I began
to
get
tired
of
staying
in
one
place
so
long.
There
was
no
longer
satisfying
variety
in
going
down
to
Carson
to
report
the
proceedings
of
the
legislature
once
a year,
and
horse-races
and
pumpkin-shows
once
in
three
months; (they had got
to
raising
pumpkins
and
potatoes
in
Washoe Valley,
and
of
course
one
of
the
first
achievements
of
the
legislature
was
to
institute
a ten-thousand-dollar Agricultural
Fair
to
show
off
forty
dollars'
worth
of
those
pumpkins
in—however,
the
territorial
legislature
was
usually spoken
of
as
the
"asylum"). I wanted
to
see
San Francisco. I wanted
to
go
somewhere. I wanted—I
did
not
know
what
I wanted. I had
the
"spring fever"
and
wanted a change, principally,
no
doubt. Besides, a
convention
had
framed
a
State
Constitution;
nine
men
out
of
every
ten
wanted
an
office; I
believed
that
these
gentlemen
would
"treat"
the
moneyless
and
the
irresponsible
among
the
population
into
adopting
the
constitution
and
thus
well-nigh
killing
the
country
(it
could
not
well
carry
such
a load
as
a
State
government,
since
it
had
nothing
to
tax
that
could
stand
a tax,
for
undeveloped
mines
could
not,
and
there
were
not
fifty
developed
ones
in
the
land,
there
was
but
little
realty
to
tax,
and
it
did
seem
as
if
nobody
was
ever
going
to
think
of
the
simple
salvation
of
inflicting
a
money
penalty
on
murder). I
believed
that
a
State
government
would
destroy
the
"flush times,"
and
I wanted
to
get
away. I
believed
that
the
mining stocks I had
on
hand
would
soon
be
worth
$100,000,
and
thought
if
they
reached
that
before
the
Constitution
was
adopted, I
would
sell
out
and
make
myself
secure
from
the
crash
the
change
of
government
was
going
to
bring. I
considered
$100,000
sufficient
to
go
home
with
decently,
though
it
was
but
a small amount
compared
to
what
I had been
expecting
to
return
with. I felt
rather
down-hearted
about
it,
but
I tried
to
comfort
myself
with
the
reflection
that
with
such
a
sum
I
could
not
fall
into
want.
About
this
time a schoolmate
of
mine
whom
I had
not
seen
since
boyhood, came
tramping
in
on
foot
from
Reese River, a
very
allegory
of
Poverty.
The
son
of
wealthy parents,
here
he
was,
in
a
strange
land, hungry, bootless,
mantled
in
an
ancient
horse-blanket,
roofed
with
a brimless hat,
and
so
generally
and
so
extravagantly
dilapidated
that
he
could
have
"taken
the
shine
out
of
the
Prodigal
Son
himself,"
as
he
pleasantly
remarked.
He
wanted
to
borrow
forty-six dollars—twenty-six
to
take
him
to
San Francisco,
and
twenty
for
something
else;
to
buy
some
soap with, maybe,
for
he
needed
it. I found I had
but
little
more
than
the
amount wanted,
in
my pocket;
so
I
stepped
in
and
borrowed
forty-six
dollars
of
a
banker
(on
twenty
days' time,
without
the
formality
of
a note),
and
gave
it
him,
rather
than
walk
half
a
block
to
the
office,
where
I had
some
specie
laid up.
If
anybody had
told
me
that
it
would
take
me
two
years
to
pay
back
that
forty-six
dollars
to
the
banker
(for I
did
not
expect
it
of
the
Prodigal,
and
was
not
disappointed), I
would
have
felt injured.
And
so
would
the
banker. I wanted a change. I wanted
variety
of
some
kind.
It
came. Mr. Goodman went
away
for
a
week
and
left
me
the
post
of
chief
editor.
It
destroyed
me.
The
first
day, I wrote my "leader"
in
the
forenoon.
The
second
day, I had
no
subject
and
put
it
off
till
the
afternoon.
