IN THE CITY OF THE SAINTS.

"FORT

ORTY minutes before the Salt Lake train leaves!" shouts a strong-lunged official, whose stentorian voice is, nevertheless, almost drowned in the thundering din of the Chinese gong which another official is vigorously assaulting.

The platform of Ogden Junction is a scene of Babel and bustle. The train from the East, just unloaded, is moving on, its lighted windows flashing away, one by one, into the outer darkness. The iron horses for the West and for Salt Lake are stabled somewhere out of sight, all ready in harness. The passengers for the West are pressing in an eager crowd round the Sleeping Car Ticket Office, booking their berths for the coming nights. We, bound for the Salt Lake City, obey the clamorous summons of the gong whose roar means "Supper!" We are first in the eating-room, pick our places at the best table, and have nearly disposed of our first course of coffee and hot cakes by the time the hungry Westward-bound passengers, the all-important tickets for their night's rest secured, come flocking in.

We are a motley crew gathered round the well-laden suppertables. We are variously clad in ulsters, waterproofs, dust-cloaks, furs, and homespuns, and most of us more or less dusty, black, bedraggled, and travel-worn. The men, I must own, turn out picturesquely to the last, especially those with brigandish hats, Byronic cloaks, and luxuriant beards. But, alas for poor feminine humanity! to even the prettiest bride on the car, five days and nights of railroad travel, with limited toilette facilities and unlimited dust, are not becoming. Supper over, we hurry out on the platform and seize upon a porter, entreating him to guide us through the darkness to the Salt Lake train, and to enlighten our anxious minds as to the whereabouts of the trunks containing all our worldly goods.

The porter reassures us in paternal tones.

"This gentleman," he says, indicating a confrère in corduroys and shirt-sleeves, "will see your baggage for Salt Lake all right; and your big trunks are stored away; when you want 'em, you just ask for me, Mr. Josiah Tompkins."

The gentleman in corduroys adds his testimony, as he cheerily trundles a truck along, that Mr. Tompkins is the gentleman who looks after the baggage, and our valuables are safe in his charge. Mr. Tompkins accompanies us, beguiling the time by pleasant converse, some distance along the platform and across a kind of bridge; and, when the red light of the Salt Lake train gleams in sight, he bids us au revoir with an air of lofty but friendly patronage, and leaves us to his confrère. This latter, probably, in his turn moved to a kindly interest by the fact of our being two unprotected females, hands us over to the care of the conductor of the Salt Lake train with a special commendation.

We have the car almost to ourselves, our only fellow-passengers being a small group of men, who sit as far off from us as possible, and are absorbed in an animated discussion on local topics. We speed through Mormon-land in darkness, seeing nothing of mountain, lake, or valley. Presently the conductor comes up to us and enters into conversation. He is a tall, good-looking man, of most gentlemanly aspect; his manner is that of a high-bred host entertaining two lady guests. We invite him to take a seat, and secretly wonder whether he is a Mormon. It is soon evident from his discourse that he belongs to that faith; the other occupants of the car are also Mormons; likewise the breaksman; likewise the engineer. We are among the Saints at last!

We are prepossessed with our first Mormon acquaintance, especially when we ascertain by a dexterous hint that he has but one wife. He tells us that he was one of the little colony who were driven at the bayonet's point out of Nauvoo. The picture of that flight is burnt into his mind. He remembers (he but a little child at the time) when Brigham Young looked down into that fair valley, the oasis in the desert, and said, "Here we will pitch our tents!" By the time we reach Salt Lake City we are ready to regard the Mormons as a persecuted race of martyrs; we quote

No little thing has it been to rear

A resting-place in the desert here!

Let the wise be just; let the brave forbear;
Forgive their follies, nor forget their care!

Not having seen anything but moonless, starless, lampless darkness during the journey, the lamps at the dépôt and the waiting omnibuses, with their coloured lanterns, dazzle us; there is something dream-like and unreal about this night arrival in the Mormon stronghold, of the approach to which we have seen nothing.

Our friendly conductor puts us into our omnibus and sweeps us a

princely parting bow. The omnibus rattles through broad lighted streets, and deposits us at the door of the Walker House. A gentleman of polished manners advances to greet us, and conducts us to the elevator. We are shown into a splendidly-furnished room, whose full-length mirrors reflect our travel-worn figures reproachfully; then into a large dining-room, where a recherché little supper awaits us, and three or four waiters assiduously attend our wants. Is this Paris or New York? Have we taken the wrong train, we wonder? or is this really Salt Lake City?

The next morning we go up to the roof of the hotel to see the view. We stand by the parapet, and look down upon the panorama of the City of the Saints. The mountains, their bold curves here blurred against the rolling clouds, there clear against the blue sky, their purple heights veined with silver streaks of snow, shut in the valley all around, save in one open spot, where a faint bluish haze broods on the horizon. There lies the Great Salt Lake! we strain our eyes, and fancy we can see its waters glimmer through the veiling mist-but it is only fancy. Closed in from the world by its guardian mountains, girdled by alkali waste and barren upland, the city lies indeed a garden in the desert, a rose in the wilderness-the beautiful smiling city, its regular blocks relieved by lines and masses of trees, orchards, gardens, all autumn-tinted now, but bearing yet a memory of the beauty of the summer, a promise of the glory of the spring.

