Synopsis
Excerpt from The Tragedy of Thompson Dunbar: A Tale of Salt Lake City
America has no other like it. Surveyed from a distance it wears a distinctly Oriental appearance. So we of the Far West who have only dreamed of the East, imagine how Damascus may look. White houses shin ing amid rich masses of green foliage. A dome, a tower, a spire, that may answer for a minaret, deep gardens, buildings with flat roofs, a faint mist of dust marking the line of a travelled street, a sky of more than Oriental softness overhead, and an atmosphere so pure that to breathe it is luxury, and to look through it is to gain such power of vision that the peaks of the Wasatch range, twenty miles away, seem within reach of the pedestrian who has five minutes to spare.
In the city there are broad streets covered with gravel. Upon each side where the gutter should be, there is a stream of pure and delicious water hurtling fiercely along with the impetus gained at the top of the Twin Peaks. The dwellings of stone, of wood, of adobe or sun-burned bricks, are far apart and enshrined among mighty trees. Shops, here and there, thrust themselves out to the edge of the footway, and offer their wares to the passers-by.
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