Dear Mother: You ask me in your last to tell you about the country—tell everything Ⓐemendationjust as it is—no better and no worse—and do let nonsense alone. VeryⒶemendation well, then, ma, since you wasted a considerable portion of your life in an unprofitable effort to teach me to tell the truth on all occasions, I will repay you by dealing strictly in facts just this once, and by avoiding that “nonsense” for which you seem to entertain a mild sort of horror.

Thus: “Gold Hill” (which is the name of the finest gold bearing quartz Ⓐemendationledge in this vicinity,Ⓐemendation) sells at $5,000 a foot, cash down; ‘Wildcat’ isn’t worth 10 Ⓐemendationcents. And thus: Nevada Territory Ⓐemendationis fabulously rich in gold, silver, copper, lead, coal, iron, quicksilver, marble, Ⓐemendationgranite, chalk, slate, plaster of Paris (gypsumⒶemendation,) thieves, murderers, desperadoes, ladies, children, lawyers, ChristiansⒶemendation, gamblers, Indians, Chinamen, Spaniards, sharpers, cuyotes, (pronounced ki-yo-ties,) preachers, poets and jackass-rabbits.

Furthermore: it never rains here, and the dew never falls. No flowers grow here, and no green thing gladdens the eye. The birds that fly over the land carry their provisions with them. Only the crow and the raven tarry with us. Our city lies in the midst of a desert of the purest, most unadulterated and uncompromising sand—in which infernal soil nothing but that fag-end of vegetable creation, “sage-brush,” is mean enough to grow. If you will take a liliputian cedar tree for a model, and build a dozen imitations of it with the stiffest article of telegraph wire—set them one foot apart and then try to walk through Ⓐemendationthem—you will understand, (provided the floor is covered twelve inches deep with sand) what it is to travel through a sage-brush desert. When Ⓐemendationcrushed, sage-brush emits an odor which isn’t exactly magnolia, and equally isn’t exactly polecat, but a sort of compromise between the two. It looks a good deal like grease-woodⒶemendation, and is probably the ugliest plant that was ever conceived of. It is gray in color. On the plains sage-brush and Ⓐemendationgrease-wood grow to about twice the size of common geranium, and, to my thinking, are very good substitutes for that very useless vegetable. Greasewood is a perfect imitation, in miniature, of the live-oak tree, ‘barringⒶemendation’ the color of it. As to the other fruits and flowers of the country, there ain’t Ⓐemendation any except ‘Tula,’ a species of unpoetical rush, that grows on the banks of the Carson,—a river, ma mere, twenty yards wide, knee-deep, and so villainously rapid and crooked, that it looks like it had wandered into the country without intending it, and had run about in a bewildered way and got lost in its hurry to get out again before some thirsty man came along and drank it up.

I said we are situated in a flat, sandy desert. True. And surrounded on all sides by such prodigious mountains that when you stand at a distance from Carson and gaze at them awhile,—until, by mentally measuring them, and comparing them with things of smaller size, you begin to conceive of their grandeur, and next to feel their vastness expanding your soul like a balloon, and ultimately find yourself growing, and swelling, and spreading into a colossus,—I say when this point is reached, you look disdainfully down upon the insignificant village of Carson, reposing like a cheap print away yonder at the foot of the big hills, and 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.

Now, although we are surrounded by sand, the greater part of the town is built upon what was once a very Ⓐemendationpretty grassy spot; and the streams of pure water that used to poke about it in rural sloth and solitude, now pass through our dusty streets and gladden the hearts of men by reminding them that there is at least something here that hath its prototype among the homes they left behind them.

And up “King’s Canon,” (please pronounce can-yon, after the manner of the natives,) there are ranches, or farms, where they say hay grows; and grass, and beets, and onions, and turnips and other “truck,” which cows are fond of—yea, and even potatoes grow there—a vegetable eminently proper for human consumption; also cabbages, peas and beans.

The houses are mostly frame, and unplasteredⒶemendation; but “papered” inside with flour-sacks sewed together—with the addition, in favor of the parlor, of a second papering composed of engravings cut from “Harper’s Weekly;” so you will easily perceive that the handsomer the “brand” upon the flour-sacks is, and the more spirited the pictures are, the finer the house looks. There are several stone buildings here, and in the course of time, Ma, there will be several more. On account of the dryness of the atmosphere, the shingles on the houses warp until they look very much like they would be glad to turn over, and lie awhile on the other side.

Notwithstanding the extraordinary mixture of folks which I mentioned in the beginning of my letter, one can find as good society, here, of both sexes, as any Christian Ⓐemendationneed desire. Please do not forget that.

Behold, I have spoken the truth concerning this land. And now, for your other questions, which shall be answered tersely, promptly, and to the point: First—“Do I go to church every Sunday?” Answer—“Scasely.” Second—“Have you a Church in Carson?” We have—a Catholic one—butⒶemendation, to use a fireman’s expression, I believe “they don’t run her now.” We have also Protestant service nearly every Sabbath in the school house. Third—“Are there many ladies in Carson?” Multitudes—probably the handsomest in the world. Fourth—“Are the citizens generally moral and religious?” Prodigiously so. Fifth—“When my old friends ask me how you like Nevada, what reply shall I make?” Tell them I am delighted with it. It is the dustiest country on the face of the earth—but I rather like dust. And the days are very hot—but you know I am fond of hot days. And Ⓐemendationthe nights are cold—but one always sleeps well under blankets. And it never rains here—but I despise a country where rain and mud are fashionable. And there are no mosquitoes here—but then I can get along without them. And there are scorpions here—and tarantulas or spiders, as big as a mouse—but I am passionately fond of spiders. Tell them I never liked any country so well before—and my word for it, you will tell them the truth.

Tell aunt Mary2explanatory note that I am sorry she thought I intended to study law, because to my mind, that is proof positive that her excellent judgment has erred this time. I do not love the law. And besides, there are many young lawyers here, and I am too generous to allow the glare from my lamp of genius to dim the feeble lustre of their two-penny dips. In a word, you know—I don’t want to be the means of showing them how little the Lord has done for them. And while on the subject, let me hint to the craft that fees in this Territory are large—and also, that although there is a shining array of legal talent here, there is still room in the firmament for another star or so.

While at breakfast this morning I received a telegraphic dispatch worded as follows, and I have delayed my letter in order to insert it:

China Town,3explanatory note Oct. 26,—8 a.m.

“Dear Sam.:—My brother George died this morning at half past two o’clock—come down.

Wm. H. Clagett.”4explanatory note

I shall go down in the stage at noon and render Billy all the assistance in my power, in this, his hour of distress. For the present, good-bye.