Professor Laments Miners' Sacrifice

1879S Morgan.

by Glenn Franco Simmons

My last post included author C.C. Goodwin’s prosaic and philosophical insights on the untimely death of Mr. Wright has had a sobering effect on the gentlemanly Comstock Club in Virginia City, Nev.

After Mr. Wright's wake, the professor spoke about the very real sacrifices of those who mined the silver that made many people rich — the value of which was eventually represented in U.S. coinage.

He lamented about the anonymous miners' sacrifice of health, and of the devastating price that miners' loved ones paid when a miner was injured or killed.

He felt the true value of the silver mined was in no way reflected in the wholesale and retail silver markets; essentially saying that miners were an inconvenient necessity for mine owners.

"Three days ago this piece of crumbling dust {Mr. Wright} was a brave soldier of peace,” the professor said. “I mean the words in their fullest sense. Just now our brothers in the East are fearful lest so much silver will be produced that it will become, because of its plentifulness, unfit to be a measure of values.

“They do not realize what it costs or they would change their minds.

“They do not know how the gnomes guard their treasures, or what defense Nature uprears around her jewels.

1879S Morgan Rev.

“They revile the stamp which the Government has placed upon the white dollar.

“Could they see deeper they would perceive other stamps still. There would be blood blotches and seams made by the trickling of the tears of widows and orphans, for before the dollar issues bright from the mint, it has to be sought for through perils which make unconscious heroes of those who prosecute the search.

“For nearly twenty years now, on this lode, tragedies like this have been going on. We hear it said: 'A man was killed to-day in the Ophir,' or 'a man was dashed to pieces last night in the Justice,' and we listen to it as merely the rehearsal of not unexpected news.

"Could a list of the men who have been killed in this lode be published, it would be an appalling showing. It would outnumber the slain of some great battle.

"Besides the deaths by violence, hundreds more, worn out by the heat and by the sudden changes of temperature between the deep mines and the outer air, have drooped and died.

Obverse of an 1857 Seated Liberty Half Dime.

"The effect is apparent upon our miners. Their bearing perplexes strangers who come here. They do not know that in the conquests of labor there are fields to be fought over which turn volunteers into veteran soldiers quite as rapidly as real battle fields.

"They know nothing about storming the depths; of breaking down the defences of the deep hills.

"They can not comprehend that the quiet men whom they meet here on the streets are in the habit of shaking hands with Death daily until they have learned to follow without emotion the path of duty, let it lead where it may, and to accept whatever may come as a matter of course.

"Such an one was this our friend, who fell at his post; fell in the strength of his manhood, and when his great heart was throbbing only in kindness to all the world.

"One moment he exulted in his splendid life, the next he was mangled and crushed beyond recovery.

"Still there was no repining, no spoken regrets. For years the possibility of such a fate as this had been before his eyes steadily; it brought much anguish to him, but no surprise.

Obverse of an 1857 Seated Liberty.

"He had lived a blameless life. As it drew near its close the vision of his mother was mercifully sent to him, and so in his second birth the same arms received him that cradled him when before he was as helpless as he is now.

"By the peace that is upon him, I believe those arms are around his soul to-night; I believe he would not be back among us if he could.

"We have a right on our own account to grieve that he is gone, but not on his. He filled on earth the full measure of an honest, honorable, brave and true life. That record went before him to Summer Land. I believe it is enough and that he needs neither tears nor regrets."

A few days more went by, but the old joy of the Club was no more.

(This is my last post with regard to “The Comstock Club,” authored by C.C. Goodwin — one of the most prosaic and philosophical writers who belonged to The Sagebrush School of Writers that were dominant mostly in Nevada. The rest of the book contains many a surprise — surprises I will not mention here because, to do so, would ruin it for those who read the book.)

Comstock Club Ends After Deaths

Silver Terrace Cemetery.

by Glenn Franco Simmons

The gentlemanly camaraderie formed at The Comstock Club was a grand notion but one that would fall apart in the end.

In this post, we find that Mr. Wright has suffered seriously injuries that ultimately led to his death. At his wake, Mr. Goodwin describes it with compassion and wisdom:

The undertaker came, the body was dressed for the grave and placed in a casket, and the Club took up their watch around it. Now and then a subdued word was spoken, but they were very few. The hearts of the watchers were all full, and conversation seemed out of place. Wright was one of the most manly of men, and the hearts of the friends were very sore.

The evening wore on until ten o'clock came, when there fell a gentle knock on the outer door. The door was opened and by the moonlight four men could be seen outside. … They were the famous quartette of Cornish miners and were at once invited in. They filed softly into the room — the Club rising as they entered — and circled around the casket. After a long look upon the face of the sleeper they stood up and sang a Cornish lament. Their voices were simply glorious. The words, simple but most pathetic, were set to a plaintive air, the refrain of each stanza ending in some minor notes, which gave the impression that tears of pity, as they were falling, had been caught and converted into music. The effect was profound.

The stoicism of the Club was completely broken down by it. When the lament ceased all were weeping, while warm-hearted and impetuous Corrigan was sobbing like a grieved child. The quartette waited a moment and then sang a Cornish farewell, the music of which, though mostly very sad, had, here and there, a bar or two such as might be sung around the cradle of Hope, leaving a thought that there might be a victory even over death, and which made the hymn ring half like the Miserere and half like a benediction.

When this was finished and the quartette had waited a moment more, with their magnificent voices at full volume, they sang again — a requiem, which was almost a triumph song, beginning:

Whatever burdens may be sent

For mortals here to bear,

It matters not while faith survives

And God still answers prayer.

I will not falter, though my path

Leads down unto the grave;

The brave man will accept his fate,

And God accepts the brave.

Then with a gentle "Good noight, lads," they were gone. It was still in the room again until Corrigan said: "I hope Wright heard that singin'; the last song in particular."

Virginia City's Silver Terrace Cemetery. © Glenn Franco Simmons.