The
third
day
I
put
it
off
till
evening,
and
then
copied
an
elaborate
editorial
out
of
the
"American Cyclopedia,"
that
steadfast
friend
of
the
editor,
all
over
this
land.
The
fourth
day
I "fooled around"
till
midnight,
and
then
fell
back
on
the
Cyclopedia again.
The
fifth
day
I cudgeled my
brain
till
midnight,
and
then
kept
the
press
waiting
while
I penned
some
bitter
personalities
on
six
different
people.
The
sixth
day
I labored
in
anguish
till
far
into
the
night
and
brought forth—nothing.
The
paper went
to
press
without
an
editorial.
The
seventh
day
I resigned.
On
the
eighth, Mr. Goodman
returned
and
found
six
duels
on
his
hands—my
personalities
had borne fruit. Nobody,
except
he
has tried it,
knows
what
it
is
to
be
an
editor.
It
is
easy
to
scribble
local rubbish,
with
the
facts
all
before
you;
it
is
easy
to
clip
selections
from
other
papers;
it
is
easy
to
string
out
a
correspondence
from
any
locality;
but
it
is
unspeakable hardship
to
write
editorials.
Subjects
are
the
trouble—the
dreary
lack
of
them, I mean.
Every
day,
it
is
drag, drag, drag—think,
and
worry
and
suffer—all
the
world
is
a
dull
blank,
and
yet
the
editorial
columns
must
be
filled.
Only
give
the
editor
a subject,
and
his
work
is
done—it
is
no
trouble
to
write
it
up;
but
fancy
how
you
would
feel
if
you
had
to
pump
your
brains
dry
every
day
in
the
week, fifty-two
weeks
in
the
year.
It
makes
one
low
spirited simply
to
think
of
it.
The
matter
that
each
editor
of
a
daily
paper
in
America
writes
in
the
course
of
a
year
would
fill
from
four
to
eight
bulky
volumes
like
this
book! Fancy
what
a
library
an
editor's
work
would
make,
after
twenty
or
thirty
years' service.
Yet
people
often
marvel
that
Dickens, Scott, Bulwer, Dumas, etc.,
have
been
able
to
produce
so
many
books.
If
these
authors had
wrought
as
voluminously
as
newspaper
editors
do,
the
result
would
be
something
to
marvel
at, indeed.
How
editors
can
continue
this
tremendous
labor,
this
exhausting
consumption
of
brain
fibre
(for
their
work
is
creative,
and
not
a
mere
mechanical laying-up
of
facts,
like
reporting),
day
after
day
and
year
after
year,
is
incomprehensible.
Preachers
take
two
months'
holiday
in
midsummer,
for
they
find
that
to
produce
two
sermons
a
week
is
wearing,
in
the
long
run.
In
truth
it
must
be
so,
and
is
so;
and
therefore,
how
an
editor
can
take
from
ten
to
twenty
texts
and
build
upon
them
from
ten
to
twenty
painstaking
editorials
a
week
and
keep
it
up
all
the
year
round,
is
farther
beyond
comprehension
than
ever.
Ever
since
I
survived
my
week
as
editor, I
have
found
at
least
one
pleasure
in
any
newspaper
that
comes
to
my hand;
it
is
in
admiring
the
long
columns
of
editorial,
and
wondering
to
myself
how
in
the
mischief
he
did
it! Mr. Goodman's
return
relieved
me
of
employment, unless I chose
to
become
a
reporter
again. I
could
not
do
that; I
could
not
serve
in
the
ranks
after
being
General
of
the
army.
So
I
thought
I
would
depart
and
go
abroad
into
the
world
somewhere.
Just
at
this
juncture, Dan, my associate
in
the
reportorial
department,
told
me, casually,
that
two
citizens
had been trying
to
persuade
him
to
go
with
them
to
New
York
and
aid
in
selling
a
rich
silver
mine
which
they
had
discovered
and
secured
in
a
new
mining
district
in
our
neighborhood.
