CHAPTER XXXV—THE END

IN the history of Zionville the dates of the Discovery of the Eureka Mine, of the Reformation, and of the Burial of Hannah Atkins, are like 1492 and 1776 in the history of this country. Whether those foreseeing statesmen, William C. Jones and Louisa, had reasoned the whole thing out or not, is now the question. For Sadler claimed that the statesmanship was all his, and that Louisa and W. C. were trying to jump his claim. He and Louisa and W. C. Jones used to sit on the veranda of Babbitt's, and argue which of them ought to be pensioned, and have a bronze statue, and brass band to play for him at meals. Sadler's argument was that he came down on the heels of his Letter to the Magistrates, with the whole menu cooked in his own mind. He saw to it himself that Hannah stopped over. Louisa and W. C. Jones argued that the menu developed in the cooking, that is, under discussion, to say nothing of the delicate handling which lay to their credit. Moreover, they argued that Sadler had mostly in mind the private need that lay in his nature to get even with the Ulswaters for shanghaiing him off Lua. That was one of W. C. Jones' strong arguments against him, whereby there fell a shadow of suspicion on his (Sadler's) purity of motive. He had wanted to draw Dr. Ulswater to, and get him interested in Zionville, where he, Sadler, had lived when he was younger, and before he went over to Asia, and got the gray ashes of Asia on his head. He had a sentiment for Zionville, as have all who breathe her air.

“I used to sit,” he said once, “in that there monastery in Rangoon, in Burmah, with a yeller robe on, and I'd contemplate the same idea for hours and days, same as Ram Nad is doing out there in the dust, which I don't see why Ram Nad can't do his meditating somewhere else besides up against that hitching post to employ one able-bodied man on detail to see nobody's horse don't step on him—Here, Bobby Lee! You call your dog off the prophet, or I'll come around and spank the fattest side of your trousers!—Well, by and by, what with turning that idea over and over, it'd get smooth and round like a billiard ball, and by and by I'd get into a condition where I'd begin to see things running round the ball, like the colours on a soap bubble, and them visions got mixed up with the daylight. But about once in three times when I'd got a vision pinned down so I could make it give its name, it was nothing but Main Street from the station to Babbitt's Hotel. That was the peculiar thing in the cultivation of my soul's garden. I guess their wasn't another garden like it in Burmah. When I started after Nirvana, about once in three I fetched up at Babbitt's.”

“Which,” said W. C. Jones, “is a proper sentiment, but it don't prove you was onto Hannah.”

I don't know either just why Ram Nad liked to meditate against the hitching post in front of Babbitt's. He got into the habit of it when the Ulswaters, and all theirs, lived at Babbitt's. It was before they built the big stone house on the hill, from whose porch one could see thirty miles to where the Violetta lay at anchor in the river. Ram Nad never got over the habit of the hitching post. He'd sit there placidly in the dust, with somebody's pony jingling a chain bit over his head, and somebody's dog investigating the conical basket, whose perils no dog could ever understand. Zionville was more than used to Ram Nad. He was one of the assets of the town. He could squat down where he liked, provided it was conspicuous and handy for pointing out to tourists. He was part of Zionville's fame—he and his basket and his dingy long beard, dingy cotton clothes, and brown bony ankles—a sort of public institution. He ate and slept at Babbitt's, or at the Ulswaters', or anywhere he chose. As I recollect, in his later years, he wore a Navajo blanket that Sadler gave him, of a fiery red that burnt a hole in the atmosphere. I recollect the Chinamen from Chinatown that used to drop around and consult him at the hitching post, but what about I don't know. He appeared to be an institution with them too, a sort of high priest or spiritual adviser.

So lived Ram Nad in Zionville. So he died in Zionville by a unanimous agreement with himself. He left off breathing one afternoon, in the sunlight, by his hitching post, calm and harmonious, in a Navajo blanket.

But I was speaking of the burial of Hannah Atkins, and what person, in truth, ought to have a bronze statue in front of the City Hall, with a laurel wreath on his head, and one finger pointing toward Hannah's monument.

Of course, any man, of any likely town in the West, advertises his town. It's the subject of his daily conversation and his nightly dreams, for it's not merely a casual coincidence of people, but an enterprise that every inhabitant has stock in. So far Zionville wasn't peculiar. But no other town would have grasped and gathered in the possibilities of Hannah Atkins. The question is, Whose genius first foresaw those possibilities?

It is some years past now. And yet a tourist on the Overland train now and then still drops off and asks to see where Hannah Atkins was buried. But Oh! that great day of the Burial! Reporters came up from San Francisco to attend, and Dr. Ulswater's oration was a monument in itself. And Oh! the great days that followed! Zionville became celebrated, suddenly and superbly, renowned. Fame jumped upon her. It proclaimed her the healthiest town on earth, not to say the most singular. There was a time—a short time, we admit—when nearly every newspaper in the land had its item about Zionville. It was enough. Dr. Uls-water, William C. Jones, Louisa, Sadler, Ram Nad, all, especially Hannah Atkins, had a period of limelight fame. Europe and America spoke of Zionville. The world stopped its business a moment and gave her a cheer.

The thing was done. Zionville was as well known as Uneeda Biscuit, and launched on her career of increase. Her boom was started.