"Say, ancient edifice, thyself with years
Grown gray, how long upon the hill has stood
Thy weather-braving tower?"
HURDIS.
"An _honourable_ murder, if you will;
For naught he did in hate, but all in honour."
"The whole broad earth is beautiful
To minds attuned aright."
ROBT. DALE OWEN.
The view of St. Charles from the opposite bank of the Missouri is a
fine one. The turbid stream rolls along the village nearly parallel
with the interval upon which it is situated. A long line of neat
edifices, chiefly of brick, with a few ruinous old structures of logs
and plastering, relics of French or Spanish taste and domination,
extend along the shore; beyond these, a range of bluffs rear
themselves proudly above the village, crowned with their academic hall
and a neat stone church, its spire surmounted by the cross. Between
these structures, upon a spot somewhat more elevated, appears the
basement section of "a stern round tower of former days," now a ruin;
and, though a very peaceable {10} pile of limestone and mortar,
well-fitted in distant view to conjure up a host of imaginings: like
Shenstone's Ruined Abbey, forsooth,
"Pride of ancient days;
Now but of use to grace a rural scene,
Or bound our vistas."
The history of the tower, if tower it may be styled, is briefly
this.[167] During the era of Spanish rule in this region, before its
cession to France half a century since, this structure was erected as
a watch-tower or magazine. Subsequently it was dismantled, and
partially fell to ruins, when the novel project was started to plant a
_windmill_ upon the foundation. This was done; but either the wind was
too high or too low, too frequent or too rare, or neither; or there
was no corn to grind, or the projector despaired of success, or some
other of the fifty untoward circumstances which suggest themselves
came to pass; the windmill ere long fell to pieces, and left the old
ruin to the tender mercies of time and tempest, a monument of chance
and change.
The evening of my arrival at St. Charles I strolled off at about
sunset, and, ascending the bluffs, approached the old ruin. The walls
of rough limestone are massively deep, and the altitude cannot now be
less than twenty feet. The view from the spot is noble, and peculiarly
impressive at the sunset hour. Directly at your feet lies the village,
from the midst of which come up the rural sounds of evening; the
gladsome laugh of children at their sports; the whistle of the
home-plodding labourer; the quiet hum of gossips around the open
doors; {11} while upon the river's brink a huge steam-mill sends forth
its ceaseless "boom, boom" upon the still air. Beneath the village
ripples the Missouri, with a fine sweep both above and below the town
not unlike the letter S; while beyond the stream extends its
heavily-timbered bottom: one cluster of trees directly opposite are
Titanic in dimensions. Upon the summit of the bluff, in the shadow of
the ruin by your side, lies a sunken grave. It is the grave of a
_duellist_. Over it trail the long, melancholy branches of a weeping
willow. A neat paling once protected the spot from the wanderer's
footstep, but it is gone now; only a rotten relic remains. All is
still. The sun has long since gone down. One after another the evening
sounds have died away in the village at the feet, and one after
another the lights have twinkled forth from the casements. A fresh
breeze is coming up from the water; the rushing wing of the night-hawk
strikes fitfully upon the ear; and yonder sails the beautiful "boat of
light," the pale sweet crescent. On that crescent is gazing many a
distant friend! What a spot--what an hour to meditate upon the varying
destinies of life! I seated myself upon the foot of the grave, which
still retained some little elevation from the surrounding soil, and
the night-wind sighed through the trailing boughs as if a requiem to
him who slumbered beneath. _Requiescat in pace_, in no meaningless
ceremony, might be pronounced over him, for his end was a troubled
one. Unfortunate man! you have gone to your account; and that
tabernacle in which once burned a beautiful flame has long since been
mingling with the dust: {12} but I had rather be even as thou art,
cold in an unhonoured grave, than to live on and wear away a miserable
remnant of existence, that "guilty thing" with crimsoned hand and brow
besprinkled with blood. To drag out a weary length of days and nights;
to feel life a bitterness, and all its verdure scathed; to walk about
among the ranks of men a being
"Mark'd,
And sign'd, and quoted for a deed of shame;"
to feel a stain upon the palm which not all the waters of ocean could
wash away; a smell of blood which not all the perfumes of Arabia
could sweeten; ah! give me death rather than this! That the custom of
duelling, under the present arrangements of society and code of
honour, in some sections of our country, is necessary, is more than
problematical; that its practice will continue to exist is certain;
but, when death ensues, "'tis the surviver dies."
