testimony of the speed-indicator to convince us that we were making
thirty-five miles per hour. We had passed the huge Exposition building
at our left, flitted by the picturesque village of Littleton, with its
neat stone depot and white flouring-mills, and were approaching Acequia
(which you must pronounce A-sáy-ke-a) along a shelving embankment
overlooking the Platte. Away to the west and across the valley, we could
discern a yellow band, which the Photographer explained was the new
canal under construction by an English company, and which was intended
to convey the water of the Platte, from a point far up its cañon, to
Denver. The canal or ditch here emerges from the mountains and bears
away to the southward for some distance, until it nears Plum Creek,
crossing which, by means of an aqueduct, it turns sharply to the
northward, and _apparently climbs_ the higher table-lands in the
direction of Denver. As observed from the car window the anomaly seems
indisputable, the deception of course being attributable to the
ascending grade of the railway. This is one of several cases in the
State which will be pointed out, by old-timers to new-comers, as
veritable instances where water runs up hill.
The valleys of Plum Creek and its branches are of good width, and
hollowed out of the modern deposits so as to form beautiful and fertile
lands, while on each side a terrace extends down from the mountains,
like a lawn. Following up the main valley we reach Castle Rock, with its
immense hay ranches and fortress-butte, and beyond is Larkspur, named
after one of the most striking of the plains birds. Thence the run is
through a section of billowy plains or depressed foot-hills, up a steady
ninety-feet grade to the Divide, in whose vicinity we encounter a
succession of high buttes and mesas, the lower portions being composed
of sandstone, while the tops are of igneous rock or lava. These
constantly suggest artificial forms of towers, castles and
fortifications, in some places rising nearly a thousand feet above the
railway. Not infrequently the cliffs are so regularly disposed that it
is hard to believe them merely natural formations. The entire scenery of
this great ridge, and extending far out into the plains, is of an unique
and interesting character. Near the summit there are remarkable
evidences of its having been the coast-line of an ancient sea. The
streams which rise on the northern slope of this watershed find their
way into the Platte, while those on the southern declivity flow into the
Arkansas. The Divide has a good covering of pines, often arranged by
nature with park-like symmetry, and forming a charming contrast with the
bare but beautifully colored cliffs. This region has been a chief
source of Denver's lumber supply, and the timber tract is estimated to
contain about 70,000 acres.
[Illustration: IN QUEEN'S CAÑON.]
On the Divide is a beautiful sheet of water, known as Palmer Lake from
which is derived a large quantity of the purest ice. Here a novel and
attractive depot has been erected by the railway company, and extensive
improvements, including a dancing pavilion and summer hotel, cottages
and boat-houses, have been made. In the hottest seasons the temperature
is always cool and invigorating, and no spot within accessible distance
is so well adapted for an economical and delightful resort for
Denverites. On the southern face of the hill the rock-formations break
out into still more marked resemblances to ruined castles, showing
moats, arches and turrets. It follows that our Artist was enraptured
with the romantic features of the place, and the Photographer insisted
on taking out his camera and getting at work. One of his results,
Phebe's Arch, is contributed to the pictorial fund of this volume. The
descent from the Divide is rapid, and our attention is absorbed by the
swiftly changing panorama. Close by are the mountains--their snowy
pyramids holding entranced your eyes from far, far out on the plains.
"In variety and harmony of form," said Bayard Taylor of them: "in effect
against the dark blue sky, in breadth and grandeur, I know of no
external picture of the Alps which can be placed beside it. If you could
take away the valley of the Rhone, and unite the Alps of Savoy with the
Bernese Oberland, you might obtain a tolerable idea of this view of the
Rocky Mountains." Pike's Peak is constantly in sight, and every curve in
the steel road presents it in a different aspect.
Presently we find ourselves on the bank of Monument Creek, pass the
station of the same name, and soon encounter a series of small basins,
and side valleys, green-carpeted and with gently sloping and wooded
sides.
"Observe those odd rocks!" suddenly exclaims the Madame. "Notice how,
all along the bluff, stand rows of little images, like the carved
figure-friezes of the Parthenon; and how those great isolated rocks have
been left like the discarded and broken furniture of Gog and Magog."
