third-class city in staid Connecticut. Such are the facts of the past harvest moons, and it would seem as if the "opportunities" that are now history would bear a little analysis. The "Destiny of the Human Race" was strictly tabooed as a study in the fall "Semester" of Stanford this year, but the destiny of the Republic would still seem worth one's while. It is believed that the genesis of some singularly picturesque, but exceedingly perverse currents of contemporary politics that has swept over the country in the last twenty odd years can be traced back in the main to a certain San Francisco "sandlot" and its Jack Cades.

The "Stars and Stripes" were waving a cordial and stately welcome to a wearied traveler some twenty-four years ago over the portico of the old Lick Houseas he entered his name, hailing from the dustiest "cow country" in the South. He was soon sound asleep in the consciousness that all was well beneath the folds of "old glory." But midnight had scarcely passed ere an unearthly yell, as from a thousand throats, each affected by bronchitis, sounded beneath our very windows on the Sutter street side. sturdy figure in red shirt, open in front, above which was disclosed a leathery neck and a wide-open mouth, was leading the crowd with its noisy clamor. Above

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his uncouth face was a heavy head of red, covered with a wide, ragged sombrero. This completed the costume of the midnight apparition. It was on horseback, waving a red banner. The motley crowd took up their leader's refrain, constantly repeating "Blood or Bread." This minor San Francisco installment from a would-be scene of the French Revolution was lit up by a number of flaming torches.

The above is a limited outline sketch of what was at the period a rather terrifying demonstration to our country nerves, previously unused at worst to anything more desperate than the business end of a Texas bull with his forehead near the ground. This was the object lesson.

Somewhere in this city, probably in an attic south of Market, the abstract philosopher of this occasion was equally active in his own way proving to his own entire satisfaction that "Progress and Poverty" are synonymous terms. Nor did this idea, forged on the only intellectual anvil of the "sandlot" era die of inanition. About eighteen years later it turned up very much alive in New York politics, nursed into a resemblance of a seeming final social panacea by the god-fathering of the once San Francisco bantling, on the part of a true priest as sincere as he was misguided. The San Francisco philosopher, by his aid, became candidate for Mayor in the Atlantic metropolis. Though not elected, he became formidable enough to defeat our now President of the United States, who was a candidate for the same office.

Henry George led the "one tax" labor union semi-socialistic party of that year. Abraham Hewitt headed the Democratic ticket, Theodore Roosevelt the Republican. Henry George died about three

weeks before the close of the canvas, and his son was induced to take his father's place. Hewitt was elected.

Emotional politics vs. sane economics is not all moonshine.

Now, how did it all come about? The birth of it is in the chronic unwillingness of our "professional" working classes to

collapse of the Comstock bubble, the fact of legal prohibition of the operation of the few remaining valuable placers by the agricultural interests of the Sacramento Valley, compelling the former to stop. So into the city came the laborer from the "busted" mines, his parapher nalia consisting of a pair of brawny arms,

face any transition period in our successive industrial or commercial epochs. The "Everybody flush" era was over. The working miner, with his habitual improvidence, was hit the hardest, and the first to feel the effect of radically altered economic conditions. The inevitable decline of the pìacer gulches, the

ble assets at the solid institutions of Montgomery and California streets, and of course something was wrong.

There were two visible points of attack from the "sandlot" horizon. One was the thrifty Chinese colony; the other was the railroad and the big land owners. pick and shovel. They were not valua

The first "must go," the other must be "cinched." The programme was simple, the details easily grasped.

Within two years from the time our well-earned repose was so rudely disturbed, the "Labor Party" had cost the city of San Francisco one hundred and fifty million dollars in exiled capital. At least one hundred and fifty millions more were put into our savings banks, because under our unique "constitution," that was the only place where ready money could escape double taxation. Three hundred millions removed from participation in the activities of the State of less than a million people was a weakening body blow in itself.

But this money, which should represent the savings of the people at large were in reality the accumulated wealth of a comparatively few. This vast sum, constantly increasing, was idle money -or if used at all, was sent elsewhere for investment. So San Francisco presented the spectacle of vast sums of money accumulated in her savings banks, if not driven totally awaywhile at the same time whole streets in the residence districts occupied by our mechanics and laborers, displayed the ominous sign: "For rent."

The direct and indirect loss to our State of the first five years succeeding our "sandlot" constitution, on the most conservative basis could not be less than half a billion dollars. Railroad construction in the main was absolutely estopped in the entire north and central part of the State. Agriculture remained stationary. Immigration ceased, manufacturing enterprises lagged. About fifteen more years of this and the "Midwinter Fair" was inaugurated. In the very opening address of that remarkable enterprise, accomplished in the face of monumental difficulties, its President, Mr. M. H. de Young, revealed in a single sentence, as with a magic lantern's flash, the unnatural incubus under which this magnificent giant of a commonwealth had been tied up, like Gulliver by the Lilliputians. "This," said Mr. de Young, waying his hand over the aggregation of exhibits, "this is done to prove that after

all we Californians need not despair.” There was no melodramatics in this attitude. It crystalized the thought of thousands of the best well wishers of the State. Nor did this unnatural palsy of our commonwealth relax until we all heard and understood the answering echo of Dewey's guns as it reverberated from the heart of the Sierras. Then we all felt and finally discerned the fact that our beloved State had once more come into her own. The slavish chain of the Lilliputians seemed burst at a bound. But we are getting slightly ahead of our story, as it were.

