FOOTNOTES:[15]The poi is said to grow so abundantly and with so little labour in the Sandwich Islands, that it tends to encourage the natural indolence of the people. A taro pit no bigger than an ordinary drawing-room will keep a man in food a whole year. Nature is so prolific that labour is scarcely requisite in these hot climates. Thus the sun may be a great demoralizer.[16]I find in a Californian paper the following amusing account by Mr. Mathews himself, of his appearance before a Honolulu audience:—"At Honolulu, one of the loveliest little spots upon earth, I acted one night 'by command, and in the presence of his Majesty Kamehameha V., King of the Sandwich Islands' (not 'Hoky Poky Wonky Fong,' as erroneously reported), and a memorable night it was. On my way to the quaint little Hawaiian Theatre, situated in a rural lane, in the midst of a pretty garden, glowing with gaudy tropical flowers, and shaded by cocoa-trees, bananas, banyans, and tamarinds, I met the playbill of the evening. A perambulating Kanaka (or native black gentleman), walking between two boards (called in London, figuratively, 'a sandwich man,' but here, of course literally so), carried aloft a large illuminated white lantern, with the announcement in the Kanaka language to catch the attention of the coloured inhabitants: 'Charles Mathews; Keaka Keia Po (Theatre open this evening). Ka uku o Ke Komo ana (reserved seats, dress circle), $2.50; Nohi mua (Parquette), $1; Noho ho (Kanaka pit), 75c.' I found the theatre (to use the technical expression) 'crammed to suffocation,' which merely means 'very full,' though from the state of the thermometer on this occasion, 'suffocation' was not so incorrect a description as usual. A really elegant-looking audience (tickets 10s.each), evening dresses, uniforms of every cut and every country. 'Chieftesses' and ladies of every tinge, in dresses of every colour, flowers and jewels in profusion, satin playbills, fans going, windows and doors all open, an outside staircase leading straight into the dress circle, without lobby, check-taker, or money-taker. Kanaka women in the garden below selling bananas and pea-nuts by the glare of flaring torches on a sultry tropical moonlight night. The whole thing was like nothing but a midsummer-night's dream. And was it nothing to see a pit full of Kanakas, black, brown, and whitey-brown (till lately cannibals), showing their white teeth, grinning and enjoying 'Patterv.Clatter' as much as a few years ago they would have enjoyed the roasting of a missionary or the baking of a baby? It was certainly a page in one's life never to be forgotten."
[15]The poi is said to grow so abundantly and with so little labour in the Sandwich Islands, that it tends to encourage the natural indolence of the people. A taro pit no bigger than an ordinary drawing-room will keep a man in food a whole year. Nature is so prolific that labour is scarcely requisite in these hot climates. Thus the sun may be a great demoralizer.
[15]The poi is said to grow so abundantly and with so little labour in the Sandwich Islands, that it tends to encourage the natural indolence of the people. A taro pit no bigger than an ordinary drawing-room will keep a man in food a whole year. Nature is so prolific that labour is scarcely requisite in these hot climates. Thus the sun may be a great demoralizer.
[16]I find in a Californian paper the following amusing account by Mr. Mathews himself, of his appearance before a Honolulu audience:—"At Honolulu, one of the loveliest little spots upon earth, I acted one night 'by command, and in the presence of his Majesty Kamehameha V., King of the Sandwich Islands' (not 'Hoky Poky Wonky Fong,' as erroneously reported), and a memorable night it was. On my way to the quaint little Hawaiian Theatre, situated in a rural lane, in the midst of a pretty garden, glowing with gaudy tropical flowers, and shaded by cocoa-trees, bananas, banyans, and tamarinds, I met the playbill of the evening. A perambulating Kanaka (or native black gentleman), walking between two boards (called in London, figuratively, 'a sandwich man,' but here, of course literally so), carried aloft a large illuminated white lantern, with the announcement in the Kanaka language to catch the attention of the coloured inhabitants: 'Charles Mathews; Keaka Keia Po (Theatre open this evening). Ka uku o Ke Komo ana (reserved seats, dress circle), $2.50; Nohi mua (Parquette), $1; Noho ho (Kanaka pit), 75c.' I found the theatre (to use the technical expression) 'crammed to suffocation,' which merely means 'very full,' though from the state of the thermometer on this occasion, 'suffocation' was not so incorrect a description as usual. A really elegant-looking audience (tickets 10s.each), evening dresses, uniforms of every cut and every country. 'Chieftesses' and ladies of every tinge, in dresses of every colour, flowers and jewels in profusion, satin playbills, fans going, windows and doors all open, an outside staircase leading straight into the dress circle, without lobby, check-taker, or money-taker. Kanaka women in the garden below selling bananas and pea-nuts by the glare of flaring torches on a sultry tropical moonlight night. The whole thing was like nothing but a midsummer-night's dream. And was it nothing to see a pit full of Kanakas, black, brown, and whitey-brown (till lately cannibals), showing their white teeth, grinning and enjoying 'Patterv.Clatter' as much as a few years ago they would have enjoyed the roasting of a missionary or the baking of a baby? It was certainly a page in one's life never to be forgotten."
[16]I find in a Californian paper the following amusing account by Mr. Mathews himself, of his appearance before a Honolulu audience:—
"At Honolulu, one of the loveliest little spots upon earth, I acted one night 'by command, and in the presence of his Majesty Kamehameha V., King of the Sandwich Islands' (not 'Hoky Poky Wonky Fong,' as erroneously reported), and a memorable night it was. On my way to the quaint little Hawaiian Theatre, situated in a rural lane, in the midst of a pretty garden, glowing with gaudy tropical flowers, and shaded by cocoa-trees, bananas, banyans, and tamarinds, I met the playbill of the evening. A perambulating Kanaka (or native black gentleman), walking between two boards (called in London, figuratively, 'a sandwich man,' but here, of course literally so), carried aloft a large illuminated white lantern, with the announcement in the Kanaka language to catch the attention of the coloured inhabitants: 'Charles Mathews; Keaka Keia Po (Theatre open this evening). Ka uku o Ke Komo ana (reserved seats, dress circle), $2.50; Nohi mua (Parquette), $1; Noho ho (Kanaka pit), 75c.' I found the theatre (to use the technical expression) 'crammed to suffocation,' which merely means 'very full,' though from the state of the thermometer on this occasion, 'suffocation' was not so incorrect a description as usual. A really elegant-looking audience (tickets 10s.each), evening dresses, uniforms of every cut and every country. 'Chieftesses' and ladies of every tinge, in dresses of every colour, flowers and jewels in profusion, satin playbills, fans going, windows and doors all open, an outside staircase leading straight into the dress circle, without lobby, check-taker, or money-taker. Kanaka women in the garden below selling bananas and pea-nuts by the glare of flaring torches on a sultry tropical moonlight night. The whole thing was like nothing but a midsummer-night's dream. And was it nothing to see a pit full of Kanakas, black, brown, and whitey-brown (till lately cannibals), showing their white teeth, grinning and enjoying 'Patterv.Clatter' as much as a few years ago they would have enjoyed the roasting of a missionary or the baking of a baby? It was certainly a page in one's life never to be forgotten."
Departure from Honolulu—Wreck of the 'Saginaw'—The 'Moses Taylor'—The Accommodation—The Company on Board—Behaviour of the Ship—Death of a Passenger—Feelings on Landing in a New Place—Approach the Golden Gate—Close of the Pacific Log—First Sight of America.
