TORCH-FISHING. 7 / 



•witli a good bottle of sherry. That clone, Bergeron 

 and I bid farewell to the " Great Eagle. '^ 



The buggy, in which Bergeron's friend offered us 

 places, was a kind of light chaise, lined with furs, 

 and shut up like a little box. We got inside, and 

 the owner mounted the box to drive a pair of capital 

 little horses of Arab blood, which were harnessed in 

 tandem to this novel style of vehicle. It was four 

 o'clock in the evening when we left Chicago, chat- 

 ting of all manner of things, smoking, arguing, and 

 determined to put on a good face against everything, 

 even the shades of night, which were now beginning 

 to close round us. The country through which we 

 were passing was anything but picturesque. On 

 every side were fields covered with withered herbage 

 and dead leaves. Nature seemed dead, and wore a 

 very different appearance from that which she should 

 wear when you visit the American prairie. When 

 two years afterwards I traversed the same line of 

 country, I could scarcely recognise the places which 

 I had passed in 1846. This, however, was the month 

 of February, when the soil was still exposed to all 

 the rigours of the winter, and as the sun sank behind 

 the horizon, it shed its pale rays through a forest of 

 dead branches. 



It was a bad night, and our slumbers were fre- 

 quently broken by the cries of our driver, who 

 excited his horses with voice and gesture. At day- 

 break we entered Peoria, and two hours afterwards 



