necessity would be considered a matter of importance, but it did not seem to be much thought of here, “Some slight alteration probably,” I suggested.  “No,” said my informant, one of the judges of their courts, “it is to be a thorough, radical change of the whole Constitution.  They are voting the delegates to-day.”  I went to see them vote the delegates, but, unfortunately, got into a wrong place—­by invitation—­and was turned out, not without some slight tumult.  I trust that the new Constitution was carried through successfully.

From these little details it may, perhaps, be understood how a town like Chicago goes on and prospers in spite of all the drawbacks which are incident to newness.  Men in those regions do not mind failures, and, when they have failed, instantly begin again.  They make their plans on a large scale, and they who come after them fill up what has been wanting at first.  Those taps of hot and cold water will be made to run by the next owner of the hotel, if not by the present owner.  In another ten years the letters, I do not doubt, will all be delivered.  Long before that time the theater will probably be full.  The new Constitution is no doubt already at work, and, if found deficient, another will succeed to it without any trouble to the State or any talk on the subject through the Union.  Chicago was intended as a town of export for corn, and therefore the corn stores have received the first attention.  When I was there they were in perfect working order.

From Chicago we went on to Cleveland, a town in the State of Ohio, on Lake Erie, again traveling by the sleeping-cars.  I found that these cars were universally mentioned with great horror and disgust by Americans of the upper class.  They always declared that they would not travel in them on any account.  Noise and dirt were the two objections.  They are very noisy, but to us belonged the happy power of sleeping down noise.  I invariably slept all through the night, and knew nothing about the noise.  They are also very dirty—­ extremely dirty—­dirty so as to cause much annoyance.  But then they are not quite so dirty as the day cars.  If dirt is to be a bar against traveling in America, men and women must stay at home.  For myself, I don’t much care for dirt, having a strong reliance on soap and water and scrubbing-brushes.  No one regards poisons who carries antidotes in which he has perfect faith.

Cleveland is another pleasant town—­pleasant as Milwaukee and Portland.  The streets are handsome and are shaded by grand avenues of trees.  One of these streets is over a mile in length, and throughout the whole of it there are trees on each side—­not little, paltry trees as are to be seen on the boulevards of Paris, but spreading elms:  the beautiful American elm, which not only spreads, but droops also, and makes more of its foliage than any other tree extant.  And there is a square in Cleveland, well sized, as large as Russell Square I should say, with open paths across it, and containing one or two handsome buildings.  I cannot but think that all men and women in London would be great gainers if the iron rails of the squares were thrown down and the grassy inclosures thrown open to the public.  Of course the edges of the turf would be worn, and the paths would not keep their exact shapes.  But the prison look would be banished, and the somber sadness of the squares would be relieved.