"Who knows?" said Ashley. "It was all silence here; those men came and filled the place with music. Who knows that it will not, in swelling waves, roll on until it breaks upon the upper shore?"

"Who knows," said Harding, "that he did not hear it sung first and have it sent this way to comfort us? I thought of that when the music was around us, and I fancied that some of the tones were like those that fell from Wright's lips, when, in extenuation of Miller's fault, he was reminding us that it was the intent that measured the wrong, and that Miller never intended any wrong. Music is born above and comes down; its native place is not here."

"He does not care for music," said the Colonel. "See how softly he sleeps. All the weariness that so oppressed him has passed away. The hush of eternity is upon him, and after his hard life that is sweeter than all else could be."

"Oh, cease, Colonel," said Brewster. "Out of this darkened chamber how can we speak as by authority of what is beyond. As well might the mole in his hole attempt to tell of the eagle's flight. "We only know that God rules. We watched while the great transition came to our friend. One moment in the old voice he was conversing with us; the next that voice was gone, but we do not believe that it is lost. As we were saying of the telephone, when we speak those only a few feet away hear nothing. The words die upon the air, and we explain to ourselves that they are no more. But thirty miles away, up on the side of the Sierras, an ear is listening, and every tone and syllable is distinct to that ear. Who knows what connections can be made with those other heights where Peace rules with Love?

"Our friend whose dust lies here was not called from nothing simply to buffet through some years of toil and then to return to nothing through the pitiless gates of Death. To believe such a thing would be to impeach the love, the mercy and the wisdom of God. Wright is safe somewhere and happier than he was with us. I should not wonder if Harding's theory were true, and that it was to comfort us that he impelled those singers to come here."

"Brewster," said Alex, "your balance is disturbed to-night. You say 'from out our darkened chamber we cannot see the light,' and then go on to assert that Wright is happier than when here. You do not know; you hope so, that is all. So do I, and by the calm that has pressed its signet on his lips, I am willing to believe that all that was of him is as much at rest as is his throbless heart, and that the mystery which so perplexes us — this something which one moment greets us with smiles and loving words, but which a moment later is frozen into everlasting silence — is all clear to him now. I hope so, else the worlds were made in vain, and the sun in heaven, and all the stars whose white fires fill the night, are worthy of as little reverence as a sage brush flame; and it was but a cruel plan which permitted men to have life, to kindle in their brains glorious longings and in their hearts to awaken affections more dear than life itself."

Then Harding, as if to himself repeated: "It matters not while Faith survives, and God still answers prayer."

"This is as it seems to us, straining our dull eyes out upon the profound beyond our petty horizon (, the Colonel said. “} But who knows? We can trace the thread of this life as it was until it passed beyond the range of our visions, but who of us knows whether it was all unwound or whether in the 'beyond' it became a golden chain so strong that even Death can not break it, and thrilled with harmonies which could never vibrate on this frail thread that broke to-day?"

Anti-Chinese Sentiment From 1800s

This image shows a caricature of a Chinese worker wearing a queue an 1899 editorial cartoon titled "The Yellow Terror In All His Glory." It shows that the anti-Chinese sentiment became more virulent as the American Empire matured. Wikipedia.

(Editor's note: This post will expose the discrimination the Chinese faced in the United States in the era of The Comstock Lode. It's a prejudice that was left to linger and that would metastasize into a spiritual malignancy that nefariously infected every strata of American society, including its religious, educational, political and legal institutions, in addition to newspapers. At the end is a comment that shows that maybe not all the gentlemen agreed with the prejudice against the Chinese.)

by Glenn Franco Simmons

In this post, we join the gentlemen of The Comstock Club, written by C.C. Cummings, in Virginia City, Nev., discussing what Goodwin said was "the Chinese question {that} came up for consideration. C.C. Goodwin writes:

Strong took up this latter theme and said: "The men of the Eastern States think that we of the West are a cruel, half-barbarous race, because we look with distrust upon the swelling hosts of Mongolians that are swarming like locusts upon this coast.

"They say: 'Our land has ever been open to the oppressed, no matter in what guise they come. The men of the West are the first to stretch bars across the Golden Gate to keep out a people. And this people are peaceable and industrious; all they petition for is to come in and work. Still, there is a cry which swells into passionate invective against them. It must be the cry of barbarism and ignorance. It surely fairly reeks with injustice and cruelty and sets aside a fundamental principle of our Government which dedicates our land to freedom and opens all its gates to honest endeavor.'

"Those people will not stop to think that we came here from among themselves. We were no more ignorant, we were no worse than they when we came away. We have had better wages and better food since our coming than the ordinary men of the East obtain. Almost all of us have dreamed of homes, of wives and children that are men's right to possess, but which are not for us; and though they of the East do not know it, this experience has softened, not hardened our hearts, toward the weak and the oppressed. If they of the East would reflect they would have to conclude that it is not avarice that moves us; that there must be a less ungenerous and deeper reason.

"Our only comfort is, that, by and by, maybe while some of us still live, those men and women who now upbraid us, will, with their souls on their knees, ask pardon for so misjudging us. "We quarantine ships when a contagion is raging among her crew; we frame protective laws to hold the price of labor up to living American rates; New England approves these precautions, but when we ask to have the same rules, in another form, enforced upon our coast, her people and her statesmen, in scorn and wrath, declare that we are monsters.

"{...} There are one hundred thousand {Chinese} people in this State and California. We will suppose that they save only thirty cents each per day. That means, for all, nine hundred thousand dollars per month, or more than ten million dollars per annum that they send away. This is the drain which two States with less than one million inhabitants are annually subjected to. How long would Massachusetts bear a similar drain, before through all her length and breadth, her cities would blaze with riots, all her air grow black with murder? Ireland, with six times as many people, and with the richest of soils, on half that tax, has become so poor that around her is drawn the pity of the world.

"'But,' say the Eastern people, 'you must receive them, Christianize them, and after awhile they will assimilate with you.'