The departure of the 'Moses Taylor' was evidently regarded as a great event at Honolulu. At the hour appointed for our sailing, a great crowd had assembled on the wharf. All the notabilities of the place seemed to be there. First and foremost was the King of the Sandwich Islands himself, Kamehameha V.—a jolly-looking, portly old fellow, standing about six feet high, and weighing over five-and-twenty stone—every inch and ounce a king. Then there were the chief ministers of his court, white, yellow, and dusky. There were also English, Americans, and Chinese, with a crowd of full-blooded Kanakas—all very orderly and admiring. And round the outskirts of the throng were several carriages filled with native ladies.
Punctually at half-past 4p.m., we got away from our moorings, with "three cheers for Honolulu," which were raised by a shipwrecked crew we had on board.Leaving the pier, we shortly passed through the opening in the reef which forms the entrance to the harbour, and steamed steadily eastward in the direction of San Francisco.
I must explain how it was that the "three cheers for Honolulu" were raised. The 'Saginaw' was an American war-ship that had been sent with a contract party to Midway Island in the North Pacific—some fifteen hundred miles west-north-west of the Sandwich Islands—to blast the coral-reef there, in order to provide a harbourage for the line of large steamers running between San Francisco and China. The money voted for the purpose by the Government having been spent, the 'Saginaw' was on its return voyage from the island, when the captain determined to call at Ocean Island to see if there were any shipwrecked crews there; but in a fog, the ship ran upon a coral-reef, and was itself wrecked. The men, to the number of ninety-three, contrived to reach the island, where they remained sixty-nine days, during which they lived mostly on seal meat and the few stores they had been able to save from their ship. The island itself is entirely barren, containing only a few bushes and a sort of dry grass, with millions of rats—supposed to have bred from rats landed from shipwrecked vessels. Strict military discipline was preserved by the officers, and the men as a body behaved remarkably well.
At length, no vessel appearing in sight, four of the sailors volunteered to row in an open boat to the SandwichIslands—more than a thousand miles distant—for the purpose of reporting the wreck of the ship, and sending relief to those on the island. The boat departed, reached the reef which surrounds Kauai, an island to the north-west of Oahu, and was there wrecked, only one of the men succeeding in reaching the shore. So soon as the intelligence of the wreck of the 'Saginaw' reached Honolulu, the Government immediately dispatched a steamer to take the men off the desert island; and hence the enthusiastic cheers for Honolulu, raised by the rescued officers and men of the American ship, who are now all on board the 'Moses Taylor,' on their way back to San Francisco.
I must now describe my new ship. She is called the 'Rolling Moses;' but with what justice I am as yet unable to say. She certainly looks singularly top-hampered,—altogether unlike any British ship that I have ever seen. She measures twice as much in the beam as the 'City of Melbourne;' is about 2000 tons register; is flat-bottomed, and draws about fourteen feet of water when laden. She looks like a great big house afloat, or rather a row of houses more than thirty feet high. The decks seemed piled one a-top of the other, quite promiscuously. First there is the dining-saloon, with cabins all round it; above is the drawing-room, with more cabins; then above that is the hurricane deck, with numerous deck-houses for the captain and officers; and then, towering above all, there is the large beam-engine right between the paddle-boxes. Altogether it looks a very unwieldy affair, andI would certainly much rather trust myself to such a ship as the 'City of Melbourne.' It strikes me that in a heavy sea, 'Moses's' hull would run some risk of parting company with the immense structure above.
The cabin accommodation is, however, greatly superior to that of my late ship,—there is so much more room, and the whole arrangements for the comfort of the passengers are all that could be desired. The Americans certainly do seem to understand comfort in travelling. The stewards and people about are civil and obliging, and don't seem to be always looking for a "tip," as is so customary on board an English boat. This ship also is cleaner than the one I have left—there are none of those hideous smells that so disgusted me on board 'The City.' The meals are better, and there is much greater variety—lots of different little dishes—of meat, stews, mashed potatoes, squashes, hominy or corn-cake, and such like. So far as the living goes, therefore, I think I shall get on very well on board the 'Moses Taylor.'
The weather is wet and what sailors call "dirty," and it grows sensibly colder. As there is no pleasure in remaining on deck, I keep for the most part below. I like my company very much—mostly consisting of the shipwrecked men of the 'Saginaw.' They are nice, lively fellows; they encourage me to talk, and we have many a hearty laugh together. Some of them give me no end of yarns about the late war, in which they were engaged; and they tell me (whether true or not, I have no means of knowing), that the captainof the ship we are in was first lieutenant of the "pirate" ship 'Florida.' I have not found amongst my companions as yet any of that self-assertion or pride of nationality said to distinguish the Yankee; nor have I heard a word from them of hostility to John Bull. Indeed, for the purpose of drawing them out, I began bragging a little about England, but they let me have my own way without contradiction. They say nothing about politics, or, if they allude to the subject, express very moderate opinions. Altogether, I get on with them; and like them very much.
The 'Moses Taylor' proves a steadier sea-boat than I expected from her built-up appearance. She certainly gives many a long steady roll; but there is little pitching or tossing. When the sea strikes her, she quivers all over in a rather uncomfortable way. She is rather an old ship; she formerly ran between Vancouver and San Francisco, and is certainly the worse for wear. The huge engine-shafts shake the beams which support them; the pieces of timber tremble under the heavy strokes of the engine, and considerable apertures open from time to time in the deck as she heaves to and fro. The weather, however, is not stormy; and the ship will doubtless carry us safely to the end of our voyage,—going steadily, as she does, at the rate of about eight knots an hour. And as the distance between Honolulu and the American coast is about 2100 miles, we shall probably make the voyage in about ten days.
On the eighth day after leaving Honolulu, an incident occurred which made a startling impression on me.While we were laughing and talking in the cabin—kept down there by the rain—we were told that a poor man, who had been ailing since we left port, had breathed his last. It seemed that he had some affection of the gullet which prevented his swallowing food. The surgeon on board did not possess the necessary instrument to enable him to introduce food into his stomach, so that he literally died of starvation. He occupied the berth exactly opposite mine, and though I knew he was ill, I had no idea that his end was so near. He himself; however, had been aware of it, and anxiously wished that he might survive until he reached San Francisco, where his wife was to meet him at the landing. But it was not to be; and his sudden decease gave us all a great shock.
We had our breakfast and dinner that day whilst the body was lying in the cabin. We heard the carpenter busy on the main deck knocking together a coffin for its reception. Every time he knocked a nail in, I thought of the poor dead fellow who lay beside us. I began to speculate as to the various feelings with which passengers land in a new place. Some are mere passing visitors like myself, bent on seeing novel sights; some are going thither, full of hope, to make a new settlement in life; some are returning home, expecting old friends waiting on the pier-head to meet and welcome them. But there are sad meetings, too; and here there will be an anxious wife waiting at the landing-place, only to receive the dead body of her husband.
But a truce to moralizing; for we are approaching the Golden Gate. I must now pack up my things, and finish my log. I have stuck to it at all hours and in all weathers; jotted down little bits from time to time in the intervals of sea-sickness, toothache, and tic douloureux; written under a burning tropical sun, and amidst the drizzle and down-pour of the North Pacific; but I have found pleasure in keeping it up, because I know that it will be read with pleasure by those for whom it is written, and it will serve to show that amidst all my wanderings, I have never forgotten the Old Folks at Home.