He
said
they
offered
to
pay
his
expenses
and
give
him
one
third
of
the
proceeds
of
the
sale.
He
had
refused
to
go.
It
was
the
very
opportunity
I wanted. I
abused
him
for
keeping
so
quiet
about
it,
and
not
mentioning
it
sooner.
He
said
it
had
not
occurred
to
him
that
I
would
like
to
go,
and
so
he
had
recommended
them
to
apply
to
Marshall,
the
reporter
of
the
other
paper. I
asked
Dan
if
it
was
a good,
honest
mine,
and
no
swindle.
He
said
the
men had shown
him
nine
tons
of
the
rock,
which
they
had got
out
to
take
to
New
York,
and
he
could
cheerfully
say
that
he
had
seen
but
little
rock
in
Nevada
that
was
richer;
and
moreover,
he
said
that
they
had secured a
tract
of
valuable
timber
and
a mill-site,
near
the
mine. My
first
idea
was
to
kill Dan.
But
I
changed
my mind,
notwithstanding
I
was
so
angry,
for
I
thought
maybe
the
chance
was
not
yet
lost.
Dan
said
it
was
by
no
means
lost;
that
the
men
were
absent
at
the
mine
again,
and
would
not
be
in
Virginia
to
leave
for
the
East
for
some
ten
days;
that
they
had
requested
him
to
do
the
talking
to
Marshall,
and
he
had
promised
that
he
would
either
secure Marshall
or
somebody
else
for
them
by
the
time
they
got back;
he
would
now
say
nothing
to
anybody
till
they
returned,
and
then
fulfil
his
promise
by
furnishing
me
to
them.
It
was
splendid. I went
to
bed
all
on
fire
with
excitement;
for
nobody
had
yet
gone
East
to
sell
a
Nevada
silver
mine,
and
the
field
was
white
for
the
sickle. I felt
that
such
a
mine
as
the
one
described
by
Dan
would
bring
a princely
sum
in
New
York,
and
sell
without
delay
or
difficulty. I
could
not
sleep, my fancy
so
rioted
through
its
castles
in
the
air.
It
was
the
"blind lead"
come
again.
Next
day
I got away,
on
the
coach,
with
the
usual
eclat
attending
departures
of
old
citizens,—for
if
you
have
only
half
a
dozen
friends
out
there
they
will
make
noise
for
a
hundred
rather
than
let
you
seem
to
go
away
neglected
and
unregretted—and
Dan
promised
to
keep
strict
watch
for
the
men
that
had
the
mine
to
sell.
The
trip
was
signalized
but
by
one
little
incident,
and
that
occurred
just
as
we
were
about
to
start. A
very
seedy
looking
vagabond
passenger
got
out
of
the
stage
a
moment
to
wait
till
the
usual
ballast
of
silver
bricks
was
thrown in.
He
was
standing
on
the
pavement,
when
an
awkward express employee, carrying a
brick
weighing
a
hundred
pounds, stumbled
and
let
it
fall
on
the
bummer's foot.
He
instantly
dropped
on
the
ground
and
began
to
howl
in
the
most
heart-breaking way. A
sympathizing
crowd
gathered
around
and
were
going
to
pull
his
boot
off;
but
he
screamed
louder
than
ever
and
they
desisted;
then
he
fell
to
gasping,
and
between
the
gasps
ejaculated
"Brandy!
for
Heaven's sake, brandy!"
They
poured
half
a
pint
down
him,
and
it
wonderfully
restored
and
comforted
him.
Then
he
begged
the
people
to
assist
him
to
the
stage,
which
was
done.
The
express
people
urged
him
to
have
a doctor
at
their
expense,
but
he
declined,
and
said
that
if
he
only
had a
little
brandy
to
take
along
with
him,
to
soothe
his
paroxyms
of
pain
when
they
came on,
he
would
be
grateful
and
content.
He
was
quickly
supplied
with
two
bottles,
and
we
drove
off.
