There is a long hiatus in the correspondence here. For a
space of many months there is but one letter to continue the
story. Others were written, of course, but for some reason
they have not survived. It was about the end of August
(1862) when the miner finally abandoned the struggle, and
with his pack on his shoulders walked the one and thirty
miles over the mountains to Virginia City, arriving dusty,
lame, and travel-stained to claim at last his rightful
inheritance. At the Enterprise office he was welcomed, and
in a brief time entered into his own. Goodman, the
proprietor, himself a man of great ability, had surrounded
himself with a group of gay-hearted fellows, whose fresh,
wild way of writing delighted the Comstock pioneers far more
than any sober presentation of mere news. Samuel Clemens
fitted exactly into this group. By the end of the year he
had become a leader of it. When he asked to be allowed to
report the coming Carson legislature, Goodman consented,
realizing that while Clemens knew nothing of parliamentary
procedure, he would at least make the letters picturesque.
It was in the midst of this work that he adopted the name
which he was to make famous throughout the world. The story
of its adoption has been fully told elsewhere and need not
be repeated here.--[See Mark Twain: A Biography, by the same
author; Chapter XL.]
“Mark Twain” was first signed to a Carson letter, February
2, 1863, and from that time was attached to all of Samuel
Clemens's work. The letters had already been widely copied,
and the name now which gave them personality quickly
obtained vogue. It was attached to himself as well as to
the letters; heretofore he had been called Sam or Clemens,
now he became almost universally Mark Twain and Mark.
This early period of Mark Twain's journalism is full of
delicious history, but we are permitted here to retell only
such of it as will supply connection to the infrequent
letters. He wrote home briefly in February, but the letter
contained nothing worth preserving. Then two months later
he gives us at least a hint of his employment.
To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:
VIRGINIA, April 11, 1863.
MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,--It is very late at night, and I am writing
in my room, which is not quite as large or as nice as the one I had
at home. My board, washing and lodging cost me seventy-five dollars a
month.
I have just received your letter, Ma, from Carson--the one in which you
doubt my veracity about the statements I made in a letter to you. That's
right. I don't recollect what the statements were, but I suppose they
were mining statistics. I have just finished writing up my report for
the morning paper, and giving the Unreliable a column of advice about
how to conduct himself in church, and now I will tell you a few more
lies, while my hand is in. For instance, some of the boys made me a
present of fifty feet in the East India G. and S. M. Company ten days
ago. I was offered ninety-five dollars a foot for it, yesterday, in
gold. I refused it--not because I think the claim is worth a cent for I
don't but because I had a curiosity to see how high it would go, before
people find out how worthless it is. Besides, what if one mining claim
does fool me? I have got plenty more. I am not in a particular hurry to
get rich. I suppose I couldn't well help getting rich here some time or
other, whether I wanted to or not. You folks do not believe in Nevada,
and I am glad you don't. Just keep on thinking so.
I was at the Gould and Curry mine, the other day, and they had two or
three tons of choice rock piled up, which was valued at $20,000 a ton.
I gathered up a hat-full of chunks, on account of their beauty as
specimens--they don't let everybody supply themselves so liberally. I
send Mr. Moffett a little specimen of it for his cabinet. If you don't
know what the white stuff on it is, I must inform you that it is purer
silver than the minted coin. There is about as much gold in it as there
is silver, but it is not visible. I will explain to you some day how to
detect it.
Pamela, you wouldn't do for a local reporter--because you don't
appreciate the interest that attaches to names. An item is of no use
unless it speaks of some person, and not then, unless that person's name
is distinctly mentioned. The most interesting letter one can write, to
an absent friend, is one that treats of persons he has been acquainted
with rather than the public events of the day. Now you speak of a young
lady who wrote to Hollie Benson that she had seen me; and you didn't
mention her name. It was just a mere chance that I ever guessed who she
was--but I did, finally, though I don't remember her name, now. I was
introduced to her in San Francisco by Hon. A. B. Paul, and saw her
afterwards in Gold Hill. They were a very pleasant lot of girls--she and
her sisters.
P. S. I have just heard five pistol shots down street--as such things
are in my line, I will go and see about it.
P. S. No 2--5 A.M.--The pistol did its work well--one man--a Jackson
County Missourian, shot two of my friends, (police officers,) through
the heart--both died within three minutes. Murderer's name is John
Campbell.
The “Unreliable” of this letter was a rival reporter on whom Mark
Twain had conferred this name during the legislative session. His
real name was Rice, and he had undertaken to criticize Clemens's
reports. The brisk reply that Rice's letters concealed with a show
of parliamentary knowledge a “festering mass of misstatements the
author of whom should be properly termed the 'Unreliable,” fixed
that name upon him for life. This burlesque warfare delighted the
frontier and it did not interfere with friendship. Clemens and Rice
were constant associates, though continually firing squibs at each
other in their respective papers--a form of personal journalism much
in vogue on the Comstock.
In the next letter we find these two journalistic “blades” enjoying
themselves together in the coast metropolis. This letter is labeled
“No. 2,” meaning, probably, the second from San Francisco, but No. 1
has disappeared, and even No, 2 is incomplete.
To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis: