Part 10

"The Merrimac then turned her attack upon the Congress, and the other Confederate ships began to engage in the battle. The Congress soon ran aground and was practically helpless against the tremendous fire that was turned against her. About four o'clock her flag was hauled down, and she was boarded by a Confederate officer. Later she was discovered to be on fire in several places, and, her magazine exploding, she was destroyed. The Minnesota was next assailed. She also ran aground, and the Merrimac could not reach her, but the wooden fleet poured in shot and shell, inflicting serious damage. As night was now drawing on, the Confederate fleet withdrew, having carried everything before it.

"Early Sunday morning the Merrimac again turned seaward, evidently intending to attack the Minnesota. I hurried down to a point on the south side of the bay, from which I could get an unobstructed view of whatever might take place. The Monitor had arrived the night before. I had never seen the strange-looking craft, but the minute I laid eyes on it I knew what it was. Young as I was, I realized that I was about to witness the most remarkable naval battle that was ever fought up to that time--the first encounter between ironclads.

"The Merrimac was the pride of my heart. When I saw the Monitor I wondered what the result of the fight would be. With a glass in my hand I shivered with excitement as they approached each other. The two strangest vessels on the sea were face to face. A cheese-box on a plank, all painted black, not inaccurately describes the Monitor's appearance. She was much smaller and more active than the Confederate vessel, and carried only two guns, but these could be pointed in any direction by the revolving of her turret. Quickly they engaged, and the fight soon became furious.

"The guns on the Merrimac poured forth broadside after broadside. The shot and shells glanced off the turret of the Monitor and fell harmless into the water. In the same way, the heaviest shot from the Monitor's guns bounded off the slanting sides of the Merrimac, like foul balls from a player's bat. Sometimes it looked as if they were in actual contact. Even then the shells did no harm of any consequence to either vessel.

"The Minnesota joined in the conflict, and fired her broadside of fifty guns into the Merrimac. It seemed to me that every shot struck, but they all fell harmless from the invulnerable sides of the ironclad. The battle was waged with terrific rapidity of action. Now the two craft seemed joined together, now the Monitor would run around the Merrimac, as if trying to find a weak spot. The sound of the cannonading was deafening, even at my distance.

"The Merrimac presently withdrew. The crowd on the shore trembled and asked what the matter could be. Was she defeated? There was only a moment's suspense, but it seemed like an hour. The answer came soon. Suddenly swinging around, the Merrimac paused for a minute, then steamed with full head against the Monitor. The little 'cheese-box' staggered from the blow, but soon righted and continued firing, practically unharmed. When the Cumberland was rammed, the iron shoe that covered the Merrimac's ram was torn off, and so she had nothing but the oak foundation to oppose to the iron sides of the Monitor.

"This was about the last incident of the fight. Shortly afterward the two vessels drew apart, the smoke lifted, and neither of them showed any disposition to renew the battle. The Monitor headed toward Fortress Monroe, and the Merrimac steamed toward the Minneapolis, as if to continue the fight, but passed on without attacking her, and rested under the guns of the Confederate battery at Craney Island.

"Norfolk was evacuated by the Confederates two months later, the navy yard was burned, and many ships were destroyed. An effort was made to get the Merrimac to Richmond, but it was impossible to take her over the bar at the entrance of the James River. Just at daylight, Sunday morning, May 11th, we in Norfolk were awakened by an explosion whose meaning all quickly guessed. The Merrimac had been blown up by her commander, Josiah Tattnall, and so effectively destroyed that no fragments sufficient to reveal the details of her construction were ever recovered.

"The Monitor was lost in a storm off Cape Hatteras at midnight of December 31 of the same year (1862). The two ironclads, which in a single day had changed the face of war and revolutionized the navies of the world, thus found early graves."

