PART II.

On board the "Cunardia"—Small troubles—The Romance of a rickety old chair—Arrival at New York—First acquaintance with katydids.

New York, Sept., 1885.

"In travelling by land," says Washington Irving, "there is a continuity of scene and a connected succession of persons and incidents that lessen the effect of absence and separation.... But a wide sea-voyage severs us at once. It makes us conscious of being cast loose from the secure anchorage of settled life, and sent adrift upon a doubtful world. It interposes a gulf not merely imaginary, but real, between us and ourhomes—a gulf subject to tempest and fear and uncertainty, rendering distance palpable, and return precarious!"

That is just what I felt and thought, but could not find words to express so eloquently, "as I saw the last blue line of my native land fade away like a cloud in the horizon." Notwithstanding the fact that the broad Atlantic is now bridged over by seven-days' steamers, and linked to its Eastern and Western shores by submarine cables, as it was not in the Knickerbocker days, the solution of continuity seemed to me as real when I saw the last bit of rock as ever it was in that bygone time.

If I were writing a book of travels I should perhaps be tempted to tell you of all our little adventures in crossing the Atlantic. We had many small troubles which at the time we thought large ones; but why should I record such every-day occurrences? There was a time when we would have given "a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground—long heath, brown furze, anything." We had quite enough of the rough to remind even the best of us that, when rolled andtossed in "the roaring forties," "we're all poor creeters"—and again, we had enough of the delightfully smooth to satisfy us that perhaps we are not such "poor creeters" after all. We reached New York only ten hours after the usual time.

One little story may be worth telling. On the fifth day out, when the westerly gale had partly subsided, but while the weather was still muggy and cold, I had been sitting on a rickety chair next to what seemed to be a bundle of rugs. When I got up, a gust of wind tilted the chair rather roughly against the bundle, and I then observed that it began to move. I immediately turned to apologize to this living and moving bundle. A pair of bright blue eyes peeped out, and a pleasant voice explained to me that my unmannerly chair had been no inconvenience at all. The bright eyes and pleasant voice were, as I soon found, the property of a charming young lady, with whom I had a long chat, and we soon became very good friends. Stress of weather had kept her a prisoner below, and this was her first appearance in the upper regions. I, as you know,am only an old "buffer," but my friend and travelling companion M. is a bright young spark, with a heart like a tinder-box, and when he came round and I had introduced him, he was at once smitten with the charms which had gradually unfolded themselves from the rugs. Soon afterwards my friend M. introduced (though I think with somewhat jealous misgivings) another young acquaintance; and this fine fellow at once fell a victim to the fascinations which had already fluttered M.'s susceptible heart.

It was amusing enough to such an old fellow as I to watch the antics of these young people. We supped together, and we paraded the deck. When we reached New York, our hotels being within a stone's throw of each other, we frequently met.

M., whose chivalry at least equalled his infatuation, suppressed his own ardour in favour of his friend's. They went to the theatre together, they supped at Delmonico's, and in two days the young and happy couple were engaged to be married. I don't think I shall betray any special confidence when Iadd that the young lady was on her way with her brother to her native home at the Antipodes, and that the successful smitten one was a wealthyrancheroof the Far West. When the happy secret was confided to me I gave them my paternal blessing and we all separated—he hastening off to his hunting grounds to sell his immense stock of cattle and sheep, and then to meet his youngfiancéeand her brother at San Francisco, thence to proceed together to Australia to settle affairs with "papa."

This little episode, probably not an uncommon one on board ship, though quite new to me, I will call "The Romance of a Rickety Old Chair."

The heat was so oppressive when we arrived at New York, that we were well pleased to accept the kind invitation of a friend to spend a night at his pleasant residence on the Sound.

Here it was that I first heard, and was gradually lulled to sleep by the incessant singing of little green katydids in the surrounding trees. What a curious monody their combined song makes! It varies thenote, as it seemed to me, to something like this:—

Katy-did, Katy-did, Katy-didn't,Katy-did, Katy-didn't, Katy-did,Katy-didn't, Katy-did, Katy-didn't.

Katy-did, Katy-did, Katy-didn't,

Katy-did, Katy-didn't, Katy-did,

Katy-didn't, Katy-did, Katy-didn't.

Such was the unchanging song of myriads of these little creatures for hours at a time; and to this was added the chirping of grasshoppers and locusts, and a perpetual accompaniment of the shrill little shriek of tree-toads.