At half-past four on the morning of the tenth day from our leaving Honolulu, we sighted the lighthouse at the Golden Gate, which forms the entrance to the spacious bay or harbour of San Francisco. Suddenly, there is a great scampering about of the passengers, a general packing up of baggage; a brushing of boots, hats, and clothes; and a dressing up in shore-going "togs." The steward comes round to look after his perquisites, and every one is in a bustle about something or other.
I took a last rest in my bunk—for it was still early morning—until I was told that we were close along-shore; and then I jumped up, went on deck, and saw America for the first time.
Landing at San Francisco—The Golden City—The Streets—The Business Quarter—The Chinese Quarter—The Touters—Leave San Francisco—The Ferry-Boat to Oakland—The Bay of San Francisco—Landing on the Eastern Shore—American Railway Carriages—The Pullman's Cars—Sleeping Berths—Unsavoury Chinamen—The Country—City of Sacramento.
We have passed in from the Pacific through the Golden Gate, swung round towards the south, and then, along the eastern margin of the peninsula which runs up to form the bay, the City of San Francisco lies before me! A great mass of houses and warehouses, fronted by a long line of wharves, extends along the water's edge. Masses of houses, tipped with occasional towers and spires, rise up on the high ground behind, crowning the summits of Telegraph, Russian, and Clay Street Hills.
But we have little time to take note of the external features of the city, for we are already alongside the pier. Long before the gangways can be run out and laid between the ship and the wharf, there is a rush of hotel runners on board, calling out the names of their respective hotels and distributing their cards. Thereis a tremendous hurry-scurry. The touters make dashes at the baggage and carry it off, sometimes in different directions, each hoping to secure a customer for his hotel. Thus, in a very few minutes, the ship was cleared; all the passengers were bowling along towards their several destinations; and in a few minutes I found myself safely deposited in "The Brooklyn," a fine large hotel in Bush Street, situated in the business part of the town, with dwellings interspersed amongst the business houses.
It is not necessary to describe San Francisco. Travellers have done that over and over again. Indeed, there is not so much about it that is of any great interest except to business men. One part of the city is very like another. I was told that some of the finest buildings were of the Italian order; but I should say that by far the greater number were of the Ramshackle order. Although the first house in the place was only built in 1835, the streets nearest to the wharves look already old and worn out. They are for the most part of wood, and their paint is covered with dirt. But though prematurely old, they are by no means picturesque. Of course, in so large a place, with a population of 150,000, and already so rich and prosperous, though so young, there are many fine buildings and some fine streets. The hotels carry away the palm as yet,—the Grand Hotel at the corner of Market and New Montgomery Streets being the finest. There are also churches, theatres, hospitals, markets, and all the other appurtenances of a great city.
I had not for a long time seen such a bustle of traffic as presented itself in the streets of San Francisco. The whole place seemed to be alive. Foot passengers jostled each other; drays and waggons were rolling about; business men were clustered together in some streets, apparently "on change;" with all the accompaniments of noise, and bustle, and turmoil of a city full of life and traffic. The money brokers' shops are very numerous in the two finest streets—Montgomery and California Streets. Nearly every other shop there belongs to a money broker or money changer. Strange to see the piles of glistening gold in the windows—ten to twenty dollar pieces, and heaps of greenbacks.
John Chinaman is here, I see, in great force. There are said to be as many as 30,000 in the city and neighbourhood. I wonder these people do not breed a plague. I went through their quarter one evening, and was surprised and disgusted with what I saw. Chinese men and women of the lowest class were swarming in their narrow alleys. Looking down into small cellars, I saw from ten to fifteen men and women living in places which two white men would not sleep in. The adjoining streets smelt most abominably. The street I went through must be one of the worst; and I was afterwards told that it was "dangerous" to pass through it. I observed a large wooden screen at each end of it, as if for the purpose of shutting it off from the white people's quarter.
One of the nuisances we had to encounter in the streets was that of railway touters. No sooner did weemerge from the hotel door, than men lying in wait pounced upon us, offering tickets by this route, that route, and the other route to New York. I must have had a very "new chum" sort of look, for I was accosted no less than three times one evening by different touting gentlemen. One wished to know if I had come from Sydney, expressing his admiration of Australia generally. Another asked if I was "going East," offering to sell me a through ticket at a reduced price. The third also introduced the Sydney topic, telling me, by way of inducement to buy a ticket of him, that he had "worked there." I shook them all off, knowing them to be dangerous customers. I heard some strange stories of young fellows making friends with such strangers, and having drinks with them. The drink is drugged, and the Sydney swell, on his way to New York, finds himself next morning in the streets, minus purse, watch, and everything of value about him.
There is only one railway route as yet across the Rocky Mountains, by the Western, Central, and Union Pacific, as far as Omaha; but from that point there are various lines to New York, and it was to secure passengers by these respective routes that the touters were so busily at work. All the hotels, bars, and stores, are full of their advertisements:—"The Shortest Route to the East"—"Pullman's Palace Cars Run on this Line"—"The Route of all Nations"—"The Grand Route,viâNiagara," such are a few specimens of these urgent announcements. I decidedto select the routeviâChicago, Detroit, Niagara, and down the Hudson river to New York; and made my arrangements accordingly.
(Map of Atlantic and Pacific Railways) Reduced from a Map in Mr. Rae's(Map of Atlantic and Pacific Railways)Reduced from a Map in Mr. Rae's
I left San Francisco on the morning of the 8th of February. The weather was cold compared with that of the Sandwich Islands; yet there were few signs of winter. There was no snow on the ground; and at midday it was agreeable and comparatively mild. I knew, however, that as soon as we left the shores of the Pacific, and ascended the western slopes of the Rocky Mountains, if not before, we should encounter thorough winter weather, and I prepared myself with coats and wrappers as a defence from the cold.
My fellow-voyager from New Zealand, the German-American of whom I have spoken above, and who seemed to take quite a liking for me, accompanied me down to the wharf, where we parted with mutual regret. It was necessary for me to cross the bay by a ferry-boat to Oakland, where the train is made up andstarts for Sacramento. There was a considerable crowd round the baggage-office, where I gave up my trunks, and obtained, in exchange, two small brass checks which will enable me to reclaim them on the arrival of the train at Omaha. I proceeded down the pier and on to the ferry-boat. Indeed, I was on it before I was aware. It looked so like a part of the wharf, and was so surrounded by piles and wooden erections, that I did not know I was on its deck, and was inquiring about its arrival to take us off, when I found the huge boat gradually moving away from the pier!
'Westward by Rail.' Longmans. 1871.'Westward by Rail.'Longmans. 1871.
It was a regular American ferry-boat, of the same build fore and aft, capable of going alike backwards or forwards, and with a long bridge at each end, ready to be let down at the piers on either side of the bay, so as to enable carts or carriages to be driven directly on to the main deck, which was just like a large covered yard, standing level with the wharf. Over this was an upper deck with a nice saloon, where I observed noticesstuck up of "No spitting allowed;" showing that there was greater consideration for the ladies here than there was on board the 'Moses Taylor,' where spittle and quids were constantly shooting about the decks, with very little regard for passers-by, whether ladies or gentlemen.
Steaming away from the pier, we obtained a splendid view of the city behind us. The wharves along its front were crowded with shipping of all sorts; amongst which we could observe the huge American three-decker river steamers, Clyde-built clippers, brigs, schooners, and a multitude of smaller craft. Down the bay we see the green hills rising in the distance, fading away in the grey of the morning. Close on our left is a pretty island, about half-way across the bay, in the centre of which is a green hill,—what seemed to Australian eyes good pasture ground; and I could discern what I took to be a station or farmhouse.