We went out presently on a tour of inspection, accompanied by a Mormon lady, who came to give us greeting and welcome with kind and hospitable warmth directly she saw our names in the list of arrivals, and between whom and ourselves the knowledge of mutual friends in London formed at once a link. The city is pleasant and prepossessing to look upon as a fresh, buxom country lassie, with the rose of health and dew of youth upon her. It is strong, and young, and unpolished. Wooden shanties elbow handsome houses. The shops are good and many, the paving generally smooth, the streets wide. There is a sense of ample room and freedom about it:

Room, room to turn round in, and breathe and be free!

But the "running streams" which had so often been described to us as watering the streets, and which our imagination had painted as beautiful bubbling Tennysonian brooks where little fishes frolicked, did not come up to our anticipations. One of the party, I regret to say, in her disappointment termed them "gutters."

We saw very few well-dressed ladies, but many sweet, good, womanly faces. The majority of the men appeared to us rather

rough-looking working-men, pleasant, frank, and civil in manner. We saw many lovely and blooming young girls, and chubby cherubs of children, some perfect pictures of childish beauty. On the whole we were struck by the robust and healthy aspect of the people in general, and most favourably impressed with their frank courtesy and natural good breeding.

We met two charming, graceful, and intelligent young girls, granddaughters of Brigham Young, and wondered whether in these days of the Pacific Railway, which has brought the world to the doors of the Mormon citadel, girls such as these would marry, as their mothers did, into polygamy? We were introduced to Bishop Sharp, one of the contractors of the Pacific Railroad, and a shining light of the Mormon Church; and Elder Clawson, who married two of the daughters of Brigham Young-a compliment to the family, certainly. We then proceeded to pay our respects to Brigham's successor, John Taylor. The President of the Mormon Church was in his office, a large room, which for an office contrived to be comfortable-looking, as well as business-like, hung round by portraits of the various prominent Saints, with a great green arm-chair placed throne-like at one end of the apartment, flanked by two or three smaller posts of honour, wherein we were invited to repose ourselves.

We found President Taylor a gentleman of venerable and benevolent aspect, affable and gracious in manner, with a kindly smile and subtle glance. He conversed pleasantly about the climate, and touched upon other equally interesting and general topics; but on an advance being made towards the subject of polygamy, he retired and shut himself up in an impenetrable shell of reserve. He gave us to understand that it was not a topic he cared to discuss, but added gravely, "It was given to us as a revelation!"

We went, of course, to the new Temple, which is in course of building; and to the old Tabernacle, which is exactly like half a colossal egg set up on walls, and whose acoustic properties are altogether wonderful: standing in the gallery at one end, we could hear a pin drop on the floor at the other end.

We never wearied of wandering about the streets of this city. All seemed to us so bright, peaceable, and orderly. The manners of the people were so gentle, open and courteous, the women so motherly, the men so manly and robust. Here, in Salt Lake City, we found the true Republic. Elsewhere in the United States we heard the theory, but here we saw the practice. Outside we had everywhere found traces more or less deep of old-world laws of caste. But there seem to be no such grooves in this little world that lives to

itself. Outside of it is the name; but in Salt Lake is the thing-the Republic in its purest form.

Anxious as we were to get near to and catch an inside glimpse of the workings of polygamy, we found it at first by no means easy to obtain any but an outside view of it. The subject there is treated with the greatest delicacy and reserve. Men and women alike avoid

the topic, or handle it as if it would burn their fingers. Their sensitiveness and reticence we of course could not rudely attack; their friendly hospitality set a seal on the utterance of our curiosity.

We were at a pleasant little supper-party one evening. Almost all the ladies present were Mormons, and polygamous wives. One charming and graceful woman in the early prime of life especially attracted us; she was one of the three wives of Brigham Young, junior. Neither in the course of a somewhat long conversation apart with her, nor in the passing and general conversation, was there the most distant approach to the subject of polygamy. The topics of discussion, oddly enough, happened to be the Married Women's Property Laws, the duty of husband to wife, and, vice versa, women's unselfishness and trust, conjugal love, devotion, and so on. The Mormon ladies conversed freely on all these subjects, but not one of them let fall the faintest allusion to the duty being plural, the love and devotion sub-divided. There was not a syllable spoken in the course of a long discussion on love and matrimony to hint to us that we were in the company of practical as well as theoretical polygamists.

However, notwithstanding the reserve guarded upon the subject, we were fortunate enough to obtain considerable insight into its workings, chiefly through the kindness of our friend Mrs. G., a life-long resident in Salt Lake. We visited one house, a perfect English home, presided over by a pleasant matronly English lady, who had been one of two wives residing together in this same beautiful home for many years, until the death of the first wife. Their children, fourteen of the living and six of the dead wife's, were all born under this roof; and the lady described the most perfect harmony as having always existed not only between the children of the two marriages, but between herself and her sister-wife.

The case of two wives sharing the same home is, however, rare. As a rule, it seems to be the custom for each wife to be mistress of her separate household, except, of course, in the poorer classes, where the expenses of plural establishments cannot be afforded. Several times we saw a group of two, three, or four pretty little villas all exactly alike, the homes of Mr. So-and-So's wives. We often saw