ONE of the most remarkable features of the western country consists in its extensive prairies or savannahs, which prevail in all the vast region between the Alleghany and the Rocky Mountains, and also to the west of the Rocky Mountains. When seen from the summits of the Mexican and the Rocky Mountains, they seem absolutely boundless to the view. They are not to be considered merely as dead flat, but undulating into gentle swelling lawns, and expanding into spacious valleys, in the centre of which is always found a little timber, growing on the banks of the brooks and rivulets of the finest water. Pike, who viewed them from the summit of the Blue Mountain, under the source of the Arkansaw, says, ‘the unbounded prairie was overhung with clouds, which seemed like the ocean in a storm, wave piled on wave, and foaming; while the sky over our heads was perfectly clear, and the prospect was truly sublime.’ In these vast prairies the soil is dry, sandy, with gravel; but the moment we approach a stream, the land becomes more humid, with small timber. It is probable that these steppes or prairies were never well wooded, as, from the earliest ages, the aridity of the soil, having so few water-courses running through it, and these being principally dry in summer, no sufficient nourishment has been afforded to the growth of timber. In all timbered land, the annual discharge of the leaves, with the continual decay of old trees and branches, creates a manure and moisture, which are preserved from the heat—the sun not being permitted to direct his rays perpendicularly, but to shed them only obliquely through the foliage. But in Upper Louisiana, a barren soil, dried up for eight months in the year, presents neither moisture nor nutriment for the growth of wood.

These vast plains of Louisiana, near the upper courses of the Arkansaw, with its tributary streams, and the head-waters of the Kanzas, White and Grand Osage rivers, may become in time like the sandy deserts of Africa; ‘for,’ says Pike, ‘Isaw in my route, in various places, tracts of many leagues, where the wind had thrown up the sand in all the fancied forms of the ocean’s rolling waves, and on which not a single speck of vegetation appeared.’ From this circumstance Pike deduces the following remark: ‘From these immense prairies may arise a great advantage to the United States, namely, the restriction of our population to some certain limits, and thereby a continuation of the Union. Our citizens being so prone to rambling, and extending themselves on the frontiers, will, through necessity, be compelled to limit their extent on the west to the borders of the Missouri and Mississippi; while they leave the prairies, incapable of cultivation, to the wandering and uncivilized aborigines of the country.’ These prairies, from the borders of the Mississippi, on the east, to the base of the Mexican Alps on the west, rise with a continually increasing acclivity for many hundred miles, till, at the base of the mountains, they attain an elevation of eight thousand feet, as we are informed by Pike, which is greater than the elevated level of the great desert of Gobi, on the north-west of China, estimated by Du Halde to be five thousand five hundred and eleven feet above the level of the sea, or the great arid desert, to the north of the cape of Good Hope, traversed by the Orange river, and lately visited by the Rev. Mr. Campbell, the elevation of which is estimated by Colonel Gordon at six thousand five hundred and sixty-one feet above the level of the sea. In addition to the aridity of the Louisiana prairies, they are so impregnated with nitre, and other salts, as to taint the waters that flow in various directions. Pike says, that for leagues together, they are covered with saline incrustations; and a number of tributary streams descending into the Arkansaw and Kanzas rivers are perfect salines; and beyond the river Platte, as we are informed by Colonel Lewis, the lands are not only destitute of timber, but even of good water, of which there is but a small quantity in the creeks, and even that is brackish. The same saline incrustations pervade the prairies on the Upper Missouri; and the same want of timber, little or no dew, with very little rain, continues till the neighborhood of the mountains.