"Yes," I say, "but the tone of your imagery is low. Long, long ago a
higher sentiment called them 'monuments,' and this whole illy-defined
region of grotesquely-cut sandstones, Monument Park."
And then we all fall into a discussion of the process of formation of
these quaint obelisks, which is interrupted by the Artist.
"Here is some pertinent testimony in Ludlow's admirable book, the 'Heart
of the Continent,' which by your leave I will read to you. Ready?"
"Fire away!" we reply, and do the same with our cigars, making a treaty
of amity in the blaze of a mutual match.
"'I ascended one of the most practicable hills among the number crowned
by sculpturesque formations. The hill was a mere mass of sand and débris
from decayed rocks, about a hundred feet high, conical, and bearing on
its summit an irregular group of pillars. After a protracted
examination, I found the formation to consist of a peculiar friable
conglomerate, which has no precise parallel in any of our Eastern
strata. Some of the pillars were nearly cylindrical, others were long
cones; and a number were spindle-shaped, or like a buoy set on end. With
hardly an exception, they were surmounted by capitals of remarkable
projection beyond their base. These I found slightly different in
composition from the shafts. The conglomerate of the latter was an
irregular mixture of fragments from all the hypogene rocks of the range,
including quartzose pebbles, pure crystals of silex, various crystalline
sandstones, gneiss, solitary horn-blende and feldspar, nodular iron
stones, rude agates and gun-flint; the whole loosely cemented in a
matrix composed of clay, lime (most likely from the decomposition of
gypsum), and red oxide of iron. The disk which formed the largely
projecting capital seemed to represent the original diameter of the
pillar, and apparently retained its proportions in virtue of a much
closer texture and larger per cent. of iron in its composition. These
were often so apparent that the pillars had a contour of the most rugged
description, and a tinge of pale cream yellow, while the capitals were
of a brick-dust color, with excess of red oxide, and nearly as uniform
in their granulation as fine millstone-grit. The shape of these
formations seemed, therefore, to turn on the comparative resistance to
atmospheric influences possessed by their various parts. Many other
indications ... led me to narrow down all the hypothetical agencies
which might have produced them, to a single one,--_air_, in its chemical
or mechanical operations, and usually in both.... One characteristic of
the Rocky Mountains is its system of vast indentations, cutting through
from the top to the bottom of the range. Some of these take the form of
funnels, others are deep, tortuous galleries known as passes or cañons;
but all have their openings toward the plains. The descending masses of
air fall into these funnels or sinuous canals, as they slide down,
concentrating themselves and acquiring a vertical motion. When they
issue from the mouth of the gorge at the base of the range, they are
gigantic augers, with a revolution faster than man's cunningest
machinery, and a cutting-edge of silex, obtained from the first sand
heap caught up by their fury. Thus armed with their own resistless
motion and an incisive thread of the hardest mineral next to the
diamond, they sweep on over the plains to excavate, pull down, or carve
in new forms, whatever friable formation lies in their way.'"
By this time Colorado Springs was at hand, and as we had decided, like
all other sensible people who come to Colorado, to sojourn awhile there
and at Manitou, our cars were side-tracked. And while Amos betook
himself to the preparation of our evening meal, we admired the gorgeous
sunset, and disposed our effects for the first night out.
* * * * *
Henry Ward Beecher once said that while the new birth was necessary to a
true Christian life, it was very important that one be born well the
first time. Colorado Springs was born well. It was organized on the
colony plan, and the first stake was driven in July, 1871. Intelligent
and far-seeing men were leaders of the enterprise, and in no way was
their sagacity more apparent than in the insertion, in every deed of
transfer, of a clause prohibiting, upon pain of forfeiture, the sale or
manufacture of alcoholic beverages on the premises conveyed. This
temperance clause was introduced by General W. J. Palmer, the president
of the colony, who during his services as engineer of railway
extensions, had observed the destruction which the unrestrained traffic
in intoxicants worked to life and property. It was not sentiment, but a
sound business precaution, as the result has proved. Of course this
provision has been contested, but it has been legally sustained, and has
given the town the best moral tone of any in Colorado. The location was
also wisely chosen, broad and regular streets were carefully laid out, a
system of irrigation established, thousands of trees planted, and
reservations for parks set aside. Some of the avenues running north and
south might with propriety be designated boulevards, being 140 feet in
width, with double roadways separated by parallel rows of trees. Other
trees shade the walks at either side, and at their roots flow rapid
streamlets of clearest water. The drives are smooth and hard, and the
soil never becomes muddy, the moisture penetrating rapidly through the
light gravelly loam. The gentle inclination southward renders drainage a
very simple matter.
