spurious abortions, as that period of which, as Captain Cuttle would say, I am about "to make a note." In the year 1837 the spirit of speculation in "town sites" along the banks of the western rivers, and in the large prairies of Illinois and Missouri was running riot throughout the United States. Golden harvests of profit were mathematically demonstrated on well-drawn and highly-colored maps, and enticingly offered to those who wanted to turn a quick and safe penny. Cautious and plodding citizens wore tempted out of their ordinary occupations and six per cent investments into the whirlpool of chance. Even worthy pastors were known to dabble in "town sites," doubtless with the hope of eking out their scanty salaries by a large advance upon a small investment. The East was In a state of fermentation, and the West was teeming with land speculators, plotting and counterplotting to establish eligible localities. Well would it have been for many who ventured into such speculations had they been blessed with bumps of caution sufficiently large to suggest the propriety of a personal visit to that land of milk and honey. For seldom, if ever, has there been a more nefarious scheme set on foot to rob the credulous and unwary of their hard earnings than the sale of town lots in embryo cities, made attractive on well-painted plots. Often must the traveller on those western rivers sigh over the many disappointed hopes indicated by the skeleton frames of homes imported from the East, dropped here and there on "corner lots," and left deserted in their glory to commemorate the folly of their deeply-deceived owners.
A sadder picture could scarcely he imagined than one of those "town sites," in the centre of which might be seen a miserable hut, giving the only presumptive evidence that a human being had ever dwelt there. Looking deeper into the middle-ground in search of him who called it home, anxious to find whether he was an object of pity, as all around indicated, the weary eye finally rested upon a few overgrown mounds and a freshly-made grave, the silent yet speaking interpreters of the landscape. The damp chills of the night and the poisonous miasma of the swamps had engendered fevers, and life, unaided by comforts and unsupported by sympathy, had yielded its spirit a victim to misplaced confidence.
