This day, within the hour, I took from its place of concealment "An
Old Sketch-Book." It lies before me now, I turn its leaves and live
once more a past experience. Well, well! How vividly this book brings
to me again those stirring days! Why, these are days gone by this
quarter, yes, nearer this half century! How unexpectedly we sometimes
come upon the past--turn it up, as it were, from the mold of time as
with the plow one might bring to light from out the earth some lost
and forgotten thing. This book, with its buckskin covers, revivifies
dead hours, makes me live again those times when life for me was new;
or, if not exactly that, brings them back in memory as reminders of
times and conditions now passed away forever.
The book is a reminder, old, battered, dusty, yet truthful, of what an
ox-team journey across the western plains and over the Rockies was in
the years that are gone.
The book so long neglected, now so full of interest, received hard
usage in those former days. Before it lay at rest so long, gathering
dust and cobwebs about it, like a true pioneer it was made to rough it
in this world. It learned to withstand the brunt of many a hard
encounter. Master and book were companions on a long and toilsome
journey.
Inside and out; yes, the leaves and the covers all tell tales. This
buckskin was drenched many a time by the thunder-storms of Nebraska
and Wyoming; by the sleet and snow that fell upon the mountains.
Between these sheets of variously-toned gray paper, close to the
binding, are little waves of red, gritty stuff, contributions, on some
windy day, from the sand hills of the Platte Valley, or the Big Sandy
Creek (the poetic Glistening Gravel Water of the Indians), or from
"The Three Crossings" of the Sweetwater, or the wearisome piece of
road leading from Platte to Platte--North and South--over the ridge
and down into Ash Hollow. One end of the book has been submerged in
water, a reminiscence, no doubt, of the fording of either the Platte,
the Sweetwater, the Big or Little Laramie or the Green River farther
on. O, there are many emotions revived within me by a sight of the
book; they crowd upon me thick and fast! These crisp, gray leaves of
sage, where did they get between the leaves? It was, I believe, on one
cool September night, at Quaking Asp Hollow. I remember that then
great bonfires were blazing around our camp, and the red tongues of
flames showed by their light, wild groups of dancers--the ox-punchers
performing strange antics; a fantastic dancing supposed to be under
the patronage of Terpsichore; or, at least, some more western muse; a
something, as I recall it now, between that of our modern ball-room
and the Apache Ghost-Dance.
Remarkable that those sketches can suggest to me so much! Yet it is
that which is unseen that fills me with amaze. Turning over the leaves
it all comes back. "The Journey" is no longer a dream; it becomes
again a reality; I go over the long, long plodding, the slow progress
of seemingly endless days. Not only do I look upon the scenes which
were transferred to the book, but, through sympathy, on others also
that, for want of time, were left unsketched. Incidents of many kinds
thrust their memories upon me. Sometimes the experiences recalled were
pleasurable; sometimes they were sad. But mirthful or tragic, pathetic
or terrible, I go over them again, and the twelve hundred miles, nay,
the fifteen hundred, considering the circuitous route that we were
compelled to follow, pass before me like a moving panorama. Prairies,
hills, streams, mountains, canons, follow each other in quick
succession--all the ever-changing prospect between the banks of the
Missouri River and the Inland Sea.
[Illustration: _The Start from Missouri River._]
How rapidly we have grown! What was once but dreams of the future
first changed to reality, and then sank away until now they are but
dreams of the past. No more the long train of dust-covered wagons,
drawn by the slow and patient oxen, winds across the level plains or
passes through the deep defile. No more the Pony Express or the
lumbering stage-coach bring the quickest word or forms the fastest
transport between the inter-mountain region and "The States." How hard
it is to understand the briefness of time that has passed since this
great interior country was practically a howling wilderness, inhabited
by bands of savage Indians and penetrated only by intrepid trappers or
hunters! As we are now whirled along over the Laramie Plains, the
Humboldt Desert, or through the Echo or Weber Canons, reclining on
luxuriously cushioned seats, and but a few hours away from the
Atlantic or Pacific seaboards, we can scarcely realize it. Surely the
locomotive plays a wondrous part in the destiny of modern nations.
Without its aid the country through which we are about to pass might
have become as was surmised by Irving, the cradle of a race inimical
to the higher civilization to the East and West. Now we behold it a
land giving promise of future greatness, where peace, wealth and
happiness shall go hand in hand, and where already it is well-nigh
impossible for the youth of today to fully comprehend the struggles
and privations of its pioneer fathers.
The sketches, the greater number, are roughly made. There was little
time to loiter by the wayside. Some of them are hardly more than hasty
outlines, filled in, perhaps, when the camping-ground was reached.
Some show an impression dashed off of a morning or evening, or,
sometimes, of a noonday. Once in a while there is a subject more
carefully finished, telling of an early camp or of a half-day's rest.
Some are in white and black merely, others in color.
What a new delight it was to one young and city-bred, to mingle in the
freedom of camp life such as we enjoyed near that spot. How sweet it
was to pass the days and nights under the blue canopy of heaven! Three
weeks we remained there; three weeks elapsed ere our train was ready
to start. There was nothing very beautiful, it may be, in the scenery
bordering upon "The Mad Waters," but it was wild and sylvan at the
time, and we were excited by the prospect of those months of travel
that lay before us.
Between the high bank on which our wagons stood and the main course
where the Missouri's waters flowed, was "The Slough." There, under the
high branches of primeval trees, the river back-waters lay clear and
still; there the wild grape vine ran riot; there hung the green
clusters of berries that would swell as we journeyed on, and that
would be ripe ere we reached our journey's end. There the young, and
the old, too, resorted for their bath. Many the fair girl who made her
toilet there, often, indeed, that some bright face was reflected in a
silent pool, a nature's mirror, while its owner arranged anew her
disheveled hair. The daughters of dusky savages, of painted
chiefs--the Tappas, the Pawnee or the Omaha--had, no doubt, used that
place for the same purpose in other years. Little thought they of the
white-faced maidens from distant lands beyond the great seas, perhaps
of which they never heard, who should some day usurp their place.
