dollars; another one had disposed of a vacant piece of ground in the suburbs for some twenty thousand, making half that sum in the operation. Each one had made his ten, twenty, or fifty thousand. I could not find a single lot which could be bought with a poor $900-all I had left. But then I had a mine of wealth in the city of Franklin! One benevolent gentleman did indeed offer me a lot about two miles down the river, for three thousand dollars, four-fifths on credit. It was temptation sufficient to induce me to view the property. I found it mostly a mudhole or pond, of about half an acre, containing near a hundred bushels of finelooking, livelyfrogs; but as I could not see how it could become "city property," unless for the French part of the inhabitants, I respectfully declined the bargain. I visited all those mighty cities on the West shore of Lake Erie ; Brest, Havre, and a score of others, whose names have fled from my memory. Tacitus, in describing the destruction by fire of a town in Gaul, used the sententious words: "Between a great city and none, but a single night intervened." I might in another sense make the same observation of these mighty towns. A survey, and the making of a map, and the work was done to your hands. Buildings, streets, and inhabitants, were absolute superfluities. Some of them were without a single house, others were in a morass, made life-like only by the hum of musquitoes, and the evening song of multitudinous frogs; others again were under water, or in a dense forest. A pleasant sight for an innocent purchaser, on his first visit to his landed acquisitions! But my faith in my steamboat-friend was great; 1 never doubted the value of my purchase; although the specimens I had seen were enough to shatter the nerves of an elephant. Longing to set foot on my own ground, I equipped myself, speculatorfashion, with a Canadian pony-an ugly obstinate, crabbed rascal as ever a man bestrode-a pair of capacious saddlebags, a pocket map, and a Mackinaw blanket, and set out for Illinois and the city of Franklin. I shall not speak of my adventures by the way: worthy MARY CLAVERS-whom may the gods pro

tect-has given us the romance of western life in those days, and any addition to her sketches would be superfluous, even if one could catch her spirit and air. Did I not use my pocket-handkerchief for a towel, and eat my breakfast from table linen that looked marvelously like sheets,* and sleep in a house with one room, comprising men, turkeys, dogs, women, cats, roosters, and children?

The pain and weariness of my first day's solitary ride haunt me yet. The roads were bad beyond description. I was unused to exercise, and my villanous beast seemed determined to convince me that I had better retrace my steps. To add to my comfort, it commenced raining heavily about noon, and continued during the day. Wet and weary I reached a small hamlet at night, which I found was dignified with the name of city, having its map, town lots, patroon, and heaven may know what else besides. It contained just three log houses, besides a blacksmith shop and a grocery. 1 found a dozen travelers ahead of me, monopolizing all the beds-three in number. 1 took to my blanket and the floor. In the morning I was informed by one of the lodgers, that there was "a smart chance" for a shower that day-a reasonable guess, as it had been raining hard for an hour. Nothing daunted, however, I set forth. Water from above, mud from beneath, at every step, made me acquainted with two elements at least.

I soon turned southward, towards the Indiana line; and leaving the old traveled roads, if any thing but the wilderness could be called old in that country, struck into the magnificent forests. The memory of that forest ride will never leave me, and is almost a full compensation for all the vexations and losses that I sustained. The grandeur and solemnity of the scenery was almost appalling. The silence around me, broken only by the quivering of leaves and the chirp of the squirrel, or the occasional note of a bird, awakened other feelings than the love of money and the desire of gain. How hushed were all the passions, in the midst of that great forest sanctuary; how calmly did my heart beat in the midst of those immeasurable retreats, so far from all that could

"What

excite or disturb the mind. If the comforts and virtues of society and social life were absent, so were their follies and their crimes. It was a relief, for once to feel what the idealists so fondly describe, the seclusion and the solemnity of the wilderness. But even here the speculators soon came, and with curious peering eyes looked for water-power and sites for towns, and calculated how many dollars they could make in the purchase of land by the acre, and selling it by the foot to some short-sighted victims.

Nor was there a lack of interest in noting the conduct and condition of the emigrants who were establishing new homes in the west. In all directions small settlements were opening, and filling up with a robust, hardy, and courageous people, inured to labor. Picturesque cottages, of rough unhewn logs, sent up their smoke in spiral wreaths above the forests, at intervals; among the smoking brands and the fallen trees brown-faced healthy children played, the future sovereigns of the land; the reverberations of the axe, or above all the tinkle of the cow-bell, betokened the presence of the Pioneer and the advent of civilization. They found a new and rich soil, productive beyond all that they had dreamed of in their wildest moments, and most earnestly did they address themselves to the labor of giving to their new homes an air of comfort. The actual settlers generally kept aloof from speculations, but occasionally one, who was unfortunately located in the immediate neighborhood of a city in embryo, found himself ruined ere he was aware of it. As a general thing they were contented with their situations, and I found but few who expressed a desire to return to the older settlements. The degree of interest they manifested in the progress of their labors, in watching the forests recede, and in the transformation of the prairies into cultivated fields, exceeded everything that I had witnessed in similar pursuits in the older States. They seemed to feel a just pride in making one little spot of this great globe the greener by their exertions. Peace and plenty be

with them!

