PART II.

LETTER No. VII.

On board the "Cunardia"—Small troubles—The Romance of a rickety old

chair—Arrival at New York—First acquaintance with katydids.

_New York, Sept., 1885._

"In travelling by land," says Washington Irving, "there is a continuity

of scene and a connected succession of persons and incidents that lessen

the effect of absence and separation.... But a wide sea-voyage severs us

at once. It makes us conscious of being cast loose from the secure

anchorage of settled life, and sent adrift upon a doubtful world. It

interposes a gulf not merely imaginary, but real, between us and our

homes—a gulf subject to tempest and fear and uncertainty, rendering

distance palpable, and return precarious!"

That is just what I felt and thought, but could not find words to

express so eloquently, "as I saw the last blue line of my native land

fade away like a cloud in the horizon." Notwithstanding the fact that

the broad Atlantic is now bridged over by seven-days' steamers, and

linked to its Eastern and Western shores by submarine cables, as it was

not in the Knickerbocker days, the solution of continuity seemed to me

as real when I saw the last bit of rock as ever it was in that bygone

time.

If I were writing a book of travels I should perhaps be tempted to tell

you of all our little adventures in crossing the Atlantic. We had many

small troubles which at the time we thought large ones; but why should I

record such every-day occurrences? There was a time when we would have

given "a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground—long

heath, brown furze, anything." We had quite enough of the rough to

remind even the best of us that, when rolled and tossed in "the roaring

forties," "we're all poor creeters"—and again, we had enough of the

delightfully smooth to satisfy us that perhaps we are not such "poor

creeters" after all. We reached New York only ten hours after the usual

time.

One little story may be worth telling. On the fifth day out, when the

westerly gale had partly subsided, but while the weather was still muggy

and cold, I had been sitting on a rickety chair next to what seemed to

be a bundle of rugs. When I got up, a gust of wind tilted the chair

rather roughly against the bundle, and I then observed that it began to

move. I immediately turned to apologize to this living and moving

bundle. A pair of bright blue eyes peeped out, and a pleasant voice

explained to me that my unmannerly chair had been no inconvenience at

all. The bright eyes and pleasant voice were, as I soon found, the

property of a charming young lady, with whom I had a long chat, and we

soon became very good friends. Stress of weather had kept her a prisoner

below, and this was her first appearance in the upper regions. I, as you

know, am only an old "buffer," but my friend and travelling companion M.

is a bright young spark, with a heart like a tinder-box, and when he

came round and I had introduced him, he was at once smitten with the

charms which had gradually unfolded themselves from the rugs. Soon

afterwards my friend M. introduced (though I think with somewhat jealous

misgivings) another young acquaintance; and this fine fellow at once

fell a victim to the fascinations which had already fluttered M.'s

susceptible heart.

It was amusing enough to such an old fellow as I to watch the antics of

these young people. We supped together, and we paraded the deck. When we

reached New York, our hotels being within a stone's throw of each other,

we frequently met.

M., whose chivalry at least equalled his infatuation, suppressed his own

ardour in favour of his friend's. They went to the theatre together,

they supped at Delmonico's, and in two days the young and happy couple

were engaged to be married. I don't think I shall betray any special

confidence when I add that the young lady was on her way with her

brother to her native home at the Antipodes, and that the successful

smitten one was a wealthy _ranchero_ of the Far West. When the happy

secret was confided to me I gave them my paternal blessing and we all

separated—he hastening off to his hunting grounds to sell his immense

stock of cattle and sheep, and then to meet his young _fiancée_ and her

brother at San Francisco, thence to proceed together to Australia to

settle affairs with "papa."

This little episode, probably not an uncommon one on board ship, though

quite new to me, I will call "_The Romance of a Rickety Old Chair_."

The heat was so oppressive when we arrived at New York, that we were

well pleased to accept the kind invitation of a friend to spend a night

at his pleasant residence on the Sound.

Here it was that I first heard, and was gradually lulled to sleep by the

incessant singing of little green katydids in the surrounding trees.

What a curious monody their combined song makes! It varies the note, as

it seemed to me, to something like this:—

Katy-did, Katy-did, Katy-didn't,

Katy-_did_, Katy-didn't, Katy-_did_,

Katy-_didn't_, Katy-did, Katy-didn't.

Such was the unchanging song of myriads of these little creatures for

hours at a time; and to this was added the chirping of grasshoppers and

locusts, and a perpetual accompaniment of the shrill little shriek of

tree-toads.

The lovely autumn evening, a pleasant sail on the Sound, the green

foliage of the trees, and these little insect-songs were refreshing to

me after our rough and rolling experiences on the Atlantic.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

LETTER No. VIII.

Up the Hudson River—The Catskills—My first chipmunk—"The Rip Van

Winkle"—"Sleepy Hollow"—The Mountain-House Hotel—Old Indian

squaw-spirit—A snake in the grass—A painting by Holbein.

_Catskill Mountains, Sept., 1885._

After a short time in New York, agreeably spent in spite of the heat, we

started early one bright morning on the splendid river steamer "Albany"

up the noble Hudson River. It is no part of my plan or my duty to

describe the innumerable objects, historical and picturesque, which

command this wonderful river. Why should I attempt to describe or even

to mention points so fully and so well described elsewhere? All I aspire

to record is the passing impression of whatever comes under my own

notice or interests me as a rapid traveller; it would be presumption to

do more.

The chief object and _ultima Thule_ of my wanderings is that little log

shanty built by my boy thousands of miles away in the heart of the Rocky

Mountains—but our plan is to take in our way as much of this great

country as our limited time will permit.

The point we are now sailing for is "The Catskills," about 120 miles up

the river from New York. Reaching the Catskill Station early in the

afternoon, we took train for the foot of the mountains, a ride of about

eight miles through a richly cultivated country: every object here, even

the rocks and streams and fruit-laden apple-trees, seemed strange and

new to me.

At the foot of the ascent, we were met by a stage-wagon drawn by a

couple of stout horses; these had to drag us for three miles and a half

up the steep mountain side.

The mountain is clad with thick foliage to the summit. The sun was

shining hotly, but we were protected by a canopy formed of the green

leaves of trees mostly new to me. Scattered freely among them were

maples decked in manifold autumn tints, several kinds of birch, and oaks

with leaves differing so much in shape from any English oaks I know,

that I should not have called these young saplings oaks at all but for

the unmistakable large acorns with which they were laden. Then, too,

there were the mountain-ash with large chocolate cones, and the lovely

sumach with red berries. The mingling of this variegated foliage made

for me an indescribably pleasant scene.

What has much surprised and pleased me in this, the first American wood

I have seen, is the fresh, bright, spring-like greenness of the leaves,

at a time when in Old England leaves are becoming sere and brown, and

are rapidly falling.

We had no sooner entered the wood than I saw sitting on a rail a pretty

little animal of a kind unknown to me. It was the size of a small

squirrel, but without the bushy upturned tail. I had but a glimpse as it

darted away; it was brown on the back, with broad black diagonal

stripes, and white throat and belly. The driver told me it was a

chipmunk—it may have had three inches of tail.

The road for some distance up was alive with katydids and locusts; but

birds and other animals seem to be very scarce. I was told there are

plenty of jack-rabbits and partridges in these woods, and occasionally a

black bear is heard of.

[Illustration: "THE RIP VAN WINKLE."]

Apart from the music of the katydids and grasshoppers there is perfect

stillness; and one longs to hear the songs of birds in these pleasant

places, but I never heard even "the occasional whistle of a quail or

tapping of a woodpecker."

Halfway up the hill we came upon an old-fashioned little inn called "The

Rip Van Winkle," and the stone on which Rip slept. His long sleep is

regarded as a true and veritable piece of history about which there can

be no question, for is not the rock still there to attest it?

Over the porch is a half-obliterated signboard representing Rip Van

Winkle waking up, and underneath is the inscription,—

"O that flagon! that wicked flagon! what shall I say to Dame

Winkle?"[2]

Footnote 2:

It should read "What excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle?"

Here it was that "from an opening between the trees" Rip "could overlook

all the lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a

distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on in its silent

but majestic course." Here it is that we look down through the foliage

upon "Sleepy Hollow," at least I was told so by the communicative

landlord; certainly the opening does reveal a deep wood-clad valley,

which looks charming, though somnolent enough to merit the title of

"Sleepy Hollow;" nevertheless, Knickerbocker's "Sleepy Hollow" is

certainly not here; it lies away down yonder "in the bosom of one of

those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, not

far from the village of Tarrytown, in a little valley or rather lap of

land among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole

world."

Some of us walked up the steep inclines to ease the horses, until we

reached "The Mountain-House Hotel," a great place capable of holding

five hundred people; but the season is over, and there are not more than

thirty here now; the other hotels on the mountains are already closed. I

will only say of this hostelry that it is kept in a very primitive

style, and is certainly fifty years behind the age.

The view from the front, on the very edge of the cliff, looks over a

semicircle of country extending for sixty miles in every direction, with

the Hudson River winding like a silver streak through the very heart of

it. This prospect, they tell me, is one of the most wonderful to be

found in this wonderful country, but owing to haze and mist it is rarely

to be seen as we saw it.

