to be shook onward to Madison. My portmanteau had been sent on by mistake from Watertown, by some diligence, I knew not how or whither; but thanks to the electric telegraphs which sent telegraphic messages in three directions, I received again the next day my lost effects safe and sound. It is remarkable, that in all directions throughout this young country along these rough roads, which are no roads at all, run these electric wires from tree to tree, from post to post along the prairie land, and bring towns and villages into communication.
The road to Madison was difficult, but having a greater resemblance to a road than that between Millwankee and Watertown. There were but few passengers in the diligence, and I was able therefore to place myself a little more comfortably; a bright Aurora Borealis shone across the prairie land as we drove along in that starlight night, and the glow-worms glimmered in the grass which bordered the road. The journey was not unpleasant. The vast, solitary, verdant, billowy extent, embraced by the vast, star-lit firmament, had in it something grand and calm. I sat silent and quiet. At half-past eleven I reached Madison, where it was with difficulty that room could be found for me at the inn, or that anybody would take charge of me. The next day, however, I found both house and home, and friends, and everything excellent.
I am with a family of the name of F. The master of the house, who is a Judge of the State, is now from home; but his wife and their young married daughter, who resides with her parents, have given me the most agreeable reception. And it is hardly possible to imagine a more charming picture than that which is here presented by the three generations—mother, daughter, and grandchild. The elderly lady is delicate and graceful, and still handsome; the daughter, with a certain look of Jenny Lind about her, and an expression of unspeakable goodness
