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.