XXI
Denver. — The Union Station. — The Departing Trains. — The Beauty of Denver. — Dean Hart and the Cathedral. — The Funeral Service. — Seeing Denver.
It was quite late in the evening when we reached Denver; but late as it was, we could enjoy, for an hour or so, the handsome Union Station, and watch the trains, made up for their midnight start, east, west, north, and south. It is really a beautiful thing to see those various trains, awaiting their departure, side by side upon the tracks.
Their appointments are so splendid; the life exhibited so varied; and the lighted trains, the uniformed attendants, and the whole scene so interesting, that it is well worth observing. The quiet of the whole thing, too, is remarkable. It is all intensely busy, but almost noiseless and at rest. American force, ever quiet, is behind all. Off the trains go, as if by magic, just a little creeping, gentle motion at first; and then, the great steam monsters in front eat the ground, and in thunderous motion the long trains speed away, to their one, two, or even three thousand-mile destinations. How splendid it all is! To some, perhaps, a mere commonplace thing, but to me, ever a scene of deep interest, filled with human force, and freighted down with human cares, and hopes; with sorrows, too; and, let us hope, also, with many joys.
In the morning we could see how Denver looked by daylight. The little city is a beauty that need not fear the day. One gets such an agreeable impression of Denver from the very first. The great Union Station is attractive, and when one leaves it for home or hotel, one is greeted by a garden of living green, and by trees and shrubs in flourishing verdure. These gardens which greet one on emerging from the station, are like the beautiful initial letters one sees on old manuscripts, all glittering in gold and colors, inviting one to peruse and value the precious pages.
We had two lovely days in Denver, and our party scattered about at will. Some went to call on old friends, and cemented anew the ties which might rust, but could never break. Some went shopping, while others lounged in delicious idleness, without helm or oar, just drifting.
To visit Denver and not see Dean Hart at the Cathedral would be an irreparable loss. We called upon him, and found him, as he always is, genial, animated, and brimful of good humor and hospitality. Busy as he also always is, he yet found time to call at the "Lucania," and to tell more than one of his good stories.
Some of our party attended a missionary meeting of ladies, held in the Cathedral, and brought from thence impressions of earnest workers, of bright, telling speeches, and of much hospitable good cheer.
The Cathedral at Denver is a Romanesque structure, of quite stately proportions, with an effective interior; some very good stained glass; a choir screen of wrought iron, interesting in workmanship; and the whole place has a comfortable sumptuousness quite attractive. It is the intention to face the outside, some time or other, with native sandstone, and the interior also with some suitable material of more ornamental character.
I have a memory of a service held in that Cathedral, which in sad solemnity I have never seen surpassed.
It was the funeral of a gentleman who lost his life in the wild waters of the Grand Cañon of the Colorado. He was with a railroad surveying party; the boat he was in was upset, and the waters were so violent, that his body was instantly sucked down in the boiling depths, and never more was found.
His dear wife was in London, when the news reached her. At once she returned to Denver, and hoped that once more she would lay eyes on her beloved dead. But all in vain. No human hand could reach the depths, where all that was mortal of her love, was forever hidden.
In this sad condition of circumstances, it was determined to hold the funeral services, as if the body were present, to his wife and friends, as it was to God, Whose All-Seeing Eye beholds all depths.
The mourning group was met at the door of the church; the sentences were read as usual, proceeding up the aisle; the service went on in the accustomed manner, and the words of committal, "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes," were read, with the added awfulness of that body being we knew not where. The thrilling silence and tears of that congregation were almost painful as the words were uttered. Then came the final prayers, and, while we were yet on our knees, the organist, in deep, muffled tones, whispered out the Dead March in "Saul."
No one moved until all the strains of that sublime, yet simple wail of sorrow were ended; and then, all rose in silence, and remained standing until the mourning party had left the church.
It was such a funeral as few have ever seen with all its strangeness, and its pathos. I have never forgotten it.
Perhaps during our stay in Denver, our trip on the street-cars gave us most pleasure, and this, too, at little cost. On a sign at the Brown Palace Hotel we saw an inscription—"Seeing Denver, Twenty-Five Miles, Twenty-Five Cents." There was genius in that simple, fetching announcement. At the hour named for starting we got on board an electric car, and away we went. We were switched in all directions through the business part of Denver, by all the public buildings, round and round, and then away out to the suburbs. At one point we had a magnificent view of the mountains, with Pike's Peak, eighty miles away, snow-crowned, and plainly visible.
We had a magnificent ride, and it seemed even more than twenty-five miles. During it all we were accompanied by the proprietor of the enterprise, a keen-looking young fellow, who acted as guide, giving us his information, in a sort of languid manner, which made his witty sallies more witty still. His closing speech, in which he intimated that his sole and only motive for getting up this really convenient system of "seeing Denver" was for our special benefit, was irresistibly comic in its assumed seriousness. He deserved all he got from the trip, and we wished him the extensive patronage he deserves.
When we left Denver it was as if all the special novelties of the trip had come to an end, and the sooner home the better; such is the effect of satiety even in the luxurious travel we had been enjoying.
We left Denver, teeming as it is with interest, the Paris of the West; and night settled down upon us as we bore directly east from Pueblo.
XXII
Through Kansas. — Kansas City. — The Cattle Yards. — The Bluffs. — The Fight between the Merrimac and the Monitor.
Our homeward route took us through the southern part of Kansas. It was refreshing to see the vast, verdant plains which greeted us in the early morning light. It is a great and glorious land, and all day long we watched the farms, the houses, the villages, and the towns, as we journeyed onward, ever onward. The whole country was in richest green, resulting from the recent almost too profuse rains. But nothing in Kansas goes by halves. It is a drought or a deluge, a dead calm or a cyclone. How can it be otherwise! From the Rockies to the Alleghanies, it is all a vast, curving plain. The fluid air, in such a wide area, when influenced in any way, must be on a gigantic scale. A tilt of half an inch at one point, will be a mile in height, thousands of miles farther on. Such a proportion of oscillation tells.
