If ever there was an oyster that fancied itself a whale; or a jack-o'lantern, confined to a swamp, that fancied itself a planet with a billion-mile orbit; or a summer zephyr that deemed itself a hurricane, it is Conrad Wiegand.
Therefore, what wonder is it that when he says a thing, he thinks the world listens; that when he does a thing the world stands still to look; and that when he suffers, there is a convulsion of nature?
When I met Conrad, he was "Superintendent of the Gold Hill Assay Office"-- and he was not only its Superintendent, but its entire force.

And he was a street preacher, too, with a mongrel religion of his own invention, whereby he expected to regenerate the universe.

This was years ago.

Here latterly he has entered journalism; and his journalism is what it might be expected to be: colossal to ear, but pigmy to the eye.

It is extravagant grandiloquence confined to a newspaper about the size of a double letter sheet.