ANOTHER CHANGE.
The world seemed coming to an end, I mean my world. I had “ran for
office” and was not elected, I had lectured and the people did not call
for more, my mines and all they contained were still under ground. The
cities I had planned were still unbuilt, I had written for our county
paper and gained a small county, but cashless reputation. The fall of
1866 was at hand, and I was saying “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity,”
when one day I received an unexpected letter from the publisher of a San
Francisco weekly paper (_The Golden Era_). He said in substance, “Come
to San Francisco and try your chances on the _Era_. We will do the best
we can for you.”
I went and was met by the good and great-hearted Joseph Lawrence, the
principal publisher, and up to that time an entire stranger to me.
The transformation in my life was sudden and startling. It was from the
mountain solitudes to the bustle of a great city, from the miner’s cabin
to the elegancies of the first-class hotel in which my friend positioned
me; from the society of the “boys” to that of artists, actors, editors,
and writers, some since of world-wide reputation.
It was the sharpest corner I had ever turned in my life. It led into a
new road, a new life, new associations, new scenes, and eventually new
countries.
And this change came sudden, unexpected at the “darkest hour” and like
“a thief in the night.”
San Francisco had changed greatly since I had left it eight years
previous. Much of the old “’49” characteristic had disappeared or was
disappearing. The roughness in garb and manner had abated, the high silk
hat topped more masculine heads, the afternoon feminine promenade on the
main shopping streets was more elegantly attired, “society” was
classifying itself into sets and “circles” more or less pretentious,
many more men had homes to rest in at night, the glare and splendor of
the openly public gambling house had gone, the revolver as an outside
garniture of apparel had disappeared.
I could write with some facility. In other respects, I was awkward,
unassimilative with the new element about me, and what is called “shy
and retiring” which really implies a kind of vanity demanding that the
world shall come and pet you without your having the courage to boldly
face it and assert your place in it or whatever you may think your
place. I was afraid of being quizzed or made a mark of ridicule by
others, and any pretentious fop could with ease make me take a back seat
and make me keep my mouth shut. One night Mr. Lawrence invited me to
call with him on a noted actress. I refused out of pure dread. Dread of
what? Of an opinion I had previously manufactured in my own mind of what
the actress might think of me; when I should probably have been of about
as much importance to her as a house fly. The consequence which we shy
and retiring people attach to ourselves in our secret mind is
ridiculously appalling.
Mr. Lawrence remained in San Francisco but a few months after my advent
on the _Era_. While he stayed he did all in his power to give me,
socially and otherwise, a good “send off.” He introduced me to aspiring
and successful people, placed me in good material surroundings and
opened for me the door to a successful element. That was all he could
do, and in my estimation about all one person can do to really advance
the fortunes of another.
But when he left I descended, hired the cheapest lodgings, lived on the
cheese-paring plan, and was thereby brought mainly into contact with
that cheap element in human nature which longs for the best things in
the world, is willing even in some way to beg for them, looks on the
prosperous with envy and aversion and expends most of its force in
anxiety or grumbling, instead of devising ways and means to push
forward.
So for the most part I did. I accepted the lowest remuneration for my
services, deeming it the inevitable, went figuratively hat in hand to
those who bought my articles, and brought my mind at last to think they
had done me a great favor on paying me my just dues. I was always
expecting starvation or failure of some sort and for that very reason
got a near approach to it. My cheap lodgings brought me a sneak thief
who stole the first decent suit of clothes I had worn for years in less
than forty-eight hours after I had put them on. My associations brought
me people who were always moaning over their luck, living mentally in
the poorhouse, and therefore we mutually strengthened and supported each
other on the road to what was little better than the poorhouse.
Like them, I never thought of being else than a worker for wages, and
ran away mentally at any idea of taking responsibilities. Like them I
regarded the class who did, as living in a world I never could reach.
Like them I regarded the only sure and safe haven was a “job,” or
situation at steady, regular wages.
So, for years I had indifferent luck, and lived a good deal on the
threadbare side of life. The cause and the fault lay entirely in myself.
Industriously, though unconsciously I sat down on myself, punched myself
into corners; as I in mind accepted the bottom of the heap as the
inevitable I stayed near the bottom.
If I should live that and previous portions of my life over again, I
should probably do the same thing. Because I believe there is a truth in
predestination. In other words, when you are in a certain mental
condition your physical life and fortune will be an exact correspondence
or material reflection of that condition. When you grow out of that
condition and get a different mind your surroundings, fortunes, and
associations will be in accordance with that state of mind. Thank
Heaven, we can grow. But the I that existed twenty-five years ago was
predestined to meet the fortunes it did twenty-five years ago, and those
fortunes could only change as the mind of that “I” changed.