One could but dream of coming empire and Western enterprise and power yet unthought of, while lounging about in our flying train, homeward, still homeward, every moment, over those vast plains. We had ample leisure for this delicious, idle dreaming. We looked on, as if we were denizens of another world, as we saw the bustle at passing stations, and the play of varied human interests which disported themselves before our magnificent heedlessness of it all. We were cut off, for the nonce, from all such care or thought, flying onward, filled with pleasure, to our Eastern home.
It was night when we made our first stop of any length. That was at Kansas City. We here crossed the "Big Muddy," or the Missouri River, swollen by the extraordinary rains, and looking more than ever like a tawny lion.
As we neared Kansas City we could see across the waters of the river to the other side, where myriads of cattle wandered like spectres, awaiting further immediate shipment east, or, the nearer end of the adjacent slaughter-houses. How sad it all seemed. The cattle, magnified by the intervening air, loomed up hugely across the brown waters of the river. They seemed like victims of destiny, conscious of their doom; and the sullen river, and the shades of the falling day, gave fitting color and setting to the melancholy picture.
I asked a lady by my side, "Do you see all those cattle?" "Yes," said she; "I cannot bear to look at them." Our thoughts were the same.
How fortunate it is for us that our poor, four-footed brethren cannot probe our motives as we fatten our flocks and herds, and tend them with tireless assiduity! The beasts do love us, perhaps, and think us good and kind, and their best friend. I wonder, as they face the knife or the mallet, at the sublime moment of the end, are they awakened at last to the true inwardness of their false friend, man!
All this great prairie journey was a pleasant contrast to the great deserts and mountains we had passed, since we flew down through Jersey, the Southern States, across Texas and Arizona, out to California and the Rockies with all their wonders.
Our stay in Kansas City was limited to a few hours, but in that time some of us ventured out on the streets, which were not very inviting, down on the bottom lands among the grime of the railroad tracks.
Kansas City lies, the best part of it, on high bluffs overlooking the great Missouri River, and its tributary, at this point, the Kaw. It is really a picturesque place, and capable of being beautified to any extent. The bluffs are quite precipitous, and on their shelving sides a number of squatters have settled, with their nondescript cabins and huts, giving a sort of rag-fair look to the general aspect of the town as seen as a whole. But the City Fathers have awakened to the fact, that those precipitous bluffs can be made highly ornamental, by green sod and trees and flowers. A great park plan has been projected for all those curving spaces, and ere long the city will be made unique and beautiful by those winding, aspiring, and splendid plantations, out of which the homes, the churches, and public buildings will rise as from a garden.
In our brief stay we called on our dear and old-time friend, the Rev. J. Stewart Smith, of St. Mary's, or, rather, I should say he called on us, for, having announced our coming by telegraph, he was there at the station to meet us.
It so happened that a day or two before he had written, for one of the local papers, his recollection of the great fight between the Merrimac and the Monitor in Hampton Roads in the year 1862.
How much has transpired since then!
In view of it all, and our Cuban War still on, all now happily over as I write, I thought that my dear friend's recollections would be of interest, as that of an eye-witness of that great first battle between armored ships.
Here is what he says:
"One of my earliest recollections is of the United States frigate, Merrimac, which anchored off Norfolk in 1855 before making her first voyage. Like most small boys, I was deeply interested in anything that would float, and when one of the officers took me on board and showed me everything to be seen, explaining, so far as was possible to make a child understand, the workings of a warship, I was perfectly happy. I asked many questions, and ever afterward I felt a peculiar interest—almost a sense of ownership—in that vessel."At the beginning of the war the Merrimac was again in Hampton Roads, undergoing repairs at the navy yard, just across the river from Norfolk. One Saturday night early in April, 1861, Norfolk was abandoned by the Federal forces. The next day the dry dock was blown up, the navy yard, all the smaller crafts, the Pennsylvania, perhaps the largest vessel in the service—too large, in fact, to be seaworthy, but which had been for years used as a training-ship at the port—and the Merrimac were set on fire."I can never forget the scene on that Sunday morning. Words cannot describe the excitement of the people. The harbor was dotted with burning vessels; the ear was startled by repeated explosions, and the whole scene was backed by a mass of roaring flame devouring shops, storehouses, and sheds about the navy yard."The fires were brightly burning when, with hundreds, I found myself on the ground, which was still hot, picking out nails from the touch-holes of the heavy guns hastily abandoned. Some were properly spiked, nails had been simply dropped into others, and many had not received even this attention. But the thing that interested me more than all else was the flames still licking the black sides of the huge Pennsylvania, and the graceful form of 'my ship,' the Merrimac, now burning to the water's edge."The Confederate Government was quick to take advantage of the situation. The navy yard was rebuilt, and the dry dock repaired. The plan of rebuilding the Merrimac was proposed, but was found impracticable on account of the expense, although her hull was almost uninjured. Lieutenant John Mercer Brooks and Joseph L. Porter then presented a plan for converting her into a floating battery, which was accepted. A high fence was built around the dock and the work began. Great secrecy was maintained, but I was able to gain admission two or three times, and to look with wondering eyes on the strange structure. The hull was cut down to the water-line, a low deck was built out at the bow and stern, heavy oak timbers were set up like the rafters of a house inclined at an angle of about 45 degrees, and these were covered with several thicknesses of railroad iron, which extended into the water. When finished, the vessel looked like a long, black roof with the top cut off so as to be flat. Around this ran a light iron rail, a wide funnel rose about the middle, and a low pyramidal structure pierced with small sight-holes served to protect the pilot. As I recall her, she carried two guns forward and three aft on each side, and one or two at both bow and stern. She had no mast, except a short one at the stern for the flag. The bow was pointed without curving, and an oak ram, protected