As to buying precious stones, especially opals, in this part of the country, I think it is wisest to buy opals in the real old Mexico for yourselves, often very cheaply. The prices rise rapidly here. A water opal, however beautiful, has no commercial value. It is but an imprisoned soap-bubble, and is apt to crumble. There are stores where pretty colored stones can be bought, but the majority get cheated as to price.
But we are not paying proper attention to the "panorama." Many have been led to settle here by taking this picturesque trip; and with plenty of water oranges pay splendidly. So there is substantial wealth, ever on the increase, in these new towns.
By the way, were you ever asked to be a "panorama"? I once had that honor. A lady came to my house one Sunday morning, and explained that her husband was dreadfully depressed over a fall in stocks or something, and she knew I could be "so amusing" if I chose, and wouldn't I get into her carriage and go with her to amuse said husband, and be a sort of panorama for the poor man? "I don't want him to be in the panorama," she said, "nor of the panorama; I want you just to be the panorama by yourself." I was forced to decline this singular appeal, glad as I should have been to cheer her dumpy spouse.
Why, oh why is it, that if persons have the slightest power of being what is vaguely called "entertaining," they are expected to be ever on duty at the call of any one who feels a desire for inexpensive diversion?
At one hotel I sat by the side of an odd old man, a retired tobacco merchant of great wealth, who was ready for conversation with all newcomers, and who seemed to feel that I was not doing my full share as an entertainer for the masses. He also had the unusual habit of speaking his thoughts aloud, whether complimentary or otherwise, in frank soliloquy, like that absent-minded Lord Dudley whom Sydney Smith alludes to, as meeting and greeting him with effusive cordiality, and then saying, sotto voce, "I suppose I shall have to ask this man home to dinner."
But my friend at my elbow had very little of the sotto in his voce. He began in this way:
"Ahem! I hear you can be funny." No response from person addressed. Then to himself: "I don't much believe she can do anything—don't look like it." To me: "Well, now, if you can be funny, why don't you?" I could not help laughing then. "Yes, if you can, you ought to go into the parlor every night and show what you can do, and amuse us. It is your duty. Why, I told Quilletts—you know 'bout Quilletts? awfully funny feller; good company, you see—says I, 'Quilletts, I like you. Now, if you'll stay I'll give you a cottage, rent free, all summer (I've got an island home—lots of us fellers on it—great times we have); but you must agree to be funny every night, and keep the ball a-rollin'.' Now we want you to get up and do something to entertain the guests. We want to be amused—somethin' that will set us laughin'!"
I replied: "Mr. Brushwood, I understand you are a dealer in tobacco?"
"Yes, mum; and you won't find finer tobacker anywhere in this world than what's got my name on it. Here's a picture of my store. Why, Brushwood's tobacker is known all over the United States."
"Yes? Well, when I notice you freely distributing that tobacco, bunches of your choicest brands, papers of the very best for chewing, cigarettes by the dozen, in the parlor evenings, I'll follow on just behind you, and try to amuse as a condensed circus. I'm not lacking in philanthropy. I only need to be roused by your noble example, sustained by your influence."