Chapter XXII.Through the BlackCañonand the Royal Gorge.One day’s ride by train from Beaver Cañon through a section of country composed mostly of sand and sage brush, overlying that same sheet of lava, and through Mormon cities of eight and ten thousand inhabitants, where they had made the desert blossom for miles around, brought me back to Salt Lake City. Here occurred the first rain that had caused even an hour’s delay in my trip since the middle of May, three months and a half ago. After leaving Omaha, sufficient rain had not fallen in the eight or ten States and Territories through which I had passed to dampen my shirt sleeves, and when I reached the Yellowstone, it had been so long since I had even felt a rain drop, that the thorough wetting I received there was really enjoyed. But on reaching Salt Lake City, I was delayed a week by a cloud burst on the line of the Denver and Rio Grande Western Railroad, which swept away seven bridges and a mile or two of track.I started out and had gone about 100 miles before coming to the break, when the train was sent back to Salt Lake City again. As it was in going West, so now in returning, I was laid under lasting obligations to another Mormon,for cash on a personal check. This time it was Mr. D. S. Davis, Captain of the bicycle club. Still the enforced delay was not time wholly wasted. It showed me Mormonism in a different light from that in which I had seen it on my first visit. The Mormons professed to me their thorough loyalty to the United States Government, but their actions belie their words. The act of hoisting the stars and stripes at half mast on the Fourth of July does not strengthen one’s belief in their loyalty, and to refer to the returning army of Eastern veterans who are daily passing through the city on their way home as a “parcel of blatherskites,” as a Mormon bishop did on a public occasion, these and many other instances are daily occurring to show that the Mormons, instead of loving, are beginning to fairly hate the government.A book published a year and a half ago entitled, “The Fall of the Great Republic,” finds many enthusiastic readers here. It prophesies the breaking up of the government in a very few years, and it is only too plain to be seen that the Mormons would rejoice to see the prediction fulfilled. Whether the strong hand of the government will succeed in suppressing polygamy without any serious outbreak here is, to say the least, uncertain, for at times it would take very little to start a riot.Sunday afternoon I went to the Tabernacle. It was communion, as it is every Sunday with them, I have since been told, and I suppose all the faithful ones were on hand, occupying the front seats, ready to perform their part of the service. At least, it seemed to be the extent of their mental capabilities, to take a piece of bread and a drink of water when it was offered them. A more ignorant, inferior, almost idiotic set of people I never saw. The women, most of them had sharp noses, peaked chins, and a wild sort of look about the eyes. They looked hard. The men, the gray-haired,bald-headed ones, looked simple and childish, the middle-aged ones were dull and heavy featured. There was not a noble looking woman, or an intelligent appearing man among them. This description may not hold good of the whole congregation, for there were probably five thousand present, the Tabernacle being about half full, but it is a fair estimate of those in the front part of the house as I sat facing them.The bread was distributed among the vast audience by eight or ten men who were continually returning to the front to have their silver baskets refilled, until the stock of bread was entirely exhausted. Two barrels of water, however, was sufficient to go around, although at one time it seemed as if even this amount would not supply the thirsty multitude. As soon as the bread was blessed, in a very brief manner, the speaker commenced his sermon, but was interrupted after a while by a subordinate, who as briefly blessed the two barrels of water. How much impression the sermon made can well be imagined, when you consider the aisles full of men passing bread and water, children chasing each other about and pulling hair, scores of babies squalling—I never saw a greater proportion of small children in any congregation—and people passing out.But in the midst of all this hubbub, the preacher suddenly stopped. A young man, perhaps 30 years of age, stepped to the front and without any apparent embarrassment, asked the congregation to deal leniently with him, that he would do better hereafter, but he was guilty of a sin which the church considered next to that of shedding blood, and so on. Then his nearest relative made a motion, that as his nephew had thus publicly confessed his adulterous actions, he, the nephew, should be turned out of Zion’s church, and a sea of uplifted hands forthwith excommunicated him.As this young man holds a high office in the church, and is the son of George Q. Cannon, who is still a fugitive from justice, for practicing polygamy, this prompt action of the church may at first seem meritorious, but the licentious reputation of the son has long been known, and it is thought this public confession and prompt excommunication was for effect upon the large number of Eastern people present. But if so, the effect was hardly favorable, even if it was hoped it would be. The whole service was most irreverent and disgusting. Not a head was bowed during prayer, the little children and even babies were allowed to grab for the bread as they would for sweetmeats, nearly all drank the blessed water as if they were really thirsty, and in the midst of this easy free lunch sort of a meeting, with a discordant sound of crying babies, a prominent member of the church unblushingly confesses his guilty actions in a very business sort of a way! It is all a poor burlesque of the religion of