He
was
so
smiling
and
happy
after
that,
that
I
could
not
refrain
from
asking
him
how
he
could
possibly
be
so
comfortable
with
a crushed foot. "Well," said he, "I hadn't had a
drink
for
twelve
hours,
and
hadn't a
cent
to
my name. I
was
most
perishing—and so,
when
that
duffer
dropped
that
hundred-pounder
on
my foot, I
see
my chance. Got a cork leg,
you
know!"
and
he
pulled
up
his
pantaloons
and
proved
it.
He
was
as
drunk
as
a lord
all
day
long,
and
full
of
chucklings
over
his
timely
ingenuity.
One
drunken
man
necessarily reminds
one
of
another. I
once
heard
a gentleman
tell
about
an
incident
which
he
witnessed
in
a Californian bar- room.
He
entitled
it
"Ye
Modest
Man
Taketh a Drink."
It
was
nothing
but
a
bit
of
acting,
but
it
seemed
to
me
a perfect rendering,
and
worthy
of
Toodles himself.
The
modest
man, tolerably
far
gone
with
beer
and
other
matters,
enters
a
saloon
(twenty-five
cents
is
the
price
for
anything
and
everything,
and
specie
the
only
money
used)
and
lays
down
a
half
dollar;
calls
for
whiskey
and
drinks
it;
the
bar-keeper
makes
change
and
lays
the
quarter
in
a
wet
place
on
the
counter;
the
modest
man
fumbles
at
it
with
nerveless fingers,
but
it
slips
and
the
water
holds
it;
he
contemplates
it,
and
tries
again;
same
result;
observes
that
people
are
interested
in
what
he
is
at, blushes; fumbles
at
the
quarter
again—blushes—puts
his
forefinger carefully,
slowly
down,
to
make
sure
of
his
aim—pushes
the
coin
toward
the
bar-keeper,
and
says
with
a sigh: "Gimme a cigar!" Naturally,
another
gentleman
present
told
about
another
drunken
man.
He
said
he
reeled
toward
home
late
at
night;
made
a mistake
and
entered
the
wrong
gate;
thought
he
saw
a
dog
on
the
stoop;
and
it
was—an iron one.
He
stopped
and
considered;
wondered
if
it
was
a
dangerous
dog;
ventured
to
say
"Be (hic) begone!"
No
effect.
Then
he
approached warily,
and
adopted
conciliation; pursed
up
his
lips
and
tried
to
whistle,
but
failed;
still
approached, saying, "Poor dog!—doggy, doggy, doggy!—poor doggy-dog!" Got
up
on
the
stoop,
still
petting
with
fond
names;
till
master
of
the
advantages;
then
exclaimed, "Leave,
you
thief!"—planted a
vindictive
kick
in
his
ribs,
and
went head-over-heels overboard,
of
course. A pause; a sigh
or
two
of
pain,
and
then
a remark
in
a reflective voice: "Awful
solid
dog.
What
could
he
ben
eating? ('ic!) Rocks, p'raps.
Such
animals
is
dangerous.—' At's
what
I say—they're dangerous.
If
a man—('ic!)—if a
man
wants
to
feed a
dog
on
rocks,
let
him
feed
him
on
rocks; 'at's
all
right;
but
let
him
keep
him
at
home—not
have
him
layin' round promiscuous,
where
('ic!)
where
people's
liable
to
stumble
over
him
when
they
ain't
noticin'!"
It
was
not
without
regret
that
I
took
a
last
look
at
the
tiny
flag
(it
was
thirty-five feet
long
and
ten
feet wide)
fluttering
like
a lady's handkerchief
from
the
topmost peak
of
Mount
Davidson,
two
thousand
feet
above
Virginia's roofs,
and
felt
that
doubtless I
was
bidding
a
permanent
farewell
to
a
city
which
had
afforded
me
the
most
vigorous
enjoyment
of
life
I had
ever
experienced.
And
this
reminds
me
of
an
incident
which
the
dullest
memory
Virginia
could
boast
at
the
time
it
happened
must
vividly
recall,
at
times,
till
its
possessor dies.
