Transcript

ACROSS THE PLAINS IN WINTER.

A [--] from Denver to Salt Lake—A Newspaper at Laporte—Compagnons du Voyage—Novel Experiences.

From Our Special Correspondent.

GREAT SALT LAKE CITY, Utah Territory, Tuesday, Dec. 11, 1866.

Just one year ago I was writing you from the delightful city of St. Augustine—quaint old Augustine—Florida, at an open window seated, inhaling the fragrance of fruit and flowers, listening to the melodies of birds of song, and breathing a Winter air unknown without the borders of the “Flower State.” The scene has changed, and I am far removed from that wilderness of sweets. My birds have gone, and my flowers bloom scentless and cold on the frosty window. I am under the very shadows of the Rocky Mountains, white with the snows of unnumbered years, and pierced with an atmosphere as rude as the dagger which drank the blood of THOMAS A’BECKETT.

On Saturday, Dec.1, I left Denver, Colorado Territory, for Salt Lake City, distance 600 miles. I was the only passenger, which made the situation more bleak than it would have otherwise been. From Denver to Laporte, a distance of seventy miles, you proceed directly north over a magnificent stretch of prairie, with natural and artificial streams upon either hand, the latter having been constructed for the purposes of irrigation. The road runs parallel with the mountains, the foot hills of which are some ten miles to the left. Laporte, the last town west, east of Salt Lake, reposes under a sturdy old hill, and is a place of promise. It already has a hotel, a church and a billiard saloon, and will soon print a paper. There was a paper printed at Laporte for a short time, but it is among the things that were. It had its history, however. It was a weekly—very weakly, in fact. The first issue was edited, put in type, printed and circulated by one man. The most flaming advertisement in the paper was “Wanted—A compositor. Apply at this office.” A defunct miner, who had come West to seek his fortune, and hadn’t found it, applied “at this office”—the only building in town with a broad roof, which looked badly, by the way, during a storm—and got a situation. He became the “foreman,” and the owner was the “editor.” There was but one “galley” in the office, and that was generally used by the editor. The foreman, after filling his stick with type, would tie it up with a string, and hang it up on a nail. Twelve nails—full made a galley, and constituted a day’s work. When the editor went out “collecting,” the foreman would have the galley to himself—he often had it to himself. The second issue was a success. The “form” was “planed” against the wall with the heel of a boot, but the whole issue went off—it soled well. The next issue was suspended on account of a violent storm, which lasted a week. There was a little scarcity of news the following week, owing to the fact that the foreman had been in jail. The next week it again appeared, but for the last time. For this reason: The editor attempted to pay off his help in brooms. The indignant compositor told the editor to go to ——, and again went into the mountains for gold. His fate is not known. The editor did not go below, certainly, for I met him in Denver.

Mr. LAPORTE, a station-keeper, bound for Big Laramie, one JANISSE by name, his wife, two children, Thomas cat and a female purp [pup], a coffee-mill, two guns, four bags and a can of syrup, entered the coach, and accompanied me to Big Laramie. Oh! it was a happy family. Mr. JANISSE, who informed me that he was one of FREMONT’S company, was extremely solicitous about his can of syrup, and talked molasses continually. Mrs. JANISSE was full of an old cow which had departed this life a few days previous. The JANISSE juveniles had several fights, as also did the cat and doge; and coffee-mill, guns, bags and molasses, danced cotillions from one part of the stage to the other. I was gracefully doubled up like a jackknife on the front seat, and on the whole delighted.

The night was dark and dismally cold. The half-frozen Jehu dashed us over rock and into rut, and shook us up in the most anti-dyspeptic manner. About 3 A. M., on the 2d inst., and oh, what a cold Sunday morning! we flew down the “steppes” of Stonewall Hill, the most frightful descent between Denver and Salt Lake City, and soon after arrived at Virginia Dale.

Virginia Dale is just one hundred miles from Denver, and is one of the most exquisite spots imaginable. It is nestled in the embrace of giant hills known as the Black Mountains, and is ten miles from their summit, from which you seem to pass down on to the Laramie Plains, but in reality you have commenced the ascent of the great range, and are continually increasing your distance from the level of the sea. The huge mountains which encompass this charming dale form a cast amphitheatre, while the prettiest little pet of a stream meanders below. All is quiet in the dale, but its rugged sides fairly reel with the blasts of Winter, producing a noise louder than a thousand cataracts. Just before arriving at Virginia Dale, if in the daytime, the tourist may feast his eyes upon an extraordinary specimen of Nature’s architecture, known as the Steamboat Rock, with smokestacks, pilot-house, cabin, wheelhouse and all. It is said to be one of the grandest sights upon the road, but it was so dark when we passed I failed to discover even an outline of it.

