never visited town without killing somebody. He would call for
liquor at some drinking-house, and if anybody declined joining him
he would at once commence shooting. But one day he shot a man too
many. Going into the St. Nicholas drinking-house he asked the
company present to join him in a North American drink. One
individual was rash enough to refuse. With a look of sorrow rather
than anger the desperado revealed his revolver, and said, "Good
God! MUST I kill a man every time I come to Carson?" and so saying
he fired and killed the individual on the spot. But this was the
last murder the bloodthirsty miscreant ever committed, for the
aroused citizens pursued him with rifles and shot him down in his
own dooryard.
. . . .

I lecture in the theatre at Carson, which opens out of a drinking
and gambling house. On each side of the door where my ticket-taker
stands there are monte-boards and sweat-cloths, but they are
deserted to-night, the gamblers being evidently of a literary turn
of mind.
. . . .

Five years ago there was only a pony-path over the precipitous
hills on which now stands the marvelous city of Virginia, with its
population of twelve thousand persons, and perhaps more. Virginia,
with its stately warehouses and gay shops; its splendid streets,
paved with silver ore; its banking houses and faro-banks; its
attractive coffee-houses and elegant theatre, its music halls and
its three daily newspapers.

Virginia is very wild, but I believe it is now pretty generally