a large corporation, and has retired from business, one of our wealthy men. [Portrait: William P. Sayward.] Nothing better illustrates what I feel to-day, as the last of the charter members who met together at Smith's Hall, on Government Street, over Hall & Gospel's office, on the 28th April, 1871, than the following lines from my favorite poet, Thomas Moore: "Oft in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond memory brings the light Of other days around me. "When I remember all The friends so linked together I've seen around me fall, Like leaves in wintry weather. "I feel like one who treads alone Some banquet hall deserted; Whose lights are fled, whose garlands dead-- And all but he departed." I have applied this to my visit to Smith's Hall, of which I shall tell you. Since the death of my old friend, William P. Sayward, some months ago, I have reflected often on the fact that I was the last of that little band. The other night I woke up, and remained awake for some time; and my thoughts wandered to pioneer days, and from that to the gathering of pioneers this year, which, I understood, was to be a more extended gathering than usual. I thought I should like to be there for the sake of old times, but could not make up my mind to brave the disagreeable weather at this time of year. After considering the matter, I decided to write, if I did not go; and, further, I decided to pay a visit to Smith's Hall first. So next morning I called on Mr. Kinsman, who kindly showed me upstairs, and over the old place. I might well say, "the old place," for it looked old and deserted, like the banquet hall spoken of by Moore. With my mind's eye I pictured the scene of thirty-five years ago--I was at the hall early, being enthusiastic on the subject, and noted each well-known face as the guests came up the stairs and took their seats, until about forty had collected. There was Thomas Harris, who had been the first mayor of the city. He was very stout, and complained of the exertion in climbing up the stairs, which was passed off as a joke, of course. There was Major McDonell, a retired army officer; Robert H. Austen, a pioneer of San Francisco, whose uncle, Judge Austen (an early resident), had been a prominent member of the "vigilance committee" of San Francisco in the early fifties, when men were tried by that committee, condemned to death, and hanged, as I myself was a witness to on two occasions.