The stranger has never, perhaps, stood upon the bluffs of St. Charles
without casting a glance of anxious interest upon that lone, deserted
grave; and there are associated with its existence circumstances of
melancholy import. Twenty years ago, he who lies there was a young,
accomplished barrister of superior abilities, distinguished rank, and
rapidly rising to eminence in the city of St. Louis. Unhappily, for
words uttered in the warmth of political controversy, offence was
taken; satisfaction demanded; a meeting upon that dark and bloody
ground opposite the city ensued; and poor B---- fell, in the sunshine
of his spring, lamented by all {13} who had known him. Agreeable to
his request in issue of his death, his remains were conveyed to this
spot and interred. Years have since rolled away, and the melancholy
event is now among forgotten things; but the old ruin, beneath whose
shadow he slumbers, will long remain his monument; and the distant
traveller, when he visits St. Charles, will pause and ponder over his
lonely grave.[168]
"But let no one reproach his memory.
His life has paid the forfeit of his folly,
Let that suffice."
Ah! the valuable blood which has steeped the sands of that steril
island in the Mississippi opposite St. Louis! Nearly thirty years ago
a fatal encounter took place between Dr. F. and Dr. G., in which the
latter fell: that between young B. and a Mr. C. I have alluded to,
and several other similar combats transpired on the spot at about the
same time. The bloody affair between Lieutenants Biddle and Pettis,
and that between Lucas and Benton, are of more recent date, and, with
several others, are familiar in the memory of all. The spot has been
fitly named "Murder" or "Blood Island."[169] Lying in the middle of
the stream, it is without the jurisdiction of either of the adjoining
states; and deep is the curse which has descended upon its shores!
{14} The morning star was beaming beautifully forth from the blue
eastern heavens when I mounted my horse for a visit to that celebrated
spot, "_Les Mamelles_." A pleasant ride of three miles through the
forest-path beneath the bluffs brought me at sunrise to the spot.
Every tree was wreathed with the wild rose like a rainbow; and the
breeze was laden with perfume. It is a little singular, the difficulty
with which visiters usually meet in finding this place. The Duke of
Saxe Weimar, among other dignitaries, when on his tour of the West
several years since, tells us that he lost his way in the
neighbouring prairie by pursuing the river road instead of that
beneath the bluffs. The natural eminences which have obtained the
appropriate appellation of Mamelles, from their striking resemblance
to the female breast, are a pair of lofty, conical mounds, from eighty
to one hundred feet altitude, swelling up perfectly naked and smooth
upon the margin of that celebrated prairie which owes to them a name.
So beautifully are they paired and so richly rounded, that it would
hardly require a Frenchman's eye or that of an Indian to detect the
resemblance designated, remarkable though both races have shown
themselves for bestowing upon objects in natural scenery significant
names. Though somewhat resembling those artificial earth-heaps which
form such an interesting feature of the West, these mounds are,
doubtless, but a broken continuation of the Missouri bluffs, which at
this point terminate from the south, while those of the Mississippi,
commencing at the same point, stretch away at right angles to the
west. {15} The mounds are of an oblong, elliptical outline, parallel
to each other, in immediate proximity, and united at the extremities
adjoining the range of highlands by a curved elevation somewhat less
in height. They are composed entirely of earth, and in their formation
are exceedingly uniform and graceful. Numerous springs of water gush
out from their base. But an adequate conception of these interesting
objects can hardly be conveyed by the pen; at all events, without
somewhat more of the quality of patience than chances to be the gift
of my own wayward instrument. In brief, then, imagine a huge _spur_,
in fashion somewhat like to that of a militia major, with the enormous
rowel stretching off to the south, and the heel-bow rounding away to
the northeast and northwest, terminated at each extremity by a vast
excrescence; imagine all this spread out in the margin of an extended
prairie, and a tolerably correct, though inadequate idea of the
outline of the Mamelles is obtained. The semicircular area in the bow
of the spur between the mounds is a deep dingle, choked up with
stunted trees and tangled underbrush of hazels, sumach, and
wild-berry, while the range of highlands crowned with forest goes back
in the rear. This line of heights extends up the Missouri for some
distance, at times rising directly from the water's edge to the height
of two hundred feet, rough and ragged, but generally leaving a
heavily-timbered bottom several miles in breadth in the interval, and
in the rear rolling off into high, undulating prairie. The bluffs of
the Mississippi extend to the westward in a similar {16} manner, but
the prairie interval is broader and more liable to inundation. The
distance from the Mamelles to the confluence of the rivers is, by
their meanderings, about twenty or thirty miles, and is very nearly
divided into prairie and timber. The extremity of the point is liable
to inundation, and its growth of forest is enormous.
