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and all his varied apprenticeships may work for the world-nearly whole states of coal and iron. Further westward you find that superabundant nature has burst her usual bounds, and shot up a solid mountain of iron; and further northward you see exhaustless mines of copper, better than the gold mines of California; and still westward and northward steam-engines will, in a few months, utter their shrill acclamations over the Galena mines of lead. This mighty West, we say, is to have its own great workshop as well as its own great garden. It will supply the rest of us with bread most bountifully; but it will supply itself and us too with manufactures also, to a great extent. In fine, and dropping all rhetoric, the elements of all industrial arts are here, and accompanied with facilities which must, sooner or later, give them a development never known elsewhere in the world.

Recalling our thoughts, we next looked at the specimens of humanity around us. The country and its developments were grand. What was man? That is a hard question to answer, for who is the Western man? Doubtless there is by this time a numerous corps of indigenous Westerners -Hoosiers, Buckeyes, Wolverines, &c.; and we never met one that was not a genuine man-whole-hearted and thoroughly characterized; naturally fitted to work well, to vote well, if a Christian, to pray well, and, if his country needed it, to fight well. The native-born men of the West have in fact come almost invariably of good old American stock-from respectable well-trained families of NewEngland, (which in the West includes NewYork,) Pennsylvania, and Virginia, and you cannot find a better edition of American character; but they are hardly discernible among the millions that are spreading over these vast regions. There sat around me the bearded German, the lank Frenchman, the bluff Englishman, the omnipresent and ever-ready Irishman, the hardy Scandinavian, and, on the end seat, the African with his mulatto associate-these, besides every physiological variety of the different American States. Look out of the window and you see the broad coppered features of the Indian; glance up the village street, across which you are flying, and you see the lithe-limbed Italian, grinding music and leading his trained monkey; step into the second passenger car and you

find yourself in a chamber of Babel. What a commixed population! yet let us remember that the crossing of breeds, with very few exceptions, improves the race. We need not fear, therefore, for the future human development of the West. It will be originally good; we have but to take good care that, by our moral and educational provisions, we keep it so, and on the basis of a strenuous and manly physique rear an ennobled intellectual and religious character. Give us this, and our destiny will need no further anxiety.

So far as we could distinguish the native Westerner from the human intermixture around him, his physical development struck us as an improvement on that of his Eastern brethren. He is usually taller and stouter about the chest, though his climate gives him a more bilious, if not more cadaverous aspect. We Americans certainly have a national physique peculiarly our own. Its chief characteristic is an attenuation, a narrowing outline, of both frame and feature. The Westerner leads off in this trait of our nationality as he does in all others. He is wiry, long-limbed, tight-featured, and broad only in his heart and humor, the latter of which always takes the character of "mother wit." The women of the West are

an exception to this physical type generally. We were struck with their almost universal appearance of ill health. Perhaps our observations were erroneous; but we doubt whether they do not share, even in an augmented degree, the proverbial fragility of their Eastern sisters.

The American women are noted for their early beauty and early decay. The law seems universal among us. Foreign women-English, German, and even Frenchpresent an obvious contrast in both robustness and complexion. Our physiological lecturers (of whom Providence rid the country as soon as possible, for they are more mischievous than even the doctors) have ascribed the fact to the in-door life and sedentary and dietetic habits of the sex, and have belabored the public abundantly on the subject from the rostrum and the press. Doubtless they are partially correct; but the problem has a deeper solution. The fact seems to be that the European races are not yet fully acclimated in the New World—at least in North America. Woman, from her more delicate organization, suffers most from the process. It will re

frequently glanced at it, but, with unaccountable perversity, have as quickly averted their gaze. Nearly all our young ones betake themselves to it like new

quire generations yet, probably, to remedy the evil entirely. In the East, our women do injure themselves undoubtedly by their habits; but in the West they are accustomed to activity, to simple and nourish-fledged eagles to the wilds; but, for some ing diet, and the open air; yet the natural fragility of their sex is as common here as in the East-perhaps more obvious. We have all got to suffer yet in these respects from our new-world home; but we have compensations-splendid ones. Meanwhile let us brave the inclemencies of our climate—not retreat too much from them, but get inured to them. Let us turn the children out of doors more, especially the girls-the future mothers of the Republic. Harden them in the open air, rather than polish them in cribbed school-houses or asthmatical drawingrooms. The West is educating its daughters rightly in this respect, and, with the improvement of the country, its climate is becoming more genial; man, as everything else, will yet flourish there.

