time to cook the prairie-chickens which my father had shot on the way. Some of them, seeing my sympathy, would talk to me far into the night, telling me a mournful story. I used to drive away with my eyes full of tears. Three days going and three days coming back over this endless campagna, and a subsequent drive to Milwaukee to take the steamer thence for home, satisfied me with a knowledge of the State of Wisconsin as it then was. But it had a charm (in common with the Campagna at Rome) like the sea, and it gave me many romantic dreams when I returned to the well-regulated and comfortable life of New England.
The life on horseback which I led at Dubuque and these drives re-established my health, and I had no more pains in my chest. Our journey home through the great lakes was even more delightful than that up the Ohio and Mississippi. The steamboats were models of comfort, and the same cotillon party, lasting a fortnight, went on every evening. As I was the youngest person on board, I had no end of partners, and there were two most eligible elderly beaux to talk to of mornings.
These were the Hon. Martin Van Buren, ex-President, and his friend, James K. Paulding, who had been one of his cabinet. This latter gentleman, well known to the literary world, was very indignant at the attentions which were then being showered on Dickens, "a mere London newspaper reporter," as he used to say. One age must, however, gracefully retire before another.
Mr. Van Buren and Mr. Paulding were charming gentlemen and the best and kindest of friends. Mr. Van Buren was especially courtly — a little, natty man, with his head on one side and the air of being fresh from the barber. I used to tell his witty son, John Van Buren,