HANK BROWN was our driver from Virginia Dale to Big Laramie station, distance 35 miles. It was one of the coldest mornings I ever experienced, and old Boreas was in his glory. A most terrific blast of wind struck us, when within thirteen miles of Big Laramie, producing a shock like shipping a sea. The reins were blown out of HANK’S freezing hands, the horses turned square around, and over went the vehicle. Although I hurt my head a little, I had to smile at the scene. Such a comical sight I ever saw before. Such a mixture of adults and children, cats and dogs, bags, molasses, coffee-mills, &c., &c., I never expect to see again. When I recovered my equilibrium, the first object I saw was old JANISSE reaching wildly for his can of syrup, the contents of which were running into his hat. Like the humane Captain, who mourned the loss of an oar which he had thrown to a drowning sailor, JANISSE shouts: “There goes my molasses!” absolutely forgetting Mrs. JANISSE, who was mashed up in one corner like the last rose of next Summer, and his two children, who were thrown across the middle seat, screaming and kicking like a couple of cupids in distress. We were not long in extricating ourselves, I assure you; and great was our joy upon discovering that no biped was seriously hurt. The joy subsequently partook of a tinge of grief, however, occasioned by the untimely death of both the canine and feline pets; the dog having been crushed to death between Mrs. JANISSE and another bag, and the cat having met its sad fate by having its head jammed into the coffee-mill. “What a cat-astrophe,” ejaculated the dismal-looking Mrs. JANISSE. “I felt sure that syrup would get tipped over,” groaned JANISSE the brave. “Are you going to stay in there all day?” shouted HANK from outside. “No!” and out we lumbered—right side up went the coach, and on we rolled to Laramie.

At Big Laramie, the Janisse family and myself partook of a hearty meal, and at 12 M. I again started, and was once more alone. From Big Laramie to Cooper’s Creek, a distance of thirty-two miles, was made in four hours. From Cooper’s Creek to Elk Mountains is thirty-two miles, and from Elk Mountains to North Platte it is thirty miles, or 129 miles from Denver. At North Platte I changed coaches, and a driver stole a pair of buffalo shoes from me, which I state as an incident. At daylight, on Monday, Dec. 3, I crossed North Platte on the ice, and arrived upon the summit of the Rocky Mountains at 2 P. M., and took dinner at Bridger’s Pass, four miles below the summit, upon the pacific slope. The snow was quite deep, and Sulphur Springs, eleven miles below was not reached until quite dark. At 6 P. M. I was again moving along. About midnight it commenced snowing, and stormed very hard until after daylight the next day, Thursday, Dec. 4. The reader will recollect that the snow-storms in this country are of no ordinary kind, and the drivers often lose the road at night. When they do, they unharness their horses and hitch them to the coach-wheels, and remain until daylight. On this occasion we lost our road, on account of the depth of the snow and the violence of the storm. We unharnessed, and remained quiet till daylight, and then found ourselves on top of the barn at Laclede. This may seem tough but it is a fact.

My arrival at Laclede quite brings me into what is known as the Bitter Creek country, the most barren section between the mountains proper on the east and Fort Bridger. From Sulpher Springs to Laclede is fifty-five miles. From Laclede to Point of Rocks it is thirty-eight miles; this last drive occupied the entire daylight portion of the 4th, on account of the depth of snow. From Point of Rocks to Green River Station is a distance of forty-eight miles. Our coach was tipped over on the bank of Bitter Creek, three miles east of Green River, and I was compelled to get out of the coach and walk across this stream on the ice, breaking though several times. Arriving at Green River I was obliged to go through the same exercise, which resulted in freezing my feet, hands and ears. I left Green River Station at 5 A. M. on Wednesday, Dec. 5, and feed the drivers to urge the coach forward to Fort Bridger, a distance of sixty eight miles, which was made in eight hours, thanks to the potency of greenbacks. I arrived at this well-known military post about noon, where I waited until Sunday, the 9th, undergoing the process of thawing out. This is a memorandum. I’ll tell you about the country from Bridger’s Pass to Fort Bridger. After crossing the Rocky Mountain chain, which divides the waters of the Atlantic from those that flow into the Pacific, through the Gulf of California, the road follows down the Muddy, a tributary of Green River, to Washokee Station, and then crosses a dividing ridge to Bitter Creek, and down this stream a distance of eighty miles to Green River.