We wandered through the woods and down by the lakes for miles, but we

heard not a sound of bird or beast; the dead silence is almost

appalling; not even the noisy little katydids get so far up the

mountains.

These woods would be perfect if one could only say of them as Longfellow

says of some of the American woods in autumn:

"The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,

Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life

Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned,

And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,

Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down

By the wayside aweary. Through the trees

The golden robin moves. The purple finch,

That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,

A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle,

And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud

From cottage roofs the warbling bluebird sings."

The weather during our stay here has been perfect, the air bright and

bracing; that old Indian squaw-spirit who is said to influence the

weather on the "Catskills," "spreading sunshine or clouds over the

landscape," was very good to us; she gave us nothing but bright sunshiny

days and clear moonlight nights, a sure proof that we were welcome

visitors, for it is said that when she is displeased she "would brew up

clouds black as ink, sitting in the midst of them like a bottle-bellied

spider in the midst of its web; and when these clouds broke, woe betide

the valleys!"

We visited most of the points of interest within easy reach. There is a

magnificent waterfall near the Laurel House, and many other sights which

it did us good to see. The sunset one night was the most glorious I had

ever beheld. "Real handsome," a Baltimorean enthusiast called it, and

the full silver moon shining over the broad expanse was equally

"handsome."

One morning, as I was walking along the cliff in front of the hotel, a

snake nearly a yard long sprang out of the long grass under my feet, and

flung itself right over the precipice; it came down flop on the hard

rock thirty feet below, and then shot off into the bushes as if there

was nothing the matter. The whole thing passed so rapidly that I could

not distinctly note the colour of the reptile; but it seemed to be of a

dark-brownish colour. I wondered if that was its usual way of going

home, or if it had made the leap by mistake.

[Illustration: A SNAKE FLUNG ITSELF OVER THE PRECIPICE.]

That snake, the little chipmunk, katydids, and sparrows, were the only

samples I saw of the natural history of "The Catskills;" but it must be

remembered that I only passed two days there. Even the idle Rip,

however, could find but little sport for his vagabond gun, for he is

said to have "trudged through woods and swamps, and up hill and down

dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons." I was told by the

landlord, who, proud of the grand position he holds as monarch of a

sixty-miles' unrivalled panorama, must have told it scores of times

before, that down yonder in the village of Catskill there resides a

member of the Salisbury family, who possesses a family picture painted

by Holbein which he regards as of priceless value. This good and

loquacious old landlord is full of the history of the great valley and

river in front of him, and if you have patience to listen he will tell

you everything that ever happened from the time when Hendrich Hudson

first discovered it to the present time.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

LETTER No. IX.

Arrival at Saratoga—Season over—Hotel crowded with Deputies for

nomination of a State Governor—Mugwump—Arrival at Niagara—The

Falls at midnight and by moonlight—No letter from Frank.

_Niagara Falls, Sept., 1885._

We left the "Catskills" on a Monday morning for Saratoga; but the glory

of Saratoga had departed; the season was all but over; only a few

stragglers of the flock of the summer birds of fashion remained, the

others had already migrated southward. The shopkeepers were packing up

their goods and shutting up their shops, and resident hibernators were

preparing their winter quarters; but the great hotel was not empty. On

the contrary, we found it difficult to procure a night's lodging there.

The house was crowded, but not with youth and beauty; there was no sound

of music and of revelry, but there was a great clatter of the tongues of

men—strong, healthy, earnest-looking men, who had come from every

village in New York State to "vote their ticket." It was the time of

convention for nomination of a Governor for the State.

It was pleasant to me to be afforded an opportunity of seeing such an

assemblage of true American men in one hall. I presume that every man I

saw in that great crowd was the chosen representative of his own village

or parish or township or city; and I own I was agreeably surprised to

observe that so very many of them bore such a strong family resemblance

to the best of my own countrymen of the like class; the chief difference

perhaps being one which I regard as favourable to the Americans, for

they did not smoke so much as so many Englishmen would have done, and

certainly they drank far less. Indeed, I noticed that many of them

confined their drinks to iced water, or tea and coffee. There was very

little spitting, and I am pretty sure there was no chewing. Their cheeks

were bronzed and healthy, and they had the appearance of intelligent

men, quite in earnest respecting the business they had come to do.

I fancy that the men assembled in this hotel were all bent on voting the

Republican ticket, while the Democrats had met in other quarters. Here

it was that for the first time I learnt the existence of a third party

in the State which rejoices in the title of "Mugwump."

I have not been able to find this word in any American dictionary, but

it seems to have become so thoroughly imbedded in the American language

that you may be quite sure it will be found with its derivation and

application fully described and probably illustrated in that grand new

dictionary now being prepared by "The Century Company." My present

information, however, only enables me to say that a "mugwump" is a man

who has earned that appellation on account of his strict adherence to

the dictates of his own conscience; he votes for principle, not for

party. A "mugwump" is a man who, if he is a Republican, will vote for a

good Democrat rather than for a bad Republican, and probably the

converse holds good. Of course I repelled the idea that honesty was so

rare amongst American politicians as to have led them to invent a new

word to represent such an unusual phenomenon as an honest voter; there

is, I am sure, a better reason to be found, and I commend the word to

the notice of English politicians; the principle it represents may be

valuable if largely applied during our own coming elections.

We took a rapid survey, by a drive round the park and the lake, and then

went "aboard" the cars for Niagara.

THE FALLS OF NIAGARA.

We had a long cold ride through the night, and our hotel being on the

Canadian side, we caught our first sight of the Falls under unusual

circumstances; in fact, through the windows of a large omnibus occupied

by ourselves alone, and driven slowly over the Suspension Bridge at two

o'clock in the morning. The harvest moon, just at its full, but a little

obscured by passing clouds and mists, was shining on the Falls, and, as

the horses tramped slowly over the bridge, suspended several hundred

feet above the dread waters, we came upon the scene quite unexpectedly:

the sight was a stirring one, I assure you. On the bridge we could see

the whole of the Falls at once, looking down upon them from our great

height.

[Illustration: THE FALLS, FROM THE SUSPENSION BRIDGE.]

The Falls looked at in this way, from a moving carriage suspended in the

air, were somewhat dwarfed in height; of course we could get but a

glimpse in passing in the night. We expected to have been stunned by the

roar of the Falls, but our first surprise was at the awful silence; we

could hear nothing but the tramp of the horses and the roll of the

wheels as our carriage moved slowly along—all else was silent as the

grave. Notwithstanding the moonlight, it was not clear enough to

distinguish motion in the Falls above us or in the water far down

beneath us. The great semicircular Horseshoe, as we passed along in

front of it, looked as though a great white sheet had been thrown over

its motionless face, and the foam and stir of the water below was fixed

and immovable as in a painted picture.

No motion was to be discerned anywhere, the moonlight was too hazy. I

assure you that was a weird and grand picture we saw last night; the

Falls beheld dimly, indistinctly, and really through a glass darkly—and

so we arrived at the Clifton House Hotel.

The next day arose, like every other we have yet seen on this American

Continent, bright and beautiful. We had only one day to see everything,

so we took a drive round.

I am not going to attempt a description or to rhapsodize over the Falls

of Niagara—great authors have done so over and over again. Charles

Dickens has moralized about them; Anthony Trollope has described them;

William Black has painted their portraits in bright words—why should I

attempt to describe them? To me these great waters seem to say, "Men may

come and stare at us, and men may go, but we flow on irresistibly and

for ever. We care nought for your staring, your admiration, your poetic

fancies about us. We are matter-of-fact; stare as much as you please,

but come not within our grip. Build your airy roads above us, span us

over if you will, but know that death and destruction await him who

dares to come within the proscribed limit of our rapids above or our

whirlpools below. You may sail on our placid waters up yonder, your

'Maid of the Mist' may approach the outer circle of our Falls below, but

come not within that circle, or we shall have you in a grip from which

no power on earth shall save you." The scene, the picture, is indelibly

impressed on my memory, and there it must remain. I will not spoil that

picture by daring to paint it in feeble words.

We did what is usual in our limited time. We drove down to the

Whirlpool, we crossed the suspension bridge, we wandered through Goat

Island, we descended beneath the Horseshoe Falls to the utmost point

allowed by the guide. We had our portraits taken in the subaquatic

costume, but so hideously did they come out that we promptly suppressed

them.

The people who live at the Falls are quite aware of it. Every individual

regards them as his own property; even in the coldest weather dollars

melt there like snow in summer's heat; so we were glad to get away from

Niagara and its army of vampires.

Here at Niagara I fully expected letters from Frank. I have now been

fourteen days in America, and he knows it, and yet not a line of welcome

to these shores has he sent me. To-morrow we turn our faces to the West;

surely at Chicago, which is 536 miles from hence, I shall get some news

of him.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

LETTER No. X.

Start for Chicago—"The Michigan Central"—Arrival at Chicago—Still

no letter from Frank—Start for St. Paul—St. Paul and

Minneapolis—Commodore Kitson's stables—Falls of St. Anthony—"The

Granary of the World"—Falls of Minnehaha—Telegram to Frank.

_St. Paul, Minnesota, Oct., 1885._

On the morning of our start for the West we were aroused before five

o'clock to catch a train which did not reach our station till 8.30.

