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Title: Roughing It, Part 2.

Author: Mark Twain

Release date: July 2, 2004 [eBook #8583]
                Most recently updated: December 26, 2020

Language: English

Credits: Produced by David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROUGHING IT, PART 2. ***




Produced by David Widger





                              ROUGHING IT

                             by Mark Twain

                                 1880

                                Part 2.




CHAPTER XI.

And sure enough, two or three years afterward, we did hear him again.
News came to the Pacific coast that the Vigilance Committee in Montana
(whither Slade had removed from Rocky Ridge) had hanged him.  I find an
account of the affair in the thrilling little book I quoted a paragraph
from in the last chapter--"The Vigilantes of Montana; being a Reliable
Account of the Capture, Trial and Execution of Henry Plummer's Notorious
Road Agent Band: By Prof. Thos. J. Dimsdale, Virginia City, M.T."
Mr. Dimsdale's chapter is well worth reading, as a specimen of how the
people of the frontier deal with criminals when the courts of law prove
inefficient.  Mr. Dimsdale makes two remarks about Slade, both of which
are accurately descriptive, and one of which is exceedingly picturesque:
"Those who saw him in his natural state only, would pronounce him to be a
kind husband, a most hospitable host and a courteous gentleman; on the
contrary, those who met him when maddened with liquor and surrounded by a
gang of armed roughs, would pronounce him a fiend incarnate."  And this:
"From Fort Kearney, west, he was feared a great deal more than the
almighty."  For compactness, simplicity and vigor of expression, I will
"back" that sentence against anything in literature.  Mr. Dimsdale's
narrative is as follows.  In all places where italics occur, they are
mine:

      After the execution of the five men on the 14th of January, the
      Vigilantes considered that their work was nearly ended.  They had
      freed the country of highwaymen and murderers to a great extent, and
      they determined that in the absence of the regular civil authority
      they would establish a People's Court where all offenders should be
      tried by judge and jury.  This was the nearest approach to social
      order that the circumstances permitted, and, though strict legal
      authority was wanting, yet the people were firmly determined to
      maintain its efficiency, and to enforce its decrees.  It may here be
      mentioned that the overt act which was the last round on the fatal
      ladder leading to the scaffold on which Slade perished, was the
      tearing in pieces and stamping upon a writ of this court, followed
      by his arrest of the Judge Alex. Davis, by authority of a presented
      Derringer, and with his own hands.

      J. A. Slade was himself, we have been informed, a Vigilante; he
      openly boasted of it, and said he knew all that they knew.  He was
      never accused, or even suspected, of either murder or robbery,
      committed in this Territory (the latter crime was never laid to his
      charge, in any place); but that he had killed several men in other
      localities was notorious, and his bad reputation in this respect was
      a most powerful argument in determining his fate, when he was
      finally arrested for the offence above mentioned.  On returning from
      Milk River he became more and more addicted to drinking, until at
      last it was a common feat for him and his friends to "take the
      town."  He and a couple of his dependents might often be seen on one
      horse, galloping through the streets, shouting and yelling, firing
      revolvers, etc.  On many occasions he would ride his horse into
      stores, break up bars, toss the scales out of doors and use most
      insulting language to parties present.  Just previous to the day of
      his arrest, he had given a fearful beating to one of his followers;
      but such was his influence over them that the man wept bitterly at
      the gallows, and begged for his life with all his power.  It had
      become quite common, when Slade was on a spree, for the shop-keepers
      and citizens to close the stores and put out all the lights; being
      fearful of some outrage at his hands.  For his wanton destruction of
      goods and furniture, he was always ready to pay, when sober, if he
      had money; but there were not a few who regarded payment as small
      satisfaction for the outrage, and these men were his personal
      enemies.

      From time to time Slade received warnings from men that he well knew
      would not deceive him, of the certain end of his conduct.  There was
      not a moment, for weeks previous to his arrest, in which the public
      did not expect to hear of some bloody outrage.  The dread of his
      very name, and the presence of the armed band of hangers-on who
      followed him alone prevented a resistance which must certainly have
      ended in the instant murder or mutilation of the opposing party.

      Slade was frequently arrested by order of the court whose
      organization we have described, and had treated it with respect by
      paying one or two fines and promising to pay the rest when he had
      money; but in the transaction that occurred at this crisis, he
      forgot even this caution, and goaded by passion and the hatred of
      restraint, he sprang into the embrace of death.

      Slade had been drunk and "cutting up" all night.  He and his
      companions had made the town a perfect hell.  In the morning, J. M.
      Fox, the sheriff, met him, arrested him, took him into court and
      commenced reading a warrant that he had for his arrest, by way of
      arraignment.  He became uncontrollably furious, and seizing the
      writ, he tore it up, threw it on the ground and stamped upon it.

      The clicking of the locks of his companions' revolvers was instantly
      heard, and a crisis was expected.  The sheriff did not attempt his
      retention; but being at least as prudent as he was valiant, he
      succumbed, leaving Slade the master of the situation and the
      conqueror and ruler of the courts, law and law-makers.  This was a
      declaration of war, and was so accepted.  The Vigilance Committee
      now felt that the question of social order and the preponderance of
      the law-abiding citizens had then and there to be decided.  They
      knew the character of Slade, and they were well aware that they must
      submit to his rule without murmur, or else that he must be dealt
      with in such fashion as would prevent his being able to wreak his
      vengeance on the committee, who could never have hoped to live in
      the Territory secure from outrage or death, and who could never
      leave it without encountering his friend, whom his victory would
      have emboldened and stimulated to a pitch that would have rendered
      them reckless of consequences.  The day previous he had ridden into
      Dorris's store, and on being requested to leave, he drew his
      revolver and threatened to kill the gentleman who spoke to him.
      Another saloon he had led his horse into, and buying a bottle of
      wine, he tried to make the animal drink it.  This was not considered
      an uncommon performance, as he had often entered saloons and
      commenced firing at the lamps, causing a wild stampede.

      A leading member of the committee met Slade, and informed him in the
      quiet, earnest manner of one who feels the importance of what he is
      saying: "Slade, get your horse at once, and go home, or there will
      be ---- to pay."  Slade started and took a long look, with his dark
      and piercing eyes, at the gentleman.  "What do you mean?"  said he.
      "You have no right to ask me what I mean," was the quiet reply, "get
      your horse at once, and remember what I tell you."  After a short
      pause he promised to do so, and actually got into the saddle; but,
      being still intoxicated, he began calling aloud to one after another
      of his friends, and at last seemed to have forgotten the warning he
      had received and became again uproarious, shouting the name of a
      well-known courtezan in company with those of two men whom he
      considered heads of the committee, as a sort of challenge; perhaps,
      however, as a simple act of bravado.  It seems probable that the
      intimation of personal danger he had received had not been forgotten
      entirely; though fatally for him, he took a foolish way of showing
      his remembrance of it.  He sought out Alexander Davis, the Judge of
      the Court, and drawing a cocked Derringer, he presented it at his
      head, and told him that he should hold him as a hostage for his own
      safety.  As the judge stood perfectly quiet, and offered no
      resistance to his captor, no further outrage followed on this score.
      Previous to this, on account of the critical state of affairs, the
      committee had met, and at last resolved to arrest him.  His
      execution had not been agreed upon, and, at that time, would have
      been negatived, most assuredly.  A messenger rode down to Nevada to
      inform the leading men of what was on hand, as it was desirable to
      show that there was a feeling of unanimity on the subject, all along
      the gulch.

      The miners turned out almost en masse, leaving their work and
      forming in solid column about six hundred strong, armed to the
      teeth, they marched up to Virginia.  The leader of the body well
      knew the temper of his men on the subject.  He spurred on ahead of
      them, and hastily calling a meeting of the executive, he told them
      plainly that the miners meant "business," and that, if they came up,
      they would not stand in the street to be shot down by Slade's
      friends; but that they would take him and hang him.  The meeting was
      small, as the Virginia men were loath to act at all.  This momentous
      announcement of the feeling of the Lower Town was made to a cluster
      of men, who were deliberation behind a wagon, at the rear of a store
      on Main street.

      The committee were most unwilling to proceed to extremities.  All
      the duty they had ever performed seemed as nothing to the task
      before them; but they had to decide, and that quickly.  It was
      finally agreed that if the whole body of the miners were of the
      opinion that he should be hanged, that the committee left it in
      their hands to deal with him.  Off, at hot speed, rode the leader of
      the Nevada men to join his command.

      Slade had found out what was intended, and the news sobered him
      instantly.  He went into P. S. Pfouts' store, where Davis was, and
      apologized for his conduct, saying that he would take it all back.

      The head of the column now wheeled into Wallace street and marched
      up at quick time.  Halting in front of the store, the executive
      officer of the committee stepped forward and arrested Slade, who was
      at once informed of his doom, and inquiry was made as to whether he
      had any business to settle.  Several parties spoke to him on the
      subject; but to all such inquiries he turned a deaf ear, being
      entirely absorbed in the terrifying reflections on his own awful
      position.  He never ceased his entreaties for life, and to see his
      dear wife.  The unfortunate lady referred to, between whom and Slade
      there existed a warm affection, was at this time living at their
      ranch on the Madison.  She was possessed of considerable personal
      attractions; tall, well-formed, of graceful carriage, pleasing
      manners, and was, withal, an accomplished horsewoman.

      A messenger from Slade rode at full speed to inform her of her
      husband's arrest.  In an instant she was in the saddle, and with all
      the energy that love and despair could lend to an ardent temperament
      and a strong physique, she urged her fleet charger over the twelve
      miles of rough and rocky ground that intervened between her and the
      object of her passionate devotion.

      Meanwhile a party of volunteers had made the necessary preparations
      for the execution, in the valley traversed by the branch.  Beneath
      the site of Pfouts and Russell's stone building there was a corral,
      the gate-posts of which were strong and high.  Across the top was
      laid a beam, to which the rope was fastened, and a dry-goods box
      served for the platform.  To this place Slade was marched,
      surrounded by a guard, composing the best armed and most numerous
      force that has ever appeared in Montana Territory.

      The doomed man had so exhausted himself by tears, prayers and
      lamentations, that he had scarcely strength left to stand under the
      fatal beam.  He repeatedly exclaimed, "My God! my God! must I die?
      Oh, my dear wife!"

      On the return of the fatigue party, they encountered some friends of
      Slade, staunch and reliable citizens and members of the committee,
      but who were personally attached to the condemned.  On hearing of
      his sentence, one of them, a stout-hearted man, pulled out his
      handkerchief and walked away, weeping like a child.  Slade still
      begged to see his wife, most piteously, and it seemed hard to deny
      his request; but the bloody consequences that were sure to follow
      the inevitable attempt at a rescue, that her presence and entreaties
      would have certainly incited, forbade the granting of his request.
      Several gentlemen were sent for to see him, in his last moments, one
      of whom (Judge Davis) made a short address to the people; but in
      such low tones as to be inaudible, save to a few in his immediate
      vicinity.  One of his friends, after exhausting his powers of
      entreaty, threw off his coat and declared that the prisoner could
      not be hanged until he himself was killed.  A hundred guns were
      instantly leveled at him; whereupon he turned and fled; but, being
      brought back, he was compelled to resume his coat, and to give a
      promise of future peaceable demeanor.

      Scarcely a leading man in Virginia could be found, though numbers of
      the citizens joined the ranks of the guard when the arrest was made.
      All lamented the stern necessity which dictated the execution.

      Everything being ready, the command was given, "Men, do your duty,"
      and the box being instantly slipped from beneath his feet, he died
      almost instantaneously.

