FURTHER VIEWS ON THE MISSISSIPPI.
Des Moines River--Iowa--Group of Indians--Tributary
streams to the Mississippi--Galena--Bishop of
Illinois--My sister's grave.
_Friday Evening, July 7th._
Having passed the Des Moines river, the whole country bordering on the west
bank of the Mississippi, is denominated the Wisconsin Territory, or more
commonly here, _the Iowa country_. It is indeed a most beautiful country.
It is said that a little more than four years since, there was not a single
white settler west of the Mississippi and north of Des Moines river; now,
there are between thirty and forty thousand. The Iowa country will,
undoubtedly, soon become a state. Its new towns are springing up rapidly. I
stopped at Burlington, where there are more than twelve hundred
inhabitants, and where two years since there were only a few log-cabins.
How important is it that the gospel should be planted here! The Methodists
are beginning to send their preachers to proclaim salvation here. Every
where we find them first on the ground. Truly their promptness and zeal are
to be commended.--We have not a clergyman in this whole region. Cannot one
be found who is willing to go to the Iowa country? Is there not one in the
classes now graduating in our seminaries, that will come over to this
Macedon and help them?
As the day declined, the scenery around us seemed still more pleasing. The
prairies on the left bank of the Mississippi became increasingly
interesting. The river stretched before us like a broad lake, indented at a
hundred points by masses of luxuriant and thickly clustered trees, that
seemed to float in natural and upright form upon the surface. These, with
all their verdant foliage, were distinctly reflected from the mirrored
bosom of the unruffled waters, so that we seemed, as we gazed upon the
watery surface, to look into the very depths of the forest, and see one
tree standing back of another almost interminably. While thus gliding on,
by a turn of the river we came suddenly upon the corner of another large
prairie, and almost the first object that met our view were two rude bark
covered wigwams that had just been put up on the very margin of the stream.
In front of these cabins a fire had been kindled, either to keep off the
musquitoes or to cook their evening meal. At the entrance of these Indian
huts lay a dog, and around him stood or sat half a dozen Indian children,
some of them in a state of almost entire nudity. Still nearer the water,
looking into it, and off on to the opposite shore, stood the adult members
of each family. These scarcely raised their head, or deigned to cast a
glance at us, as our boat with all its clattering machinery swept proudly
by.--While I continued to look at them, and saw them standing amid the
solitariness of the prairie, with their eyes still fixed upon the opposite
bank of the river, where rested the bones of their ancestors--when I saw
how dignified, and serious, and contemplative they seemed, I could not but
regard them as the last representatives of a race fast fading away, and who
will soon scarcely have a place or name this side of the Rocky Mountains.
It seemed to me that they were standing at this twilight hour looking once
more upon the shore where rested the bones of their people, before they
bade a final adieu to these scenes where they used once to hunt the deer,
glide over the watery surface with their bark canoes, raise the luxuriant
corn, and build their wigwams. Strangers now possessed their home, and they
were just bidding to the scenes of their childhood a _long, long farewell_!
Oh, thought I, that they could have the gospel to tame their fierceness,
soften their savage natures, and cheer them in their solitary wanderings
through the wilderness! It occurred to me as very likely that those Indians
who stood there on the bank of the Mississippi, knew nothing of the way of
salvation, and very likely had never heard of the name of Jesus! We know
there are thousands that range over the great hunting grounds of the west
precisely in this condition. We are going to meet them at the judgment
bar--shall we not make every effort to send them the gospel?
_Saturday Evening, July 8th._
We found ourselves, when we awoke in the morning, at Stevenson. This is
another of those places springing up as by the wand of enchantment. It is
located at one of the most beautiful points in all the west. Just here Rock
River enters the Mississippi, separating the town from Rock Island, on
which stands Fort Armstrong. It was in reference to the section of country
just around here, that the Black Hawk war took its rise, and all along
above was the scene where it raged. I do not wonder that the Indians gave
up this tract of country with reluctance. The eye never looked out upon a
more beautiful land--the imagination in its most romantic flight never
conceived any thing more lovely. On the Iowa side, especially, the country
sweeps off from the shore most beautifully in the form of a rolling
prairie, covered here and there with small clusters of trees, that give it
the aspect and loveliness of a region that had been under the highest
cultivation for the last three centuries. And yet five years ago no foot
trod there but the Indian's.
The day passed pleasantly away. As the shades of evening gathered thick
around us, we bade adieu to the mighty Mississippi, on whose broad current
we had travelled nearly seven hundred miles. Our boat turned in behind an
islet of living green, and pushed its way up the serpentine course of
_Fevre River_. At length Galena was in view. It was at the close of the
week, and here we were to seek a resting place for a number of days.
_Galena, July 15th._
Fevre River, at Galena, runs through a narrow vale, and is hedged in on
either side by ranges of hills. The town is built at the base and on the
side of the western ridge, which is here quite precipitous. The valley
itself is overflown with every rise of the Mississippi above this point.
The waters of the Fevre River between Galena and its junction with the
"Father of rivers" are very sluggish--so that the waters of the Mississippi
flow up to Galena often three or four times a year, and flood the whole
lower part of the town. Since I have been here the third rise which they
have had this season occurred, occasioned as it was supposed by the melting
of the snows and ice around the sources of the most northern tributaries of
the Mississippi. One thing is very remarkable in relation to the whole
class of western tributaries to this stream. The freshets to which they are
subject, all occur at different seasons, beginning with the southernmost
and ending with the most northerly. This is accounted for by the fact,
that, as these streams take their rise at different points of latitude in
the Rocky Mountains, spring and summer reach the source of each of them in
regular progression from south to north, by a few weeks later. This is a
most merciful provision: for if the freshets in two or three of these
streams were to happen at the same time, the effects would be desolating.