The line over which we travelled to Chicago was "The Michigan Central,"

which runs along the north side of Lake Erie to Windsor; at this point

the train is carried bodily across the Detroit river to Detroit on an

enormous barge built for the purpose; from thence we proceed to Chicago.

Nothing befell us by the way, and I have only to remark about the

railway that the carriages were very comfortable, or rather would have

been so but for the stifling extent to which they were heated. The

dining-car is well managed, and the food excellent. We reached Chicago

at ten o'clock the same night, after a long, dusty, and very hot

journey, through not particularly interesting scenery.

We have now got a thousand miles on our way to look after the young

_ranchero_, but where is he? Why does he not write? I was growing

anxious, for up to this time I had not received a line, and no letter

awaited me here. I telegraphed to him, but no reply came. I wrote

requesting that a telegram might meet me at St. Paul, over four hundred

miles farther on our route.

We were most hospitably entertained by our friends, and after hurriedly

driving round the points of interest in Chicago, we made another

departure, still for the Far West. Here we take the Chicago and North

Western Railroad for St. Paul. This iron road claims to be "the best and

most perfectly equipped railway in the world;" its luxuriantly furnished

drawing-room coaches are marvels of beauty and comfort, and the

dining-cars are superb; the meals and attendance are equal to what one

might expect to find in any first-class hotel, and I can bear most

willing testimony to the civility we met with from all the officials,

from the chief passenger manager down to the road attendants.

We left Chicago at 9.55 p.m., and we reached St. Paul at 2.25 p.m. next

day, a distance of 409 miles.

As regards time, I may mention that American railway companies deal very

arbitrarily with the sun.[3] At Niagara he is bidden to stand still in

the heavens for one hour, and is called Eastern time. Then he makes a

sudden jump to Mandan, 476 miles west of St. Paul; over this space,

viz., one hour, he is called Central time; then from Mandan to Heron

(1,429 miles west of St. Paul), he makes another leap and is called

Mountain time. From Heron to Portland on the Pacific he again recedes an

hour, and is called Pacific time. This hop, skip, and jump across the

American continent, in lieu of his usual steady mode of progression, is

of course a very convenient arrangement for railways, and it appears to

be universally accepted. I suppose he makes the same hourly jumps on the

same longitudinal lines throughout the continent. It will thus be seen

that the sun rises and sets four hours later at Portland than at New

York.

Footnote 3:

See Appendix (page 214) for Time Diagram.

St. Paul, the capital of Minnesota, is a very flourishing and beautiful

city built on a series of terraces on the left or eastern bank of the

great "Father of Waters," over which it commands magnificent views. The

streets are paved with pine-logs, over which one travels in comfort that

contrasts most favourably with the rough and clumsy paving-stones of New

York. Minneapolis is situated ten miles further west, on the right bank

of the Mississippi. In 1860 the combined population of the two cities

was 16,000—to-day it exceeds 250,000. They are rapidly approaching each

other, and the time is looked forward to when they will form one great

metropolitan city. Within the last three years they have doubled their

population. They are now called "The Twin Cities," though their

commercial interests are not identical, and there is considerable

rivalry between the two cities.

[Illustration: ST. PAUL.]

We were driven out by a friend of M.'s, whom we met at the hotel, to a

place called Midway Park, where Commodore Kitson keeps his celebrated

trotters. Here we were shown the fastest trotters and pacers in the

world. "Johnston," the "King of the Turf," was trotted out for our

inspection. I am no judge of horseflesh, though I tried to look as

knowing as I possibly could. We were told that in _pacing_—which I think

means trotting by advancing the two right legs together and then the two

left legs, like the celebrated animal in Miss Thompson's "Roll Call"—he

is the fastest horse in the world; to me, who am uninitiated, his trot

looked like an awkward shamble; but he paces a mile in 2 min. 6¼ sec.

Our attention was drawn to the large bumps on his forehead—a proof, his

trainer said, of very unusual intellect. We were also shown "Little

Brown Jug," "Fanny Witherspoon," and "Minnie R.," all well-known names

in the sporting world. "Minnie R." it appears paced a mile in 2 min. 3½

sec. with "Firebrand" trotting alongside; this I presume is a great

help.

These stables are admirably arranged. Each animal lives in a sort of

little drawing-room, decorated with flags, pictures, and records of

deeds accomplished. I much regretted my extreme ignorance with respect

to these worldwide wonders, but I was careful not to betray it. There

were many other horses pointed out to us, but I forget their names. I

was told they were not to be matched in the wide world, and not one of

them was worth less than 20,000 dollars—probably there was a little vain

boasting in this. The same day I cut the following from a St. Paul

paper:—

"The death of George Wilkes, the editor (of 'The Spirit of the

Times'), and 'Goldsmith Maid,' the trotter, on the same day, may not

be a very singular thing, after all, but a St. Paul horseman

remarked yesterday that it was 'a queer coincidence that two such

old and well-known sports should fly the track on the home stretch

together.'"

I rather think the "Goldsmith Maid" had been a thorn in the side of the

sanguine head-boss of the Kitson stables. I knew poor Wilkes well many

years ago, not however in his capacity as sportsman, but as author of a

work on Shakespeare, the main object of which, if my memory serves me,

was to prove that the Swan of Avon was a "bloated aristocrat!"

We had not time to stay at Minneapolis, and could only catch a slight

glimpse of its magnificent bridges and corn elevators as our train swept

by.

Here, somewhere in the immediate neighbourhood of Minneapolis, are the

celebrated Falls of St. Anthony, and also those of Minnehaha, which we

would gladly have gone to see had time permitted. We were told, however,

that their charms are not less practical than poetic.

The practical charms of Minneapolis, St. Anthony's Falls, and the

surrounding country, are demonstrated in the following cutting from

"Forest and Stream":—

"THE GRANARY OF THE WORLD.

"So it has been called, this northern land of lakes and forests and

broad prairies. And the appellation is not altogether fanciful.

Visit Minneapolis and inspect its flouring mills, inquire as to

their number and the capacity of each, and you will find that the

annual product of flour from this source is enough to supply the

world with bread—for a while at least. These mills can turn out

thirty thousand barrels of flour per day, when running on full time,

and at this rate their product for a year would supply one-quarter

of the population of the United States with the bread which they

annually consume. It may be taken for granted that these mills have

not been established here without some good reason. The great

water-power of the Falls of St. Anthony is usually alleged as the

cause of the growth of this tremendous industry, but that alone

would not be enough to have brought it into existence and to have

raised it to its present proportions. The true cause is that the

whole vast country from the Mississippi to the Rocky Mountains, all

through Minnesota, Dakota, and Montana, is a wheat-producing

country, all of the product of which is tributary to the city where

these mills are located."

And was it not at the wonderful "Falls of Minnehaha" near by—

"That my Hiawatha halted

In the land of the Dacotahs?

Was it not to see the maiden,

See the face of Laughing Water

Peeping from behind the curtain;

Hear the rustling of her garments

From behind the waving curtain,

As one sees the Minnehaha

Gleaming, glancing through the branches—

As one hears the Laughing Water

From behind its screen of branches?"

We had now to travel by the Northern Pacific Railroad for 1,200 miles.

Before beginning this long journey I was anxious to hear something of

Frank, for no telegram or letter had even yet reached me. I am indebted

to the general passenger manager at St. Paul, Mr. Chas. S. Fee, for his

great courtesy in sending the following telegram, free of cost to me, to

his own agent at Bozeman:—

[Illustration: FALLS OF MINNEHAHA.]

"Mr. ——, of London, desires that his son, Frank M., whose

post-office is Bozeman, shall meet him in Livingston next Wednesday,

on arrival of number one. He desires that he shall come equipped for

a five days' trip in the Park. Drop this telegram in the post-office

at once.—C. S. F."

Livingston is the station about twenty-five miles east of Bozeman, where

we branch off southward for the Yellowstone National Park; and I thought

surely this would stir the boy up, if alive and well. I need hardly say

that my anxiety was increasing. My feverish desire now is to get on to

Livingston, as quickly as possible, and my next letter will, I hope, be

dated from Frank's abode.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

LETTER No. XI.

The North Pacific Railway—Brainerd—Detroit—Massacre by Sioux—Indian

Reservation—Fargo—Wheat-fields of Dakota—Bismarck—"Bad Lands"—The

Rockies—Arrival at Livingston.

_Frank's Ranche, Oct., 1885._

We took our departure from St. Paul in a Pullman Sleeping Car at 4 p.m.,

and found ourselves very comfortably placed; a fortunate circumstance,

seeing that this car had to be our home for fifty-eight hours over 1,032

miles from St. Paul to Livingston, with no opportunity of even

stretching our legs outside the train.

The North Pacific Railroad stretches across the great continent from

Duluth at the head of Lake Superior, and from St. Paul, the capital of

Minnesota, to Portland, on the Pacific, a distance of nearly 2,000

miles.

[Illustration: DINING CAR.]

Of its commercial success or the value of its shares in the market I

know nothing, but as a simple traveller over more than 1,200 miles I can

speak well of it; its track is all steel rail, and its road-bed solid.

