roughing it-第24节

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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　himyea；　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　pipean　old；　rank；
delicious　pipeham　and　eggs　and　scenery；　a　〃down　grade；〃　a　flying　coach；
a　fragrant　pipe　and　a　contented　heartthese　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　Saharaan　〃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　satisfactorybut　now　we　were　to　cross　a　desert　in
daylight。　　This　was　finenovelromanticdramatically　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　hourand
then　we　were　ashamed　that　we　had　〃gushed〃　so。　　The　poetry　was　all　in　the
anticipationthere　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　surfaceit　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
soundnot　a　sighnot　a　whispernot　a　buzz；　or　a　whir　of　wings；　or
distant　pipe　of　birdnot　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　bleedingand　truly　and
seriously　the　romance　all　faded　far　away　and　disappeared；　and　left　the
desert　trip　nothing　but　a　harsh　realitya　thirsty；　sweltering；　longing；
hateful　reality！

Two　miles　and　a　quarter　an　hour　for　ten　hoursthat　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　fitbut　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