insignificant village of Carson, in that instant you are seized with a burning desire to stretch forth your hand, put the city in your pocket, and walk off with it.

    As to churches, I believe they have got a Catholic one here, but,
    like that one the New York fireman spoke of, I believe “they don’t
    run her now.”

Carson has been through several phases of change since this was written —­for better and for worse.  It is a thriving place in these later days, and new farming conditions have improved the country roundabout.  But it was a desert outpost then, a catch-all for the human drift which every whirlwind of discovery sweeps along.  Gold and silver hunting and mine speculations were the industries—­gambling, drinking, and murder were the diversions—­of the Nevada capital.  Politics developed in due course, though whether as a business or a diversion is not clear at this time.

The Clemens brothers took lodging with a genial Irishwoman, Mrs. Murphy, a New York retainer of Governor Nye, who boarded the camp-followers. —­[The Mrs, O’Flannigan of ’Roughing It’.]—­This retinue had come in the hope of Territorial pickings and mine adventure—­soldiers of fortune they were, and a good-natured lot all together.  One of them, Bob Howland, a nephew of the governor, attracted Samuel Clemens by his clean-cut manner and commanding eye.

“The man who has that eye doesn’t need to go armed,” he wrote later.  “He can move upon an armed desperado and quell him and take him a prisoner without saying a single word.”  It was the same Bob Howland who would be known by and by as the most fearless man in the Territory; who, as city marshal of Aurora, kept that lawless camp in subjection, and, when the friends of a lot of condemned outlaws were threatening an attack with general massacre, sent the famous message to Governor Nye:  “All quiet in Aurora.  Five men will be hung in an hour.”  And it was quiet, and the programme was carried out.  But this is a digression and somewhat premature.

Orion Clemens, anxious for laurels, established himself in the meager fashion which he thought the government would approve; and his brother, finding neither duties nor salary attached to his secondary position, devoted himself mainly to the study of human nature as exhibited under frontier conditions.  Sometimes, when the nights were cool, he would build a fire in the office stove, and, with Bob Howland and a few other choice members of the “Brigade” gathered around, would tell river yarns in that inimitable fashion which would win him devoted audiences all his days.  His river life had increased his natural languor of habit, and his slow speech heightened the lazy impression which he was never unwilling to convey.  His hearers generally regarded him as an easygoing, indolent good fellow with a love of humor—­with talent, perhaps—­but as one not likely ever to set the world afire.  They did not happen to think that the same inclination which made them crowd about to listen and applaud would one day win for him the attention of all mankind.