All its passenger trains are equipped with the Westinghouse air-brake,

Miller platforms, and patent steel-tired car-wheels. Pullman palace

drawing-room sleeping-cars of the newest and most improved pattern run

between St. Paul and Portland; I would, however, caution passengers that

it is desirable to secure berths in these beforehand at St. Paul, by

applying to the conductor, who will telegraph to the ticket agents in

advance. The dining-cars are also very luxurious in their appointments,

and the _menu_ all that can be desired. I may add that the charge for

every meal is only seventy-five cents, whereas I have been charged a

dollar on other lines, and at inconvenient roadside inns, for far

inferior fare. The only complaint I have to make is that the cars are

sometimes heated in a way which is almost unbearable, and if they could

increase their speed, which averages seventeen miles an hour, it would

be a boon to weary travellers who want to get on. One does not object to

moderate progress through beautiful scenery, but seventeen miles an hour

for hundreds of miles of prairie land becomes monotonous.

From St. Paul our route takes a northwesterly direction on the eastern

side of the Mississippi to Brainerd, where the railroad from Duluth

joins our line. There we cross the Mississippi, and thenceforth our

route is almost in a bee-line due west to the Pacific. On leaving

Brainerd we pass through the Lake Park region, and for some distance the

scenery is charmingly diversified by fine timber and lakes, on which may

be seen flocks of wild ducks and larger water-fowl, sometimes a solitary

prairie chicken, and here and there a well-fenced wheat farm with good

buildings, and surrounded by many large ricks. In the neighbourhood of

Detroit, Mic., is the White Earth Reservation of the Chippewa or Ojibway

Indians, of whom there are 1,500 civilized and Christianized. It is only

about twenty years ago that this country was devastated by the murderous

Sioux, when more than 3,000 men, women, and children were most inhumanly

butchered.

Now we reach Fargo, and are in the neighbourhood of the famous

wheat-fields of Dakota.

[Illustration: MR. O. DALRYMPLE'S FARM.]

"It is in this neighbourhood that those enormous farms are located

which extend further than the eye can reach, and upon which in

harvest time an army of labourers are employed. One of the largest

of these belongs to a firm of which Mr. Oliver Dalrymple is the

chief. They own about 75,000 acres, or 117 square miles."—_Forest

and Stream._

At Bismarck we crossed the Missouri river ("the big muddy," as it is

called), over a splendid three-pier iron bridge. The view one gets of

the upward reach of the river and its muddy banks is fine. The bridge

has three spans of 400 feet each and two approach spans of 113 feet

each; it is said to have cost a million dollars. The Missouri is here

3,500 miles from the Gulf of Mexico, and 2,800 feet wide, being still

navigable for 2,000 miles further to the north.

At Mandan we come upon Mountain time, that is, we lose an hour since

leaving Niagara. We reached Mandan at 12.50, and started at 12.10 by the

time-table, having remained there twenty minutes. We are now approaching

Pyramid Park, the celebrated "Bad Lands," but our train is two hours

behind time, so we shall not see them by daylight, and in fact I failed

to see them at all.

[Illustration: BRIDGE ACROSS THE MISSOURI AT BISMARCK.]

When I arose on the following morning at six o'clock we found ourselves

travelling along

"That desolate land and lone,

Where the Big Horn and Yellowstone

Roar down their mountain path."

We had passed Bad Lands in the night. I cannot pretend to describe what

I did not see, but I am told that this extraordinary bit of country is

in itself worth coming from England to see; there is nothing else in the

world like it. One writer tells me that "it owes its singular appearance

to the combined action of fuel and water, which have assisted to produce

the most fantastic forms and startling contrasts of colours that the

most disordered imagination could conceive."

[Illustration: "BAD LANDS."]

Mr. E. V. Smalley thus describes it:—

"The change in the scene is so startling, and the appearance of the

landscape so wholly novel and so singularly grotesque, that you rub

your eyes to make sure that you are not dreaming of some ancient

geologic epoch, when the rude, unfinished earth was the sport of

Titanic forces, or fancying yourself transported to another planet.

Enormous masses of conglomerate—red, grey, black, brown, and blue,

in towers, pyramids, peaks, ridges, domes, castellated

heights—occupy the face of the country. In the spaces between are

grassy, lawn-like expanses, dotted with the petrified stumps of huge

trees. The finest effect of colour is produced by the dark red

rock—not rock in fact, but actual terra-cotta, baked by the heat of

underlying layers of lignite. At some points the coal is still on

fire, and the process of transforming mountains of blue clay into

mountains of pottery may be observed from day to day. It has been

going on for countless ages, no doubt. To bake one of these colossal

masses may have required 10,000 years of smouldering heat. I despair

of giving any adequate idea of the fantastic forms of the buttes or

of the wonderful effects of colour they offer. The pen and brush of

a skilful artist would alone be competent for the task. The

photographer, be he never so deft with his camera and chemicals,

only belittles these marvellous views. He catches only bare

outlines, without colour, and colour is the chief thing in the

picture. He cannot get the true effect of distance, and his

negatives show only staring blacks and whites in place of the

infinite variations of light and shadow effects in valleys and

gorges and hollows, and upon crags and pinnacles. Look, if you can,

by the feeble aid of written words, upon a single butte, and see how

impossible it is to photograph it satisfactorily. It rises from a

carpet of green grass. Its base has a bluish hue, and appears to be

clay solidified by enormous pressure. It is girdled by bands of

light grey stone and black lignite coal. Its upper portion is of the

rich red colour of old Egyptian pottery. Crumbled fragments strew

its sides. Its summit, rising 300 feet above the plain, has been

carved by the elements into turrets, battlements, sharp spires,

grotesque gargoyles, and huge projecting buttresses—an amazing

jumble of weird architectural effects, that startle the eye with

suggestions of intelligent design. Above, the sky is wonderfully

clear and blue, the rays of the setting sun spread a rosy tint over

the crest, and just above its highest tower floats a little

flame-coloured cloud like a banner. When I say there are thousands

of these buttes, the reader will perceive that the Bad Lands of the

Little Missouri are a region of extraordinary interest to the

tourist and artist."

I had done my best to keep awake; I really thought I had done so for

hours, and I know that I peeped out of my bed many times during the

night, but nothing but the dim broad everlasting prairie met my gaze—so

I must have fallen asleep just as we were passing through this

interesting region, to my great disappointment. I was told by those who

had been more wakeful, that they could see the lignite coal a-fire,—fire

which has for countless ages been baking these rocks into actual

terra-cotta. I was inclined to question the exactness of this statement.

Smoke may doubtless be seen; and when I am told by a man that he has

lighted a cigar at a hole in the rock the existence of fire can be no

longer questioned.

We were told by the guide-books to expect to see hereabouts, herds of

buffalo, deer, and elk,—in fact, we have only seen a few prairie dogs,

and these looked comical enough as they stood bolt upright on their

little hillocks, with their fore-paws hanging down before them. They

only wanted a stick in their arms to look like soldiers on guard.

Just here we caught our first distant glimpse of the Rockies, some of

the peaks tipped with snow,—and now we are at Livingston!

I need not tell you how anxiously I looked out for the train from

Bozeman. When it came in I sought in vain through the crowd for Frank;

my heart sank within me when I found that no Frank was there. I could

not get on to Bozeman; the last train for the day had already gone, so

we took the train for the "National Park," and I sat down in one corner

of it, and felt more like fainting than I had ever felt in my life

before. Three weeks had I been in the country, and not a word or sign

from the boy I had come so far to see. What was the cause? If he had

been ill some friend would surely have told me. Was he living? Had he

met with some terrible accident on that long sheep-drive he wrote about

months ago? Had he married a red Indian squaw, and did he not want to

see me? Did he suppose that his old friend M. and I would be too proud

to put up at the little log shanty which he had built with his own

hands? Had he been in the hug of a grizzly?

These were some of the grim reflections that passed through my disturbed

mind as I sat at the end of the car, gloomily watching the magnificent

scenery through which the train was now carrying us down towards the

Park.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

LETTER No. XII.

The Yellowstone National Park—"The New Wonderland"—"The Devil's

Slide"—The stage driver—Story of a corpse—Driving a circus

coach—Circus Bill "appropriates" a coat—Stealing their own

blankets—Start for the Park—Mammoth Springs—Forest of dead

pines—The Lake of the Woods—Norris Hot Springs and Geysers—"Hell's

Half-acre"—A perilous drive—Fire Hole River—Lower Geyser

Springs—"Old Faithful"—"The Bee Hive"—The Grand Cañon—Rough

roads—Return—"The Golden Gate"—"By Jove! it's Frank!"

_Frank's Ranche, Oct., 1885._

The Yellowstone National Park lies partly in the territory of Wyoming

and partly in that of Montana. It is sixty-five miles north and south,

by fifty-five miles east and west; it comprises 3,575 square miles, and

is throughout its extent 6,000 feet or more above the level of the sea.

The mountain ranges that hem in the valleys on every side rise to a

height of from 10,000 to 12,000 feet, and are covered with perpetual

snow.

The Yellowstone Park is a perfect little world of wonders. They call it

the "New Wonderland," and there are as many strange things to be found

in it as "Alice" saw in her fairy realm.

On reaching Livingston, we take a train which runs southward to within

six miles of the entrance to the Park. Soon after leaving the station we

pass through a grand cañon of towering rocks called "The Gate of the

Mountains," and then through pleasant valleys, always near the beautiful

Yellowstone river.