During our days of waiting ere we had started westward, often, indeed,
our eyes were turned toward the sunset horizon. From there would come
the train of wagons in which the greater number of emigrants would
make "the journey." Often there was a false alarm. Each waiting
emigrant, impatient of delay, would take some far-off cloud of dust to
be that made by the expected wagons. But often it was only bands of
frontiersmen, Indians, or perhaps a band of antelope. Would the train
never come? How long this wait! At length, well I remember the
morning, the word was passed! It was the wagons for the emigrants. The
half-cooked breakfast and the camp-fires were left deserted. Each and
every one went forward to see the wagons that for so many weeks would
be their homes. Some there were who had lover or relative who had
preceded them the years before and now their lover or relative
returned for those whom they loved. All dust-covered and torn were the
teamsters' clothes. Some were bare-headed. Yes, they had raced on the
road. Two captains, our own, John D. Holladay, and another equally
eager, had made a wager. Each one was positive that he would reach the
banks of the Missouri first. In order to gain the wager our captain
had aroused his men at the hour of midnight, and in the darkness had
forded the deep Elkhorn River, and continued the journey eastward
while the members of the other company were enjoying their needed
rest.
A daring deed! But those pioneers of the west knew no fear. They were
in earnest, too. Captain and teamsters alike shared both the joy and
the pride in the winning of the wager.
Then on the afternoon of the same day the other train arrived. O what
a shouting and yelling then rent the air. Yet the rival captain and
his teamsters took their defeat good naturedly. They had started
eastward better equipped than was our captain, and yet the latter had
won the race. Of this achievement of course we were proud.
A supper and a ball were given by the losing company. And what a
ball-room--the Wyoming Hotel. It was a long, low house of logs and the
dance-room was lighted by a row of tallow candles, and the music was
furnished by the teamsters from the west, and yet what a time of
enjoyment it was! What a contrast between the refined young girls from
across the seas, and those roughly clad men from the west. Yet in the
future their lives were to be linked in one and their children in turn
be builders of the western empire.
Well do I remember, the afternoon, when our captain, that was to be,
came to our portion of the Wyoming camp and listed those who were to
journey as Independents, of which my father was one. That was the
first time that I had beheld a typical captain of the western plains.
And still I remember his massive form, his keen eye, his commanding
voice and gestures. But his true southern accent plainly told that he
had not long lived in the west, but was from the land of the sunny
south.
There should be a sketch of "The Slough," I remember such was made.
Indeed, it should be the first in the book. But careless hands have
torn it away. The first is one looking eastward over the river toward
the Council Bluffs. For eastward lay the Missouri River. We saw the
steamer Welcome, which had brought us up stream, the Red Wing, and
other olden time boats passing occasionally up or down the stream. But
westward the level horizon attracted our eyes and made us long for the
time when we should start to follow the setting sun.
Persistently, and with eager curiosity, the guide-book was scanned.
For weeks ahead we studied the meagre information of "The Route." We
learned the names, suggestively odd or quaintly poetic, and we
pictured in the mind the places themselves to which they belonged. We
formed conclusions to be realized later on or to be dispelled by the
actualities. The imagination, heated to the utmost by traveler's
tales--half true, half false--looked forward to a region of wonder
and romance. Already I had met that "boss of the frontier," the
western tough, who had kindly offered with the help of his
bowie-knife, to slit or cut off my youthful ears. I had looked upon
the frontier log-cabin, half store, half bar, decorated with the skins
of the beaver and the wolf, and seen the selling by the moccasined
fur-traders of buffalo robes. Before us was the land of Kit Carson, we
should pass through the domains of the Cheyenne, the Sioux, the Crow
and the Ute. We would see the Bad Lands; the burial trees of the
Arapahoe; the lands of the Medicine and the Scalp-Dance. In our path
were the villages of the Prairie Dog, the home of the Coyote and the
rattlesnake; of the antelope, of the buffalo, the big-horn and the
grizzly bear. Prairie Creek, Loup Fork, Fort John, South Pass, Wind
River Mountains--O many a name seized upon imagination and held it
fast.
And the names of Chiefs--Mad Wolf, Spotted Eagle, Two Axe,
Rain-in-the-Face--they were as from some unwritten western Iliad.
[Illustration: _Nebraska Landscape, with Prairie Fire._]
But I return to the sketch-book. Indeed it has made imagination
wander.
The second sketch in the book is a view near the Missouri River. It is
looking westward and shows a Nebraska landscape with a prairie fire.
The scene is, indeed, a very different one from what the place would
present today. A great prairie fire is sweeping across the plain and
the dense whirling mass of smoke, driven before the wind, and the
principal feature of the sketch, overshadows with its darkness a
far-reaching landscape of low, rolling hills, clumps of trees and a
winding stream, in which, however, there is not a sign of human life
visible. The stream is a small one, probably the Blue Creek, or it may
be the Vermilion, or, perhaps, the Shell. Which one of these I have
really forgotten. And the margin, too, is unmarked. Now that region is
covered with villages and farms and the smoke is from the chimneys of
homes where prosperity and modern comforts are to be found. The sketch
shows a wilderness, so great is the change wrought since that day it
was made.
"The O'Fallen's Bluffs." The third sketch is a hasty one. The sky and
the river--the slow-flowing Platte, are responsive to the light of a
golden sunset. The brilliant rays come from behind the huge, square,
sedimentary cliffs, and which throw a shadow across the foreground.
The main interest in the scene, however, is not that given by nature,
but in the presence of man. It shows our long train of wagons--how
slightly sketched--coming down from the bluffs, and winding toward the
radiance along the dusty road.
And so--we had made a start! We had unraveled, a few at least, of the
mysteries attendant upon the management of cattle; we could yoke and
unyoke; we knew the effects of "gee" and "haw," and could then throw
four yards of black-snake whip with a skill and force that made its
buckskin "cracker" explode with a noise like the report of a pistol.
We knew, with tolerable accuracy, the moment when to apply, to let off
the brake, the degree of modulation in the voice that would enable the
intelligent oxen to understand just how much to swerve to the right
or the left. We were fast becoming teamsters, "bull-whackers;" theory
had given place to practical knowledge, and, moreover, we were not
only becoming experts upon the road, but also in those many bits of
untellable knowledge needed to make bearable the discomforts of
camp-life.
Dearly we learned to love the Platte! Dearly we learned to love the
wide and shallow stream. Even if the way was dreary at times, we
forgot it when passing along the river banks. "Egypt, O Commander of
the Faithful, is a compound of black earth and green plants, between a
pulverized mountain and a red sand." So wrote Amron, Conqueror of
Egypt, to his master, the Khalif Omar. And so might then have been
said of the Valley of the Platte. Day after day we trudged along, and
day after day the red hills of sandstone looked down upon us, or the
prairie, like the desert, stretched out its illimitable distance. The
days grew into weeks, the weeks became a month, and still the cattle,
freed from the yoke, hastened to slake their thirst at the well-loved
stream. During that month, surely, we ate, each one of us, the peck of
dirt--if sand may be classed as dirt--which every man is said to eat
in his life time. It filled our eyes, too, and our ears, our nostrils.
It was in the food; it sprinkled the pan-cakes; it was in the syrup
that we poured over them. Half suffocated were we by it, during some
night-wind, as we lay beneath our wagons. O, ye sand hills of the
Platte--indeed we have cause to remember.
To the Overland traveller of today, the Platte is almost unknown. But
from the time we first discovered the stream, yellowed by the close of
a July day, and overhung by ancient cottonwood trees, until we bade it
farewell at Red Rocks, within view of Laramie Peak, it seemed, was,
indeed, a friend. As on the edge of the Nile, the verdure on its banks
was often the only greenness in all the landscape round.
"What possible enjoyment is there in the long and dreary ride over the
yellow plains," Rideing, in his "Scenery of the Pacific Railway," asks
that question. "The infinite space and air does not redeem the dismal
prospect of dried-up seas. The pleasures of the transcontinental
journey," he goes on to say, "may be divided into ten parts, five of
which consist of anticipation, one of realization, and four of
retrospect." With us, at least, it was different. From the railway one
is but a beholder of the scenery; but in "The Old Journey" we were
partakers therein. We became acquainted with the individualities, as
it were, of the way. And then how we crept from one oasis of verdure
to another. In the simple scenic combines, too, of the river, rock and
trees, what change! But the railway did not follow our devious course.
One there was in our company who, like Phil Robinson, of travel fame,
remembered the principal places along the road by the game he had shot
there. Here he had dropped a mallard or a red-head; there, upon that
hillside he had made havoc among a covey of rock-partridge, in that
grove secured the wild turkey, or, on the banks of that stream, he had
brought down a deer, and on that plain had ridden down a buffalo. A
good way this, no doubt, to remember the leading features, and
special places through which our journey lay; but, unlike my fellow
traveller, I recall now all the good spots for bathing. O, what joy it
was, after a half, or full day's experience of dust and toil to plunge
into the cooling, cleansing waters of spring or stream. O, the Platte!
But I must not omit my pleasure in other waters. Now I see the waves
of the Elkhorn, now those of the Big and the Little Laramie; and, now,
through a fringe of long-leaved arrow-wood, the cold, deep waters of
Horse Shoe Creek. One day as I bathed, Spotted Tail, the famous Sioux
Chieftain, and his band of five hundred braves, passed along the banks
of the Platte. Open mouth I stared at the wild cavalcade, and while
wading ashore, I struck my foot against, as it proved to be upon
examination, a great stone battleaxe. Perhaps it once belonged, at
some remote period of time, to another great chief in that famed and
haughty warrior's ancestry.
"A Gathering Storm"--the unbroken prairies! We are brought by this
subject to grand phenomena. Heavens what piles of cloud, what solemn
loneliness! The clouds--no wonder that the Indian of the plain has
many a legend about them!
"Gloomy and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty Omahas;
Gloomy and dark as the driving cloud whose name thou hast taken."
"Billowy bays of grasses ever rolling in shadow and sunshine."
Magnificent! But this imperfect little sketch cannot reveal the truth,
can only suggest. Nowhere are the clouds more wonderful than when
over, never is solitude more impressive than in the open prairies.
The clouds, the clouds! Yes, through many a twilight hour, I watched,
lying upon the tufted prairie as the camp-fires died away, the clouds.
Weird was the hectic flushing, the glow of the sheet lightning among
the July and August cumuli. But these clouds in the sketch are filled
with portent. Not only is the prairie darkened with the approach of
night, but with the coming storm.
Here are two famous objects; famous, at least, in those days, not far
apart, and following each other in the book--"The Court House," and
"The Chimney Rock." Distinctly I remember the day on which we first
sighted the latter--a pale blue shaft above the plain. We had just
formed the last semi-circle of our noon corral and through its western
opening was seen the Chimney, wavy through the haze that arose from
the heated ground. It was my father who pointed it out to me. It
afterwards seemed to us that the slow-going oxen would never reach it;
or, rather, that they would never arrive at the point in the road
opposite that natural curiosity; for the emigrant trail passed several
miles to the northward of the low range of bluffs of which "the
Chimney Rock" is a part. One evening several of our company tried to
walk from our nearest camp to the terraced hills that formed the
Chimney's base, but the distance proved too great. That was one of our
first lessons in the deceptiveness of space--the distance to hills and
mountains.
[Illustration: _Morning at Chimney Rock._]
From the banks of Lawrence Creek, from where the sketch was made, the
bluffs, and the Half-Way-Post, the name by which the Chimney is
sometimes suggestively referred to, are most picturesque. Strings of
wild ducks arose from the rushes of the creek side as our train
approached.
"Scott's Bluffs" make a very different picture from those of the
O'Fallen's. The sedimentary heights of the former, with their strong
resemblance to walls and towers, are shown in the sketch rosy with the
light of the rising sun. In the middle distance, in a little swale of
the picture, is a train corralled, the still blue smoke rising in many
a straight column from the morning camp-fires. In the foreground are
sun-flowers, a buffalo-skull among them.
Ah! here is a sad, dark sketch--"Left by the Roadside." A tall, rank
growth, and a low, half-sunken headboard are seen against the sky in
which lingers yet a red flush of the twilight. Two or three stars shed
their pale rays from afar, and one feels that the silence, is unbroken
by even the faintest sigh of wind. But certainly there will come one
soon, a long, shivering, almost moan-like sound, as the night wind
begins to steal across the waste and gently stirs the prairie grass
and flowers.
Yes, after those years it is the Human Comedy; it is the never-ending
drama! It is the wonder of that which grows upon one. It is the
desires, hopes, trials, pleasures, sorrows of the race! It is the
remembered action that interests me in these sketches. The book is
filled with the transcripts of once noted places, but my mind, as I
look upon them, is filled with thoughts of men and women. It is those
who passed among the scenes who are of interest now. I recall the
Pioneers themselves. I think of them, filled with hope, yet anxious,
eager to begin the new life that lay before them.
The action! The search for the Fountain of Youth, the desire for
knowledge, the thirst for gold, these have led men into the wilds; it
has taken them to brave unknown dangers in unknown lands. Yes, these,
the Propaganda and the love of Freedom, but neither is stronger than
the desire for Religious Liberty. Ponce de Leon in the Land of
Flowers; Lewis and Clark making their way along the Oregon, the
Catholic Fathers, the gold-seekers of California, and the Puritans of
New England--these are our examples. And like the latter were the
Pioneers who preceded us along our way. And our company, too, such it
was that led them. Near the frontier I had looked into a deserted
cabin--it revealed the ending of a drama. He who would have found the
magic waters, the home and the gold-seeker left behind them many a
lonely grave. The Propagandist, the Lover of Freedom left their bones
in many an unknown spot. And the Pioneers? They, too, must leave their
dead. He who built that deserted cabin had met with failure,--death
was the end. But the seekers of Religious Liberty? Surely they must
have found the greater consolation in the hour of trial; to them must
have come more quickly the thought of peace.
Action! It is true; one might have become easily wearied of the
monotonous trip. The shifting panorama might have become monotonous in
its shifting. Monotonous, I mean, were it not for, I repeat the
word--the action. The plains, the streams, the rocks, the hills, all
became important because these led the way. Ever my thought is of the
road.
Countless in numbers almost were the graves, on plain and mountain,
those silent witnesses of death by the way. The mounds were to be seen
in all imaginable places. Each day we passed them, singly or in
groups, and sometimes, nay, often, one of our own company was left
behind to swell the number. By the banks of streams, on grassy
hillocks, in the sands, beneath groves of trees, or among piles of
rock, the graves were made. We left the new mounds to be scorched by
the sun, beaten upon by the tempests, or for beauty or desolation to
gather around as it had about many of the older ones. Sometimes when
we camped the old graves would be directly alongside the wagons. I
recall sitting by one that was thickly covered with grass and without
a headboard while I ate my evening meal, and of sleeping by it at
night. One remains in my mind as a very soothing little picture, a
child's grave; and it was screened around with a thicket of wild rose
that leaned lovingly over it, while the mound itself was overgrown
with bright, green moss. I fancied then that the parents of that child
were they yet living, the mother, who, no doubt, had left that grave
with such agony of heart, such blinding or tearless grief, would have
liked, indeed, to have heard the sweet singing of the wild birds in
the rose thicket, and have seen how daintily nature had decked that
last bed of the loved one.
How painful were the circumstances attending the first burial in our
train. A woman died one evening, we were about ten days out, just as
the moon had risen over the prairies, and swiftly the tidings spread
through the camp. Next morning, it was the Sabbath Day, she was
buried, laid to rest on a low, grassy hill top near the banks of a
stream. Never can I forget the grief of her children as the body of
their mother was lowered into the ground. I can hear their cries yet,
those cries that they gave, as they were led away, and their wagon
departed with the rest. A network of stakes was placed across the
grave to keep away the robber wolves; a short, short sermon was
preached, a hymn was then sung, accompanied by the plaintive wailing
of a clarinet, and prayer made to the services a solemn close.
That first death made a sad impression upon us. But after a while the
burials from our company had become so frequent, that they lost much
of their saddening power; or, rather, we refused to retain so deeply
the sadness, throwing it off in self defense.
The outline which follows brings up a different train of
thought--"Camp material abandoned after an attack by Indians." The
ground is littered with all sorts of indescribable things. Panic is
evident in the reckless tossing away of every kind of articles;
anything to lighten the loads, so that the fear-struck emigrants
could hurry forward. This was the train immediately preceding ours,
and a couple of days later we passed one of those prairie letters--an
ox-shoulder blade or skull--on which was written:
"Captain Chipman's train passed here
August 14th, 1866.
8 deaths,
90 head of cattle driven away by the Indians.
Great scare in camp."
Apropos of alarms from Indians there is a rapidly executed subject,
from memory the next day, that brings back a night of peril and
sorrow. It was on the western slope of the Black Hills, and there were
four wagons of us belated from the general train. We were the last
five on the right-wing, and the right-wing was the latter half of the
train that night, so, practically, we were alone. There was a dead
woman in the wagon next to ours, and to hear the weeping and sobbing
of her little children, in the dark beside the corpse, was heart
chilling. The poor husband trudged along on foot hurrying his single
yoke of footsore cattle. Still we were far behind; liable at any
moment to be cut-off by the prowling Sioux. That was a night to
remember.
Here are two scenes among the Black Hills themselves, one is a very
suggestive sketch showing rocks, timber-clad bluffs, and ragged peaks
with the wagons of our train coming down a deep declivity into a dry
torrent bed. Wild clouds are coming over the peaks threatening a
stormy night. It appears that the wagons must topple over, end over
end, so abrupt is the descent they are making. In the second sketch,
made on the evening of the following day, the train is seen winding
like a serpent over the hills. In the middle distance is a valley,
partly obscured by mists, and beyond it Laramie Peak, purple against
the sunset clouds and sky.
[Illustration: _Camp at Scott's Bluffs._]
The night drives were among the most trying experiences upon the
Overland Journey. Usually they were made necessary to us from the
drying up of some spring or stream where we had expected to make
our evening camp, and the consequent lack of water for the people as
well as cattle, so that we must move forward. Our worst drive of this
kind was to reach the La Prelle River after leaving Fort Laramie,
Saint John's, on the night which followed the making of the first of
the two sketches just mentioned. Wildly the lightnings glared, their
livid tongues licked the ground beside us. The road was deluged in the
downpour of rain; and what with the sudden flashes of light, the
crashing of thunder, the poor cattle were quite panic-stricken. It was
hard work to make the poor brutes face the storm. Yet, after all,
their sagacity was greater than ours. Several times we would have
driven them over the edge of a precipice had not their keener senses
warned them back. We would have shuddered, so our Captain afterwards
told us, could we have seen where the tracks of our wagon wheels were
made that night.
Yes, to the emigrant company of those days, the drying up of a stream
was often of serious import. Water enough might have been carried to
quench the thirst of human beings, but what of the many cattle? The ox
that suffers too much from thirst becomes a dangerous animal. Let him
scent in the distance the coveted water, and who shall curb his
strength? How nearly we met with disaster from this same cause. Almost
useless were the brakes; how fiercely the thirst tortured animals
strained at their yokes. It was a pitiful sight, and as we approached
the broken, boulder-strewn edge of the stream, our position was
somewhat dangerous. No less dangerous was the task of removing the
yokes from the impatient creatures, and of unloosing the chains.
I try to recall my diary, for I did keep a diary. I did not find it
among the old relics where was hidden the sketch-book, and the chances
are that long since it has been destroyed, perhaps fed to the flames.