      The body was cut down and carried to the Virginia Hotel, where, in a
      darkened room, it was scarcely laid out, when the unfortunate and
      bereaved companion of the deceased arrived, at headlong speed, to
      find that all was over, and that she was a widow.  Her grief and
      heart-piercing cries were terrible evidences of the depth of her
      attachment for her lost husband, and a considerable period elapsed
      before she could regain the command of her excited feelings.

There is something about the desperado-nature that is wholly
unaccountable--at least it looks unaccountable.  It is this.  The true
desperado is gifted with splendid courage, and yet he will take the most
infamous advantage of his enemy; armed and free, he will stand up before
a host and fight until he is shot all to pieces, and yet when he is under
the gallows and helpless he will cry and plead like a child.  Words are
cheap, and it is easy to call Slade a coward (all executed men who do not
"die game" are promptly called cowards by unreflecting people), and when
we read of Slade that he "had so exhausted himself by tears, prayers and
lamentations, that he had scarcely strength left to stand under the fatal
beam," the disgraceful word suggests itself in a moment--yet in
frequently defying and inviting the vengeance of banded Rocky Mountain
cut-throats by shooting down their comrades and leaders, and never
offering to hide or fly, Slade showed that he was a man of peerless
bravery.  No coward would dare that.  Many a notorious coward, many a
chicken-livered poltroon, coarse, brutal, degraded, has made his dying
speech without a quaver in his voice and been swung into eternity with
what looked liked the calmest fortitude, and so we are justified in
believing, from the low intellect of such a creature, that it was not
moral courage that enabled him to do it.  Then, if moral courage is not
the requisite quality, what could it have been that this stout-hearted
Slade lacked?--this bloody, desperate, kindly-mannered, urbane gentleman,
who never hesitated to warn his most ruffianly enemies that he would kill
them whenever or wherever he came across them next!  I think it is a
conundrum worth investigating.




CHAPTER XII.

Just beyond the breakfast-station we overtook a Mormon emigrant train of
thirty-three wagons; and tramping wearily along and driving their herd of
loose cows, were dozens of coarse-clad and sad-looking men, women and
children, who had walked as they were walking now, day after day for
eight lingering weeks, and in that time had compassed the distance our
stage had come in eight days and three hours--seven hundred and
ninety-eight miles!  They were dusty and uncombed, hatless, bonnetless
and ragged, and they did look so tired!

After breakfast, we bathed in Horse Creek, a (previously) limpid,
sparkling stream--an appreciated luxury, for it was very seldom that our
furious coach halted long enough for an indulgence of that kind.  We
changed horses ten or twelve times in every twenty-four hours--changed
mules, rather--six mules--and did it nearly every time in four minutes.
It was lively work.  As our coach rattled up to each station six
harnessed mules stepped gayly from the stable; and in the twinkling of an
eye, almost, the old team was out, and the new one in and we off and away
again.

During the afternoon we passed Sweetwater Creek, Independence Rock,
Devil's Gate and the Devil's Gap.  The latter were wild specimens of
rugged scenery, and full of interest--we were in the heart of the Rocky
Mountains, now.  And we also passed by "Alkali" or "Soda Lake," and we
woke up to the fact that our journey had stretched a long way across the
world when the driver said that the Mormons often came there from Great
Salt Lake City to haul away saleratus.  He said that a few days gone by
they had shoveled up enough pure saleratus from the ground (it was a dry
lake) to load two wagons, and that when they got these two wagons-loads
of a drug that cost them nothing, to Salt Lake, they could sell it for
twenty-five cents a pound.

In the night we sailed by a most notable curiosity, and one we had been
hearing a good deal about for a day or two, and were suffering to see.
This was what might be called a natural ice-house.  It was August, now,
and sweltering weather in the daytime, yet at one of the stations the men
could scape the soil on the hill-side under the lee of a range of
boulders, and at a depth of six inches cut out pure blocks of ice--hard,
compactly frozen, and clear as crystal!

Toward dawn we got under way again, and presently as we sat with raised
curtains enjoying our early-morning smoke and contemplating the first
splendor of the rising sun as it swept down the long array of mountain
peaks, flushing and gilding crag after crag and summit after summit, as
if the invisible Creator reviewed his gray veterans and they saluted with
a smile, we hove in sight of South Pass City.  The hotel-keeper, the
postmaster, the blacksmith, the mayor, the constable, the city marshal
and the principal citizen and property holder, all came out and greeted
us cheerily, and we gave him good day.  He gave us a little Indian news,
and a little Rocky Mountain news, and we gave him some Plains information
in return.  He then retired to his lonely grandeur and we climbed on up
among the bristling peaks and the ragged clouds.  South Pass City
consisted of four log cabins, one if which was unfinished, and the
gentleman with all those offices and titles was the chiefest of the ten
citizens of the place.  Think of hotel-keeper, postmaster, blacksmith,
mayor, constable, city marshal and principal citizen all condensed into
one person and crammed into one skin.  Bemis said he was "a perfect
Allen's revolver of dignities."  And he said that if he were to die as
postmaster, or as blacksmith, or as postmaster and blacksmith both, the
people might stand it; but if he were to die all over, it would be a
frightful loss to the community.

Two miles beyond South Pass City we saw for the first time that
mysterious marvel which all Western untraveled boys have heard of and
fully believe in, but are sure to be astounded at when they see it with
their own eyes, nevertheless--banks of snow in dead summer time.  We were
now far up toward the sky, and knew all the time that we must presently
encounter lofty summits clad in the "eternal snow" which was so common
place a matter of mention in books, and yet when I did see it glittering
in the sun on stately domes in the distance and knew the month was August
and that my coat was hanging up because it was too warm to wear it, I was
full as much amazed as if I never had heard of snow in August before.
Truly, "seeing is believing"--and many a man lives a long life through,
thinking he believes certain universally received and well established
things, and yet never suspects that if he were confronted by those things
once, he would discover that he did not really believe them before, but
only thought he believed them.

In a little while quite a number of peaks swung into view with long claws
of glittering snow clasping them; and with here and there, in the shade,
down the mountain side, a little solitary patch of snow looking no larger
than a lady's pocket-handkerchief but being in reality as large as a
"public square."

And now, at last, we were fairly in the renowned SOUTH PASS, and whirling
gayly along high above the common world.  We were perched upon the
extreme summit of the great range of the Rocky Mountains, toward which we
had been climbing, patiently climbing, ceaselessly climbing, for days and
nights together--and about us was gathered a convention of Nature's kings
that stood ten, twelve, and even thirteen thousand feet high--grand old
fellows who would have to stoop to see Mount Washington, in the twilight.
We were in such an airy elevation above the creeping populations of the
earth, that now and then when the obstructing crags stood out of the way
it seemed that we could look around and abroad and contemplate the whole
great globe, with its dissolving views of mountains, seas and continents
stretching away through the mystery of the summer haze.

As a general thing the Pass was more suggestive of a valley than a
suspension bridge in the clouds--but it strongly suggested the latter at
one spot.  At that place the upper third of one or two majestic purple
domes projected above our level on either hand and gave us a sense of a
hidden great deep of mountains and plains and valleys down about their
bases which we fancied we might see if we could step to the edge and look
over.  These Sultans of the fastnesses were turbaned with tumbled volumes
of cloud, which shredded away from time to time and drifted off fringed
and torn, trailing their continents of shadow after them; and catching
presently on an intercepting peak, wrapped it about and brooded there
--then shredded away again and left the purple peak, as they had left the
purple domes, downy and white with new-laid snow.  In passing, these
monstrous rags of cloud hung low and swept along right over the
spectator's head, swinging their tatters so nearly in his face that his
impulse was to shrink when they came closet.  In the one place I speak
of, one could look below him upon a world of diminishing crags and
canyons leading down, down, and away to a vague plain with a thread in it
which was a road, and bunches of feathers in it which were trees,--a
pretty picture sleeping in the sunlight--but with a darkness stealing
over it and glooming its features  deeper and deeper under the frown of a
coming storm; and then, while no film or shadow marred the noon
brightness of his high perch, he could watch the tempest break forth down
there and see the lightnings leap from crag to crag and the sheeted rain
drive along the canyon-sides, and hear the thunders peal and crash and
roar.  We had this spectacle; a familiar one to many, but to us a
novelty.

We bowled along cheerily, and presently, at the very summit (though it
had been all summit to us, and all equally level, for half an hour or
more), we came to a spring which spent its water through two outlets and
sent it in opposite directions.  The conductor said that one of those
streams which we were looking at, was just starting on a journey westward
to the Gulf of California and the Pacific Ocean, through hundreds and
even thousands of miles of desert solitudes.  He said that the other was
just leaving its home among the snow-peaks on a similar journey eastward
--and we knew that long after we should have forgotten the simple rivulet
it would still be plodding its patient way down the mountain sides, and
canyon-beds, and between the banks of the Yellowstone; and by and by
would join the broad Missouri and flow through unknown plains and deserts
and unvisited wildernesses; and add a long and troubled pilgrimage among
snags and wrecks and sandbars; and enter the Mississippi, touch the
wharves of St. Louis and still drift on, traversing shoals and rocky
channels, then endless chains of bottomless and ample bends, walled with
unbroken forests, then mysterious byways and secret passages among woody
islands, then the chained bends again, bordered with wide levels of
shining sugar-cane in place of the sombre forests; then by New Orleans
and still other chains of bends--and finally, after two long months of
daily and nightly harassment, excitement, enjoyment, adventure, and awful
peril of parched throats, pumps and evaporation, pass the Gulf and enter
into its rest upon the bosom of the tropic sea, never to look upon its
snow-peaks again or regret them.

I freighted a leaf with a mental message for the friends at home, and
dropped it in the stream.  But I put no stamp on it and it was held for
postage somewhere.

On the summit we overtook an emigrant train of many wagons, many tired
men and women, and many a disgusted sheep and cow.

In the wofully dusty horseman in charge of the expedition I recognized
John -----.  Of all persons in the world to meet on top of the Rocky
Mountains thousands of miles from home, he was the last one I should have
looked for.  We were school-boys together and warm friends for years.
But a boyish prank of mine had disruptured this friendship and it had
never been renewed.  The act of which I speak was this.  I had been
accustomed to visit occasionally an editor whose room was in the third
story of a building and overlooked the street.  One day this editor gave
me a watermelon which I made preparations to devour on the spot, but
chancing to look out of the window, I saw John standing directly under it
and an irresistible desire came upon me to drop the melon on his head,
which I immediately did.  I was the loser, for it spoiled the melon, and
John never forgave me and we dropped all intercourse and parted, but now
met again under these circumstances.

We recognized each other simultaneously, and hands were grasped as warmly
as if no coldness had ever existed between us, and no allusion was made
to any.  All animosities were buried and the simple fact of meeting a
familiar face in that isolated spot so far from home, was sufficient to
make us forget all things but pleasant ones, and we parted again with
sincere "good-bye" and "God bless you" from both.

We had been climbing up the long shoulders of the Rocky Mountains for
many tedious hours--we started down them, now.  And we went spinning away
at a round rate too.

We left the snowy Wind River Mountains and Uinta Mountains behind, and
sped away, always through splendid scenery but occasionally through long
ranks of white skeletons of mules and oxen--monuments of the huge
emigration of other days--and here and there were up-ended boards or
small piles of stones which the driver said marked the resting-place of
more precious remains.

It was the loneliest land for a grave!  A land given over to the cayote
and the raven--which is but another name for desolation and utter
solitude.  On damp, murky nights, these scattered skeletons gave forth a
soft, hideous glow, like very faint spots of moonlight starring the vague
desert.  It was because of the phosphorus in the bones.  But no
scientific explanation could keep a body from shivering when he drifted
by one of those ghostly lights and knew that a skull held it.

