April 2 Wednesday – Sam wrote from Carson City to his mother about Orion, ladies back home, trying to rent a better office for Orion, the death of an acquaintance at Fort Donelson, and other goings on.

My Dear Mother:

Yours of March 2 d , has just been received. I see I am in for it again—with Annie. But she ought to know that I was always stupid. She used to try to teach me lessons from the Bible, but I never could understand them. Don’t she remember telling me the story of Moses, one Sunday, last Spring, and how hard she tried to explain it and simplify it so that I could understand it—but I couldn’t? And how she said it was strange that while her ma and her grandma and her uncle Orion could understand anything in the world, I was so dull that I couldn’t understand the “ea-siest thing?” And don’t she remember that finally a light broke in upon me and I said it was all right—that I knew old Moses himself—and that he kept a clothing store in Market street? And then she went to her ma and said she didn’t know what would become of her uncle Sam—he was too dull to learn anything—ever! And I’m just as dull yet. Now I have no doubt her letter was spelled right, and was correct in all particulars—but then I had to read it according to my lights; and they being inferior, she ought to overlook the mistakes I make—especially, as it is not my fault that I wasn’t born with good sense. I am sure she will detect an encouraging ray of intelligence in that last argument.

Lord bless me, who can write where Orion is. I wish he had been endowed with some conception of music—for, with his diabolical notions of time and tune he is worse than the itch when he begins to whistle. And for some wise but not apparent reason, Providence has ordained that he shall whistle when he feels pleasant—notwithstanding the fact that the barbarous sounds he produces are bound to drive comfort away from every one else within ear-shot of them. I have got to sit still and be tortured with his infernal discords, and fag-ends of tunes which were worn out and discarded before “Roll on—Sil-ver Moo-oon” became popular, strung together without regard to taste, time, melody, or the eternal fitness of things, because, if I should boil over and say I wish his music would bust him, there’d be a row, you know. For I discovered, by accident, that he looks upon his Variations as something of an accomplishment, and when he does warble, he warbles very complacently. I told him once, on the plains, that I couldn’t stand his cursed din—that he was worse than a rusty wheel-barrow—and if he did not stop it I would get out of the coach. Now he didn’t say “get out and be d—d,” but I know he thought it, Ma, and if I were you I would just touch him up a little, and give him some advice about profane swearing—not so as to hurt his feelings, you know, but just to give him to understand, in a general way, that you don’t lend your countenance to that sort of thing. You’re his mother, you know, and consequently, it is your right, and your business and comes within the line of your duties, as laid down in the Articles of War. Now I could do it—I could stir him up in such a way—I could read him a lecture that would make him “grit his teeth” and d—n all creation for a week, bless you. But then I am not his mother, you know, consequently it is not in my line—it must come from you—don’t you see?

Now to my thinking, Miss Louisa Conrad and Miss Chipman are young ladies of remarkably fine taste —and an honor to St. Louis. Did Miss Conrad live “opposite” when I was at home? If she did, and you had described her, I would know who you mean. When I was in St. Louis, no young ladies lived “opposite” except those handsome Texas girls who dressed in black—and they lived opposite Mr. Schroter’s.

I am waiting here, trying to rent a better office for Orion. I have got the refusal after next week of a room 16 × 50 on first floor of a fire-proof brick—rent, eighteen hundred dollars a year. Don’t know yet whether we can get it or not. If it is not rented before the week is up, we can.

I was sorry to hear that Dick was killed. I gave him his first lesson in the musket drill. We had half a dozen muskets in our office when it was over Isbell’s Music Rooms. I asked Isbell to invite me and the other boys to come every Friday evening and hear his Choral Society, composed of ladies and gentlemen, rehearse—but he refused, and I told him I would spoil their fun. And I did, Madam. I enrolled Dick and Henry and the two Dutch boys into a military Company, took command of it, and ordered them to meet at the office every Friday evening for drill. I made them “order arms” oftener than necessary, perhaps, and they always did it with a will. And when those muskets would come down on the floor, it was of no use, you know—somebody had to have a headache—and nobody could sing. Isbell said he would “give in,” (Civil authorities, you know, are bound to knuckle to the military.) But he begged so hard that I relented, and compromised with him. And “for and in consideration” of certain things expressed between us, I agreed not to drill on a certain special occasion, when he was to have a number of invited guests. And we didn’t drill. But I was too many for him, anyhow, Madam. We got some round stones and some bottles, and we opened a ten-pin alley over his head, simultaneously with the opening of his concert. He said the ten-pin alley was worse than the drill—so we compromised again. But I wrote a burlesque on his principal anthem, and taught it to the boys. And the next Friday, when our Choral Society opened its lungs, the other one had to “dry up.” So we compromised again. And went back to the drill—and drilled, and drilled, until Isbell went into a decline—which culminated in his death at Pike’s Peak. And served him right. Dick enjoyed the sport amazingly, and never missed a drill, no matter how the weather was, although he lived more than a mile from the office. He was a lubberly cuss, like me, and couldn’t march gracefully, but he could “order arms” with any body. I couldn’t very easily forget Dick, for besides these things, he assisted in many a villainous conspiracy against Isbell’s peace of mind, wherein his Choral Class were not concerned.

Tell Carrie Schroter I will give her a lump of gold out of any mine or claim I have got—but she must send Dan Haines after it. I want to see Dan, anyhow.

Of course we can excuse Pamela from writing, while her eyes are sore. It is a pity her eyes distress her so much. She will have to try what Lake Bigler can do for them one of these days. I feel certain that it would cure any-body’s sore eyes, just to look at that Lake.

Ma, I perceive that you have a passion for funerals and processions yet—and I suppose Annie has, too. The paper Pamela sent has not arrived yet, containing an account of the celebration on the 22 d , and I am afraid it will not come before I leave here. I would like much to see it.

Orion has heard of Mr. Mayor, but I have not, and I don’t know where the devil to go to look for him. Why don’t he come and see us? He knows we are here. Yes, I remember Miss Adda King. She was very good-looking, too, God forever bless her everlasting soul, but I don’t know her from John the Baptist—or any other man. However, I like to have them mentioned, you know. I must keep the run of every body.

I hope I am wearing the last white shirt that will embellish my person for many a day—for I do hope that I shall be out of Carson long before this reaches you. Love to all.

Very Respectfully

Sam.

[MTL 1: 180-3]. Notes: Annie Moffett, Sam’s niece. Source gives Brook Sisters as possibly the “handsome Texas girls,” and Miss Chipman unidentified. George Schroter (b. 1813 or 1814), Wm. Moffett’s business partner since 1855 or 6. “Dick” was Richard Higham, a printer under Orion at Keokuk in 1856; he was killed at Ft. Donelson; Clemens included an account of Richard in his Auto. Dictation of Mar. 26, 1906. See entry Vol IV. Caroline (Carrie) Schroter (b. 1833 or 1834), wife of Wm. Moffett’s partner. Daniel Haines (b. 1836 or 1837) was Carrie’s brother. Mr. Mayor and Miss Adda King are unidentified.

All during March and April it snowed and rained with winds in the high Sierras [Mack 155].