. . . .

I have been looking at Zion all day, and my feet are sore and my
legs are weary. I go back to the Salt Lake House and have a talk
with landlord Townsend about the State of Maine. He came from that
bleak region, having skinned his infantile eyes in York county. He
was at Nauvoo, and was forced to sell his entire property there for
50 dollars. He has thrived in Utah, however, and is much thought
of by the Church. He is an Elder, and preaches occasionally. He
has only two wives. I hear lately that he has sold his property
for 25,000 dollars to Brigham Young, and gone to England to make
converts. How impressive he may be as an expounder of the Mormon
gospel, I don't know. His beefsteaks and chicken-pies, however,
were first-rate. James and I talk about Maine, and cordially agree
that so far as pine boards and horse-mackerel are concerned, it is
equalled by few and excelled by none. There is no place like home,
as Clara, the Maid of Milan, very justly observes; and while J.
Townsend would be unhappy in Maine, his heart evidently beats back
there now and then.

I heard the love of home oddly illustrated in Oregon, one night, in
a country bar-room. Some well-dressed men, in a state of strong
drink, were boasting of their respective places of nativity.

"I," said one, "was born in Mississippi, where the sun ever shines
and the magnolias bloom all the happy year round."

"And I," said another, "was born in Kentucky--Kentucky, the home of
impassioned oratory: the home of Clay, the State of splendid
women, of gallant men!"