But my chief object, Mrs. Cutler, in writing you this note (and you will pardon the liberty I have taken,) was to thank you very kindly and sincerely for the consideration you have shown me in this matter, and for your continued friendship for Mollie while others are disposed to withdraw theirs on account of a fault for which I alone am responsible. 
                              Very truly yours,
                                             Sam.  L. Clemens.

The matter did not end with the failure of the duel.  A very strict law had just been passed, making it a felony even to send or accept a challenge.  Clemens, on the whole, rather tired of Virginia City and Carson, thought it a good time to go across the mountains to San Francisco.  With Steve Gillis, a printer, of whom he was very fond —­an inveterate joker, who had been more than half responsible for the proposed duel, and was to have served as his second—­he took the stage one morning, and in due time was in the California metropolis, at work on the Morning Call.

Clemens had been several times in San Francisco, and loved the place.  We have no letter of that summer, the first being dated several months after his arrival.  He was still working on the Call when it was written, and contributing literary articles to the Californian, of which Bret Harte, unknown to fame, was editor.  Harte had his office just above the rooms of the Call, and he and Clemens were good friends.  San Francisco had a real literary group that, for a time at least, centered around the offices of the Golden Era.  In a letter that follows Clemens would seem to have scorned this publication, but he was a frequent contributor to it at one period.  Joaquin Miller was of this band of literary pioneers; also Prentice Mulford, Charles Warren Stoddard, Fitzhugh Ludlow, and Orpheus C. Kerr.

To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis: 

Sept. 25, 1864.  My dear mother and sister,—­You can see by my picture that this superb climate agrees with me.  And it ought, after living where I was never out of sight of snow peaks twenty-four hours during three years.  Here we have neither snow nor cold weather; fires are never lighted, and yet summer clothes are never worn—­you wear spring clothing the year round.

Steve Gillis, who has been my comrade for two years, and who came down here with me, is to be married, in a week or two, to a very pretty girl worth $130,000 in her own right—­and then I shall be alone again, until they build a house, which they will do shortly.

We have been here only four months, yet we have changed our lodgings five times, and our hotel twice.  We are very comfortably fixed where we are, now, and have no fault to find with the rooms or with the people—­we are the only lodgers in a well-to-do private family, with one grown daughter and a piano in the parlor adjoining our room.  But I need a change, and must move again.  I have taken rooms further down the street.  I shall stay in this little quiet street, because it is full of gardens and shrubbery, and there are none but dwelling houses in it.