This passage is adapted from Mark Twain, “Roughing It.” Originally published in 1872.
My brother had just been appointed Secretary of Nevada
Territory—an office of such majesty that it concentrated in
itself the duties and dignities of Treasurer, Comptroller,
Secretary of State, and Acting Governor in the Governor’s
absence. A salary of eighteen hundred dollars a year and the
title of “Mr. Secretary,” gave to the great position an air of wild
and imposing grandeur. I was young and ignorant, and I envied
my brother. I coveted his distinction and his financial splendor,
but particularly and especially the long, strange journey he was
going to make, and the curious new world he was going to
explore. He was going to travel! I never had been away from
home, and that word “travel” had a seductive charm for me.
Pretty soon he would be hundreds and hundreds of miles away
on the great plains and deserts, and among the mountains of the
Far West, and would see buffaloes and Indians, and prairie
dogs, and antelopes, and have all kinds of adventures, and have
ever such a fine time, and write home and tell us all about it,
and be a hero. And he would see the gold mines and the silver
mines, and maybe go about of an afternoon when his work was
done, and pick up two or three pailfuls of shining slugs, and
nuggets of gold and silver on the hillside. And by and by he
would become very rich, and return home by sea, and be able
to talk as calmly about San Francisco and the ocean, and “the
isthmus” as if it was nothing of any consequence to have seen
those marvels face to face.
What I suffered in contemplating his happiness, pen cannot
describe. And so, when he offered me, in cold blood, the
sublime position of private secretary under him, it appeared to
me that the heavens and the earth passed away, and the
firmament was rolled together as a scroll! I had nothing more
to desire. My contentment was complete.
At the end of an hour or two I was ready for the journey.
Not much packing up was necessary, because we were going in
the overland stage from the Missouri frontier to Nevada, and
passengers were only allowed a small quantity of baggage
apiece. There was no Pacific railroad in those fine times of ten
or twelve years ago—not a single rail of it. I only proposed to
stay in Nevada three months—I had no thought of staying
longer than that. I meant to see all I could that was new and
strange, and then hurry home to business. I little thought that I
would not see the end of that three-month pleasure excursion
for six or seven uncommonly long years!
I dreamed all night about Indians, deserts, and silver bars,
and in due time, next day, we took shipping at the St. Louis
wharf on board a steamboat bound up the Missouri River.
We were six days going from St. Louis to “St. Jo.”—a trip
that was so dull, and sleepy, and eventless that it has left no
more impression on my memory than if its duration had been
six minutes instead of that many days. No record is left in my
mind, now, concerning it, but a confused jumble of savage-
looking snags, which our boat deliberately walked over with
one wheel* or the other; and of reefs which we butted and
butted, and then retired from and climbed over in some softer
place; and of sand-bars which we roosted on occasionally, and
rested, and then got out our crutches and sparred over.
In fact, the boat might almost as well have gone to St. Jo. by
land, for she was walking most of the time, anyhow—climbing
over reefs and clambering over snags patiently and laboriously
all day long. The captain said she was a “bully” boat, and all
she wanted was more “shear” and a bigger wheel. I thought she
wanted a pair of stilts, but I had the deep sagacity not to say so.
*The narrator is on a paddle steamer, a boat that uses steam power to turn a large wheel in the rear of the boat.
My brother had just been appointed Secretary of Nevada
Territory—an office of such majesty that it concentrated in
itself the duties and dignities of Treasurer, Comptroller,
Secretary of State, and Acting Governor in the Governor’s
absence. A salary of eighteen hundred dollars a year and the
title of “Mr. Secretary,” gave to the great position an air of wild
and imposing grandeur. I was young and ignorant, and I envied
my brother. I coveted his distinction and his financial splendor,
but particularly and especially the long, strange journey he was
going to make, and the curious new world he was going to
explore. He was going to travel! I never had been away from
home, and that word “travel” had a seductive charm for me.
Pretty soon he would be hundreds and hundreds of miles away
on the great plains and deserts, and among the mountains of the
Far West, and would see buffaloes and Indians, and prairie
dogs, and antelopes, and have all kinds of adventures, and have
ever such a fine time, and write home and tell us all about it,
and be a hero. And he would see the gold mines and the silver
mines, and maybe go about of an afternoon when his work was
done, and pick up two or three pailfuls of shining slugs, and
nuggets of gold and silver on the hillside. And by and by he
would become very rich, and return home by sea, and be able
to talk as calmly about San Francisco and the ocean, and “the
isthmus” as if it was nothing of any consequence to have seen
those marvels face to face.
What I suffered in contemplating his happiness, pen cannot
describe. And so, when he offered me, in cold blood, the
sublime position of private secretary under him, it appeared to
me that the heavens and the earth passed away, and the
firmament was rolled together as a scroll! I had nothing more
to desire. My contentment was complete.
At the end of an hour or two I was ready for the journey.
Not much packing up was necessary, because we were going in
the overland stage from the Missouri frontier to Nevada, and
passengers were only allowed a small quantity of baggage
apiece. There was no Pacific railroad in those fine times of ten
or twelve years ago—not a single rail of it. I only proposed to
stay in Nevada three months—I had no thought of staying
longer than that. I meant to see all I could that was new and
strange, and then hurry home to business. I little thought that I
would not see the end of that three-month pleasure excursion
for six or seven uncommonly long years!
I dreamed all night about Indians, deserts, and silver bars,
and in due time, next day, we took shipping at the St. Louis
wharf on board a steamboat bound up the Missouri River.
We were six days going from St. Louis to “St. Jo.”—a trip
that was so dull, and sleepy, and eventless that it has left no
more impression on my memory than if its duration had been
six minutes instead of that many days. No record is left in my
mind, now, concerning it, but a confused jumble of savage-
looking snags, which our boat deliberately walked over with
one wheel* or the other; and of reefs which we butted and
butted, and then retired from and climbed over in some softer
place; and of sand-bars which we roosted on occasionally, and
rested, and then got out our crutches and sparred over.
In fact, the boat might almost as well have gone to St. Jo. by
land, for she was walking most of the time, anyhow—climbing
over reefs and clambering over snags patiently and laboriously
all day long. The captain said she was a “bully” boat, and all
she wanted was more “shear” and a bigger wheel. I thought she
wanted a pair of stilts, but I had the deep sagacity not to say so.
*The narrator is on a paddle steamer, a boat that uses steam power to turn a large wheel in the rear of the boat.