in the barn with the ostlers? These are the most dismal Tombs on record, not excepting the Tomb of the Capulets, the Tombs of New York, or the Toombs of Georgia.

Under the head of "Old Sayings," Mr. P. publishes the following. There is a modesty about the last "saying" which will be pretty apt to strike the reader:

The Lord does good and Satan evil, said Moses.
Sun and Moon, see me conquer, said Joshua.

Virtue exalts a woman, said David.

Fools and folly frolic, said Solomon.
Judgments belong to God, said Isaiah.
The path of the just is plain, said Jeremiah.

The soul that sins dies, said Ezekiel.

The wicked do wicked, said Daniel.

Ephraim fled and hid, said Hosea.

The Gentiles war and waste, said Joel.

The second reign is peace and plenty, said Amos.

Zion is the house of the Gods, said Obadiah,

A fish saved me, said Jonah.

Our Lion will be terrible, said Micah.
Doctor, cure yourself, said the Saviour.
Live to live again, said W. W. Phelps."

XVI.

HURRAH FOR THE ROAD!

TIME, Wednesday afternoon, February 10. The Overland Stage, Mr. William Glover on the box, stands before the veranda of the Salt Lake House. The genial Nat Stein is arranging the way-bill. Our baggage (the overland passenger is only allowed twenty-five pounds) is being put aboard, and we are shaking hands, at a rate altogether furious, with Mormon and Gentile. Among the former are brothers Stenhouse, Caine, Clawson and Townsend; and among the latter are Harry Riccard, the big-hearted English mountaineer (though once he wore white kids and swallow-tails in Regent street, and in his boyhood went to school to Miss Edgeworth, the novelist); the daring explorer Rood, from Wisconsin; the Rev. James McCormick, missionary who distributes pasteboard tracts among the Bannock miners; and the pleasing child of gore, Capt. D. B. Stover, of the Commissary department.

We go away on wheels, but the deep snow compels us to substitute runners twelve miles out.

There are four passengers of us. We pierce the Wahsatch mountains by Parley's canon.

A snow storm overtakes us as the night thickens, and the wind shrieks like a brigade of strong-lunged maniacs. Never mind. We are well covered up our cigars are good-I have on deerskin pantaloons, a deerskin overcoat, a beaver cap and buffalo overshoes; and so, as I tersely observed before, Never mind. Let us laugh the winds to scorn, brave boys! But why is William Glover, driver, lying flat on his back by the roadside, and why am I turning a handspring in the road, and why are the horses tearing wildly down the Wahsatch mountains? It is because William Glover has been thrown from his seat, & the horses are running away. I see him fall off, and it occurs to me that I had better get out. In doing so, such is the velocity of the sleigh, I turn a handspring.

Far ahead I hear the runners clash with the rocks and I see Dr. Hingston's lantern (he always would have a lantern) bobbing about like the binnacle

light of an oyster sloop, very loose in a chopping Therefore I do not laugh the winds to scorn

sea.

as much as I did, brave boys.

William G. is not hurt, and together we trudge on after the runaways in the hope of overtaking them, which we do some two miles off. They are in a snowbank, and "nobody hurt."

We are soon on the road again, all serene; though I believe the doctor did observe that such a thing could not have occurred under a monarchical form of government.

We reach Weber station, thirty miles from Salt Lake City, and wildly situated at the foot of the grand Echo Canon, at 3 o'clock the following morning. We remain over a day here with James Bromley, agent of the Overland Stage line, and who is better known on the plains than Shakspeare is; although Shakspeare has done a good deal for the stage. James Bromley has seen the Overland line grow up from its ponyicy; and as Fitz-Green Hal'eck happily observes, none know him but to like his style. He was intended for an agent. In his infancy he used to lisp the refrain,

"I want to be an agent,

And with the agents stand."

I part with this kind-hearted gentleman, to whose industry and ability the Overland line owes much of its success, with sincere regret; and I hope he will soon get rich enough to transplant his charming wife from the Desert to the "White Settlements."

Forward to Fort Bridger, in an open sleigh. Night clear, cold, and moonlit. Driver Mr. Samuel Smart. Through Echo Canon to Hanging Rock Station. The snow is very deep, there is no path, and we literally shovel our way to Robert Pollock's station, which we achieve in the Course of Time. Mr. P. gets up and kindles a fire, and a snowy nightcap and a pair of very bright ack eyes beam upon us from the bed. That is Mrs. Robert Pollock. The log cabin is a comfortable one. I make coffee in my French coffee-pot, and let loose some of the roast chickens in my basket. (Tired of fried bacon and saleratus bread,-the principal bill of fare at the stations,-we had supplied ourselves with chicken, boiled ham, onions, sausages, sea-bread, canned butter, cheese, honey, &c. &c., an example