This
street was the glory of Buff-land, a young and thriving city on Lake
Erie, which already counted a population of over two hundred thousand
souls. The people of Clairfield, a rival town, denied that there was
anything like so many inhabitants, and added that "the less we say
about 'souls' the better." But this was pure malice; Buffland was a big
city. Its air was filled with the smoke and odors of vast and
successful trade, and its sky was reddened by night with the glare of
its furnaces, rising like the hot breath of some prostrate Titan,
conquered and bowed down by the pitiless cunning of men. Its people
were, as a rule, rich and honest, especially in this avenue of which I
have spoken. If you have ever met a Bufflander, you have heard of
Algonquin Avenue. He will stand in the Champs Elysees, when all the
vice and fashion of Europe are pouring down from the Place of the Star
in the refluent tide that flows from Boulogne Wood to Paris, and calmly
tell you that "Algonquin Avenue in the sleighing season can discount
this out of sight." Something is to be pardoned to the spirit of
liberty; and the avenue is certainly a fine one.
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