"Skies softly beautiful, and blue
As Italy's, with stars as bright;
Flowers rich as morning's sunrise hue,
And gorgeous as the gemm'd midnight.
Land of the West! green Forest Land,
Thus hath Creation's bounteous hand
Upon thine ample bosom flung
Charms such as were her gift when the green world was young!"
GALLAGHER.
"Go thou to the house of prayer,
I to the woodlands will repair."
KIRK WHITE.
"There is religion in a flower;
Its still small voice is as the voice of conscience."
BELL.
More than three centuries ago, when the romantic Ponce de Leon, with
his chivalrous followers, first planted foot upon the southern
extremity of the great Western Valley, the discovery of the far-famed
"Fountain of Youth" was the wild vision which lured him on. Though
disappointed in the object of his enterprise, the adventurous Spaniard
was enraptured with the loveliness of a land which even the golden
realms of "Old Castile" had never realized; and _Florida_,[143] "the
Land of Flowers," was the poetic name it inspired. Twenty years, and
the bold soldier Ferdinand de Soto, of Cuba, {213} the associate of
Pizarro, with a thousand steel-clad warriors at his back, penetrated
the valley to the far-distant post of Arkansas, and "_El padre de las
aguas_" was the expressive name of the mighty stream he discovered,
beneath the eternal flow of whose surges he laid his bones to their
rest.[144] "_La Belle Rivière!_" was the delighted exclamation which
burst from the lips of the Canadian voyageur, as, with wonder hourly
increasing, he glided in his light pirogue between the swelling
bluffs, and wound among the thousand isles of the beautiful Ohio. The
heroic Norman, Sieur La Salle, when for the first time he beheld the
pleasant hunting-grounds of the peaceful Illini, pronounced them a
"Terrestrial Paradise." Daniel Boone, the bold pioneer of the West,
fifty years ago, when standing on the last blue line of the
Alleghanies, and at the close of a day of weary journeying, he looked
down upon the beautiful fields of "Old Kentucke," now gilded by the
evening sun, turned his back for ever upon the green banks of the
Yadkin and the soil of his nativity, hailing the glories of a
new-found home.[145]
"Fair wert thou, in the dreams
Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers,
And summer winds, and low-toned silvery streams,
Dim with the shadows of thy laurel bowers."
And thus has it ever been; and even yet the "pilgrim from the North"
rejoices with untold joy over the golden beauties of the Valley beyond
the Mountains.
{214} It was a fine Sabbath morning when I mounted my steed at the
gate of the log farmhouse where I had passed the night, to pursue my
journey over the prairie, upon the verge of which it stood. The
village of Hillsborough was but a few miles distant, and there I had
resolved to observe the sacredness of the day. The showers of the
preceding evening had refreshed the atmosphere, which danced over the
plain in exhilarating gales, and rustled among the boughs of the green
woodlands I was leaving. Before me was spread out a waving, undulating
landscape, with herds of cattle sprinkled here and there in isolated
masses over the surface; the rabbit and wild-fowl were sporting along
the pathway, and the bright woodpecker, with his splendid plumage and
querulous note, was flitting to and fro among the thickets. Far away
along the eastern horizon stretched the dark line of forest. The
gorgeous prairie-flower flung out its crimson petals upon the breeze,
"blushing like a banner bathed in slaughter," and methought it snapped
more gayly in the morning sunbeams than it was wont; the long grass
rustled musically its wavy masses back and forth, and, amid the
Sabbath stillness around, methought there were there notes of
sweetness not before observed. The whole scene lay calm and quiet, as
if Nature, if not man, recognised the Divine injunction _to rest_; and
the idea suggested itself, that a solitary Sabbath on the wild
prairie, in silent converse with the Almighty, might not be all
unprofitable. {215}
"Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky,
Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night,
For thou must die."[146]
From the centre of the prairie the landscape rolled gracefully away
towards the eastern timber, studded along its edge with farms. The
retrospect from beneath the tall oaks of the prairie over which I had
passed was exceedingly fine; the idea strikes the spectator at once,
and with much force, that the whole plain was once a sheet of water.
Indeed, were we to form our opinion from the _appearance_ of many of
the prairies of Illinois, the idea would be irresistible, that this
peculiar species of surface originated in a submersion of the whole
state. There are many circumstances which lead us to the conclusion
that these vast meadows once formed the bed of a body of water similar
to the Northern lakes; and when the lowest point at the _Grand Tower_
on the Mississippi was torn away by some convulsion of nature, a
uniform surface of fine rich mud was left. The ravines were ploughed
in the soft soil by subsequent floods, and hence, while the elevated
lands are fertile, those more depressed are far less so. The soil of
the prairies is of a character decidedly alluvial, being composed of
compact strata of loam piled upon each other, like that at the bottom
of bodies of water long stagnant. The first stratum is a black,
pliable mould, from two feet to five in depth; the second a red clay,
amalgamated with sand, from {216} five to ten feet in thickness; the
third a blue clay, mixed with pebbles, of beautiful appearance,
unctuous to the feeling, and, when exposed to the atmosphere, of a
fetid smell. Lakes are often found in the prairies abounding in fish,
which, when the waters subside, are removed by cartloads. The origin
of these vast prairie-plains is, after all, no easy matter to decide;
but, whatever the cause, they have doubtless been perpetuated by the
autumnal fires which, year after year, from an era which the earliest
chronicles of history or tradition have failed to record, have swept
their surface; for, as soon as the grass is destroyed by the plough,
the winged seeds of the cotton-wood and sycamore take root, and a
young growth of timber sprouts forth. The same is true along the
margin of creeks and streams, or upon steril or wet prairies, where
the vegetation does not become sufficiently heavy or combustible for
conflagration to a great extent. These fires originated either in the
friction of the sear and tinder-like underbrush, agitated by the high
winds, or they were kindled by the Indians for the purpose of
dislodging game. The mode of hunting by circular fires is said to have
prevailed at the time when Captain Smith first visited the shores of
Chesapeake Bay, where extensive prairies then existed. These plains,
by cultivation, have long since disappeared. Mungo Park describes the
annual fires upon the plains of Western Africa for a similar purpose
and with the same result.[147] Tracts of considerable extent in {217}
the older settlements of the country, which many years since were
meadow, are clothed with forest.
"Coot morning, shur! A pleashant tay, shur! Coome in, shur!" was the
hospitable greeting of mine host, or rather of the major domo of the
little brick hostelrie of Hillsborough as I drove up to the bar-room
entrance. He was a comical-looking, bottle-shaped little personage,
with a jolly red nose, all the brighter, doubtless, for certain goodly
potations of his own goodly admixtures; with a brief brace of legs,
inserted into a pair of inexpressibles _à la Turque_, a world too big,
and a white capote a world too little, to complete the Sunday toilet.
He could boast, moreover, that amazing lubricity of speech, and that
oiliness of tongue wherewith sinful publicans have ever been prone to
beguile unwary wayfarers, _taking in travellers_, forsooth! Before I
was fully aware of the change in my circumstances, I found myself
quietly dispossessed of horse and equipments, and placing my foot
across the threshold. The fleshy little Dutchman, though now secure in
his capture, proceeded to redouble his assiduities.
"Anything to trink, shur? Plack your poots, shur? shave your face,
shur?" and a host of farther interrogatories, which I at length
contrived to cut short with, "Show me a chamber, sir!"
The Presbyterian Church, at which I attended worship, is a neat little
edifice of brick, in modern style, but not completed. The walls
remained unconscious of plaster; the orchestra, a naked scaffolding;
the pulpit, a box of rough boards; and, {218} more _picturesque_ than
all, in lieu of pews, slips, or any such thing, a few coarse slabs of
all forms and fashions, supported on remnants of timber and plank,
occupied the open area for seats. And marvellously comfortless are
such seats, to my certain experience. In the evening I attended the
"Luteran Church," as my major domo styled it, at the special instance
of one of its worthy members. This house of worship is designed for a
large one--the largest in the state, I was informed--but, like its
neighbour, was as yet but commenced. The external walls were quite
complete; but the rafters, beams, studs, and braces within presented a
mere skeleton, while a few loose boards, which sprang and creaked
beneath the foot, were spread over the sleepers as an apology for a
floor. There's practical utility for an economist! Because a church is
unfinished is no good and sufficient reason why it should remain
unoccupied!
As we entered the building, my _cicerone_ very unexpectedly favoured
me with an introduction to the minister. He was a dark, solemn-looking
man, with a huge Bible and psalm-book choicely tucked under his left
arm. After sundry glances at my dress and demeanour, and other sundry
whisperings in the ear of my companion, the good man drew nigh, and
delivered himself of the interrogatory, "Are you a clergyman, sir?" At
this sage inquiry, so sagely administered, my rebellious lips
struggled with a smile, which, I misdoubt me much, was not unobserved
by the dark-looking minister; {219} for, upon my reply in the
negative, he turned very unceremoniously away, and betook him to his
pulpit. By-the-by, this had by no means been the first time I had been
called to answer the same inquiry during my ramble in the West.
On returning to our lodgings after service, we found quite a
respectable congregation gathered around the signpost, to whom my pink
of major domos was holding forth in no measured terms upon the
propriety of "letting off the pig guns" at the dawning of the
ever-memorable morrow,[148] "in honour of the tay when our old farders
fought like coot fellows; they tid so, py jingoes; and I'll pe out at
tree o'glock, py jingoes, I will so," raphsodied the little Dutchman,
warming up under the fervour of his own eloquence. This subject was
still the theme of his rejoicing when he marshalled me to my dormitory
and wished me "pleashant treams."
The first faint streak of crimson along the eastern heavens beheld me
mounting at the door of the inn; and by my side was the patriotic
domo, bowing, and ducking, and telling over all manner of kind wishes
till I had evanished from view. A more precious relic of the true
oldfashioned, swaggering, pot-bellied publican is rarely to be met,
than that which I encountered in the person of the odd little genius
whose peculiarities I have recounted: even the worthy old "Caleb of
Ravenswood," that miracle of major domos, would not {220} have
disowned my _Dutchy_ for a brother craftsman. The village of
Hillsborough is a pleasant, healthy, thriving place; and being
intersected by some of the most important state routes, will always
remain a thoroughfare. An attempt has been made by one of its citizens
to obtain for this place the location of the Theological Seminary now
in contemplation in the vicinity rather than at Carlinville, and the
offer he has made is a truly munificent one. The site proposed is a
beautiful mound, rising on the prairie's edge south of the village,
commanding a view for miles in every direction, and is far more
eligible than any spot I ever observed in Carlinville.
After crossing a prairie about a dozen miles in width, and taking
breakfast with a farmer upon its edge, I continued my journey over the
undulating plains until near the middle of the afternoon, when I
reached my present stage. The whole region, as I journeyed through it,
lay still and quiet: every farmhouse and log-cabin was deserted by its
tenants, who had congregated to the nearest villages to celebrate the
day; and, verily, not a little did my heart smite me at my own
heedless desecration of the political Sabbath of our land.
_Vandalia, Ill._