"Waiving the degradation to us, which that implies, they propose an impossibility. They might just as well go down to where the Atlantic beats against the shore, and shout across the waste to the Gulf stream, commanding it to assimilate with the 'common waters' of the sea. Not more mysterious is the law that holds that river of the deep within its liquid banks, than is the instinct which prevents the Chinaman from shaking off his second nature and becoming an American. He looks back through the halo of four thousand years, sees that without change, the nation of his forefathers has existed, and with him all other existing nations except Japan and India and Persia, are parvenues. "For thousands of years, he and his fathers before him, have been waging a hand-to-hand conflict with Want. He has stripped and disciplined himself until he is superior to all hardships except famine, and that he holds at bay longer than any other living creature could.

"A defiant 'Columbia' in an 1871 Thomas Nast cartoon of Harper's Review, shown protecting a defenseless Chinese man from an angry Irish lynch mob that has just burned down an orphanage. (*See bottom of post for more of an explanation.)

"Through this training process from their forms everything has disappeared except a capacity to work; in their brains every attribute has died except the selfish ones; in their hearts nearly all generous emotions have been starved to death. The faces of the men have given up their beards, the women have surrendered their breasts and the ability to blush has faded from their faces.

"Like all animals of fixed colors they change neither in habits nor disposition. In four thousand years they have changed no more than have the wolves that make their lairs in the foothills of the Ural mountains, except that they have learned to economize until they can even live upon half the air which the white man requires to exist in. They have trained their stomachs until they are no longer the stomachs of men; but such as are possessed by beasts of prey; they thrive on food from which the Caucasian turns with loathing, and on this dreadful fare work for sixteen hours out of the twenty-four. "The moral sentiments starved to death in their souls centuries ago. They hold woman as but an article of merchandise and delight to profit by her shame.

"Other foreigners come to America to share the fortunes of Americans. Even the poor Italian, with organ and monkey, dreams while turning his organ's crank, that this year or next, or sometime, he will be able to procure a little home, have a garden of his own, and that his children will grow up — sanctified by citizenship — defenders of our flag.

"But the Chinaman comes with no purpose except for plunder; the sole intention is to get from the land all that is possible, with the design of carrying it or sending it back to native land. The robbery is none the less direct and effective for being carried on with a non-combatant smile instead of by force.

"It is such a race as this that we are asked to welcome and compete with, and when we explain that the food we each require — we, without wife or child to share with — costs more in the market daily than these creatures are willing to work for and board themselves; the question, with a lofty disdain, is asked: 'Are you afraid to compete with a Chinaman?'

Chinese workers on the Transcontinental
Railroad. Wikipedia. Public domain.

"It is an unworthy question, born of ignorance and a false sentimentality; for no mortal can overcome the impossible.

"In the cities these creatures fill the places of domestics and absorb all the simpler trades. The natural results follow. Girls and boys grow up without ever being disciplined to labor. But girls and boys must have food and clothes. If their parents can not clothe and feed them other people must. If poor girls with heads and hands untrained have nothing but youth and beauty to offer for food, when hungry enough they will barter both for bread.

"The vices and diseases which the Chinese have already scattered broadcast over the west, are maturing in a harvest of measureless and indescribable suffering.

"The Chinese add no defense to the State. They have no patriotism except for native land; they are all children of degraded mothers, and as soldiers are worthless.

"Moreover it is not a question of sharing our country with them; it is simply a question of whether we should surrender it to them or not. When the western nations thoroughly understand the Chinese they will realize that with their numbers, their imitative faculties, their capacity to live and to work on food which no white man can eat, with their appalling thrift and absence of moral faculties, they are, to-day, the terror of the earth.

"The nations forced China to open her gates to them. It was one of the saddest mistakes of civilization.

"To ask that their further coming be stopped, is simply making a plea for the future generations of Americans, a prayer for the preservation of our Republic. It springs from man's primal right of self-preservation, and when we are told that we should share our country and its blessings with the Chinese, the first answer is that they possess already one-tenth of the habitable globe; their empire has everything within it to support a nation; they have, besides, the hoarded wealth of a hundred generations, and if these were not enough, there are still left illimitable acres of savage lands. Let them go occupy and subdue them.

"The civilization of China had been as perfect as it now is for two thousand years when our forefathers were still barbarians. While our race has been subduing itself and at the same time learning the lessons which lead up to submission to order and to law; while, moreover, it has been bringing under the ægis of freedom a savage continent, the Mongolian has remained stationary. To assert that we should now turn over this inheritance (of which we are but the trustees for the future), or any part of it, to 'the little brown men,' is to forget that a nation's first duty is like a father's, who, by instinct, watches over his own child with more solicitude than over the child of a stranger, and who, above all things, will not place his child under the influence of anything that will at once contaminate and despoil him.

"Finally, by excluding these people no principle of our Government is set aside, and no vital practice which has grown up under our form of government. Ours is a land of perfect freedom, but we arrest robbers and close our doors to lewd women. While these precautions are right and necessary it is necessary and right to turn back from our shores the sinister hosts of the Orient."

With this the whole Club except Brewster heartily agreed.

Brewster merely said: "Maybe you are right, but your argument ignores the saving grace of Christianity, and maybe conflicts with God's plans."

Then the good-nights were said.

---

That one sentence uttered by Mr. Brewster shows that C.C. Goodwin was aware of the contradiction for Christians to be prejudiced against people from China and yet believe that Christ came to serve all humanity, which He did.

It just goes to show that prevailing public opinion is not always an indicator of what is moral.

Because this is a series about the book titled "The Comstock Club" by C.C. Goodwin, it is not appropriate here to go into the brutal history of repression against Chinese and other Asian immigrants. It is worth noting, however, that this ungodly prejudice resulted in murders, rapes, beatings, loss of jobs, and so much more. It is a shameful epoch in American history and one we should not repeat.