We then pass, on our right, Cinnabar Mountain, which rises to a height

of about 2,000 feet above the river; a broad streak of red down the

mountain is called "The Devil's Slide," and suggests at the same time

that his black majesty in sliding down must have had a rough time of it.

The terminus of the line is at a place called Cinnabar City, which at

present contains about twelve shanties; several of these are drinking

saloons. From Cinnabar we take a stage-coach and six horses for the

drive, through some very grand scenery, to the "Mammoth Springs Hotel."

The driver of this stage is a fellow of infinite wit, and tells

marvellous stories in a manner which kept us on a roar the whole way. I

wish I could give you, in his own style and words, the story of a corpse

which he once carried on his coach.

[Illustration: "THE GATE OF THE MOUNTAINS."]

"Once," said he, "I was driving a coach down in Utah—a sixty-mile

drive. One night a corpse came along, packed in a leaden coffin, and

then in a wooden one, and then in a box. They fixed him on the top

of the stage. Of course we had no passengers; who would want to

travel with a corpse if they could help it? It was a bitter cold and

pitchy dark night, sometimes snowing and raining, with lightning and

thunder. The way that blessed corpse kept rolling backwards and

forwards on the top of the coach was, I tell you, pretty scaring.

For about thirty miles the road ran along the side of a mountain.

You bet I whipped them horses along, and my off-wheels travelled in

the air most of the way. I got to the end of my journey two hours

quicker than I ever done that journey before. I am not a bit

superstitious; but driving a corpse all alone over the mountains on

a night like that isn't very lively. If I had known the party in the

box it might have been different, but we were strangers. Next time a

corpse comes along wanting a ride with me, I guess he'll have to

walk. I never want to drive another."

Charlie told us that he was once the driver of a circus coach—

"And I tell you," said he, "that was an experience! The pay wasn't

much, a hundred dollars a month or so; the rest was made up by

appropriation! I had a trunk full of things when I started, but I

hadn't been driving a week before everything was gone out of it, and

then they stole the trunk. I had nothing left but what I stood up

in, and I asked a fellow-driver what I was to do. 'Do?' says he;

'why don't you take a coat?' The next hotel we stopped at, 'Circus

Bill,' that was his name, stood round and unhooked a splendid

buffalo coat. I wore that coat all winter, and then sold it in the

spring to a Mormon in Salt Lake City for seventy-five dollars, which

about repaid me for the loss of my own trunk. I once knew two of

them fellows who got drunk and stole their own blankets, and were

locked up for it!"

[Illustration: PULPIT TERRACE, MAMMOTH HOT SPRINGS]

As we were going along be pointed out an eagle's nest on the top of a

pinnacle of the mountain. Presently we arrived at Gardener City, a

flourishing place of a dozen dwellings. It was now getting towards

sundown. "Won't you have a lantern, colonel, for the rest of the road?"

"No, thanks," said our driver; "the brightness of my face and the

brilliancy of my wit are quite sufficient to light up the road."

The Mammoth Hot Springs Hotel is large and commodious, and for a summer

resort fairly comfortable; it is capable of accommodating 400 guests. In

the hall is a splendid specimen of a mountain lion, bearing in his mouth

the significant inscription, "Meet me by moonlight alone!" The hotel

faces the famous Mammoth Springs, of which the accompanying sketch gives

but a very imperfect idea. The hill is about 200 feet high, composed of

the chalky deposit of the hot springs, and the series of terraces

present a marvellous scene; but they do not, however, exhibit that

beautiful clear snowy whiteness which some enthusiasts claim for them;

they have rather the appearance of dirty, crumbling, whitey-brown chalk.

Next morning we started off on a coach and four to view the Park. First

we came to "The Golden Gates," an immense cañon through which a small

stream runs between enormously high limestone rocks. The road, which is

here a splendid one, winds up along one side of the cañon; it is cut out

of the solid rock, and it gradually rises to such a height that to a

nervous person the look down into the gulch below must be rather

alarming, especially if one had not the fullest confidence in the

driver. Then we passed through an extraordinary forest of pines, all

dead, stripped entirely of their bark, even to the gnarled and curled

branches. There must be millions of these naked-burnt trees standing,

and the ground is also strewed with them in every direction. Here and

there the upturned roots present a very weird and curious appearance.

One made a strong impression on me from its marked resemblance to that

wonderful griffin which now commemorates the spot where once stood

Temple Bar.

[Illustration: "THE OBSIDIAN CLIFFS."]

We crossed the Gardener river, then passed below an extraordinary range

called "The Obsidian Cliffs." They are composed of glass—perpendicular

cliffs of solid glass; I picked up several small blocks for

paperweights, but unluckily lost them. The range extends for probably

1,500 feet, and the height may be 250 or 300 feet.

A little farther on we came to the "Lake of the Woods." On this lake is

a beaver-dam and house, and there are said to be a few beavers about

there, but I have met with no one who has seen them. On the lake were

large flocks of wild geese and ducks. The interest of this Park is

somewhat diminished by the distance one has to travel from one

remarkable point to another. After passing "The Lake of the Woods" we

must have travelled about fifteen miles or more, wholly through a green

pine forest, over hill and down dale, but all pine. Then we came to

"Norris Hot Springs and Geysers." Here we found a number of boiling and

bubbling hot springs; some send up small jets, others are great lakes of

boiling water. One, called "The Emerald," is a circular hole of perhaps

thirty feet in circumference. The water is of the clearest emerald

green, so transparent that one could see right down into it for many

yards. Within a few feet was another hot spring of quite a different

character. In this the stuff that bubbled up was of a thick leaden

colour; others were pouring forth streams of red, green, and yellow, all

pervaded with a strong smell of sulphur. A spring called "The Paint Pot"

is a great cauldron of perhaps 150 feet in circumference. On one side

the deposit thrown out is of a bright salmon colour. This is a lake of

pure creamy boiling paint, like liquid plaster of Paris.

[Illustration: "THE FAIRY FALLS."]

After lunching in a temporary hotel, consisting of several tents, we

drove on till we came to "The Fairy Falls," which can only be seen by

following a steep path down the side of the cañon—a difficult path, but

quite worth taking. Shortly afterwards we came upon a scene which

probably cannot be paralleled on this earth. They call it, not

inappropriately, "Hell's Half-acre." Here our coachman turned out of the

road on to a wide expanse of white, chalky formation, which seemed to me

like the upper crust of an immense honeycomb; out of this bubbled

innumerable small and large hot springs. Driving over this great crust,

which covered a boiling lake, struck me as being rather risky, for I

could see no reason why it might not give way under the weight of a

coach and four at any moment. Suddenly we came upon a great opening

which had fallen in. Just imagine an apple-pie a dozen acres in size,

and on it you come suddenly upon a place where half an acre or so has

been cut out with a knife; or you may picture the crust as having fallen

in. The coach drives close up to the edge of this place, and you look

down upon a great roaring, boiling cauldron at least half an acre in

size, sending up great rolls of sulphurous steam hundreds of feet into

the air.[4] The terror of it is quite indescribable. I was glad when the

coach got back on the hard road again. The boiling water is of a most

brilliant transparent green, and it boils up great globes of various

coloured gems like potatoes in a pot.

Footnote 4:

Lord Dunraven says, "The crust feels as if it might break through at

any moment and drop you into fire and flames beneath, and the animals

tread gingerly upon it.... It is dangerous ground; I have not heard of

any accident up to this time; no modern Korah, Dathan, and Abiram as

yet have been engulfed alive; but the visits to these regions have

been, like those of angels, few and far between."

Last week, a wild duck flying over the scalding steam was sucked into

the cauldron and immediately shot out again cooked and ready for

table—so said our coachman. As to the cooking there can be no question,

for the temperature is over 200°.

Passing along Fire Hole River, we could see at intervals small and large

springs, boiling hot, rising right out of the banks of the river. So you

see how perfectly practicable it is to catch a fish in the river and

cook it in the boiling water without moving a yard.

On we went till we came to the Lower Geyser Springs, and after a look at

them, we drove on to the hotel at the Upper Geysers, completing a

distance of fifty-eight miles. We had been jolted on the stage since

seven o'clock in the morning. This is the scene of the Great Geysers,

and one of them, called the "Riverside," which flings itself up at

intervals of twenty-four hours, did us the honour of starting just as we

came to it; it springs from the banks of the river, where the bridge

spans it, and made a grand display for us as we crossed over.

[Illustration: "THE RIVERSIDE."]

Close by the hotel is another marvellous geyser, which, from his extreme

punctuality, has earned the name of "Old Faithful." He rises once every

sixty-five minutes to a second.[5] We walked up over the lava, or chalky

bed, to examine his abode. There we could look down into the circular

crater, from which jets of steam were rising, and great agitated bubbles

of water were struggling to get free. Presently, without a minute's

warning, up shot an enormous column of boiling water, it may be six feet

in diameter, straight into the sky, a hundred and fifty feet or more,

then spread out into a beautiful vase-like shape, and came down in hot

showers all round. Of course we managed to get outside the range of the

spray, but we had some difficulty in steering clear of the little rivers

of hot water which were streaming all round us. The eruption lasts for

about five minutes.