That section of the country from Laclede to Green River Station is known as Bitter Creek, and is the great bug-bear of travelers. It is so called from the disagreeable taste of its waters, mingled with alkali, sulphur, coal and various other mineral substances with which the region through which it flows, abounds. This country, no doubt, will be of great value on the approach of the Pacific Railroad, as there are extensive deposits of coal along its entire extent. All of the ranches and stations from Sulphur Springs to Green River burn coal obtained at their own door. All kinds of game, and especially bear, elk, mountain sheep and antelope abound.

It is an inclined plane from Bridger’s Pass down to Green River. You pass over rocks, through gulches, and across streams, with very little romance, and no real beauty, upon either hand, except, may be, that presented at Point of Rocks—an association of stone hills of an amphitheatrical character. Agriculture staggers here. There is little or no soil through this broad avenue of rocks. There are no timber giants, no scraggy woods. There are no nutrictious grasses—nothing, indeed, but the sage bush—and almost worthless plant, useless alike to animal and man.

Green River is a beautiful and rapid stream, forming, with Grand River, the Colorado. It take its rise near the sources of the Missouri, Yellowstone and Columbia Rivers, and flows through the great valley lying between the Rocky Mountains (or Wind River range) and the Wasatch chain, which forms the eastern rim of the great basin. It cuts its way through the deep gorges of monster mountains; and, winding around the eastern extremity of Vinta, a detached spur of the Wasatch chain, jutting out far to the east, and covered with perpetual snow, loses itself in the Colorado.

Leaving Green River, you again ascend until you reach the summit of the Wasatch range, 100 miles west. From Green River to Fort Bridger the country vastly improves, the latter point and surroundings forming a charming oasis in this great desert of rock and bush.

From Green River to Fort Bridger the country favors the pampas of South America. Great ranges of mountains inclose you; and you meander a plain irregularly disturbed by exquisite, fantastic and wonderful elevations, known as buttes, which your fancy may describe in every conceivable shape. Cathedrals, castles, fortresses, arches, temples, mosques, walls, &c., have been erected by nature. “Church Butte,” however, twenty-three miles east of Fort Bridger, forms the grandest structure in this grand collection; and at a distance looks like and old cathedral of an elaborate design, and constitutes one of the most wonderful and sublime specimens of nature’s architectural creations.

Maps, and even written descriptions, at best furnish but a meager idea of any country. It is only by actual observation that we are enabled fully to appreciate a great country in all its diversity of feature. This is particularly the case with this almost unknown region, as it differs so materially in its principal characteristics from any other which I have ever visited.

Travelers making flying visits across the continent are, especially in the Winter, oftentimes unfavorably impressed with large portions of the country upon the pacific slope, and gibe to the public their opinions, almost always formed from casual observation, and generally distorted, from the medium through which it is seen.

Cooped up in a stage-coach, their observations are, to a great extent, necessarily confines to the immediate boundaries of the road; and they are actually ignorant of the general features and resources of the country; the courses of its streams and mountain ranges; its geological structure; the quality of its soil and of its grasses; its veins of minerals and ores; its springs of petroleum; its timber, its rock, and its general agricultural capacity. Keeping this fact in view, I must admit that my own observations are necessarily cramped. However, I have been exceedingly inquisitive and observing, under the circumstances, and shall transmit you as faithful and as elaborate a description of this charmed section as it is possible for me to do.

The country lying between the Rocky Mountain chain and the Wasatch range, and further—even to the Sierra Nevada, may in truth be termed a new world. Unmistakable evidences of its having been recently reclaimed from the dominion of the sea are everywhere to be seen. At no distant period, in my humble opinion, have these lofty mountain hemmed in a vast expanse of water. This fact is clearly demonstrated by the beds of shell found at various points; by the alkaline deposits to be met with in all of the valleys, and by the distinct water-lines marked by the corroding waves upon its upheaved buttes, and upon the bluffs that course its streams.