(*The billboard behind is full of inflammatory anti-Chinese broadsheets," according to Wikipedia. "Columbia is the personification of the United States. It was also a historical name used to describe the Americas and the New World. It has given rise to the names of many persons, places, objects, institutions and companies; for example: Columbia University, the District of Columbia (the national capital of the United States), and the ship Columbia Rediviva, which would give its name to the Columbia River." The cartoon illustrates anti-Chinese prejudice, but also shows that fundamental American values of fairness should protect everyone. Wikipedia. Public domain.)

Mining Likened To Stock Wagers

Although this isn't The Comstock Club, the structure is what the club's members
would have seen on C street in Virginia City. Photo courtesy of the University of Nevada, Reno. C Street is Virginia City's main street.

by Glenn Franco Simmons

In today's post, The Comstock Club's gentlemen are considering whether or not to view mining as an honest industry or one filled with the skullduggery that surrounded them, which included stocks and an overabundance of lawyers and lawsuits.

"{Chance} is the corner-stone on which every fortune on the coast has been builded," Mr. Miller noted. "I mean every fortune in mining."

"That is so," Carlin agreed. "Mining is simply a grand lottery and is about as much of a game of chance as poker or faro."

"Oh, no, Carlin," Strong interjected. "You have picked up the idea that is popular, but there is nothing to it. I am not referring to mining on paper, that mining which is done on Pine and California streets {stocks}. That is not only gambling, but it is, nine times out of ten, pure stealing.

"But what I mean is where a man, or a few men, from the unsightly rock, by honest labor, wrest something, which all men, barbarous and civilized alike, hold as precious; something which was not before, but which when found, the whole world accepts as a measure of values, and the production of which makes an addition to the world's accumulated wealth, and not only injures none, but quickens the arteries of trade everywhere; that is not gambling.

"Of course there are mistakes, of course worlds of unnecessary work have been performed, of course hopes have been blasted and hearts broken through the business, but in this world men have to pay for their educations," Mr. Carlin continued. "Twenty years ago there was not a man in America who could work Comstock ores up to seventy-five per cent. of their money value; only a scholarly few knew anything about the formations in which ore veins are liable to be found; processes to work ores and economical methods to open and work mines had to be invented; so far as the West was concerned the business of mining and reducing ores had to be created. The results do not justify any man in calling mining a lottery."

Mr. Carlin further emphasized his view of the mining industry, saying:

"In my judgment, it is the most legitimate business in the world; the only one in which there can be no overproduction, and the one which, above all others, advances every other industry of the country.

"When the steam engine was first invented steam boilers blew up every day. This was no argument against the engine, but was a notice to men to build better boilers. For the same reason the sixty-pound steel rail has been substituted for the old wooden rail with an iron strap on top on railways, and the sixteen ton Pullman car for the old rattle trap that the slightest collision would smash. The Westinghouse air brake and the Miller platform are part of the same education. "By and by men will learn to know the rocks, and when their marks and signs are reduced to a perfect alphabet the crude work of mining as carried on now will take on the dignity of a science, and mining will become what it deserves to be, the most honored of industries."

(Editor's note: Excerpts from "The Comstock Club" are presented in original format, unless otherwise noted by ellipses (...) or brackets ({}).)

C.C. Goodwin Forgotten By Some

C.C. Goodwin. Courtesy: Washoe Courts.

(Editor's note: For a few posts, starting with this one, I'll diverge from my review of C.C. Goodwin's "The Comstock Club." This post is a feature on Goodwin.)

by Glenn Franco Simmons

With the exception of "The War Prayer" by Mark Twain, my favorite writing of the Sagebrush School of writers is Charles C. Goodwin's "The Comstock Club" published in 1891.

At least, so far, among many writers I've read.

I find his portrayal of discussions among the men who established the fictional Comstock Club in Virginia City to be among the best prose to have come out of the Sagebrush School.

The Sagebrush School of Writers is a distinct American literary epoch composed mainly of Nevada-based writers. Until 2009, it wasn't given much thought by many in Nevada; that's when the Nevada Writers' Hall of Fame recognized the Sagebrush School. The Hall of Fame was established in 1988.

"The Sagebrush School was the literary movement written primarily by men of Nevada," according to Wikipedia's page on the Sagebrush School. "The sagebrush shrub is prevalent in the state. It was a broad-based movement and included various literary genres such as drama, essays, fiction, history, humor, journalism, memoirs, and poetry.

"The name Sagebrush School was coined by Ella Sterling Mighels, who stated: 'Sagebrush school? Why not? Nothing in all our Western literature so distinctly savors of the soil as the characteristic books written by the men of Nevada and that interior part of the State where the sagebrush grows.'"

"The roots of the movement were in the American Old West," the Wikipedia entry continues. "The Sagebrush School was the main contributor to American literature from Nevada's mining frontier during the period of 1859 to 1914. There were several characteristics of this movement that distinguished it from others, such as literary talent. These authors were known to be intelligent and accomplished writers."

The Sagebrush School's multifaceted styles are what distinguish the school from other American literary styles. The Sagebrush School's styles represent some of the richest veins of American prose ever compiled. Sadly, with the exception of a few writers, the literary school is not given the accolades it deserves, in my opinion. It is particularly frustrating because these writers collectively tower over most modern and contemporary American writers — again, my personal opinion as a voracious reader.

"The style included hoaxes, wit, audacity, or an irreverent attitude," Wikipedia notes. "The inspiration for the movement began with Joseph T. Goodman of the Virginia City, Nevada Territory's 'Territorial Enterprise' newspaper. The most notable of the Sagebrush School writers, and a Territorial Enterprise journalist, was Mark Twain. In 2009, the Sagebrush School was inducted into the Nevada Writers Hall of Fame."

I would say the Sagebrush School represents far more than hoaxes, wit, audacity or an irreverent attitude. Just read C.C. Goodwin's "The Comstock Club" to gain an appreciation for his prose in which the gentlemen of the club discuss many ideas, often waxing poetic and philosophical. That book alone is worthy of a university course for its sheer brilliance.

One really has to wonder why it took so long for the Sagebrush School to be recognized by modern-era Nevada writers. That is not to say the Sagebrush School has been totally ignored. I'm just surprised more hasn't been written about all the writers within that genre.