by a heavy iron shoe, extended forward under water. Her name was changed to the Virginia, but every one spoke of her still as the Merrimac. One day it was announced that she was ready to go out, and the next that she was a failure. For weeks reports of the most conflicting character were in circulation, and no one could find out anything definite."The report of her failure had, however, generally been credited, when on Saturday morning, March 8, 1862, the news came that she was going out. It spread like wildfire, and soon every one in the city was wrought up to the highest pitch of excitement. Slowly she steamed down the river, looking like a floating shed, and with her went the Jamestown, the Patrick Henry, and several other vessels that made up the Confederate fleet. The town was wild; whistles blew, bells rang, guns were fired, people shouted, the air was full of flags and hats and cries. Every one who could do so hastened toward Sewell's Point to see the expected battle. Vehicles of every description were pressed into service, and those who could not ride set out to walk through the sand."The Congress and the Cumberland rode at anchor a few hundred yards from shore, and not far away the Minnesota and the Roanoke. These vessels were a part of the United States blockading fleet. As the Merrimac drew near, we on the shore could see the preparations making on the wooden ships to receive their strange foe. The guns of the Congress roared out, and those of the Cumberland joined in the chorus, but although fired at short range, their shot fell harmless from the iron sides of the Merrimac. The flash of cannon, and the exploding shells, were clearly seen when the smoke would lift."As if in disdain of the puny weapons turned against her, the ironclad went slowly on till she seemed to bury herself in the side of the Cumberland. She had rammed the big ship. The guns roared again and again, but without effect, and lurching forward, the Cumberland sank in fifty feet of water, her masthead, from which floated the flag, remaining visible above the waves."The Merrimac then turned her attack upon the Congress, and the other Confederate ships began to engage in the battle. The Congress soon ran aground and was practically helpless against the tremendous fire that was turned against her. About four o'clock her flag was hauled down, and she was boarded by a Confederate officer. Later she was discovered to be on fire in several places, and, her magazine exploding, she was destroyed. The Minnesota was next assailed. She also ran aground, and the Merrimac could not reach her, but the wooden fleet poured in shot and shell, inflicting serious damage. As night was now drawing on, the Confederate fleet withdrew, having carried everything before it."Early Sunday morning the Merrimac again turned seaward, evidently intending to attack the Minnesota. I hurried down to a point on the south side of the bay, from which I could get an unobstructed view of whatever might take place. The Monitor had arrived the night before. I had never seen the strange-looking craft, but the minute I laid eyes on it I knew what it was. Young as I was, I realized that I was about to witness the most remarkable naval battle that was ever fought up to that time—the first encounter between ironclads."The Merrimac was the pride of my heart. When I saw the Monitor I wondered what the result of the fight would be. With a glass in my hand I shivered with excitement as they approached each other. The two strangest vessels on the sea were face to face. A cheese-box on a plank, all painted black, not inaccurately describes the Monitor's appearance. She was much smaller and more active than the Confederate vessel, and carried only two guns, but these could be pointed in any direction by the revolving of her turret. Quickly they engaged, and the fight soon became furious."The guns on the Merrimac poured forth broadside after broadside. The shot and shells glanced off the turret of the Monitor and fell harmless into the water. In the same way, the heaviest shot from the Monitor's guns bounded off the slanting sides of the Merrimac, like foul balls from a player's bat. Sometimes it looked as if they were in actual contact. Even then the shells did no harm of any consequence to either vessel."The Minnesota joined in the conflict, and fired her broadside of fifty guns into the Merrimac. It seemed to me that every shot struck, but they all fell harmless from the invulnerable sides of the ironclad. The battle was waged with terrific rapidity of action. Now the two craft seemed joined together, now the Monitor would run around the Merrimac, as if trying to find a weak spot. The sound of the cannonading was deafening, even at my distance."The Merrimac presently withdrew. The crowd on the shore trembled and asked what the matter could be. Was she defeated? There was only a moment's suspense, but it seemed like an hour. The answer came soon. Suddenly swinging around, the Merrimac paused for a minute, then steamed with full head against the Monitor. The little 'cheese-box' staggered from the blow, but soon righted and continued firing, practically unharmed. When the Cumberland was rammed, the iron shoe that covered the Merrimac's ram was torn off, and so she had nothing but the oak foundation to oppose to the iron sides of the Monitor."This was about the last incident of the fight. Shortly afterward the two vessels drew apart, the smoke lifted, and neither of them showed any disposition to renew the battle. The Monitor headed toward Fortress Monroe, and the Merrimac steamed toward the Minneapolis, as if to continue the fight, but passed on without attacking her, and rested under the guns of the Confederate battery at Craney Island."Norfolk was evacuated by the Confederates two months later, the navy yard was burned, and many ships were destroyed. An effort was made to get the Merrimac to Richmond, but it was impossible to take her over the bar at the entrance of the James River. Just at daylight, Sunday morning, May 11th, we in Norfolk were awakened by an explosion whose meaning all quickly guessed. The Merrimac had been blown up by her commander, Josiah Tattnall, and so effectively destroyed that no fragments sufficient to reveal the details of her construction were ever recovered."The Monitor was lost in a storm off Cape Hatteras at midnight of December 31 of the same year (1862). The two ironclads, which in a single day had changed the face of war and revolutionized the navies of the world, thus found early graves."
"One of my earliest recollections is of the United States frigate, Merrimac, which anchored off Norfolk in 1855 before making her first voyage. Like most small boys, I was deeply interested in anything that would float, and when one of the officers took me on board and showed me everything to be seen, explaining, so far as was possible to make a child understand, the workings of a warship, I was perfectly happy. I asked many questions, and ever afterward I felt a peculiar interest—almost a sense of ownership—in that vessel.