The water, in its own time, must have worked its way through the fissures of the rocks, or was suddenly relieved by some convulsive action of the earth, and found its way to the ocean. From the conformation of the earth, it is evident that all of the water was not discharged at once; but that the lower basin first, and then the next above it gave way, and so on until the most elvated basin had been broken through.

When the earth was entirely drained, its surface was covered with light saline particles, which, when dried, were lifted and drifted into heaps by every wind, and for a protracted period thereafter, it must have been impossible for animals to have existed upon its surface on account of the suffocating clouds of dust that must have swept over the entire region.

The artemesia, or wild sage, and the greasewood, the only vegetation that could find subsistence in this acrid soil, soon took possession of the entire country, and at last grew sufficiently to check partially the dust-clouds. These plants, subsisting apparently without moisture, have thick fibrous roots, grow rapidly, and quickly die; decaying, they immediately furnished a supply of vegetable matter upon which new grasses could subsist, and, protected by the shade of these plants, they soon formed a green sward, which invited the passing cloud to linger and pour down its contents. Fires often sweep over these sage fields and leave not a vestige behind. Its place, however, is soon supplied by improved grasses, some of which are of a nutritious kind. The old Indians verify this, and complain bitterly of the white man, thus: “White man bad medicine; bring heap o’ much rain—bad for Indians; no rain good for Indians,” &c., &c.

The rocks are gradually becoming disintegrated, and the alkaline properties are being evaporated. Rains are becoming more frequent as time rolls on, and the surface of the country wears a more smiling aspect. Thus is Nature preparing in this once unknown, unfrequented, desert wild, a delightful, healthful and productive region for the abode of men.

Fort Bridger, nearly 500 miles from Denver, is situated in a beautiful valley of Black’s Fork, a tributary of the Green River, some thirty miles east of the Vinta chain. One mile above the fort, Black’s Fork divides itself into five channels; and, after passing through the valley, again unites its waters one mile below the post. One of these streams, some thirty feet in width, runs swiftly over a pebbly bed through the center of the parade ground, supplying the garrison with an abundance of delicious water, free from all impurities.

The portion of the valley in which the fort is situated is about three miles in width, and is clothed with luxuriant and nutricious grasses. The atmosphere is pure and congenial; never too hot, I am informed, in the Summer, on account of the cooling breezes from the mountains; nor exceedingly cold in Winter, owing to their close embrace.

Fort Bridger was established in the Spring of 1858 by ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON, then in command of the army sent to Utah. During the Winter of 1857 the army occupied Camp Scott, about two miles above the fort. The following Spring, however, a party of officers was detailed to select a suitable site for a post, and the present one was chosen. It was called Fort Bridger, after JAMES BRIDGER, a celebrated mountaineer, who had settled in the valley and established a trading-post many years ago, and who was at the time a guide to the army.

The object of establishing this post, in anticipation of a conflict with the Mormons, was to form a base for supplies, brought from the East, and, in all probability, there is no point in this part of the country more suitable for that purpose.

In a military point of view Bridger has always been regarded as a place of the utmost importance, situated in a rich grazing district, abounding with fine water and fuel, and commanding, as it does, all of the eastern passes through the Wasatch Mountains into Salt Lake Valley. All of our supplies brought from the East, except those intended for the garrison at Bridger, are at present transported a distance of 125 miles across the Wasatch Mountains to this city and Camp Douglas; and in case troops move to and from these points east, where their services are often required, these stores have to be transported back across the mountains. Snow often falls to a great depth on the Wasatch range, and sometimes in the deep ravines the telegraph poles are quite covered, and all travel is obstructed, except by mail sledges and the like. This is also frequently the case on the Rocky Mountains east. This tract of country lying between these two great ranges, through which the overland stages and telegraph traverse, is open at all times at the north and south to the incursions of hostile Indians; and in case of a sudden raid upon this section no force stationed east of the Rocky Mountains or west of the Wasatch range could be made available during the Winter, and communication might be entirely interrupted. The emigrant road to Montana and Idaho Territories diverges to the northwest from the overland mail route at this point, and in all probability the course of the Pacific Railroad will be through this valley. Bridger must, therefore, continue to be an important post, and in time, no doubt, it will become quite a place.