Furthermore, in none of my university journalism classes did any teacher ever mention The Sagebrush School. That seems odd, given the influence that these Nevada writers had — not only on American literature, but American society.

Some of the more popular writers are celebrated, as noted by the University of Nevada, Reno.

Mark Twain. Courtesy: Wikipedia.

"Sagebrush writers Mark Twain, Dan De Quillle and Alfred Doten have been previously inducted into the Nevada Writers Hall of Fame," UNR states. "2009 celebrates the 150th anniversary of The Comstock Lode and a revival of interest in the Sagebrush School of writers.

"In recognition of the significant contributions of the authors, Samuel Post Davis, Joseph Thompson Goodman, Rollin Mallory Daggett, Charles Carroll Goodwin, James W. Gally, Fred H. Hart, Arthur McEwen, Henry Rust Mighels, Denis E. McCarthy, James Townsend, Thomas Fitch, and the many other writers whose work has yet to be excavated from the archives, the Sagebrush School has been selected to be inducted into the Nevada Writers Hall of Fame. They were an extraordinary cast of characters who created a distinctive early voice in our national literature — with lasting (if hitherto unacknowledged) influence."

So it took a historic milestone of 150 years to prompt a recognition. While I realize the Hall of Fame wasn't conceived until 1988, it seems UNR or some other institution could have done more to recognize the Sagebrush School in 50, 75, 100 or 125 years.

Furthermore, with UNR and all the students, professors and graduate students, why haven't the archives been thoroughly searched to include any writers not yet listed?

A book on the Sagebrush School of Writers was published in 2006 by the University of Missouri. UNR lists a book published by UNR in 2008 titled "Literary Nevada : writings from the Silver State." That is good news, and I purchased an inexpensive used book from Barnes & Noble for a little more than $3, although shipping was almost twice that.

In a summary of the 831-page book (plus 24 unnumbered pages of plates), UNR states, "'Literary Nevada' is the first comprehensive literary anthology of Nevada. It contains over 200 selections ranging from traditional Native American tales, explorers' and emigrants' accounts, and writing from the Comstock Lode and other mining boomtowns, as well as compelling fiction, poetry, and essays from throughout the state's history."

While it is a commendable effort, why is this book the "first comprehensive literary anthology of Nevada" — especially when the state has an excellent university in the very region where the Sagebrush School of writers flourished? It boggles the mind.

"There is work by well-known Nevada writers such as Sarah Winnemucca, Mark Twain, and Robert Laxalt, by established and emerging writers from all parts of the state, and by some nonresident authors whose work illuminates important facets of the Nevada experience," the UNR book summary continues. "The book includes cowboy poetry, travel writing, accounts of nuclear Nevada, narratives about rural life and urban life in Las Vegas and Reno, poetry and fiction from the state's best contemporary writers, and accounts of the special beauty of wild Nevada's mountains and deserts. Editor Cheryll Glotfelty provides insightful introductions to each section and author. The book also includes a photo gallery of selected Nevada writers and a generous list of suggested further readings."

Not mentioned in the summary is Goodwin. {Note: The book arrived and I still haven't found mention of C.C. Goodwin, but I will not that if I do find him mentioned.} To me, he was a better writer than Twain, although he wrote few books (I have only found three; if you know of more, please leave the title or titles in a comment). "The Comstock Club" is far superior to anything Twain wrote about The Comstock Lode, in my personal opinion, and it's better than many of Twain's books I've read — and I've read a lot of Mark Twain, with my favorite being not a novel but "The War Prayer."

So, who was Goodwin?

"Charles C. Goodwin was born in the Genesee Valley, N.Y., a few miles from Rochester," according to the Washoe Courts' website that features excellent and thorough articles on former Washoe judges. "He received an academic education, and became a wonderfully proficient mathematician. He had most of the English classics at his tongue's end when a boy, but could never surmount the barriers which lay between him and the dead languages.

"In 1852 he came to California and studied law under his brother, Jesse Goodwin, in Marysville, where he afterward became teacher in an academy. He practiced law and taught school until 1861, when he came to Nevada and built a quartz mill a few miles below Dayton. Goodwin invested a small fortune into the mill's construction. When the mill was nearly completed the owner announced a 'warming' {akin to a grand opening in the modern era}, and was making preparations to celebrate the event ... when a freshet {flash flood} swept it away."

Within minutes, his mill that represented his significant investment was gone, but that wasn't the worst part of this natural disaster.

"At the same time six of his men were drowned, one of them leaving an orphan boy to the cruel charity of the world," according to the Washoe Courts' biography. "Goodwin adopted the boy, who held the position of lieutenant in the Regular Army. His kind care and providence for the future of that child speaks of a generous, loyal nature, true and unflinching in its instincts, louder and with a more certain sound than would a eulogy.

"Selling the dismantled machinery of the mill. he paid off such of his men as were left. With a few hundred dollars in his pockets, Goodwin put up an arastra at Dayton."

"An arrastra (or arastra) is a primitive mill for grinding and pulverizing (typically) gold or silver ore," notes the Wikipedia page dedicated to arrastra. "The simplest form of the arrastra is two or more flat-bottomed drag stones placed in a circular pit paved with flat stones, and connected to a center post by a long arm. With a horse, mule or human providing power at the other end of the arm, the stones were dragged slowly around in a circle, crushing the ore. Some arrastras were powered by a water wheel; a few were powered by steam or gasoline engines, and even electricity."

In his ranching and mining ventures, it has been reported that his Achilles heel was debt in the form of compounded interest-bearing notes.

"His bad luck seemed to follow him like a shadow," the Washoe Courts' website notes.

Despite such misfortune, Goodwin staked out a ranch in Washoe County. However, even that venture resulted in a bit of bad luck.

"A lawsuit 20 miles away cut off the water supply with an injunction, and he left the ranch a howling wilderness," states the Washoe Courts' website. "Shortly afterward he was elected District Judge of Washoe County, and edited a newspaper. ...