"At the beginning of the war the Merrimac was again in Hampton Roads, undergoing repairs at the navy yard, just across the river from Norfolk. One Saturday night early in April, 1861, Norfolk was abandoned by the Federal forces. The next day the dry dock was blown up, the navy yard, all the smaller crafts, the Pennsylvania, perhaps the largest vessel in the service—too large, in fact, to be seaworthy, but which had been for years used as a training-ship at the port—and the Merrimac were set on fire.
"I can never forget the scene on that Sunday morning. Words cannot describe the excitement of the people. The harbor was dotted with burning vessels; the ear was startled by repeated explosions, and the whole scene was backed by a mass of roaring flame devouring shops, storehouses, and sheds about the navy yard.
"The fires were brightly burning when, with hundreds, I found myself on the ground, which was still hot, picking out nails from the touch-holes of the heavy guns hastily abandoned. Some were properly spiked, nails had been simply dropped into others, and many had not received even this attention. But the thing that interested me more than all else was the flames still licking the black sides of the huge Pennsylvania, and the graceful form of 'my ship,' the Merrimac, now burning to the water's edge.
"The Confederate Government was quick to take advantage of the situation. The navy yard was rebuilt, and the dry dock repaired. The plan of rebuilding the Merrimac was proposed, but was found impracticable on account of the expense, although her hull was almost uninjured. Lieutenant John Mercer Brooks and Joseph L. Porter then presented a plan for converting her into a floating battery, which was accepted. A high fence was built around the dock and the work began. Great secrecy was maintained, but I was able to gain admission two or three times, and to look with wondering eyes on the strange structure. The hull was cut down to the water-line, a low deck was built out at the bow and stern, heavy oak timbers were set up like the rafters of a house inclined at an angle of about 45 degrees, and these were covered with several thicknesses of railroad iron, which extended into the water. When finished, the vessel looked like a long, black roof with the top cut off so as to be flat. Around this ran a light iron rail, a wide funnel rose about the middle, and a low pyramidal structure pierced with small sight-holes served to protect the pilot. As I recall her, she carried two guns forward and three aft on each side, and one or two at both bow and stern. She had no mast, except a short one at the stern for the flag. The bow was pointed without curving, and an oak ram, protected by a heavy iron shoe, extended forward under water. Her name was changed to the Virginia, but every one spoke of her still as the Merrimac. One day it was announced that she was ready to go out, and the next that she was a failure. For weeks reports of the most conflicting character were in circulation, and no one could find out anything definite.
"The report of her failure had, however, generally been credited, when on Saturday morning, March 8, 1862, the news came that she was going out. It spread like wildfire, and soon every one in the city was wrought up to the highest pitch of excitement. Slowly she steamed down the river, looking like a floating shed, and with her went the Jamestown, the Patrick Henry, and several other vessels that made up the Confederate fleet. The town was wild; whistles blew, bells rang, guns were fired, people shouted, the air was full of flags and hats and cries. Every one who could do so hastened toward Sewell's Point to see the expected battle. Vehicles of every description were pressed into service, and those who could not ride set out to walk through the sand.
"The Congress and the Cumberland rode at anchor a few hundred yards from shore, and not far away the Minnesota and the Roanoke. These vessels were a part of the United States blockading fleet. As the Merrimac drew near, we on the shore could see the preparations making on the wooden ships to receive their strange foe. The guns of the Congress roared out, and those of the Cumberland joined in the chorus, but although fired at short range, their shot fell harmless from the iron sides of the Merrimac. The flash of cannon, and the exploding shells, were clearly seen when the smoke would lift.
"As if in disdain of the puny weapons turned against her, the ironclad went slowly on till she seemed to bury herself in the side of the Cumberland. She had rammed the big ship. The guns roared again and again, but without effect, and lurching forward, the Cumberland sank in fifty feet of water, her masthead, from which floated the flag, remaining visible above the waves.
"The Merrimac then turned her attack upon the Congress, and the other Confederate ships began to engage in the battle. The Congress soon ran aground and was practically helpless against the tremendous fire that was turned against her. About four o'clock her flag was hauled down, and she was boarded by a Confederate officer. Later she was discovered to be on fire in several places, and, her magazine exploding, she was destroyed. The Minnesota was next assailed. She also ran aground, and the Merrimac could not reach her, but the wooden fleet poured in shot and shell, inflicting serious damage. As night was now drawing on, the Confederate fleet withdrew, having carried everything before it.
"Early Sunday morning the Merrimac again turned seaward, evidently intending to attack the Minnesota. I hurried down to a point on the south side of the bay, from which I could get an unobstructed view of whatever might take place. The Monitor had arrived the night before. I had never seen the strange-looking craft, but the minute I laid eyes on it I knew what it was. Young as I was, I realized that I was about to witness the most remarkable naval battle that was ever fought up to that time—the first encounter between ironclads.
"The Merrimac was the pride of my heart. When I saw the Monitor I wondered what the result of the fight would be. With a glass in my hand I shivered with excitement as they approached each other. The two strangest vessels on the sea were face to face. A cheese-box on a plank, all painted black, not inaccurately describes the Monitor's appearance. She was much smaller and more active than the Confederate vessel, and carried only two guns, but these could be pointed in any direction by the revolving of her turret. Quickly they engaged, and the fight soon became furious.
"The guns on the Merrimac poured forth broadside after broadside. The shot and shells glanced off the turret of the Monitor and fell harmless into the water. In the same way, the heaviest shot from the Monitor's guns bounded off the slanting sides of the Merrimac, like foul balls from a player's bat. Sometimes it looked as if they were in actual contact. Even then the shells did no harm of any consequence to either vessel.
"The Minnesota joined in the conflict, and fired her broadside of fifty guns into the Merrimac. It seemed to me that every shot struck, but they all fell harmless from the invulnerable sides of the ironclad. The battle was waged with terrific rapidity of action. Now the two craft seemed joined together, now the Monitor would run around the Merrimac, as if trying to find a weak spot. The sound of the cannonading was deafening, even at my distance.
