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.