Territorial Enterprise building in Virginia City, Nev. Courtesy University of Nevada, Reno.

"He next located a mine in Eureka, and just as his friends were expecting to see him blossom into a millionaire, the mine gave out and left him in the lurch again. Another mine opened in Nye County treated him with the same lack of devotion to his interests."

Probably more stunned by even more misfortune, Goodwin "returned to the newspaper business, where he really belonged," the Washoe Courts' website notes.

"For six years he ran The Territorial Enterprise, for a while as editor-in-chief and a portion of the time in connection with Congressman Rollin M. Daggett," the Washoe Courts' website recounts. "The judge edited the paper with a vigor that made its influence felt in Nevada, and it was recognized as a journal controlled by a man of brains and culture. While he was editor The Enterprise had nothing but gall and wormwood for the unreconstructed Bourbons. In 1880 he left that paper to accept a position as editor-in-chief of the Salt Lake Tribune.

"In private life Goodwin is a conversationalist such as one seldom meets, and his fund of quaint humor, ready repartee and good stories, seemed inexhaustible. His home was always open to his friends, and his purse at the mercy of every old tramp, dead-beat and imposter who called upon him for assistance, as he could no more resist an appeal for charity than he could change the attributes of his nature."

Goodwin's character and talent were widely respected. Carson Appeal's editor and publisher Henry Rust Mighels paid tribute to Goodwin in the Nov. 12, 1878 edition:

Henry Rust Mighels. Property of Special Collections Library, University of Nevada, Reno. via Nevada Writers Hall of Fame Pinterest page.

"In the history of Nevada journalism no such brilliant and effective assaults were ever made by any newspaper upon the enemy's line as Goodwin has been making," according to the Washoe Courts' website. "His splendid services should be most generously remembered; and he has, while making an enviable reputation for himself, placed The Territorial Enterprise in the front rank of live and powerful political newspapers.

"The people of the state have a right to be proud of their leading daily print, as his brethren of the pen-and-scissors have a right to glory in the achievements of their overworked but unflinching and faithful brother. The Appeal gives him all hail!"

Having worked in radio, web and print journalism for 33 years, I can tell you that praise from a journalist from another publication is rare.

Later in life, Goodwin would immortalize himself in the annals of Western Frontier literature with his books. "The Comstock Club" may have been his best novel and features far more literary brilliance than any of Mark Twain's literary endeavors — with the exception of Twain's "The War Prayer." Goodwin also wrote "As I Remember Them" and "The Wedge of Gold," both of which can be found on Project Gutenberg and "The Wayback Machine" (Archive.org), respectively.

(Editor's note: The Washoe Courts' biography of C.C. Goodwin had grammatical errors in it that have been corrected, as well as a different style than AP Style, and I changed the present tense to the past tense. Changes include capitalization changes, grammatical corrections, spelling corrections, etc. The Wikipedia information quoted has also had slight edits for clarity. Thank you to Washoe Courts and Wikipedia for providing such historically significant information that should not be forgotten. Disclosure: I subscribe to The Nevada Appeal. I do not accept and have not received any monetary or other incentives to write any articles on this blog.)

'Artist's' Mastery Discussed

Idaho lava fields. Stephen Conn. CC BY-NC 2.0.

by Glenn Franco Simmons

The Comstock Club gentlemen were a well-traveled group, with extensive knowledge of the Western and Northewestern United States that added to their knowledge about the East Coast and the Northeast.

In this post, Mr. Strong tells Mr. Ashley that in any discussion about the Columbia River, one must follow it farther north, to the Idaho lava beds.

The discussion meanders to Niagara Falls and waxes poetic regarding the immensity of creation and the presence of God in His creations.

"The Columbia is very grand, but you must follow it up to its chief tributary if you would find perfect glory —  follow it into the very desert. You have heard of the lava beds of Idaho. They were once a river of molten fire from 300 feet to 900 feet in depth, which burned its way through the desert for hundreds of miles.

"To the east of the source of this lava flow, the Snake River bursts out of the hills, becoming almost at once a sovereign river, and flowing at first south-westerly, and then bending westerly, cuts its way through this lava bed, and, continuing its way with many bends, finally, far to the north merges with the Columbia.

"On this river are several falls.

"First, the American Falls, are very beautiful. Sixty miles below are the Twin Falls, where the river, divided into two nearly equal parts, falls one hundred and eighty feet. They are magnificent.

"Three miles below are the Shoshone Falls, and a few miles lower down the Salmon Falls. It was of the Shoshone Falls that I began to speak.

"They are real rivals of Niagara. Never anywhere else was there such a scene; never anywhere else was so beautiful a picture hung in so rude a frame; never anywhere else on a background so forbidding and weird were so many glories clustered.

"Around and beyond there is nothing but the desert, sere, silent, lifeless, as though Desolation had builded there everlasting thrones to Sorrow and Despair.

"Away back in remote ages, over the withered breast of the desert, a river of fire one hundred miles wide and four hundred miles long, was turned. As the fiery mass cooled, its red waves became transfixed and turned black, giving to the double desert an indescribably blasted and forbidding face.

"But while this river of fire was in flow, a river of water was fighting its way across it, or has since made the war and forged out for itself a channel through the mass. This channel looks like the grave of a volcano that has been robbed of its dead.

American Falls & Bridal Veil. Robert F. Tobler. CCBY-SA4.0.

"But right between its crumbling and repellant walls a transfiguration appears. And such a picture! A river as lordly as the Hudson or the Ohio, springing from the distant snow-crested Tetons, with waters transparent as glass, but green as emerald, with majestic flow and ever-increasing volume, sweeps on until it reaches this point where the august display begins.

