A writer in the Cincinnati Commercial says:
What shall I say of Salt Lake, that has been unsaid? Our coach for several miles, ran along the margin, and never in my life have I had a more curious object to study and wonder over. It is twenty miles north west of the city, but it haunts you for nearly a hundred miles. So with the city itself. You leave it at sunrise, yet hour after hour it smiles on you from the rear, fading out imperceptably. The Lake has a hue of its own—a rich lustrous blue so deep and splen-did that the cloudless sky seems colorless when contrasted. Think of this wierd, im-prisoned sea, one hundred miles long and thirty-five miles wide, perched four thousand feet above its kindred oceans, fed by several rivers, and yet slowly pining away in its solitude, one third of its waters are solid salt, with no living thing in its depths, bordered with bare, penitential mountaius, and pierced here and there with wasted rock pinnicles cut off from the great Pacific, of which some day it must have been an inlet, is the very image of desolate captivity, a message from the sea which science has not yet con-strued, and which confounds the antiquarian. The human body it is said floats as lightly as cork in the lake. But we did not test its swiming susceptibilities. The water was too cold, the driver would not wait, and we had a lady passenger.
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