"I have no wife nor children, good or bad, to provide for;
a mere spectator of other men's fortunes and adventures,
and how they play their parts."--_Anat. of Melancholy._
"Oh ye dread scenes, where Nature dwells alone,
Serenely glorious on her craggy throne;
Ye citadels of rock, gigantic forms,
Veiled by the mists, and girdled by the storms;
Ravines, and glens, and deep-resounding caves,
That hold communion with the torrent waves."
HEMANS.
Ah, the single blessedness of the unmarried state! Such is the
sentiment of an ancient worthy, quietly expressed in the lines which I
have selected for a motto. After dozing away half his days and all his
energies within the dusky walls of a university, tumbling over musty
tomes and shrivelled parchments until his very brain had become
cobwebbed as the alcoves he haunted, and the blood in his veins was
all "adust and thin;" then, forsooth, the shameless old fellow issues
forth with his vainglorious sentiment upon his lips! And yet, now that
we consider, there is marvellous "method" in the old man's "madness!"
In very truth and soberness, there is a blessedness which the bachelor
can boast, _single_ though it be, in which the "man of family," though
_doubly_ blessed, cannot share! To the former, life may be made one
long holyday, and its path a varied and flowery one! while to the poor
{244} victim of matrimonial toils, _wife and children_ are the Alpha
and Omega of a weary existence! Of all travelling companionship,
forfend us from that of a married man! Independence! He knows not of
it! Such is the text and such the commentary: now for the practical
application.
It was a balmy July morning, and the flutelike melody of the
turtle-dove was ringing through the woodlands. Leaving the pleasant
villa of Dr. F. in the environs of North St. Louis, I found myself
once more fairly _en route_, winding along that delightful road which
sweeps the western bottom of the Mississippi. Circumstances not within
my control, Benedict though I am, had recalled me, after a ramble of
but a few weeks over the prairies, again to the city, and compelled me
to relinquish my original design of a tour of the extreme Northwest.
Ah, the despotism of circumstance! My delay, however, proved a brief,
though pleasant one; and with a something of mingled _regret_ and
anticipation it was that I turned from the bright eyes and dark locks
of St. Louis--"forgive my folly"--and once again beheld its imposing
structures fade in distance.
By far the most delightful drive in the vicinity of St. Louis is that
of four or five miles in its northern suburbs, along the river bottom.
The road, emerging from the streets of the city through one of its
finest sections, and leaving the "Big Mound" upon the right, sweeps
off for several miles upon a succession of broad plateaux, rolling up
from the water's edge. To the left lies an extensive range of heights,
surmounted by ancient mounds and crowned with {245} groves of the
shrub-oak, which afford a delightful shade to the road running below.
Along this elevated ridge beautiful country-seats, with graceful
piazzas and green Venitian blinds, are caught from time to time
glancing through the shrubbery; while to the right, smooth meadows
spread themselves away to the heavy belt of forest which margins the
Mississippi. Among these pleasant villas the little white
farm-cottage, formerly the residence of Mr. C., beneath the hills,
surrounded by its handsome grounds, and gardens, and glittering
fishponds, partially shrouded by the broad leaved catalpa, the willow,
the acacia, and other ornamental trees, presents, perhaps, the rarest
instance of natural beauty adorned by refined taste. A visit to this
delightful spot during my stay at St. Louis informed me of the fact
that, within as well as abroad, the hand of education and refinement
had not been idle. Paintings, busts, medallions, Indian curiosities,
&c., &c., tastefully arranged around the walls and shelves of an
elegant library, presented a feast to the visiter as rare in the Far
West as it is agreeable to a cultivated mind. Near this cottage is the
intended site of the building of the St. Louis Catholic University, a
lofty and commanding spot.[159] A considerable tract was here
purchased, at a cost of thirty thousand dollars; but the design of
removal from the city has for the present been relinquished.
