A noble boat, the Wisconsin, was to be launched this afternoon, the whole town was out in many-colored array, the band playing.  Our boat swept round to a good position, and all was ready but—­the Wisconsin, which could not be made to stir.  This was quite a disappointment.  It would have been an imposing sight.

In the boat many signs admonished that we were floating eastward.  A shabbily dressed phrenologist laid his hand on every head which would bend, with half-conceited, half-sheepish expression, to the trial of his skill.  Knots of people gathered here and there to discuss points of theology.  A bereaved lover was seeking religious consolation in—­Butler’s Analogy, which he had purchased for that purpose.  However, he did not turn over many pages before his attention was drawn aside by the gay glances of certain damsels that came on board at Detroit, and, though Butler might afterwards be seen sticking from his pocket, it had not weight to impede him from many a feat of lightness and liveliness.  I doubt if it went with him from the boat.  Some there were, even, discussing the doctrines of Fourier.  It seemed pity they were not going to, rather than from, the rich and free country where it would be so much easier, than with us, to try the great experiment of voluntary association, and show, beyond a doubt, that “an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure,” a maxim of the “wisdom of nations,” which has proved of little practical efficacy as yet.

Better to stop before landing at Buffalo, while I have yet the advantage over some of my readers.

* * * * *

THE BOOK TO THE READER

WHO OPENS, AS AMERICAN READERS OFTEN DO, AT THE END,
WITH DOGGEREL SUBMISSION.

To see your cousin in her country home,
If at the time of blackberries you come,
“Welcome, my friends,” she cries with ready glee,
“The fruit is ripened, and the paths are free. 
But, madam, you will tear that handsome gown;
The little boy be sure to tumble down;
And, in the thickets where they ripen best,
The matted ivy, too, its bower has drest. 
And then, the thorns your hands are sure to rend,
Unless with heavy gloves you will defend;
Amid most thorns the sweetest roses blow,
Amid most thorns the sweetest berries grow.”

  If, undeterred, you to the fields must go,
    You tear your dresses and you scratch your hands;
  But, in the places where the berries grow,
    A sweeter fruit the ready sense commands,
  Of wild, gay feelings, fancies springing sweet—­
  Of bird-like pleasures, fluttering and fleet.

  Another year, you cannot go yourself,
    To win the berries from the thickets wild,
  And housewife skill, instead, has filled the shelf
    With blackberry jam, “by best receipts compiled,—­
  Not made with country sugar, for too strong
  The flavors that to maple juice belong;
  But foreign sugar, nicely mixed ’to suit
  The taste,’ spoils not the fragrance of the fruit.”