Such were our observations and meditatations, when suddenly our attention was recalled. Whiz! and puff! puff! with the jingle of bells and the squealing of railroad whistles, filled the air. We thrust our head out of the car window and found a very Babel around us-masses of baggage and merchandise, emigrants from all parts | of Europe, and wiry, loud, nasal-toned, but few-worded Yankees racing about among them, giving orders and giving impulses as if they were driving "all creation" before them. "We are at Sandusky city," said our fat friend, who had been enjoying tranquil dreams. We were soon on board the steamer, and after a magnificent night passage part of it with moonlight, and part with a sublime lake-storm-we reached Detroit. A few delicious days, bland as Indian summer, were spent in rest, and in preparations for a trip among the Indians far up on the Tittebewasse River.

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reason, they come out speedily, rather beak-fallen. Campbell and Bryant have best succeeded there, but they have plucked only a few really indigenous flowers from the vast wilderness. Whittier in his "Mogg Megone" and "Bridal of Pennacook," (" Phœbus, what a name" for poetry!) Street in his "Frontenac," Sands's "Yamoyden," Colton's "Tecumseh," and most others, smack little of the wild-flower fragrance that our young nostrils, given to poetical itching, used to snuff up so often from this ideal woods-realm. As for the novelists, if we except Cooper, they have not done any better. There is a sorry lack of ideal excellence, though an abundance of scalps, war-whoops, and torture scenes in their lucubrations.

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But we see the Indian only amid the accompaniments of our civilization-transformed without being improved by them. What can these be to him but as a Cockney or Broadway fop's trappings drawn over a tamed lion? What if we seek him in his own unchanged domain? There, certainly, we shall verify our poetical ideals of aboriginal romance! So we thought; and it became a favorite expectation that, at some good time coming," we should be able to see Indian life in its native simplicity-in its yet unmixed, unaltered communities, among the old poetic forests. It was a most entertaining whim of ours. Such a sight is rare; it will not be possible twenty-five years hence. The next generation will hardly find a considerable specimen of pure Indian life on all the continent of North America, except far off at the pole, as among the Esquimaux, and they, it must be remembered, are not allowed by the ethnologists to belong to our Indian race. They are a poor, squatty race of blubbereaters, who came from nobody knows where-Scandinavia perhaps and who have no more romance in their character than they have resemblance to the Apollo in their persons. He, therefore, that would see the real Indian life of North America (the South American is a very different thing) must be in haste. The last scene of this unique and marvelous drama of humanity is just now passing-never

again to be seen on the great stage of the earth. How strange that travelers do not flock to the final places of this spectacle-to witness this dying and burial of a race of a primitive, mysterious people, whose history is the most curious and inexplicable problem in the annals of man!

however mongrelized with civilization, something of his real character and primitive life might be seen. So away we started with our friend F. to the wilds of Northern Michigan, where a campmeeting of Chippewas was about to be held. We will invite the reader thither in our next number.

THE TRICKS WHICH MEMORY
PLAYS US.

EMORY is a magician. Poets may

MEM

call it "Sober Memory," if they please, but I do not agree with them. Memory plays us all manner of tricks, some of them kindly and beneficent, such as the good fairies used to indulge in in the olden time; some of them mischievous, like those of the half-malicious Puck. Of course I except the scientific and historical sorts of memory, which are grave affairs enough chronicling, and cataloguing, and labeling, and putting away facts in regular rank-and-file, like bottles in a chemist's shop, though even there an elf-like freak puts things in confusion sometimes. I refer only to that private sort of memory, which is a kind of familiar spirit to everybody. I hope it is not getting too metaphysical to say, that as each man has a different nature, so has he a special memory of his own. I would not be meta

