St. Louis.--Beautiful Residences.--Forest Park.--The Levee.--Alton.--
Old Friends.--Legend of the Piasa.--The Confluence of the Rivers.--The
Union Depot.--The Car of the International Correspondence Schools.--
Crossing the Bridge.
We reached St. Louis in the early morning hour, after a pleasant
night's rest on our good car "Lucania." The country approaching St.
Louis looks rich and luxuriant, with fine trees, and well-established
country places. The effect of an older culture was at once apparent, as
we approached this great city of the West.
Our car anchorage was in the magnificent Union Station, a very large
place, indeed, and excellently managed. Some of our party again took to
the street cars, and in that democratic fashion, saw much of the town.
At a later period in the day, some of us had a lovely carriage ride
through the best residential portion of the city.
We were more than surprised at the beautiful streets, lined with
spacious palaces, each in its own separate grounds. To a New Yorker's
eyes, this roominess of arrangement, was especially attractive.
Charming effects were produced by beautiful gardens in the middle of
certain secluded streets, with fountains and flowers, all kept in
beautiful order. The private grounds around the separate houses were in
like good shape. All looked sumptuous, and in the best possible taste.
To drive into one of these "Places" through the ornamental gates, and
see the richness of the central parterre, the well-kept streets at each
side, and the generous sidewalks and rich verdure surrounding the
houses, was a new sensation. The general verdict was, that even in New
York, there was nothing like that.
All this urban development is the work of the last fifteen or twenty
years. Such communal and united display was not the custom of the early
French settlers. They loved the enclosed privacy of their own grounds,
as in New Orleans, but times have changed, and the dwellers in St.
Louis have changed with them.
We drove also in Forest Park, a really beautiful place, with a
spaciousness truly magnificent.
Our stay in St. Louis was barely a day. We took a glimpse at the river
front, once a busy scene with its fleet of steamboats running from the
northwestern wilds, by way of the Missouri and its tributaries, and
down to the Gulf of Mexico, by way of the Mississippi. But the glory of
the steamboating days is gone forever. The iron horse now does the
greater part of the carrying trade, and great railroad bridges span the
Father of Waters at several points, and more are coming.
I took a little independent trip from St. Louis by rail, to Alton, on
the Illinois side. It just took three hours; one to get there, one
there, and one to return.
It was many long years since I resided in Alton, and it was with a sort
of fearfulness that I made the excursion. Would any one remember me?
Were my friends yet living? And so on. I crossed the great railroad
bridge over the Mississippi, and up on the east bank to Alton, which
lies just above the confluence of the two great rivers. I passed
through, on the Illinois side, what seemed a continuous series of
manufacturing settlements, all emphasizing the vast development of
industrial enterprises in the West.
On arriving at Alton, the changed aspect of all was most apparent. The
river front--where in old times I had seen the steamboats line up, and
watched their loading and unloading, picturesque by day or by night,
but especially attractive when seen under the glare of torches, and
enlivened by the songs of the negro hands--was now, almost, unused. The
railroad tracks dominated everything, down to the water's edge.
I wandered off at random through the streets, until I came to the old
familiar Alton Bank, which looked exactly the same. I entered to
inquire after friends, and as the clerk was obligingly giving me
information, I asked him if he knew a former clerk, Mr. W----, who was
there years before. "Oh, yes," said he; "he is now our president." By
this time a pleasant face looked fixedly at me, and, in a moment, an
outstretched hand grasped mine, and my old friend was calling me by
name, and we were once more young men again, when, in the old time,
music was our bond of fellowship, and all that that involves.
While we were speaking--the bank president and myself--a lady, with her
little girl, entered the office, and again my name was called. "I have
been following you in the street," she said. "I knew it must be you,
but I could scarcely believe my eyes." It was the daughter of a dear
friend of years long gone, and her daughter was by her side.
How lovely it all seemed to be thus recognized, and to bind together
afresh the ties of years that had fled!
But my hour in Alton was almost up. I could only look at the outside of
the dear old church where I once worshipped. My friend of the bank
brought me, to the train, as a little gift of remembrance, a book
called "Poems of the Piasa," by Frank C. Riehl. It contained also a
number of other kindred poems of Western life.