In spite of slightness it must have contained many an interesting fact
about "The Journey." But I cannot recall a word. The events which gave
rise to its entries grow fresh in my mind, but the wording of the
matter itself is gone. I know it contained the data which would give
the exact number of hours in which we were upon the road, and that I
would like to know. I remember writing about Scott's Bluffs, and how
they received their name. One fancied that he could see the wounded
trapper, abandoned and dying alone, and wondered if he crawled down
from the bluffs, and along the way we were travelling. And which was
the spot, too, where, at last, his bones were found. There was
something, too, about the gathering of buffalo chips, and the seeking
of firewood. On the latter quest, what lonely spots we did visit! One
comes to my mind at this moment. How weirdly the wind choired in the
ancient cedars, and how very old appeared the boulders with their
mottling of lichens, and with what a dismal yelp a ragged coyote
leaped from his lair and scampered down a rock-strewn gully! It was
tantalizing at times to keep to the road. How could one resist the
temptation to throw off restraint, and, putting all prudence aside,
wander or go galloping on horseback away over hill and through dale?
What if the redman did lie in the path? He could be a brother. O, but
to be like the Indian; to live wild and free, to be "iron-jointed,
supple-sinewed, to hurl our lances in the sun!"
This, of course, was on those days when, having taken "the winds and
sunshine into our veins," we felt stirred within us the instincts of
primal man. At other times we were sober-minded enough. The romance of
being out in the wilds was terribly chilled by an inclement sky. A few
days of drizzling rain tried the most ardent spirit. Then it was that
the disagreeableness of the time made the true metal of the emigrant
show itself. Whatever traits of character he possessed--selfishness,
senseless fault-finding, or those rare qualities of kindness, cheerful
content, and ready helpfulness--all come out. In Mark Tapley's own
phrase, it was all very well to "come out strong" when by the warm
glow of the flames or when moving along with the bright blue sky above
us, but it was quite another task to remain cheerful when the
incessant rain made impossible even the smallest or most sheltered of
camp-fires, and one crept into his bed upon the ground with wet
clothes and with flesh chilled to the bone, without even the solace of
a cup of hot tea or coffee.
Hardly less trying were the days of dust-storms. What misery it was
when the wind blew from the front and the whole cloud of dust raised
by over three hundred yoke of cattle, and the motion of sixty-five
wagons drove in our faces! How intolerably our eyes and our nostrils
burned, and how quickly our ears were filled with the flying sand or
alkali!
I should like to read once more, those diary entries. Was there
anything written, I wonder, about those silhouettes upon the hills?
What did it tell, if anything, about the alarm that was spread through
our Company? Had we--the unlearned--known more about the ways of the
Indian we would have realized that they--those shadows--were no Sioux.
Yet it was disturbing to the unknowing to see those figures, those
mysteriously moving horsemen of the night. Thank heaven! It was but
our own scouting herdsmen. But for once, to those assembled within the
corral centre, O, how too long seemed the hymn, and even the prayer!
How impatient we were to know the truth.
In "The Cedar Bluffs" the wagons that are sketched corralled are not
our own. They comprised a small freight train, and right glad would
they have been to, and most likely they did, creep along, as it were,
in our wake. There were no women or children in that train, its
members were all of the daring "freighter." These were men willing to
meet with any danger. Perhaps there might be among them men
inexperienced, but they must have possessed intrepid hearts. Rough of
the rough, but daring they certainly were. Woe to that little band if
later they met the Sioux. It would mean, for them, annihilation. What
rude pranks the Indian did sometimes play! The Sioux or Cheyenne, he
would take bales of bright stuffs which he sometimes found in the
freighters' wagons, fasten one end of it to his pony and let the
hundred yards unravel and flaunt on the winds as wildly he dashed
across the plain. There was a brutally comic side to the character of
the western Indian.
A brutal side! Yes, and there was often a comic side to the white
man's fear. Well, indeed, a friend of mine has told it. Twelve young
men comprised a company; two wagons and six yoke of oxen made up their
outfit. That certainly was taking their risks in those perilous times!
Yet they were unmolested. Once, indeed, they thought themselves at the
mercy of the Sioux; as truly, in another way they were. Death and the
scalping-knife appeared their lot. But it was all a hoax. What had
been taken for the painted savage was but a party of whites with
blankets over their heads to keep away the rain. Taking into
consideration the really dangerous position of the little band, there
was a tragic-farcical touch in their list of arms. My friend's sole
means of defense was a butcher-knife some six inches long.
But in a later adventure, so he told me, the farcical part was left
out. That was an experience in which, if the tragedy was also
wanting, there was a most severe test upon his nerves. He had left the
camp, taking a fowling piece with him, and he wandered along a stream.
He had just taken sight upon a skein of wild fowl, and was about to
fire, when suddenly a band of Indians came from behind a bank, and in
another instant the shot would have been among them. But luckily he
had not pulled the trigger. However his attitude, the pointed gun made
him an object of suspicion. The Indians were upon the war-path, but
not with the whites just then. My friend was surrounded, and he must
explain to the satisfaction of the savages who he was, and why he was
there. He was finally released, however, upon proof that he was from a
camp of whites near by. But all the same it was an ordeal to stand
surrounded by those painted savages, scalps dangling from their pony
saddles. And it was one that the actor therein would not have cared to
repeat.
[Illustration: _Laramie Peak from the Black Hills._]
It did produce upon one a disturbing sensation; that knowledge, I
mean, of how often the eyes of ambushed Indians might be fixed upon
one. And the wild animals, too! From the distance they watched. Herds
of buffalo, perhaps, or of deer, looked upon our moving train from the
plateau tops. Beyond the flaming yellow sun-flowers, amid the bright
red of the rocky hills, the Sioux was often concealed. His face was
painted of the same gaudy colors, and he looked with blood lust upon
us. We knew not when this might be; yet that it was always possible
gave a sort of aspect of menace to the bluffs and hills along the way.