At midnight it began to rain, and I never saw anything like it--indeed, I
did not even see this, for it was too dark.  We fastened down the
curtains and even caulked them with clothing, but the rain streamed in in
twenty places, nothwithstanding.  There was no escape.  If one moved his
feet out of a stream, he brought his body under one; and if he moved his
body he caught one somewhere else.  If he struggled out of the drenched
blankets and sat up, he was bound to get one down the back of his neck.
Meantime the stage was wandering about a plain with gaping gullies in it,
for the driver could not see an inch before his face nor keep the road,
and the storm pelted so pitilessly that there was no keeping the horses
still.  With the first abatement the conductor turned out with lanterns
to look for the road, and the first dash he made was into a chasm about
fourteen feet deep, his lantern following like a meteor.  As soon as he
touched bottom he sang out frantically:

"Don't come here!"

To which the driver, who was looking over the precipice where he had
disappeared, replied, with an injured air: "Think I'm a dam fool?"

The conductor was more than an hour finding the road--a matter which
showed us how far we had wandered and what chances we had been taking.
He traced our wheel-tracks to the imminent verge of danger, in two
places.  I have always been glad that we were not killed that night.
I do not know any particular reason, but I have always been glad.
In the morning, the tenth day out, we crossed Green River, a fine, large,
limpid stream--stuck in it with the water just up to the top of our
mail-bed, and waited till extra teams were put on to haul us up the steep
bank.  But it was nice cool water, and besides it could not find any
fresh place on us to wet.

At the Green River station we had breakfast--hot biscuits, fresh antelope
steaks, and coffee--the only decent meal we tasted between the United
States and Great Salt Lake City, and the only one we were ever really
thankful for.

Think of the monotonous execrableness of the thirty that went before it,
to leave this one simple breakfast looming up in my memory like a
shot-tower after all these years have gone by!

At five P.M.  we reached Fort Bridger, one hundred and seventeen miles
from the South Pass, and one thousand and twenty-five miles from St.
Joseph.  Fifty-two miles further on, near the head of Echo Canyon, we met
sixty United States soldiers from Camp Floyd.  The day before, they had
fired upon three hundred or four hundred Indians, whom they supposed
gathered together for no good purpose.  In the fight that had ensued,
four Indians were captured, and the main body chased four miles, but
nobody killed.  This looked like business.  We had a notion to get out
and join the sixty soldiers, but upon reflecting that there were four
hundred of the Indians, we concluded to go on and join the Indians.

Echo Canyon is twenty miles long.  It was like a long, smooth, narrow
street, with a gradual descending grade, and shut in by enormous
perpendicular walls of coarse conglomerate, four hundred feet high in
many places, and turreted like mediaeval castles.  This was the most
faultless piece of road in the mountains, and the driver said he would
"let his team out."  He did, and if the Pacific express trains whiz
through there now any faster than we did then in the stage-coach, I envy
the passengers the exhilaration of it.  We fairly seemed to pick up our
wheels and fly--and the mail matter was lifted up free from everything
and held in solution!  I am not given to exaggeration, and when I say a
thing I mean it.

However, time presses.  At four in the afternoon we arrived on the summit
of Big Mountain, fifteen miles from Salt Lake City, when all the world
was glorified with the setting sun, and the most stupendous panorama of
mountain peaks yet encountered burst on our sight.  We looked out upon
this sublime spectacle from under the arch of a brilliant rainbow!  Even
the overland stage-driver stopped his horses and gazed!

Half an hour or an hour later, we changed horses, and took supper with a
Mormon "Destroying Angel."

"Destroying Angels," as I understand it, are Latter-Day Saints who are
set apart by the Church to conduct permanent disappearances of obnoxious
citizens.  I had heard a deal about these Mormon Destroying Angels and
the dark and bloody deeds they had done, and when I entered this one's
house I had my shudder all ready.  But alas for all our romances, he was
nothing but a loud, profane, offensive, old blackguard!  He was murderous
enough, possibly, to fill the bill of a Destroyer, but would you have any
kind of an Angel devoid of dignity?  Could you abide an Angel in an
unclean shirt and no suspenders?  Could you respect an Angel with a
horse-laugh and a swagger like a buccaneer?

There were other blackguards present--comrades of this one.  And there
was one person that looked like a gentleman--Heber C. Kimball's son, tall
and well made, and thirty years old, perhaps.  A lot of slatternly women
flitted hither and thither in a hurry, with coffee-pots, plates of bread,
and other appurtenances to supper, and these were said to be the wives of
the Angel--or some of them, at least.  And of course they were; for if
they had been hired "help" they would not have let an angel from above
storm and swear at them as he did, let alone one from the place this one
hailed from.

This was our first experience of the western "peculiar institution," and
it was not very prepossessing.  We did not tarry long to observe it, but
hurried on to the home of the Latter-Day Saints, the stronghold of the
prophets, the capital of the only absolute monarch in America--Great Salt
Lake City.  As the night closed in we took sanctuary in the Salt Lake
House and unpacked our baggage.




CHAPTER XIII.

We had a fine supper, of the freshest meats and fowls and vegetables--a
great variety and as great abundance.  We walked about the streets some,
afterward, and glanced in at shops and stores; and there was fascination
in surreptitiously staring at every creature we took to be a Mormon.
This was fairy-land to us, to all intents and purposes--a land of
enchantment, and goblins, and awful mystery.  We felt a curiosity to ask
every child how many mothers it had, and if it could tell them apart; and
we experienced a thrill every time a dwelling-house door opened and shut
as we passed, disclosing a glimpse of human heads and backs and
shoulders--for we so longed to have a good satisfying look at a Mormon
family in all its comprehensive ampleness, disposed in the customary
concentric rings of its home circle.

By and by the Acting Governor of the Territory introduced us to other
"Gentiles," and we spent a sociable hour with them.  "Gentiles" are
people who are not Mormons.  Our fellow-passenger, Bemis, took care of
himself, during this part of the evening, and did not make an
overpowering success of it, either, for he came into our room in the
hotel about eleven o'clock, full of cheerfulness, and talking loosely,
disjointedly and indiscriminately, and every now and then tugging out a
ragged word by the roots that had more hiccups than syllables in it.
This, together with his hanging his coat on the floor on one side of a
chair, and his vest on the floor on the other side, and piling his pants
on the floor just in front of the same chair, and then comtemplating the
general result with superstitious awe, and finally pronouncing it "too
many for him" and going to bed with his boots on, led us to fear that
something he had eaten had not agreed with him.

But we knew afterward that it was something he had been drinking.  It was
the exclusively Mormon refresher, "valley tan."

Valley tan (or, at least, one form of valley tan) is a kind of whisky,
or first cousin to it; is of Mormon invention and manufactured only in
Utah.  Tradition says it is made of (imported) fire and brimstone.  If I
remember rightly no public drinking saloons were allowed in the kingdom
by Brigham Young, and no private drinking permitted among the faithful,
except they confined themselves to "valley tan."

Next day we strolled about everywhere through the broad, straight, level
streets, and enjoyed the pleasant strangeness of a city of fifteen
thousand inhabitants with no loafers perceptible in it; and no visible
drunkards or noisy people; a limpid stream rippling and dancing through
every street in place of a filthy gutter; block after block of trim
dwellings, built of "frame" and sunburned brick--a great thriving orchard
and garden behind every one of them, apparently--branches from the street
stream winding and sparkling among the garden beds and fruit trees--and a
grand general air of neatness, repair, thrift and comfort, around and
about and over the whole.  And everywhere were workshops, factories, and
all manner of industries; and intent faces and busy hands were to be seen
wherever one looked; and in one's ears was the ceaseless clink of
hammers, the buzz of trade and the contented hum of drums and fly-wheels.

The armorial crest of my own State consisted of two dissolute bears
holding up the head of a dead and gone cask between them and making the
pertinent remark, "UNITED, WE STAND--(hic!)--DIVIDED, WE FALL."  It was
always too figurative for the author of this book.  But the Mormon crest
was easy.  And it was simple, unostentatious, and fitted like a glove.
It was a representation of a GOLDEN BEEHIVE, with the bees all at work!

The city lies in the edge of a level plain as broad as the State of
Connecticut, and crouches close down to the ground under a curving wall
of mighty mountains whose heads are hidden in the clouds, and whose
shoulders bear relics of the snows of winter all the summer long.

Seen from one of these dizzy heights, twelve or fifteen miles off, Great
Salt Lake City is toned down and diminished till it is suggestive of a
child's toy-village reposing under the majestic protection of the Chinese
wall.

On some of those mountains, to the southwest, it had been raining every
day for two weeks, but not a drop had fallen in the city.  And on hot
days in late spring and early autumn the citizens could quit fanning and
growling and go out and cool off by looking at the luxury of a glorious
snow-storm going on in the mountains.  They could enjoy it at a distance,
at those seasons, every day, though no snow would fall in their streets,
or anywhere near them.

Salt Lake City was healthy--an extremely healthy city.

They declared there was only one physician in the place and he was
arrested every week regularly and held to answer under the vagrant act
for having "no visible means of support."  They always give you a good
substantial article of truth in Salt Lake, and good measure and good
weight, too. [Very often, if you wished to weigh one of their airiest
little commonplace statements you would want the hay scales.]

We desired to visit the famous inland sea, the American "Dead Sea," the
great Salt Lake--seventeen miles, horseback, from the city--for we had
dreamed about it, and thought about it, and talked about it, and yearned
to see it, all the first part of our trip; but now when it was only arm's
length away it had suddenly lost nearly every bit of its interest.  And
so we put it off, in a sort of general way, till next day--and that was
the last we ever thought of it.  We dined with some hospitable Gentiles;
and visited the foundation of the prodigious temple; and talked long with
that shrewd Connecticut Yankee, Heber C. Kimball (since deceased), a
saint of high degree and a mighty man of commerce.

We saw the "Tithing-House," and the "Lion House," and I do not know or
remember how many more church and government buildings of various kinds
and curious names.  We flitted hither and thither and enjoyed every hour,
and picked up a great deal of useful information and entertaining
nonsense, and went to bed at night satisfied.

The second day, we made the acquaintance of Mr. Street (since deceased)
and put on white shirts and went and paid a state visit to the king.
He seemed a quiet, kindly, easy-mannered, dignified, self-possessed old
gentleman of fifty-five or sixty, and had a gentle craft in his eye that
probably belonged there.  He was very simply dressed and was just taking
off a straw hat as we entered.  He talked about Utah, and the Indians,
and Nevada, and general American matters and questions, with our
secretary and certain government officials who came with us.  But he
never paid any attention to me, notwithstanding I made several attempts
to "draw him out" on federal politics and his high handed attitude toward
Congress.  I thought some of the things I said were rather fine.  But he
merely looked around at me, at distant intervals, something as I have
seen a benignant old cat look around to see which kitten was meddling
with her tail.

By and by I subsided into an indignant silence, and so sat until the end,
hot and flushed, and execrating him in my heart for an ignorant savage.
But he was calm.  His conversation with those gentlemen flowed on as
sweetly and peacefully and musically as any summer brook.  When the
audience was ended and we were retiring from the presence, he put his
hand on my head, beamed down on me in an admiring way and said to my
brother:

"Ah--your child, I presume?  Boy, or girl?"




CHAPTER XIV.