The view from the summit of the Mamelles, as the morning sun was
flinging over the landscape his ruddy dyes, was one of eminent,
surpassing loveliness. It is celebrated, indeed, as the most beautiful
prairie-scene in the Western Valley, and one of the most romantic
views in the country. To the right extends the Missouri Bottom,
studded with farms of the French villagers, and the river-bank
margined with trees which conceal the stream from the eye. Its course
is delineated, however, by the blue line of bluffs upon the opposite
side, gracefully curving towards the distant Mississippi until the
trace fades away at the confluence. In front is spread out the lovely
Mamelle Prairie, with its waving ocean of rich flowers of every form,
and scent, and hue, while green groves are beheld swelling out into
its bosom, and hundreds of cattle are cropping the herbage. In one
direction the view is that of a boundless plain of verdure; and at
intervals in the deep emerald is caught the gleam from the glassy
surface of a lake, of which there are many scattered over the
peninsula. All along the northern horizon, curving away in a
magnificent sweep of forty miles to the west, rise the hoary cliffs of
the Mississippi, in the opposite state, like towers and castles; while
{17} the windings of the stream itself are betrayed by the heavy
forest-belt skirting the prairie's edge. It is not many years since
this bank of the river was perfectly naked, with not a fringe of wood.
Tracing along the bold façade of cliffs on the opposite shore,
enveloped in their misty mantle of azure, the eye detects the
embouchure of the Illinois and of several smaller streams by the
deep-cut openings. To the left extends the prairie for seventy miles,
with an average breadth of five from the river, along which, for most
of the distance, it stretches. Here and there in the smooth surface
stands out a solitary sycamore of enormous size, heaving aloft its
gigantic limbs like a monarch of the scene. Upward of fifty thousand
acres are here laid open to the eye at a single glance, with a soil of
exhaustless fertility and of the easiest culture.
The whole plain spread out at the foot of the Mamelles bears abundant
evidence of having once been submerged. The depth of the alluvion is
upward of forty feet; and from that depth we are told that logs,
leaves, coal, and a stratum of sand and pebbles bearing marks of the
attrition of running waters, have been thrown up. Through the middle
of the prairie pass several deep canals, apparently ancient channels
of the rivers, and which now form the bed of a long irregular lake
called _Marais Croche_; there is another lake of considerable extent
called _Marais Temps Clair_.[170] This beautiful prairie once, then,
formed a portion of that immense lake which at a remote period held
possession of the American Bottom; and at the base of the graceful
{18} Mamelles these giant rivers merrily mingled their waters, and
then rolled onward to the gulf. That ages have since elapsed, the
amazing depth of the alluvial and vegetable mould, and the ancient
monuments reposing upon some portions of the surface, leave no room
for doubt.[171] By heavy and continued deposites of alluvion, the vast
peninsula gradually rose up from the waters; the Missouri was forced
back to the bluff La Charbonnière, and the rival stream to the Piasa
cliffs of Illinois.
_St. Charles, Mo._