Seen from the railway, the town appears to be located upon a
considerable elevation. In fact it stands upon a plateau in the midst of
a valley. The thirty-five miles of streets and avenues are closely lined
with substantial business blocks, pretentious residences, or tasty
cottages. The pink and white stone of the Manitou quarries is largely
used; and pent-roofs, ornamental gables, red chimneys, and the whole
category of _renaissance_ peculiarities, have representation in the
architecture. The dwellers in these abodes are principally of the
cultured and refined classes. Invalids from the intellectual centers of
the East find health and congenial society here, while numbers of
opulent mine owners and stockmen make the Springs their winter home.
[Illustration]
The public buildings are all creditable; the Deaf-Mute Institute,
Colorado College, the churches and schools being specially noteworthy.
The Opera House is a veritable _bijou_, handsome and convenient in all
its appointments, and with a single exception not surpassed west of the
Missouri. The new hotel, The Antlers, erected at a cost of over
$125,000, is of stone, and is without doubt the most artistic and
elegant structure of its kind in the State. It occupies a sightly
position at the edge of the plateau, and from its balconies and verandas
a marvelous and most inspiring view is presented. The foothills lie
along the west, about five miles distant, the massive outlines of
Cheyenne Mountain a little to the left, and the huge red towers that
mark the gateway to the Garden of the Gods lifting their crests over the
Mesa at the right, while above them all is reared the snow-crowned
summit of Pike's Peak. To the north, is seen in the foreground the gray
shoulders of the buttes, and in the distance the dark pine-covered
elevation of the Divide. Easterly the land rises gently in a gray,
grass-clad plain, until it cuts the blue horizon with a level line;
while southward the mountains trend away, purple in the distance.
Colorado Springs lies under the shadow of Pike's Peak; and in the short
autumn days the sun drops out of sight behind the mountain with
startling suddenness at four o'clock. Then come the cool shadows, when
fires have to be replenished, and doors and windows closed. From ten
o'clock until the sun hides behind the hills, the blue skies, the soft
breezes, the grateful warmth, suggest that month in which, if ever, come
perfect days. The June roses are absent but the days are as rare as a
day in June. The average temperature here is sixty degrees, and there
are about three hundred days of sunshine in the year.
Within a radius of ten miles about the Springs are to be found more
"interesting, varied and famous scenic attractions than in any similar
compass the country over," we are told by the guide, and we are quite
ready to believe when they are recounted. A drive of three miles across
the Mesa, with its magnificent mountain view, brings you to Glen Eyrie,
the secluded home of General Palmer, originator of the Denver and Rio
Grande railway. "At the entrance you pass a little lodge--a sonnet in
architecture, if one may so express it--the small but perfect rendering
of a harmonious thought; you cross and recross a rushing, tumbling
mountain brook over a dozen different bridges, some rustic, some of
masonry, but each a gem in design and fitness; then at last, after the
mind is properly tuned, as it were, to perfect accord, the full symphony
bursts upon you. In the shadow of the eternal rock, with the wonderful
background of mountains, surrounded by all that art can lend nature, is
this delicious anachronism of a Queen Anne house, in sage-green and deep
dull red, with arched balconies under pointed gables, and carved
projections over mullioned windows, and trellised porches, with stained
glass loopholes and an avalanche of roofs." A little distance from the
house strange forms of red sandstone lift their heads far above the
foliage, like a file of genii marching down on solemn mission from their
abodes in mountain caves, while on the ledges of the gray bluffs
opposite the eagles have built their nests. Farther up the Glen, and yet
a part of it, is Queen's Cañon, a most rugged gorge, in which the
wildness of nature has been for the most part unopposed. The same
turbulent brook comes dashing down, in a series of cascades and rapids,
from the Devil's Punch-Bowl, near the head of the Cañon. Rustic bridges
cross it near the foot, one of which is made the subject of an
engraving; but soon the pathway breaks into a mere trail, which leads
over boulders and fallen tree-trunks, or clings to precipitous cliffs
which tower high overhead.
