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JUNCTION CITY, KANSAS, THREE MILES WEST OF FORT RILEY ,  June 20, 1866.

As I recrossed the Kaw in order to take the train to Topeka, I felt that my stay in Lawrence had been too short. The day was warm and cloudless, with a delightful prairie breeze, and the softly tinted dells beyond the Wakarusa invited excursions. The main street of the town began to swarm with farmers’ wagons, pouring in from the rich country to the south; the mechanics were at work upon new buildings in all directions; the vans of the windmill on the bluff were whirling merrily, and all sights and sounds spoke of cheerful occupation. Fortunately, the people of Lawrence do not expect their place to become "the greatest town in the West, sir! "— so they are tolerably sure of a steady and healthy growth for a good many years to come.

I reached Topeka—twenty-nine miles by rail—in an hour and a half. The road is laid along the Kaw bottoms, on a grade as nearly level as possible. The valley has an average breadth of five or six miles, and the uplands on the north and south terminate in a succession of bluff headlands, which, with a general family likeness in their formation, present a constantly changing variety of outlines. The lateral valleys repeat the features of the main valley, on a smaller scale. Sometimes the bluffs retreat so as to form a shelving semi-basin, or amphitheatre, a mile or two deep, — a grand concave slope of uniform green, set against the sky. At intervals of two or three miles the road crosses tributary streams of the Kaw, flowing in narrow, sunken beds, the sides of which are fringed with trees. The landscapes have a breadth and harmonious beauty, such as I know not where else to find in the United States, outside of California.

Indeed, there is much in Kansas to remind one of California. These hills, now so green, must be a golden brown in the autumn; the black soil takes or loses moisture with equal rapidity; the air has the same keen, bracing flavor of life; and there seems to be some resemblance in the meteorological conditions of the two countries. Certainly, next to California, this is the most attractive State I have yet seen.

The grain-fields along the Kaw bottom were superb. I have seen no corn so forward, no wheat so close and heavy-headed, this year. The farmers were taking advantage of the day to work their corn-fields, the most of which were in sore need of the operation. Rank as is the wild grass of this region, the imported weeds have a still ranker growth. Last year’s fields are completely hidden tinder crops of "horse-weed," every fence-corner has a grove of giant datura (Jamestown-weed), and the roads are lined with tall ranks of sunflowers. I saw no garden that was entirely clean, and, what struck me with more surprise, no attempt at an orchard. The beauty of the country lies in its natural features; cultivation, thus far, has not improved it.

Topeka, at present, is the end of passenger trains on the Pacific Railroad. In another week, however, they will run daily to Waumego, thirty-five miles further, or one hundred miles west of the Missouri River. We landed at a little Cluster of shanties, newly sprung up among the sand and thickets on the north bank of the Kaw. Here an omnibus Was in waiting, to convey us across the pontoon bridge—or rather two bridges, separated by a bushy island in the river. Beyond these the town commences, scattered over a gentle slope rising to the south for half a mile, when the land falls again toward a creek in the rear. I found comfortable quarters at the Capitol House. Mr. Greeley’s "vanishing scale of civilization" has been pushed much further west since his overland trip in 1859.

Topeka is a pleasant town (city?) of about 2500 inhabitants. The situation is perhaps not so striking as that of Lawrence, but it is very beautiful. Unfortunately, some parts of the place are destitute of water, which must now be hauled for the supply of families. There seemed to me to be a greater number of substantial private residences than in Lawrence. The building-stone — a buff-colored magnesian limestone, easily worked — appears to improve as we ascend the Kaw. It is found everywhere in the bluffs, and the handsomest buildings one sees are those constructed of it.

After calling upon Governor Crawford, and all the other State officers, — of whom I have to record that they are very amiable and pleasant gentlemen, — a friend treated me to a delightful drive into the adjacent country. Land, he informed me, is rapidly rising in value; a farm adjoining the city on the east has just been sold for two hundred dollars per acre. The high price of grain for several years past, and the present rise in real estate, have been of great benefit to Kansas, enabling both farmers and speculators to extricate themselves from their former embarrassments.

It rained heavily during the night, and in the morning the roads were changed from dust to mud. Nevertheless, as I had arranged to take the overland coach at this place, thus saving myself twenty-four hours of fatiguing travel, I engaged a livery team for Manhattan, fifty-five miles west of Topeka. But I would advise any stranger visiting Kansas to make himself independent of livery-stables, if possible. The prices are rather more than double what they are in California. From Topeka to this place, my expenses for livery teams have averaged half a dollar per mile!

Leaving Topeka at nine o’clock, with some promise of better weather, we crossed to the north bank of the Kaw, and after floundering for a mile or two among mud-holes in the timber, emerged upon the open, grassy level of the valley. The sun came out bright and warm; the bluff capes and sweeping hills glittered in the light, fading from pure emerald into softest violet; tufts of crimson phlox, white larkspur, spikes of lilac campanulae, and a golden-tinted aenothera flashed among the grass; and the lines and clumps of trees along the streams were as dark and rich as those of an English park. The landscapes were a continual feast to the eye, and each successive bend of the valley seemed to reveal a lovelier and more inspiring picture.

The larger streams we crossed — Soldier Creek and Cross Creek — did not issue from close ravines between the bluffs, as is usual in this formation, but each rejoiced in its broad rich belt of bottom-land, stretching away for miles to the northward. Most of these creeks are spanned by bridges, where a toll of from fifteen to twenty-five cents is charged. Their waters are clear and swift, and good mill-sites are already being selected. The advantages of the State, both in regard to wood and water, seem to me greater than has heretofore been represented.

