Roughing It

Roughing It

3.5 79
by Mark Twain, Henry B. Wonham
     
 

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"It wasn't clear in 1870 what sort of sequel Twain might devise after the triumph of The Innocents Abroad, but all indications suggest that he would continue to excel as a writer of humorous travelogue. Instead, he surprised readers and himself by taking an enormous step in the direction of literary fiction, creating a book that continues to dazzle withSee more details below

Overview


"It wasn't clear in 1870 what sort of sequel Twain might devise after the triumph of The Innocents Abroad, but all indications suggest that he would continue to excel as a writer of humorous travelogue. Instead, he surprised readers and himself by taking an enormous step in the direction of literary fiction, creating a book that continues to dazzle with the variety of its many idioms and the sheer exuberance of its depiction of frontier life," Henry Wonham tells us in his afterword. Marking a crucial phase in the author's life and career, Roughing It vividly recounts Twain's adventures in the West. Twain blends autobiography and tall tale to produce this engaging humorous account of six boisterous years in Nevada, San Francisco, and Hawaii. Genteel culture meets frontier culture head-on in this wildly inventive, high-spirited book, and neither will ever be the same.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780195101331
Publisher:
Oxford University Press, USA
Publication date:
11/01/1996
Series:
Oxford Mark Twain Series
Pages:
704
Product dimensions:
8.81(w) x 6.63(h) x 1.82(d)

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER I.


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 maybe get hanged or scalped, 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. Joe" - 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 we 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. Joe 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.

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