"Suddenly, in different places in the river bed, jagged, rocky reefs are upraised, dividing the current into four rivers, and these, in a mighty plunge of eighty feet downward, dash on their way. Of course, the waters are churned into foam and roll over the precipice white as are the garments of the morning when no cloud obscures the sun. The loveliest of these falls is called 'The Bridal Veil,' because it is made of the lace which is woven with a warp of falling waters and a woof of sunlight. Above this and near the right bank is a long trail of foam, and this is called 'The Bridal Train.' The other channels are not so fair as the one called 'The Bridal Veil,' but they are more fierce and wild, and carry in their furious sweep more power.

"One of the reefs which divides the river in mid-channel runs up to a peak, and on this a family of eagles have, through the years, may be through the centuries, made their home and reared their young, on the very verge of the abyss and amid the full echoes of the resounding boom of the falls. Surely the eagle is a fitting symbol of perfect fearlessness and of that exultation which comes with battle clamors.

"But these first falls are but a beginning. The greater splendor succeeds. With swifter flow the startled waters dash on and within a few feet take their second plunge in a solid crescent, over a sheer precipice, two hundred and ten feet to the abyss below. On the brink there is a rolling crest of white, dotted here and there, in sharp contrast, with shining eddies of green, as might a necklace of emerald shimmer on a throat of snow, and then the leap and fall.

"Here more than foam is made. Here the waters are shivered into fleecy spray, whiter and finer than any miracle that ever fell from India loom, while from the depths below an everlasting vapor rises— the incense of the waters to the water's God.

American Falls. Flickr R.A. Killmer CCBY-NC-ND2.0.

"Finally, through the long, unclouded days, the sun sends down his beams, and to give the startling scene its crowning splendor, wreaths the terror and the glory in a rainbow halo. On either sullen bank the extremities of its arc are anchored, and there in its many-colored robes of light it stands outstretched above the abyss like wreaths of flowers above a sepulcher. Up through the glory and the terror an everlasting roar ascends, deep-toned as is the voice of Fate, a diapason like that the rolling ocean chants when his eager surges come rushing in to greet and fiercely woo an irresponsive promontory.

"But to feel all the awe and to mark all the splendor and power that comes of the mighty display, one must climb down the steep descent to the river's brink below, and, pressing up as nearly as possible to the falls, contemplate the tremendous picture. There something of the energy that creates that endless panorama is comprehended; all the deep throbbings of the mighty river's pulses are felt; all the magnificence is seen.

"In the reverberations that come of the war of waters one hears something like God's voice; something like the splendor of God is before his eyes; something akin to God's power is manifesting itself before him, and his soul shrinks within itself, conscious as never before of its own littleness and helplessness in the presence of the workings of Nature's immeasurable forces.

"Not quite so massive is the picture as is Niagara, but it has more lights and shades and loveliness, as though a hand more divinely skilled had mixed the tints, and with more delicate art had transfixed them upon that picture suspended there in its rugged and sombre frame.

"As one watches it is not difficult to fancy that away back in the immemorial and unrecorded past, the Angel of Love bewailed the fact that mortals were to be given existence in a spot so forbidding, a spot that apparently was never to be warmed with God's smile, which was never to make a sign through which God's mercy was to be discerned; that then Omnipotence was touched, that with His hand He smote the hills and started the great river in its flow; that with His finger He traced out the channel across the corpse of that other river that had been fire, mingled the sunbeams with the raging waters and made it possible in that fire-blasted frame of scoria to swing a picture which should be, first to the red man and later to the pale races, a certain sign of the existence, the power and the unapproachable splendor of the Great First Cause.

"And as the red man through the centuries watched the spectacle, comprehending nothing except that an infinite voice was smiting his ears, and insufferable glories were blazing before his eyes; so through the centuries to come the pale races will stand upon the shuddering shore and watch, experiencing a mighty impulse to put off the sandals from their feet, under an overmastering consciousness that the spot on which they are standing is holy ground.

"There is nothing elsewhere like it; nothing half so weird, so wild, so beautiful, so clothed in majesty, so draped with terror; nothing else that awakens impressions at once so startling, so winsome, so profound. While journeying through the desert to come suddenly upon it, the spectacle gives one something of the emotions that would be experienced to behold a resurrection from the dead.

"In the midst of what seems like a dead world, suddenly there springs into irrepressible life something so marvelous, so grand, so caparisoned with loveliness and irresistible might, that the head is bowed, the strained heart throbs tumultuously and the awed soul sinks to its knees."

The whistles had sounded while Strong was speaking, and as he finished the good nights were spoken and the lights put out.

Glory Of Earth: The Columbia River

Columbia River. Flickr. Bonnie Moreland. Public domain.

by Glenn Franco Simmons

In my previous two posts, the gentlemen of The Comstock Club discussed their admiration for the majesty of Mount Shasta in what is now California and Lake Tahoe, which is now in California and Nevada. In this post, they talk further of equally beautiful and compelling natural wonders wrought by the skilled craftsmanship of the almighty Creator of all in heaven and on Earth.

Their discussion features a Manifest Destiny theme of American sovereignty, no matter that Native Americans were the rightful inhabitants of the land so described and a people who should have been consulted rather than nearly annihilated.

Mr. Ashley also finds a symmetry with the "fight" of the river on its march to the ocean, much like a worker on his journey through life.

C.C. Goodwin weaves this narrative with a mastery and wisdom that can only come with having had many life experiences that cause such reflection and contemplation.

"But while on grand themes, have you ever seen the Columbia River?" Mr. Ashley asked. "To me it is the glory of the earth. It is a great river fourteen hundred miles above its mouth, and from thence on it rolls to the sea with increasing grandeur all the way. Where it hews its way through the Cascades a new and gorgeous picture is every moment painted, and when the mountain walls are pierced, with perfect purity and with mighty volume it sweeps on toward the ocean.

Mount Hood. Flickr. Public domain.

"It is, through its last one hundred and fifty miles, watched over by great forests and magnificent mountains. There are Hood and St. Helens and the rest, and where, upon the furious bar, the river joins the sea, there is an everlasting war of waters as beautiful as it is terrible.