Immediately adjoining is situated the stately villa of Colonel
O'Fallon, with its highly-cultivated gardens and its beautiful park
sweeping off in the rear. In a very few years this must become one of
the most delightful spots {246} in the West. For its elegant grounds,
its green and hot houses, and its exotic and indigenous plants, it is,
perhaps, already unequalled west of Cincinnati. No expense, attention,
or taste will be wanting to render it all of which the spot is
capable.
Leaving the Bottom, the road winds gracefully off from the
Mississippi, over the hard soil of the bluffs, through a region broken
up by sink-holes, and covered with a meager growth of oaks, with small
farms at intervals along the route, until at length the traveller
finds himself at that beautiful spot on the Missouri, Belle Fontaine,
fifteen miles from St. Louis. On account of the salubrity and beauty
of the site, an army cantonment was located here by General Wilkinson
in the early part of the present century, and fortifications
consisting of palisade-work existed, and a line of log-barracks
sufficient to quarter half a regiment. Nothing now remains but a pile
of ruins. "The barracks have crumpled into dust, and the ploughshare
has passed over the promenade of the sentinel." Jefferson Barracks, in
the southern environs of the city, have superseded the old fortress,
and the spot has been sold to a company, which has here laid off a
town; and as most of the lots have been disposed of, and a
turnpike-road from St. Louis has been chartered, a succeeding tourist
may, at no distant period, pencil it in his notebook "a flourishing
village." _Cold Water Creek_ is the name of a clear stream which
empties itself into the Missouri just above, upon which are several
mill-privileges; and from the base of the bluff itself gushes a
fountain, on account {247} of which the place received its name from
the French. The site for the new town is a commanding and beautiful
one, being a bold, green promontory, rising from the margin of the
stream about four miles above its confluence with the Mississippi. The
view developed to the eye of the spectator from this spot on a fine
day is one of mingled sublimity and beauty. For some miles these old
giants of the West are beheld roaming along through their deep,
fertile valleys, so different in character and aspect that one can
hardly reconcile with that diversity the fact that their destiny is
soon to become _one_ and unchangeably the same. And then comes the
mighty "meeting of the waters," to which no pen can hope to render
justice.
There is a singular circumstance related of the discovery of a large
_human tooth_ many years since at Belle Fontaine, in excavating a
well, when at the depth of forty feet. This was the more extraordinary
as the spot was not alluvion, and could have undergone no change from
natural causes for centuries. Various strata of clay were passed
through before the _tooth_ was thrown up; and this circumstance,
together with the situation of the place, would almost preclude the
possibility of a vein of subterraneous water having conveyed it to the
spot. This is mysterious enough, certainly; but the fact is authentic.
Returning at an angle of forty-five degrees with the road by which he
approaches, a ride of a dozen miles up the Missouri places the
traveller upon a bold roll of the prairie, from which, in the
beautiful {248} valley below, rising above the forest, appear the
steep roofs and tall chimneys of the little hamlet of Florissant.[160]
Its original name was St. Ferdinand, titular saint of its church; and
though one of the most advanced in years, it is by no means the most
antique-looking of those ancient villages planted by the early French.
Its site is highly romantic, upon the banks of a creek of the same
name, and in the heart of one of the most fertile and luxuriant
valleys ever subjected to cultivation.[161] The village now embraces
about thirty or forty irregular edifices, somewhat modernized in style
and structure, surrounded by extensive corn-fields, wandering flocks
of Indian ponies, and herds of cattle browsing in the plain. Here also
is a Catholic Church, a neat building of brick, with belfry and bell;
connected with which is a convent of nuns, and by these is conducted
a Seminary for young ladies of some note. This institution--if the
Hibernian hostess of the little inn at which I dined is to be credited
in her statements--is the most flourishing establishment in all the
region far and near! and "_heducates_ the young _leddies_ in
everything but religion!" For the redoubtable _Tonish_, who whilom
figured so bravely on the prairies and in print, I made diligent
inquiry. His cottage--the best in the village--and a dirty little
brood of his posterity, were pointed out to me, but the old worthy
himself was, as usual, in the regions of the Rocky Mountains: when
last seen, he could still tell the stoutest lie with the steadiest
muscles of any man in the village, while he and his {249} hopeful son
could cover each other's trail so nicely that a lynx-eye would fail to
detect them. In the vicinity of Florissant is a settlement called
Owen's Station, formerly the site of a stoccade fort for defence
against the Indians, and of a Spanish _station_ on account of a fine
fountain in the vicinity.[162]
The direct route from St. Louis to Florissant is an excellent one,
over a high rolling prairie, and commands a noble sweep of scenery.