"The Merrimac presently withdrew. The crowd on the shore trembled and asked what the matter could be. Was she defeated? There was only a moment's suspense, but it seemed like an hour. The answer came soon. Suddenly swinging around, the Merrimac paused for a minute, then steamed with full head against the Monitor. The little 'cheese-box' staggered from the blow, but soon righted and continued firing, practically unharmed. When the Cumberland was rammed, the iron shoe that covered the Merrimac's ram was torn off, and so she had nothing but the oak foundation to oppose to the iron sides of the Monitor.
"This was about the last incident of the fight. Shortly afterward the two vessels drew apart, the smoke lifted, and neither of them showed any disposition to renew the battle. The Monitor headed toward Fortress Monroe, and the Merrimac steamed toward the Minneapolis, as if to continue the fight, but passed on without attacking her, and rested under the guns of the Confederate battery at Craney Island.
"Norfolk was evacuated by the Confederates two months later, the navy yard was burned, and many ships were destroyed. An effort was made to get the Merrimac to Richmond, but it was impossible to take her over the bar at the entrance of the James River. Just at daylight, Sunday morning, May 11th, we in Norfolk were awakened by an explosion whose meaning all quickly guessed. The Merrimac had been blown up by her commander, Josiah Tattnall, and so effectively destroyed that no fragments sufficient to reveal the details of her construction were ever recovered.
"The Monitor was lost in a storm off Cape Hatteras at midnight of December 31 of the same year (1862). The two ironclads, which in a single day had changed the face of war and revolutionized the navies of the world, thus found early graves."
XXIII
St. Louis. — Beautiful Residences. — Forest Park. — The Levee. — Alton. — Old Friends. — Legend of the Piasa. — The Confluence of the Rivers. — The Union Depot. — The Car of the International Correspondence Schools. — Crossing the Bridge.
We reached St. Louis in the early morning hour, after a pleasant night's rest on our good car "Lucania." The country approaching St. Louis looks rich and luxuriant, with fine trees, and well-established country places. The effect of an older culture was at once apparent, as we approached this great city of the West.
Our car anchorage was in the magnificent Union Station, a very large place, indeed, and excellently managed. Some of our party again took to the street cars, and in that democratic fashion, saw much of the town.
At a later period in the day, some of us had a lovely carriage ride through the best residential portion of the city.
We were more than surprised at the beautiful streets, lined with spacious palaces, each in its own separate grounds. To a New Yorker's eyes, this roominess of arrangement, was especially attractive. Charming effects were produced by beautiful gardens in the middle of certain secluded streets, with fountains and flowers, all kept in beautiful order. The private grounds around the separate houses were in like good shape. All looked sumptuous, and in the best possible taste.
To drive into one of these "Places" through the ornamental gates, and see the richness of the central parterre, the well-kept streets at each side, and the generous sidewalks and rich verdure surrounding the houses, was a new sensation. The general verdict was, that even in New York, there was nothing like that.
All this urban development is the work of the last fifteen or twenty years. Such communal and united display was not the custom of the early French settlers. They loved the enclosed privacy of their own grounds, as in New Orleans, but times have changed, and the dwellers in St. Louis have changed with them.
We drove also in Forest Park, a really beautiful place, with a spaciousness truly magnificent.
Our stay in St. Louis was barely a day. We took a glimpse at the river front, once a busy scene with its fleet of steamboats running from the northwestern wilds, by way of the Missouri and its tributaries, and down to the Gulf of Mexico, by way of the Mississippi. But the glory of the steamboating days is gone forever. The iron horse now does the greater part of the carrying trade, and great railroad bridges span the Father of Waters at several points, and more are coming.
I took a little independent trip from St. Louis by rail, to Alton, on the Illinois side. It just took three hours; one to get there, one there, and one to return.
It was many long years since I resided in Alton, and it was with a sort of fearfulness that I made the excursion. Would any one remember me? Were my friends yet living? And so on. I crossed the great railroad bridge over the Mississippi, and up on the east bank to Alton, which lies just above the confluence of the two great rivers. I passed through, on the Illinois side, what seemed a continuous series of manufacturing settlements, all emphasizing the vast development of industrial enterprises in the West.
On arriving at Alton, the changed aspect of all was most apparent. The river front—where in old times I had seen the steamboats line up, and watched their loading and unloading, picturesque by day or by night, but especially attractive when seen under the glare of torches, and enlivened by the songs of the negro hands—was now, almost, unused. The railroad tracks dominated everything, down to the water's edge.
I wandered off at random through the streets, until I came to the old familiar Alton Bank, which looked exactly the same. I entered to inquire after friends, and as the clerk was obligingly giving me information, I asked him if he knew a former clerk, Mr. W——, who was there years before. "Oh, yes," said he; "he is now our president." By this time a pleasant face looked fixedly at me, and, in a moment, an outstretched hand grasped mine, and my old friend was calling me by name, and we were once more young men again, when, in the old time, music was our bond of fellowship, and all that that involves.
While we were speaking—the bank president and myself—a lady, with her little girl, entered the office, and again my name was called. "I have been following you in the street," she said. "I knew it must be you, but I could scarcely believe my eyes." It was the daughter of a dear friend of years long gone, and her daughter was by her side.
How lovely it all seemed to be thus recognized, and to bind together afresh the ties of years that had fled!
But my hour in Alton was almost up. I could only look at the outside of the dear old church where I once worshipped. My friend of the bank brought me, to the train, as a little gift of remembrance, a book called "Poems of the Piasa," by Frank C. Riehl. It contained also a number of other kindred poems of Western life.
The Piasa was a dreadful, winged monster, which inhabited the banks of the Mississippi at Alton in ages past. A note in the volume I received might here be quoted. It is as follows:
"The region along the shores on both sides of the Mississippi, between the points of the confluence of the Illinois and Missouri rivers with the Father of Waters, is particularly rich in legendary stories concerning the life and habits of the powerful tribes of Indians who were the original owners of these fertile valley lands. Along the bluffs on the Illinois side are numberless burial places where the bones of thousands of 'the first Americans' repose, while the valleys and prairie-stretches for some distance back from the river, afford constant reminders of their presence and handiwork in the dim ages of the past."From the time of the earliest frontier expeditions, this locality has been conspicuous among the chronicles for the number and peculiar charm of the folk-lore stories handed down from one generation to another, and held in almost sacred reverence by the Indians. And, among these, dating from the famous expedition of Marquette, none is more striking and interesting than that of the Piasa Bird. That this was more than a mere myth is attested by the evidence of many early settlers, who got the story in minute detail from the Indians themselves; and by the painting that remained upon the face of the perpendicular bluffs within the present limits of the city of Alton, until quarried away just about the close of the first half of this century."
"The region along the shores on both sides of the Mississippi, between the points of the confluence of the Illinois and Missouri rivers with the Father of Waters, is particularly rich in legendary stories concerning the life and habits of the powerful tribes of Indians who were the original owners of these fertile valley lands. Along the bluffs on the Illinois side are numberless burial places where the bones of thousands of 'the first Americans' repose, while the valleys and prairie-stretches for some distance back from the river, afford constant reminders of their presence and handiwork in the dim ages of the past.
"From the time of the earliest frontier expeditions, this locality has been conspicuous among the chronicles for the number and peculiar charm of the folk-lore stories handed down from one generation to another, and held in almost sacred reverence by the Indians. And, among these, dating from the famous expedition of Marquette, none is more striking and interesting than that of the Piasa Bird. That this was more than a mere myth is attested by the evidence of many early settlers, who got the story in minute detail from the Indians themselves; and by the painting that remained upon the face of the perpendicular bluffs within the present limits of the city of Alton, until quarried away just about the close of the first half of this century."
The Indian legend referred to is of a fearful, winged monster, who swooped down upon his prey, making his aery on the great cliffs at Alton. The tribes were in deadly terror of this great creature, whose fearful power seized their bravest warriors, as well as their most beautiful maidens, in his deadly talons. At last, a chief, named Ouatoga, conceived the bold design to place himself in the way of the monster, a sacrifice for the safety of his race; while twelve of the best archers, should lie concealed near by, and slay the monster with their united arrows, as he rose in air with his prey. This, the legend says, was done, and a rude picture of the monster might be seen on the bluffs at Alton until recent times.
I cannot help thinking, however, that the story is, after all, a myth of the dreaded tornado so frequent in the West. I have a photograph of such a storm, taken in Iowa, and the huge, involving clouds, spread out like wings, and, the descending funnel or waterspout, reaching to the earth, destroying all it touches, exactly resembles a huge monster bird, in awful and sudden flight, devouring everything before it. The discharge of the arrows at the monster, thus killing it, may be a hint of the well-known fact, that any sudden impact upon a whirlwind, in its funnel-shaped motion, will destroy its vibrations and hence its progress. A rifle-shot, sent into a whirling dust pillar on the great plains, will reduce the dreadful thing at once to a clatter of falling dust and pebbles, and a dead heap of harmless stuff. So much for a theory anyway.
I returned to St. Louis by the Missouri side, having with me my lady friend and her little daughter. The route took us over the great bridges which span the two rivers just above their confluence. It was grand in its effect, to pass over two such great streams coming close together from their distant sources, soon to mingle in one mighty torrent, emptying itself more than a thousand miles away, into the Gulf of Mexico.
It was all a sort of enchanted excursion, waking up many memories of a past, so far removed from the present hour.
Our train brought us into the great Union Station, from which I had set out three hours before.
While in this splendid station I had the good fortune to have a long chat with the superintendent thereof. He tried to tell me, I should say, he did tell me, of its wonderful construction, its great extent, its complex machinery, its electrical appliances, its vast detail of business. I have only an impression of the sweet gentleness which so patiently explained all to me, and of the myriad ramifications which I could see, could but dimly understand, and vaguely remember. He has my thanks and grateful memory for his kindness.
We also saw in the St. Louis depot a thoroughly interesting American affair. It was an educational car, run by two or three bright young fellows, who quite captivated us by their intelligence and spirit. They were occupying a beautiful private car, fitted up as an office and a dwelling; and were travelling over the country in the interest of a great institution called "The International Correspondence Schools." It opened up before one a marvellous vista of business energy and splendid results. A circular, which we brought away with us, stated that instruction was given by this method in 42 courses, to some 40,000 students in 137 States and countries. The inside of the circular contained ten headings, and each heading had four lines of detailed information, looking like quatrains of poetry. I take at random one of them, as a sample, under the heading
SUPERIORITYStudents can be taught wherever the mails can go.Each student regulates his own hours of study.Written lessons qualify for written examinations.The method cultivates memory, brevity, accuracy and independence.
SUPERIORITY
Students can be taught wherever the mails can go.Each student regulates his own hours of study.Written lessons qualify for written examinations.The method cultivates memory, brevity, accuracy and independence.
It really did seem all like poetry, full of resplendent possibilities, to see the specimen books produced by the students; and, above all, it was poetical to see those young men in charge, so very young and yet so full of confidence, so intelligent, and so keen. They were at once at their ease with our party, and ere we left St. Louis, at ten o'clock at night, they visited us, and with mandolin music, and college songs, we wiled away a pleasant hour.
At ten o'clock we departed from St. Louis, passing through the tunnel, and out on the great bridge, from whence we looked at the mighty flood of the Father of Waters, far beneath us, reflecting in its turbid depths the lights of St. Louis, which were soon hidden from our sight, as we rolled out into the darkness, over the prairies of Illinois.
