304 THE HIVE OF THE BEE-HUNTER. 
of men, women, and children, who looked as if they 
might have been born in the workshop of Vulcan. 
_ The road over which we travelled was macadamized, 
and then frozen; it was as hard as nature will permit, 
and the tramping of the horses’ feet upon it sounded in 
the frosty air as if they were rushing across a continuous 
bridge. 
The inside of the stage-coach is a wonder; it is a 
perfect denial to Newton’s theory, that two things, or 
twenty, cannot occupy the same place at the same time. 
The one we travelled in was perfectly full of seats, straw, 
buffalo robes, hat-boxes, rifles, flute cases, and small par- 
cels—and yet nine men—the very nine muses at times 
(all the cider along the road was frozen, and we drank 
the heart of it), stowed themselves away within its 
bowels; but how, we leave to the masters of exhausted 
air-pumps and hydraulic presses to imagine. 
We all, of course, froze, more or less, but it was in 
streaks ; the curtains of the stage were fastened down 
and made tight, and then, like pigs, we quarrelled our- 
selves into the snuggest possible position and place; it 
being considered fortunate to be in the centre, as we 
then parted with least heat, to satisfy the craving appe- 
tite of Jack Frost, who penetrated every little hole and 
nook, and delighted himself in painting fantastic figures 
upon the different objects exposed to his influence, out 
of our misery and breath. 
By one of those extraordinary phenomena exhibited 
