and the rights of woman; when the Christian Indian States, Nebraska, &c., stand peacefully side by side of Minnesota, then—it may be in a hundred years—then will I return to Minnesota and celebrate a new feast of the spirits; and I will return thither in—the spirit!
LETTER XXVIII.
Floating down the great river, “the Father of Rivers,” between Indian camps, fires, boats, Indians standing or leaping, and shouting, or rather yelling, upon the shores; funeral erections on the heights; between vine-clad islands, and Indian canoes paddling among them! I would yet retain these strange foreign scenes; but I proceed onward, passing them by. We leave this poetical wilderness, the region of the youthful Mississippi, and advance towards that of civilisation. The weather is mild, the sun and the shade sport among the mountains—a poetical, romantic life!
Oct. 26th.—Sunbright, but cold. The Indians have vanished. We have passed the “Prairie du Chien;” the idol-stone of the Red Indian; the Indian graves under the autumnally yellow trees. The hills shine out, of a splendid yellow-brown. The ruins and the pyramids of primeval ages stand forth gloomy and magnificent amid he brilliant forests. With every bend of the river new and astonishing prospects present themselves. I contemplate them, read Emerson's Essays, and live as at a festival. We approach the commencement of two towns on the shore of Iowa, Gottenborg, a descendant, as I imagine, of our Götheborg, and Dubugue.
Oct. 27th.—Again at Galena, among the lead-mines for a couple of days. It is Sunday, and I am returned from