civilization.Not wishing to miss the scenery along the line of the Denver and Rio Grande, a railroad which traverses a section of country through which there are very few wagon roads, and in the most interesting portions none at all, I saw the bicycle handed into the baggage car, and with a pasteboard box as large as a small trunk, filled with pies, cakes, peaches, and grapes, I settled down into a seat in a cozy, narrow-gauge car with the firm belief that another washout on the way would not, at least, reduce me by famine. But accustomed as I have been for months to an appetite of the most ravenous kind, it now surprised even me, to say nothing of the blank astonishment with which the other passengers must have noticed my almost hourly devotion as I bowed over that monstrouspasteboardshoe-box. And so, notwithstanding I had laid in rations sufficient for anordinary week’s trip, when another washout did occur, and lengthened the ride of thirty-three hours from Salt Lake to Denver to fifty hours, the stock of eatables fell far short of the end of the journey.But what shall I say of the scenery? Unlike the dreary hours and days of sand and sage brush along the lines of the Union and Central Pacific Railroads, here is nothing monotonous. At the outset, the ride for hours is in a southerly direction, along the base of those grand old snow-capped mountains, the Wasatch range, until the snorting little engine turns up a cañon, and, puffing like mad, pulls the train of twelve cars as far up the grade as it is possible even for such an ambitious little locomotive to do. Then two more eight wheelers are attached, and the three engines take us to the summit in a short time.The hills along this cañon are covered with shrubbery, which has already begun to show the approach of winter by changing its color to the beautiful hues so common in New England in the fall. If there are long stretches of desert on this line, we must have passed them that night, for the next morning, soon after breakfast, an observation car was attached to the rear of the train, and we all, or as many as could, took seats in a car that is like an ordinary one with the top taken off above the window sills. And then commenced the ride through the Black Cañon. The train ran rather slowly, so that we all had a good opportunity to view the cañon without that hurried feeling so commonly experienced in sight-seeing from a fast rushing train. The dark colored rocks rise in jagged and broken masses to a height of nearly, if not quite, two thousand feet on either side of the Gunnison River, which comes roaring and tumbling down through this narrow and very crooked defile in the heart of the Rocky Mountains, and a most interesting partof the whole ride was the sight of a long train of cars crossing and recrossing the foaming river and winding its dark way along through what seemed to be the very bowels of the earth.Almost every one of us was soon standing, for who could sit still when there was so much to be seen on all sides, and if one imagined these grand sights lasted only a short time, that was where he was wrong, for the cañon is fifteen or twenty miles long, and we were considerably over one hour in passing through it. Then, soon after, came Marshall Pass. Here the situation was just reversed. Instead of groping along in a deep and narrowly contracted defile, where the only outlook was heavenward, now we glided along up the sides of a deep ravine, rising higher and higher, getting a wider and wider view of the surrounding country, until, after twisting around the sides of the mountains, and passing around more horseshoe curves than we ever dreamed of, we finally reached the top of the range of mountains, eleven thousand six hundred feet above the sea. Here, in an immense snow shed, filled with black smoke, we waited for the second section of the train, for it had been divided in climbing this last grade, and then we started down the other side. A locomotive preceded our train, and the second section followed us. Down we went at a lively rate, coming close on to the heels, sometimes, of that single locomotive, which would then dart on ahead out of the way for a time; and looking back we could see the other train rushing close upon us. Sometimes, in going around and down some of those horseshoe curves, we could look out of the window, high up the sides of the mountains, but only a short distance across, and see the passengers on the other train waving papers and handkerchiefs at us as if to hurry us out of their way.And so we went, chasing each other down grades that made one think of Mt. Washington Railroad, and at times so close to each other that both trains and the locomotive were all within a mile. It certainly was dangerous, but we enjoyed it just the same, perhaps all the more, and, finally, just before dark, we came to the Royal Gorge, a cañon, not so long as the Black Cañon, but with sides higher, more nearly perpendicular, and closer at the bottom, if that were possible. The sides of this cañon are 2,800 feet high by actual measurement. Down through this cañon the consolidated train rushed as if the very devil was after it, the little low eight-driving-wheel engine being on the point, seemingly, of tearing itself all to pieces or jumping off into the rocky river at every sharp curve, and it was all curves through the cañon. At one point the cañon is so narrow that the track is suspended over the river, it being held up by braces overhead, the ends of which rest against the rocks on either side. This was the last of the marvelous scenery, but it was the best; it was grand beyond anything I can describe. One who crosses the continent without passing over the Denver and Rio Grande, misses the finest mountain scenery there is in the country, I think, outside of the Yosemite. It beats Salt Lake City, with its many-wived Mormons and bottle-sucking babies, “higher than a kite.”
Chapter XXII.Through the BlackCañonand the Royal Gorge.One day’s ride by train from Beaver Cañon through a section of country composed mostly of sand and sage brush, overlying that same sheet of lava, and through Mormon cities of eight and ten thousand inhabitants, where they had made the desert blossom for miles around, brought me back to Salt Lake City. Here occurred the first rain that had caused even an hour’s delay in my trip since the middle of May, three months and a half ago. After leaving Omaha, sufficient rain had not fallen in the eight or ten States and Territories through which I had passed to dampen my shirt sleeves, and when I reached the Yellowstone, it had been so long since I had even felt a rain drop, that the thorough wetting I received there was really enjoyed. But on reaching Salt Lake City, I was delayed a week by a cloud burst on the line of the Denver and Rio Grande Western Railroad, which swept away seven bridges and a mile or two of track.I started out and had gone about 100 miles before coming to the break, when the train was sent back to Salt Lake City again. As it was in going West, so now in returning, I was laid under lasting obligations to another Mormon,for cash on a personal check. This time it was Mr. D. S. Davis, Captain of the bicycle club. Still the enforced delay was not time wholly wasted. It showed me Mormonism in a different light from that in which I had seen it on my first visit. The Mormons professed to me their thorough loyalty to the United States Government, but their actions belie their words. The act of hoisting the stars and stripes at half mast on the Fourth of July does not strengthen one’s belief in their loyalty, and to refer to the returning army of Eastern veterans who are daily passing through the city on their way home as a “parcel of blatherskites,” as a Mormon bishop did on a public occasion, these and many other instances are daily occurring to show that the Mormons, instead of loving, are beginning to fairly hate the government.A book published a year and a half ago entitled, “The Fall of the Great Republic,” finds many enthusiastic readers here. It prophesies the breaking up of the government in a very few years, and it is only too plain to be seen that the Mormons would rejoice to see the prediction fulfilled. Whether the strong hand of the government will succeed in suppressing polygamy without any serious outbreak here is, to say the least, uncertain, for at times it would take very little to start a riot.Sunday afternoon I went to the Tabernacle. It was communion, as it is every Sunday with them, I have since been told, and I suppose all the faithful ones were on hand, occupying the front seats, ready to perform their part of the service. At least, it seemed to be the extent of their mental capabilities, to take a piece of bread and a drink of water when it was offered them. A more ignorant, inferior, almost idiotic set of people I never saw. The women, most of them had sharp noses, peaked chins, and a wild sort of look about the eyes. They looked hard. The men, the gray-haired,bald-headed ones, looked simple and childish, the middle-aged ones were dull and heavy featured. There was not a noble looking woman, or an intelligent appearing man among them. This description may not hold good of the whole congregation, for there were probably five thousand present, the Tabernacle being about half full, but it is a fair estimate of those in the front part of the house as I sat facing them.The bread was distributed among the vast audience by eight or ten men who were continually returning to the front to have their silver baskets refilled, until the stock of bread was entirely exhausted. Two barrels of water, however, was sufficient to go around, although at one time it seemed as if even this amount would not supply the thirsty multitude. As soon as the bread was blessed, in a very brief manner, the speaker commenced his sermon, but was interrupted after a while by a subordinate, who as briefly blessed the two barrels of water. How much impression the sermon made can well be imagined, when you consider the aisles full of men passing bread and water, children chasing each other about and pulling hair, scores of babies squalling—I never saw a greater proportion of small children in any congregation—and people passing out.But in the midst of all this hubbub, the preacher suddenly stopped. A young man, perhaps 30 years of age, stepped to the front and without any apparent embarrassment, asked the congregation to deal leniently with him, that he would do better hereafter, but he was guilty of a sin which the church considered next to that of shedding blood, and so on. Then his nearest relative made a motion, that as his nephew had thus publicly confessed his adulterous actions, he, the nephew, should be turned out of Zion’s church, and a sea of uplifted hands forthwith excommunicated him.As this young man holds a high office in the church, and is the son of George Q. Cannon, who is still a fugitive from justice, for practicing polygamy, this prompt action of the church may at first seem meritorious, but the licentious reputation of the son has long been known, and it is thought this public confession and prompt excommunication was for effect upon the large number of Eastern people present. But if so, the effect was hardly favorable, even if it was hoped it would be. The whole service was most irreverent and disgusting. Not a head was bowed during prayer, the little children and even babies were allowed to grab for the bread as they would for sweetmeats, nearly all drank the blessed water as if they were really thirsty, and in the midst of this easy free lunch sort of a meeting, with a discordant sound of crying babies, a prominent member of the church unblushingly confesses his guilty actions in a very business sort of a way! It is all a poor burlesque of the religion of civilization.Not wishing to miss the scenery along the line of the Denver and Rio Grande, a railroad which traverses a section of country through which there are very few wagon roads, and in the most interesting portions none at all, I saw the bicycle handed into the baggage car, and with a pasteboard box as large as a small trunk, filled with pies, cakes, peaches, and grapes, I settled down into a seat in a cozy, narrow-gauge car with the firm belief that another washout on the way would not, at least, reduce me by famine. But accustomed as I have been for months to an appetite of the most ravenous kind, it now surprised even me, to say nothing of the blank astonishment with which the other passengers must have noticed my almost hourly devotion as I bowed over that monstrouspasteboardshoe-box. And so, notwithstanding I had laid in rations sufficient for anordinary week’s trip, when another washout did occur, and lengthened the ride of thirty-three hours from Salt Lake to Denver to fifty hours, the stock of eatables fell far short of the end of the journey.But what shall I say of the scenery? Unlike the dreary hours and days of sand and sage brush along the lines of the Union and Central Pacific Railroads, here is nothing monotonous. At the outset, the ride for hours is in a southerly direction, along the base of those grand old snow-capped mountains, the Wasatch range, until the snorting little engine turns up a cañon, and, puffing like mad, pulls the train of twelve cars as far up the grade as it is possible even for such an ambitious little locomotive to do. Then two more eight wheelers are attached, and the three engines take us to the summit in a short time.The hills along this cañon are covered with shrubbery, which has already begun to show the approach of winter by changing its color to the beautiful hues so common in New England in the fall. If there are long stretches of desert on this line, we must have passed them that night, for the next morning, soon after breakfast, an observation car was attached to the rear of the train, and we all, or as many as could, took seats in a car that is like an ordinary one with the top taken off above the window sills. And then commenced the ride through the Black Cañon. The train ran rather slowly, so that we all had a good opportunity to view the cañon without that hurried feeling so commonly experienced in sight-seeing from a fast rushing train. The dark colored rocks rise in jagged and broken masses to a height of nearly, if not quite, two thousand feet on either side of the Gunnison River, which comes roaring and tumbling down through this narrow and very crooked defile in the heart of the Rocky Mountains, and a most interesting partof the whole ride was the sight of a long train of cars crossing and recrossing the foaming river and winding its dark way along through what seemed to be the very bowels of the earth.Almost every one of us was soon standing, for who could sit still when there was so much to be seen on all sides, and if one imagined these grand sights lasted only a short time, that was where he was wrong, for the cañon is fifteen or twenty miles long, and we were considerably over one hour in passing through it. Then, soon after, came Marshall Pass. Here the situation was just reversed. Instead of groping along in a deep and narrowly contracted defile, where the only outlook was heavenward, now we glided along up the sides of a deep ravine, rising higher and higher, getting a wider and wider view of the surrounding country, until, after twisting around the sides of the mountains, and passing around more horseshoe curves than we ever dreamed of, we finally reached the top of the range of mountains, eleven thousand six hundred feet above the sea. Here, in an immense snow shed, filled with black smoke, we waited for the second section of the train, for it had been divided in climbing this last grade, and then we started down the other side. A locomotive preceded our train, and the second section followed us. Down we went at a lively rate, coming close on to the heels, sometimes, of that single locomotive, which would then dart on ahead out of the way for a time; and looking back we could see the other train rushing close upon us. Sometimes, in going around and down some of those horseshoe curves, we could look out of the window, high up the sides of the mountains, but only a short distance across, and see the passengers on the other train waving papers and handkerchiefs at us as if to hurry us out of their way.And so we went, chasing each other down grades that made one think of Mt. Washington Railroad, and at times so close to each other that both trains and the locomotive were all within a mile. It certainly was dangerous, but we enjoyed it just the same, perhaps all the more, and, finally, just before dark, we came to the Royal Gorge, a cañon, not so long as the Black Cañon, but with sides higher, more nearly perpendicular, and closer at the bottom, if that were possible. The sides of this cañon are 2,800 feet high by actual measurement. Down through this cañon the consolidated train rushed as if the very devil was after it, the little low eight-driving-wheel engine being on the point, seemingly, of tearing itself all to pieces or jumping off into the rocky river at every sharp curve, and it was all curves through the cañon. At one point the cañon is so narrow that the track is suspended over the river, it being held up by braces overhead, the ends of which rest against the rocks on either side. This was the last of the marvelous scenery, but it was the best; it was grand beyond anything I can describe. One who crosses the continent without passing over the Denver and Rio Grande, misses the finest mountain scenery there is in the country, I think, outside of the Yosemite. It beats Salt Lake City, with its many-wived Mormons and bottle-sucking babies, “higher than a kite.”
Chapter XXII.Through the BlackCañonand the Royal Gorge.
One day’s ride by train from Beaver Cañon through a section of country composed mostly of sand and sage brush, overlying that same sheet of lava, and through Mormon cities of eight and ten thousand inhabitants, where they had made the desert blossom for miles around, brought me back to Salt Lake City. Here occurred the first rain that had caused even an hour’s delay in my trip since the middle of May, three months and a half ago. After leaving Omaha, sufficient rain had not fallen in the eight or ten States and Territories through which I had passed to dampen my shirt sleeves, and when I reached the Yellowstone, it had been so long since I had even felt a rain drop, that the thorough wetting I received there was really enjoyed. But on reaching Salt Lake City, I was delayed a week by a cloud burst on the line of the Denver and Rio Grande Western Railroad, which swept away seven bridges and a mile or two of track.I started out and had gone about 100 miles before coming to the break, when the train was sent back to Salt Lake City again. As it was in going West, so now in returning, I was laid under lasting obligations to another Mormon,for cash on a personal check. This time it was Mr. D. S. Davis, Captain of the bicycle club. Still the enforced delay was not time wholly wasted. It showed me Mormonism in a different light from that in which I had seen it on my first visit. The Mormons professed to me their thorough loyalty to the United States Government, but their actions belie their words. The act of hoisting the stars and stripes at half mast on the Fourth of July does not strengthen one’s belief in their loyalty, and to refer to the returning army of Eastern veterans who are daily passing through the city on their way home as a “parcel of blatherskites,” as a Mormon bishop did on a public occasion, these and many other instances are daily occurring to show that the Mormons, instead of loving, are beginning to fairly hate the government.A book published a year and a half ago entitled, “The Fall of the Great Republic,” finds many enthusiastic readers here. It prophesies the breaking up of the government in a very few years, and it is only too plain to be seen that the Mormons would rejoice to see the prediction fulfilled. Whether the strong hand of the government will succeed in suppressing polygamy without any serious outbreak here is, to say the least, uncertain, for at times it would take very little to start a riot.Sunday afternoon I went to the Tabernacle. It was communion, as it is every Sunday with them, I have since been told, and I suppose all the faithful ones were on hand, occupying the front seats, ready to perform their part of the service. At least, it seemed to be the extent of their mental capabilities, to take a piece of bread and a drink of water when it was offered them. A more ignorant, inferior, almost idiotic set of people I never saw. The women, most of them had sharp noses, peaked chins, and a wild sort of look about the eyes. They looked hard. The men, the gray-haired,bald-headed ones, looked simple and childish, the middle-aged ones were dull and heavy featured. There was not a noble looking woman, or an intelligent appearing man among them. This description may not hold good of the whole congregation, for there were probably five thousand present, the Tabernacle being about half full, but it is a fair estimate of those in the front part of the house as I sat facing them.The bread was distributed among the vast audience by eight or ten men who were continually returning to the front to have their silver baskets refilled, until the stock of bread was entirely exhausted. Two barrels of water, however, was sufficient to go around, although at one time it seemed as if even this amount would not supply the thirsty multitude. As soon as the bread was blessed, in a very brief manner, the speaker commenced his sermon, but was interrupted after a while by a subordinate, who as briefly blessed the two barrels of water. How much impression the sermon made can well be imagined, when you consider the aisles full of men passing bread and water, children chasing each other about and pulling hair, scores of babies squalling—I never saw a greater proportion of small children in any congregation—and people passing out.But in the midst of all this hubbub, the preacher suddenly stopped. A young man, perhaps 30 years of age, stepped to the front and without any apparent embarrassment, asked the congregation to deal leniently with him, that he would do better hereafter, but he was guilty of a sin which the church considered next to that of shedding blood, and so on. Then his nearest relative made a motion, that as his nephew had thus publicly confessed his adulterous actions, he, the nephew, should be turned out of Zion’s church, and a sea of uplifted hands forthwith excommunicated him.As this young man holds a high office in the church, and is the son of George Q. Cannon, who is still a fugitive from justice, for practicing polygamy, this prompt action of the church may at first seem meritorious, but the licentious reputation of the son has long been known, and it is thought this public confession and prompt excommunication was for effect upon the large number of Eastern people present. But if so, the effect was hardly favorable, even if it was hoped it would be. The whole service was most irreverent and disgusting. Not a head was bowed during prayer, the little children and even babies were allowed to grab for the bread as they would for sweetmeats, nearly all drank the blessed water as if they were really thirsty, and in the midst of this easy free lunch sort of a meeting, with a discordant sound of crying babies, a prominent member of the church unblushingly confesses his guilty actions in a very business sort of a way! It is all a poor burlesque of the religion of civilization.Not wishing to miss the scenery along the line of the Denver and Rio Grande, a railroad which traverses a section of country through which there are very few wagon roads, and in the most interesting portions none at all, I saw the bicycle handed into the baggage car, and with a pasteboard box as large as a small trunk, filled with pies, cakes, peaches, and grapes, I settled down into a seat in a cozy, narrow-gauge car with the firm belief that another washout on the way would not, at least, reduce me by famine. But accustomed as I have been for months to an appetite of the most ravenous kind, it now surprised even me, to say nothing of the blank astonishment with which the other passengers must have noticed my almost hourly devotion as I bowed over that monstrouspasteboardshoe-box. And so, notwithstanding I had laid in rations sufficient for anordinary week’s trip, when another washout did occur, and lengthened the ride of thirty-three hours from Salt Lake to Denver to fifty hours, the stock of eatables fell far short of the end of the journey.But what shall I say of the scenery? Unlike the dreary hours and days of sand and sage brush along the lines of the Union and Central Pacific Railroads, here is nothing monotonous. At the outset, the ride for hours is in a southerly direction, along the base of those grand old snow-capped mountains, the Wasatch range, until the snorting little engine turns up a cañon, and, puffing like mad, pulls the train of twelve cars as far up the grade as it is possible even for such an ambitious little locomotive to do. Then two more eight wheelers are attached, and the three engines take us to the summit in a short time.The hills along this cañon are covered with shrubbery, which has already begun to show the approach of winter by changing its color to the beautiful hues so common in New England in the fall. If there are long stretches of desert on this line, we must have passed them that night, for the next morning, soon after breakfast, an observation car was attached to the rear of the train, and we all, or as many as could, took seats in a car that is like an ordinary one with the top taken off above the window sills. And then commenced the ride through the Black Cañon. The train ran rather slowly, so that we all had a good opportunity to view the cañon without that hurried feeling so commonly experienced in sight-seeing from a fast rushing train. The dark colored rocks rise in jagged and broken masses to a height of nearly, if not quite, two thousand feet on either side of the Gunnison River, which comes roaring and tumbling down through this narrow and very crooked defile in the heart of the Rocky Mountains, and a most interesting partof the whole ride was the sight of a long train of cars crossing and recrossing the foaming river and winding its dark way along through what seemed to be the very bowels of the earth.Almost every one of us was soon standing, for who could sit still when there was so much to be seen on all sides, and if one imagined these grand sights lasted only a short time, that was where he was wrong, for the cañon is fifteen or twenty miles long, and we were considerably over one hour in passing through it. Then, soon after, came Marshall Pass. Here the situation was just reversed. Instead of groping along in a deep and narrowly contracted defile, where the only outlook was heavenward, now we glided along up the sides of a deep ravine, rising higher and higher, getting a wider and wider view of the surrounding country, until, after twisting around the sides of the mountains, and passing around more horseshoe curves than we ever dreamed of, we finally reached the top of the range of mountains, eleven thousand six hundred feet above the sea. Here, in an immense snow shed, filled with black smoke, we waited for the second section of the train, for it had been divided in climbing this last grade, and then we started down the other side. A locomotive preceded our train, and the second section followed us. Down we went at a lively rate, coming close on to the heels, sometimes, of that single locomotive, which would then dart on ahead out of the way for a time; and looking back we could see the other train rushing close upon us. Sometimes, in going around and down some of those horseshoe curves, we could look out of the window, high up the sides of the mountains, but only a short distance across, and see the passengers on the other train waving papers and handkerchiefs at us as if to hurry us out of their way.And so we went, chasing each other down grades that made one think of Mt. Washington Railroad, and at times so close to each other that both trains and the locomotive were all within a mile. It certainly was dangerous, but we enjoyed it just the same, perhaps all the more, and, finally, just before dark, we came to the Royal Gorge, a cañon, not so long as the Black Cañon, but with sides higher, more nearly perpendicular, and closer at the bottom, if that were possible. The sides of this cañon are 2,800 feet high by actual measurement. Down through this cañon the consolidated train rushed as if the very devil was after it, the little low eight-driving-wheel engine being on the point, seemingly, of tearing itself all to pieces or jumping off into the rocky river at every sharp curve, and it was all curves through the cañon. At one point the cañon is so narrow that the track is suspended over the river, it being held up by braces overhead, the ends of which rest against the rocks on either side. This was the last of the marvelous scenery, but it was the best; it was grand beyond anything I can describe. One who crosses the continent without passing over the Denver and Rio Grande, misses the finest mountain scenery there is in the country, I think, outside of the Yosemite. It beats Salt Lake City, with its many-wived Mormons and bottle-sucking babies, “higher than a kite.”
One day’s ride by train from Beaver Cañon through a section of country composed mostly of sand and sage brush, overlying that same sheet of lava, and through Mormon cities of eight and ten thousand inhabitants, where they had made the desert blossom for miles around, brought me back to Salt Lake City. Here occurred the first rain that had caused even an hour’s delay in my trip since the middle of May, three months and a half ago. After leaving Omaha, sufficient rain had not fallen in the eight or ten States and Territories through which I had passed to dampen my shirt sleeves, and when I reached the Yellowstone, it had been so long since I had even felt a rain drop, that the thorough wetting I received there was really enjoyed. But on reaching Salt Lake City, I was delayed a week by a cloud burst on the line of the Denver and Rio Grande Western Railroad, which swept away seven bridges and a mile or two of track.
I started out and had gone about 100 miles before coming to the break, when the train was sent back to Salt Lake City again. As it was in going West, so now in returning, I was laid under lasting obligations to another Mormon,for cash on a personal check. This time it was Mr. D. S. Davis, Captain of the bicycle club. Still the enforced delay was not time wholly wasted. It showed me Mormonism in a different light from that in which I had seen it on my first visit. The Mormons professed to me their thorough loyalty to the United States Government, but their actions belie their words. The act of hoisting the stars and stripes at half mast on the Fourth of July does not strengthen one’s belief in their loyalty, and to refer to the returning army of Eastern veterans who are daily passing through the city on their way home as a “parcel of blatherskites,” as a Mormon bishop did on a public occasion, these and many other instances are daily occurring to show that the Mormons, instead of loving, are beginning to fairly hate the government.
A book published a year and a half ago entitled, “The Fall of the Great Republic,” finds many enthusiastic readers here. It prophesies the breaking up of the government in a very few years, and it is only too plain to be seen that the Mormons would rejoice to see the prediction fulfilled. Whether the strong hand of the government will succeed in suppressing polygamy without any serious outbreak here is, to say the least, uncertain, for at times it would take very little to start a riot.
Sunday afternoon I went to the Tabernacle. It was communion, as it is every Sunday with them, I have since been told, and I suppose all the faithful ones were on hand, occupying the front seats, ready to perform their part of the service. At least, it seemed to be the extent of their mental capabilities, to take a piece of bread and a drink of water when it was offered them. A more ignorant, inferior, almost idiotic set of people I never saw. The women, most of them had sharp noses, peaked chins, and a wild sort of look about the eyes. They looked hard. The men, the gray-haired,bald-headed ones, looked simple and childish, the middle-aged ones were dull and heavy featured. There was not a noble looking woman, or an intelligent appearing man among them. This description may not hold good of the whole congregation, for there were probably five thousand present, the Tabernacle being about half full, but it is a fair estimate of those in the front part of the house as I sat facing them.
The bread was distributed among the vast audience by eight or ten men who were continually returning to the front to have their silver baskets refilled, until the stock of bread was entirely exhausted. Two barrels of water, however, was sufficient to go around, although at one time it seemed as if even this amount would not supply the thirsty multitude. As soon as the bread was blessed, in a very brief manner, the speaker commenced his sermon, but was interrupted after a while by a subordinate, who as briefly blessed the two barrels of water. How much impression the sermon made can well be imagined, when you consider the aisles full of men passing bread and water, children chasing each other about and pulling hair, scores of babies squalling—I never saw a greater proportion of small children in any congregation—and people passing out.
But in the midst of all this hubbub, the preacher suddenly stopped. A young man, perhaps 30 years of age, stepped to the front and without any apparent embarrassment, asked the congregation to deal leniently with him, that he would do better hereafter, but he was guilty of a sin which the church considered next to that of shedding blood, and so on. Then his nearest relative made a motion, that as his nephew had thus publicly confessed his adulterous actions, he, the nephew, should be turned out of Zion’s church, and a sea of uplifted hands forthwith excommunicated him.
As this young man holds a high office in the church, and is the son of George Q. Cannon, who is still a fugitive from justice, for practicing polygamy, this prompt action of the church may at first seem meritorious, but the licentious reputation of the son has long been known, and it is thought this public confession and prompt excommunication was for effect upon the large number of Eastern people present. But if so, the effect was hardly favorable, even if it was hoped it would be. The whole service was most irreverent and disgusting. Not a head was bowed during prayer, the little children and even babies were allowed to grab for the bread as they would for sweetmeats, nearly all drank the blessed water as if they were really thirsty, and in the midst of this easy free lunch sort of a meeting, with a discordant sound of crying babies, a prominent member of the church unblushingly confesses his guilty actions in a very business sort of a way! It is all a poor burlesque of the religion of civilization.
Not wishing to miss the scenery along the line of the Denver and Rio Grande, a railroad which traverses a section of country through which there are very few wagon roads, and in the most interesting portions none at all, I saw the bicycle handed into the baggage car, and with a pasteboard box as large as a small trunk, filled with pies, cakes, peaches, and grapes, I settled down into a seat in a cozy, narrow-gauge car with the firm belief that another washout on the way would not, at least, reduce me by famine. But accustomed as I have been for months to an appetite of the most ravenous kind, it now surprised even me, to say nothing of the blank astonishment with which the other passengers must have noticed my almost hourly devotion as I bowed over that monstrouspasteboardshoe-box. And so, notwithstanding I had laid in rations sufficient for anordinary week’s trip, when another washout did occur, and lengthened the ride of thirty-three hours from Salt Lake to Denver to fifty hours, the stock of eatables fell far short of the end of the journey.
But what shall I say of the scenery? Unlike the dreary hours and days of sand and sage brush along the lines of the Union and Central Pacific Railroads, here is nothing monotonous. At the outset, the ride for hours is in a southerly direction, along the base of those grand old snow-capped mountains, the Wasatch range, until the snorting little engine turns up a cañon, and, puffing like mad, pulls the train of twelve cars as far up the grade as it is possible even for such an ambitious little locomotive to do. Then two more eight wheelers are attached, and the three engines take us to the summit in a short time.
The hills along this cañon are covered with shrubbery, which has already begun to show the approach of winter by changing its color to the beautiful hues so common in New England in the fall. If there are long stretches of desert on this line, we must have passed them that night, for the next morning, soon after breakfast, an observation car was attached to the rear of the train, and we all, or as many as could, took seats in a car that is like an ordinary one with the top taken off above the window sills. And then commenced the ride through the Black Cañon. The train ran rather slowly, so that we all had a good opportunity to view the cañon without that hurried feeling so commonly experienced in sight-seeing from a fast rushing train. The dark colored rocks rise in jagged and broken masses to a height of nearly, if not quite, two thousand feet on either side of the Gunnison River, which comes roaring and tumbling down through this narrow and very crooked defile in the heart of the Rocky Mountains, and a most interesting partof the whole ride was the sight of a long train of cars crossing and recrossing the foaming river and winding its dark way along through what seemed to be the very bowels of the earth.
Almost every one of us was soon standing, for who could sit still when there was so much to be seen on all sides, and if one imagined these grand sights lasted only a short time, that was where he was wrong, for the cañon is fifteen or twenty miles long, and we were considerably over one hour in passing through it. Then, soon after, came Marshall Pass. Here the situation was just reversed. Instead of groping along in a deep and narrowly contracted defile, where the only outlook was heavenward, now we glided along up the sides of a deep ravine, rising higher and higher, getting a wider and wider view of the surrounding country, until, after twisting around the sides of the mountains, and passing around more horseshoe curves than we ever dreamed of, we finally reached the top of the range of mountains, eleven thousand six hundred feet above the sea. Here, in an immense snow shed, filled with black smoke, we waited for the second section of the train, for it had been divided in climbing this last grade, and then we started down the other side. A locomotive preceded our train, and the second section followed us. Down we went at a lively rate, coming close on to the heels, sometimes, of that single locomotive, which would then dart on ahead out of the way for a time; and looking back we could see the other train rushing close upon us. Sometimes, in going around and down some of those horseshoe curves, we could look out of the window, high up the sides of the mountains, but only a short distance across, and see the passengers on the other train waving papers and handkerchiefs at us as if to hurry us out of their way.
And so we went, chasing each other down grades that made one think of Mt. Washington Railroad, and at times so close to each other that both trains and the locomotive were all within a mile. It certainly was dangerous, but we enjoyed it just the same, perhaps all the more, and, finally, just before dark, we came to the Royal Gorge, a cañon, not so long as the Black Cañon, but with sides higher, more nearly perpendicular, and closer at the bottom, if that were possible. The sides of this cañon are 2,800 feet high by actual measurement. Down through this cañon the consolidated train rushed as if the very devil was after it, the little low eight-driving-wheel engine being on the point, seemingly, of tearing itself all to pieces or jumping off into the rocky river at every sharp curve, and it was all curves through the cañon. At one point the cañon is so narrow that the track is suspended over the river, it being held up by braces overhead, the ends of which rest against the rocks on either side. This was the last of the marvelous scenery, but it was the best; it was grand beyond anything I can describe. One who crosses the continent without passing over the Denver and Rio Grande, misses the finest mountain scenery there is in the country, I think, outside of the Yosemite. It beats Salt Lake City, with its many-wived Mormons and bottle-sucking babies, “higher than a kite.”