Let the Red River, the Arkansas, and the Missouri, pour their swollen
streams at the time of their annual freshets, together into the
Mississippi, and the whole lower regions for hundreds of miles above and
around New Orleans would be one unbroken sea. What a tremendous armament of
destruction has the Almighty here! Have not the inhabitants of that city
which has seated herself as a queen at the mouth of this river, reason to
remember that the Lord can bury them in a moment in the midst of the sea?
He has only to blow with his wind, and the waters will flow, and the depths
cover them! Let those who openly and remorselessly trample on every law of
God consider this and tremble.
Galena is by no means a pleasant town. There are some situations on the
hills which environ it that would furnish delightful sites for residences,
but at present these are chiefly unoccupied. The streets of this place are
narrow, and after a rain unspeakably _muddy_. The houses are small, poor,
and crowded. There is nothing interesting or attractive about the
appearance of the town, except in a business point of view. Galena is the
port where almost all the lead raised from the vast mines scattered through
this region is brought to be shipped, and will therefore unquestionably be
a place of great importance. Its moral character, I fear, is far from what
we could wish it. Like many of these western towns, till recently, there
has been scarcely the semblance of a Sabbath here. Drinking, duelling, and
gambling, have all been common.--And yet there are many here that wish
things were different, and are making some successful efforts to cause them
to be so.
The Bishop of Illinois was here, and officiated the first Sunday I spent in
Galena. He bore his testimony very faithfully, in rebuking the prevailing
sins of the country, especially duelling, Sabbath-breaking, and profane
swearing. I believe his counsel was very kindly received. There is a great
deal of intelligence among the residents in this place, and they seem
willing to have the truth preached to them plainly.
To me there was one object of thrilling interest in Galena--_its grave
yard_! Some half-mile from the town, on the head lands beyond the western
range of hills that encompassed it, where one stands and looks down into
the valley of Fevre River, and off upon the far-spreading prairie, in a
retired place, is the spot of earth allotted to the dead, shut in and
guarded from unhallowed tread by a neat enclosure. Owing to the newness of
the country, and the difficulty in procuring marble, scarcely a single
sculptured monument appears on this ground which has already become the
resting place of many who were once engaged amid the activities of life.
But affection has displayed itself in another form. Not a few of the graves
are enclosed by a little fence, painted beautifully white, and the graves
are adorned with wild roses which scatter their fragrance and leaves over
the place where rests the mouldered dust beneath. When I first entered this
sacred enclosure, and trod through the high tangled grass that grew here, I
felt at each step that I was treading on holy ground. I was led to a spot
where rested the mortal part of one whose image came up before me with the
vividness of living reality. The long grass had grown, and become matted
over her grave! Fifteen years had elapsed since I had looked upon that dear
form, that rested in unbreathing stillness below. During this period I had
passed through many trying scenes and often drank deep into the cup of
sorrow. And now with the image of this dear departed one, all of "life's
troubled dream" rose up before me with a power that paralyzed every effort
I made to subdue or control my feelings. I then _felt_ and wept like a
child. Why should I not have done so? I was standing on the grave of the
sister of my childhood, whose existence and mine for many years had run
along together as though our being had been woven in the same web. I
remembered how when I was but a very little child, she led me to the
country school--how we wandered together in playful glee on the green bank
of the Housatonic, and her hand gathered for me the wild flowers that grew
there. I remembered how in the wild buoyancy of childhood we strolled
together through the orchard, and gathered fruit from a favourite tree?
With what kind looks and affectionate greeting our dear mother met us when
we returned from such a ramble. And could I then fail to remember the sad
hour when that dear sainted mother gasping in the agonies of death bade us
all a long farewell? When a mother's kind eye no longer gazed upon me, was
it not natural that my heart should turn with deeper and stronger affection
to the sister of my childhood? But where was she? She no more came,
bounding along with sparkling eyes, and flowing locks, and animated
features at the call of her brother. There she lay sleeping, oh how
silently, how profoundly in the grave! The solitude and stillness of the
mighty prairie were around me. No mortal was present to witness or
intermeddle with the feelings or overflowings of my heart, save him who
recognised in this heaped hillock of earth the resting place of the loved
one of his heart--the wife of his youth--the mother of his children.
Together we bowed down there in silent grief? Our hearts were so full that
we could do nothing but mingle our tears together over that sacred spot,
which I would again travel all the way from the Atlantic to the Mississippi
to look upon! A thought full of light and glory, however, darted across my
mind as I bent over that grave. I remembered that this dear sister had
closed her eyes upon this mortal scene, full of faith, full of trust in
Christ, and of calm resignation to his blessed will. I recollected the
words of my Saviour, and his promise to raise the dead. This recollection
chased away my tears, and brought a flood of heavenly radiance down upon
that grave. I said, "my sister shall rise again." "The Lord Jesus will
bring her with him." This is his promise.
The last time I visited this grave, I brought away a little flower that
bloomed on it. It has already faded--but that glorious body which Christ
will give to that dear mouldered form will never fade, but bloom on in
immortal youth, through the unending ages of eternity. Oh, how happy shall
we be, when we have passed all these gloomy scenes that now surround us,
and stand in the midst of that "land where the inhabitants no more say I am
sick"--when we shall have done with sin, and behold the Redeemer in all his
glory! May the Lord safely bring us there.