XXIII

St. Louis.--Beautiful Residences.--Forest Park.--The Levee.--Alton.-- Old Friends.--Legend of the Piasa.--The Confluence of the Rivers.--The Union Depot.--The Car of the International Correspondence Schools.-- Crossing the Bridge.

We reached St. Louis in the early morning hour, after a pleasant night's rest on our good car "Lucania." The country approaching St. Louis looks rich and luxuriant, with fine trees, and well-established country places. The effect of an older culture was at once apparent, as we approached this great city of the West.

Our car anchorage was in the magnificent Union Station, a very large place, indeed, and excellently managed. Some of our party again took to the street cars, and in that democratic fashion, saw much of the town.

At a later period in the day, some of us had a lovely carriage ride through the best residential portion of the city.

We were more than surprised at the beautiful streets, lined with spacious palaces, each in its own separate grounds. To a New Yorker's eyes, this roominess of arrangement, was especially attractive. Charming effects were produced by beautiful gardens in the middle of certain secluded streets, with fountains and flowers, all kept in beautiful order. The private grounds around the separate houses were in like good shape. All looked sumptuous, and in the best possible taste.

To drive into one of these "Places" through the ornamental gates, and see the richness of the central parterre, the well-kept streets at each side, and the generous sidewalks and rich verdure surrounding the houses, was a new sensation. The general verdict was, that even in New York, there was nothing like that.

All this urban development is the work of the last fifteen or twenty years. Such communal and united display was not the custom of the early French settlers. They loved the enclosed privacy of their own grounds, as in New Orleans, but times have changed, and the dwellers in St. Louis have changed with them.

We drove also in Forest Park, a really beautiful place, with a spaciousness truly magnificent.

Our stay in St. Louis was barely a day. We took a glimpse at the river front, once a busy scene with its fleet of steamboats running from the northwestern wilds, by way of the Missouri and its tributaries, and down to the Gulf of Mexico, by way of the Mississippi. But the glory of the steamboating days is gone forever. The iron horse now does the greater part of the carrying trade, and great railroad bridges span the Father of Waters at several points, and more are coming.

I took a little independent trip from St. Louis by rail, to Alton, on the Illinois side. It just took three hours; one to get there, one there, and one to return.

It was many long years since I resided in Alton, and it was with a sort of fearfulness that I made the excursion. Would any one remember me? Were my friends yet living? And so on. I crossed the great railroad bridge over the Mississippi, and up on the east bank to Alton, which lies just above the confluence of the two great rivers. I passed through, on the Illinois side, what seemed a continuous series of manufacturing settlements, all emphasizing the vast development of industrial enterprises in the West.

On arriving at Alton, the changed aspect of all was most apparent. The river front--where in old times I had seen the steamboats line up, and watched their loading and unloading, picturesque by day or by night, but especially attractive when seen under the glare of torches, and enlivened by the songs of the negro hands--was now, almost, unused. The railroad tracks dominated everything, down to the water's edge.

I wandered off at random through the streets, until I came to the old familiar Alton Bank, which looked exactly the same. I entered to inquire after friends, and as the clerk was obligingly giving me information, I asked him if he knew a former clerk, Mr. W----, who was there years before. "Oh, yes," said he; "he is now our president." By this time a pleasant face looked fixedly at me, and, in a moment, an outstretched hand grasped mine, and my old friend was calling me by name, and we were once more young men again, when, in the old time, music was our bond of fellowship, and all that that involves.

While we were speaking--the bank president and myself--a lady, with her little girl, entered the office, and again my name was called. "I have been following you in the street," she said. "I knew it must be you, but I could scarcely believe my eyes." It was the daughter of a dear friend of years long gone, and her daughter was by her side.

How lovely it all seemed to be thus recognized, and to bind together afresh the ties of years that had fled!

But my hour in Alton was almost up. I could only look at the outside of the dear old church where I once worshipped. My friend of the bank brought me, to the train, as a little gift of remembrance, a book called "Poems of the Piasa," by Frank C. Riehl. It contained also a number of other kindred poems of Western life.