Footnote 5:

When Lord Dunraven saw "Old Faithful," ten or eleven years ago, his

time was "every three-quarters of an hour." The landlord now quotes it

as I have stated, and he is confirmed by my own observation; but we

only saw him twice.

We saw "Old Faithful's" performances just as the sun was setting most

brilliantly over the far-off western mountains. There are scores of

other geysers continually bubbling, boiling, and seething on this great

white plain, which is hemmed in on all sides by pine or fir-clad hills,

forming a scene not to be described by me. The principal geysers have

all names attached to them. "The Giantess" only shows off her powers

once in fourteen days. Then there are "The Castle," "The Lion," "The

Lioness," and her two cubs, "The Grand," "The Comet," &c. One of the

most curious and eccentric is called "The Bee-Hive." She is very

uncertain in her movements; but when she does go off she throws a

strange, solid column of water straight up into the air for 220 feet,

which is then diffused in brilliant colours, like rockets at a Crystal

Palace display of fireworks. We did not see her—her times are irregular;

but there is a small one at her foot called "The Indicator," which, when

it goes off, gives half an hour's warning that "The Bee-Hive" is coming.

Then there is a strange commotion at the hotel, for she sometimes bursts

out at midnight. A watchman on the look-out shouts, "The Bee-Hive! the

Bee-Hive!" and people rush out of their beds wrapped up in blankets, or

whatever clothing they can find, and off they go; there is no time to

dress, for the grand display is as brief as it is magnificent.

[Illustration: "OLD FAITHFUL."]

We could not give time (two days or more) to travel fifty miles farther

in order to see the grandest scene of all in this park of wonders—the

Grand Cañon. I am told by everyone who has seen it that it is quite

impossible by words or paint-brush to give any idea of its grandeur.

As, however, any description of the Park which omits the GRAND CAÑON

would be like omitting Hamlet from the play, I will give you this

quotation from Professor F. V. Haydon's report to Congress:—

"No language can do justice to the wonderful grandeur and beauty of

the cañon below the lower falls, the very nearly vertical walls

slightly sloping down to the water's edge on either side, so that

from the summit the river appears like a thread of silver foaming

over its rocky bottom; the variegated colours of the sides—yellow,

red, brown, white—all intermixed and shading into each other; the

gothic columns of every form standing out from the sides of the

walls with greater variety and more striking colours than ever

adorned a work of human art.... A celebrated artist exclaimed, with

a kind of regretful enthusiasm, that these beautiful tints were

beyond the reach of human art.... After the waters of the

Yellowstone roll over the upper descent, they flow over the

apparently flat rocky bottom ... until near the lower falls, where

the channel contracts, and the waters seem to gather themselves into

one compact mass, and plunge over the descent of 350 feet in

detached drops of foam as white as snow, some of the larger globules

of water shooting down like the contents of an exploded rocket. It

is a sight far more beautiful, though not so grand or impressive as

that of Niagara Falls."

The next morning we started back again by another route, on the other

side of the Fire Hole River, and when we came opposite to "Hell's

Half-acre," we saw great streams of boiling sulphur water pouring down

the rocks from the cauldron I have already mentioned, into the river,

where I am told the boiling water runs alongside the cold a long

distance before mixing with it. The fish to be found in this and other

lakes and rivers in the Park are quite uneatable, being wormy, and

sulphurous in flavour.

I am aware that I have utterly failed to convey anything like an

adequate picture of what I have seen myself in this "region of wonder,

terror, and delight." The geysers are said far to surpass both in number

and in size those of Iceland or New Zealand.

I must leave it to others to explain the physical causes which produce

these phenomena. It is said by the learned that the entire region was,

at a comparatively recent geological period, the scene of remarkable

volcanic activity, and that its last stages are visible in these hot

springs and geysers.

At present the roads are, for the most part, terribly rough and

unformed; but the government is active, and the work already done, both

on the roads and bridges, is admirable. Sixteen miles of splendid roads

had already been completed on the route we travelled over. The hotel

accommodation cannot be commended. The food one gets is simply

execrable; but doubtless all this will soon be changed. I am told that a

wealthy company has now obtained leases for hotels, and the public may

hope next year to be better fed and better lodged than they have been in

the past. The hotel charges at present are four dollars a day.

The stage-coaches are not bad, and the teams are for the most part

excellent. The drivers are very intelligent, civil fellows, and when

once stirred up they tell most amusing stories.

The proprietors employ about two hundred and fifty horses in the Park,

and as we left on the last day of the season, I was curious to know what

became of the horses during the winter. I was told that they are all

turned loose on the prairie, to paw up their living from under the snow

on the foothills where it lies thin, and in the spring they are brought

in fatter and stronger than when they went out.

[Illustration]

Now that nearly all the buffaloes in the country have been killed, very

strict game laws have been put in force for their preservation. I am

told that within the Park there is now very little game of any kind. A

man was recently fined 100 dollars and costs and imprisoned for six

months for killing two elk and eight beaver within the Park, whilst a

premium of ten dollars is given for the destruction of a bear.

Let me add that there is some capital trout fishing in the Yellowstone

River, just outside the Park, and we had made arrangements to spend a

day there and to sleep at "Yankee Jim's," who keeps a small inn by the

riverside. Jim is a well-known character throughout the country, but our

experience of him did not encourage us to take up our abode in his

little shanty. When sober we are told he is a highly respectable

character; but when drunk (and he happened to be in that condition when

we made his acquaintance) he is a madman, and a spiritualist able to see

through mountains, to boot. On the whole, we did not care to cultivate

Jim's acquaintance, so we had to give up our day's fishing in the

Yellowstone. We may do better by-and-by in the West Gallatin River.

Just before sundown, and as we were passing through "The Golden Gate," I

saw a pedestrian coming up the road at a rapid pace. I was sitting on

the box-seat, and I said to the driver—

"Where can yonder fellow be going in this direction at this time of day;

there is not a house of any kind within twenty miles?"

"It is curious," said he.

When we came up to the pedestrian, "By Jove! it's Frank!" I shouted.

"Pull up, driver! Jump up, my boy!" He was looking strong and well, and

almost as brown as a red Indian, and he soon explained to me the mystery

of my not hearing from him. He had sent a telegram to Chicago, which I

never received, requesting me to go straight on to Bozeman, and he had

driven in to Bozeman five days successively, twenty-four miles each day,

to meet us, and of course was as much bewildered about me as I had been

about him. The passenger agent at Bozeman had put wrong initials on the

telegram I had sent from St. Paul, and the post-master had refused to

give it up for two or three days; when by chance Frank met the passenger

agent, who told him about the telegram and explained his mistake to the

post-master. At last he got the message, and he then started off at once

for Livingston and the Park, and met us coming out of it, instead of

accompanying us through it, as I had planned.

In due time we reached Bozeman, and by seven o'clock in the evening of

the day after our first meeting we were safely housed in Frank's little

log hut.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

LETTER No. XIII.

Livingston to Bozeman—Bozeman City—Arrival at Frank's

ranche—Frank's progress—The shanty—Kitten and mice—Aroused

by a ground squirrel—Variation of climate—A snowstorm—Our

beds drenched—"Baching" it—Shaving under

difficulties—Situation—Fertility of the soil—Cultivation of

strawberries—Fine grazing district—Climate—Story of our

holiday on the ranche—Fishing in West Gallatin river—New

bridge and old canoe—"The coloured aristocracy"—Three bear

stories.

_Frank's Ranche, Oct., 1885._

The railroad from Livingston to Bozeman runs through very picturesque

scenery, and after a steep grade of 116 feet to the mile, passes through

a tunnel in the mountain at an elevation of 5,565 feet above the ocean.

The train then runs down the western slope through a remarkably grand

cañon, and passes out into the broad valley of West Gallatin: in a few

minutes more Bozeman is reached.

[Illustration: CAÑON NEAR BOZEMAN.]

This delightful little city of about 3,000 inhabitants is seated on the

East Gallatin river at the eastern end of the Gallatin Valley, and is

the county seat of Gallatin. It has a fine court house, three hotels, a

fine opera house, seven public halls, five churches, and two

well-conducted newspapers.

The streets are well laid out, and there are many very fine, handsome

buildings in the town, and pretty villas in its suburbs.

Unfortunately, time did not admit of my making any stay in the town, or

of calling upon persons to whom I had introductions; it was necessary to

hurry on to get to Frank's ranche before dark. We hired a handsome

waggonette, and, with a spanking pair of horses, we drove along a

perfectly level well-trodden road across the prairie for twelve miles,

and eventually pulled up at Frank's mansion while there was light enough

to enable us to see it, but not to criticise it too severely.

Here, then, at last, after nearly six weeks of hard travelling by sea

and land, I had reached the chief goal of my journey.

I have already taken you so completely into my confidence by telling you

of Frank's disasters and misfortunes, that it is but fair to him that I

should now describe to you his small successes; not that he has very

much to show at present, but he seems to me to be on the right track. He

already possesses by homestead right 160 acres of very good land, which

will be absolutely his freehold in two years' time; he also owns a

hundred acres of good railroad feeding land on the foothills; he has

fenced round the whole of this with strong posts, rails, and barbed

wire; he has built himself a log hut; he has purchased a fair set of

agricultural implements, including wagons, and a handsome buggie; he has

a pair of strong horses, a number of pigs, some poultry, and a few cows

and calves; he has a well-stocked garden, which produces all the

vegetables he requires, and he has laid down about half an acre of land

with strawberries: next summer this will produce a large crop.

When I remind you that he has acquired this little property with only

trifling assistance from me, and mainly by the labour of his own hands,

in the space of three years, you will understand that I am inspired with

some hopes for his future.

[Illustration: FRANK'S CABIN, FROM A SKETCH BY HIMSELF.]

Frank's shanty originally consisted of one room nineteen feet by

seventeen, but in anticipation of his visitors, he and B. built an

additional room of about the same size. The old room having a boarded

floor was breakfast, dining, drawing-room, and library combined, and was

also the visitors' bedroom. Our beds were made upon planks laid upon

four logs, and consisted of a bundle of straw laid on the planks, a

blanket on the straw, and a couple of rugs to roll ourselves in. These

beds were placed one on each side of the room, and when bed-time came, a

cotton curtain was suspended across the middle, and thus each lodger had

a bedroom to himself.

Our beds being those usually occupied by Frank and his friend, they

rigged up for themselves a sort of long manger or bunk in the new (or

kitchen) compartment, and slept in it feet to feet.

I cannot boast that I slept soundly under these novel circumstances. The

first night Frank's kitten was left in the room to scare the mice away,

and proved to be a greater nuisance than the mice; the next night she

was excluded, and I was aroused out of my sleep by a crash among some

empty bottles. I struck a light, and after searching about for some

time, I caught sight of a little ground squirrel which had come in

through a hole in the floor. The next night I was aroused by this little

wretch running over my face in a playful mood, and I sat up slipper in

hand for over an hour waiting for a chance to fling it at him, but he

did not afford me one. This little squirrel and a few mice were our only

troubles; otherwise we should have slept quite as comfortably as in our

own beds at home.

The weather during the first six days and nights had been most

delightful, very hot by day and pleasantly cool by night; on the seventh

and last night of our stay, the thermometer, by way of giving us a taste

of the variation of climate here, suddenly dropped from 78° to 34°, and

snow and rain fell all night. This wintry blast is always looked for

just at this time, and lasts for about twenty-four hours; then the

Indian summer resumes its reign till far on into November. Months of dry

and very hot weather had dried the mud covering of the shanty into

powder, and when my friend M. awoke in the morning, he found that the

roof above him had proved a sieve, and he and his bed were thoroughly

soaked. I had fared only a little better; but we didn't mind these

trifling inconveniences. I found my umbrella very useful to sit under at

breakfast, and M. managed very well when wrapped up in his macintosh.

[Illustration: SHAVING OUTSIDE THE CABIN.]

Frank and his friend had, from long practice, acquired the art of baking

and cooking to perfection. While the one lighted the stove, made the hot

cakes, and broiled the bacon, the other started off to milk the cow and

collect some new-laid eggs—the result being an excellent and plentiful

breakfast, eaten with the splendid appetite due to abundant exercise on

these health-giving hills.

Whilst these preparations were going on M. and I washed by turns; our

basin was a miner's old iron washpan, and our shaving operations were

performed outside.

Dinner demanded greater efforts, to which our hosts proved quite equal.

They roast, boil, and stew to perfection, and make very nice puddings.

There is but one glass tumbler in the establishment, so we drank pure

water out of teacups; of these there are four, but Frank boasts only one

saucer.

In the matter of crockery I am sorry to say Frank was sadly deficient;

the kitten and the invading little squirrel had recently played havoc in

his china closet; we managed, however, very well. We had no change of

plates, but we washed them as we progressed with our meals.

I should tell you that the shanty is situated at the foot of the

foothills of the mountains, and is about 5,000 feet above sea level,

overlooking towards the west an expanse of level country of from twenty

to thirty miles in extent; the whole circumference being the jagged

ranges of the mountains. Some parts of the great plain are rather rocky

and thin, but the nutritious bunch-grass grows everywhere; other parts,

again, are of a deep, loamy, dark-coloured soil, which produces crops of

wheat of forty to sixty bushels to the acre year after year. All had

been cut and gathered before our arrival, but we could easily see by the

stacks and the stubble what the crops must have been.

[Illustration: LOOKING TOWARDS BOZEMAN.]

Oats have been grown there this last season which reached 100 bushels to

the acre.

The following sensible remarks, cut from the excellent paper I have

already quoted, entirely confirm my own impression of this country:—

"This is pre-eminently the land for the poor man, but only for the

poor man who is willing to work hard. He can raise enough to support

his family, and if he has a few cows their increase will in the

course of a few years make him well-to-do. I spent a night a short

time since in the cabin of a settler who, with his wife and four

children, had located about forty miles from the railroad. He had

ten cows, a team of horses, and a mowing machine. From the cows his

wife made enough butter to pay the living expenses of the family. He

puts up hay for the stock in summer, and then hires himself out to

neighbours at good wages. His calves and colts were in fine

condition, and everything pointed to a most comfortable future for

this sturdy, energetic settler.

"Who can tell how many families there may not be scattered over the

broad West, who from similar small beginnings have attained by

industry and thrift a competence, or even wealth."—_Forest and

Stream._

I was so well pleased with the absolute truthfulness of Frank's reports,

and satisfied with the progress he had made, that I was glad to place

him in a position to acquire an adjoining ranche of 250 acres, so that

he may now be said to possess a capital farm of 500 acres, capable of

carrying at a moderate computation fifty head of cattle, ten pigs,

fifteen to twenty horses, and two hundred chickens. The farm includes

about a hundred and fifty acres of excellent arable land, which may at a

very moderate estimate be expected to produce 3,000 bushels of wheat,

barley, and oats. His garden produces many marketable vegetables, and he

has milk, butter, and eggs.

Strawberries grow on the land to a large size and of excellent flavour,

and the half acre now planted would, it was calculated, produce a clear

net profit of at least 200 dollars for the first year. Strawberries, I

was told, produce from 250 to 500 bushels to the acre after the first

year—say 250 bushels @ 10 cents a quart. Thirty-two quarts to bushel @

10 cents = $3 20c. or $750 60c. an acre. Expenses of gathering, 2 cents

a quart = 150 dollars; cost of cultivation, 120 dollars = 270 dollars;

this deducted from product, $750 60c., leaves net profit $480—say £100

sterling.

Strawberries are too perishable to be conveyed a long distance, but the

immense mining population in the vicinity can consume all that can be

grown. In course of time strawberry jam may be made here, and sent even

to England, to compete with the English farmer in the new article of

commerce which Mr. Gladstone has suggested for him.

Frank's neighbour McD. has planted a number of apple and other fruit

trees in and around his garden, and these young trees are thriving, and

give promise in a year or two of bearing much fruit. Frank's land is

equally suited for similar trees.

On the whole, it appears to me that Frank has now only to go on with the

same dogged perseverance he has hitherto shown, and he will soon be in a

very comfortable position, and make up for his early losses in

Minnesota. I should add that the farm is well watered by a perpetual

little stream which runs down from the mountains, and never freezes or

diminishes.

This district has the reputation of being the best grazing country in

the world. Cattle rarely require any other food during the winter than

what the native grasses supply. The bunch-grass grows abundantly, not

only in the valleys and on the benches, but on the foothills and

mountain slopes. Cattle do not require housing in the winter, but are

foddered sometimes, or rather allowed to browse round the straw-stacks.

Horses maintain themselves by pawing up the snow as the reindeer do in

Northern Europe.

The climate of Montana is peculiarly mild considering its altitude; this

is doubtless owing to the influence of the great warm Japan current of

the Pacific Ocean and the prevailing westerly Chinook wind. This warm

pleasant breeze was distinctly perceptible by us as we ascended the

hills, even in the then hot weather. The atmosphere is singularly dry,

pure, and exhilarating, and this is especially the case on the spot

where Frank has chosen his location. They never have the bitter cold

"blizzards" which one hears of in other states and territories; and when

the thermometer stands at 20º, 30º, and even 45° below zero, as it

sometimes does in the winter months, the cold is endurable.

Now let me give you a little history of our short "Holiday in the

Rockies."

_Sunday._—There being no church or place of worship of any kind, I

regret to say, within many miles, we had to content ourselves with some

quiet reading at home. The Church Missionary Societies should look after

these boys scattered about here and there in these mountain wilds. The

day was calm and bright, but by no means cool; the thermometer stood at

125º in the sun. In the afternoon we walked a considerable distance in

the shade of the cañon, and then somewhat foolishly scrambled up one

side of it in order to make a short cut over the mountain towards home,

and a risky climb it was; but on reaching the top we were rewarded by a

fine new view of the whole valley.

There is a remarkable echo up this cañon, equal, I have no doubt, to

that celebrated one at Killarney which, if asked "How do you do, Paddy

Blake?" will answer "Pretty well, I thank you."

_Monday_ we walked up the foothills to look for some grouse and prairie

chickens to shoot, but could not see any, greatly to my friend M.'s

disappointment; he had come well provided with ammunition, both for

large and small game. Unfortunately our time did not admit of very

extended wanderings in search of sport. We then called upon neighbour

McD., an old rancher who has had many rough experiences, and who tells

long stories of perils he had undergone in the early Californian gold

diggings and in fights with Indians. On his ranche he has built a nice

little house, of which I made the accompanying sketch. A house of this

description, of wood planking, comprising two good-sized rooms and a

kitchen on the ground floor, and two bedrooms, can be built for about

250 dollars.

