In the commencement of my Tour, several of my travelling companions from the city of New York, found themselves at a frightful distance to the West, when we arrived at Niagara Falls; and hastened back to amuse their friends with tales and scenes of the West. At Buffalo a steam-boat was landing with 400 passengers, and twelve days out—“Where from?” “From the West.” In the rich state of Ohio, hundreds were selling their farms and going—to the West. In the beautiful city of Cincinnati, people said to me, “Our town has passed the days of its most rapid growth, it is not far enough West.”—In St. Louis, 1400 miles west of New York, my landlady assured me that I would be pleased with her boarders, for they were nearly all merchants from the “West.” I there asked,—“Whence come those steam-boats, laden with pork, honey, hides, &c.?” From the West. Whence those ponderous bars of silver, which those men have been for hours shouldering and putting on board that boat? They come from Santa Fee, from the West. Where goes this steam-boat so richly laden with dry goods, steam-engines, &c.? She goes to Jefferson city. Jefferson city?—Where is that? Far to the West. And where goes that boat laden down to her gunnels, the Yellow Stone? She goes still farther to the West—“Then,” said I, “I’ll go to the West.” I went on the Yellow Stone— * * * * * * * Two thousand miles on her, and we were at the mouth of Yellow Stone river—at the West. What! invoices, bills of lading, &c., a wholesale establishment so far to the West! And those strange looking, long-haired gentlemen, who have just arrived, and are relating the adventures of their long and tedious journey. Who are they? Oh! they are some of our merchants just arrived from the West. And that keel-boat, that Mackinaw-boat, and that formidable caravan, all of which are richly laden with goods. These, Sir, are outfits starting for the _West_. Going to the _West_, ha? “Then” said I, “I’ll try it again. I will try and see if I can go to the West.” * * * What, a Fort here, too? Oui, Monsieur—oui, Monsieur (as a dauntless, and _semibarbarian_-looking, jolly fellow, dashed forth in advance of his party on his wild horse to meet me.) What distance are you west of Yellow Stone here, my good fellow? Comment? What distance?—(stop)—quel distance? Pardón, Monsieur, je ne sais pas, Monsieur. Ne parlez vous l’Anglais? Non, Monsr. I speaks de French and de Americaine; mais je ne parle pas l’Anglais. “Well then, my good fellow, I will speak English, and you may speak Americaine.” Pardón, pardón, Monsieur. Well, then we will both speak Americaine. Val, sare, je suis bien content, pour for I see dat you speaks putty coot Americaine. What may I call your name? Ba’tiste, Monsieur. What Indians are those so splendidly dressed, and with such fine horses, encamped on the plain yonder? Ils sont Corbeaux. Crows, ha? Yes, sare, Monsieur. We are then in the Crow country?