The Piasa was a dreadful, winged monster, which inhabited the banks of the Mississippi at Alton in ages past. A note in the volume I received might here be quoted. It is as follows:

"The region along the shores on both sides of the Mississippi, between the points of the confluence of the Illinois and Missouri rivers with the Father of Waters, is particularly rich in legendary stories concerning the life and habits of the powerful tribes of Indians who were the original owners of these fertile valley lands. Along the bluffs on the Illinois side are numberless burial places where the bones of thousands of 'the first Americans' repose, while the valleys and prairie-stretches for some distance back from the river, afford constant reminders of their presence and handiwork in the dim ages of the past.

"From the time of the earliest frontier expeditions, this locality has been conspicuous among the chronicles for the number and peculiar charm of the folk-lore stories handed down from one generation to another, and held in almost sacred reverence by the Indians. And, among these, dating from the famous expedition of Marquette, none is more striking and interesting than that of the Piasa Bird. That this was more than a mere myth is attested by the evidence of many early settlers, who got the story in minute detail from the Indians themselves; and by the painting that remained upon the face of the perpendicular bluffs within the present limits of the city of Alton, until quarried away just about the close of the first half of this century."

The Indian legend referred to is of a fearful, winged monster, who swooped down upon his prey, making his aery on the great cliffs at Alton. The tribes were in deadly terror of this great creature, whose fearful power seized their bravest warriors, as well as their most beautiful maidens, in his deadly talons. At last, a chief, named Ouatoga, conceived the bold design to place himself in the way of the monster, a sacrifice for the safety of his race; while twelve of the best archers, should lie concealed near by, and slay the monster with their united arrows, as he rose in air with his prey. This, the legend says, was done, and a rude picture of the monster might be seen on the bluffs at Alton until recent times.

I cannot help thinking, however, that the story is, after all, a myth of the dreaded tornado so frequent in the West. I have a photograph of such a storm, taken in Iowa, and the huge, involving clouds, spread out like wings, and, the descending funnel or waterspout, reaching to the earth, destroying all it touches, exactly resembles a huge monster bird, in awful and sudden flight, devouring everything before it. The discharge of the arrows at the monster, thus killing it, may be a hint of the well-known fact, that any sudden impact upon a whirlwind, in its funnel-shaped motion, will destroy its vibrations and hence its progress. A rifle-shot, sent into a whirling dust pillar on the great plains, will reduce the dreadful thing at once to a clatter of falling dust and pebbles, and a dead heap of harmless stuff. So much for a theory anyway.

I returned to St. Louis by the Missouri side, having with me my lady friend and her little daughter. The route took us over the great bridges which span the two rivers just above their confluence. It was grand in its effect, to pass over two such great streams coming close together from their distant sources, soon to mingle in one mighty torrent, emptying itself more than a thousand miles away, into the Gulf of Mexico.

It was all a sort of enchanted excursion, waking up many memories of a past, so far removed from the present hour.

Our train brought us into the great Union Station, from which I had set out three hours before.

While in this splendid station I had the good fortune to have a long chat with the superintendent thereof. He tried to tell me, I should say, he did tell me, of its wonderful construction, its great extent, its complex machinery, its electrical appliances, its vast detail of business. I have only an impression of the sweet gentleness which so patiently explained all to me, and of the myriad ramifications which I could see, could but dimly understand, and vaguely remember. He has my thanks and grateful memory for his kindness.

We also saw in the St. Louis depot a thoroughly interesting American affair. It was an educational car, run by two or three bright young fellows, who quite captivated us by their intelligence and spirit. They were occupying a beautiful private car, fitted up as an office and a dwelling; and were travelling over the country in the interest of a great institution called "The International Correspondence Schools." It opened up before one a marvellous vista of business energy and splendid results. A circular, which we brought away with us, stated that instruction was given by this method in 42 courses, to some 40,000 students in 137 States and countries. The inside of the circular contained ten headings, and each heading had four lines of detailed information, looking like quatrains of poetry. I take at random one of them, as a sample, under the heading

SUPERIORITY

Students can be taught wherever the mails can go. Each student regulates his own hours of study. Written lessons qualify for written examinations. The method cultivates memory, brevity, accuracy and independence.

