of this," says a third, in a tone of voice and with an emphasis that
plainly indicates his great disgust at "this." By " this" he means the
village of Tacoma; and he is disgusted with it. They are all disgusted
with it and with the whole world this evening, because Tacoma is "out
of whiskey." Yes, the village is destitute of whiskey; it should have
arrived yesterday, and hasn't shown up yet; and the effect on the society
of the bar-room is so depressing that I soon retire to my couch, to dream
of Utah's strange intermingling of forbidding deserts and beautiful
orchards through which my route now leads me.






CHAPTER III.





THROUGH MORMON-LAND AND OVER THE ROCKIES.

A dreary-looking country is the " Great American Desert," in Utah, the
northern boundary line of which I traverse next morning. To the left
of the road is a low chain of barren hills; to the right, the uninviting
plain, over which one's eye wanders in vain for some green object that
might raise hopes of a less desolate region beyond; and over all hangs
an oppressive silence - the silence of a dead country - a country destitute
of both animal and vegetable life. Over the great desert hangs a smoky