of farmers,—­houses sure to be replaced by palaces of pine-boards, at least, before a great while, provided the owner does not “move West,” or take to whiskey,—­the cottages we catch glimpses of from car-windows are pretty and well-planned, and some of them show even better on the inside than on the out.  I must forbear to enlarge on the comfort and abundance of these dwellings, lest I trench upon private matters; but I may mention, by way of illustrating my subject, and somewhat as the painter introduces human figures into his picture to give an idea of the height of a tower or the vastness of a cathedral, that I have found an abundant and even elegant table, under frescoed ceiling, in a cottage near the Illinois Central, and far south of the mid-line of this wonderful State, so lately a seeming waste through much of its extent.

And thus throughout.  At one moment a bare expanse, looking man-despised, if not God-forgotten,—­and at the next, a smiling village, with tasteful dwelling, fine shrubbery, great hotels, spires pointing heavenward, and trees that look down with the conscious dignity of old settlers, as if they had stood just so since the time of good Father Marquette, that stout old missionary, who first planted the holy cross in their shade, and, “after offering to the Mightiest thanks and supplications, fell asleep to wake no more.”

There are many interesting reminiscences or traditions of the early European settlers of Illinois.  After Father Marquette,—­whom I always seem to see in Hicks’s sweet picture of a monk inscribing the name JESU on the bark of a tree in the forest,—­came La Salle, an emissary of the great Colbert, under Louis XIV.; an explorer of many heroic qualities, who has left in this whole region important traces of his wanderings, and the memory of his bloody and cruel murder at the impious hands of his own followers, who had not patience to endure to the end.  Counted as part of Florida, under Spanish rule, and part of Louisiana, under that of the French,—­falling into the hands of the celebrated John Law, in the course of his bubble Mississippi scheme, and afterwards ceded with Canada and Nova Scotia to the English, Illinois was never Americanized until the peace of ’83.  The spongy turf of her prairies bore the weight of many a fort, and drank the blood of the slain in many a battle, when all around her was at peace.  The fertility of her soil and the comparative mildness of her climate caused her to be eagerly contended for, as far back as 1673, when the pioneers grew poetical under the inspiration of “a joy that could not be expressed,” as they passed her “broad plains, all garlanded with majestic forests and checkered with illimitable prairies and island groves.”  “We are Illinois,” said the poor Indians to Father Marquette,—­meaning, in their language, “We are men.”  And the Jesuits treated them as men; but by traders they soon began to be treated like beasts; and of course—­poor things!—­they did their best to behave accordingly.  All the forts are ruins now; there is no longer occasion for them.  The Indians are nothing.  There can scarcely be found the slightest trace of their occupancy of these rich acres.  Nations that build nothing but uninscribed burial-places foreshadow their own doom,—­to return to the soil and be forgotten.  But the mode of their passing away is not, therefore, a matter of indifference.