of civilization with scythed axles
mowing down ignorance and prejudice as it whirls along,--tells a whole
story of change and wonder. We can almost see the shadows of the past
escaping into the dim woods, or flitting over the boundless prairie,
shivering at the fearful whistle, and seeking shelter from the wind of
our darting.

The season for this romantic pleasure of piercing primeval Nature on
the wings of subtilest Art is rapidly drawing to a close. How few
penetrable regions can we now find where the rail-car is a novelty!
The very cows and horses, in most places, know when to expect it, and
hardly vouchsafe a sidelong glance as they munch their green dinner. A
railroad to the Pacific may give excitement of this kind a somewhat
longer date, but those who would enjoy the sensation on routes already
in use must begin their explorings at once. There is no time to be
lost. If we much longer spend all our summers in beating the
changeless paths of the Old World, our chance for the fresh but
fleeting delight I have been speaking of will have passed by, never to
return. It were unwise to lose this, one of the few remaining avenues
to a new sensation. Europe will keep; but the prairies will not, the
woods will not, hardly the rivers. Already the flowery waving oceans
of Illinois begin to abound in ships, or what seem such,--houses
looming up from the horizon, like three-masters sometimes, sometimes
schooners, and again little tentative sloops. These are creeping
nearer and nearer together, filling and making commonplace those
lovely deserts where the imagination can still find wings, and
world-wearied thought a temporary repose. Where neighbors were once
out of beacon-sight, they are now within bell-sound; and however
pleasant this may be for the neighbors, it is not so good for the
traveller, especially the traveller who has seen Europe. Only think of
a virgin forest or prairie, after over-populated Belgium or finished
England! Europeans understand the thing, and invariably rush for the
prairies; but we Americans, however little we may have seen of either
world, care little for the wonders of our own. Yet, when we go abroad,
we cannot help blushing to acknowledge that we have not seen the most
striking features of our own country. I speak from experience. Scott,
describing the arid wastes of the Hebrides,--

"Placed far amid the melancholy main,"

and swept bare by wintry-cold sea-breezes, said,--

"Yes! 'twas sub