Mr. Street was very busy with his telegraphic matters--and considering
that he had eight or nine hundred miles of rugged, snowy, uninhabited
mountains, and waterless, treeless, melancholy deserts to traverse with
his wire, it was natural and needful that he should be as busy as
possible.  He could not go comfortably along and cut his poles by the
road-side, either, but they had to be hauled by ox teams across those
exhausting deserts--and it was two days' journey from water to water, in
one or two of them.  Mr. Street's contract was a vast work, every way one
looked at it; and yet to comprehend what the vague words "eight hundred
miles of rugged mountains and dismal deserts" mean, one must go over the
ground in person--pen and ink descriptions cannot convey the dreary
reality to the reader.  And after all, Mr. S.'s mightiest difficulty
turned out to be one which he had never taken into the account at all.
Unto Mormons he had sub-let the hardest and heaviest half of his great
undertaking, and all of a sudden they concluded that they were going to
make little or nothing, and so they tranquilly threw their poles
overboard in mountain or desert, just as it happened when they took the
notion, and drove home and went about their customary business!  They
were under written contract to Mr. Street, but they did not care anything
for that.  They said they would "admire" to see a "Gentile" force a
Mormon to fulfil a losing contract in Utah!  And they made themselves
very merry over the matter.  Street said--for it was he that told us
these things:

"I was in dismay.  I was under heavy bonds to complete my contract in a
given time, and this disaster looked very much like ruin.  It was an
astounding thing; it was such a wholly unlooked-for difficulty, that I
was entirely nonplussed.  I am a business man--have always been a
business man--do not know anything but business--and so you can imagine
how like being struck by lightning it was to find myself in a country
where written contracts were worthless!--that main security, that
sheet-anchor, that absolute necessity, of business.  My confidence left
me. There was no use in making new contracts--that was plain.  I talked
with first one prominent citizen and then another.  They all sympathized
with me, first rate, but they did not know how to help me.  But at last a
Gentile said, 'Go to Brigham Young!--these small fry cannot do you any
good.'  I did not think much of the idea, for if the law could not help
me, what could an individual do who had not even anything to do with
either making the laws or executing them?  He might be a very good
patriarch of a church and preacher in its tabernacle, but something
sterner than religion and moral suasion was needed to handle a hundred
refractory, half-civilized sub-contractors.  But what was a man to do? I
thought if Mr. Young could not do anything else, he might probably be
able to give me some advice and a valuable hint or two, and so I went
straight to him and laid the whole case before him.  He said very little,
but he showed strong interest all the way through.  He examined all the
papers in detail, and whenever there seemed anything like a hitch, either
in the papers or my statement, he would go back and take up the thread
and follow it patiently out to an intelligent and satisfactory result.
Then he made a list of the contractors' names.  Finally he said:

"'Mr. Street, this is all perfectly plain.  These contracts are strictly
and legally drawn, and are duly signed and certified.  These men
manifestly entered into them with their eyes open.  I see no fault or
flaw anywhere.'

"Then Mr. Young turned to a man waiting at the other end of the room and
said: 'Take this list of names to So-and-so, and tell him to have these
men here at such-and-such an hour.'

"They were there, to the minute.  So was I.  Mr. Young asked them a
number of questions, and their answers made my statement good.  Then he
said to them:

"'You signed these contracts and assumed these obligations of your own
free will and accord?'

"'Yes.'

"'Then carry them out to the letter, if it makes paupers of you!  Go!'

"And they did go, too!  They are strung across the deserts now, working
like bees.  And I never hear a word out of them.

"There is a batch of governors, and judges, and other officials here,
shipped from Washington, and they maintain the semblance of a republican
form of government--but the petrified truth is that Utah is an absolute
monarchy and Brigham Young is king!"

Mr. Street was a fine man, and I believe his story.  I knew him well
during several years afterward in San Francisco.

Our stay in Salt Lake City amounted to only two days, and therefore we
had no time to make the customary inquisition into the workings of
polygamy and get up the usual statistics and deductions preparatory to
calling the attention of the nation at large once more to the matter.

I had the will to do it.  With the gushing self-sufficiency of youth I
was feverish to plunge in headlong and achieve a great reform here--until
I saw the Mormon women.  Then I was touched.  My heart was wiser than my
head.  It warmed toward these poor, ungainly and pathetically "homely"
creatures, and as I turned to hide the generous moisture in my eyes, I
said, "No--the man that marries one of them has done an act of Christian
charity which entitles him to the kindly applause of mankind, not their
harsh censure--and the man that marries sixty of them has done a deed of
open-handed generosity so sublime that the nations should stand uncovered
in his presence and worship in silence."

      [For a brief sketch of Mormon history, and the noted Mountain Meadow
      massacre, see Appendices A and B. ]




CHAPTER XV.

It is a luscious country for thrilling evening stories about
assassinations of intractable Gentiles.  I cannot easily conceive of
anything more cosy than the night in Salt Lake which we spent in a
Gentile den, smoking pipes and listening to tales of how Burton galloped
in among the pleading and defenceless "Morisites" and shot them down, men
and women, like so many dogs.  And how Bill Hickman, a Destroying Angel,
shot Drown and Arnold dead for bringing suit against him for a debt.
And how Porter Rockwell did this and that dreadful thing.  And how
heedless people often come to Utah and make remarks about Brigham, or
polygamy, or some other sacred matter, and the very next morning at
daylight such parties are sure to be found lying up some back alley,
contentedly waiting for the hearse.

And the next most interesting thing is to sit and listen to these
Gentiles talk about polygamy; and how some portly old frog of an elder,
or a bishop, marries a girl--likes her, marries her sister--likes her,
marries another sister--likes her, takes another--likes her, marries her
mother--likes her, marries her father, grandfather, great grandfather,
and then comes back hungry and asks for more.  And how the pert young
thing of eleven will chance to be the favorite wife and her own venerable
grandmother have to rank away down toward D 4 in their mutual husband's
esteem, and have to sleep in the kitchen, as like as not.  And how this
dreadful sort of thing, this hiving together in one foul nest of mother
and daughters, and the making a young daughter superior to her own mother
in rank and authority, are things which Mormon women submit to because
their religion teaches them that the more wives a man has on earth, and
the more children he rears, the higher the place they will all have in
the world to come--and the warmer, maybe, though they do not seem to say
anything about that.

According to these Gentile friends of ours, Brigham Young's harem
contains twenty or thirty wives.  They said that some of them had grown
old and gone out of active service, but were comfortably housed and cared
for in the henery--or the Lion House, as it is strangely named.  Along
with each wife were her children--fifty altogether.  The house was
perfectly quiet and orderly, when the children were still.  They all took
their meals in one room, and a happy and home-like sight it was
pronounced to be.  None of our party got an opportunity to take dinner
with Mr. Young, but a Gentile by the name of Johnson professed to have
enjoyed a sociable breakfast in the Lion House.  He gave a preposterous
account of the "calling of the roll," and other preliminaries, and the
carnage that ensued when the buckwheat cakes came in.  But he embellished
rather too much.  He said that Mr. Young told him several smart sayings
of certain of his "two-year-olds," observing with some pride that for
many years he had been the heaviest contributor in that line to one of
the Eastern magazines; and then he wanted to show Mr. Johnson one of the
pets that had said the last good thing, but he could not find the child.

He searched the faces of the children in detail, but could not decide
which one it was.  Finally he gave it up with a sigh and said:

"I thought I would know the little cub again but I don't."  Mr. Johnson
said further, that Mr. Young observed that life was a sad, sad thing
--"because the joy of every new marriage a man contracted was so apt to be
blighted by the inopportune funeral of a less recent bride."  And Mr.
Johnson said that while he and Mr. Young were pleasantly conversing in
private, one of the Mrs. Youngs came in and demanded a breast-pin,
remarking that she had found out that he had been giving a breast-pin to
No. 6, and she, for one, did not propose to let this partiality go on
without making a satisfactory amount of trouble about it.  Mr. Young
reminded her that there was a stranger present.  Mrs. Young said that if
the state of things inside the house was not agreeable to the stranger,
he could find room outside.  Mr. Young promised the breast-pin, and she
went away.  But in a minute or two another Mrs. Young came in and
demanded a breast-pin.  Mr. Young began a remonstrance, but Mrs. Young
cut him short.  She said No. 6 had got one, and No. 11 was promised one,
and it was "no use for him to try to impose on her--she hoped she knew
her rights."  He gave his promise, and she went.  And presently three
Mrs. Youngs entered in a body and opened on their husband a tempest of
tears, abuse, and entreaty.  They had heard all about No. 6, No. 11, and
No. 14.  Three more breast-pins were promised.  They were hardly gone
when nine more Mrs. Youngs filed into the presence, and a new tempest
burst forth and raged round about the prophet and his guest.  Nine
breast-pins were promised, and the weird sisters filed out again.  And in
came eleven more, weeping and wailing and gnashing their teeth.  Eleven
promised breast-pins purchased peace once more.

"That is a specimen," said Mr. Young.  "You see how it is.  You see what
a life I lead.  A man can't be wise all the time.  In a heedless moment I
gave my darling No. 6--excuse my calling her thus, as her other name has
escaped me for the moment--a breast-pin.  It was only worth twenty-five
dollars--that is, apparently that was its whole cost--but its ultimate
cost was inevitably bound to be a good deal more.  You yourself have seen
it climb up to six hundred and fifty dollars--and alas, even that is not
the end!  For I have wives all over this Territory of Utah.  I have
dozens of wives whose numbers, even, I do not know without looking in the
family Bible.  They are scattered far and wide among the mountains and
valleys of my realm.  And mark you, every solitary one of them will hear
of this wretched breast pin, and every last one of them will have one or
die.  No. 6's breast pin will cost me twenty-five hundred dollars before
I see the end of it.  And these creatures will compare these pins
together, and if one is a shade finer than the rest, they will all be
thrown on my hands, and I will have to order a new lot to keep peace in
the family.  Sir, you probably did not know it, but all the time you were
present with my children your every movement was watched by vigilant
servitors of mine.  If you had offered to give a child a dime, or a stick
of candy, or any trifle of the kind, you would have been snatched out of
the house instantly, provided it could be done before your gift left your
hand.  Otherwise it would be absolutely necessary for you to make an
exactly similar gift to all my children--and knowing by experience the
importance of the thing, I would have stood by and seen to it myself that
you did it, and did it thoroughly.  Once a gentleman gave one of my
children a tin whistle--a veritable invention of Satan, sir, and one
which I have an unspeakable horror of, and so would you if you had eighty
or ninety children in your house.  But the deed was done--the man
escaped.  I knew what the result was going to be, and I thirsted for
vengeance.  I ordered out a flock of Destroying Angels, and they hunted
the man far into the fastnesses of the Nevada mountains.  But they never
caught him.  I am not cruel, sir--I am not vindictive except when sorely
outraged--but if I had caught him, sir, so help me Joseph Smith, I would
have locked him into the nursery till the brats whistled him to death.
By the slaughtered body of St. Parley Pratt (whom God assail!) there
was never anything on this earth like it!  I knew who gave the whistle to
the child, but I could, not make those jealous mothers believe me.  They
believed I did it, and the result was just what any man of reflection
could have foreseen: I had to order a hundred and ten whistles--I think
we had a hundred and ten children in the house then, but some of them are
off at college now--I had to order a hundred and ten of those shrieking
things, and I wish I may never speak another word if we didn't have to
talk on our fingers entirely, from that time forth until the children got
tired of the whistles.  And if ever another man gives a whistle to a
child of mine and I get my hands on him, I will hang him higher than
Haman!  That is the word with the bark on it!  Shade of Nephi!  You don't
know anything about married life.  I am rich, and everybody knows it.  I
am benevolent, and everybody takes advantage of it.  I have a strong
fatherly instinct and all the foundlings are foisted on me.