[Illustration: NEIGHBOUR McD.'s COTTAGE.]

He compelled us to stay to dinner. His wife, an active good-looking

Canadian body, bustled about and prepared us an excellent dinner of

hashed chicken, sweet cakes, coffee, and apple tart. She waited upon us

at table and urged us to eat, and was pleased to see with what excellent

appetites we fell to. She was gratified at the well-merited praise we

lavished on her cooking.

After dinner, we had what I may call a musical evening. Frank gave us

some songs, and his friend accompanied him on the guitar.

On _Tuesday_ we drove for fifteen miles across the prairie to the West

Gallatin River, where I was told good fishing may be had. We stayed at a

comfortable hotel which had no licence for strong drinks, and we had to

content ourselves with tea and coffee.

We immediately started for the river—a really fine stream, well stocked

with trout and other fish. You already know something of my enthusiasm,

as well as my bad luck, in matters piscatorial. I caught no trout, but

you will perhaps be surprised to hear I brought home half-a-dozen

half-pound fish called "White fish." I caught these with a large black

fly with a red body. The fish takes this fly freely, but he has no pluck

whatever; no sooner is he hooked than he succumbs at once, and one has

nothing to do but pull him out of the water—there is no sport or fight

in him. Our jolly landlord had taken us to a favourite spot, where he

himself fished with a pole and twine, sitting on the stump of a tree;

"There sat my friend with patient skill,

Attending of his trembling quill."

SIR H. WOTTON.

he baited his hook with grasshoppers and locusts, and with this bait he

was usually very successful, but on that particular evening he caught

nothing, and soon gave up.

[Illustration: FISHING IN THE WEST GALLATIN.]

My own success had so much surprised me that next morning I was up at

six o'clock, and had caught six more white fish before breakfast.

They were cooked for us, and certainly if they afford poor sport, they

are very pleasant, delicate eating. I cannot honestly take much credit

to myself for these feats. Our hostess, a very severe hard-featured

Calvinistic person, took all the conceit out of me at once by solemnly

telling the company at the breakfast table that she could go down to the

river and catch as many white fish as she wanted with a worm hooked on

to a pin.

I was reminded of the angler in "The Sketch Book":—

"I recollect that after toiling and watching and creeping about ...

with scarcely any success, in spite of all our admirable apparatus,

a lubberly country urchin came down from the hills with a rod made

from a branch of a tree, a few yards of twine, and, as Heaven shall

help me! I believe a crooked pin for a hook, baited with a vile

earthworm—and in half-an-hour caught more fish than we had nibbles

throughout the day!"

Our host, a wealthy rancher as well as innkeeper, was of a more jovial

turn, especially when he was not awed by the presence of his austere

wife. He had been a slave-owner in pre-emancipation days, and so had his

fathers before him; and he vowed the niggers were far better off then

than they are now. "God Almighty," said he, "made the niggers black and

unthrifty, and do what you will you can never make them anything else.

The utmost height of a nigger's ambition is to drive a coach or to be a

waiter in an hotel; and it is just all he is good for."

This reminded me of the many members of the "coloured aristocracy" I had

met with as waiters at hotels and in railroad dining-cars. I remember

one especially—the head-boss of a small army of black waiters at one of

the largest hotels in an Eastern city—a tall portly fellow in evening

dress, diamond shirt studs, and white kid gloves. He stands at the

entrance of the saloon, and receives the guests with a dignified bend

and a patronizing wave of his hand which my Lord Mayor at a grand

reception could not surpass. We, unshaven and dust-stained travellers,

were quite awed in his presence, as he loftily passed us on to another

diamond-studded and gold-chained nigger, who condescended to find us a

table. We soon learned that if you expect to get any decent attention

from a negro, you had better slip a "quarter" into his ready and

expectant palm; then he will wait upon you quickly and well. Pay him

beforehand, and he will serve you in anticipation of further tips—a

quarter in hand is worth to him a good deal more than a possible dollar

in the end, which may never come.

These negro waiters generally speak good Yankee English; they don't say

"Massa;" and if one may judge by the eagerness with which they will lean

over one's shoulder to peruse a letter one may be writing or reading, I

suppose they have been tolerably well educated. Here is an account of an

aristocratic wedding cut from a Southern paper:—

"A wedding took place in South Carolina recently, the bride

belonging to one of the oldest families of the coloured aristocracy

and the groom being presumably a man of means and evidently of much

respectability. When the fateful question was asked by the

officiating clergyman (also coloured) it was thus translated by him,

possibly with an eye to the intensely respectable nature of the

whole affair: 'N., wilt thou have this lady to be thy wedded wife?'

&c., and the blushing bride, when her turn came, was asked if she

would have 'this young gentleman.'"

We returned across the prairie on _Wednesday_ morning, noting as we

passed that the whole route was dotted here and there with substantial

farmhouses; some of these were large and handsome, surrounded by

buildings as good and substantial-looking as any to be seen in the old

country.

The West Gallatin is all very well if one's only object in fishing is to

catch fish, but I would rather have one day on the pleasant "Dove," with

only a brace of trout in my creel, or, indeed, without any trout at all,

than a hundred days on the brown prairie-bound banks of the Gallatin

with creels full of the stupid white fish. I want buttercups and

daisies, water-ouzels, king-fishers, green meadows, and the songs of

birds when "I go a-fishing."

On passing over the new bridge we saw an old Indian canoe rotting and

half hidden in the mud. If I were given to moralizing, "the new bridge

and the old canoe" should form a melancholy theme; but I will leave my

readers to compose it for themselves.

Frank's companion B. being of an inquiring mind, knew every farm and

every farmer on the route, or perhaps in the whole valley. He knew the

value of every man's estate, and how he stood with his banker; one was

worth 50,000 dollars, another 20,000, and here and there an unthrifty

"Rip Van Winkle" with an insuperable aversion to labour and hopelessly

in debt. Amongst them were one or two millionaires. It is a

characteristic of this community that everyone knows to a dollar how

much everyone else is worth. Generally they seemed to be well-to-do and

thriving; and when I looked at the numerous great ricks of wheat, the

abundant stubble, the rich dark soil so easily and so cheaply

cultivated, and the cattle and horses around, it was plain to my

perception that a man of ordinary industry, intelligence, and thrift

must inevitably become not merely well-to-do, but wealthy.

_Thursday._—B. drove into town for our letters, but found none. By this

time our fresh meat had given out, so Frank and M. went out and ran down

a couple of chickens. Frank chopped their heads off, plucked, and

roasted them very deftly. It was an excessively hot day, the thermometer

standing at 125º in the sun. I remained indoors most of the day clearing

off my correspondence, and in the evening we compared notes as to

Frank's past adventures and future prospects.

_Friday._—This being our last day, I wandered up the creek in the

morning, and gathered a few wild flowers of bright hues, and packed them

up to carry home. Of course the time for flowers is all but over now,

but I am told that in the summer-time the whole hillside is ablaze with

small wild roses and other flowers.

[Illustration: ROSS'S PEAK.]

In the afternoon we had intended to do a little mountain climbing. We

had gone a mile on the road to ascend Ross's Peak, a mountain (of which

I made a sketch) about 10,000 feet above sea level, and at a distance of

about seven miles; but on looking towards the mountains in the west we

noticed that the bright sunshine in which we were walking was obscured

in their direction by heavy, suspicious clouds. And presently a few

drops fell. Before we could get back to our cabin the rain came down in

torrents, with thunder and lightning; and, looking up to Ross's Peak, we

found that he had already assumed his winter mantle of snow. This is the

first rain we have had since our arrival in America, and as it was our

last day we were sorry to miss the fine view to be obtained from the

peak. The ascent, we were told, was in fine weather not difficult,

though no doubt very laborious. In the evening the western mountains

across the valley presented a very interesting appearance. They were now

clad with snow, and a thick black cloud hung just above them, leaving a

clear-cut outline of white peaks; the sunset was glowing like a great

fiery furnace behind them. It was a splendid sight.

Before night set in the thermometer had fallen from 78° in the shade, as

it stood in the morning, to 34°, and during the night we had the deluge

which I have already mentioned. To-morrow we start on our homeward

journey.

* * * * *

I told you in my first letter that it was my intention to spend my

holiday in this region, and here I am sitting in our little log cabin,

overlooking a vast expanse of prairie valley, nearly six thousand miles

away from my native land. So much of one's time is taken up in the

railway trains that little is left for doing anything out of them. I

told you that the three special horrors I expected to have to encounter

would be mosquitoes, Indians, and bears! I saw one or two mosquitoes in

New York, and I _felt_ them in Chicago, but only slightly; the season is

over for these pests, but the present unusual weather stirs up a few now

and then. As for Indians, I have only seen a few wigwams and one or two

horsemen, perfectly peaceable and friendly now, though a few years ago

this Gallatin Valley was the scene of many a bloody engagement between

them and the settlers, and old-timers have long tales to tell of many

terrible affrays. Nor have I yet met with a grizzly, though there are

plenty of these fellows, as well as "silver tips" and black bears, up in

the mountains.