The calcareous districts, which form the great portion of the region west of the Alleghanies, present certain tracts entirely divested of trees, which are called barrens, though capable of being rendered productive. The cause of this peculiarity has not been accurately examined. Those parts of this region which are elevated three or four hundred feet, and lie along deeply depressed beds of rivers, are clothed with the richest forests in the world. The Ohio flows under the shade of the plane and the tulip tree, like a canal dug in a nobleman’s park; while the lianas, extending from tree to tree, form graceful arches of flowers and foliage over branches of the river. Passing to the south, the wild orange tree mixes with the odoriferous and the common laurel. The straight silvery column of the papaw fig, which rises to the height of twenty feet, and is crowned with a canopy of large indented leaves, forms one of the most striking ornaments of this enchanting scene. Above all these, towers the majestic magnolia, which shoots up from that calcareous soil to the height of more than one hundred feet. Its trunk, perfectly straight, is surmounted with a thick and expanded head, the pale green foliage of which affects a conical figure. From the centre of the flowery crown which terminates its branches, a flower of the purest white rises, having the form of a rose, and to which succeeds a crimson cone. This, in opening, exhibits rounded seed of the finest coral red, suspended by delicate threads six inches long. Thus, by its flowers, its fruit, and its gigantic size, the magnolia surpasses all its rivals of the forest.

The following excellent description of the prairie country is from the pen of Mr.James Hall. ‘That these vast plains should be totally destitute of trees, seems to be an anomaly in the economy of nature. Upon the mind of an American, especially, accustomed to see new lands clothed with timber, and to associate the idea of damp and silent forests with that of a new country, the appearance of sunny plains, and a diversified landscape, untenanted by man, and unimproved by art, is singular and striking. Perhaps if our imaginations were divested of those associations, the subject would present less difficulty; and if we could reason abstractly, it might be as easy to account for the existence of a prairie as of a forest.

‘It is natural to suppose that the first covering of the earth would be composed of such plants as arrived at maturity in the shortest time. Annual plants would ripen, and scatter their seeds many times before trees and shrubs would acquire the power of reproducing their own species. In the mean time, the propagation of the latter would be likely to be retarded by a variety of accidents—the frosts would nip their tender stems in the winter—fire would consume, or the blasts would shatter them—and the wild grazing animals would bite them off, or tread them under foot; while many of their seeds, particularly such as assume the form of nuts or fruits, would be devoured by animals. The grasses, which are propagated both by the root and by seed, are exempt from the operation of almost all these casualties. Providence has, with unerring wisdom, fitted every production of nature to sustain itself against the accidents to which it is most exposed, and has given to those plants which constitute the food of animals, a remarkable tenacity of life; so that although bitten off, and trodden, and even burned, they still retain the vital principle. That trees have a similar power of self protection, if we may so express it, is evident from their present existence in a state of nature. We only assume that in the earliest state of being, the grasses would have the advantage over plants less hardy, and of slower growth; and that when both are struggling together for the possession of the soil, the former would at first gain the ascendancy; although the latter, in consequence of their superior size and strength, would finally, if they should ever get possession of any portion of the soil, entirely overshadow and destroy their humble rivals.

‘We have no means of determining at what period the fires began to sweep over these plains, because we know not when they began to be inhabited. It is quite possible they might have been occasionally fired by lightning, previous to the introduction of that element by human agency. At all events, it is very evident that as soon as fire began to be used in this country by its inhabitants, the annual burning of the prairies must have commenced. One of the peculiarities of this climate is the dryness of its summers and autumns. Adrought often commences in August, which, with the exception of a few showers towards the close of that month, continues throughout the season. The autumnal months are almost invariably clear, warm, and dry. The immense mass of vegetation with which this fertile soil loads itself during summer, is suddenly withered, and the whole surface of the earth is covered with combustible materials. This is especially true of the prairies where the grass grows to the height of from six to ten feet, and being entirely exposed to the sun and wind, dries with great rapidity. Asingle spark of fire, falling any where upon these plains at such a time, would instantly kindle a blaze, which would spread on every side, and continue its destructive course as long as it should find fuel. Travellers have described these fires as sweeping with a rapidity which renders it hazardous to fly before them. Such is not the case; or it is true only of a few rare instances. The flames often extend across a wide prairie, and advance in a long line. No sight can be more sublime than to behold in the night a stream of fire of several miles in breadth, advancing across these wide plains, leaving behind it a black cloud of smoke, and throwing before it a vivid glare which lights up the whole landscape with the brilliancy of noonday. Aroaring and cracking sound is heard like the rushing of a hurricane. The flame, which in general rises to the height of about twenty feet, is seen sinking and darting upwards in spires, precisely as the waves dash against each other, and as the spray flies up into the air; and the whole appearance is often that of a boiling and flaming sea, violently agitated. The progress of the fire is so slow, and the heat so great, that every combustible object in its course is consumed. Wo to the farmer whose ripe cornfields extend into the prairie, and who suffers the tall grass to grow in contact with his fences! The whole labor of the year is swept away in a few hours. But such accidents are comparatively unfrequent, as the preventive is simple, and easily applied.

