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way across the prairie, before they reached Council Bluffs, might have been tracked by the useless luxuries they left behind them, rather than pack them on their vicious mules, which seem to have become worse instead of better,-more inclined to run away and cast off their burdens.

The average distance they travelled daily at this part of their journey was from twenty to twenty-four miles. The heat was excessive by day; but the rain and the storms were so frequent, that they were often drenched while bivouacking at night. Rancid ham and sour biscuit were their usual food. Sometimes a meal of fresh meat was furnished by one of the sportsmen-the tender parts of a buffalo or two, hares, or snakes, which the parson declared to be as good as eels. They seem as if they revelled in luxuries when they reached the Traders' Station at Ashpoint, and supped with them on dried buffalo-meat, bacon, new bread, milk, and coffee. There, too, they saw a little episode of savage life.

'In front of the entrance to one of these lodges, a squaw and her child were making preparations for a dog-feast. A young puppy, that had been playing with the child, was seized by the woman, and received from her half-a-dozen sharp blows on the throat with a piece of wood about to be used for firing. The puppy was then returned, kicking, to the tender mercies of the infant, who exerted its little might to add to the miseries of the beast, while the mother prepared the fire and a small kettle for the purpose of cooking. The puppy, still much more alive than dead, was then taken by the hind-leg and held over the flames till the woman's fingers could bear the heat no longer. She then let it fall on the fire, when it struggled and squeaked most piteously, and would have succeeded in delaying its end, but that the little savage took care to provide for the security of his late playmate, by replacing him in the flames till life was extinguished, and the hair satisfactorily burned off.'

Such an anecdote goes far to disprove the theories brought in fashion by Rousseau a century ago, founded on the supposed gentleness and beauty of a savage education. The travellers rest and recruit their strength at Fort Larimie, near an American garrison, and also near wolves, which make off with their camp-kettle. They are ill and irritated by the delays which occur to prevent their starting.

31st. To-morrow is the first of August, and still we are here. This is tiresome; I am sure we are more anxious to get away from, than we were to arrive at, this wretched place. I do not remember to have ever spent a more tedious week than the last. This ennui is purely from having nothing to do. Reflections apart, I wish we were anywhere but at Fort Larimie.'

They now begin to experience one of the great difficulties of

6

the route; there is an uncertainty each day if they shall meet with grass on which to pasture their tired cattle at night. Artemisia, or wild sage, abounds, reminding them of nothing in the world, either pleasant or unpleasant, unless it be of the peculiar 'smell of, and the peculiar dust which invariably adheres to, the ivy that hides in a coal-hole in the back-yard of a Brompton 'villa.' It is the very emblem of sterility; they seem at last to loathe the sight of its blue-green foliage-useless as food for horses and mules, on account of its insufferably bitter taste. They hear rumours, and catch glimpses of innumerable Mormons who precede them on the same road, eating up the scanty grass. They begin to see the fatal traces of their predecessors; sixty or seventy dead oxen lie together in one place, poisoning the sultry air. We are not surprised that at last Mr. Coke decides that the three companions had better separate. The gathering clouds of dissension have been visible for many days before we come to the date of August 14th, Independence Rock, near the mouth of the Sweet Waters.

Henceforward Mr. Coke and the parson proceed alone, until 'William' joins them. They intend to make twenty-five miles a day, but most frequently fifteen is their limit, and sometimes they only go seven. We do not wonder at this, when we learn that they have eleven animals to look after, many of them the vicious, obstinate mules before mentioned, which seem to spend the greater part of the day in kicking and biting, and refusing to be loaded. It is a fortunate thing, in reality, when some are lost, for the forage becomes more and more scanty, the country is destitute of game, and water is only attainable at long intervals. There is nothing, in fact, with which to cook the raw ham, which is their sole remaining provision; and this is not at all wholesome or satisfactory eating under a broiling sun, and with water undiscoverable. No wonder that Mr. Coke becomes weak and falls ill. when, in addition to fatigue and poor diet, we hear that he is wet to the waist, and obliged to sleep in blankets wringing

wet.

But at the worst things are sure to mend. William shoots ducks, and makes a stew which recruits our traveller; and in a day or two they arrive at a branch of the Green River, where they take to fly-fishing,-flies forming a portable part of their baggage, and catch trout, and eat enough for once in many weeks. Here, too, near water and near grass, they fall in with some trappers; and at their station met with twelve soldiers crossing from Oregon to the States. From them they learn that they are 200 miles from Fort Hall, and 900 from Oregon. Oh, weary, woful news! Every separate mile a toil, and, it may be, a

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wandering which must be retraced on that pathless track. No custom hardens them to the weariness and the labour. Patience, strength, and courage fail; but the difficulties which they are obliged to meet increase. There is no giving up; they would only starve. There is no going back; it is farther to the home behind than to the home before them. Oregon is now their destination; they have given up all thoughts of reaching the more distant California, at this time and in this manner. But there is more water, and consequently more grass, on this second half of their journey.

Sept. 1st.-Mr. Coke inquires, why he finds himself in the desert of the Rocky Mountains, instead of in a stubble-field in England, and cannot answer his question. The weather begins to be cold at nights, apparently very like an English climate, foggy and with hoar-frost. They hear of Fred, who manages to keep about two days' journey ahead of them. The more lonely part of their journey is over for the present; they have a glimpse of civilized life in paying a cheque, and buying a cheese from a certain Mr. Grant; and now and then they encounter emigrants, with some provisions to spare. Again grass becomes scarce, and their few remaining mules are invalided with sores on their backs. We read a simple account of William's life, which he gives them one evening as they fish in a stream; the story assumes a double interest, and becomes more touching when, the day but one after its relation, poor William is drowned in that very river.