XXIV
Through Illinois, Indiana, Ohio. — Columbus. — The Beautiful Station. — Church Service. — Nearing Home. — Parting Thoughts. — Our Amusements. — To Ethel Asleep. — A Parting Wish. — Pilgrimages of Patriotism.
It was well on in Sunday morning when we reached our next stopping-place, Columbus, Ohio, where we stayed until Monday forenoon.
The morning light, as we journeyed on in the early hours, showed us the smiling country in its Sabbath rest. It was all such a contrast to the far West, and the Pacific Slope, and not an ungrateful one.
We were passing through Ohio, which, one might say, is no longer the West, but the centre of our land. It is a glorious country, rich, fertile, and prosperous-looking.
Columbus quite pleased us, by the evidences of its bustling activities and improvements; as well as by a certain old-fashioned dignity and state. It is the governmental seat of Ohio, and has some quite respectable public buildings, all done in the American-Greek-Classic style—rows of pillars, pediments, and all that—which, I confess, I like better than the strained effort after effect, seen in some more modern structures.
A new piece of architecture at Columbus, however, the beautiful railroad station, was charming. It is full of beauty, like a rich Italian palace, all warm with golden carvings, yellow marble walls, and mosaic pavements.
The interior effect of the waiting-rooms was exquisite, with the arched and coffered roof, and the graceful outlines of all.
On Sunday night we all attended church, where we heard a good sermon, and joined, with keen relish, in a fine choral service, rendered by a well-trained surpliced choir of men and boys. The leader of the choir evidently had a heart for the noble effects of Gregorian music, while not such a purist as to rule out all modern compositions. In this he was right. Gregorian music is like salt, really necessary as a healthful adjunct in church song, but too much of it is as bad as none at all.
It was toward evening when we reached Pittsburg, where we made but a short stay; and in the early morning hour we were once more at the Pennsylvania Depot in Jersey City, where we took reluctant leave of each other and our good car "Lucania."
Sleep had refreshed us, as we flew, all unconscious, through the splendid scenery of the Alleghanies. But what were such mountains to us now, who had seen the Rockies; and what was the Horseshoe Curve, compared to the daring engineering of Colorado railroads! Nothing. We were more than satisfied with all we had seen.
But before closing this scattering record of our "Flight in Spring," surely it will be well to look back, once more, at its pleasant hours, and sweet companionship.
In those six weeks of our trip, equal almost to a lifetime of contact, under ordinary circumstances, how well we got to know each other. Surely the more each knew of each, the more did trifling fault fade away, and clear goodness come out into pleasing prominence. Was it not so?
So that when we came to part at the station, it was with a regret for that parting, and a hope that friendships were cemented on our journey, which nothing ever could dissever.
Let us think, too, with gratitude of the unwearying attention given to our comfort by Mr. Payson, in whose charge were all the details of our transportation, involving so much of most serious importance, as well for our safety, as our comfort. How wonderful to think that our eight thousand miles of travel was all conducted like clockwork, with entire reliability, and precision, from point to point, across the continent and back again, without hitch or accident.
Then we must remember the Pullman employees, to whom the whole journey was but an episode, in lives of such journeys; and yet how enthusiastic and attentive they were, at all times.
And we must remember Delia and Charles, in their sphere of usefulness, ever ready and willing to carry out the hospitable intentions of our good host and hostess.
It is all over, our "Flight in Spring," with all its pleasant incidents. Some of the sweetest moments were, when we turned in upon ourselves for amusement and pleasure, at the evening hours, when formal sightseeing was over; or in those hours of travel, when the eyes refused to gaze longer on the flying landscape.
Then came the Nonsense Verses, and the Stories, and the Songs, and the Machine Poetry, and all the fun. Shall we not gather up some of those trifles, as worthy of preservation in our record? Yes, certainly we will.
We will first start out with the machine poetry. Rhymes were furnished, which were these dreadful collocations, "give, live, dove, love, merry, cherry, go, slow, tease, squeeze, muddle, fuddle." A hopeless list surely.
Dear Fred, who said he could not write poetry, evolved the following:
POEM BY FREDAnd when a pretty orange he did give,He thought it was too sweet to live,So he gave it to his doveTo ever sustain their love.One day when all was merry,He gave to her a cherry;And he said she should not go,For fear it would be slow.First he began to tease,Then he began to squeeze,Until there was a muddle—Soon afterwards a fuddle.
POEM BY FRED
POEM BY FRED
And when a pretty orange he did give,He thought it was too sweet to live,So he gave it to his doveTo ever sustain their love.
And when a pretty orange he did give,
He thought it was too sweet to live,
So he gave it to his dove
To ever sustain their love.
One day when all was merry,He gave to her a cherry;And he said she should not go,For fear it would be slow.
One day when all was merry,
He gave to her a cherry;
And he said she should not go,
For fear it would be slow.
First he began to tease,Then he began to squeeze,Until there was a muddle—Soon afterwards a fuddle.
First he began to tease,
Then he began to squeeze,
Until there was a muddle—
Soon afterwards a fuddle.
This realistic effort was received with rounds of applause. The next poetic effort on the procrustean rhymes was by Miss Hayden, as follows:
POEM BY MISS HAYDENOh, why should I give,Or expect me to live,When, you called me a dove,Yet you now cease to love?I once was so merry,My lips like a cherry,I wept when you'd go,And my heart beat so slow.Then at once you would tease,And kiss me, and squeeze,—But—my brain's in a muddle,And—you in a fuddle.
POEM BY MISS HAYDEN
POEM BY MISS HAYDEN
Oh, why should I give,Or expect me to live,When, you called me a dove,Yet you now cease to love?
Oh, why should I give,
Or expect me to live,
When, you called me a dove,
Yet you now cease to love?
I once was so merry,My lips like a cherry,I wept when you'd go,And my heart beat so slow.