After a drive of twenty-two miles, we reached a neat, whitewashed cabin, with the sign: "Hotel, A. P. Neddo." The landlord was a giant half-breed, remarkably handsome and remarkably heavy, familiarly known as "Big Aleck." He has four hundred acres of superb land, and is accounted wealthy. Big Aleck furnished us with a good dinner of ham, onions, radishes, and gooseberry-pie. Among the temporary guests was an Irish teamster, who had a great deal to say about Constantinople and the Sea of Azof.

Within four miles of Topeka commences the Pottawottamie Reservation, which extends westward along the Kaw for twenty or thirty miles. Many of the Indians are now

obtaining patents for their share of the land, in order to sell to emigrants, and in a few years, doubtless, the entire reservation will thus be disposed of. Here and there a wretched cabin and a field of ill-cultivated corn denotes the extent of Pottawottamie civilization. We met a number of Indians and squaws on horseback — one of the latter in a pink dress and wearing a round hat with upright feather, and her hair in a net. A little further, we came upon a mounted band of twenty or thirty, all drunk. My driver showed a little uneasiness, but they drew aside to let us pass, and a few hoots and howls were all the salutation we received.

St. Mary’s Mission is a village of a dozen houses, with a Catholic chapel, on this reservation. My eyes were here gladdened by the sight of a thriving peach orchard. The house and garden of the priest, in their neatness and evidence of care, offer a good model to the Protestant farmers in this part of Kansas, whose places, without exception, have a slovenly and untidy aspect.

We had a drive of fourteen miles from the Mission to the village of Louisville, on Rock Creek. The road swerved away from the river, occasionally running over the low bluffs, which gave me views of wonderful beauty both up and down the Kaw Valley. Every mile or two we passed wagon or mule trains, encamped near springs of water, their animals luxuriating on the interminable harvest of grass. I was amazed at the extent of the freight business across the Plains; yet I am told that it has somewhat fallen off this season. I have seen at least two thousand wagons between Lawrence and this place.

The view of Rock Creek Valley, before we descended to Louisville, was the finest I had had, up to that point. Even my driver, an old resident of Kansas, broke into an exclamation of delight. The village, at the outlet of the valley, had a tolerable future before it, until the railroad established the new town of Waumego, two and a half miles distant. In another week, the latter place will be the starting-point for the overland coaches, which will give it a temporary importance.

The bottom of Rock Creek is a bed of solid limestone, as smooth as a floor. Just above the crossing, a substantial dam has been built, which furnishes a good water-power. We did not stop here, but pushed on toward Manhattan, over the rolling hills to the north, whence we looked out upon grand distances, dark tinder the gathering clouds. By seven o’clock, the thunder drew nearer, and there was every indication of a violent storm. I therefore halted at Torrey’s, a farm where the Overland coach changes horses, and was no sooner housed than the rain came down in torrents. The cabin furnished plain fare, and a tolerable bed, although the storm, which raged all night, leaked in many places through the roof.

Rising this morning at five o’clock, I found no abatement of the rain. We were soon sodden and mud-splashed from head to foot. The road, however, on the uplands, was beaten hard, and we made such good progress that we were at Manhattan, eight miles, in time for breakfast. This town, of five hundred inhabitants, is situated at the junction of the Big Blue with the Kaw. North of it rises the Blue Mound, a bluff three hundred feet in height, whence the view is said to be magnificent. There are five churches in the little place, and a mile in the rear, on a ridge, is the State Agricultural College, which already has one hundred and thirty pupils. The houses are mostly built of the beautiful magnesian limestone (resembling the Roman travertine), which gives the place a very neat and substantial air. This was all I could notice in the interval between breakfast and the harnessing of a new team for this place. With a Manhattan merchant as guide, I set out again in the dismal storm, slowly making headway through the quagmires of the bottom-lands.

I remarked that the bluffs were higher as we advanced, the scenery more varied and picturesque, and, if possible, more beautiful. The wild-flowers grew in wonderful profusion and richness of color. I was surprised to see, at the foot of one of the bluffs, a splendid specimen of the yucca filamentosa, in flower. We crossed the Wild-Cat, a swift, clear stream, with magnificent timber on its bottoms, then Eureka Lake (a crooked slough dignified by that title), and after making ten very slow miles, reached Ogden, a German settlement, with a dozen houses, one brewery, and three beer-saloons. Here I saw one field of one hundred and twenty acres of superb corn, completely inclosed by a high stone wall.

More muddy bottom came, then low rolling hills, and in another hour we saw the buildings of Fort Riley, crowning a hill, two miles in advance. Before reaching the Fort, we passed the site of Pawnee, noted during Governor Reeder’s administration, in the early days of Kansas. Except two stone houses, the town has entirely disappeared. The Fort is charmingly situated, the sweep of bluffs around it being seamed with picturesque, wooded ravines which descend to the Republican Fork. No wonder it is a favorite military station. I should have enjoyed it more but for the discouraging rain and the interminable mud.

We crossed the Republican on a floating bridge, and drove through three miles more of mud to this place [Junction City], which occupies a rising ground at the base of the triangle formed by the Smoky Hill and the Republican Forks. It has four or five hundred inhabitants, a good hotel (the Eagle), and a handsome weekly newspaper, "The Junction City Union." Buildings — nearly all of stone — are going up rapidly, and trade is very brisk, in anticipation of the place soon being the temporary terminus of the Pacific Railroad. Passenger trains will reach Fort Riley by the first of August, and then a great part of the Overland business will no doubt be transacted here instead of at Leavenworth.

I must close, to catch the mail. The Denver coach has just come in. A through passenger, a fresh, rosy-cheeked boy, informs me that all is quiet along the route. To-morrow the coach I take will be here, and you will next hear of me from some station on "the Great American Desert."  NEXT