"I love not man the less, but nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal."
Renewed and refreshed from our long winter rest, with the migration of the
birds we winged our way westward, alighting in many a lovely locality in
the flourishing State of Iowa, whose soft undulations of prairies were now
swelling in billows of gorgeous green, and touched with the varied tints
of flowery bloom.
Our last resting place was in Council Bluffs, so celebrated for the
grandeur of its location at the foot of the beetling bluffs of the
Missouri River, and for its flourishing and progressive spirit, aside from
which it holds a place in our historic annals dating back to aboriginal
days. When this century was in its early infancy, and the shadowy dawn of
our young nation was still wrapt in the mists which enshrouded its first
struggling efforts; when the little far-away fur station of Astoria, near
the whispering waves of the Pacific coast, held not the mellowing memories
of time or the living light with which the genius of an Irving has since
invested it; when the great explorers, Lewis and Clarke, were leaving
their foot-prints on the land bordering the Columbia River, they held a
council with the Red Man at Kanesville, Iowa, ever since known as "Council
Bluffs."
Thence we went to Omaha, which is one of the most flourishing places in
Nebraska, and from the improvised post-office of early days, the "plug"
hat of Mr. Jones, its first post-master, has grown the large distributing
office of the department.
It was also a military post and winter garrison for our troops in
transitu, its cheerful barracks, well-kept roads and clean parade ground
converting it into a favorite drive and walk, where resort many strangers
to witness the dress parade of "The Boys in Blue."
The Platte River Valley is well known to most of my readers from its
romantic association with the struggles of the vast army of emigrants, who
not only braved the dangers of its uncertain fords and deceitful
quicksands, but the tomahawk and scalp knife, ofttimes leaving a nameless
grave beside its waters; and, were it not for a laughable incident in this
connection, I would pass it by unnoticed.
There are so many heroes of the Don Quixote school, who are so brave in
fighting wind-mills, who, in time of peace, are "soldiers armed with
resolution," but in the real conflict what Shakspeare designates as
"soldiers and afeard." There was in our train a young prig, who "played
the braggart with his tongue," telling of his brave exploits, like a very
Othello recounting the "dangers he passed," ending with a defiant show of
how he should act in the event of an attack from marauding Indians, to
which the trains were at that time so subject, after which he fell into a
profound slumber, resting upon his imaginary laurels. While he slept the
train had changed conductors, and it became necessary to see his ticket.
This new official passing by, and finding himself unable to arouse the
snoring sleeper by ordinary means, gave him a lusty shake, whereupon our
hero gave a hideous yell of "Indians! Indians!" his lips quivering and his
frame palsied with fear. The sound was so startling that the affrighted
passengers imagined themselves for the moment in the merciless grasp of a
band of Red Men.
The conductor gave this quaking coward another energetic shake and an
imperious demand for "your ticket, sir!" and the quondam man of war
"smoothed his wrinkled front," and humbly subsided into a semblance of
sleep, while the conductor was no doubt astonished at the loud laughter
that followed a brief silence, during which the passengers recovered their
composure, and realized the full ludicrousness of the incident. In my
experience in life I have met a great many people who were ready to tell
what they would have done "had they been there;" but this priggish gascon
was the first I had ever seen put to the test, and I believe him to be a
fair sample of that smart class who could, if you take their words for it,
have done better on any given occasion than those whom the occasion found
"there."
Emerging from the Platte Valley, we realized the fact that we were fairly
on our way to the far West, ready to take in with insatiable avidity all
the immensity and grandeur of our territorial scenery.
Arriving at Cheyenne, we were surprised to find a comfortable
hotel-omnibus in waiting, and most of the concomitants of a metropolis,
notwithstanding the oft-expressed surprise and fear of friends at the
daring venture of two unprotected women in going alone to this lawless and
God-forsaken country.
Alas for the demoralizing influence of so-called civilization! While in
the elegant counting-rooms of polished millionaires in more eastern
localities we had occasionally met with insults and snubs; in this place
of reputed "roughs" we received not one rebuff, and were greeted not
merely with respect, but with unbounded generosity. While we found rough
diamonds, they were diamonds nevertheless.
Over this city has since swept the tidal wave of reform, and a great
temperance awakening evoked by one of the great workers in that movement,
Mr. Page, who, with gentle yet royal mandate, has said to the many
"troubled waters," with their sad wrecks of human souls--"peace! be
still!"
We find it vain to depict by our feeble word-painting the many-hued,
many-voiced phases nature assumes in this almost boundless domain, and the
yet untold, undeveloped depths of our territorial resources. Mountains
looming up in imperial grandeur, their snow-crowned summits melting into
cloud and sky; weird cañons, in which the whispered words of worship from
a myriad devotees seem to echo and re-echo through their dark depths;
giant trees:
"The murmuring pines and hemlock,
Bearded with moss and in garments of green,
Indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of Eld,
With voices sad and prophetic."
Among the many military posts Fort Bridger, named for the famous trapper
and guide of oft-written and oft-told fame, is also renowned as one of the
posts of our gallant frontier officer, Albert Sydney Johnston, who won his
first laurels amid the first Mormon troubles, and gallantly fell at Shiloh
early in the Civil War.
Many of the most romantic places have been named for some fair maiden of
the pioneer families, as Maggie's Creek, Susan's Valley, etc., while one
of the most noted and poetic spots is known as "The Maiden's Grave," the
once rude resting place of a gentle girl, whose remains were left there by
her mourning friends on their way to their home on the Pacific Slope. It
was afterwards found by a party of graders on the railway, and these rough
but sympathetic men erected a fitting mausoleum of solid masonry,
surmounted by a pure white cross of stone, whose symmetrical proportions
are prominently visible to every traveler upon the Union Pacific Railroad.
One of the most interesting objects to me was the "Thousand Mile Tree,"
whose towering height I could imagine and long to behold as described to
me by my companion and friend, its strange isolation sending a peculiar
thrill of loneliness through the heart of one who was fifteen hundred
miles from home. This old tree, through some strange freak of nature,
stood a solitary sentinel, a guide-post of nature to tell the traveler he
was a thousand miles from Omaha.
As we neared Weber River our well known and popular conductor came into
the cars, and in a voice of deep, rich melody, sang the words of the then
favorite song:
"Yes, we will gather at the river.
The beautiful, the beautiful river;
Gather with the Saints at the river,
That flows by the throne of God."
The passengers, as we neared the kingdom of the Saints, catching the
magnetism of his song, joined in the sweet refrain until it swelled into a
soaring, reverberating harmony.
We reached Ogden City just as the sun was setting in royal hues, and
repaired at once to the White House, the only gentile hotel in the place.