In about an hour we found ourselves nearing the land on the eastern shore of the bay, where we observe the railway comes out to meet us. The water on this side is so shoal for a distance from the shore that no ships of any considerable burden can float in it, so that the railway is carried out on piles into the deep water for a distance of nearly a mile. Here we land, and get into the train waiting alongside; then the engine begins to snort, and we are away. As we move off from the waters of San Francisco Bay, I feel I have made another long stride on the road towards England.
We continue for some time rolling along the rathershaky timber pier on which the rails are laid. At last we reach the dry land, and speed through Oakland—a pretty town—rattling through the streets just like an omnibus or tramway car, ringing a bell to warn people of the approach of the cars. We stop at nearly every station, and the local traffic seems large. Farm land and nice rolling country stretches away on either side of the track.
From looking out of the carriage windows, I begin to take note of the carriage itself—a real American railway carriage. It is a long car with a passage down the middle. On each side of this passage are seats for two persons, facing the engine; but the backs being reversible, a party of four can sit as in an English carriage, face to face. At each end of the carriage is a stove, and a filter of iced water. The door at each end leads out on to a platform, enabling the conductor to walk through the train from one end to the other.
This arrangement for the conductor, by the way, is rather a nuisance. He comes round six or seven times during the twenty-four hours, often during the night, perhaps at a time when you are trying to snatch a few minutes' nap, and you find your shoulder tapped, and a bull's-eye turned full upon you, with a demand for "tickets." This, however, is to be avoided by affixing a little card in your hat, which the conductor gives you, so that by inspection he knows at once whether his passenger is legitimate or not.
I did not travel by one of "Pullman's Silver Palace Drawing-room Cars," though I examined them, andadmired their many comforts. By day they afford roomy accommodation, with ample space for walking about, or for playing at cards or chess on the tables provided for the purpose. At night a double row of comfortable-looking berths are made up, a curtain being drawn along the front to render them as private as may be, and leaving only a narrow passage along the centre of the car. At the end of the car are conveniences for washing, iced water, and the never-failing stove.
The use of the sleeping-cars costs about three or four dollars extra per night. I avoided this expense, and contrived a very good substitute in my second-class car. Fortunately we were not very full of passengers; and by making use of four seats, or two benches, turning one of the seat-backs round, and placing the seat-bottoms lengthwise, I arranged a tolerably good sleeping-place for the night. But had the carriage been full, and the occupants been under the necessity of sitting up during the six days the journey lasted, I should imagine that it must have become almost intolerable by the time we reached Omaha.
There were some rather unpleasant fellow-travellers in my compartment—several unsavoury Chinamen, smoking very bad tobacco; and other smoking gentlemen, who make the second-class compartments their rendezvous. But for the thorough draught we obtained from time to time on the passage of the conductor, the atmosphere would be, as indeed it often was, of a very disagreeable character.
About forty-two miles from San Francisco, I find we are already in amongst the hills of a range, and winding in and out through pretty valleys, where all available land is used for farming purposes. We round some curves that look almost impossible, and I begin to feel the oscillation of the carriages, by no means unlike the rolling of a ship at sea. I often wished that it had been summer instead of winter, that I might better have enjoyed the beauty of the scenery as we sped along. As it was, I could see that the country must be very fine under a summer sky. We have met with no snow at present, being still on the sunny slopes of the Pacific; nor have we as yet mounted up to any very high elevation.
We were not long in passing through the range of hills of which I have spoken, and then we emerged upon the plains, which continued until we reached Sacramento, the capital of the State. The only town of any importance that we have yet passed was Stockton, a place about midway between San Francisco and Sacramento, where we now are. Down by the riverside I see some large lumber-yards, indicative of a considerable timber trade. The wharves were dirty, as wharves generally are; but they were busy with traffic. The town seemed well laid out, in broad streets; the houses being built widely apart, each with its garden about it; while long lines of trees run along most of the streets. Prominent amongst the buildings is the large new Senate House or Capitol, a really grand feature of the city. The place havingbeen originally built of wood, it has been liable to conflagrations, which have more than once nearly destroyed it. Floods have also swept over the valley, and carried away large portions of the town; but having been rebuilt on piles ten feet above the original level, it is now believed to be secure against injury from this cause.
Sacramento is the terminus of the Western Pacific Railway, from which the Central Pacific extends east towards the Rocky Mountains. The railway workshops of the Company are located here, and occupy a large extent of ground. They are said to be very complete and commodious.
Many of the passengers by the train, whom we had brought on from San Francisco, or picked up along the road, descended here; and I was very glad to observe that amongst them were the Chinamen, who relieved us from their further most disagreeable odour. After a short stoppage, and rearrangement of the train, we were off again, toiling up the slopes of the Sierra Nevada—the Switzerland of California.
Rapid Ascent—The Trestle-Bridges—Mountain Prospects—"Placers"—Sunset—Cape Horn—Alta—The Sierras by Night—Contrast of Temperatures—The Snow-Sheds—The Summit—Reno—Breakfast at Humboldt—The Sage-Brush—Battle Mount—Shoshonie Indians—Ten Mile Cañon—Elko Station—Great American Desert—Arrival at Ogden.
We had now begun the ascent of the difficult mountain country that separates the Eastern from the Western States of the Union, and through which the Central Pacific Railway has been recently constructed and completed—one of the greatest railway works of our time. As we advance, the scenery changes rapidly. Instead of the flat and comparatively monotonous country we have for some time been passing through, we now cross deep gullies, climb up steep ascents, and traverse lovely valleys. Sometimes we seem to be enclosed in mountains with an impenetrable barrier before us. But rushing into a tunnel, we shortly emerge on the other side, to find ourselves steaming along the edge of a precipice.
What struck me very much was the apparent slimness of the trestle-bridges over which we were carriedacross the gullies, in the bottom of which mountain torrents were dashing, some fifty or a hundred feet below us. My first experience of such a crossing was quite startling. I was standing on the platform of the last car, looking back at the fast vanishing scene—a winding valley shut in by pine-clad mountains which we had for some time been ascending,—when, glancing down on the track, instead of solid earth, I saw the ground, through the open timbers of the trestle-bridge, at least sixty feet below me! The timber road was only the width of the single iron track; so that any one looking out of the side carriage-windows would see sixty feet down into space. The beams on which the trestle-bridge is supported, are, in some cases, rested on stone; but oftener they are not. It is not easy to describe the sensation first felt on rattling over one of these trembling viaducts, with a lovely view down some mountain gorge, and then, perhaps, suddenly plunging into a dark cutting on the other side of the trestle. But use is everything; and before long I got quite accustomed to the sensation of looking down through the open woodwork of the line on to broken ground and mountain torrents rushing a hundred feet or more below me.
We left Sacramento at 2p.m., and evening was coming on as we got into the mountains. Still, long before sunset we saw many traces of large "placers," where whole sides of the hills had been dug out and washed away in the search for gold; the water being brought over the hill-tops by various ingenious methods.Sometimes, too, we came upon signs of active mining, in the water-courses led across valleys at levels above us, consisting of wooden troughs supported on trestles similar to those we are so frequently crossing. In one place I saw a party of men busily at work along the mountain side, preparatory to letting the water in upon the auriferous ground they were exploring.