The lovely autumn evening, a pleasant sail on the Sound, the green foliage of the trees, and these little insect-songs were refreshing to me after our rough and rolling experiences on the Atlantic.

Up the Hudson River—The Catskills—My first chipmunk—"The Rip Van Winkle"—"Sleepy Hollow"—The Mountain-House Hotel—Old Indian squaw-spirit—A snake in the grass—A painting by Holbein.

Catskill Mountains, Sept., 1885.

After a short time in New York, agreeably spent in spite of the heat, we started early one bright morning on the splendid river steamer "Albany" up the noble Hudson River. It is no part of my plan or my duty to describe the innumerable objects, historical and picturesque, which command this wonderful river. Why should I attempt to describe or even to mention points so fully and so well described elsewhere? All I aspire to record is the passing impression of whatevercomes under my own notice or interests me as a rapid traveller; it would be presumption to do more.

The chief object andultima Thuleof my wanderings is that little log shanty built by my boy thousands of miles away in the heart of the Rocky Mountains—but our plan is to take in our way as much of this great country as our limited time will permit.

The point we are now sailing for is "The Catskills," about 120 miles up the river from New York. Reaching the Catskill Station early in the afternoon, we took train for the foot of the mountains, a ride of about eight miles through a richly cultivated country: every object here, even the rocks and streams and fruit-laden apple-trees, seemed strange and new to me.

At the foot of the ascent, we were met by a stage-wagon drawn by a couple of stout horses; these had to drag us for three miles and a half up the steep mountain side.

The mountain is clad with thick foliage to the summit. The sun was shining hotly, but we were protected by a canopy formed of the green leaves of trees mostly new to me.Scattered freely among them were maples decked in manifold autumn tints, several kinds of birch, and oaks with leaves differing so much in shape from any English oaks I know, that I should not have called these young saplings oaks at all but for the unmistakable large acorns with which they were laden. Then, too, there were the mountain-ash with large chocolate cones, and the lovely sumach with red berries. The mingling of this variegated foliage made for me an indescribably pleasant scene.

What has much surprised and pleased me in this, the first American wood I have seen, is the fresh, bright, spring-like greenness of the leaves, at a time when in Old England leaves are becoming sere and brown, and are rapidly falling.

We had no sooner entered the wood than I saw sitting on a rail a pretty little animal of a kind unknown to me. It was the size of a small squirrel, but without the bushy upturned tail. I had but a glimpse as it darted away; it was brown on the back, with broad black diagonal stripes, and white throat and belly. The driver told me it wasa chipmunk—it may have had three inches of tail.

The road for some distance up was alive with katydids and locusts; but birds and other animals seem to be very scarce. I was told there are plenty of jack-rabbits and partridges in these woods, and occasionally a black bear is heard of.

"THE RIP VAN WINKLE."

Apart from the music of the katydids and grasshoppers there is perfect stillness; and one longs to hear the songs of birds in these pleasant places, but I never heard even "the occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker."

Halfway up the hill we came upon an old-fashionedlittle inn called "The Rip Van Winkle," and the stone on which Rip slept. His long sleep is regarded as a true and veritable piece of history about which there can be no question, for is not the rock still there to attest it?

Over the porch is a half-obliterated signboard representing Rip Van Winkle waking up, and underneath is the inscription,—

"O that flagon! that wicked flagon! what shall I say to Dame Winkle?"[2]

2.It should read "What excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle?"

Here it was that "from an opening between the trees" Rip "could overlook all the lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on in its silent but majestic course." Here it is that we look down through the foliage upon "Sleepy Hollow," at least I was told so by the communicative landlord; certainly the opening does reveal a deep wood-clad valley, which looks charming, though somnolent enough to meritthe title of "Sleepy Hollow;" nevertheless, Knickerbocker's "Sleepy Hollow" is certainly not here; it lies away down yonder "in the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, not far from the village of Tarrytown, in a little valley or rather lap of land among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world."

Some of us walked up the steep inclines to ease the horses, until we reached "The Mountain-House Hotel," a great place capable of holding five hundred people; but the season is over, and there are not more than thirty here now; the other hotels on the mountains are already closed. I will only say of this hostelry that it is kept in a very primitive style, and is certainly fifty years behind the age.

The view from the front, on the very edge of the cliff, looks over a semicircle of country extending for sixty miles in every direction, with the Hudson River winding like a silver streak through the very heart of it. This prospect, they tell me, is one of the most wonderful to be found in this wonderfulcountry, but owing to haze and mist it is rarely to be seen as we saw it.

We wandered through the woods and down by the lakes for miles, but we heard not a sound of bird or beast; the dead silence is almost appalling; not even the noisy little katydids get so far up the mountains.

These woods would be perfect if one could only say of them as Longfellow says of some of the American woods in autumn:

"The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up lifeWithin the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned,And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits downBy the wayside aweary. Through the treesThe golden robin moves. The purple finch,That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle,And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloudFrom cottage roofs the warbling bluebird sings."

"The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,

Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life

Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned,

And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,

Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down

By the wayside aweary. Through the trees

The golden robin moves. The purple finch,

That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,

A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle,

And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud

From cottage roofs the warbling bluebird sings."

The weather during our stay here has been perfect, the air bright and bracing; that old Indian squaw-spirit who is said to influence the weather on the "Catskills," "spreading sunshine or clouds over the landscape," was very good to us; she gave us nothing but brightsunshiny days and clear moonlight nights, a sure proof that we were welcome visitors, for it is said that when she is displeased she "would brew up clouds black as ink, sitting in the midst of them like a bottle-bellied spider in the midst of its web; and when these clouds broke, woe betide the valleys!"

We visited most of the points of interest within easy reach. There is a magnificent waterfall near the Laurel House, and many other sights which it did us good to see. The sunset one night was the most glorious I had ever beheld. "Real handsome," a Baltimorean enthusiast called it, and the full silver moon shining over the broad expanse was equally "handsome."

One morning, as I was walking along the cliff in front of the hotel, a snake nearly a yard long sprang out of the long grass under my feet, and flung itself right over the precipice; it came down flop on the hard rock thirty feet below, and then shot off into the bushes as if there was nothing the matter. The whole thing passed so rapidly that I could not distinctly note the colour of the reptile; but it seemed to be of a dark-brownishcolour. I wondered if that was its usual way of going home, or if it had made the leap by mistake.

A SNAKE FLUNG ITSELF OVER THE PRECIPICE.

That snake, the little chipmunk, katydids, and sparrows, were the only samples I saw of the natural history of "The Catskills;" but itmust be remembered that I only passed two days there. Even the idle Rip, however, could find but little sport for his vagabond gun, for he is said to have "trudged through woods and swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons." I was told by the landlord, who, proud of the grand position he holds as monarch of a sixty-miles' unrivalled panorama, must have told it scores of times before, that down yonder in the village of Catskill there resides a member of the Salisbury family, who possesses a family picture painted by Holbein which he regards as of priceless value. This good and loquacious old landlord is full of the history of the great valley and river in front of him, and if you have patience to listen he will tell you everything that ever happened from the time when Hendrich Hudson first discovered it to the present time.

Arrival at Saratoga—Season over—Hotel crowded with Deputies for nomination of a State Governor—Mugwump—Arrival at Niagara—The Falls at midnight and by moonlight—No letter from Frank.

Niagara Falls, Sept., 1885.

We left the "Catskills" on a Monday morning for Saratoga; but the glory of Saratoga had departed; the season was all but over; only a few stragglers of the flock of the summer birds of fashion remained, the others had already migrated southward. The shopkeepers were packing up their goods and shutting up their shops, and resident hibernators were preparing their winter quarters; but the great hotel was not empty. On thecontrary, we found it difficult to procure a night's lodging there. The house was crowded, but not with youth and beauty; there was no sound of music and of revelry, but there was a great clatter of the tongues of men—strong, healthy, earnest-looking men, who had come from every village in New York State to "vote their ticket." It was the time of convention for nomination of a Governor for the State.

It was pleasant to me to be afforded an opportunity of seeing such an assemblage of true American men in one hall. I presume that every man I saw in that great crowd was the chosen representative of his own village or parish or township or city; and I own I was agreeably surprised to observe that so very many of them bore such a strong family resemblance to the best of my own countrymen of the like class; the chief difference perhaps being one which I regard as favourable to the Americans, for they did not smoke so much as so many Englishmen would have done, and certainly they drank far less. Indeed, I noticed that many of them confined their drinks to iced water, or tea and coffee. There was verylittle spitting, and I am pretty sure there was no chewing. Their cheeks were bronzed and healthy, and they had the appearance of intelligent men, quite in earnest respecting the business they had come to do.

I fancy that the men assembled in this hotel were all bent on voting the Republican ticket, while the Democrats had met in other quarters. Here it was that for the first time I learnt the existence of a third party in the State which rejoices in the title of "Mugwump."

I have not been able to find this word in any American dictionary, but it seems to have become so thoroughly imbedded in the American language that you may be quite sure it will be found with its derivation and application fully described and probably illustrated in that grand new dictionary now being prepared by "The Century Company." My present information, however, only enables me to say that a "mugwump" is a man who has earned that appellation on account of his strict adherence to the dictates of his own conscience; he votes for principle, not for party. A "mugwump"is a man who, if he is a Republican, will vote for a good Democrat rather than for a bad Republican, and probably the converse holds good. Of course I repelled the idea that honesty was so rare amongst American politicians as to have led them to invent a new word to represent such an unusual phenomenon as an honest voter; there is, I am sure, a better reason to be found, and I commend the word to the notice of English politicians; the principle it represents may be valuable if largely applied during our own coming elections.

We took a rapid survey, by a drive round the park and the lake, and then went "aboard" the cars for Niagara.

We had a long cold ride through the night, and our hotel being on the Canadian side, we caught our first sight of the Falls under unusual circumstances; in fact, through the windows of a large omnibus occupied by ourselves alone, and driven slowly over the Suspension Bridge at two o'clock in the morning. The harvest moon, just at its full, but a little obscured by passing clouds and mists, was shining on the Falls, and, as the horses tramped slowly over the bridge, suspended several hundred feet above the dread waters, we came upon the scene quite unexpectedly: the sight was a stirring one, I assure you. On the bridge we could see the whole of the Falls at once, looking down upon them from our great height.

THE FALLS, FROM THE SUSPENSION BRIDGE.

The Falls looked at in this way, from a moving carriage suspended in the air, were somewhat dwarfed in height; of course we could get but a glimpse in passing in the night. We expected to have been stunned by the roar of the Falls, but our first surprise was at the awful silence; we could hear nothing but the tramp of the horses and the roll of the wheels as our carriage moved slowly along—all else was silent as the grave. Notwithstanding the moonlight, it was not clear enough to distinguish motion in the Falls above us or in the water far down beneath us. The great semicircular Horseshoe, as we passed along in front of it, looked as though a great white sheet had been thrown over its motionless face, and the foam andstir of the water below was fixed and immovable as in a painted picture.

No motion was to be discerned anywhere, the moonlight was too hazy. I assure you that was a weird and grand picture we saw last night; the Falls beheld dimly, indistinctly, and really through a glass darkly—and so we arrived at the Clifton House Hotel.

The next day arose, like every other we have yet seen on this American Continent, bright and beautiful. We had only one day to see everything, so we took a drive round.

I am not going to attempt a description or to rhapsodize over the Falls of Niagara—great authors have done so over and over again. Charles Dickens has moralized about them; Anthony Trollope has described them; William Black has painted their portraits in bright words—why should I attempt to describe them? To me these great waters seem to say, "Men may come and stare at us, and men may go, but we flow on irresistibly and for ever. We care nought for your staring, your admiration, your poetic fancies about us. We are matter-of-fact; stare as much as you please, but come not within our grip.Build your airy roads above us, span us over if you will, but know that death and destruction await him who dares to come within the proscribed limit of our rapids above or our whirlpools below. You may sail on our placid waters up yonder, your 'Maid of the Mist' may approach the outer circle of our Falls below, but come not within that circle, or we shall have you in a grip from which no power on earth shall save you." The scene, the picture, is indelibly impressed on my memory, and there it must remain. I will not spoil that picture by daring to paint it in feeble words.

We did what is usual in our limited time. We drove down to the Whirlpool, we crossed the suspension bridge, we wandered through Goat Island, we descended beneath the Horseshoe Falls to the utmost point allowed by the guide. We had our portraits taken in the subaquatic costume, but so hideously did they come out that we promptly suppressed them.

The people who live at the Falls are quite aware of it. Every individual regards them as his own property; even in the coldestweather dollars melt there like snow in summer's heat; so we were glad to get away from Niagara and its army of vampires.

Here at Niagara I fully expected letters from Frank. I have now been fourteen days in America, and he knows it, and yet not a line of welcome to these shores has he sent me. To-morrow we turn our faces to the West; surely at Chicago, which is 536 miles from hence, I shall get some news of him.

Start for Chicago—"The Michigan Central"—Arrival at Chicago—Still no letter from Frank—Start for St. Paul—St. Paul and Minneapolis—Commodore Kitson's stables—Falls of St. Anthony—"The Granary of the World"—Falls of Minnehaha—Telegram to Frank.

St. Paul, Minnesota, Oct., 1885.

On the morning of our start for the West we were aroused before five o'clock to catch a train which did not reach our station till 8.30.

The line over which we travelled to Chicago was "The Michigan Central," which runs along the north side of Lake Erie to Windsor; at this point the train is carried bodily across the Detroit river to Detroit on an enormous barge built for the purpose; fromthence we proceed to Chicago. Nothing befell us by the way, and I have only to remark about the railway that the carriages were very comfortable, or rather would have been so but for the stifling extent to which they were heated. The dining-car is well managed, and the food excellent. We reached Chicago at ten o'clock the same night, after a long, dusty, and very hot journey, through not particularly interesting scenery.

We have now got a thousand miles on our way to look after the youngranchero, but where is he? Why does he not write? I was growing anxious, for up to this time I had not received a line, and no letter awaited me here. I telegraphed to him, but no reply came. I wrote requesting that a telegram might meet me at St. Paul, over four hundred miles farther on our route.

We were most hospitably entertained by our friends, and after hurriedly driving round the points of interest in Chicago, we made another departure, still for the Far West. Here we take the Chicago and North Western Railroad for St. Paul. This iron road claims to be "the best and most perfectlyequipped railway in the world;" its luxuriantly furnished drawing-room coaches are marvels of beauty and comfort, and the dining-cars are superb; the meals and attendance are equal to what one might expect to find in any first-class hotel, and I can bear most willing testimony to the civility we met with from all the officials, from the chief passenger manager down to the road attendants.

We left Chicago at 9.55 p.m., and we reached St. Paul at 2.25 p.m. next day, a distance of 409 miles.

As regards time, I may mention that American railway companies deal very arbitrarily with the sun.[3]At Niagara he is bidden to stand still in the heavens for one hour, and is called Eastern time. Then he makes a sudden jump to Mandan, 476 miles west of St. Paul; over this space, viz., one hour, he is called Central time; then from Mandan to Heron (1,429 miles west of St. Paul), he makes another leap and is called Mountain time. From Heron to Portland on the Pacific he again recedes an hour, and iscalled Pacific time. This hop, skip, and jump across the American continent, in lieu of his usual steady mode of progression, is of course a very convenient arrangement for railways, and it appears to be universally accepted. I suppose he makes the same hourly jumps on the same longitudinal lines throughout the continent. It will thus be seen that the sun rises and sets four hours later at Portland than at New York.

3.See Appendix (page214) for Time Diagram.

St. Paul, the capital of Minnesota, is a very flourishing and beautiful city built on a series of terraces on the left or eastern bank of the great "Father of Waters," over which it commands magnificent views. The streets are paved with pine-logs, over which one travels in comfort that contrasts most favourably with the rough and clumsy paving-stones of New York. Minneapolis is situated ten miles further west, on the right bank of the Mississippi. In 1860 the combined population of the two cities was 16,000—to-day it exceeds 250,000. They are rapidly approaching each other, and the time is looked forward to when they will form one great metropolitan city. Within the last threeyears they have doubled their population. They are now called "The Twin Cities," though their commercial interests are not identical, and there is considerable rivalry between the two cities.

ST. PAUL.

We were driven out by a friend of M.'s, whom we met at the hotel, to a place called Midway Park, where Commodore Kitson keeps his celebrated trotters. Here we were shown the fastest trotters and pacers in the world. "Johnston," the "King of the Turf," was trotted out for our inspection. I am nojudge of horseflesh, though I tried to look as knowing as I possibly could. We were told that inpacing—which I think means trotting by advancing the two right legs together and then the two left legs, like the celebrated animal in Miss Thompson's "Roll Call"—he is the fastest horse in the world; to me, who am uninitiated, his trot looked like an awkward shamble; but he paces a mile in 2 min. 6¼ sec. Our attention was drawn to the large bumps on his forehead—a proof, his trainer said, of very unusual intellect. We were also shown "Little Brown Jug," "Fanny Witherspoon," and "Minnie R.," all well-known names in the sporting world. "Minnie R." it appears paced a mile in 2 min. 3½ sec. with "Firebrand" trotting alongside; this I presume is a great help.

These stables are admirably arranged. Each animal lives in a sort of little drawing-room, decorated with flags, pictures, and records of deeds accomplished. I much regretted my extreme ignorance with respect to these worldwide wonders, but I was careful not to betray it. There were many other horses pointed out to us, but I forget their names.I was told they were not to be matched in the wide world, and not one of them was worth less than 20,000 dollars—probably there was a little vain boasting in this. The same day I cut the following from a St. Paul paper:—

"The death of George Wilkes, the editor (of 'The Spirit of the Times'), and 'Goldsmith Maid,' the trotter, on the same day, may not be a very singular thing, after all, but a St. Paul horseman remarked yesterday that it was 'a queer coincidence that two such old and well-known sports should fly the track on the home stretch together.'"

I rather think the "Goldsmith Maid" had been a thorn in the side of the sanguine head-boss of the Kitson stables. I knew poor Wilkes well many years ago, not however in his capacity as sportsman, but as author of a work on Shakespeare, the main object of which, if my memory serves me, was to prove that the Swan of Avon was a "bloated aristocrat!"

We had not time to stay at Minneapolis, and could only catch a slight glimpse of its magnificent bridges and corn elevators as our train swept by.

Here, somewhere in the immediate neighbourhood of Minneapolis, are the celebrated Falls of St. Anthony, and also those of Minnehaha, which we would gladly have gone to see had time permitted. We were told, however, that their charms are not less practical than poetic.

The practical charms of Minneapolis, St. Anthony's Falls, and the surrounding country, are demonstrated in the following cutting from "Forest and Stream":—

"The Granary of the World.

"So it has been called, this northern land of lakes and forests and broad prairies. And the appellation is not altogether fanciful. Visit Minneapolis and inspect its flouring mills, inquire as to their number and the capacity of each, and you will find that the annual product of flour from this source is enough to supply the world with bread—for a while at least. These mills can turn out thirty thousand barrels of flour per day, when running on full time, and at this rate their product for a year would supply one-quarter of the population of the United States with the bread which they annually consume. It may be taken for granted that these mills have not been established here without some good reason. The great water-power of the Falls of St. Anthony is usually alleged as the cause of the growth of this tremendous industry, but that alonewould not be enough to have brought it into existence and to have raised it to its present proportions. The true cause is that the whole vast country from the Mississippi to the Rocky Mountains, all through Minnesota, Dakota, and Montana, is a wheat-producing country, all of the product of which is tributary to the city where these mills are located."

And was it not at the wonderful "Falls of Minnehaha" near by—

"That my Hiawatha haltedIn the land of the Dacotahs?Was it not to see the maiden,See the face of Laughing WaterPeeping from behind the curtain;Hear the rustling of her garmentsFrom behind the waving curtain,As one sees the MinnehahaGleaming, glancing through the branches—As one hears the Laughing WaterFrom behind its screen of branches?"

"That my Hiawatha halted

In the land of the Dacotahs?

Was it not to see the maiden,

See the face of Laughing Water

Peeping from behind the curtain;

Hear the rustling of her garments

From behind the waving curtain,

As one sees the Minnehaha

Gleaming, glancing through the branches—

As one hears the Laughing Water

From behind its screen of branches?"

We had now to travel by the Northern Pacific Railroad for 1,200 miles. Before beginning this long journey I was anxious to hear something of Frank, for no telegram or letter had even yet reached me. I am indebted to the general passenger manager at St. Paul, Mr. Chas. S. Fee, for his greatcourtesy in sending the following telegram, free of cost to me, to his own agent at Bozeman:—

FALLS OF MINNEHAHA.

"Mr. ——, of London, desires that his son, Frank M., whose post-office is Bozeman, shall meet him in Livingston next Wednesday, on arrival ofnumber one. He desires that he shall come equipped for a five days' trip in the Park. Drop this telegram in the post-office at once.—C. S. F."

Livingston is the station about twenty-five miles east of Bozeman, where we branch off southward for the Yellowstone National Park; and I thought surely this would stir the boy up, if alive and well. I need hardly say that my anxiety was increasing. My feverish desire now is to get on to Livingston, as quickly as possible, and my next letter will, I hope, be dated from Frank's abode.

The North Pacific Railway—Brainerd—Detroit—Massacre by Sioux—Indian Reservation—Fargo—Wheat-fields of Dakota—Bismarck—"Bad Lands"—The Rockies—Arrival at Livingston.

Frank's Ranche, Oct., 1885.

We took our departure from St. Paul in a Pullman Sleeping Car at 4 p.m., and found ourselves very comfortably placed; a fortunate circumstance, seeing that this car had to be our home for fifty-eight hours over 1,032 miles from St. Paul to Livingston, with no opportunity of even stretching our legs outside the train.

The North Pacific Railroad stretches across the great continent from Duluth at the head of Lake Superior, and from St. Paul, thecapital of Minnesota, to Portland, on the Pacific, a distance of nearly 2,000 miles.

DINING CAR.

Of its commercial success or the value of its shares in the market I know nothing, but as a simple traveller over more than 1,200 miles I can speak well of it; its track is all steel rail, and its road-bed solid. All its passenger trains are equipped with the Westinghouse air-brake, Miller platforms,and patent steel-tired car-wheels. Pullman palace drawing-room sleeping-cars of the newest and most improved pattern run between St. Paul and Portland; I would, however, caution passengers that it is desirable to secure berths in these beforehand at St. Paul, by applying to the conductor, who will telegraph to the ticket agents in advance. The dining-cars are also very luxurious in their appointments, and themenuall that can be desired. I may add that the charge for every meal is only seventy-five cents, whereas I have been charged a dollar on other lines, and at inconvenient roadside inns, for far inferior fare. The only complaint I have to make is that the cars are sometimes heated in a way which is almost unbearable, and if they could increase their speed, which averages seventeen miles an hour, it would be a boon to weary travellers who want to get on. One does not object to moderate progress through beautiful scenery, but seventeen miles an hour for hundreds of miles of prairie land becomes monotonous.

From St. Paul our route takes a northwesterly direction on the eastern side of theMississippi to Brainerd, where the railroad from Duluth joins our line. There we cross the Mississippi, and thenceforth our route is almost in a bee-line due west to the Pacific. On leaving Brainerd we pass through the Lake Park region, and for some distance the scenery is charmingly diversified by fine timber and lakes, on which may be seen flocks of wild ducks and larger water-fowl, sometimes a solitary prairie chicken, and here and there a well-fenced wheat farm with good buildings, and surrounded by many large ricks. In the neighbourhood of Detroit, Mic., is the White Earth Reservation of the Chippewa or Ojibway Indians, of whom there are 1,500 civilized and Christianized. It is only about twenty years ago that this country was devastated by the murderous Sioux, when more than 3,000 men, women, and children were most inhumanly butchered.

Now we reach Fargo, and are in the neighbourhood of the famous wheat-fields of Dakota.

MR. O. DALRYMPLE'S FARM.

"It is in this neighbourhood that those enormous farms are located which extend further than the eye can reach, and upon which in harvest time an army of labourers are employed. One of the largest of these belongs to a firm of which Mr. Oliver Dalrymple is the chief. They own about 75,000 acres, or 117 square miles."—Forest and Stream.

At Bismarck we crossed the Missouri river ("the big muddy," as it is called), over a splendid three-pier iron bridge. The view one gets of the upward reach of the river and its muddy banks is fine. The bridge has three spans of 400 feet each and two approach spans of 113 feet each; it is said to have cost a million dollars. The Missouri is here 3,500 miles from the Gulf of Mexico, and 2,800 feet wide, being still navigable for 2,000 miles further to the north.

At Mandan we come upon Mountain time, that is, we lose an hour since leaving Niagara. We reached Mandan at 12.50, and started at 12.10 by the time-table, having remained there twenty minutes. We are now approaching Pyramid Park, the celebrated "Bad Lands," but our train is two hours behind time, so we shall not see them by daylight, and in fact I failed to see them at all.

BRIDGE ACROSS THE MISSOURI AT BISMARCK.

When I arose on the following morning at six o'clock we found ourselves travelling along

"That desolate land and lone,Where the Big Horn and YellowstoneRoar down their mountain path."

"That desolate land and lone,

Where the Big Horn and Yellowstone

Roar down their mountain path."

We had passed Bad Lands in the night. I cannot pretend to describe what I did not see, but I am told that this extraordinary bit of country is in itself worth coming from England to see; there is nothing else in the world like it. One writer tells me that "it owes its singular appearance to the combined action of fuel and water, which have assisted to produce the most fantastic forms and startling contrasts of colours that the most disordered imagination could conceive."