Many a time had Captain Holladay with his natural caution gained from
experience; his sagacity and knowledge, given a timely warning. The
girls must not be led too far by their passion for the gathering of
flowers. How often had the desire to possess some especially beautiful
or brilliant, some alluring bunch of desert bloom tempted them beyond
the lines of safety. Especially true was this among the Black Hills
and the mountain ranges, too, beyond them. There was danger, also, in
the going for water, the dipping places were often at quite a
distance from the camp. How terrible an example was that which
occurred in one of the trains which crossed the Hills the year before
our own. It was on the banks of the La Bonte River. A band of five
Sioux suddenly dashed out from amid a clump of trees on the river
bank, and carried away, beyond all hope of rescue, one of two girls
who had rashly gone too far down the stream. The train remained at the
river for a period of three days, the Indians were pursued for many
miles, but it was all in vain. The young husband never saw his young
wife again. One of the young women was slightly in advance of the
other, and those few steps made this difference, that one was lost,
the other saved. And the young woman who escaped was the writer's
sister.
Something of all the passions; something of all the passions--joy,
love, hope, fear, and the others, too, must have been recorded in the
pages of that diary. Or, rather, there should have been had the
youthful writer of those pages put down upon them what he once
actually looked upon, as now he recalls them mentally. They must have
told, too, how a foe even stronger than the Sioux, one not to be
gainsaid, took away a sister at last. We took the oaken wagon seats to
make her little coffin. Did it tell how we laid her away to rest;
after those days of suffering, when she was carried by turns in our
arms, to save her what pain we could; did it tell, then, how she was
laid beneath the cottonwoods, where ripple the waters of the Laramie,
and how the soil was hardly replaced in the grave ere we must depart?
Did it tell of the wild night of storm and darkness, through which
later we passed? The remainder of "The Journey" was for us, darkened
by that ever-remembered tragedy.
Love, upon "The Journey"--O it was sure to come! Where will not love
follow, where is it not to be found? Coquettishly the sun-bonnet may
be worn; coquettishly the sun-flower may be placed at the waist, or
the cactus bloom amid the dark-brown hair. By what strange and
circuitous routes are lovers brought to meet! Through what strange and
unforseen circumstances does love begin! In our Company were there
not those maidens who could still walk coquettishly and with grace,
although it was their truthful boast that their feet had measured each
mile of the lengthened way? Were there not those in whose red cheeks
the prairie sun kissed English blood? The man from the west, why
should he not learn to love that beauty from Albion's Isle?
How delightful when danger did not lie in ambush, to walk, arm locked
in arm, far ahead of the leading wagon; how delightful to sit amid the
flowers and to feel the solitude of the boundless prairie! Yet love is
a danger that lurks everywhere. To linger, ever so short a distance
behind the train was a grave offense. Each member of the Company knew
this rule, they knew it was a rule that must not be broken. Of course
one need not make a capture as did that savage brave; one need not,
whirling by upon his desert horse, stoop sideways and lift to his side
a screaming and unwilling bride. Nor did one care to imitate that
enamored chieftain of the Cheyennes. Should one make an offer of a
hundred ponies? Yet, if the Captain, upon his steed, like a Knight of
old, should be found with a pretty girl riding beside him, what an
example for others to follow! One there was in our Company, a youth,
who had returned from the west, passing over the road again to find
his father's grave. He had come, too, to meet his mother and sister by
the Missouri's banks. Fate had willed, however, that the father's
grave should not be found; two years had elapsed since it had been
made, and nature, with storm and floods had hidden it away, and so the
one who slept there, sleeps there still, and the mountain winds, the
thunder, and the voice of the passing stream, still make his requiem.
On that eastward trip our Captain had learned to love this youth. And
on the westward trip he learned to love even more the sister. For she
it was who later became our Captain's wife. But why repeat the
romance?
Life, Romance, Death--indeed they were busy in our little world! The
space between the two semi-circles of wagons made a wide division; it
was like the two sides of a street, each wagon a dwelling. One could
hardly believe that in such a company, isolated from all the rest of
mankind, such a separation could exist. Yet such a separation existed
between "the wings." At times the members of the one side hardly knew
what was happening among those of the other. But there were certain
events, of course, that would form the link. As we proceed upon our
way what changes come! I mean into the lives and hearts of many. But
come there new joy, or come there new sorrow, the Pioneer must live
the pioneer's life. There were always the labor, the privations, a
certain kind of pleasure. There was left but little time in which to
brood. Except, it may be, in the silent watches of the night. There
was something remarkable, too, about the manner in which the cattle
became imbued with the spirit of their driver. What individuality, for
instance, there was among the cattle themselves, our own four yoke, I
mean, it was modified by the driver. Tex and Mex, Spot and Jeff, how
easy to distinguish their characters from that of either Tom and
Jerry, or Lep and Dick. And yet as a body how quickly they reflected
the mental condition of the one who drove them. Be he calm, be he
dejected or peevish, and the cattle knew it at once.
Here is a suggestion of a sometimes unpleasant duty--"The Night-Guard."
His was a trust in which anxiety and danger were often combined. The
picket on duty at the front of war is scarcely more important to the
safety of the troops than was the Night-Guard to our Company. In those
days of lawlessness in red man and white, constant vigil had to be
kept. On the faithful performance of the Night-Guard's duty our safety
depended. If we were not attacked, then the cattle might be driven
away, and we might be left stranded, as it were, in the wilderness.
Alone with his thoughts, this important one at his post, had ample
opportunity for careful reflection. The youth of the writer released
him from the duty of guard, and his father suffered from an accident--a
foot partly crushed by one of the oxen--but as owners of cattle, as
"Independents," we must do a share and a double task fell to the lot of
an older brother. We had seen the disaster which came upon the Company
preceding ours, and at Deer Creek we had also seen heaps of red and yet
smoking embers, all that remained of the station there, and of the
surrounding cabins. We knew that the Indians who had done both the acts
of driving away the cattle and applying the torch, were, in all
likelihood, watching upon the road for us. Our Captain never allowed an
inexperienced man to occupy too important a post, but the "tenderfoot"
could serve as aid.
We, like ships that pass on the sea, sometimes spoke a returned. No
gloomy recital of disappointment could turn us back. The Golden West
was our goal, and those who returned were but, to us, the too timid
ones. In truth, has not the dream of the Pioneer been fully realized?
Those men and women who endured so much? Did they not gain, enmass,
the victory? And those who fell by the way--they were as those who
perish in battle, but who leave the fruits of their devotion and
success to others. Those young men who put their shoulders to the
wheels, when our wagon might have otherwise become fast in the
quicksands of the Platte, and those older men and women, too, that I
looked upon as they trudged toward the West with the dogged
determination of age, all made possible the future commonwealth. They
ate of the fruit that was raised from the soil, their sons and
daughters inherited the land.