"Every time a woman wants to do well by her darling, she puzzles her brain
to cipher out some scheme for getting it into my hands.  Why, sir, a
woman came here once with a child of a curious lifeless sort of
complexion (and so had the woman), and swore that the child was mine and
she my wife--that I had married her at such-and-such a time in
such-and-such a place, but she had forgotten her number, and of course I
could not remember her name.  Well, sir, she called my attention to the
fact that the child looked like me, and really it did seem to resemble
me--a common thing in the Territory--and, to cut the story short, I put
it in my nursery, and she left.  And by the ghost of Orson Hyde, when
they came to wash the paint off that child it was an Injun!  Bless my
soul, you don't know anything about married life.  It is a perfect dog's
life, sir--a perfect dog's life.  You can't economize.  It isn't
possible.  I have tried keeping one set of bridal attire for all
occasions.  But it is of no use.  First you'll marry a combination of
calico and consumption that's as thin as a rail, and next you'll get a
creature that's nothing more than the dropsy in disguise, and then you've
got to eke out that bridal dress with an old balloon.  That is the way it
goes.  And think of the wash-bill--(excuse these tears)--nine hundred and
eighty-four pieces a week!  No, sir, there is no such a thing as economy
in a family like mine.  Why, just the one item of cradles--think of it!
And vermifuge! Soothing syrup!  Teething rings!  And 'papa's watches' for
the babies to play with!  And things to scratch the furniture with!  And
lucifer matches for them to eat, and pieces of glass to cut themselves
with! The item of glass alone would support your family, I venture to
say, sir. Let me scrimp and squeeze all I can, I still can't get ahead as
fast as I feel I ought to, with my opportunities.  Bless you, sir, at a
time when I had seventy-two wives in this house, I groaned under the
pressure of keeping thousands of dollars tied up in seventy-two bedsteads
when the money ought to have been out at interest; and I just sold out
the whole stock, sir, at a sacrifice, and built a bedstead seven feet
long and ninety-six feet wide.  But it was a failure, sir.  I could not
sleep. It appeared to me that the whole seventy-two women snored at once.
The roar was deafening.  And then the danger of it!  That was what I was
looking at.  They would all draw in their breath at once, and you could
actually see the walls of the house suck in--and then they would all
exhale their breath at once, and you could see the walls swell out, and
strain, and hear the rafters crack, and the shingles grind together. My
friend, take an old man's advice, and don't encumber yourself with a
large family--mind, I tell you, don't do it.  In a small family, and in a
small family only, you will find that comfort and that peace of mind
which are the best at last of the blessings this world is able to afford
us, and for the lack of which no accumulation of wealth, and no
acquisition of fame, power, and greatness can ever compensate us. Take my
word for it, ten or eleven wives is all you need--never go over it."

Some instinct or other made me set this Johnson down as being unreliable.
And yet he was a very entertaining person, and I doubt if some of the
information he gave us could have been acquired from any other source.
He was a pleasant contrast to those reticent Mormons.




CHAPTER XVI.

All men have heard of the Mormon Bible, but few except the "elect" have
seen it, or, at least, taken the trouble to read it.  I brought away a
copy from Salt Lake.  The book is a curiosity to me, it is such a
pretentious affair, and yet so "slow," so sleepy; such an insipid mess of
inspiration.  It is chloroform in print.  If Joseph Smith composed this
book, the act was a miracle--keeping awake while he did it was, at any
rate.  If he, according to tradition, merely translated it from certain
ancient and mysteriously-engraved plates of copper, which he declares he
found under a stone, in an out-of-the-way locality, the work of
translating was equally a miracle, for the same reason.

The book seems to be merely a prosy detail of imaginary history, with the
Old Testament for a model; followed by a tedious plagiarism of the New
Testament.  The author labored to give his words and phrases the quaint,
old-fashioned sound and structure of our King James's translation of the
Scriptures; and the result is a mongrel--half modern glibness, and half
ancient simplicity and gravity.  The latter is awkward and constrained;
the former natural, but grotesque by the contrast.  Whenever he found his
speech growing too modern--which was about every sentence or two--he
ladled in a few such Scriptural phrases as "exceeding sore," "and it came
to pass," etc., and made things satisfactory again.  "And it came to
pass" was his pet.  If he had left that out, his Bible would have been
only a pamphlet.

The title-page reads as follows:

      THE BOOK OF MORMON: AN ACCOUNT WRITTEN BY THE HAND OF MORMON, UPON
      PLATES TAKEN FROM THE PLATES OF NEPHI.

      Wherefore it is an abridgment of the record of the people of Nephi,
      and also of the Lamanites; written to the Lamanites, who are a
      remnant of the House of Israel; and also to Jew and Gentile; written
      by way of commandment, and also by the spirit of prophecy and of
      revelation.  Written and sealed up, and hid up unto the Lord, that
      they might not be destroyed; to come forth by the gift and power of
      God unto the interpretation thereof; sealed by the hand of Moroni,
      and hid up unto the Lord, to come forth in due time by the way of
      Gentile; the interpretation thereof by the gift of God.  An
      abridgment taken from the Book of Ether also; which is a record of
      the people of Jared; who were scattered at the time the Lord
      confounded the language of the people when they were building a
      tower to get to Heaven.

"Hid up" is good.  And so is "wherefore"--though why "wherefore"?  Any
other word would have answered as well--though--in truth it would not
have sounded so Scriptural.

Next comes:

      THE TESTIMONY OF THREE WITNESSES.
      Be it known unto all nations, kindreds, tongues, and people unto
      whom this work shall come, that we, through the grace of God the
      Father, and our Lord Jesus Christ, have seen the plates which
      contain this record, which is a record of the people of Nephi, and
      also of the Lamanites, their brethren, and also of the people of
      Jared, who came from the tower of which hath been spoken; and we
      also know that they have been translated by the gift and power of
      God, for His voice hath declared it unto us; wherefore we know of a
      surety that the work is true.  And we also testify that we have seen
      the engravings which are upon the plates; and they have been shown
      unto us by the power of God, and not of man.  And we declare with
      words of soberness, that an angel of God came down from heaven, and
      he brought and laid before our eyes, that we beheld and saw the
      plates, and the engravings thereon; and we know that it is by the
      grace of God the Father, and our Lord Jesus Christ, that we beheld
      and bear record that these things are true; and it is marvellous in
      our eyes; nevertheless the voice of the Lord commanded us that we
      should bear record of it; wherefore, to be obedient unto the
      commandments of God, we bear testimony of these things.  And we know
      that if we are faithful in Christ, we shall rid our garments of the
      blood of all men, and be found spotless before the judgment-seat of
      Christ, and shall dwell with Him eternally in the heavens.  And the
      honor be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost, which
      is one God.  Amen.
                          OLIVER COWDERY,
                          DAVID WHITMER,
                          MARTIN HARRIS.

Some people have to have a world of evidence before they can come
anywhere in the neighborhood of believing anything; but for me, when a
man tells me that he has "seen the engravings which are upon the plates,"
and not only that, but an angel was there at the time, and saw him see
them, and probably took his receipt for it, I am very far on the road to
conviction, no matter whether I ever heard of that man before or not, and
even if I do not know the name of the angel, or his nationality either.

Next is this:

      AND ALSO THE TESTIMONY OF EIGHT WITNESSES.
      Be it known unto all nations, kindreds, tongues, and people unto
      whom this work shall come, that Joseph Smith, Jr., the translator of
      this work, has shown unto us the plates of which hath been spoken,
      which have the appearance of gold; and as many of the leaves as the
      said Smith has translated, we did handle with our hands; and we also
      saw the engravings thereon, all of which has the appearance of
      ancient work, and of curious workmanship.  And this we bear record
      with words of soberness, that the said Smith has shown unto us, for
      we have seen and hefted, and know of a surety that the said Smith
      has got the plates of which we have spoken.  And we give our names
      unto the world, to witness unto the world that which we have seen;
      and we lie not, God bearing witness of it.
                          CHRISTIAN WHITMER,
                          JACOB WHITMER,
                          PETER WHITMER, JR.,
                          JOHN WHITMER,
                          HIRAM PAGE,
                          JOSEPH SMITH, SR.,
                          HYRUM SMITH,
                          SAMUEL H.  SMITH.

And when I am far on the road to conviction, and eight men, be they
grammatical or otherwise, come forward and tell me that they have seen
the plates too; and not only seen those plates but "hefted" them, I am
convinced.  I could not feel more satisfied and at rest if the entire
Whitmer family had testified.

The Mormon Bible consists of fifteen "books"--being the books of Jacob,
Enos, Jarom, Omni, Mosiah, Zeniff, Alma, Helaman, Ether, Moroni, two
"books" of Mormon, and three of Nephi.

In the first book of Nephi is a plagiarism of the Old Testament, which
gives an account of the exodus from Jerusalem of the "children of Lehi";
and it goes on to tell of their wanderings in the wilderness, during
eight years, and their supernatural protection by one of their number, a
party by the name of Nephi.  They finally reached the land of
"Bountiful," and camped by the sea.  After they had remained there "for
the space of many days"--which is more Scriptural than definite--Nephi
was commanded from on high to build a ship wherein to "carry the people
across the waters."  He travestied Noah's ark--but he obeyed orders in
the matter of the plan.  He finished the ship in a single day, while his
brethren stood by and made fun of it--and of him, too--"saying, our
brother is a fool, for he thinketh that he can build a ship."  They did
not wait for the timbers to dry, but the whole tribe or nation sailed the
next day.  Then a bit of genuine nature cropped out, and is revealed by
outspoken Nephi with Scriptural frankness--they all got on a spree!
They, "and also their wives, began to make themselves merry, insomuch
that they began to dance, and to sing, and to speak with much rudeness;
yea, they were lifted up unto exceeding rudeness."

Nephi tried to stop these scandalous proceedings; but they tied him neck
and heels, and went on with their lark.  But observe how Nephi the
prophet circumvented them by the aid of the invisible powers:

      And it came to pass that after they had bound me, insomuch that I
      could not move, the compass, which had been prepared of the Lord,
      did cease to work; wherefore, they knew not whither they should
      steer the ship, insomuch that there arose a great storm, yea, a
      great and terrible tempest, and we were driven back upon the waters
      for the space of three days; and they began to be frightened
      exceedingly, lest they should be drowned in the sea; nevertheless
      they did not loose me.  And on the fourth day, which we had been
      driven back, the tempest began to be exceeding sore.  And it came to
      pass that we were about to be swallowed up in the depths of the sea.

Then they untied him.

      And it came to pass after they had loosed me, behold, I took the
      compass, and it did work whither I desired it.  And it came to pass
      that I prayed unto the Lord; and after I had prayed, the winds did
      cease, and the storm did cease, and there was a great calm.

Equipped with their compass, these ancients appear to have had the
advantage of Noah.

Their voyage was toward a "promised land"--the only name they give it.
They reached it in safety.

Polygamy is a recent feature in the Mormon religion, and was added by
Brigham Young after Joseph Smith's death.  Before that, it was regarded
as an "abomination."  This verse from the Mormon Bible occurs in Chapter
II. of the book of Jacob:

      For behold, thus saith the Lord, this people begin to wax in
      iniquity; they understand not the Scriptures; for they seek to
      excuse themselves in committing whoredoms, because of the things
      which were written concerning David, and Solomon his son.  Behold,
      David and Solomon truly had many wives and concubines, which thing
      was abominable before me, saith the Lord; wherefore, thus saith the
      Lord, I have led this people forth out of the land of Jerusalem, by
      the power of mine arm, that I might raise up unto me a righteous
      branch from the fruit of the loins of Joseph.  Wherefore, I the Lord
      God, will no suffer that this people shall do like unto them of old.