I pass over all the incidents of the journey, many of which were amusing to me, but might not be so to the reader. I must not forget, however, to mention one remarkable fact: every river on the route, large enough to bear up a canoe, had a village on either bank, every six or seven miles. Moreover, at each one was the

actual head of navigation, beyond which no steamer or other craft could possibly pass. This imparted a peculiar value to each point. Another fact quite as singular I discovered. Every village, taken by itself was uncommonly healthy; no one ever died there-that was certain; but the next village was sickly, and always would be at least so I was informed again and again by many a poor fellow, upon whom the "fever and ague" had plainly exerted their utmost ingenuity. I also found that village and city property grew more valuable the further it was removed from the business and population of the East. This satisfied me that the city of Franklin, being far in the interior, was of very great value.

I passed through Michigan City, then in its infancy, but possessing a mayor and city council-through Chicago, where land was valued at about as high a price per foot as it was in Broadway or Wall street, "water lots" especially-through Romeo and Juliette, and countless lesser cities, and began to approach the county of

One

The ignorance of the good people on the route as to the existence of my city puzzled me at first, and then alarmed me. Some thought they had heard of it, others were not sure. old "sucker" informed me that there was a town of that name in Missouri; he had been there, and had on the spot an "almighty skrimmage" with a Mississippi boatman, in which he lost an eye, carrying off instead his opponent's ear and a part of his nose; but he was oblivious as to any other town by that designation. All this show of ignorance I concluded must be affected, and must arise from the local jealousy that everywhere prevailed. At last I reached

county and

in "hot haste" for the aforesaid city. I very naturally looked forward to my arrival with no small degree of interest. In the first place I was in need of rest and repose; my "accommodations" had been none of the best, on the route, and there I imagined I should find a good hotel and an obliging host, and, in virtue of my proprietorship, thought it very likely I should receive some extra attentions. Then again I was anxious to see the character of the town, the mode of building, and to become acquainted with my future neighbors. I had made up my mind to assume an air of dignity, as became a freeholder. I made due inquiries as I entered the limits of the county, cautiously and modestly at first, but at last

THERE is a something in the compositions of a good writer, that affects us more sensibly than either his manner or his style; and which, in absence of a better word, may be named his character: signifying, that as the taste of the writer appears in the style, and his genius in the manner, so his natural disposition, as a man, is discovered in the character of his writings. Since there is a character of nations, as well as of individuals, this will appear in the prevalency of a certain spirit among a number of contemporary writers of the same nation.

It may be advanced without danger of contradiction, that the value of an author to the world, is chiefly in the " character" of what he says, using that word in the sense just now adopted for it;-and this is evident, upon the reflection that a great writer loses nothing essential by translation; and that style and manner are almost inappreciable by another age and nation. However much our taste and fancy may be gratified by a perfect understanding of our own writers, what is truly valuable in them may be as perfectly expressed in a coarser dialect. If we may judge by the kind of works that have come down to us from antiquity, the duration of a work, and the fame of an author, depend almost exclusively upon the elevation of his sentiments; and those elegances for which he is admired, are either such as flow directly from this source, or they are artificial advantages proper to his language and age, and of little moment to posterity.

Longinus, a critic of exalted genius, and who has himself taken rank among the best writers, advises that an author who means to out-last his century, shall imagine what judgment Homer or Plato would give upon his work: but we can hardly think of these heroes in authorship, as curiously commenting on the style or manner of a writer; but rather fancy them weighing the substance of what he says, and sounding the depth of his sentiment-for these were the points that seem most to have occupied them in the composition of their own works.

The English writer may place himself under as wise advisers, in the judgments of the masters of his own tongue; though

f these arrived ever at that purity

and singleness, which made the older Greeks the unapproachable models of style. A generous emulation of antiquity has kept alive the spirit of our literature; not to the exclusion of that free manner and indulgence of fancy, which is proper to the moderns, nor to the extinction or neglect of our proper idiom; but by drawing attention continually to the better parts of humanity, and favoring the indulgence of manly and generous sentiments.