"BAD LANDS."

Mr. E. V. Smalley thus describes it:—

"The change in the scene is so startling, and the appearance of the landscape so wholly novel and so singularly grotesque, that you rub your eyes to make sure that you are not dreaming of some ancient geologic epoch, when the rude, unfinished earth was the sport of Titanic forces, or fancying yourself transported to another planet. Enormous masses of conglomerate—red, grey, black, brown, and blue, in towers, pyramids, peaks, ridges, domes, castellated heights—occupy the face of the country. In the spaces between are grassy, lawn-like expanses, dotted with the petrified stumps of huge trees. The finest effect of colour is produced by the dark red rock—not rock in fact, but actual terra-cotta, baked by the heat of underlying layers of lignite. At some points the coal is still on fire, and the process of transforming mountains of blue clay into mountains of pottery may be observed from day to day. It has been going on for countless ages, no doubt. To bake one of these colossal masses may have required 10,000 years ofsmouldering heat. I despair of giving any adequate idea of the fantastic forms of the buttes or of the wonderful effects of colour they offer. The pen and brush of a skilful artist would alone be competent for the task. The photographer, be he never so deft with his camera and chemicals, only belittles these marvellous views. He catches only bare outlines, without colour, and colour is the chief thing in the picture. He cannot get the true effect of distance, and his negatives show only staring blacks and whites in place of the infinite variations of light and shadow effects in valleys and gorges and hollows, and upon crags and pinnacles. Look, if you can, by the feeble aid of written words, upon a single butte, and see how impossible it is to photograph it satisfactorily. It rises from a carpet of green grass. Its base has a bluish hue, and appears to be clay solidified by enormous pressure. It is girdled by bands of light grey stone and black lignite coal. Its upper portion is of the rich red colour of old Egyptian pottery. Crumbled fragments strew its sides. Its summit, rising 300 feet above the plain, has been carved by the elements into turrets, battlements, sharp spires, grotesque gargoyles, and huge projecting buttresses—an amazing jumble of weird architectural effects, that startle the eye with suggestions of intelligent design. Above, the sky is wonderfully clear and blue, the rays of the setting sun spread a rosy tint over the crest, and just above its highest tower floats a little flame-coloured cloud like a banner. When I say there are thousands of these buttes, the reader will perceive that the Bad Lands of the Little Missouri area region of extraordinary interest to the tourist and artist."

I had done my best to keep awake; I really thought I had done so for hours, and I know that I peeped out of my bed many times during the night, but nothing but the dim broad everlasting prairie met my gaze—so I must have fallen asleep just as we were passing through this interesting region, to my great disappointment. I was told by those who had been more wakeful, that they could see the lignite coal a-fire,—fire which has for countless ages been baking these rocks into actual terra-cotta. I was inclined to question the exactness of this statement. Smoke may doubtless be seen; and when I am told by a man that he has lighted a cigar at a hole in the rock the existence of fire can be no longer questioned.

We were told by the guide-books to expect to see hereabouts, herds of buffalo, deer, and elk,—in fact, we have only seen a few prairie dogs, and these looked comical enough as they stood bolt upright on their little hillocks, with their fore-paws hanging down beforethem. They only wanted a stick in their arms to look like soldiers on guard.

Just here we caught our first distant glimpse of the Rockies, some of the peaks tipped with snow,—and now we are at Livingston!

I need not tell you how anxiously I looked out for the train from Bozeman. When it came in I sought in vain through the crowd for Frank; my heart sank within me when I found that no Frank was there. I could not get on to Bozeman; the last train for the day had already gone, so we took the train for the "National Park," and I sat down in one corner of it, and felt more like fainting than I had ever felt in my life before. Three weeks had I been in the country, and not a word or sign from the boy I had come so far to see. What was the cause? If he had been ill some friend would surely have told me. Was he living? Had he met with some terrible accident on that long sheep-drive he wrote about months ago? Had he married a red Indian squaw, and did he not want to see me? Did he suppose that his old friend M. and I would be too proud to put up at the little log shanty which he had built with hisown hands? Had he been in the hug of a grizzly?

These were some of the grim reflections that passed through my disturbed mind as I sat at the end of the car, gloomily watching the magnificent scenery through which the train was now carrying us down towards the Park.

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