had come into a rich estate. And when I had asked the name of a

river from the brakesman, and heard that it was called the

Susquehanna, the beauty of the name seemed to be part and parcel of

the beauty of the land. As when Adam with divine fitness named the

creatures, so this word Susquehanna was at once accepted by the

fancy. That was the name, as no other could be, for that shining

river and desirable valley.

None can care for literature in itself who do not take a special

pleasure in the sound of names; and there is no part of the world

where nomenclature is so rich, poetical, humorous, and picturesque

as the United States of America. All times, races, and languages

have brought their contribution. Pekin is in the same State with

Euclid, with Bellefontaine, and with Sandusky. Chelsea, with its

London associations of red brick, Sloane Square, and the King's

Road, is own suburb to stately and primeval Memphis; there they

have their seat, translated names of cities, where the Mississippi

runs by Tennessee and Arkansas; and both, while I was crossing the

continent, lay, watched by armed men, in the horror and isolation

of a plague. Old, red Manhattan lies, like an Indian arrowhead

under a steam factory, below anglified New York. The names of the

States and Territories themselves form a chorus of sweet and most

romantic vocables: Delaware, Ohio, Indiana, Florida, Dakota, Iowa,

Wyoming, Minnesota, and the Carolinas; there are few poems with a

nobler music for the ear: a songful, tuneful land; and if the new

Homer shall arise from the Western continent, his verse will be

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