ided
between the North and the South,--the only politics being pronounced
Unionism on one side and outspoken rebellion on the other; but, as any
discussion between representatives of such views during the hottest
period of the war was generally concluded with six-shooters, all parties
kept pretty quiet on the subject, and politics was about the least
exciting cause of murder, there being others sufficiently numerous to
give us a "man for breakfast" nearly every morning.

Like all Pacific Coast mining towns, Carson had an immense saloon, with
all the sporting attachments, such as billiards, roulette, faro, poker,
etc., and at all times of the day and night it was frequented by
hundreds of men, who amused themselves talking, drinking, gambling and
reading their letters, as most of them received their correspondence at
these headquarters. It was called the "Magnolia," and was kept by Pete
Hopkins, who, I believe, still flourishes in San Francisco.

The telegraph had reached us in 1862, and we kept pretty well posted on
what was going on in the States. On the 14th of April, 1865, it was
flashed over the wires that President Lincoln had been assassinated, and
the excitement was intense. Men studiously avoided the subject, for fear
of being misunderstood and being drawn into deadly conflict. The news
was not credited at first, but soon became confirmed, and generally
accepted as true. The Union men determined that some public
demonstration should be made to recognize the event. A meeting was held,
and a committee appointed to formulate a program. It was decided to put
the town in mourning, have a procession and mock funeral, an oration and
appropriate resolutions,--all of which was the correct thing. An evening
or two before the ceremony was to take place the committee came down to
the Magnolia, to announce publicly what it had decided upon. The
chairman mounted the bar and made his proclamation, adding that anyone
who failed to hang out some emblem of mourning on his house or place of
business might expect to be roughly handled.

The room was crowded, and with the most inflammable material. Had a
bomb been exploded on one of the billiard tables the effect would not
have stirred the rebels to greater depths. Among them was an old
Virginian, whom we will call Captain Jones. He almost immediately
accepted the challenge, and speaking up loudly, he said: "I am damned
glad Lincoln was killed, and if any man attempts to put mourn