The Piasa was a dreadful, winged monster, which inhabited the banks of
the Mississippi at Alton in ages past. A note in the volume I received
might here be quoted. It is as follows:
"The region along the shores on both sides of the Mississippi,
between the points of the confluence of the Illinois and Missouri
rivers with the Father of Waters, is particularly rich in legendary
stories concerning the life and habits of the powerful tribes of
Indians who were the original owners of these fertile valley lands.
Along the bluffs on the Illinois side are numberless burial places
where the bones of thousands of 'the first Americans' repose, while
the valleys and prairie-stretches for some distance back from the
river, afford constant reminders of their presence and handiwork in
the dim ages of the past.
"From the time of the earliest frontier expeditions, this locality
has been conspicuous among the chronicles for the number and
peculiar charm of the folk-lore stories handed down from one
generation to another, and held in almost sacred reverence by the
Indians. And, among these, dating from the famous expedition of
Marquette, none is more striking and interesting than that of the
Piasa Bird. That this was more than a mere myth is attested by the
evidence of many early settlers, who got the story in minute detail
from the Indians themselves; and by the painting that remained upon
the face of the perpendicular bluffs within the present limits of
the city of Alton, until quarried away just about the close of the
first half of this century."
The Indian legend referred to is of a fearful, winged monster, who
swooped down upon his prey, making his aery on the great cliffs at
Alton. The tribes were in deadly terror of this great creature, whose
fearful power seized their bravest warriors, as well as their most
beautiful maidens, in his deadly talons. At last, a chief, named
Ouatoga, conceived the bold design to place himself in the way of the
monster, a sacrifice for the safety of his race; while twelve of the
best archers, should lie concealed near by, and slay the monster with
their united arrows, as he rose in air with his prey. This, the legend
says, was done, and a rude picture of the monster might be seen on the
bluffs at Alton until recent times.
I cannot help thinking, however, that the story is, after all, a myth
of the dreaded tornado so frequent in the West. I have a photograph of
such a storm, taken in Iowa, and the huge, involving clouds, spread out
like wings, and, the descending funnel or waterspout, reaching to the
earth, destroying all it touches, exactly resembles a huge monster
bird, in awful and sudden flight, devouring everything before it. The
discharge of the arrows at the monster, thus killing it, may be a hint
of the well-known fact, that any sudden impact upon a whirlwind, in its
funnel-shaped motion, will destroy its vibrations and hence its
progress. A rifle-shot, sent into a whirling dust pillar on the great
plains, will reduce the dreadful thing at once to a clatter of falling
dust and pebbles, and a dead heap of harmless stuff. So much for a
theory anyway.
I returned to St. Louis by the Missouri side, having with me my lady
friend and her little daughter. The route took us over the great
bridges which span the two rivers just above their confluence. It was
grand in its effect, to pass over two such great streams coming close
together from their distant sources, soon to mingle in one mighty
torrent, emptying itself more than a thousand miles away, into the Gulf
of Mexico.
It was all a sort of enchanted excursion, waking up many memories of a
past, so far removed from the present hour.
Our train brought us into the great Union Station, from which I had set
out three hours before.
While in this splendid station I had the good fortune to have a long
chat with the superintendent thereof. He tried to tell me, I should
say, he did tell me, of its wonderful construction, its great extent,
its complex machinery, its electrical appliances, its vast detail of
business. I have only an impression of the sweet gentleness which so
patiently explained all to me, and of the myriad ramifications which I
could see, could but dimly understand, and vaguely remember. He has my
thanks and grateful memory for his kindness.
We also saw in the St. Louis depot a thoroughly interesting American
affair. It was an educational car, run by two or three bright young
fellows, who quite captivated us by their intelligence and spirit. They
were occupying a beautiful private car, fitted up as an office and a
dwelling; and were travelling over the country in the interest of a
great institution called "The International Correspondence Schools." It
opened up before one a marvellous vista of business energy and splendid
results. A circular, which we brought away with us, stated that
instruction was given by this method in 42 courses, to some 40,000
students in 137 States and countries. The inside of the circular
contained ten headings, and each heading had four lines of detailed
information, looking like quatrains of poetry. I take at random one of
them, as a sample, under the heading