[Illustration: _Ford of the Green River._]
Men who now count their wealth by hundreds of thousands, some by the
millions of dollars, can remember their vain strivings when poor and
on night-guard to look into the future; to see some faint glimpses of
what Providence held in store for them in the Westward, Ho!
Three subjects that follow are by the Sweetwater River. In one the
Rattlesnake Hills are shown dim in the summer haze; in the second is
the Rock Independence, and in the third is the noted "Devil's Gate,"
with its reflection in a pool of the stream. What a real blessing,
though perhaps in disguise, is often enforced attention; enforced
activity! Upon "The Journey" such it was. O, it was a balm to many an
aching heart! A blessing the swiftly-changing scenes, the labor, the
unavoidable routine of camp-life! Those whose trials were so great;
those whose grief was so intense; those who were so quickly compelled
to leave the new-made graves of their dead; yes, even these must take
their part. There was no escape. It was a fiat--"thou shalt." The very
aged, the sick would lift themselves up in their beds to look upon
some famous place. The Rock Independence, The Devil's Gate--was not
the writer propped up with pillows to look out, through the opening of
the covers at the wagon front, upon them? Those places we had thought
of, spoken of, for three months past--there they were. Many looked at
them through tear-dimmed, or sick-weary eyes. The apathy that
sometimes comes upon the traveller when he has reached some famous or
hoped-for place, is well understood. But sometimes these climaxes are
too strong even for that to conquer. The burial-tree of the Sioux; the
first band of Indian braves; the buckskin dressed, the beaded, the
dusky beauty of the wild, they made a claim. Yes, as I said, even the
heart-stricken must look around, must take an interest, even if
languid or disliking, in the passing world. There was perhaps a cruel
kindness in this fact. All were compelled to hear the music, the
singing, the laughing, the dancing, that followed, be the Company
never so weary, after many a long day's travel. This all could hear as
well as the hymn, the prayer. A sudden shout--"antelope!" "buffalo!"
would rouse the most dejected. Weariness, grief, found many a strange
yet wholesome tonic.
These questions occur to me while I write: Had the emigrants remained
at home, would more of them have lived, would more of them have died?
I mean, would they have longer lived, have later died? Ah, where comes
not life's tragedy? Come or go, remain--the end is still the same!
"An Exhausted Ox." This was a sight that was not infrequent. When,
upon the road, the strength of an ox gave out, when it could go no
further, and tottered or fell, wearied beyond endurance, beside its
mate, it was a matter of no small import. It meant, perhaps, the loss
of the yoke, of their use, I mean, for it was hard to remate an ox
upon the road. Yet, at times, it must be done. A plug of tobacco,
bound between two slices of bacon, such was the medicine that was
administered to the ailing ox. It was a kill or a cure; sometimes it
was the one, sometimes it was the other. Lep and Dick, the "wheelers"
to our leading wagon, were the largest cattle in the entire train. And
Dick, especially, was big, and he, at our very last camping-ground,
laid down and died. But it was from the eating of wild parsley. But,
in few cases, there was hardship, distress inflicted upon the emigrant
by the loss of cattle. I have already instanced one case, that of the
unfortunate man, whose wife died at night upon the slopes of the Black
Hills.
I am here reminded to mention another fact. It was really quite a
disclosure to see the changing appearance of the train. Not alone as
it changed from week to week, becoming more and more travel marked,
but also as it changed in appearance, in order, I mean, from hour to
hour, as we moved upon the road. In making the daily start--morn or
noonday--the wagons would take their place in the line with an almost
mathematical accuracy. The noses of each leading yoke of cattle would
nearly touch the end-board of the wagon preceding them. But soon this
order was broken. Such an incident as that related in the former
paragraph, or if not the actual happening, then the weakened pulling
force caused by some happening of the day or week before, was the
cause. And, of course, this became the more pronounced amid the
mountains than upon the plains. To keep this train compact under the
circumstances was one of the chief labors of the Captain and his aids.
Here is a wide gap in the locale of the sketches.
It is the result of a mountain fever. What a gloriously majestic
outline the peaks of the Wind River Mountains make, and especially
from that spot, the High Springs, in the South Pass! Delightsome days
were ours as we moved slowly forward through that broad and famous
highway, with that towering range of mountains all the while seeming
to gaze down upon us! Joyfully we burst into song:
"All hail ye snow-capped mountains!
Golden sunbeams smile."
We made there, in the South Pass, if I count correctly, our two
hundredth camp-fire. There, indeed, with our view, were the mountains;
there, among those gray and storm-worn boulders of granite, welled
forth the waters--those that flowed not to be lost in the Atlantic,
but in the Pacific. That dividing line, that mighty ridge was the
"Backbone of the Continent." Indeed, with our first descent, and we
were with the West. Pacific Creek would be our next camping spot, and
westward its waters would run. From either of these great peaks, the
Snowy or Fremont's, how near we might see to the place of our
destination. From these summits might we not discern other summits;
mountains farther to the west; the ranges whose bases were near to the
Inland Sea? Afar away it was over the heights and vales, and yet it
brought a message--"You are near the place of rest."
"A Buffalo Herd." This sketch could well have preceded several,
instead of following, the one that it does. By the Sweetwater and
along the reaches of the Platte, there we sighted buffalo. And in Ash
Hollow, too, and by La Foche, or the East Boise River, we had seen the
shaggy creatures. Here, across a wind-swept level, between two
mountain slopes, the buffalo were changing pasture, moving leisurely
toward the south. They knew when would come the storms; they knew
where better they should be met. Each eye-witness has told, verbally
or in print, how a distant herd of buffalo appears. They resemble a
grove of low, thick-set trees or bushes. On a distant plain or along a
hillside, their rounded forms might be easily mistaken, were it not
for the moving, for clustered, sun-browned shrub-oak. Ash Hollow was
once a familiar resort for the now rare animal. A traveller once saw
there a herd which could scarcely have numbered less than fifty to
sixty thousand. So vast were once the herds in the Valley of the
Upper Platte, that it would sometimes take several days for one of
them to pass a given point. Woe to the small party of emigrants that
happened to be in their track--I mean a herd of frightened buffaloes.
Annihilation was their fate. The herd that we now looked upon was not
so great, yet it was large enough to resemble a moving wood. Slow at
first, then with a headlong rush, and then, thank heaven! the herd
dashed in another direction than ours.
Helter skelter, maddened by fear, with nostrils distended, with set
and glaring eyes, blind as their wild fellows, scarcely less
dangerous, was a stampede of cattle. No longer the patient, submissive
creatures, whose pace seemed ever too slow to our eager desires, but
stupid beasts, full of fury, dashing, they knew, they cared not,
where. A stampede of yoked and hitched cattle was one of the most
thrilling episodes of our Journey. What was the cause of the stampede
I cannot recall, but its terror I will not forget. What a screaming
came from my younger brothers, huddled in the wagon, and I may add
with truth, the delighted laughter of a baby sister. What a moment was
that in which the racing cattle headed towards a steep, overhanging
bank of the Platte! It was the climax to many a nightmare for many a
year thereafter.
[Illustration: _First Glimpse of the Valley._]
And while, through this misplaced subject--"The Buffalo Herd"--I go
backward, as it were, on our journey, I might refer to a sketch that
is partly torn away from the book. From what remains of the leaf I
gather that the drawing which once covered it when entire, was "The
Passing of the Mail-Coach." On the slopes of Long Bluff there lay a
wreck. It was the skeleton, as one might call it, what remained of a
coach, that had been stopped by the Sioux. The leather was cut from
its sides, by the Indians who had killed the driver and driven away
the horses; and the ribs of wood and iron stuck up from the sand and
gravel that had been washed around it. But this one in the sketch was
not a coach that told of a tragedy, but one that went speeding by our
camp, leaving a cloud of dust. In our hearts were regrets that we
could not speed as fast. "The Man on the Box" was important in his
day. He was an autocrat of the plains. When he brought the coach to
its destination, that was if he happened to be on what was called "the
last drive," he would draw on his tight-fitting, high-heeled boots; he
would wear his richly-embroidered gloves; he would be the hero at "the
Hall," the swell at "The Dance."
For us was it not tantalizing to know how quickly, compared with our
slow progress, that coach would reach "The End?" Somewhere, probably
ere we reached the mountains, we would meet that coach returning. The
Jehu who drove it would come to recognize our Company as he passed us
by. The guard of soldiers would know us, and he and they would pass,
repass the train before us, and also the one that followed. Yes, we
followed the original trail of the Pioneers but, of course, there had
been changes. The Pony Express was a thing of the past, and soon the
stage-coach would be. But this latter change was not yet. There were
rumors, too, surveyors had been seen near the Missouri's banks. Anon,
and the iron-steed would course the plains; it would find a path
through the mighty hills. But this, too, was not yet. O, we were in a
wilderness, true! No need for us to see the wreck of the mail-coach,
the burned station, or the dead Pony Express, arrow-slain, the pouches
gone, the letters that would be so long waited for, scattered to the
many winds. No need of this, for us to know the dangers we had passed,
or to make us rejoice that we had arrived in safety thus far.
Who would blame us for our times of merriment? Who shall wonder at the
time of rejoicing that followed on our arrival at Pacific Creek? Of
whether our biggest jubilation was at Chimney Rock, or whether it was
there, our first camping place on the Western Slope, I fail to be
sure. But this I know, whether it were at the one or at the other, the
facts about it are the same. Blankets were stretched between two
wagons, a sheet was hung, there was a shadow pantomime, declamations
were given, songs were sung. O, it was indeed a time of gaiety! When
the evening meal was over and the call of the sweet-toned clarinet
assembled all in the open corral, then what times! Men and women, the
young, and the old ones, too, danced the hours away. Who would have
thought there had been such a hard day's journey? Forgotten were the
fatigues that had been; and those that were to come. It was such hours
as these that atoned for those that had been wearisome, for those that
were sad.
That clarinet--what an important part it held! It voiced the general
feeling of the train. Be the company sad or merry, like a voice it
spoke. Merrily, on the banks of the Missouri it sounded at the moment
of starting, mournfully it spoke as each one who fell by the wayside
was laid to his rest.
[Music]
I seem to hear it once more as when it awoke us, too, for the last
start near the Journey's end. Its remembered strains bring back the
scent of prairie flowers and the mountain sage.
Here is the "Ford of the Green River." This reviewing has been
lengthy, but we near its close. This ford of the river is not where
the railway crosses it at the present time, but farther up the stream,
where in the distance, to the north-east, the jagged summit of the
Wind River Mountains were again in view, and where on the river banks
are groups of cottonwood trees and thickets of wild raspberry and
rose, and the air is aromatic with the exhalations of wild thyme. It
is a stirring scene, for the water was both deep and swift and the
fording not accomplished without considerable labor and risk. A
half-day's rest on the banks of the Green River, as well as the
attractiveness of the place itself, makes the scene of that sketch
remembered with pleasure.
Small need to tell how expectancy grew upon us as the number of miles
ahead became less and less. Even those who had at last apparently
grown apathetic and walked silently along, or sat questionless in the
wagons, began to again manifest the same eager interest which had
marked the days of our starting out. Wake up! wake up! wake up! Fun
and frolic must sometimes take the place of sentiment and sobriety,
and so one who was ever brimming over with both, could not wait the
poetic summons of the clarionet. Beating together two old tin pans he
frisked around the corral, rousing with the unseemly noise all
laggards and slug-a-beds.
"Cliffs of Echo Canon." This brings us within the borders of Utah. We
had climbed from Green River to Cache Cave, we looked upon the one
range of hills, the one only, that divided us from our destination.
Clear shone the September sun, as our long train moved slowly under
the conglomerate cliffs; slowly, for half of the cattle were footsore,
and all very weary. Several hours were consumed in passing through the
wild defile, and night was falling ere the mouth of the canon was
reached. Later, as the camp-fires were blazing, the full moon
illuminated the fantastic scene.
Who of all those who traversed Echo Canon in an ox-train will forget
the shouting, the cracking of whips, the wild halloes, and the
pistol-shots that resounded along the line, or the echoes, all
confused by the multitude of sounds, and passing through each other
like the concentric rings on a still pond when we throw in a handful
of pebbles, flying from cliff to cliff, and away up in the shaggy
ravine and seeming to come back at last from the sky.
"O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying;
Blow, bugle, answer echoes, dying, dying, dying."
No wonder the place recalls Tennyson's song, but, it must be told,
there were none of "the horns of Elfland faintly blowing" about the
wild hilarity of sounds which were sent back from the cliffs that day.
The last sketch in the book is "A Glimpse of the Valley." Not one in
our company but what felt the heart swell with joy as the sight of
fields and orchards, in the latter of which hung ripened fruit, burst
upon our sight. Danger and fatigues were all forgotten. The stubborn,
interminable miles were conquered, "The Journey" was at an end.