I stood for more than two hours on the platform at the rear of the train, never tired of watching the wonderful scenery that continually receded from my gaze,—sometimes the track suddenly disappearing as we rounded a curve; and then looking ahead, I would find that an entirely new prospect was opening into view.
Never shall I forget the lovely scene that evening, when the golden sun was setting far away on the Pacific coast. The great red orb sank slowly behind a low hill at the end of the valley which stretched away on our right far beneath us. The pine-trees shone red in the departing sunlight for a short time; then the warm, dusky glimmer gradually faded away on the horizon, and all was over. The scene now looked more dreary, the mountains more rugged, and everything more desolate than before.
Up we rushed, still ascending the mountain slopes, winding in and out—higher and higher—the mountains becoming more rugged and wild, and the country more broken and barren-looking. Crossing slowly another trestle-bridge seventy-five feet high, at the upper part of a valley, we rounded a sharp curve, and found ourselveson a lofty mountain-side along which the road is cut, with a deep glen lying 2500 feet below us wrapped in the shades of evening. It seems to be quite night down there, and the trees are so shrouded in gloom that I can scarcely discern them in the bottom of that awful chasm. I can only clearly see defined against the sky above me, the rugged masses of overhanging rock, black-looking and terrible.
I find, on inquiry, that this part of the road is called "Cape Horn," The bluffs at this point are so precipitous, that when the railroad was made, the workmen had to be lowered down the face of the rock by ropes and held on by men above, until they were enabled to blast for themselves a foot-hold on the side of the precipice. We have now ascended to a height of nearly 3200 feet above the level of the sea; and, as may be inferred, the night air grows sharp and cold. As little more can be seen for the present, I am under the necessity of taking shelter in the car.
At half-past six we stopped for tea at Alta, 207 miles from San Francisco, at an elevation of 3600 feet above the sea. Here I had a good meal for a dollar—the first since leaving 'Frisco. Had I known of the short stoppages and the distant refreshing places along the route, I would certainly have provided myself with a well-stored luncheon-basket before setting out; but it is now too late.
After a stoppage of twenty minutes, the big bell tolled, and we seated ourselves in the cars again; and away we went as before, still toiling up-hill. We arereally climbing now. I can hear it by the strong snorts of the engine, and see it by the steepness of the track. I long to be able to see around me, for we are passing some of the grandest scenery of the line. The stars are now shining brightly over head, and give light enough to show the patches of snow lying along the mountain-sides as we proceed. The snow becomes more continuous as we mount the ascent, until only the black rocks and pine-trees stand out in relief against their white background.
I was contrasting the sharp cold of this mountain region with the bright summer weather I had left behind me in Australia only a few weeks ago, and the much more stifling heat of Honolulu only some ten days since, when the engine gave one of its loud whistles, like the blast of a fog-horn, and we plunged into darkness. Looking through the car window, I observed that we were passing through a wooden framework—in fact a snow-shed, the roof sloping from the mountain-side, to carry safely over the track the snow and rockydébriswhich shoot down from above. I find there are miles upon miles of these snow-sheds along our route. At the Summit we pass through the longest, which is 1700 feet in length.
We reached the Summit at ten minutes to ten, having ascended 3400 feet in a distance of only thirty-six miles. We are now over 7000 feet above the level of the sea, travelling through a lofty mountain region. In the morning, I was on the warm shores of the Pacific; and now at night I am amidst the snows ofthe Sierras. After passing the Summit, we had some very tortuous travelling; going very fast during an hour, but winding in and out, as we did, following the contour of the hills, I found that we had only gained seven geographical miles in an hour. We then reached the "City" of Truckee, principally supported by lumbering. It is the last place in California, and we shall very soon be across the State boundary into the territory of Nevada.
After passing this station, I curled up on my bench, wrapped myself in my rugs, and had a snatch of sleep. I was wakened up by the stoppage of the train at the Reno station, when I shook myself up, and went out to have a look round me. As I alighted from the train, I had almost come to the ground through the slipperiness of the platform, which was coated with ice. It was a sharp frost, and the ground was covered with snow. At the end of the platform, the snow was piled up in a drift about twenty feet high on the top of a shed outside the station. I find there are two kinds of snow-sheds,—one sort used on the plains, with pointed roofs, from which the snow slides down on either side, thereby preventing the blocking of the line; the other, used along the mountain-sides, sloping over the track, so as to carry the snow-shoots clear over it down into the valley below.
I soon turned in again, wrapped myself up, and slept soundly for some hours. When I awoke, it was broad daylight; the sun was shining in at the car windows; and on looking out, I saw that we were crossing a broadplain, with mountains on either side of us. The conductor, coming through the car, informs us that we shall soon be at Humboldt, where there will be twenty minutes' stoppage for breakfast. I find that we are now 422 miles on our way, and that during the night we have crossed the great sage-covered Nevada Desert, on which so many travellers left their bones to bleach in the days of the overland journey to California, but which is now so rapidly and safely traversed by means of this railway. The train draws up at Humboldt at seven in the morning; and on descending, I find a large, well-appointed refreshment room, with the tables ready laid; and a tempting array of hot tea and coffee, bacon, steaks, eggs, and other eatables. "I guess" I had my full dollar's worth out of that Humboldt establishment—a "regular square meal," to quote the language of the conductor.
We mount again, and are off across the high plains. The sage-brush is the only vegetation to be seen, interspersed here and there with large beds of alkali, on which not even sage-brush will grow. The sage country extends from Wadsworth to Battle Mount Station, a distance of about two hundred miles. Only occasionally, by the river-sides, near the station, small patches of cultivated land are to be seen; but, generally speaking, the country is barren, and will ever remain so. We are still nearly 5000 feet above the level of the sea. There is no longer any snow on the ground alongside us, but the mountains within sight are all covered. Though the day is bright andsunshiny, and the inside of the car warm, with the stove always full of blazing wood or coke, the air outside is cold, sharp, and nipping.
At Battle Mount—so called because of a severe engagement which occurred here some years since between the Indians and the white settlers—the plains begin to narrow, and the mountains to close in again upon the track. Here I saw for the first time a number of Shoshonie Indians—the original natives of the country—their faces painted red, and their coarse black hair hanging down over their shoulders. Their squaws, who carried their papooses in shawls slung over their backs, came alongside the train to beg money from the passengers. The Indian men seemed to be of a very low type—not for a moment to be compared with the splendid Maoris of New Zealand. The only fine tribe of Indians left, are said to be the Sioux; and these are fast dying out. In the struggle of races for life, savages nowhere seem to have the slightest chance when they come in contact with what are called "civilized" men. If they are not destroyed by our diseases or our drink, they are by our weapons.
We are now running along the banks of the sluggish Humboldt river, up to almost its source in the mountains near the head of the Great Salt Lake. We cross the winding river from time to time on trestle-bridges; and soon we are in amongst the mountains again, penetrating a gorge, where the track is overhung by lofty bluffs; and climbing up the heights, we shortly leave the river, foaming in its bed, farbeneath us. Steeper and higher rise the sides of the gorge, until suddenly when we round a curve in the cañon, I see the Devil's Peak, a large jagged mass of dark-brown rock, which, rising perpendicularly, breaks up into many points, the highest towering majestically above us to a height of 1400 feet above the level of the track. This is what is called the "Ten Mile Cañon;" and the bold scenery continues until we emerge from the top of the gorge. At last we are in the open sunlight again, and shortly after we draw up at the Elko station.