No better example can be chosen of this kind of imitation, than appears in the philosophical writings of Lord Bacon; wherein he emulates the design of Socrates and his pupils, who bent their efforts to increase human happiness, not only by a present entertainment, but by turning all speculation into the channels of economy and morals. The prose style of English being at its formation when the Lord Chancellor composed his treatises, a great deal of another kind of imitation was prevalent. Not only the sentiments, but the idiom and manner of the Greek writers was often roughly adopted, and mingled in a blind confusion with the Gothic prejudice and imagery of that age. In a history, composed by him, of Henry Seventh, Lord Bacon reproduces the manner, but not the spirit of Thucydides, rolling trains of polity and eulogy through periods of perilous weight and involution: but the spirit of the work is altogether English and monarchic.

Perhaps there are no writings in the world, if we except Homer's, where character appears with such a power and constancy as in Shakspeare; yet in him, even, there is a great deal that is harsh and displeasing. Now if it could be shown that his excellence is either characteristic, or in emulation of the ancients, but that all his grossness and extravagancy is either imitated from others, or belonged to the conversation of his age, a perfect argument would have been found for this nobler kind of imitation, and as perfect a caution against the inferior sort. Who can contemplate, without delight, the idea of a writer who should unite classic purity with English spirit and variety;-the splendid and fortunate conjunction of the two master spirits of genius, the English and the Greek?

We are the most fortunate people in

the world in respect of examples; for, beside our own writers, from the age of Chaucer to that of Addison, and many great instances since, we have possession of the oldest and wisest of all books; and with a little diligence, can arrive at all that is excellent of the Greeks and Romans. At this banquet of knowledge there is so endless a profusion, and so exquisite a variety, an hundred lives could not utterly exhaust it. It is a special happiness that no man need jostle or rival his neighbor; but each, selecting for himself, may make a sweet of peculiar flavor.

The great variety of style and manner to be found in English writing, offering such a diversity of models, seems to make it impossible that the language should ever attain a classic purity, or the manner of good writing be reduced to any particular standard. The Greeks had an advantage which no modern nation possesses, of employing few foreign phrases, and of using no compounded words whose meaning did not appear in the composition. But because our language is taken partly from the Latin and Greek, its compounds of those sources are loosely employed, without regard to their exact meaning: so that none write or speak correctly but such as know the radical words of these, beside those of their own tongue. Long and sounding words make the strongest impression upon the ear, and are more easily employed than phrases of several monosyllables. A feeble writer may hide the weakness of his meaning under a crowd of sounding terminations, huddled together without attention to their proper use: and this accident is alone sufficient to account for the difference between good writing and good conversation in English. A Greek who knew the exact meaning of a word at first hearing, because of his familiarity with its radicals, might speak as perfectly as he wrote; and if he used long words, his audience entered easily into his meaning. But a writer of English must refrain from any but the simplest expressions, or his hearers are as little likely to understand, as he is to speak, with exactness-a serious hindrance to the perfection of our tongue, and one which it seems unable ever to overcome.

But from this apparent misfortune, a very positive advantage may be gathered. An author who is pedantically or technically inclined, can make no popular display with subtleties or false learning, and

must adhere closely to the commonest notions and expressions; at the same time that an infinite variety of phrase lies always within reach.

Those writers of modern times who trusted solely to the excellence of their sentiments, have preferred the popular phrase; so that all the best parts of modern literature are in a dialect that all understand. But where the desire of popularity prevails over the pride of learning, there may be a disposition to debase a language, and fill it with barbarisms, which as certainly obscure the sense as the most learned affectations; and with the greater disadvantage of being forgotten in the next generation.

Simplicity of style, and naturalness of manner, leave the reader free to receive what is intrinsically good; so that in writing and speaking, as in manners, the chief excellence seems to lie in the avoidance of every thing irrelevant or superfluous, that every purer excellence, of thought or sentiment, may appear in its natural light. Ingenuity and order must indeed be everywhere present, in a work of entertainment; but flashes of character, at important moments, astonish and take possession of the soul. In the simple words,

"Wisdom is justified of her children," we discover an exhaustless depth: all that is grand and imperishable in human character appears in it. Such sayings have the miraculous power to bring a century of experience within the compass of an instant. Since all that is sublime is made so by its relation to character, and the sentiment of immortality, the grandeur of a composition increases, as it draws nearer to the heights of contemplation. Works of character stand through all ages, not so much as monuments to their authors, (for they seem rather to be the product of an age than of a man,) as like mountains emulating the heavens, and sending down fertilizing streams

And yet, even in inspiration, there is logic; and a reason is concealed in every mystery. What is so well done, must have been done deliberately. "Nothing," says Longinus, "can be truly great, that is the result of accident." The noblest works discover as much skill as vigor. If nature has given genius, it is a proof of wisdom to use it with discretion.

Nor will any reader be satisfied with images or thoughts, be they never so admirable in themselves, unless they are