skey,
and she could "get enough any day by sending a batch of butter
and chicken to market." They used no wheat, nor sold any of
their corn, which, though it appeared a very large quantity, was
not more than they required to make their bread and cakes of
various kinds, and to feed all their live stock during the
winter. She did not look in health, and said they had all had
ague in "the fall;" but she seemed contented, and proud of her
independence; though it was in somewhat a mournful accent that
she said, "Tis strange to us to see company: I expect the sun may
rise and set a hundred times before I shall see another _human_
that does not belong to the family."

I have been minute in the description of this forest farm, as
I think it the best specimen I saw of the back-wood's
independence, of which so much is said in America.
These people were indeed independent, Robinson Crusoe was
hardly more so, and they eat and drink abundantly; but yet
it seemed to me that there was something awful and almost
unnatural in their loneliness. No village bell ever summoned
them to prayer, where they might meet the friendly greeting of
their fellow-men. When they die, no spot sacred by ancient
reverence will receive their bones--Religion will not breathe
her sweet and solemn farewell upon their grave; the husband or
the father will dig the pit that is to hold them, beneath the
nearest tree; he will himself deposit them within it, and the
wind that whispers through the boughs will be their only requiem.
But then they pay neither taxes nor tythes, are never expected to
pull off a hat or to make a curtsy, and will live and die without
hearing or uttering the dreadful words, "God save the king."

About two miles below Cincinnati, on the Kentucky side of the
river, Mr. Bullock, the well known proprietor of the Egyptian
Hall, has bought a large estate, with a noble house upon it.
He and his amiable wife were devoting themselves to the
embellishment of the house and grounds; and certainly there is
more taste and art lavished on one of their beautiful saloons,
than all Western America can show elsewhere. It is impossible to
help feeling that Mr. Bullock is rather out of his element in
this remote spot, and the gems of art he has brought with him,
shew as strangely there, as would a bower of roses in Siberia, or
a Cincinnati fashionable at Almack's. The exquisite beauty of
the spot, commanding one of the finest reaches of the Ohio, t