I was induced to start this morning for Ypsilanti, by the kindness and importunity of the Rev. Mr. R----, who offered, if I would return with him to his parish, to convey me in his own carriage to the several points I wished to visit in the interior of the state. The pledge was fully redeemed, and my comfort and pleasure greatly augmented by my acceptance of his kind offer. The road for the first twenty miles towards Ypsilanti gave us a fine specimen of the toil and tardiness of travelling in a new country. At one time the formidable slough received us into its cavernous depths, and as we went down, vehicle and horses and all, seemed to threaten to swallow us up in its miry embrace. Then, as we rose from this perilous depth, our carriage went bounding from log to log which lay side by side transversely across our path, deeply embedded in mud, constituting what is expressively called a _corduroy road_. These were almost the only alternations in our path for the first twenty miles. The land, after you leave Detroit, is, in almost every direction, low, clayey, and wet. It is also heavily timbered, and therefore will not be very rapidly settled. The soil of the farms that have been cleared up is said to be productive, but principally valuable for purposes of grazing. The last ten miles of our course, as we urged our way on to Ypsilanti, lay through a country of a totally different character. I almost felt as though I was again travelling through a section of Illinois, though there were more signs of cultivation around me than I any where saw there. Our road now became fine, and we swept along through the oak openings, and by the side of successive fields of beautifully tasselled corn, luxuriant oats, and yellow bending wheat, with a speed which soon brought us to the place of our destination. Ypsilanti is a neat country village, built on Huron river, and contains a population of nearly two thousand. _July 27th._ We started yesterday morning from Ypsilanti, directing our course towards Ann Arbour. We found the country through which we passed, rich and beautiful, and bearing every where incontestible evidence that it was a soil which would remunerate the agriculturalist for every stroke struck upon its bosom.