For the benefit of those who are looking Bridger-ward, I would state that there is an abundance of splendid building rock about twelve miles off. Pine timber of an excellent quality exists along the base and slope of the foot-hills of the mountains, twenty miles distant. Coal of a good quality crops out in many localities, and twenty-six miles distant, on Sulphur Creek, mines have been worked with success. Fuel is in great abundance in the creek bottoms ten miles off. Unmistakable evidences of petroleum exist, but not upon the reservation.

The military reservation is unnecessarily large, extending twenty miles east and west and twenty-five miles north and south, tending rather to prevent than to encourage emigration and the permanent settlement of the country, generally supposed to be the purpose for which military posts are established on our distant frontiers.

There is a large quantity of fine agricultural lands embraced within the present limits of the reservation, only a small portion of which is under cultivation. Could this land be opened for settlement a large community would soon be found under the protection of the post, and the Government might be furnished at cheap rates with grain, hay, beef, vegetables; and mills would soon be erected that would furnish flour, lumber, &c.

Besides Black’s fork, there are numerous other streams of delicious water in the vicinity, flowing from the Vinta range, namely; Smith’s Fork, Cottonwood, Sage Creek, Willow Creek and Henry Fork, all of which abound with trout, and meander the richest pasturage. Henry Fork, twenty-five miles distant, and partly embraced within the reservation, has long been the Winter resort of the mountaineers, with their numerous herds of cattle and horses, in consequence of the richness of the grass and the temperature of the climate, being surrounded by high hills which break both the force of the wind and the storm.

When the Mormons first conceived the idea of making permanent homes in this country, and or cultivating the soil, and were wending their way to this city for that purpose, the mountaineers who had long resided here, subsisting like the Indians, upon the precarious supplies of meat furnished by their traps and guns, offered the Mormons $1,000 in gold for the first bushel of grain they could produce, so fully satisfied were they that such an attempt would prove an abortive undertaking.

Subsequent results have not only demonstrated the fact that the soil was capable of producing the cereais, but that it would yield almost every variety of fruit and vegetables to be found in similar latitudes, and in great abundance.

This valley, once regarded as a sterile waste, has been made to bloom with plenty, and has become an inexhaustible storehouse whence supplies are drawn to feed thousands of people who are annually winding across the continent to settle in the rich mining territories of the northwest.

The garrison at Fort Bridger is composed of two companies of the Eighteenth Infantry. The post has been under the command of Brevet Major BURT, of the Eighteenth Infantry, since last Spring, until about a month ago, but is now commanded by Brevet Col. MILLS, of the same regiment. I need hardly inform you that I was glad to meet these officers, whom I had seen upon so many glorious occasions commanding their companies in the field. It will be remembered that the Eighteenth United States Infantry participated in seventeen great battles under BUELL, ROSECRANE, GRANT, THOMAS and SHERMAN, and lost more officers and soldiers killed and wounded than any other regiment in the service during the war. Their casualties at the battle of Stone River alone, were: Five officers and 62 men killed; 11 officers and 220 men men wounded, and two enlisted men missing. This is from an official report; and it was admitted throughout the war that, during its progress, no regiment in the service suffered in any one battle as the Eighteenth Infantry did at Stone River.

Fort Bridger has been commanded by some of our most able officers, deceased and living. At one time it was commanded by Gen. ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON, killed at Shiloh; also by Gen. CHARLES F. SMITH, died at Savannah, Tenn.; by Gen. CANBY, commanding at Washington; and by Gen. PHILIP ST. GEORGE COOKE, now commanding the Indian District. During the war Gen. CONNOR had a sharp eye on Bridger; but the fort was commanded by Major BALDWIN, of a Nevada regiment, for a long time.