Late
one
summer
afternoon
we
had a
rain
shower.
That
was
astonishing
enough,
in
itself,
to
set
the
whole
town
buzzing,
for
it
only
rains
(during a
week
or
two
weeks)
in
the
winter
in
Nevada,
and
even
then
not
enough
at
a time
to
make
it
worth
while
for
any
merchant
to
keep
umbrellas
for
sale.
But
the
rain
was
not
the
chief
wonder.
It
only
lasted
five
or
ten
minutes;
while
the
people
were
still
talking
about
it
all
the
heavens
gathered
to
themselves
a
dense
blackness
as
of
midnight.
All
the
vast
eastern
front
of
Mount
Davidson, over-
looking
the
city,
put
on
such
a
funereal
gloom
that
only
the
nearness
and
solidity
of
the
mountain
made
its
outlines
even
faintly
distinguishable
from
the
dead
blackness
of
the
heavens
they
rested against.
This
unaccustomed sight
turned
all
eyes
toward
the
mountain;
and
as
they
looked, a
little
tongue
of
rich
golden
flame
was
seen
waving
and
quivering
in
the
heart
of
the
midnight,
away
up
on
the
extreme
summit!
In
a
few
minutes
the
streets
were
packed
with
people, gazing
with
hardly
an
uttered
word,
at
the
one
brilliant
mote
in
the
brooding
world
of
darkness.
It
flicked
like
a candle-flame,
and
looked
no
larger;
but
with
such
a background
it
was
wonderfully
bright, small
as
it
was.
It
was
the
flag!—though
no
one
suspected
it
at
first,
it
seemed
so
like
a supernatural
visitor
of
some
kind—a
mysterious
messenger
of
good
tidings,
some
were
fain
to
believe.
It
was
the
nation's
emblem
transfigured
by
the
departing
rays
of
a
sun
that
was
entirely
palled
from
view;
and
on
no
other
object
did
the
glory
fall,
in
all
the
broad
panorama
of
mountain
ranges
and
deserts.
Not
even
upon
the
staff
of
the
flag—for that, a needle
in
the
distance
at
any
time,
was
now
untouched
by
the
light
and
undistinguishable
in
the
gloom.
For
a
whole
hour
the
weird
visitor
winked
and
burned
in
its
lofty solitude,
and
still
the
thousands
of
uplifted
eyes
watched
it
with
fascinated
interest.
How
the
people
were
wrought
up!
The
superstition
grew
apace
that
this
was
a
mystic
courier
come
with
great
news
from
the
war—the
poetry
of
the
idea
excusing
and
commending it—and
on
it
spread,
from
heart
to
heart,
from
lip
to
lip
and
from
street
to
street,
till
there
was
a
general
impulse
to
have
out
the
military
and
welcome
the
bright
waif
with
a
salvo
of
artillery!
And
all
that
time
one
sorely
tried man,
the
telegraph
operator
sworn
to
official
secrecy, had
to
lock
his
lips
and
chain
his
tongue
with
a silence
that
was
like
to
rend
them;
for
he,
and
he
only,
of
all
the
speculating multitude,
knew
the
great
things
this
sinking
sun
had
seen
that
day
in
the
east—Vicksburg fallen,
and
the
Union
arms
victorious
at
Gettysburg!
But
for
the
journalistic
monopoly
that
forbade
the
slightest revealment
of
eastern
news
till
a
day
after
its
publication
in
the
California
papers,
the
glorified
flag
on
Mount
Davidson
would
have
been saluted
and
re-saluted,
that
memorable
evening,
as
long
as
there
was
a
charge
of
powder
to
thunder
with;
the
city
would
have
been illuminated,
and
every
man
that
had
any
respect
for
himself
would
have
got drunk,—as
was
the
custom
of
the
country
on
all
occasions
of
public moment.
Even
at
this
distant
day
I cannot
think
of
this
needlessly
marred
supreme
opportunity
without
regret.
What
a time
we
might
have
had!