Whoever heard of J. P. Jones
interesting himself in anything except silver. Never in all of his
twenty years of public life did he show that he was anything more than
"a man from one of the Silver States." Ever and always whenever he fills
the air with his noise, you have only to look and there you will find
him still knocking at the public treasury for a customer that already
has had enough of him.
He has become a monomaniac on silver, and, although one of the principal
owners of the Mariposa land grant, will not open it up because it is
silver he wants and the grant only shows gold. It is this dementia that
secures him a life-lease of the Senatorship from Nevada. For Nevada has
only one interest, and that is silver. Silver is her wool, her cotton,
her wheat, her coal, her iron, her lumber, her manufactures. It made her
a State. It made her first representative to Congress and her last. It
made Jones - Jones the drummer whose one sample is silver, who talks of
silver, who sings of silver, who dreams of silver, and who gets his
inspirations of the past, present, and future as he looks down the shaft
of his silver mine in Nevada.
Never did the tail of the dog work harder than does this little
bob-tailed thing called silver, that we find moving around among our
legs, trying to trip us up every time the political procession makes a
move.
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