If I were to tell some of my experience, you would recognize California blood in me; I fancy the old, old story would sound familiar, no doubt.  I have the usual stock of reminiscences.  For instance:  I went to Esmeralda early.  I purchased largely in the “Wide West,” “Winnemucca,” and other fine claims, and was very wealthy.  I fared sumptuously on bread when flour was $200 a barrel and had beans for dinner every Sunday, when none but bloated aristocrats could afford such grandeur.  But I finished by feeding batteries in a quartz mill at $15 a week, and wishing I was a battery myself and had somebody to feed me.  My claims in Esmeralda are there yet.  I suppose I could be persuaded to sell.

I went to Humboldt District when it was new; I became largely interested in the “Alba Nueva” and other claims with gorgeous names, and was rich again—­in prospect.  I owned a vast mining property there.  I would not have sold out for less than $400,000 at that time.  But I will now.  Finally I walked home—­200 miles partly for exercise, and partly because stage fare was expensive.  Next I entered upon an affluent career in Virginia City, and by a judicious investment of labor and the capital of friends, became the owner of about all the worthless wild cat mines there were in that part of the country.  Assessments did the business for me there.  There were a hundred and seventeen assessments to one dividend, and the proportion of income to outlay was a little against me.  My financial barometer went down to 32 Fahrenheit, and the subscriber was frozen out.

I took up extensions on the main lead-extensions that reached to British America, in one direction, and to the Isthmus of Panama in the other—­and I verily believe I would have been a rich man if I had ever found those infernal extensions.  But I didn’t.  I ran tunnels till I tapped the Arctic Ocean, and I sunk shafts till I broke through the roof of perdition; but those extensions turned up missing every time.  I am willing to sell all that property and throw in the improvements.

Perhaps you remember that celebrated “North Ophir?” I bought that mine.  It was very rich in pure silver.  You could take it out in lumps as large as a filbert.  But when it was discovered that those lumps were melted half dollars, and hardly melted at that, a painful case of “salting” was apparent, and the undersigned adjourned to the poorhouse again.

I paid assessments on “Hale and Norcross” until they sold me out, and I had to take in washing for a living—­and the next month that infamous stock went up to $7,000 a foot.

I own millions and millions of feet of affluent silver leads in Nevada —­in fact the entire undercrust of that country nearly, and if Congress would move that State off my property so that I could get at it, I would be wealthy yet.  But no, there she squats—­and here am I. Failing health persuades me to sell.  If you know of any one desiring a permanent investment, I can furnish one that will have the virtue of being eternal.