Probably the best known person at Bridger is Judge CARTER, poet, scholar, traveler and gentleman. Every man of note who has traveled across the Continent has been his guest. Mr. GREELEY, the famous ARTEMUS, Messrs. BURTON and DIXON, English tourists, FITZHUGH LUDLOW and Messrs. COLFAX, BROSS, RICHARDSON and BOWLES, have all dined with the Judge. He has been associated with the United States Army in Florida, Texas, and the Territories for the past thirty years, and is a perfect encyclopedia concerning it. He has been at Bridger seven years, and is quite wealthy. He owns great tracts of land, large breeds of horses and cattle, stores, saw mills, &c, He sends his own trains to the States yearly, and supplies the Indians and trappers for fifty miles around. Last year he paid in New-York $175,000 for a stock of goods which arrived here three months afterwards safe and sound. You feel at home in Judge CARTER’S parlor, furnished in the most recherche style, including a splendid library, &c., and especially do you wish to remain when Miss ADA presides at the piano and delights you with exquisite morceaux from VERDI and FLOTOW. There is no such other gentleman—there is no such other establishment, indeed, in this section of the far west. I had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of Judge CARTER and his excellent family, and would recommend all tourists to do likewise. His latch-string always hangs out, and once within his hospitable doors, you find yourself in company with the real genuine American gentleman.

I must not leave Fort Bridger without giving you a sketch of the character of the reservation. This character is “Uncle Jack” (as he is called) ROBINSON, and has been upon the frontier for forty years, being 61 years of age while I write. One day last week I rode out to his ranch, seven miles from Bridger, and took dinner with him and his wives—for know ye, “Uncle Jack” is a Mormon in this respect, and has several squaws of the Snake tribe for wives. He is very well off, has made and lost several fortunes, and is one of the jolliest men I ever met. He spent five years with old JIM BRIDGER in the mountains, and lived in the same lodge with KIT CARSON for nearly eight years. He was born in St. Louis, and left that city when he was 21 years old. He went back once with $12,000 in gold, and lost it all at faro, and again came West. A monte player on his way to California, stopped at his ranch upon one occasion, and won from “Uncle Jack” $15,000 in gold, several hundred horses, and nearly all of his stock of cattle. He has plenty of money, however, some of which is invested in St. Louis. He also owns a large number of horses, mules and cattle, and is well fixed for life. All travelers of renown have met and conversed with “Uncle Jack,” who gives graphic accounts of his fights with Indians, bears, &c.

At Fort Bridger I met an enlisted man of Company F, Eighteenth Infantry, who attracted my attention. Let me introduce him to you: His name is JULES FONTAINE—a Frenchman. In an unwise moment he found himself enlisted as a private soldier in the United States Army for three years. He served as an officer in the Belgian Army for eight years. When the news of the rebellion in this country reached his ears he made an application for leave, which was not granted. He immediately resigned his commission, was honorably mustered out of the Belgian service, (having his papers now in his possession,) and came to this country and joined the Seventy-third Pennsylvania Regiment as a private, and gallantly fought before Richmond in many battles. Upon the occasion he particularly distinguished himself, and took a flag in the midst of a withering fire from the enemy. His comrades drew up a paper and complimented him for his great valor and daring intrepidity, and Col. CUSSON, of the Seventy-third, recommended him to Gov. CURTIN, who commissioned him a Lieutenant. He accompanied HOOKER’S corps to Tennessee, and was captured at the Battle of Missionary Ridge, and remained in Libby until the close of the war, when he was honorably mustered out of the service, and has his muster-out papers. He has letters from distinguished Court people of Europe, and from his father, who is a General, and from his brother, who is a Captain in the Belgian service. He speaks several languages and has considerable property, and of course is anxious to become an officer in the army. All of the officers here are interested in this man, who is a genuine person, and has all of his commissions and musters-out preserved. He is often the recipient of letters from distinguished European Characters; and, while fulfilling all of his duties as a soldier, he is daily engaged in giving the ladies of the post French and German lessons. There is an order, I forget its number, of the War Department which makes it proper for a man who has served honorably as an officer in the volunteer service for two years to make application for a position in the regular army. FONTAINE has several letters from officers connected with the Legation of Belgium, in Washington, and any person or persons who may interest themselves in behalf of this worthy man can ascertain his true history by calling upon the Charge d’Affaires of that nation, resident in Washington.

The distance from Fort Bridger to Great Salt Lake City is about 120 miles; and at once constitutes the most beautiful and perilous ride upon the most famous “overland,” and abounds in magnificent, grand and sublime pictures from one end to the other.