One mile north of Glen Eyrie is Blair Athol, with its exquisitely tinted
pink sandstone pillars; while about the same distance to the south is
the Garden of the Gods, which it seems, however, more proper to classify
with Manitou's environs. Five miles northeasterly from the Springs are
Austin's Bluffs, and a few miles west of these, Monument Park. Nearer
by, and due west, are the Red and Bear Creek Cañons. An excellent way of
reaching Pike's Peak is by the Cheyenne Mountain toll road, which
terminates in a good trail passing the Seven Lakes. The Cheyenne Cañons,
at the northern base of the mountain of the same name, are greatly
frequented, and justly rank high in the category. They are two in
number.
South Cheyenne Cañon is full of surprises. "The vulgar linear measure of
its length is out of harmony with the winding path over rocks, between
straight pines, and across the rushing waters of the brook that boils
down the whole rocky cut. The stream, tossing over its rough bed and
dropping into sandy pools, drives one from side to side of the narrow
passage-way for foothold. Eleven times one crosses it, by stepping from
one rolling and uncertain stone to another, by balancing across the
lurching trunk of a felled tree, or by dams of driftwood; and, finally,
skirting a huge boulder that juts out into the water, and jumping from
rock to rock, the head of the Cañon is reached. The narrow gorge ends in
a round well of granite, down one side of which leaps, slides, foams and
rushes a series of waterfalls. Seven falls in line drop the water from
the melted snow above into this cup. Looking from below, one sees (as in
our illustration) only three, that, starting down the last almost
perpendicular wall and striking ledges in the rock, and oblique
crevices, send their jet shooting in a curved spray to the pool. In this
deep hollow only the noonday sun ever shines, and a narrow bank of snow
lies against one side in the shadow of the cliff. Going up the Cañon,
with the roar of the waters ahead and the wild path before one, the
loftiness and savage wildness of the walls catch only a dizzying glance,
but coming out, their sides seem to touch the heavens and to be
measureless. The eye can hardly take in the vast height, and with the
afternoon sun touching only the extreme tops, one realizes in what a
crevice and fissure of the rocks the Cañon winds. Across the widest
place between the walls a girl could throw a stone, and from that it
narrows even more. The cool, dim light down at the base contrasts
strangely with the red blaze that reflects from the top of the high
walls; and emerging from one group of pine trees, a turn in the Cañon
confronts one with a whole wall of sandstone burning in the intense
sunlight. A comparison between this and the Via Mala and the other wild
gorges of the Alps is impossible, but had legend and history and poetry
followed it for centuries, South Cheyenne Cañon would have its great
features acknowledged. Let a ruined tower stand at its entrance, whence
robber knights had swooped down upon travelers and picked out the teeth
of wealthy Hebrews; let a nation fight for its liberty through its
chasm; and then let my Lord Byron turn loose the flood of his imagery
upon it. After all, its wildness and untouched solitude are most
impressive; and without history, save of the seasons, or sound, save of
the wind, the water and the eagles, centuries have kept it for the small
world that knows it now." So discourses a very charming lady writer.
[Illustration: IN NORTH CHEYENNE CAÑON.]
North Cheyenne Cañon is scarcely less interesting, though less widely
known. Its beauty is of a milder type, the walls advancing and
retreating, and anon breaking into gaily-colored pinnacles on which the
sunlight plays in strange freaks of light and shade. The little brook
winds like a silver band beside the path, encircling the boulders which
it cannot leap, and all the while singing softly to the rhythm of
swaying vines. The birds chirp in unison as they skip from rock to rock,
and in the harmony and essence of the scene all are subdued--save the
Artist, whose deft pencil cannot weary in so much loveliness. When words
fail, it is fortunate he is at hand to rescue writer and reader alike.