We are now evidently drawing near a better peopled district than that we have lately passed through. Two heavy stage coaches are drawn up alongside the track, to take passengers to Hamilton and Treasure City in the White Pine silver-mining district, about 126 miles distant. A long team of mules stand laden with goods, destined for the diggers of the same district. Elko is "not much of a place," though I should not wonder if it is called a "City" here. It mostly consists of what in Victoria would be called shanties—huts built of wood and canvas—some of the larger of them being labelled "Saloon," "Eating-house," "Drug-store," "Paint-shop," and such like. If one might judge by the number of people thronging the drinking-houses, the place may be pronounced prosperous.
Our course now lies through valleys, which look more fertile, and are certainly much more pleasant to pass along than those dreary Nevada plains. The sungoes down on my second day in the train; as we are traversing a fine valley with rolling hills on either side. The ground again becomes thickly covered with snow, and I find we are again ascending a steepish grade, rising a thousand feet in a distance of about ninety miles, where we again reach a total altitude of 6180 feet above the sea.
At six next morning, I found we had reached Ogden in the territory of Utah. During the night we had passed "The Great American Desert," extending over an area of sixty square miles—an utterly blasted place—so that I missed nothing by passing over it wrapped in sleep and rugs. The country about Ogden is well-cultivated and pleasant looking. Ogden itself is a busy place, being the terminus of the Central Pacific Railroad, and the junction for trains running down to Salt Lake City. From this point the Union Pacific commences, and runs eastward as far as Omaha.
Start by Train For Omaha—My Fellow-Passengers—Passage through the Devil's Gate—Weber Cañon—Fantastic Rocks—"Thousand Mile Tree"—Echo Cañon—More Trestle-Bridges—Sunset amidst the Bluffs—A Wintry Night by Rail—Snow-Fences and Snow-Sheds—Laramie City—Red Buttes—The Summit at Sherman—Cheyenne City—The Western Prairie in Winter—Prairie Dog City—The Valley of the Platte—Grand Island—Cross the North Fork of the Platte—Arrival in Omaha.
I decided not to break the journey by visiting Utah—about which so much has already been written—but to go straight on to Omaha; and I accordingly took my place in the train about to start eastward. Here I encountered quite a new phase of American railroad society. One of my fellow-passengers was a quack doctor, who contemplated depositing himself in the first populous place he came to on the track-side, for the purpose of picking up some "'tarnal red cents." A colonel and a corporal in the American army were on their way home from some post in the Far West, where they had been to keep the Indians in order. There were several young commercial travellers, some lucky men returning from the silver-mines in Idaho, a steward of one of the Pacific mail steamersreturning to England, and an iron-moulder with his wife and child on their way to Chicago.
The train soon started, and for some miles we passed through a well-cultivated country, divided into fields and orchards, looking pretty even under the thick snow, and reminding me of the vales of Kent. But we very soon left the cultivated land behind us, and were again in amongst the mountain gorges. I got out on to the platform to look around me, and, though the piercing cold rather chilled my pleasure, I could not help enjoying the wonderful scenery that we passed through during the next three hours. We are now entering the Wahsatch Mountains by the grand chasm called the Devil's Gate. We cross a trestle-bridge fifty feet above the torrent which boils beneath; and through the black, frowning rocks that guard the pass, I catch the last glimpse of the open sunlit plain below.
We are now within the wild Weber Cañon, and the scene is changing every moment. On the right, we pass a most wonderful sight, the Devil's slide. Two ridges of grey rock stand some ten feet out from the snow and brushwood; and they run parallel to each other for about 150 feet, right away up the mountain side. For a distance of thirty-five miles we run along the dark, deep cleft, the rocks assuming all sorts of fantastic shapes; and the river Weber running almost immediately beneath us, fretting and raging against the obstacles in its course. Sometimes the valley widens out a little, but again to force us against a cliff,where the road has been hewn out of the solid bluff. In the cañon we pass a pine-tree standing close to the track, with a large board hung upon it bearing the words, "1000 miles from Omaha." It is hence named the "Thousand Mile Tree." We have all that long way before us to travel on this Union Pacific Railway.
At last we emerge from Weber Cañon, and pull up at Echo City, a small place, chiefly inhabited by railway employés. We start again, and are soon plunged amidst red, rocky bluffs, more fantastic than any we have yet passed. We pass the Mormon fortifications at a place where a precipitous rock overhangs the narrowing cañon. Here, on the top of the rock, a thousand feet above us, are piled huge stones, placed close to the brink of the precipice: once ready to be hurled down upon the foes of Mormonism—the army sent out against them in 1857. The stones were never used, and are to be seen there yet. The rocks in the cañon are of a different colour from those we passed an hour ago. The shapes that they take are wonderful. Now I could fancy that I saw a beautiful cathedral, with spires and windows; then a castle, battlements and bastions, all complete; and more than one amphitheatre fit for a Cæsar to have held his sports in. What could be more striking than these great ragged masses of red rock, thrown one upon another, and mounting up so high above us? Such fantastical and curious shapes the weather-worn stone had taken! Pillars, columns, domes, arches, followed one anotherin quick succession. Bounding a corner, a huge circle of rocks comes into sight, rising story upon story. There, perched upon the top of the rising ground, is a natural castle, complete with gateway and windows. Indeed, the hour passed quickly, in spite of the cold, and I felt myself to have been in fairyland for the time. The whole seemed to be some wild dream. But dream it could not be. There was the magnificence of the solid reality—pile upon pile of the solid rock frowning down upon me; great boulders thrown together by some giant force; perpendicular heights, time-worn and battered by the elements. All combined to produce in me a feeling of the utmost wonder and astonishment.
Emerging from Echo Cañon and the Castle Rocks, we enter a milder valley, where we crawl over a trestle-bridge 450 feet long and 75 feet high. Shortly after passing Wahsatch Station, we cross the Aspen Summit and reach an opener country. Since we left Ogden, we have, in a distance of ninety-three miles, climbed an ascent of 2500 feet, and are now in a region of frost and snow. After another hour's travelling, the character of the scenery again changes, and it becomes more rugged and broken. The line crosses the Bear River on another trestle-bridge 600 feet long; and following the valley, we then strike across the higher ground to the head of Ham's Fork, down which we descend, following the valley as far as Bryan or Black's Fork, 171 miles from Ogden.
As the day is drawing to a close, I take a last lookupon the scene outside before turning in for the night. The sun is setting in the west, illuminating with its last rays the red sandstone bluffs; the light contrasting with the deep-blue sky overhead, and presenting a most novel and beautiful effect. We are now traversing a rolling desert, sometimes whirling round a bluff in our rapid descent, or crossing a dry water-course on trestles, the features of the scenery every moment changing. Then I would catch a glimpse of the broken, rolling prairies in the distance, covered with snow; and anon we were rounding another precipitous bluff. The red of the sunlight grows dull against the blue sky, until night gradually wraps the scene in her mantle of grey. Then the moon comes out with her silvery light, and reveals new features of wondrous wildness and beauty. I stood for hours leaning on the rail of the car, gazing at the fascinating vision, and was only reminded by the growing coldness of the night that it was time to re-enter the car and prepare for my night's rest.
After warming myself by the stove, I arranged my extemporised couch between the seats as before, but was wakened up by the conductor, who took from me a cushion more than was my due; so I had to spend the rest of the night nodding on a box at the end of the car. However, even the longest and most comfortless night will come to an end; and when at last the morning broke, I went out to ascertain whereabouts we were. I found that it had snowed heavily during the night; and we now seemed to be in a much colder andmore desolate country. The wind felt dreadfully keen as I stood on the car platform and looked about; the dry snow whisking up from the track as the train rushed along. The fine particles somehow got inside the thickest comforter and wrapper, and penetrated everywhere. So light and fine were the particles that they seemed to be like thick hoar-frost blowing through the air.
We have, I observe, a snow-plough fixed on the front of the engine; and, from the look of the weather, it would appear as if we should have abundant use for it yet. Snow-fences and snow-sheds are numerous along the line we are traversing, for the purpose of preventing the cuts being drifted up by the snow. At first, I could not quite make out the nature of these fences, standing about ten yards from the track, and in some parts extending for miles. They are constructed of woodwork, and are so made as to be capable of being moved from place to place, according as the snow falls thick or is drifting. That is where the road is on a level, with perhaps an opening amidst the rolling hills on one side or the other; but when we pass through a cutting we are protected by a snow-shed, usually built of boards supported on poles.
At Laramie City, we stop for breakfast. The name of "City" is given to several little collections of houses along the line. I observe that the writer of the 'Trans-Continental Guide-book' goes almost into fits when describing the glories of these "Cities," which, when we come up to them, prove to be littlemore than so many clusters of sheds. I was not, therefore, prepared to expect much from the City of Laramie; and the more so as I knew that but a few years since the original Fort Laramie consisted of only a quadrangular enclosure inhabited by trappers, who had established it for trading purposes with the Indians. I was accordingly somewhat surprised to find that the modern Laramie had suddenly shot up into a place of some population and importance. The streets are broad and well laid out; the houses are numerous, and some of them large and substantial. The place is already provided with schools, hotels, banks, and a newspaper. The Railway Company have some good substantial shops here, built of stone; and they have also provided a very commodious hospital for the use of their employés when injured or sick—an example that might be followed with advantage in places of even greater importance.
After a stoppage of about half an hour, we were again careering up-hill past Fort Saunders and the Red Buttes, the latter so-called from the bold red sandstone bluffs, in some places a thousand feet high, which bound the track on our right. Then still up-hill to Harney, beyond which we cross Dale Creek Bridge—a wonderful structure, 650 feet long and 126 feet high, spanning the creek from bluff to bluff. Looking down through the interstices of the wooden road, what a distance the thread of water in the hollow seemed to be below us!
At Sherman, some two hours from Laramie, we arrived at the Summit of the Rocky Mountain ridge,where we reached the altitude of about 8400 feet above the sea-level. Of course it was very cold, hill and dale being covered with snow as far as the eye could reach. Now we rush rapidly down-hill, the brakes screwed tightly down, the cars whizzing round the curves, and making the snow fly past in clouds. We have now crossed the backbone of the continent, and are speeding on towards the settled and populous country in the East.
At Cheyenne, we have another stoppage for refreshment. This is one of the cities with which our guidebook writer falls into ecstasies. It is "The Magic City of the Plains"—a place of which it "requires neither a prophet nor the son of a prophet to enumerate its resources or predict its future!" Yet Cheyenne is already a place of importance, and likely to become still more so,—being situated at the junction with the line to Denver, which runs along the rich and lovely valley of the Colorado. Its population of 8000 seems very large for a place that so short a time ago was merely the haunt of Red Indians. Already it has manufactures, warehouses, wharves, and stores of considerable magnitude; with all the usual appurtenances of a place of traffic and business.
Before leaving Cheyenne, I invested in some hung buffalo steak for consumption at intervals between meals. It is rather tough and salt,—something like Hamburg beef; but seasoned with hunger, and with the appetite sharpened by the cold and frost of these high regions, the hung buffalo proved useful and nutritious.
For several hundred miles, our track lay across the prairie—monotonous, and comparatively uninteresting now, in its covering of white—but in early summer clad in lively green and carpeted with flowers. I read that this fine cultivable well-watered country extends seven hundred miles north and south, along the eastern base of the Rocky Mountains, with an average width of two hundred miles. It is said to be amongst the finest grazing land in the world, with pasturage for millions of cattle and sheep.
Shortly after passing Antelope Station, the track skirts the "Prairie Dog City," which I knew at once by its singular appearance. It consists of hundreds of little mounds of soil, raised about a foot and a half from the ground. There were, however, no dogs about at the time. The biting cold had doubtless sent them within doors. Indeed, I saw no wild animals on my journey across the continent, excepting only some black antelopes with white faces, that I saw on the plains near this Prairie Dog City.
For a distance of more than five hundred miles—from leaving Cheyenne until our arrival in Omaha—the railway held along the left bank of the Lodge Pole Creek, then along the South Fork or Platte river, and finally along the main Platte river down to near its junction with the Missouri. When I went to sleep on the night of the 11th of February—my fourth night in the railway train—we were travelling through the level prairie; and when I woke up on the following morning, I found we were on the prairie still.
At seven in the morning, we halted at the station of Grand Island—so called from the largest island in the Platte river, near at hand. Here I had breakfast, and a good wash in ice-cold water. Although the snow is heavier than ever, the climate seems already milder. Yet it is very different indeed from the sweltering heat of Honolulu only some twelve days ago. At about 10a.m., we bid adieu to the uninhabited prairie—though doubtless before many years are over, it will be covered with farms and homesteads—and approached the fringe of the settled country; patches of cultivated land and the log huts of the settlers beginning to show themselves here and there alongside the track.
Some eighty miles from Omaha, we cross the north fork of the Platte river over one of the usual long timber bridges on piles,—and continue to skirt the north bank of the Great Platte,—certainly a very remarkable river, being in some places three-quarters of a mile broad, with an average depth of only six inches! At length, on the afternoon of the fifth day, the engine gives a low whistle, and we find ourselves gliding into the station at Omaha.
Omaha Terminus—Cross the Missouri—Council Bluffs—The Forest—Cross the Mississippi—The Cultivated Prairie—The Farmsteads and Villages—Approach to Chicago—The City of Chicago—Enterprise of its Men—The Water Tunnels under Lake Michigan—Tunnels under the River Chicago—Union of Lake Michigan with the Mississippi—Description of the Streets and Buildings of Chicago—Pigs and Corn—The Avenue—Sleighing—Theatres and Churches.
I have not much to tell about Omaha, for I did not make any long stay in the place, being anxious to get on and finish my journey. It was now my fifth day in the train, having come a distance of 1912 miles from San Francisco; and I had still another twenty-four hours' travel before me to Chicago. There was nothing to detain me in Omaha. It is like all places suddenly made by railway, full of bustle and business, but by no means picturesque. How can it be? The city is only seventeen years old. Its principal buildings are manufactories, breweries, warehouses, and hotels.
Omaha has been made by the fact of its having been fixed upon as the terminus of the Union Pacific Railroad, and by its convenient position on the great Missouri river. It occupies a sloping upland on theright bank, about fifty feet above the level of the stream; and behind it stretches the great Prairie country we have just traversed. On the opposite bank of the Missouri stands Council Bluffs, from which various railroad lines diverge north, south, and east, to all parts of the Union. It is probable, therefore, that before many years have passed, big though Omaha may now be—and it already contains 20,000 inhabitants—the advantages of its position will tend greatly to swell its population, and perhaps to render it in course of time one of the biggest cities of the West.