The packs were wetted, and the current was exceedingly rapid. The space now remaining to be forded was at least two hundred yards, and the stream was so strong, that I was obliged to turn my mare's head up stream to prevent her being carried off her legs. William, who had been anxiously watching the events of the last five minutes, informed me, with a most pitiable countenance, that he could not swim a stroke, and should certainly go back to the old road.'

Mr. Coke encourages him to cross, and points out the dangers which await him if he follows his intention of proceeding by the old road. He is washed from his mule, and calls for assistance.

'I hastened at once towards the drowning man. By this time he was forty or fifty yards below me, and before I could reach him, he separated from the mule, and was vainly endeavouring to keep above water. I do not think he heard me tell him to put his hands on my shoulders. He seemed hardly conscious of anything. His long hair concealed his features, and his arms and hands were stretched out, as if imploring help. I seized him by the collar; unfortunately it was with my right hand, leaving only my left to stem the torrent. At length I touched bottom in a shallow spot. I could not stand against

the stream. I tried to hold him up, to keep his head above water; but he was a dead weight, without consciousness. His feet touched the ground, but his legs bent under him. For the first time, it struck me that I could not save him. He was either dead or dying. If not dead, how could I leave him? He was still in my hands. His fate seemed to hang on my will. My strength was failing me. The water was nearly up to my shoulders. I was aware of the effort I should have to make to save myself. William was drowned, and I relaxed my hold. He fell like lead, till his back lay on the bottom. I looked through the clear water and saw the fixed expression of his familiar face. A few bubbles broke on the smooth surface, and I floated noiselessly from the hunter's grave.'

May God of His mercy keep us from such an awful strait as that in which Mr. Coke was placed. We do not like him the less for saying little about his feelings; but we trust some shadow of remorse (whether well founded or not, we stop not here to inquire) darkens his memory as he remembers who lies still in the depths of the Snake River, deaf to all voices of wife and children, crying for the father and the bread-earner. By a curious coincidence, Fred' has also a man and a mule drowned in the same Snake River, as they learn on coming up to him at Fort Boisee, only 350 miles to the termination of their journey. At Fort Boisee we have a glimpse of a worthy, excellent Mr. Craigie, living by choice in that dreary solitude; but finding his consolation in doing good to the worn, and sick, and needy emigrants who pass that way.

Sept. 30. The prospect of the Blue Mountains is fine; but the near prospect is of cooking ham with stinking weeds for want of fuel; no water; horses and mules both look wretchedly; and Mr. Coke perceives a sore back on 'Little Rebecca,' the dearest of mules;' which is not saying much, if we refer back two pages, where he says, 'If ever I do meet a mule after I have done with them this trip, may I be doomed to pack him, if I do not 'pull his tail till his nose bleeds. Eh, the beasts! how I 'hate 'em!'

The cold increases, and the wolves increase too; but are civilly silent when told to Be quiet,' in a voice that makes the valley echo. No grass for cattle; hardly any food for man; sharp stones for a bed at night. The poor mare dies, almost pathetically, so near to the end of her journey, just as they catch a glimpse of the broad majestic Columbia. It seems to have taken a great quantity of roast beef, and an unlimited number of pipes at the Dalles (an American military post in Oregon), to convince them of the reality of their position, safe over the Rocky Mountains, and escaped from the dangers of the wild

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dreary desert, which so many thousands have perished in traversing. They boated down the Columbia; but this was a life of ease compared to what they had undergone. Yet this Life in the Prairies, with its cold, heat, hunger, fatigue, illness, anxiety, was regretted aboard the ship on which Mr. Čoke and his friends embarked at Fort Vancouver for the Sandwich Islands. They were some weeks on the passage, confined to a cabin, twelve feet by eight, which they shared with rats, cock-roaches, and fleas. But everything is tame after the account of crossing the Rocky Mountains. We do not care for the Sandwich Islands; we know the gamblers and vauriens of San Francisco, for Mr. Coke returns to California to gallop over Mexico home, though in this latter part there are certainly one or two amusing and spirited

accounts of characters.

The next work we shall notice is that of Mr. Squier, which is indisputably the most valuable of all on our list to those who read for more than mere amusement; of this, however, there is no lack. A natural, true describer is the late Chargé d'Affaires of the United States to the Republics of Central America. He perceives humour, and he perceives pathos, and he quietly varies his narrative as occasion requires.

One of the objects of his mission to Nicaragua was fully to ascertain the desirableness of forming an inter-oceanic canal, projected between the mouth of the river Colorado on the Mosquito Gulf, and the Gulf of Nicoya on the side of the Pacific. He is a warm partisan of this design, and, we think, on good grounds, so far as relates to the immense advantages to commerce that would arise from this easy access to Asia. Steamers, at the moderate speed of twelve miles an hour, would go from New York to the Sandwich Islands in twenty days, to Callao in eighteen, to Valparaiso in twenty, Canton forty, Calcutta fortysix. In fact, Mr. Squier is tremblingly eager, all through his book, that his nation should at once enter on the project; and as the occupation of the Mosquito shore by the British is an obstacle in their way, he is vehemently against the English in every shape; we may be allowed to say, curiously so, when we observe that this book is issued by a London house, and consider the abuse which here and there is heaped upon us as a nation, and remember at the same time how sensitive the Americans have always shown themselves to any reflections of a similar kind from the English. We doubt if an American publisher would have felt so confident of the good temper of his public, as to send forth an English book containing such strong feeling against his countrymen, without previously extracting the passages which referred to them. Overlooking this one blemish, which, at all events,