We resolved once, as we have said, to have a peep at some of the real, unadulterated poetry of Indian life, and was planning with a literary friend to take first the cars, then Lake steamers, then horseback, (over the old portage of the French,) and at last canoes, till we should reach the Upper Mississippi, where we hoped we should find the noble savage in his golden age estate. We had read, in Bancroft and the elder historians, of the marvelous travels and sufferings of those real heroes and first martyrs on our continent, the old French missionaries, along that route; and, not keeping" note of time," in its later and faster joggings under Uncle Sam's goadings and "gee-ups," fancied that St. Anthony's Falls and the neighboring regions must be still sacred to savage life and romance. While actually cogitating one evening on this expedition to the Indian Eden, an old frienda strapping, lank Yankee, who had for years been wandering over the world-entered our room, and, in his genuine nasal, proposed an investment. "In what?" asked we. "In lots and a saw-mill." "Whereabouts ?" "On Rum River." | physical for the world, for that would make "Rum River! where is that?" "Rum River, sir! Why, do n't you know? It enters the Mississippi above St. Anthony's Falls-a capital place for investmentsfifty per cent. advance in two years, sir. I have just come from there, and am going back with machinery for a steam saw-ginning, "I remember, I remember," the mill." "Above St. Anthony's Falls!" responded we. "Why, how far is it from the nearest settlement?" "Nearest settlement! Why, man, have you been in a Rip Van Winkle sleep? There are settlements enough there; there is the city of the Falls, and- We were "dumb founded," and immediately "knocked under," as they say here in the West. Our romantic dream of the aboriginal Eden vanished, and the racket of steam-engines, and the gratings of saw-teeth, have since been our only associations with the Upper Mississippi. But if we gave up the hope of finding an Indian Eden, we still hoped to see the noble savage in some one of his retreats in the Western States, where,

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some people put down the paper at once; but it is necessary to step just so far into that dreaded sphere, in order to make what I mean plain. If each man or woman were to add a verse to that song which used to be popular in my young days, be

result would be that each would sing of a memory different from that of the other. Even if they remembered precisely the same facts, which would, I suppose, happen now and then, they would give contradictory versions of them. Their memories would be tinged with their fears, and hopes, and wishes, till they assumed all manner of hues; for the wish is not only father to the thought, as Shakspeare tells us, but often parent to the memory also. But I find, from my experience among my acquaintance, that reasoning about these matters is never satisfactory. We must always keep going to facts for explanations, and here is a fact which illustrates my theory. I was once in a law court,

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where a trial was going on about some- Though your memory may not play you body's wagon running down somebody's such tricks as that—not yet, at least-still cart. It was a dull affair enough, as such depend on it, it does indulge in some trials generally are. The case seemed to pranks. If it do not, it must either be one turn on the question whether the cart was of those paragon memories, which are peror was not upon the right side of the fection and a little more, or a memory not street, which, as every one learned in worth having, which leaves the "tablet of road usage knows, is the left side, and this the mind" a blank. But there are very brought out something far more interesting few memories of either of those descripthan the question itself—the contradictions tions. Most memories present us with of memory. There were two witnesses, records which are like yesterday's sum one on either side, who seemed particularly on a schoolboy's slate—a little "smudged," worthy of credence. Both of them were as we used to say in my youthful days: respectable men, both of them apparently old Time smears the one, , just as the jackettrust-worthy, both of them seemingly im- cuffs do the other. I suppose my expepartial-strangers to the parties on either rience in this matter is just that of the side-and both of them exceedingly posi- great part of the rest of the world. A facé tive, and totally contradictory. Up to a often flashes past me in the street which certain point their unanimity was wonder- strikes me as familiar, and which yet does ful. They agreed about the color of the not bring a single association along with horses, of the carts, the time of the day, the it. I say, "I know that man, I'm sure I part of the street, and all the details of know him; let me see, where did I meet that character; but upon one point it would him.” But that fact, like Glendower's have been as reasonable to expect the spirits, will not come when called for. I heavens and the earth to come together, have an impression that I liked him, or as that their statements could be recon- did n't like him; that he is a good-tempered ciled; and, unfortunately, that was the or surly, a witty or a dull fellow. very point which was important: one said me, I know him as well as though I had it happened on the right side of the street, lived with him for a twelvemonth; but his the other on the left; and that each of name, his rank, occupation, habitation— them stuck to, through thick and thin. the circumstances under which my knowlNo amount of cross-examination, ingenious edge was obtained-they are clean gone! though it was; no quantity of badgering, Time has been busy with that yesterday's or coaxing, could move either from that life sum, and has rubbed out the working, settled point. They would have as soon leaving only the product decipherable. thought of giving up their faith, or re- Perhaps the rest has vanished into somenouncing their identity, as of denying their thing thinner than "thin air;" perhaps it memory upon that subject. The more is put away in some out of the way corner each conviction was questioned, the more of my brain, which I have missed for the firmly settled and deeply rooted it became. time; perhaps I shall stumble over it, as No one thought that these men were com- often happens, just when I do not want it. mitting perjury. There was too much There is always a consciousness of this, evident sincerity and earnestness, and too that tells you if you would only look in little interest for that; yet one of them the right place you would find it, and that must have sworn to what was not true. is the most tormenting part of the whole. The judge was puzzled, and in his sum- It is like searching for the lost key, which ming-up treated it as a case of mistaken you are twirling on your finger all the impression, one way or the other, but time, or going over the alphabet to worm which way, was left for the jury to decide. out a word, which is "on the very tip of The jury were bewildered, and the verdict your tongue," but will not come any furwas neither better nor worse than a piece ther. That consciousness keeps you on of guess-work. They might have tossed the stretch-on the rack; you cannot, try up a halfpenny to decide what was right, as you will, get rid of the subject; you with just as much chance of correctness agree with Byron, that "there are thoughts as they had by "laying their heads to- you cannot banish." The face asking to gether," and considering their verdict; and be known, insisting to be recognized, perall because memory had been playing tricks tinaciously claiming acquaintance with you, with somebody. haunts you all day, and gets into your