‘It will be readily seen, that as soon as these fires commenced, all the young timber within their range must have been destroyed. The whole state of Illinois, being one vast plain, the fires kindled in different places, would sweep over the whole surface, with a few exceptions, of which we are now to speak. In the bottom-lands, and along the margins of streams, the grass and herbage remain green until late in the autumn, owing to the moisture of the soil. Here the fire would stop for want of fuel, and the shrubs would thus escape from year to year, and the outer bark acquire sufficient hardness to protect the inner and more vital parts of the tree. The margins of the streams would thus become fringed with thickets, which, by shading the ground, would destroy the grass, while it would prevent the moisture of the soil from being rapidly evaporated, so that even the fallen leaves would never become so thoroughly dry as the grass of the prairies, and the fire here would find comparatively little fuel. These thickets grow up into strips of forests, which continue to extend until they reach the high table-land of the prairie; and so true is this, in fact, that we see the timber now, not only covering all the bottom-lands and hill sides, skirting the streams, but wherever a ravine or hollow extends from the low grounds up into the plain, these are filled with young timber of more recent growth. But the moment we leave the level plane of the country, we see the evidences of a continual struggle between the forest and the prairie. At one place, where the fire has on some occasion burned with greater fierceness than usual, it has successfully assailed the edges of the forest, and made deep inroads; at another, the forest has pushed out long points or capes into the prairie.

‘It has been suggested that the prairies were caused by hurricanes, which had blown down the timber and left it in a condition to be consumed by fire, after it was dried by laying on the ground. Asingle glance at the immense region in which the prairie surface predominates, must refute this idea. Hurricanes are quite limited in their sphere of action. Although they sometimes extend for miles in length, their track is always narrow, and often but a few hundred yards in breadth. It is a well known fact, that wherever the timber has been thus prostrated, a dense and tangled thicket shoots up immediately, and, protected by the fallen trees, grows with uncommon vigor.

‘Some have imagined that our prairies have been lakes; but this hypothesis is not tenable. If the whole state of Illinois is imagined to have been one lake, it ought to be shown that it has a general concavity of surface. But so far from this being true, the contrary is the fact; the highest parts of the state are in its centre. If we suppose, as some assert, that each prairie was once a lake, we are met by the same objection; as a general rule, the prairies are highest in the middle, and have a gradual declivity towards the sides; and when we reach the timber, instead of finding banks corresponding with the shores of a lake, we almost invariably find valleys, ravines, and water-courses depressed considerably below the general level of the plain.

‘Wherever hills are found rising above the common plane of the country, they are clothed with timber; and the same fact is true of all broken lands. This fact affords additional evidence in support of our theory. Most of the land in such situations is poor; the grass would be short, and if burned at all, would occasion but little heat. In other spots, the progress of the fire would be checked by rocks and ravines; and in no case would there be that accumulation of dry material which is found on the fertile plain, nor that broad, unbroken surface, and free exposure, which are necessary to afford full scope to the devouring element.