However, the project failed--or at least the modern Mormon end of it--for
Brigham "suffers" it.  This verse is from the same chapter:

      Behold, the Lamanites your brethren, whom ye hate, because of their
      filthiness and the cursings which hath come upon their skins, are
      more righteous than you; for they have not forgotten the commandment
      of the Lord, which was given unto our fathers, that they should
      have, save it were one wife; and concubines they should have none.

The following verse (from Chapter IX. of the Book of Nephi) appears to
contain information not familiar to everybody:

      And now it came to pass that when Jesus had ascended into heaven,
      the multitude did disperse, and every man did take his wife and his
      children, and did return to his own home.

      And it came to pass that on the morrow, when the multitude was
      gathered together, behold, Nephi and his brother whom he had raised
      from the dead, whose name was Timothy, and also his son, whose name
      was Jonas, and also Mathoni, and Mathonihah, his brother, and Kumen,
      and Kumenenhi, and Jeremiah, and Shemnon, and Jonas, and Zedekiah,
      and Isaiah; now these were the names of the disciples whom Jesus had
      chosen.

In order that the reader may observe how much more grandeur and
picturesqueness (as seen by these Mormon twelve) accompanied on of the
tenderest episodes in the life of our Saviour than other eyes seem to
have been aware of, I quote the following from the same "book"--Nephi:

      And it came to pass that Jesus spake unto them, and bade them arise.
      And they arose from the earth, and He said unto them, Blessed are ye
      because of your faith.  And now behold, My joy is full.  And when He
      had said these words, He wept, and the multitude bear record of it,
      and He took their little children, one by one, and blessed them, and
      prayed unto the Father for them.  And when He had done this He wept
      again, and He spake unto the multitude, and saith unto them, Behold
      your little ones.  And as they looked to behold, they cast their
      eyes toward heaven, and they saw the heavens open, and they saw
      angels descending out of heaven as it were, in the midst of fire;
      and they came down and encircled those little ones about, and they
      were encircled about with fire; and the angels did minister unto
      them, and the multitude did see and hear and bear record; and they
      know that their record is true, for they all of them did see and
      hear, every man for himself; and they were in number about two
      thousand and five hundred souls; and they did consist of men, women,
      and children.

And what else would they be likely to consist of?

The Book of Ether is an incomprehensible medley of if "history," much of
it relating to battles and sieges among peoples whom the reader has
possibly never heard of; and who inhabited a country which is not set
down in the geography.  These was a King with the remarkable name of
Coriantumr,^^ and he warred with Shared, and Lib, and Shiz, and others,
in the "plains of Heshlon"; and the "valley of Gilgal"; and the
"wilderness of Akish"; and the "land of Moran"; and the "plains of
Agosh"; and "Ogath," and "Ramah," and the "land of Corihor," and the
"hill Comnor," by "the waters of Ripliancum," etc., etc., etc.  "And it
came to pass," after a deal of fighting, that Coriantumr, upon making
calculation of his losses, found that "there had been slain two millions
of mighty men, and also their wives and their children"--say 5,000,000 or
6,000,000 in all--"and he began to sorrow in his heart."  Unquestionably
it was time.  So he wrote to Shiz, asking a cessation of hostilities, and
offering to give up his kingdom to save his people.  Shiz declined,
except upon condition that Coriantumr would come and let him cut his head
off first--a thing which Coriantumr would not do.  Then there was more
fighting for a season; then four years were devoted to gathering the
forces for a final struggle--after which ensued a battle, which, I take
it, is the most remarkable set forth in history,--except, perhaps, that
of the Kilkenny cats, which it resembles in some respects.  This is the
account of the gathering and the battle:

      7.  And it came to pass that they did gather together all the
      people, upon all the face of the land, who had not been slain, save
      it was Ether.  And it came to pass that Ether did behold all the
      doings of the people; and he beheld that the people who were for
      Coriantumr, were gathered together to the army of Coriantumr; and
      the people who were for Shiz, were gathered together to the army of
      Shiz; wherefore they were for the space of four years gathering
      together the people, that they might get all who were upon the face
      of the land, and that they might receive all the strength which it
      was possible that they could receive.  And it came to pass that when
      they were all gathered together, every one to the army which he
      would, with their wives and their children; both men, women, and
      children being armed with weapons of war, having shields, and
      breast-plates, and head-plates, and being clothed after the manner
      of war, they did march forth one against another, to battle; and
      they fought all that day, and conquered not.  And it came to pass
      that when it was night they were weary, and retired to their camps;
      and after they had retired to their camps, they took up a howling
      and a lamentation for the loss of the slain of their people; and so
      great were their cries, their howlings and lamentations, that it did
      rend the air exceedingly.  And it came to pass that on the morrow
      they did go again to battle, and great and terrible was that day;
      nevertheless they conquered not, and when the night came again, they
      did rend the air with their cries, and their howlings, and their
      mournings, for the loss of the slain of their people.

      8.  And it came to pass that Coriantumr wrote again an epistle unto
      Shiz, desiring that he would not come again to battle, but that he
      would take the kingdom, and spare the lives of the people.  But
      behold, the Spirit of the Lord had ceased striving with them, and
      Satan had full power over the hearts of the people, for they were
      given up unto the hardness of their hearts, and the blindness of
      their minds that they might be destroyed; wherefore they went again
      to battle.  And it came to pass that they fought all that day, and
      when the night came they slept upon their swords; and on the morrow
      they fought even until the night came; and when the night came they
      were drunken with anger, even as a man who is drunken with wine; and
      they slept again upon their swords; and on the morrow they fought
      again; and when the night came they had all fallen by the sword save
      it were fifty and two of the people of Coriantumr, and sixty and
      nine of the people of Shiz.  And it came to pass that they slept
      upon their swords that night, and on the morrow they fought again,
      and they contended in their mights with their swords, and with their
      shields, all that day; and when the night came there were thirty and
      two of the people of Shiz, and twenty and seven of the people of
      Coriantumr.

      9.  And it came to pass that they ate and slept, and prepared for
      death on the morrow.  And they were large and mighty men, as to the
      strength of men.  And it came to pass that they fought for the space
      of three hours, and they fainted with the loss of blood.  And it
      came to pass that when the men of Coriantumr had received sufficient
      strength, that they could walk, they were about to flee for their
      lives, but behold, Shiz arose, and also his men, and he swore in his
      wrath that he would slay Coriantumr, or he would perish by the
      sword: wherefore he did pursue them, and on the morrow he did
      overtake them; and they fought again with the sword.  And it came to
      pass that when they had all fallen by the sword, save it were
      Coriantumr and Shiz, behold Shiz had fainted with loss of blood.
      And it came to pass that when Coriantumr had leaned upon his sword,
      that he rested a little, he smote off the head of Shiz.  And it came
      to pass that after he had smote off the head of Shiz, that Shiz
      raised upon his hands and fell; and after that he had struggled for
      breath, he died.  And it came to pass that Coriantumr fell to the
      earth, and became as if he had no life.  And the Lord spake unto
      Ether, and said unto him, go forth.  And he went forth, and beheld
      that the words of the Lord had all been fulfilled; and he finished
      his record; and the hundredth part I have not written.

It seems a pity he did not finish, for after all his dreary former
chapters of commonplace, he stopped just as he was in danger of becoming
interesting.

The Mormon Bible is rather stupid and tiresome to read, but there is
nothing vicious in its teachings.  Its code of morals is unobjectionable
--it is "smouched" [Milton] from the New Testament and no credit given.




CHAPTER XVII.

At the end of our two days' sojourn, we left Great Salt Lake City hearty
and well fed and happy--physically superb but not so very much wiser, as
regards the "Mormon question," than we were when we arrived, perhaps.
We had a deal more "information" than we had before, of course, but we
did not know what portion of it was reliable and what was not--for it all
came from acquaintances of a day--strangers, strictly speaking.  We were
told, for instance, that the dreadful "Mountain Meadows Massacre" was the
work of the Indians entirely, and that the Gentiles had meanly tried to
fasten it upon the Mormons; we were told, likewise, that the Indians were
to blame, partly, and partly the Mormons; and we were told, likewise, and
just as positively, that the Mormons were almost if not wholly and
completely responsible for that most treacherous and pitiless butchery.
We got the story in all these different shapes, but it was not till
several years afterward that Mrs. Waite's book, "The Mormon Prophet,"
came out with Judge Cradlebaugh's trial of the accused parties in it and
revealed the truth that the latter version was the correct one and that
the Mormons were the assassins.  All our "information" had three sides to
it, and so I gave up the idea that I could settle the "Mormon question"
in two days.  Still I have seen newspaper correspondents do it in one.

I left Great Salt Lake a good deal confused as to what state of things
existed there--and sometimes even questioning in my own mind whether a
state of things existed there at all or not.  But presently I remembered
with a lightening sense of relief that we had learned two or three
trivial things there which we could be certain of; and so the two days
were not wholly lost.  For instance, we had learned that we were at last
in a pioneer land, in absolute and tangible reality.

The high prices charged for trifles were eloquent of high freights and
bewildering distances of freightage.  In the east, in those days, the
smallest moneyed denomination was a penny and it represented the smallest
purchasable quantity of any commodity.  West of Cincinnati the smallest
coin in use was the silver five-cent piece and no smaller quantity of an
article could be bought than "five cents' worth."  In Overland City the
lowest coin appeared to be the ten-cent piece; but in Salt Lake there did
not seem to be any money in circulation smaller than a quarter, or any
smaller quantity purchasable of any commodity than twenty-five cents'
worth.  We had always been used to half dimes and "five cents' worth" as
the minimum of financial negotiations; but in Salt Lake if one wanted a
cigar, it was a quarter; if he wanted a chalk pipe, it was a quarter; if
he wanted a peach, or a candle, or a newspaper, or a shave, or a little
Gentile whiskey to rub on his corns to arrest indigestion and keep him
from having the toothache, twenty-five cents was the price, every time.
When we looked at the shot-bag of silver, now and then, we seemed to be
wasting our substance in riotous living, but if we referred to the
expense account we could see that we had not been doing anything of the
kind.

But people easily get reconciled to big money and big prices, and fond
and vain of both--it is a descent to little coins and cheap prices that
is hardest to bear and slowest to take hold upon one's toleration.  After
a month's acquaintance with the twenty-five cent minimum, the average
human being is ready to blush every time he thinks of his despicable
five-cent days.  How sunburnt with blushes I used to get in gaudy Nevada,
every time I thought of my first financial experience in Salt Lake.
It was on this wise (which is a favorite expression of great authors, and
a very neat one, too, but I never hear anybody say on this wise when they
are talking).  A young half-breed with a complexion like a yellow-jacket
asked me if I would have my boots blacked.  It was at the Salt Lake House
the morning after we arrived.  I said yes, and he blacked them.  Then I
handed him a silver five-cent piece, with the benevolent air of a person
who is conferring wealth and blessedness upon poverty and suffering.  The
yellow-jacket took it with what I judged to be suppressed emotion, and
laid it reverently down in the middle of his broad hand.  Then he began
to contemplate it, much as a philosopher contemplates a gnat's ear in the
ample field of his microscope.  Several mountaineers, teamsters,
stage-drivers, etc., drew near and dropped into the tableau and fell to
surveying the money with that attractive indifference to formality which
is noticeable in the hardy pioneer.  Presently the yellow-jacket handed
the half dime back to me and told me I ought to keep my money in my
pocket-book instead of in my soul, and then I wouldn't get it cramped and
shriveled up so!

What a roar of vulgar laughter there was!  I destroyed the mongrel
reptile on the spot, but I smiled and smiled all the time I was detaching
his scalp, for the remark he made was good for an "Injun."