It was during our stay at Colorado Springs we made acquaintance with the
burro. It is the nightingale of Colorado; its range of voice is limited,
consisting indeed of only two notes; but the amount of eloquence, the
superb quality, the deep resonance and flexible sinuosity which can be
thrown by this natural musician into such a small compass are
tremendous. As they lope down the street, the larboard ear in air, while
the starboard droops limply, the long tapir-like nose quivering with the
mighty volume of sound which is pouring through it, the sloping Chinese
eyes looking at you sideways with the lack-lustre expression of their
race, and an artistic kick thrown in occasionally to produce the tremolo
that adds the last touch of grace to the ringing voice, you are
overwhelmed.
We betook ourselves to the train one evening, after our by no means
thorough exploration of the neighborhood, and began our preparations for
a few days' absence at Manitou. It was only five miles away, and we had
decided not to take our cars up. Retiring early, we fell asleep to dream
of new pleasures, for which our appetites were already whetted.
III
A MOUNTAIN SPA.
... And the ray
Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday,
Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers,
And shining in the brawling brook, whereby,
Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours
With a calm languor, which, though to the eye
Idlesse it seem, hath its morality.
--PETRARCH.
As well omit the Lions of St. Mark from a visit to Venice, as to pass by
Manitou in a tour of Colorado. Manitou, the sacred health-fountains of
Indian tradition, the shrine of disabled mountaineers, the "Saratoga" of
the Rockies.
Leaving Colorado Springs, a branch of the railway swings gracefully
around the low hills in which the Mesa terminates, and points for the
gap in the mountains directly to the west. Nearly three miles from the
junction we pass the driving park, and immediately after run up to
Colorado City, the first capital of the Territory, and now a quiet
little hamlet, whose chief industry is the production of much beer.
Recalling the temperance proclivities of the Springs, it is
unfortunately not strange that a drive to Colorado City in the long
summer evenings should prove so attractive to the ardent youth of
untamed blood. Then the road passes into the clusters of cottonwoods and
willows which fringe the brook, crossing, recrossing, and dashing
through patches of sunlight, whence the huge colored pinnacles in the
Garden of the Gods are descried over the broken hills at the right. It
is a striking ride, and curiously the location of the railway has not
been allowed to mar its native beauty. Describing the contour of a
projecting foothill, we obtain our first glimpse of Manitou, with its
great hotels, its cut-stone cottages, and its picturesque station. Just
across the way, and in the lowest depression of the narrow vale, is a
charming villa, embowered in shrubbery, with quaint gables and porches,
and phenomenal lawns and flower-beds. It is the home of Dr. W. A. Bell,
for years vice-president of the Denver and Rio Grande railway.
The village itself is grouped in careless ease along the steep and bushy
slopes of the valley, straggling about and abounding in miniature
chalets, precisely as a mountain village ought to do. The
Fontaine-qui-Bouille, full of the sprightliness of its youth in Ute
Pass, and its escapade at Rainbow Falls, comes dashing and splashing,
and singing its happy song:
"I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles;
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles."
[Illustration: A GLIMPSE OF MANITOU AND PIKE'S PEAK.]
Down close to this frolicsome, icy-cold stream, are built the larger
hotels, the Beebee and Manitou, surrounded by groves of cottonwood,
aspen, wild cherry and box elder. They are cheery, clean, homelike, and
handsomely furnished. The broad piazzas afford the finest views of
Pike's Peak, Cameron's Cone, and their _confreres_. Here gather the
"beauty and chivalry" of many climes, and in the long, soft evenings,
devoid of dew or moisture, the cozy nooks offer the seclusion for--we
had nearly said, flirtation--or cool refuge from the heated
dancing-hall. Rustic bridges cross the brook, leading into a labyrinth
of shade and on up to the crags behind. At the rear of the hotels,
Lover's Lane, a most romantic ramble, starts out in a half-mile maze
through arbors, and flowering shrubs, and over little precipices, for
the springs. Beside the path, and in out of-the-way spots among the
bushes, are alluring seats, only large enough for two, where you may
sit, while at your feet the selfsame brooklet murmurs: