ceived through Mortimer an
invitation to visit the poor lady, _en famille_, at Chiselhurst; but as
the iron rules of imperial etiquette, even in exile, required that the
hospitable request be made in the form of a "command," my republican
independence took alarm and I had the incivility to disobey; and I still
think it a sufficient distinction to be probably the only American
journalist who was ever employed by an Empress in so congenial a pursuit
as the pursuit of another journalist.

ACROSS THE PLAINS

That noted pioneer, General John Bidwell, of California, once made a
longish step up the western slope of our American Parnassus by an account
of his journey "across the plains" seven years before the lamented Mr.
Marshall had found the least and worst of all possible reasons for making
the "trek." General Bidwell had not the distinction to be a great writer,
but in order to command admiration and respect in that province of the
Republic of Letters which lies in the Sacramento Valley above the mouth of
the Yuba the gift of writing greatly is a needless endowment. Nevertheless
I read his narrative with an interest which on analysis turns out to be a
by-product of personal experience: among my youthful indiscretions was a
journey over much of the same ground, which I took in much the same
way--as did many thousands before and after.

It was a far cry from 1841 to 1866, yet the country between the Missouri
River and the Sierra Nevada had not greatly improved: civilization had
halted at the river, awaiting transportation. A railroad had set out from
Omaha westward, and another at Sacramento was solemnly considering the
impossible suggestion of going eastward to meet it. There were lunatics in
those days, as there are in these. I left the one road a few miles out of
the Nebraskan village and met the other at Dutch Flat, in California.

Waste no compassion on the loneliness of my journey: a thriving colony of
Mormons had planted itself in the valley of Salt Lake and there were
"forts" at a few points along the way, where ambitious young army officers
passed the best years of their lives guarding live stock and teaching the
mysteries of Hardee's tactics to that alien patriot, the American regular.
There was a dusty wagon road, bordered with bones--not always those of
animals--with an occasional mound, sometimes dignified with a warped and
rotting head-board bearing an illegible inscription. (One inscription not
entirely i