Perhaps the most suggestive feature of the whole strange page is the unmistakable effect our California era of depression sustains to national political history of the last twenty-five years, and to a certain degree as well on the world's finances. As the first ten years of our history constitutes one of the most sig nificant and inspiring epochs in the annals of international finance, so likewise was our sandlot era, with its fearfully and wonderfully made State constitution destined to affect national politics, conspicuously so in its financial aspect, only instead of creating a splendid wave of sound commercial activity, it helped powerfully to lenu wings to every craven and every moral coward the land over. It roused every cross road croaker till their aggregate howl seemed like a pack of wolves in winter, searching for prey. "Free silver" became the slogan under which the semi-anarchist ideas of unlimited greenbackism of the early seventies were revived with us. Our commonwealth, which scarcely knew of the existence of the "greenback," except by hearsay, and maintained the gold standard in all its domestic and foreign transactions up till the early eighties, politically fell into the hands of the silver doctrinaires of Nevada. It further belittled its very origin and history by developing a "Free Silver Party."

Of course as soon as California became a "free silver" State, the entire mountain region behind did likewise. So after a little while we became yoked to a "Blood to the Bridles" or free silver

combination, Colorado. Their most gentle mannered orator but enunciator of blood-curdling ideas, had at least the good sense to reserve his performances for home consumption. It was left for the "Sagebrush" State to furnish the international stage hero of this costly melodrama in high finance. The silvery splendor of the Comstock had utterly vanished-the seeming reflection of silver still lingering on the foliage of the brush was extremely unsatisfactory. But the philosopher of the situation was not missing, of course. Somewhere on the headwaters of the Truckee River, out of the reach of the dust on the Humboldt desert, the true alchemistry of "Human Destiny," and a fitting return to glorious high silver finance were being formulated. After being duly rehearsed, it was taken for final grand stand performance to the Brussels International Monetary Conference, 1892. Like the original Wagnerian dramas performed at Bayreuth it required aays to disclose the inherent grandeur of the glorious scheme. Rothschild and other amateurs in finance assembled from the financial centers created out of two thousand years of financial activity, were duly instructed by a set speech of three days' duration, delivered by our Sagebrush State orator, about what they did not know about international finance. But the particularly delightful aspect of the case is that not silvery Nevada, but golden California, got the full benefit of a three days' silver oration on the International platform.

In Western Kansas and Nebraska wheat had failed as silver failed in Colorado and on the Comstock. So there was "blood on the moon" along the Solomon, the Kaw and the Arkansas rivers. There on the wide open plains were neither Chinese nor big land owners. Uncle Sam seemed the only institution big enough to be punished for the drought. "The very fellow we are after for the low price of silver," said the miners. "The old rascal actually refuses to pay us a dollar in gold for fifty cents in silver any longer," and as misery loves company, they joined hands.

Now, only a few chefs were needed

to carry all these political yeast pans of dough safely across the Missouri, and onward to the Great Lake country. They were promptly forthcoming. Bryan, Mrs. Lease, and Sockless Jerry came up from the Southwest and converted the dough into a loaf of unleavened bread, indigestible to an the rest of the mature financial world. They insisted, however, that it was very good indeed. It was that or a "cross of gold." Fancy the horror of the alternative "a cross of gold." All there is necessary to complete this lofty structure of statesmanship, said their friend, Governor Altgeld, is "a reconstructed United States Judiciary.” (Sotto voce) "Of course when you (Bryan) become President, my legal attainments may be disclosed to you in their completeness." In the meanwhile, to show my good intentions and clear-cut convictions, "I will, by virtue of my office, liberate a few of our anarchists merely as a preliminary," and he kept his prom. ise.

So far these worthies labored under the impression that the gallery gods only

San Francisco's Priestly Demagogue.

were watching their performances, because these constituted the main portion of their immediate surroundings. But there were others. The audience of the main floor woke up at last and discovered that minstrels and clowns had assumed the attitude and manners of the heavy tragedians, and that they were in for the whole play. "Ah, ha!" said old Dame Europe in Threadneedle street, "we now understand that after all that grandfatherly instructor of yours from the Sierra Nevadas, who entertained us with a three days' address on silver moonshine really spoke for you. We somewhat labored under the impression he was sent over to amuse us. Very well, we lent you good dollars when in distress, considering you honest men. If you are going

to return us only fifty cents of that dollar, please pay up when you have a sovereign in sight." Over the sea came two billions in bonds. "Pay! pay!" and the panic of '93 was on. Simultaneously with this wave of emotional finance and its unspeakable wreckage, there have appeared a continuous series of strikes.

Like the movements referred to in the silver States and the wheat States, it is primarily based on a total misconception of what constitutes sane economic concepts of what can or cannot be done by a commonwealth or a community for its citizens.

Mr. Wright, the United States Commis. sioner of Labor, a statistician of unimpeachable worth, stated in tables dis

played at the Buffalo Exposition, that the strikes of the last twenty years have cost our laboring masses something over a half a billion dollars in wages alone. The indirect losses aggregate even higher. A thousand million dollars for the privilege of playing emotional city politics in twenty years. And what has been gained in return for this fearful price? In Europe the sum in question paid the war indemnity of France to Germany, the heaviest cash indemnity on record. Have our civic warriors aught to show but their more or less honorable scars? But the main question is, have we even learn. ed anything? Is our community like the average twenty-year-old lad, who, forsooth, must repeat his forbears' follies before he knows the first lesson of common sense? The twenty years emotional cycle is around once more. When at its height the last time it elected a demagogue preacher for Mayor-this time we start in with an honest musician.

The "opportunity" afforded San Francisco by the "Republic" is well nigh unparalleled on the continent, if not in the world. It is an imperious challenge to civic eminence. To be the London and the Athens of the Pacific shores is her real destiny. We are at the cross-roads once more. The old provincialism is a ragged remnant impossible to preserve. Shall we endeavor to stem destiny once more for twenty years, in the name of another emotional deluge because labeled class politics and race ostracism?