I once was so merry,
My lips like a cherry,
I wept when you'd go,
And my heart beat so slow.
Then at once you would tease,And kiss me, and squeeze,—But—my brain's in a muddle,And—you in a fuddle.
Then at once you would tease,
And kiss me, and squeeze,—
But—my brain's in a muddle,
And—you in a fuddle.
This effort, too, was greeted with approbation, and its tenderness duly appreciated.
But the Nonsense Verses were the best fun. One would shout out a line, an additional line would come from some one else, and by the time the whole thing was complete, it would be hard to discriminate as to who was the author.
Here is one hurled at me:
There was a Canon named Knowles,Whose mission it was to save souls;When out on this trip,He said, "Let them rip,We'll save them all yet from the coals."
There was a Canon named Knowles,Whose mission it was to save souls;When out on this trip,He said, "Let them rip,We'll save them all yet from the coals."
There was a Canon named Knowles,
Whose mission it was to save souls;
When out on this trip,
He said, "Let them rip,
We'll save them all yet from the coals."
Some of our young ladies were deeply interested in the sailor boys at war, and for their benefit this nonsense had wing:
There was a young lady named Harding,Whose sweetheart, the nation was guarding.The rumor of war,Went to her heart's coreFor fear he'd be lost while bombarding.
There was a young lady named Harding,Whose sweetheart, the nation was guarding.The rumor of war,Went to her heart's coreFor fear he'd be lost while bombarding.
There was a young lady named Harding,
Whose sweetheart, the nation was guarding.
The rumor of war,
Went to her heart's core
For fear he'd be lost while bombarding.
These verses, too, have a maritime flavor:
There was a young lady of nerve,Who bet on the Naval Reserve.She got a flat capLike that of her chap,And said, "This our love will preserve."
There was a young lady of nerve,Who bet on the Naval Reserve.She got a flat capLike that of her chap,And said, "This our love will preserve."
There was a young lady of nerve,
Who bet on the Naval Reserve.
She got a flat cap
Like that of her chap,
And said, "This our love will preserve."
We had lots of others, and ever so many good stories, but it is time to end. This last must suffice for the Nonsense Verses:
There was a young ladyen route,Who wanted to go on a toot,So she jumped off the ca—ahWhen no one was ne—ah,And feasted on candy and fruit.
There was a young ladyen route,Who wanted to go on a toot,So she jumped off the ca—ahWhen no one was ne—ah,And feasted on candy and fruit.
There was a young ladyen route,
Who wanted to go on a toot,
So she jumped off the ca—ah
When no one was ne—ah,
And feasted on candy and fruit.
This was the favorite refrain of all, for its reckless suggestions, and the special intonations of its third and fourth lines. Its echoes would sound out in the most unexpected connections—
"So she jumped off the ca—ahWhen no one was ne—ah,"
"So she jumped off the ca—ahWhen no one was ne—ah,"
"So she jumped off the ca—ah
When no one was ne—ah,"
and then would come a merry peal of laughter.
Sometimes the laughter even, would cease, and, we were all so free and unaffected, that siestas were taken, quite unceremoniously, when silence would settle down upon our party.
In such a quiet interval, one of our fair sleepers inspired the following lines, as she lay at rest, on the couch in the dining-room. This is what the poet said:
TO ETHEL ASLEEP
Our car glides on with giddy speed,But Ethel feels no motion;Her soul and body take no heed,Wrapt still, in sleep's deep ocean.And as I gaze on her sweet face,So placid, true and tender;The wish for her I fain would traceIs this—May Heaven defend her!'Mid all the whirling cares of life,May peaceful rest come to her;And sleep, no matter what the strife,Be ever near to woo her.
Our car glides on with giddy speed,But Ethel feels no motion;Her soul and body take no heed,Wrapt still, in sleep's deep ocean.
Our car glides on with giddy speed,
But Ethel feels no motion;
Her soul and body take no heed,
Wrapt still, in sleep's deep ocean.
And as I gaze on her sweet face,So placid, true and tender;The wish for her I fain would traceIs this—May Heaven defend her!
And as I gaze on her sweet face,
So placid, true and tender;
The wish for her I fain would trace
Is this—May Heaven defend her!
'Mid all the whirling cares of life,May peaceful rest come to her;And sleep, no matter what the strife,Be ever near to woo her.
'Mid all the whirling cares of life,
May peaceful rest come to her;
And sleep, no matter what the strife,
Be ever near to woo her.
With some such wish as this for all of us, I would like to close the record of this "Flight in Spring."
When spring, and summer, and autumn, and winter, will for us have forever fled away, then may we all find comfort, after life's wanderings are over, in this restful thought, as our great journey shall end:
"He giveth His beloved sleep."
But other thoughts also come to me, as I recall the splendid advantages of such a trip as our "Flight in Spring." It was a revelation, to pass from ocean to ocean, over our own broad land. It filled one's soul with enthusiasm, as one thought of the opportunities, the responsibilities, the duties, and the prospects of our citizenship.
It made me long that such "Flights in Spring," or in any season, might be more widely enjoyed, so that many more might realize the immense splendor and power of our great land.
For such purposes I would wish that there were instituted "Pilgrimages of Patriotism," which would bring representative men, from ocean to ocean, from seashore to centre, and from centre to seashore, at stated and solemn periods; thus emphasizing the sense of national citizenship, and the splendid and indissoluble union of our States.
I have read that among the Zuñi Indians it was a sacred law that some of their tribe should, each year, pour the waters of the Pacific into those of the Atlantic. The task was accomplished, despite of all difficulties, arising from tribal contests, or opposing forces. It was a symbol of union, touching as it was simple, and might again be revived among us, to emphasize the glorious bond of citizenship in this our land; a bond, which we felt continually, through our eight thousand miles of travel, in our "Flight in Spring."
ITINERARY