whiskey in the woods, looking wild and jovial, dressed in sky-blue and scarlet. Crossed the Big river into Illinois, after being lost one hour. Started a fine buck, and rode along rich bottom land, ten feet deep of water, in winter, and passed some smoke-dried women and children.
At four, p. m., I reached the English prairie, presenting a wide, rusty, black prospect, the fire having passed over it. I met Wood and Shepherd, the only two farmer-like men; saw no corn-fields; nothing done; rode into Albion at dusk, and called on Speculator Pugsley and Mr. E. P. Fordham,[85] who never means to return to England, except rich or to be rich. If he fails here, he will turn hunter and live by his rifle on the frontiers. I supped and went to bed in a hog-stye of a room, containing four filthy beds and eight mean persons; the sheets stinking and dirty; scarcity of water is, I suppose, the cause. The beds lie on boards, not cords, and are so hard that I could not sleep. Three in one bed, all filth, no comfort, and yet this is an English tavern; no whiskey, no milk, and vile tea, in this land of prairies.
22nd.—At sun-rise I rose from our filthy nest. Mr. Simpkins, a dirty idle wife, with sons and daughters, late of Baldock, Herts, are the managers of this prairie tavern. A better one of brick {269} is building by Mr. R. Flower, who owns the former, from which Simpkins is about removing to Evansville, because he and family, though all poor, are above being at the beck and call of every body,