Yes, we had learned in Salt Lake to be charged great prices without
letting the inward shudder appear on the surface--for even already we had
overheard and noted the tenor of conversations among drivers, conductors,
and hostlers, and finally among citizens of Salt Lake, until we were well
aware that these superior beings despised "emigrants."  We permitted no
tell-tale shudders and winces in our countenances, for we wanted to seem
pioneers, or Mormons, half-breeds, teamsters, stage-drivers, Mountain
Meadow assassins--anything in the world that the plains and Utah
respected and admired--but we were wretchedly ashamed of being
"emigrants," and sorry enough that we had white shirts and could not
swear in the presence of ladies without looking the other way.

And many a time in Nevada, afterwards, we had occasion to remember with
humiliation that we were "emigrants," and consequently a low and inferior
sort of creatures.  Perhaps the reader has visited Utah, Nevada, or
California, even in these latter days, and while communing with himself
upon the sorrowful banishment of these countries from what he considers
"the world," has had his wings clipped by finding that he is the one to
be pitied, and that there are entire populations around him ready and
willing to do it for him--yea, who are complacently doing it for him
already, wherever he steps his foot.

Poor thing, they are making fun of his hat; and the cut of his New York
coat; and his conscientiousness about his grammar; and his feeble
profanity; and his consumingly ludicrous ignorance of ores, shafts,
tunnels, and other things which he never saw before, and never felt
enough interest in to read about.  And all the time that he is thinking
what a sad fate it is to be exiled to that far country, that lonely land,
the citizens around him are looking down on him with a blighting
compassion because he is an "emigrant" instead of that proudest and
blessedest creature that exists on all the earth, a "FORTY-NINER."

The accustomed coach life began again, now, and by midnight it almost
seemed as if we never had been out of our snuggery among the mail sacks
at all.  We had made one alteration, however.  We had provided enough
bread, boiled ham and hard boiled eggs to last double the six hundred
miles of staging we had still to do.

And it was comfort in those succeeding days to sit up and contemplate the
majestic panorama of mountains and valleys spread out below us and eat
ham and hard boiled eggs while our spiritual natures revelled alternately
in rainbows, thunderstorms, and peerless sunsets.  Nothing helps scenery
like ham and eggs.  Ham and eggs, and after these a pipe--an old, rank,
delicious pipe--ham and eggs and scenery, a "down grade," a flying coach,
a fragrant pipe and a contented heart--these make happiness.  It is what
all the ages have struggled for.




CHAPTER XVIII.

At eight in the morning we reached the remnant and ruin of what had been
the important military station of "Camp Floyd," some forty-five or fifty
miles from Salt Lake City.  At four P.M.  we had doubled our distance and
were ninety or a hundred miles from Salt Lake.  And now we entered upon
one of that species of deserts whose concentrated hideousness shames the
diffused and diluted horrors of Sahara--an "alkali" desert.  For
sixty-eight miles there was but one break in it.  I do not remember that
this was really a break; indeed it seems to me that it was nothing but a
watering depot in the midst of the stretch of sixty-eight miles.  If my
memory serves me, there was no well or spring at this place, but the
water was hauled there by mule and ox teams from the further side of the
desert.  There was a stage station there.  It was forty-five miles from
the beginning of the desert, and twenty-three from the end of it.

We plowed and dragged and groped along, the whole live-long night,
and at the end of this uncomfortable twelve hours we finished the
forty-five-mile part of the desert and got to the stage station where the
imported water was.  The sun was just rising.  It was easy enough to
cross a desert in the night while we were asleep; and it was pleasant to
reflect, in the morning, that we in actual person had encountered an
absolute desert and could always speak knowingly of deserts in presence
of the ignorant thenceforward.  And it was pleasant also to reflect that
this was not an obscure, back country desert, but a very celebrated one,
the metropolis itself, as you may say.  All this was very well and very
comfortable and satisfactory--but now we were to cross a desert in
daylight.  This was fine--novel--romantic--dramatically adventurous
--this, indeed, was worth living for, worth traveling for!  We would
write home all about it.

This enthusiasm, this stern thirst for adventure, wilted under the sultry
August sun and did not last above one hour.  One poor little hour--and
then we were ashamed that we had "gushed" so.  The poetry was all in the
anticipation--there is none in the reality.  Imagine a vast, waveless
ocean stricken dead and turned to ashes; imagine this solemn waste tufted
with ash-dusted sage-bushes; imagine the lifeless silence and solitude
that belong to such a place; imagine a coach, creeping like a bug through
the midst of this shoreless level, and sending up tumbled volumes of dust
as if it were a bug that went by steam; imagine this aching monotony of
toiling and plowing kept up hour after hour, and the shore still as far
away as ever, apparently; imagine team, driver, coach and passengers so
deeply coated with ashes that they are all one colorless color; imagine
ash-drifts roosting above moustaches and eyebrows like snow accumulations
on boughs and bushes.  This is the reality of it.

The sun beats down with dead, blistering, relentless malignity; the
perspiration is welling from every pore in man and beast, but scarcely a
sign of it finds its way to the surface--it is absorbed before it gets
there; there is not the faintest breath of air stirring; there is not a
merciful shred of cloud in all the brilliant firmament; there is not a
living creature visible in any direction whither one searches the blank
level that stretches its monotonous miles on every hand; there is not a
sound--not a sigh--not a whisper--not a buzz, or a whir of wings, or
distant pipe of bird--not even a sob from the lost souls that doubtless
people that dead air.  And so the occasional sneezing of the resting
mules, and the champing of the bits, grate harshly on the grim stillness,
not dissipating the spell but accenting it and making one feel more
lonesome and forsaken than before.

The mules, under violent swearing, coaxing and whip-cracking, would make
at stated intervals a "spurt," and drag the coach a hundred or may be two
hundred yards, stirring up a billowy cloud of dust that rolled back,
enveloping the vehicle to the wheel-tops or higher, and making it seem
afloat in a fog.  Then a rest followed, with the usual sneezing and
bit-champing.  Then another "spurt" of a hundred yards and another rest at
the end of it.  All day long we kept this up, without water for the mules
and without ever changing the team.  At least we kept it up ten hours,
which, I take it, is a day, and a pretty honest one, in an alkali desert.
It was from four in the morning till two in the afternoon.  And it was so
hot! and so close! and our water canteens went dry in the middle of the
day and we got so thirsty!  It was so stupid and tiresome and dull! and
the tedious hours did lag and drag and limp along with such a cruel
deliberation!  It was so trying to give one's watch a good long
undisturbed spell and then take it out and find that it had been fooling
away the time and not trying to get ahead any!  The alkali dust cut
through our lips, it persecuted our eyes, it ate through the delicate
membranes and made our noses bleed and kept them bleeding--and truly and
seriously the romance all faded far away and disappeared, and left the
desert trip nothing but a harsh reality--a thirsty, sweltering, longing,
hateful reality!

Two miles and a quarter an hour for ten hours--that was what we
accomplished.  It was hard to bring the comprehension away down to such a
snail-pace as that, when we had been used to making eight and ten miles
an hour.  When we reached the station on the farther verge of the desert,
we were glad, for the first time, that the dictionary was along, because
we never could have found language to tell how glad we were, in any sort
of dictionary but an unabridged one with pictures in it.  But there could
not have been found in a whole library of dictionaries language
sufficient to tell how tired those mules were after their twenty-three
mile pull.  To try to give the reader an idea of how thirsty they were,
would be to "gild refined gold or paint the lily."

Somehow, now that it is there, the quotation does not seem to fit--but no
matter, let it stay, anyhow.  I think it is a graceful and attractive
thing, and therefore have tried time and time again to work it in where
it would fit, but could not succeed.  These efforts have kept my mind
distracted and ill at ease, and made my narrative seem broken and
disjointed, in places.  Under these circumstances it seems to me best to
leave it in, as above, since this will afford at least a temporary
respite from the wear and tear of trying to "lead up" to this really apt
and beautiful quotation.




CHAPTER XIX.

On the morning of the sixteenth day out from St. Joseph we arrived at the
entrance of Rocky Canyon, two hundred and fifty miles from Salt Lake.
It was along in this wild country somewhere, and far from any habitation
of white men, except the stage stations, that we came across the
wretchedest type of mankind I have ever seen, up to this writing.  I
refer to the Goshoot Indians.  From what we could see and all we could
learn, they are very considerably inferior to even the despised Digger
Indians of California; inferior to all races of savages on our continent;
inferior to even the Terra del Fuegans; inferior to the Hottentots, and
actually inferior in some respects to the Kytches of Africa.  Indeed, I
have been obliged to look the bulky volumes of Wood's "Uncivilized Races
of Men" clear through in order to find a savage tribe degraded enough to
take rank with the Goshoots.  I find but one people fairly open to that
shameful verdict.  It is the Bosjesmans (Bushmen) of South Africa.  Such
of the Goshoots as we saw, along the road and hanging about the stations,
were small, lean, "scrawny" creatures; in complexion a dull black like
the ordinary American negro; their faces and hands bearing dirt which
they had been hoarding and accumulating for months, years, and even
generations, according to the age of the proprietor; a silent, sneaking,
treacherous looking race; taking note of everything, covertly, like all
the other "Noble Red Men" that we (do not) read about, and betraying no
sign in their countenances; indolent, everlastingly patient and tireless,
like all other Indians; prideless beggars--for if the beggar instinct
were left out of an Indian he would not "go," any more than a clock
without a pendulum; hungry, always hungry, and yet never refusing
anything that a hog would eat, though often eating what a hog would
decline; hunters, but having no higher ambition than to kill and eat
jack-ass rabbits,  crickets and grasshoppers, and embezzle carrion from
the buzzards and cayotes; savages who, when asked if they have the common
Indian belief in a Great Spirit show a something which almost amounts to
emotion, thinking whiskey is referred to; a thin, scattering race of
almost naked black children, these Goshoots are, who produce nothing at
all, and have no villages, and no gatherings together into strictly
defined tribal communities--a people whose only shelter is a rag cast on
a bush to keep off a portion of the snow, and yet who inhabit one of the
most rocky, wintry, repulsive wastes that our country or any other can
exhibit.

The Bushmen and our Goshoots are manifestly descended from the self-same
gorilla, or kangaroo, or Norway rat, which-ever animal--Adam the
Darwinians trace them to.

One would as soon expect the rabbits to fight as the Goshoots, and yet
they used to live off the offal and refuse of the stations a few months
and then come some dark night when no mischief was expected, and burn
down the buildings and kill the men from ambush as they rushed out.
And once, in the night, they attacked the stage-coach when a District
Judge, of Nevada Territory, was the only passenger, and with their first
volley of arrows (and a bullet or two) they riddled the stage curtains,
wounded a horse or two and mortally wounded the driver.  The latter was
full of pluck, and so was his passenger.  At the driver's call Judge Mott
swung himself out, clambered to the box and seized the reins of the team,
and away they plunged, through the racing mob of skeletons and under a
hurtling storm of missiles.  The stricken driver had sunk down on the
boot as soon as he was wounded, but had held on to the reins and said he
would manage to keep hold of them until relieved.

And after they were taken from his relaxing grasp, he lay with his head
between Judge Mott's feet, and tranquilly gave directions about the road;
he said he believed he could live till the miscreants were outrun and
left behind, and that if he managed that, the main difficulty would be at
an end, and then if the Judge drove so and so (giving directions about
bad places in the road, and general course) he would reach the next
station without trouble.  The Judge distanced the enemy and at last
rattled up to the station and knew that the night's perils were done; but
there was no comrade-in-arms for him to rejoice with, for the soldierly
driver was dead.

