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