In truth, wherever I turned there was much to confirm the forebodings with which I had entered the Devil’s Gate. The deep pits on the hill-sides; the blasted and barren appearance of the whole country; the unsightly hodge-podge of a town; the horrible confusion of tongues; the roaring, raving drunkards at the bar-rooms, swilling fiery liquids from morning till night; the flaring and flaunting gambling-saloons, filled with desperadoes of the vilest sort; the ceaseless torrent of imprecations that shocked the ear on every side; the mad speculations and feverish thirst for gain--all combined to give me a forcible impression of the unhallowed character of the place. What dreadful savage is that? I asked, as a ferocious-looking monster in human shape stalked through the crowd. Is it--can it be the--No; that’s only a murderer. He shot three men a few weeks ago, and will probably shoot another before night. And this aged and decrepit man, his thin locks floating around his haggard and unshaved face, and matted with filth? That’s a speculator from San Francisco. See how wildly he grasps at every “indication,” as if he had a lease of life for a thousand years! And this bulldog fellow, with a mutilated face, button-holing every by-passer? That fellow? Oh, he’s only a “bummer” in search of a cocktail. And this--and this--all these crazy-looking wretches, running hither and thither with hammers and stones in their hands, calling one another aside, hurrying to the assay-offices, pulling out papers, exchanging mysterious signals--who and what are all these? Oh, these are Washoe millionaires. They are deep in “outside claims.” The little fragments of rock they carry in their hands are “croppings” and “indications” from the “Wake-up-Jake,” “Root-Hog-or-Die,” “Wild-Cat,” “Grizzly Hill,” “Dry-up,” “Same Horse,” “Let-her-Rip,” “You Bet,” “Gouge-Eye,” and other famous ledges and companies, in which they own some thousands of feet. Hold, good friend; I am convinced there is no rest for the wicked. All night long these dreadful noises continue; the ears are distracted with an unintelligible jargon of “croppings,” “ledges,” “lodes,” “leads,” “indications,” “feet,” and “strikes,” and the nostrils offended with foul odors of boots, old pipes, and dirty blankets--who can doubt the locality? If the climate is more rigorous than Dante describes it--if Calypso might search in vain for Ulysses in such a motley crowd--these apparent differences are not inconsistent with the general theory of changes produced by American emigration and the sudden conglomeration of such incongruous elements.