The Tuesday morning, May 16, 1865 Nevada Appeal
Nevada Appeal to celebrate 160th birthday with Meet Your Merchant
The Nevada Appeal is hosting “Meet Your Merchant: Connecting Community with Business” on Saturday, May 17.
The event will offer community members a chance to discover new businesses they may not know in Carson City.
The event will be free to the community. It will run from 2-5 p.m. on Saturday, May 17 at the Carson City Multi-Purpose Athletic Center Facility, 1860 Russell Way.
Booth space for business is available at nevadaappeal.com/meetyourmerchant.
The event corresponds with the Appeal’s 160th year in publishing. During the event there will be a recognition for the Appeal’s achievement. The Appeal’s first edition was published on the morning of May 16, 1865.
For information, or to sponsor, check out the web page or contact Annemarie Dickert at adickert@nevadanewsgroup.com.
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CHAPTER 1
On May 16, 1990, the Nevada Appeal turned 125 years old. To celebrate the occasion the paper published a book on the Appeal’s 125 years in history. For the next eight weeks the Appeal will reprint parts of the book leading into the Appeal’s 160th birthday. The book was produced by then-editor Don Ham with help from John S. Miller, Daun Bohall, Guy Rocha, Jon Christensen and Noreen Humphreys.
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In 1865, frontier raconteur Henry Rust Mighels and a then brand-new state of Nevada were good for each other, but they also came pretty close to never getting acquainted.
On May 16, 1865, Mighels was on a Placerville stagecoach eastbound for Carson City to take over the editorship of the budding Morning Appeal. The coach, literally flying along behind six matched bays, had barely crossed into Nevada when it suddenly went out of control and crashed in a giant cloud of dust.
Whether it was driver error or equipment failure was never told but the upset was a brutal one. Mighels was the only one aboard who escaped injury, and he had to hoof it to find help.
Mighels arrived at his editor’s desk in the Appeal office a day late and told his readers that he was a true Nevadan since he had received his baptism in the very dust of the state.
Harry Mighels is a person who, during his 14 years in Nevada, made such a lasting impression on his community, state and nation, ripples from his personal presence can be felt even today, 111 years after his death.
Mighels was a remarkable Nevada pioneer. He was a shrewd businessman, a crusading editor, an untiring community activist, an accomplished artist, a passable poet, a moving public speaker, an occasional politician, an incorrigible punster and a loving family man. His personality and his philosophies helped mold the Carson Appeal into an institution capable of surviving through the eons.
Mighels
He was born in Norway, Maine, Nov. 3, 1830. In 1847, at the age of 16, he accompanied his parents to Cincinnati. He tried but quickly abandoned studies in watchmaking and then navigation. He then spent a year studying medicine under his father who was an established physician.
Harry, as he was called by friends and family, eventually discovered he had little talent and even less enthusiasm for the medical profession and left home as a young man of 19 to seek his own fortune. A grandson who is Harry’s third generation namesake believes that his grandfather’s departure from home was hastened by a family problem.
“My grandfather’s parents had a worshipful reverence for a younger brother and that created an intolerable home atmosphere. Grandpa’s brother George, who died at the age of 11, was the ‘goody goody’ of the family,” the grandson noted.
“George was a member of the Junior Temperance Society and he took a pledge of ‘total abstinence from all intoxicating drink’ in July 1838. The family’s attitude that George could never do anything wrong got stronger following the child’s death. Grandpa finally had enough and had to get away.”
In August of 1850, Harry set off for California. Winter was spent in Nicaragua where he and a fellow voyager kept a hotel. From there he went to Panama where he was laid low with a tropical fever. He made it on to California in 1851 — paying his way on a steamer by serving as assistant storekeeper.
Harry found work as a painter and artist in the California boom camps of Downieville, Marysville, Bidwell’s Bar and Oroville.
He became an oils artist of considerable merit. Very little of his work survives today mostly because it was either sold, given away or produced under contract. He was a prolific artist throughout his life but usually gave away his completed works to friends and relatives.
One of his more notable commercial works was the stage drop curtain for the American Theater at Oroville. A humorous description of the curtain is given in the book, “First California Troubadour” written by Stephen C. Massett:
Some were grazing with intense interest at the drop curtain, and speculating as to who the figures were intended to represent; one insisting that it was William Penn making the treaty with the Indians, another with a fearful oath knew that it was Captain Cook as he appeared immediately before being eaten by the savages, and a third that it was Adam and Eve before being snaked out of the Garden of Eden. The last man was right, and Captain Cook and William Penn were rolled up into as fine as dumpling as ever faced a baker’s oven.
In the Jan. 21, 1854, edition of the “Butte Record” newspaper, Harry’s artistic ability once again evoked comment:
DOGGED GOOD — We opine there are very few of even his most intimate acquaintances who are fully aware of the artistic talent possessed by our young and accomplished friend, Mr. H. Mighels. He is in every sense of the term, a genius. His last piece of work is a lifelike portrait, full size, of one of the canine species, well known as Mr. E.S. Pratt’s Jenny Lind. It is standing on the shelf among the decanters and other fixtures of his splendid bar and is so much like the original that we were not surprised when a particular friend of ours went in to get a drink and seeing no one present, tho’t to help himself; but on casting his eyes around, saw the picture and supposing it to be a real dog on watch cried out, “Get out of here you son of -----.”
Harry Mighels made his debut in journalism when he was hired as assistant editor of the “Butte Record” in the fall of 1856. He was local editor of the “Sacramento Bee” in 1857. In 1858 he left newspapering to run for the California Assembly but was beaten. During 1859 he was on the staff of the “San Francisco National” and when the “Marysville Appeal” was established, he became the first editor.
Harry was an ardent supporter of the Union and was personally offended by the events that led to the Civil War. He offered his services to President Abraham Lincoln who granted him an officer’s commission in the U.S. Army. Harry’s patriotic enthusiasm was apparent in a letter to a friend where he commented, “The Republic would have survived its shocks quite as successfully if I had remained supine and listless in California; but no action of my life gives me so much satisfaction as the step which I took toward serving my country.”
Harry could not be coaxed into discussing his wartime adventures. In his letters to friends and relatives from the combat zones (one letter was written with gunpowder dissolved in vinegar because no ink was available) he described camp life, people around him and the countryside but never the battles.
In April 1862 he was commissioned an assistant adjutant general with the rank of captain and assigned to the staff of Gen. S.D. Sturgis. He was eventually assigned to the Second Division, Ninth Corps (Gen. Ambrose Burnside).
After two years of combat in eight different engagements, Harry was wounded at Petersburg, shot through both thighs.
It was a flesh wound but gangrene set in while he was hospitalized at Annapolis, Md. Army doctors sent him home to “get better or die.”
It was during that time when he was recuperating at his parents’ home that he became engaged to Nellie Verrill, the woman who was to eventually become his wife and his life’s partner in publishing the Morning Appeal.
Nellie had agreed to marry him but a steady job and money in the bank were important prerequisites to matrimony in those days, and Harry had neither. He went back home to California alone to seek his fortune and make a place for his future bride.
Harry’s progress to Nevada and to the Carson Appeal are traced in letters to his fiancé. The first letter is dated April 17, 1865. The nation is aghast at the assassination of President Lincoln. Harry reports on the chaos around him and still finds time to describe his job and his surroundings in the cosmopolitan yet dusty and brawling town of San Francisco.
I am almost too sad at heart to write. We are only too fully informed of the terrible enactments of bloody deeds at Washington. Utter sadness and grief have seized upon us; and solemn men fill the streets with mourning.
All feel that the deepest affliction that ever befell a nation has visited us with a crushing weight of woe. Business is almost entirely suspended and the whole city is hung with crepe. Startling rumors of further horrors fill the air and alarm, and nervous apprehension haunt the public mind.
We got the terrible news of the assassination of the president on the morning of the 15th and the streets were instantly filled with the terrified populace. Such scenes of sorrow and dismay were never seen before. Not long after the receipt of the news, a crowd of excited men gave vent to their indignation by seizing upon the types and presses of certain newspapers which have heretofore been published here in the Copperhead interest.
The Democratic Press — a McClellan organ; the Monitor, an Irish Catholic-rebel sympathizing sheet; the News Letter, a scurrilous traducer of the administration; the Occidental, another of the same sort; the Franco Americane, a French rebel paper, were all demolished and forever suspended.
The crowd attempted to get possession of another French rebel paper, the “Echo du Pacifique,” but the armed police got in ahead of them and saved its destruction. But it will hardly appear again, for Gen. McDowell has taken charge of it and has made public announcement that it shall appear no more.
It was a partial relief to the sadness of the time to witness these well directed acts of a loyal multitude; for beyond this they manifested no inclination to proceed and on the appearance of the military, offensive operations ended. Every loyal heart prays for wisdom and moderation and calmness for our rulers in this day of great national peril; an all good men feel more deeply than ever their responsibility in individual support and aid of the common wealth. May God preserve us and direct the wise men of the land to the right paths.
Dear Nellie, the reading of your good letter makes me happy and sad by turns. Your interest to know of my surroundings; the kind sayings which you are too good to withhold and the interest which I know you feel in me as a friend, all “cheer my lone heart” but they fail to satisfy me. And, at times I am filled with wretched, gloomy doubts. Fears that you have discovered how utterly unworthy of your dear love I am and how unreasonable is the request for you to give your heart to the keeping of one whom hard and frequent contact with the cold, bad world have made so little trustworthy of your future happiness. I have dared to believe that you love me, Nellie. I yearn to have my doubts and fears set to rest and to know that your heart is mine alone. May I ask you to say that it is?
I wish I could attend your “circle” meetings. In fact, I believe I had rather be at Norway than here. You and all I love best are there and contentment and happiness are only to be had where those are that we love. I shall certainly return in another year, if possible.
You ask me to describe my surroundings. I will, and I will tell you fully and frankly of them and of my “great expectations.”
As for my surroundings, I am at present a sort of useless clerk in Gorham’s office. More to gratify him and to have something to do than for the performance of any absolutely useful service. I am not a permanent fixture here and wouldn’t be if I could. He has little need of me and in spite of his good natured avowals to the contrary has enough of clerical aid without me. I believe he would divide his office with me if I would let him. I am writing to you at my desk in the full sound of law-talk from the attorneys and clerks. I don’t like law-folks; for, as somebody said about an up-country district attorney, I am like necessity — I know no law. I take my natural sustenance and rest at the Russ House, one of the first class hotels of the city and my surroundings there are acquaintances in considerable numbers and strangers in crowds. The landlords, Messrs. Hardenburgh and Dyer are old acquaintances of ‘nine, and each in his time was mayor of the city of Sacramento. There are some lady-friends of mine boarding there which makes it pleasant, and altogether the “Russ” is very pleasant for a hotel — a place of residence which I abhor, although I have been living at public houses for a good many years. A hotel is not a home and a home is what I desire (and which, with your help, I will have in Heaven’s good time). I have several friends here at whose houses I visit; and several others living nearby who have extended me invitations to call and spend a while with them.
As to the general surroundings of San Francisco, I will merely say that it is a great, busy, dusty city; pleasant and sunny in the early part of the day and windy and bleak in the afternoon and evening. The people are peculiarly a homogenous mass and represent, in very good attire, most of the nations of the earth. I sport a “plug” hat, new and sleek. I also sport brown kids and keep up a very considerable degree of dignity on the streets. The common people knowing my retiring disposition have refrained from any public clamors for my appearance at banquets or popular gatherings in the character of orator or guest of the city. I am actually addressed as Mr. Mighels by those of the thoughtless multitude who forget the title which has accompanied my worldwide fame, sounded thro’ the brazen trump of Mars. Such is fame!
I send you a notice of my arrival which appeared in the Nevada Union, a paper published in the new state of Nevada. I am in receipt of a letter from the publishers of that paper offering me a position in their sanctum. I may possibly accept it for a while. To be candid, I am led to hope that the position of adjutant general of the state will fall to me in the course of a few months. I have received assurances which I justify my hopes in that direction.
The present incumbent, Gen. Evans, is also a state senator. He will probably resign the adjutant generalship next fall to take his seat in the Senate and if he does, I am assured that the governor (who is a good friend of mine and a native of Maine) will take my case into consideration.
This is all in the future and may come to naught. In the meantime, I am in no haste to commit myself to any particular position or status. I want to make my second start into public life right, and to insure this, I must go slow.
I hope to realize something handsome, pecuniarily, from a share in some oil lands which I have got hold of since my arrival here. I am not rich enough to make my purse proud — in fact I am rather poor than otherwise; but I have good health and a big lump of hope and the sweetest sweetheart in the world and believe that with all these “in the Lexicon of youth, which fate reserves for a glorious manhood, there is no such word as fail,” as Richlieu says.
I am going to send this letter by the Overland Mail which is daily — when it goes. There is some little risk in sending overland so my regular letters I shall send per steamer.
A little over a month later, the Harry Mighels who was casting about aimlessly in San Francisco, wishing out loud for miracles and working at a job that was obvious charity, suddenly found himself bound for Carson City, ready to face the challenge of a brand-new newspaper.
The challenge came to him in the form of a telegram from yet another friend who was looking out for him – Alanson W. Nightingill, the Nevada state controller. Three Carson City businessmen, E.F. McElwin, J. Barrett and Marshall Robinson had gotten together to create a newspaper — one that did not yet even have a name. They needed an experienced, qualified newsman to run it. Harry Mighels was Nightingill’s nomination.
Harry wrote to his fiancé May 15, 1865:
I start this afternoon in going to the Silver State. Carson City is said to be the most desirable place of residence. Trip will be no picnic… riding all night in a stagecoach.
The first two editors of the newspaper fretted in print about Mighels’ failure to arrive. When Mighels got to Carson City he found that the new endeavor had been named the Carson Daily Appeal to honor him and observe the fact that he had helped to create and operate the highly successful Marysville Appeal a few years earlier.
Harry, who was staying with Nightingill until he found private lodging, wrote his first letter to Nellie from Nevada May 28, 1865. In his letter, written on state controller’s letterhead paper, he describes his new job and his new community:
You will see by the date of this that I am already in my new home in “Silverland.” My last letter to you was written on the day that I left San Francisco to come here. I got here one day of the week before last after a tedious journey, the last 24 hours which I passed on the outside of a stagecoach.
This place is the state capital. The governor and other state officers live here. I cultivate the controller, as you will observe by the printed heading. He is one of my earliest California friends. His name is Nightingill — not gale – and is one of the pioneers of this state. I lend him character by sleeping with him.
This is Sunday and we have just come from church. The preacher effulged a sermon from a text found in the Book of Job. He entertained us with a brief biography of that native of the Land of Uz; and set forth a description of his trials and misfortunes. Job was sorely tried no doubt and exercised remarkable fortitude and patient resignation under his many trials. But he escaped one test of patience. He was not submitted to the vexations of an editor in a new country. He never had to cudgel his brains six days of every week to give enlightenment to an unappreciative people.
The name of my paper is the Carson Daily Appeal. It was named out of compliment to me by the publishers after the Marysville Appeal, a paper which I started in 1860 and left just before going home that year. I send you a copy. You see that it is one of the “seven by nine” order of sheets. But it is big enough for all the requirements of this new settlement in the desert. I seem destined to identification with new states. Perhaps I am helping the Star of Empire in its westward course. It is some little gratification to take part in the erection of new members of the grand Old Union.
This place is situated just at the foot of the eastern slope of the Sierra Nevada. It probably numbers two thousand in population mainly from California. This is a strange part of the world. A vast portion of the state is a desert of bare, bleak plains and mountains. The latter are wonderfully rich in silver and copper. Gold is not found in much abundance here. There are no very extensive mines in the immediate vicinity of Carson. The silver diggings are about Virginia City, the principle place of business in the state, about 15 miles hence. I have not been there yet.
Carson is situated in a pleasant little valley — barren and treeless, though — surrounded by high barren hills on the summits of some of which large patches of snow are still to be seen. By looking out the window before me I can see Job’s Peak, a lofty, cloud-kissing mountain white with eternal snow. This is a picturesque region. Carson itself stands at an elevation of some 5,000 feet above the level of the sea. The climate is generally pleasant and healthful. The only objection that I have experienced is the high winds which too frequently blow through the mountain gorges.
About 12 miles from here is Lake Tahoe or Lake Bigler as it used to be called. I don’t believe that the Lake of Como that Claud Melnotte rhapsodized so enthusiastically is half as beautiful as this sheet of water. It is completely surrounded by high, snow-capped mountains at the foot of which it rests in undisturbed solitude. I never saw anything approaching its beauty and the grandeur of the scene of which it forms a part as presented to the spectator from the summit of the mountains on the California side. I thought of you and wished you were with me to enjoy it when the stage brought us in view of the magnificent panorama.
I know you would enjoy a journey thro’ these mountain scenes. How would you like to make Carson a temporary dwelling place? I wish you were here, Nellie. I could feel contented if you were here; as it is, I am all the time longing to be back in Maine.