this story, which he does sometimes-for he is not a hero, and knows it, and does not pretend to be one, and is not above acknowledging that he has been horsewhipped by a man of Williams's size-he wonders, and everybody else wonders, how he could have been betrayed into such a blunder; for Williams is dark as a Moor, and Parsons among the fairest of sandy-haired Williams is herculean, and somewhat petulant-looking; Parsons, slight, diminutive, and lamb-like. No two people could be more dissimilar; and Powell generally winds up with "Well, I was either a stupid dolt, or it was one of those unac countable tricks that memory plays us!"

men.

Among the most common vagaries of memory are those which make us expect to find things very different from what they are.

dreams at night; and in the morning, possibly your wife says to you, "Mrs. Popjoy was here yesterday, Alfred, and her Mary is going to be married to Mr. Friend." "Friend! what Friend?" you ask. "Why, don't you recollect Mr. Friend; that tall young man we met at Popjoy's the last time we were there, and—” but you pay no attention to the rest of the narrative; you heave a huge sigh of relief, and exclaim: "Why, bless me ! that was Friend I saw yesterday!" When such things happen, you understand it pretty wellmemory has been playing tricks with you. Again, memory in her elfish quality will now and then play you another trick, will cause you to mistake one man for another. You meet a man in the street with whom you are not very intimate, but you know him well enough to talk to you Though we hardly perhaps can call shake hands with him, get through the it a vagary of memory, when, after years weather, and chat as acquaintances chat, of absence, we find things very different and then you find out that you have been from the treasured image we had retained of talking to Jones, when you thought you them. This is rather the effect of our were talking to Green; and possibly, as increased knowledge and experience, alyou have been very general in what you though, at the time, it affects us like a have said, there is no harm done. But I trick of memory. When I was young, I have known a few instances where the re- left a quiet country village, and came up sults have been very ludicrous, and a few to this great Babylon of modern times, more where they promised to become se- which some one has appropriately enough rious. Something of that sort happened called "a brick and mortar wilderness." when Powell met Parsons a little while The vastness of the place, the breadth of ago-no, he did not meet Parsons, he only the streets, and the height of the houses thought he did. After a while, Powell, impressed me, as they do everybody fresh who is a good sort of fellow, but rather too from the green fields, till I got used to it apt to gossip about what does not concern all. Still, when memory wandered, as it him, said, "What a fool Williams made of often did, to that dear old road at home, himself in that affair, did n't he?" "What bordered by its fields and hedge-rows, dotted affair?" said the other, drawing up his here and there by shady elms, under which athletic figure, and looking down on poor men sat to their bread and cheese at noonlittle Powell, who, like most gossiping tide, it never seemed to me that the road men, I fancy, would not meet the military was narrow or lonely; I never thought of standard. Powell felt he was wrong, how it in any other light than as a spacious he didn't know, nor why; but he was in highway, peopled by hosts of old associafor it, and went on just as men, when they tions. When I returned, however, I found feel they are in a mess, do. "What the old road was only a lane-a mere lane, affair! didn't you hear? O! I thought which I could almost jump across! and everybody knew that stupid affair with the laborers going to and from their work Miss Brown." Poor Powell had scarcely hardly redeemed it from solitude. So it got as far, when the giant he was talking was with the old houses. That old weatherto, turning him round, thrashed him with a boarded, many-gabled, broad-eaved, whiteriding-whip, which he happened to have in painted cottage, with green shutters and his hand at the time. Then, and not till doors, where my first years had been passthen, the truth flashed on him, that instead ed,-that house which used to seem to me of talking to Parsons, as he thought, he a spacious mansion,-how small it now had been actually insulting Williams, whose looked! I stooped as I entered the door, identity he had, by a trick of memory, it seemed so low; and the ceilings, with wholly mistaken. When little Powell tells the great square beams projecting out of

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