"This man is in for murder.  He is here for three years." But shooting isn't as popular in Nevada as it once was.  A few years since they used to have a dead man for breakfast every morning.  A reformed desperado told my that he supposed he had killed men enough to stock a graveyard.  "A feeling of remorse," he said, "sometimes comes over me!  But I'm an altered man now.  I hain't killed a man for over two weeks!  What'll yer poison yourself with?" he added, dealing a resonant blow on the bar. There used to live near Carson City a notorious desperado, who 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. _______________ I visit several of the adjacent mining towns, but I do not go to Aurora.  No, I think not.  A lecturer on psychology was killed there the other night by the playful discharge of a horse-pistol in the hands of a degenerate and intoxicated Spaniard.  This circumstance, and a rumor that the citizens are "agin" literature, induce me to go back to Virginia. _______________ I had pointed out to me at a restaurant a man who had killed four men in street broils, and who had that very day cut his own brother's breast open in a dangerous manner with a small supper knife.  He was a gentleman, however.  I heard him tell some men so.  He admitted it himself.  And I don't think he would lie about a little thing like that.