"It makes a man a better American to go up the Columbia to the Cascades and look about him. He is not only impressed with the majesty of the scene, but thoughts of empire, of dominion and of the glory of the land over which his country's flag bears sovereignty, take possession of him. He looks down upon the rolling river and up at Mount Hood, and to both he whispers, 'We are in accord; I have an interest in you,' and the great pines nod approvingly, and the waterfalls babble more loud.

"The Mississippi has greater volume than the Oregon, the Hudson makes rival pictures which perhaps are as beautiful as any painted in the Cascades; but there is a power, a beauty, a purity and a wildness about the river of the West which is all its own and which is unapproachable in its charms.

"More than that. To me the river is the emblem of a perfect life. Through all the morning of its career it fights its way, blazing an azure trail through the desert. There is no green upon its banks, hardly does a bird sing as it struggles on. But it bears right on, and so austere is its face that the desert is impotent to soil it. Then it meets a rocky wall and breaks through it, roaring on its way. Then it takes the Willamette to its own ample breast, and it bears it on until it meets the inevitable, and then undaunted goes down to its grave.

"It fights its way, it bears its burdens, it remains pure and brave to the last. That is all the best man that ever lived could do." As Ashley concluded Strong said: "Why, Ashley! that is good."

Sovereign' Look Of Mt. Shasta

Mt. Shasta by Owne Byrne via Flickr. CC by 2.0.

by Glenn Franco Simmons

As the night wears on, the gentlemen of The Comstock Club continue their discussion that included (in my last post) revelation on Mount Sinai. With a question, the conversation shifts to Mt. Shasta in what is today's Northern California.

"Professor," Mr. Strong said, "we have heard about the Wasatch Range and Mount Sinai, shake up your memory and tell us about old Mount Shasta! I heard you describe it once. It is a grand mountain, is it not?"

"The grandest in America, so far as I have seen," was {Brewster's} reply. "It is said that Whitney is higher, but Whitney has for its base the Sierras, and the peaks around it dwarf its own tremendous height. But Shasta rises from the plain a single mountain, and while all the year around the lambs gambol at its base, its crown is eternal snow. Men of the North tell me that it is rivaled by Tacoma, but I never saw Tacoma.

"In the hot summer days as the farmers at Shasta's base gather their harvests, they can see where the wild wind is heaping the snow drifts about his crest. The mountain is one of Winter's stations, and from his forts of snow upon its top he never withdraws his garrison.

"There are the bastions of ice, the frosty battlements;

there his old bugler, the wind, is daily sounding the advance and the retreat of the storm.

"The mountain holds all latitudes and all seasons at the same time in its grasp. Flowers bloom at its base, further up the forest trees wave their ample arms; further still the brown of autumn is upon the slopes and over all hangs the white mantle of eternal winter.

"Standing close to its base, the human mind fails to grasp the immensity of the butte. But as one from a distance looks back upon it, or from some height twenty miles away views it, he discovers how magnificent are its proportions.

"For days will the mountain fold the mist about its crest like a vail and remain hidden from mortal sight, and then suddenly as if in deference to a rising or setting sun, the vapors will be rolled back and the watcher in the valley below will behold gems of topaz and of ruby made of sunbeams, set in the diadem of white, and towards the sentinel mountain, from a hundred miles around, men will turn their eyes in admiration. In its presence one feels the near presence of God, and as before Babel the tongues of the people became confused, so before this infinitely more august tower man's littleness oppresses him, and he can no more give fitting expression to his thoughts.

"It frowns and smiles alternately through the years; it hails the outgoing and the incoming centuries, changeless amid the mutations of ages, forever austere, forever cold and pure. The mountain eagle strains hopelessly toward its crest; the storms and the sunbeams beat upon it in vain; the rolling years cannot inscribe their numbers on its naked breast.

"Of all the mountains that I have seen it has the most sovereign look; it leans on no other height; it associates with no other mountain; it builds its own pedestal in the valley and never doffs its icy crown.

Mr. Brewster noted that "sunlight points with ruby silver and gold the mimic glaciers of the butte."

"It is a blessing as well as a splendor. With its cold it seizes the clouds and compresses them until their contents are rained upon the thirsty fields beneath; from its base the Sacramento starts, babbling on its way to the sea; despite its frowns it is a merciful agent to mankind, and on the minds of those who see it in all its splendor and power a picture is painted, the sheen and the enchantment of which will linger while memory and the gift to admire magnificence is left."

South Lake Tahoe. Flickr. Navdeep Raj. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

"That is good, Professor," said Corrigan; "but to me there is insupportable loneliness about an isolated mountain. It sames always to me like a gravestone set up above the grave of a dead worreld. But spakin' of beautiful things, did yees iver sae Lake Tahoe in her glory?

"I was up there last fall, and one day, in anticipation of the winter, I suppose, she wint to her wardrobe, took out all her winter white caps and tied them on; and she was a daisy.

"Her natural face is bluer than that of a stock sharp in a falling market; but whin the wind 'comes a wooin' and she dons her foamy lace, powders her face with spray and fastens upon her swellin' breast a thousand diamonds of sunlight, O, but she is a winsome looking beauty, to be sure. Thin, too, she sings her old sintimintal song to her shores, and the great overhanging pines sway their mighty arms as though keeping time, joining with hers their deep murmurs to make a refrain; and thus the lake sings to the shore and the shore answers back to the song all the day long.

"Tahoe, in her frame of blue and grane, is a fairer picture than iver glittered on cathadral wall; older, fairer and fresher than ancient master iver painted tints immortal upon.

Bonsai Rock. Flickr. Geoff Stearns. CC by 2.0.

"There in the strong arms of the mountains it is rocked, and whin the winds ruffle the azure plumage of the beautiful wathers, upon wather and upon shore a splendor rists such as might come were an angel to descend to earth and sketch for mortals a sane from Summer Land."

"You are right, Corrigan," said Ashley. "If the thirst for money does not denude the shores of their trees, and thus spoil the frame of your wonderful picture, Lake Tahoe will be a growing object of interest until its fame will be as wide as the world."