Let us forget that we have been saying harsh things about the Overland
drivers, now.  The disgust which the Goshoots gave me, a disciple of
Cooper and a worshipper of the Red Man--even of the scholarly savages in
the "Last of the Mohicans" who are fittingly associated with backwoodsmen
who divide each sentence into two equal parts: one part critically
grammatical, refined and choice of language, and the other part just such
an attempt to talk like a hunter or a mountaineer, as a Broadway clerk
might make after eating an edition of Emerson Bennett's works and
studying frontier life at the Bowery Theatre a couple of weeks--I say
that the nausea which the Goshoots gave me, an Indian worshipper, set me
to examining authorities, to see if perchance I had been over-estimating
the Red Man while viewing him through the mellow moonshine of romance.
The revelations that came were disenchanting.  It was curious to see how
quickly the paint and tinsel fell away from him and left him treacherous,
filthy and repulsive--and how quickly the evidences accumulated that
wherever one finds an Indian tribe he has only found Goshoots more or
less modified by circumstances and surroundings--but Goshoots, after all.
They deserve pity, poor creatures; and they can have mine--at this
distance.  Nearer by, they never get anybody's.

There is an impression abroad that the Baltimore and Washington Railroad
Company and many of its employees are Goshoots; but it is an error.
There is only a plausible resemblance, which, while it is apt enough to
mislead the ignorant, cannot deceive parties who have contemplated both
tribes.  But seriously, it was not only poor wit, but very wrong to start
the report referred to above; for however innocent the motive may have
been, the necessary effect was to injure the reputation of a class who
have a hard enough time of it in the pitiless deserts of the Rocky
Mountains, Heaven knows!  If we cannot find it in our hearts to give
those poor naked creatures our Christian sympathy and compassion, in
God's name let us at least not throw mud at them.




CHAPTER XX.

On the seventeenth day we passed the highest mountain peaks we had yet
seen, and although the day was very warm the night that followed upon its
heels was wintry cold and blankets were next to useless.

On the eighteenth day we encountered the eastward-bound
telegraph-constructors at Reese River station and sent a message to his
Excellency Gov. Nye at Carson City (distant one hundred and fifty-six
miles).

On the nineteenth day we crossed the Great American Desert--forty
memorable miles of bottomless sand, into which the coach wheels sunk from
six inches to a foot.  We worked our passage most of the way across.
That is to say, we got out and walked.  It was a dreary pull and a long
and thirsty one, for we had no water.  From one extremity of this desert
to the other, the road was white with the bones of oxen and horses.
It would hardly be an exaggeration to say that we could have walked the
forty miles and set our feet on a bone at every step!  The desert was one
prodigious graveyard.  And the log-chains, wagon tyres, and rotting
wrecks of vehicles were almost as thick as the bones.  I think we saw
log-chains enough rusting there in the desert, to reach across any State
in the Union.  Do not these relics suggest something of an idea of the
fearful suffering and privation the early emigrants to California
endured?

At the border of the Desert lies Carson Lake, or The "Sink" of the
Carson, a shallow, melancholy sheet of water some eighty or a hundred
miles in circumference.  Carson River empties into it and is lost--sinks
mysteriously into the earth and never appears in the light of the sun
again--for the lake has no outlet whatever.

There are several rivers in Nevada, and they all have this mysterious
fate.  They end in various lakes or "sinks," and that is the last of
them.  Carson Lake, Humboldt Lake, Walker Lake, Mono Lake, are all great
sheets of water without any visible outlet.  Water is always flowing into
them; none is ever seen to flow out of them, and yet they remain always
level full, neither receding nor overflowing.  What they do with their
surplus is only known to the Creator.

On the western verge of the Desert we halted a moment at Ragtown.  It
consisted of one log house and is not set down on the map.

This reminds me of a circumstance.  Just after we left Julesburg, on the
Platte, I was sitting with the driver, and he said:

"I can tell you a most laughable thing indeed, if you would like to
listen to it.  Horace Greeley went over this road once.  When he was
leaving Carson City he told the driver, Hank Monk, that he had an
engagement to lecture at Placerville and was very anxious to go through
quick.  Hank Monk cracked his whip and started off at an awful pace.
The coach bounced up and down in such a terrific way that it jolted the
buttons all off of Horace's coat, and finally shot his head clean through
the roof of the stage, and then he yelled at Hank Monk and begged him to
go easier--said he warn't in as much of a hurry as he was awhile ago.
But Hank Monk said, 'Keep your seat, Horace, and I'll get you there on
time'--and you bet you he did, too, what was left of him!"

A day or two after that we picked up a Denver man at the cross roads, and
he told us a good deal about the country and the Gregory Diggings.
He seemed a very entertaining person and a man well posted in the affairs
of Colorado.  By and by he remarked:

"I can tell you a most laughable thing indeed, if you would like to
listen to it.  Horace Greeley went over this road once.  When he was
leaving Carson City he told the driver, Hank Monk, that he had an
engagement to lecture at Placerville and was very anxious to go through
quick.  Hank Monk cracked his whip and started off at an awful pace.  The
coach bounced up and down in such a terrific way that it jolted the
buttons all off of Horace's coat, and finally shot his head clean through
the roof of the stage, and then he yelled at Hank Monk and begged him to
go easier--said he warn't in as much of a hurry as he was awhile ago.
But Hank Monk said, 'Keep your seat, Horace, and I'll get you there on
time!'--and you bet you he did, too, what was left of him!"

At Fort Bridger, some days after this, we took on board a cavalry
sergeant, a very proper and soldierly person indeed.  From no other man
during the whole journey, did we gather such a store of concise and
well-arranged military information.  It was surprising to find in the
desolate wilds of our country a man so thoroughly acquainted with
everything useful to know in his line of life, and yet of such inferior
rank and unpretentious bearing.  For as much as three hours we listened
to him with unabated interest.  Finally he got upon the subject of
trans-continental travel, and presently said:

"I can tell you a very laughable thing indeed, if you would like to
listen to it.  Horace Greeley went over this road once.  When he was
leaving Carson City he told the driver, Hank Monk, that he had an
engagement to lecture at Placerville and was very anxious to go through
quick.  Hank Monk cracked his whip and started off at an awful pace.  The
coach bounced up and down in such a terrific way that it jolted the
buttons all off of Horace's coat, and finally shot his head clean through
the roof of the stage, and then he yelled at Hank Monk and begged him to
go easier--said he warn't in as much of a hurry as he was awhile ago.
But Hank Monk said, 'Keep your seat, Horace, and I'll get you there on
time!'--and you bet you he did, too, what was left of him!"

When we were eight hours out from Salt Lake City a Mormon preacher got in
with us at a way station--a gentle, soft-spoken, kindly man, and one whom
any stranger would warm to at first sight.  I can never forget the pathos
that was in his voice as he told, in simple language, the story of his
people's wanderings and unpitied sufferings.  No pulpit eloquence was
ever so moving and so beautiful as this outcast's picture of the first
Mormon pilgrimage across the plains, struggling sorrowfully onward to the
land of its banishment and marking its desolate way with graves and
watering it with tears.  His words so wrought upon us that it was a
relief to us all when the conversation drifted into a more cheerful
channel and the natural features of the curious country we were in came
under treatment.  One matter after another was pleasantly discussed, and
at length the stranger said:

"I can tell you a most laughable thing indeed, if you would like to
listen to it.  Horace Greeley went over this road once.  When he was
leaving Carson City he told the driver, Hank Monk, that he had an
engagement to lecture in Placerville, and was very anxious to go through
quick.  Hank Monk cracked his whip and started off at an awful pace.  The
coach bounced up and down in such a terrific way that it jolted the
buttons all off of Horace's coat, and finally shot his head clean through
the roof of the stage, and then he yelled at Hank Monk and begged him to
go easier--said he warn't in as much of a hurry as he was awhile ago.
But Hank Monk said, 'Keep your seat, Horace, and I'll get you there on
time!'--and you bet you bet you he did, too, what was left of him!"

Ten miles out of Ragtown we found a poor wanderer who had lain down to
die.  He had walked as long as he could, but his limbs had failed him at
last.  Hunger and fatigue had conquered him.  It would have been inhuman
to leave him there.  We paid his fare to Carson and lifted him into the
coach.  It was some little time before he showed any very decided signs
of life; but by dint of chafing him and pouring brandy between his lips
we finally brought him to a languid consciousness.  Then we fed him a
little, and by and by he seemed to comprehend the situation and a
grateful light softened his eye.  We made his mail-sack bed as
comfortable as possible, and constructed a pillow for him with our coats.
He seemed very thankful.  Then he looked up in our faces, and said in a
feeble voice that had a tremble of honest emotion in it:

"Gentlemen, I know not who you are, but you have saved my life; and
although I can never be able to repay you for it, I feel that I can at
least make one hour of your long journey lighter.  I take it you are
strangers to this great thorough fare, but I am entirely familiar with
it.  In this connection I can tell you a most laughable thing indeed, if
you would like to listen to it.  Horace Greeley----"

I said, impressively:

"Suffering stranger, proceed at your peril.  You see in me the melancholy
wreck of a once stalwart and magnificent manhood.  What has brought me to
this?  That thing which you are about to tell.  Gradually but surely,
that tiresome old anecdote has sapped my strength, undermined my
constitution, withered my life.  Pity my helplessness.  Spare me only
just this once, and tell me about young George Washington and his little
hatchet for a change."

We were saved.  But not so the invalid.  In trying to retain the anecdote
in his system he strained himself and died in our arms.

I am aware, now, that I ought not to have asked of the sturdiest citizen
of all that region, what I asked of that mere shadow of a man; for, after
seven years' residence on the Pacific coast, I know that no passenger or
driver on the Overland ever corked that anecdote in, when a stranger was
by, and survived.  Within a period of six years I crossed and recrossed
the Sierras between Nevada and California thirteen times by stage and
listened to that deathless incident four hundred and eighty-one or
eighty-two times.  I have the list somewhere.  Drivers always told it,
conductors told it, landlords told it, chance passengers told it, the
very Chinamen and vagrant Indians recounted it.  I have had the same
driver tell it to me two or three times in the same afternoon.  It has
come to me in all the multitude of tongues that Babel bequeathed to
earth, and flavored with whiskey, brandy, beer, cologne, sozodont,
tobacco, garlic, onions, grasshoppers--everything that has a fragrance to
it through all the long list of things that are gorged or guzzled by the
sons of men.  I never have smelt any anecdote as often as I have smelt
that one; never have smelt any anecdote that smelt so variegated as that
one.  And you never could learn to know it by its smell, because every
time you thought you had learned the smell of it, it would turn up with a
different smell.  Bayard Taylor has written about this hoary anecdote,
Richardson has published it; so have Jones, Smith, Johnson, Ross Browne,
and every other correspondence-inditing being that ever set his foot upon
the great overland road anywhere between Julesburg and San Francisco; and
I have heard that it is in the Talmud.  I have seen it in print in nine
different foreign languages; I have been told that it is employed in the
inquisition in Rome; and I now learn with regret that it is going to be
set to music.  I do not think that such things are right.

Stage-coaching on the Overland is no more, and stage drivers are a race
defunct.  I wonder if they bequeathed that bald-headed anecdote to their
successors, the railroad brakemen and conductors, and if these latter
still persecute the helpless passenger with it until he concludes, as did
many a tourist of other days, that the real grandeurs of the Pacific
coast are not Yo Semite and the Big Trees, but Hank Monk and his
adventure with Horace Greeley.  [And what makes that worn anecdote the
more aggravating, is, that the adventure it celebrates never occurred.
If it were a good anecdote, that seeming demerit would be its chiefest
virtue, for creative power belongs to greatness; but what ought to be
done to a man who would wantonly contrive so flat a one as this?  If I
were to suggest what ought to be done to him, I should be called
extravagant--but what does the sixteenth chapter of Daniel say?  Aha!]







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