I left Bridger in the evening, and passed over Quaking Asp Hill, one of the highest spurs of the Wasatch range, at night—a ride which is pronounced by tourist one of the most difficult and dangerous upon the route. I say ride, but to guard against certain destruction, every conceivable variety of locomotion was carried into execution. There were three of us from Bridger to this city. Sometimes we walked, and sometimes we ran; and as for our riding, sometimes we were all upon the stirup of one side of the coach and sometimes on the other. We rode in a variety of ways, in fact, at the bidding of our accomplished driver, who piloted us through safe, we acting as ballast, and allowing ourselves to be shifted and changed about as the necessities of safety should suggest.

Quaking Asp Hill is over 8,000 feet high, and you may readily imagine our joy when we reached the western slopes. For nearly a mile our wheels were chained, yet we glided along as though we were on runners. We drew a happy breath when we gained the bottom, I can assure you. Here I indulged in my first Mormon meal, prepared by one of three wives, and a mere gracious repast I never assisted in demolishing—it gave me a good idea of Mormon affairs, temporally, at the start.

The country now experiences great and wonderful changes. The sedimentary state of the country undergoes a violent change; mountains are transformed into huge rocks of terrific perpendicularity, and the romantic valleys are changed into cañons [canyons] of indescribable beauty and sublimity.

The most remarkable of all these cañons is Echo Cañon, which, for rare beauty, grandeur and sublimity, exceeds any natural picture I have ever seen. The cañon is thirty miles in length and runs southeast. A little pebbly stream meanders gracefully along the jagged and irregular avenue, giving an additional charm to this chef d’aeuvre of nature. As the tourist enters the cañon, the first attraction which meets his gaze is Cache Cave, a subterranean monstrosity, with gloomy-looking surrounding, upon the right of the road. Well into the cañon, and marvelous curiosities of nature are presented on every hand. The driver cracks his whip, the reverberations of which sound like a roll of musketry, you dash down the rocky pass at lightning speed, the thunder of your vehicle creating a din louder than the movement of a dozen batteries of artillery. Tremendous rocks, of a diversity of shape and irregularity, tower upon either hand; and, as you roll down the thundering cavern, every object you meet, from the murmuring rivulet below to the piles of rock above, partakes of increased wonder and sublimity. Just before emerging from this indescribable chasm, in the shadow of which all similar pictures must flag, you pass almost under a series of leaning rocks, which lift themselves majestically to the perpendicular of nearly a thousand feet, of every variety of shape and structure. The road, although bearing directly to the southeast, is of a serpentine character, and is productive of a multiplicity of grand and exquisite transformations at every change of position. Leaving the “Obelisks,” as the rigged old sentinels of rocks are called at the mouth of the cañon, we debouch into an agricultural district, here and there dotted with Mormon settlements. With the exception of a perilous ride along the Weber River, with our vehicle first balancing here, and then pirouetting there, nothing specially grand meets our gaze until we enter Parley’s Cañon, a gorgeous and sublime pass of nine miles through the Wasatch Mountains. Although presenting no such scenes of uninterrupted grandeur and sublimity as the “Echo,” Parley’s Cañon I thought full as picturesque, more perilous in its descent, and bordering more closely upon the jaws of death and destruction.

The Wasatch Chain at this point forms the eastern rim of the great basin, and emerging from Parley’s Cañon we make the first “bench,” and look down upon the “City of the Latter Day Saints,” a few miles in the distance—the new tabernacle, looking like a huge oven, and BRIGHAM’S harem, first claiming the attention of our anxious gaze. We pass from the first to the second bench, and a truly beautiful panorama meets our view. The great orb is at its most exquisite altitude, its slanting rays coquetting with a variety of gauzy clouds which are indiscriminately floating in the western horizon, and illuminating them in bulk and in their most infinitesimal parts, in colors which laugh at a jubilee of prisms and kaleidoscopes. Walled in by giant mountains, hoar with the snows of all ages, is the valley of the great Salt Lake, the latter lying perched at the base of Antelope Mountains, like a little blue ribbon, while the city, like an illustrated map or chart, is nestled in the foreground in the very embraces of the old Wasatches themselves.

We leave the second bench, and a half hour’s drive—in which we barely anticipate the approach of darkness—and we are in the very precincts of “Zion,” and under the ban of the “Prophet.”

Ten minutes more, and we alight at the Salt Lake Hotel, kept by a Mormon named LITTLE; we put ourselves through a process of scraping and scouring, and seat ourselves at a luxurious supper, and have all our wants attended to by pretty Mormon waiter girls.

BEN C. TRUMAN.