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.