IN traveling up the Mississippi river, I could not help remarking that the Illinois shore was, with but few exceptions, very low—in many places not more than a foot or two above ordinary water, and, in some places, even submerged; while the western shore—that of Missouri and Iowa—was, with some exceptions, reasonably high.

Illinois is a low, swampy State, nearly all over. I have visited all portions of it, both the borders and the interior; and, excepting the vicinity of Peoria, and some few bluffs along the Mississippi river, the ground is low, flat, marshy, and evidently anything but salubrious. The soil, however, is as rich as any in the world; and things grow there in a way that would be quite novel to an eastern man. By and by, it will be drained, grow more healthy, and, perhaps, become the richest and most desirable State of the Mississippi Valley.

The most beautiful land I ever saw any where, was in Iowa, between Davenport, on the Mississippi shore, and Iowa City, in the interior. It is difficult to look upon that garden-like land, when clothed in its dress of summer, without actually breaking forth in words of admiration. It is slightly rolling—just enough so to relieve it from excess of water—the view is little obstructed by timber; and one can stand on a somewhat elevated point, and see for eight or ten miles in any direction—see the smooth green fields spread out before him, like the face of the ocean, till they fade in dimness and kiss the blue sky at the distant horizon!

But, in winter, stay away from these regions, with all their beauty, unless you are fond of being frozen; for the winter winds there can split a tough white-oak into rails, in no time, and fire itself couldn’t stand it long out-of-doors, without being frozen into icicles. Even their thermometers cannot stand it out-of-doors. They are obliged to hang them by the stove or fireplace—where they make it a point to keep the temperature of the air as high as twenty-five or thirty degrees below zero.

But this is a digression I did not intend.

At Keokuk, I stayed all night, and, next morning, took an early train for Fort Madison, a flourishing town situated at the head of the Rapids, twenty-five miles above Keokuk. Not every one is aware that the navigation of the Mississippi is obstructed for some miles above Keokuk, by extensive rapids, in the course of which the water falls considerably. Yet such is the case. To obviate the difficulty, a railroad has been constructed from Keokuk to Fort Madison, where the traveler takes another boat up the river. When the water is high, however, boats of any size go over the rapids, as they do over the Falls of the Ohio at Louisville.

In the car, a gentleman, who was a native of Iowa, occupied the same seat with me. Noticing that I had a checker-board in my hand, which I had taken out of my trunk while on board the boat, the previous day, he said:

“Do you play checkers?”

“A little,” I replied. “Do you?”

“I don’t often get beat,” was his modest (?) rejoinder.

“Will you take the boat at Fort Madison?”

“Yes.”

“Then, if you desire, we will play a game or two, when we get aboard.”

“I was just about to make the same proposition,” he returned.

The train had not proceeded far, when, as we were passing a saw-mill, we saw a man, who had charge of a yoke of oxen, standing, with open mouth, gazing upon the train, and staring the very locomotive out of countenance. He was one of the homeliest men I ever saw. My companion and I had had some conversation with two lively young ladies, who occupied the seat in front of us, and one of them remarked:

“What a singular-looking man!”

The other laughed.

“He isn’t a very pretty man, is he?” said I.

“No,” retorted my male companion, who probably thought this (because he knew me to be from Pennsylvania,) a thrust at Iowa generally, “he looks like a Pennsylvanian.” This, he certainly meant for a hit at the old Keystone State.

I said nothing, however, but silently determined to have revenge at checkers, when we should get on the boat—unless my companion should prove to be a remarkable player.

So, when we had embarked at Fort Madison, and were gliding up the river, I saw the Iowa gentleman sauntering through the cabin, and said:

“Are you ready for that game of checkers?”

“O, yes,” he replied; “I was looking for you.”

We sat down by one of the tables, arranged the board and “men,” and went at it. He moved with much circumspection, and was very careful lest he should make a blunder. But, with all his caution, he soon made one, which I quickly saw; and I gave him one of my men, took three of his in exchange, and hopped into the king-row.

“Pshaw!” he exclaimed, in a tone of vexation. “I wasn’t watching!”

I soon won that game, and he didn’t get a king.

“Let’s try it again,” said he. “I will do better next time.”

“I hope so,” I replied, as we replaced the men—but I didn’t hope so.

This time he moved with more care than ever, and succeeded—in getting beaten as badly as before.

He tried it again and again, till we had played eight games, and I had won two-thirds of a dozen of them.

“I will not play any more,” he said, petulantly, as he arose from the table. “I never met with such a player.”

“I play the Pennsylvania game,” I complacently observed.

I landed at Muscatine, Iowa, that evening, where I remained all night. Muscatine is about thirty miles below Davenport, and is called a city. Its population is eight or ten thousand.

Next morning, I took an early train for Wilton, a flourishing town situated at the intersection of two railroads, in the interior of the State. I visited some relatives there, and passed a week or two with them very pleasantly.