From several elevated points, the white cliffs beyond the American
Bottom, more than twenty miles distant, may be seen, while farmhouses
and villas are beheld in all directions gleaming through the groves.
Scenery of the same general character presents itself upon the direct
route to St. Charles, with the exception of steeper hills and broader
plains. Upon this route my path entered nearly at right angles soon
after leaving the French village. Upon the right shore of the
Missouri, not far above Florissant, is situated _La Charbonnière_, a
name given to a celebrated coal-bank in a bluff about two hundred feet
in altitude, and about twice as long.[163] The stratum of coal is
about a dozen feet in thickness, and lies directly upon the margin of
the river: the quantity in the bank is said to be immense, and it
contains an unusual proportion of bitumen. Iron ore has also been
discovered at this spot.
The road over the Missouri Bottom was detestable, as never fails to be
the case after a continued rain-storm, and my horse's leg sank to the
middle in the black, unctuous loam almost at every step. Upon either
side, like colonnades, rose up those {250} enormous shafts of living
verdure which strike the solitary traveller upon these unfrequented
bottoms with such awe and veneration; while the huge whirls of the
writhing wild-vine hung dangling, like gigantic serpents, from the
lofty columns around whose capitals they clung. On descending the
bluffs to the bottom, the traveller crosses a bed of limestone, in
which is said to exist a fissure perfectly fathomless. In a few
moments, the boiling, turbid floods of the Missouri are beheld rolling
majestically along at the feet, and to the stranger's eye, at first
sight, always suggesting the idea of _unusual_ agitation; but so have
they rolled onward century after century, age after age. The wild and
impetuous character of this river, together with the vast quantities
of soil with which its waters are charged, impart to it a natural
sublimity far more striking, at first view, than that of the
Mississippi. This circumstance was not unobserved by the Indian
tribes, who appropriately named it the "_Smoky Water_:" by others it
was styled the "_Mad River_," on account of the impetuosity of its
current; and in all dialects it is called the "_Mother of Floods_,"
indicative of the immense volume of its waters. Various causes have
been assigned for the turbid character of the Missouri: and though,
doubtless, heavily charged by the volumes of sand thrown into its
channel by the Yellow Stone--its longest tributary, equal to the
Ohio--and by the chalky clay of the White River, yet we are told that
it is characterized by the same phenomenon from its very source. At
the gates of the Rocky Mountains, where, having torn {251} for itself
a channel through the everlasting hills, it comes rushing out through
the vast prairie-plains at their base, it is the same dark, wild
torrent as at its turbid embouchure. And, strange to tell, after
roaming thousands of miles, and receiving into its bosom streams equal
to itself, and hundreds of lesser, though powerful tributaries, it
still retains, unaltered, in depth or breadth, that volume which at
last it rolls into its mighty rival! Torrent after torrent, river
after river, pour in their floods, yet the giant stream rolls
majestically onward unchanged! At the village of St. Charles its depth
and breadth is the same as at the Mandan villages, nearly two thousand
miles nearer its source.[164] The same inexplicable phenomenon
characterizes the Mississippi, and, indeed, all the great rivers of
the West; for _inexplicable_ the circumstance yet remains, however
plausible the theories alleged in explanation. With regard to the
Missouri, it is urged that the porous, sandy soil of its broad
alluvions absorbs, on the principle of capillary attraction, much of
its volume, conveying it by subterraneous channels to the Mississippi;
and of this latter stream it is asserted that large quantities of its
waters are taken up by the innumerable bayous, lakes, and lagoons
intersecting the lower region of its course; and thus, unperceived,
they find their way to the gulf.