‘By those who have never seen this region, a very tolerable idea may be formed of the manner in which the prairie and forest alternate, by drawing a colored line of irregular thickness, along the edges of all the water-courses laid down on the map. This border would generally vary from one to five or six miles, and often extend to twelve. As the streams approach each other, these borders would approach or come in contact; and all the intermediate spaces not thus colored would be prairie. It would be seen that in the point formed by the junction of the Ohio and Mississippi, the forest would cover all the ground; and that, as these rivers diverge, and their tributaries spread out, the prairies would predominate.’

Between the Platte river, and the head-waters of the Colorado and Sabine rivers, there is an extensive desert tract, which has been called the Great American Desert, stretching from the Ozark Mountains to the Chippewan. Over this desert the members of Long’s expedition travelled nearly a thousand miles. The intense reflection of light and heat, from this tract, added much to the fatigue and suffering of their journey. ‘We often met with extensive districts covered entirely with loose and fine sand, blown from the adjacent hills. In the low plains along the river where the soil is permanent, it is highly impregnated with saline substances, and too sterile to produce any thing except a few stinted carices and rushes. As we approached the mountains, we felt or fancied a very manifest change in the character of the weather, and the temperature of the air. Mornings and evenings were usually calm, and the heat more oppressive than in the middle of the day. Early in the forenoon, a light and refreshing breeze often sprung up, blowing from the west or south-west, which again subsided on the approach of night. This phenomenon was so often observed, that we were induced to attribute it to the operation of the same local cause, which in the neighborhood of the sea produces a diurnal change in the winds, which blow alternately to and from the shore. The Rocky Mountains may be considered as forming the shore of that sea of sand, which is traversed by the Platte, and extends northward to the Missouri above the great bend. The rarefaction of the air over this great plain, by the reverberation of the sun’s rays during the day, causes an ascending current, which is supplied by the rushing down of the condensed air from the mountains. * * * * For several days the sky had been clear, and in the morning we had observed an unusual degree of transparency in every part of the atmosphere. As the day advanced, and the heat of the sun began to be felt, such quantities of vapor were seen to ascend from every part of the plain, that all objects at a little distance appeared magnified, and variously distorted. An undulating and tremulous motion in ascending lines was manifest over every part of the surface. Commencing soon after sunrise it continued to increase in quantity until the afternoon, when it diminished gradually, keeping an even pace with the intensity of the sun’s heat. The density of the vapor was often such as to produce the perfect image of a pool of water in every valley upon which we could look down at an angle of about ten degrees. This aspect was several times seen so perfect and beautiful as to deceive almost every one of our party. Aherd of bisons, at the distance of a mile, seemed to be standing in a pool of water, and what appeared to us the reflected image was as distinctly seen as the animal itself.4 Illusions of this kind are common in the African and Asiatic deserts, as we learn from travellers and from the language of poets.’

The Pine Plains are a district of sandy alluvion, bounded by the gravelly soil of Guilderland and Duanesburgh on the south-west, and by the river alluvions of Niskayuna and Watervliet, on the north-east, and covering an area of about seventy square miles. This tract is included in a triangle formed by the junction of the Mohawk with the Hudson, and of which the Helleberg, a lofty chain of highlands, visible from the plains at the distance of twenty miles, forms the south-western boundary. Situated near the centre of a state, computed at forty thousand square miles, and containing a population of nearly two million souls, this tract presents the topographical novelty of an unreclaimed desert, in the heart of one of the oldest counties in the state, and in the midst of a people characterized for enterprise and public spirit. Several attempts have lately been made to bring this tract into cultivation, and from the success which has attended the introduction of gypsum, and other improved modes of agriculture, it is probable the whole will, at some future period, be devoted to the cultivation of the various species of grasses, fruit trees, and esculent roots; three branches of agriculture to which its sandy soil seems admirably adapted.