(Map of Atlantic and Pacific Railways) Reduced from a Map in Mr. Rae's(Map of Atlantic and Pacific Railways)Reduced from a Map in Mr. Rae's
Having arranged to proceed onwards to Chicago by the North-Western line, I gave up my baggage in exchange for the usual check, and took my place in the train. We rolled down a steepish incline, on to the "mighty Missouri," which we crossed upon a bridge of boats. I should not have known that I was upon a deep and rapid river, but for the huge flat-bottomed boats that I saw lying frozen in along thebanks. It was easy to mistake the enormous breadth of ice for a wide field covered with snow. As we proceeded across we met numbers of sledges, coaches, and omnibuses driving over the ice along a track made in the deep snow not far from our bridge.
'Westward by Rail.' Longmans. 1871.'Westward by Rail.'Longmans. 1871.
After passing through Council Bluffs, we soon lost sight of the town and its suburbs, and were again in the country. But how different the prospect from the car window, compared with the bare and unsettled prairies which we had traversed for so many hundred miles west of Omaha! Now, thick woods extend on both sides of the track, with an occasional cleared space for a township, where we stop to take up and set down passengers. But I shall not proceed further with my description of winter scenery as viewed from a passing railway train. Indeed, I fear that my descriptions heretofore, though rapid, must be felt somewhat monotonous, for which I crave the reader's forgiveness.
I spent my fifth night in the train pretty comfortably, having contrived to makeup a tolerable berth. Shortly after I awoke, we crossed the Mississippi on a splendid bridge at Fulton. What a noble river it is! Here, where it must be fifteen hundred miles from its mouth, it seemed to me not less than a mile across. Like the Missouri, however, it is now completely frozen over and covered with thick snow.
We are again passing through a prairie country, the fertile land of upper Illinois, all well settled and cultivated. We pass a succession of fine farms and farmsteads. The fields are divided by rail fences; and in some places stalks of maize peep up through the snow. The pretty wooden houses are occasionally half hidden by the snow-laden trees amidst which they stand. These Illinois clusters of country-houses remind one very much of England, they look so snug and homelike; and they occupy a gently undulating country,—lovely, no doubt, in summer time. But the small towns we passed could never be mistaken for English. They are laid out quite regularly, each house with its little garden surrounding it; the broad streets being planted with avenues of trees.
The snow is lying very heavy on the ground; and there are drifts we pass through full twenty feet deep on either side the road. But the day is fine, the sky is clear and blue, the sun shines brightly, and the whole scene looks much more cheerful than the Rocky Mountain region in the west.
Very shortly, evidences appear of our approach toa considerable place. In fact, we are nearing Chicago. But long before we reach it, we pass a succession of pretty villas and country-houses, quite in the English suburban style, with gardens, shrubberies, and hothouses. These are the residences of the Chicago merchants. The houses become more numerous, and before long we are crossing streets and thoroughfares, the engine snorting slowly along, and the great bell ringing to warn all foot-passengers off the track.
What an immense smoky place we have entered: so different from the pure snow-white prairie country we have passed. It looks just like another Manchester. But I suspect we have as yet traversed only the manufacturing part of the city, as the only buildings heretofore visible are small dwelling-houses and manufactories. At length we pull up in the station, and find ourselves safely landed in Chicago.
Oh, the luxury of a good wash after a continuous journey of two thousand four hundred miles by rail! What a blessing cold water is, did we but know it. The luxury, also, of taking off one's clothes to sleep in a bed, after five nights' rolling about in railway cars,—that also is a thing to be enjoyed once in a lifetime! But, for the sake of the pleasure, I confess I have no particular desire to repeat the process.
And now for the wonders of Chicago. It is really a place worth going a long way to see. It exhibits the enterprise of the American people in its most striking light. Such immense blocks of buildings forming fine broad streets, such magnificent wharvesand warehouses, such splendid shops, such handsome churches, and such elegant public buildings! One can scarcely believe that all this has been the work of little more than thirty years.
It is true, the situation of Chicago at the head of Lake Michigan, with a great fertile country behind it, has done much for the place; but without themen, Chicago would have been nothing. It is human industry and energy that have made it what it is. Nothing seems too bold or difficult for the enterprise of Chicago men. One of their most daring but successful feats was in altering the foundation level of the city. It was found that the business quarter was laid too low—that it was damp, and could not be properly drained. It was determined to raise the whole quarter bodily from six to eight feet higher! And the extraordinary feat was accomplished with the help of screw-jacks, safely and satisfactorily.
With the growth of population—and its increase was most rapid (from 4000 persons in 1837 to about 350,000 at the present time)—the difficulty of obtaining pure water steadily increased. There was pure water enough in the lake outside, but along shore it was so polluted by the sewage that it could not be used with safety. Two methods were adopted to remedy this evil. One was, to make Artesian wells 700 feet deep, which yield about a million gallons of pure water per day; but another, and much bolder scheme, was undertaken, that of carrying a tunnel under the bed of the lake, two miles out, into perfectly pure water;and this work was successfully accomplished and completed on the 25th of March, 1867, when the water was let into the tunnel to flow through the pipes and quadrants of the city. Thus 57 million gallons of water per day could be supplied to the inhabitants.
Another important and daring work was that involved in carrying the traffic of the streets from one side of the Chicago river (which flows through the city) to the other, without the interference of bridges. This was accomplished by means of tunnels constructed beneath the bed of the river. The first tunnel was carried across from Washington Street to the other side some years since; it was arched with brick, floored with timber, and lighted with gas. The second, lower down the same river, was still in progress at the period of my visit to the city in March last, and is not yet completed. By means of these tunnels the traffic of the streets will be sufficiently accommodated, without any interruption by the traffic of the river,—large ships proceeding directly up to the wharves above to load and unload their cargoes.
But the boldest project of all remains to be mentioned. It is neither more nor less than the cutting down of the limestone ridge which intervenes between the head-waters of the River Chicago and those of the River Illinois, which flows into the Mississippi. The water supply being still found insufficient, the carrying out of a second tunnel into deep water under the bed of the lake was projected. It then occurred to the Chicago engineers that a more simple method wouldbe, instead of going out into the lake for the pure water, to make the pure water come to them. The sewage-laden stream of the Chicago river now flowed north into the lake; would it not be practicable, by cutting down the level inland, to make it flow south, and thus bring the pure water of the lake in an abundant stream past their very doors?
This scheme has actually been carried out! The work was in progress while I was there, and I observe that it has since been completed. The limestone plateau to the south of Chicago has been cut down at a cost of about three millions of dollars; and an abundant supply of pure water has thus been secured to the town for ever. But the cutting of this artificial river for the purpose of water supply has opened up another and a much larger question. It is, whether by sufficiently deepening the bed, a channel may not be formed for large ocean-going ships, so that Chicago may be placed in direct water communication with the Gulf of Mexico, as it now is with the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Should this project, which was freely spoken of when I was at Chicago, be carried out, it may lead to very important consequences. While it may have the effect of greatly promoting the prosperity of Chicago, it may also have an altogether different result. "The letting out of waters" is not always a safe thing; and the turning of the stream, or any considerable part of the stream which now passes over the falls of Niagara, into the bed of the Mississippi—whose swollen waters are sometimes found sufficientlyunmanageable as it is—might have a very extraordinary and even startling effect upon the low-lying regions at the mouth of that great river. But this is a point that must be left for geologists and engineers to speculate about and to settle.