The navigation of the Missouri is thought to be the most hazardous and
difficult of any of the Western rivers, owing to its mad, impetuous
current, to the innumerable obstructions in its bed, and the incessant
variation of its channel.[165] Insurance and pilotage {252} upon this
river are higher than on others; the season of navigation is briefer,
and steamers never pursue their course after dusk. Its vast length and
numerous tributaries render it liable, also, to frequent floods, of
which three are expected every year. The chief of these takes place in
the month of June, when the heaped-up snows of the Rocky Mountains are
melted, and, having flowed thousands of miles through the prairies,
reach the Mississippi. The ice and snows of the Alleghanies, and the
wild-rice lakes of the far Upper Mississippi, months before have
reached their destination, and thus a general inundation, unavoidable
had the floods been simultaneous, is prevented by Providence. The
alluvions of the Missouri are said to be higher than, and not so broad
as, those of the Mississippi; yet their extent is constantly varying
by the violence of the current, even more than those of the latter
stream. Many years ago the flourishing town of Franklin was completely
torn away from its foundations, and its inhabitants were forced to
flee to the adjacent heights; and the bottom opposite St. Charles and
at numerous other places has, within the few years past, suffered
astonishing changes.[166] Opposite the town now flow the waters of the
river where once stood farms and orchards.
The source of the Missouri and that of the Columbia, we are told, are
in such immediate proximity, that a walk of but a few miles will
enable the traveller to drink from the fountains of each. Yet how
unlike their destiny! One passes off through a region of boundless
prairie equal in extent to a {253} sixth of our globe; and, after a
thousand wanderings, disembogues its troubled waters into the Mexican
Gulf; the other, winding away towards the setting sun, rolls on
through forests untrodden by human footstep till it sleeps in the
Pacific Seas. Their destinies reach their fulfilment at opposite
extremes of a continent! How like, how very like are the destinies of
these far, lonely rivers to the destinies of human life! Those who, in
the beautiful starlight of our boyhood, were our schoolmates and
play-fellows, where are they when our sun of ripened maturity has
reached its meridian? and what, and where are they and we, when
evening's lengthening shadows are gathering over the landscape of
life? Our paths diverged but little at first, but mountains,
continents, half a world of waters may divide our destinies, and
opposite extremes of "the great globe itself" witness their
consummation. Yet, like the floods of the far-winding rivers, the
streams of our existences will meet again, and mingle in the
ocean--that ocean without a shore--_ETERNITY_!
The gates of the Rocky Mountains, through which the waters of the
Missouri rush forth into the prairies of the great Valley, are
described as one of the sublimest spectacles in nature. Conceive the
floods of a powerful mountain-torrent compressed in mid career into a
width of less than one hundred and fifty yards, rushing with the speed
of "the wild horse's wilder sire" through a chasm whose vast walls of
Nature's own masonry rear themselves on either side from the raging
waters to the precipitous {254} height of twelve hundred perpendicular
feet; and then consider if imagination can compass a scene of darker,
more terrible sublimity! And then sweep onward with the current, and
within one hundred miles you behold a cataract, next to Niagara, from
all description grandest in the world. Such are some of the mighty
features of the stream upon which I was now standing.
As to the much disputed question which of the great streams of the
West is entitled to the name of the _Main River_, I shall content
myself with a brief statement of the arguments alleged in support of
the pretensions of either claimant. The volume of the Missouri at the
confluence far exceeds that of its rival; the length of its course and
the number and magnitude of its tributaries are also greater, and it
imparts a character to the united streams. On the other hand, the
Mississippi, geographically and geologically considered, is the grand
Central River of the continent, maintaining an undeviating course from
north to south; the valley which it drains is far more extensive and
fertile than that of the Missouri; and from the circumstance of
having first been explored, it has given a name to the great river of
the Western Valley which it will probably ever retain, whatever the
right. "_Sed non nostrum tantas componere lites._"
_St. Charles, Mo._