It really did seem all like poetry, full of resplendent possibilities, to see the specimen books produced by the students; and, above all, it was poetical to see those young men in charge, so very young and yet so full of confidence, so intelligent, and so keen. They were at once at their ease with our party, and ere we left St. Louis, at ten o'clock at night, they visited us, and with mandolin music, and college songs, we wiled away a pleasant hour.

At ten o'clock we departed from St. Louis, passing through the tunnel, and out on the great bridge, from whence we looked at the mighty flood of the Father of Waters, far beneath us, reflecting in its turbid depths the lights of St. Louis, which were soon hidden from our sight, as we rolled out into the darkness, over the prairies of Illinois.

XXIV

Through Illinois, Indiana, Ohio.--Columbus.--The Beautiful Station. --Church Service.--Nearing Home.--Parting Thoughts.--Our Amusements. --To Ethel Asleep.--A Parting Wish.--Pilgrimages of Patriotism.

It was well on in Sunday morning when we reached our next stopping-place, Columbus, Ohio, where we stayed until Monday forenoon.

The morning light, as we journeyed on in the early hours, showed us the smiling country in its Sabbath rest. It was all such a contrast to the far West, and the Pacific Slope, and not an ungrateful one.

We were passing through Ohio, which, one might say, is no longer the West, but the centre of our land. It is a glorious country, rich, fertile, and prosperous-looking.

Columbus quite pleased us, by the evidences of its bustling activities and improvements; as well as by a certain old-fashioned dignity and state. It is the governmental seat of Ohio, and has some quite respectable public buildings, all done in the American-Greek-Classic style--rows of pillars, pediments, and all that--which, I confess, I like better than the strained effort after effect, seen in some more modern structures.

A new piece of architecture at Columbus, however, the beautiful railroad station, was charming. It is full of beauty, like a rich Italian palace, all warm with golden carvings, yellow marble walls, and mosaic pavements.

The interior effect of the waiting-rooms was exquisite, with the arched and coffered roof, and the graceful outlines of all.

On Sunday night we all attended church, where we heard a good sermon, and joined, with keen relish, in a fine choral service, rendered by a well-trained surpliced choir of men and boys. The leader of the choir evidently had a heart for the noble effects of Gregorian music, while not such a purist as to rule out all modern compositions. In this he was right. Gregorian music is like salt, really necessary as a healthful adjunct in church song, but too much of it is as bad as none at all.

It was toward evening when we reached Pittsburg, where we made but a short stay; and in the early morning hour we were once more at the Pennsylvania Depot in Jersey City, where we took reluctant leave of each other and our good car "Lucania."

Sleep had refreshed us, as we flew, all unconscious, through the splendid scenery of the Alleghanies. But what were such mountains to us now, who had seen the Rockies; and what was the Horseshoe Curve, compared to the daring engineering of Colorado railroads! Nothing. We were more than satisfied with all we had seen.

But before closing this scattering record of our "Flight in Spring," surely it will be well to look back, once more, at its pleasant hours, and sweet companionship.

In those six weeks of our trip, equal almost to a lifetime of contact, under ordinary circumstances, how well we got to know each other. Surely the more each knew of each, the more did trifling fault fade away, and clear goodness come out into pleasing prominence. Was it not so?

So that when we came to part at the station, it was with a regret for that parting, and a hope that friendships were cemented on our journey, which nothing ever could dissever.

Let us think, too, with gratitude of the unwearying attention given to our comfort by Mr. Payson, in whose charge were all the details of our transportation, involving so much of most serious importance, as well for our safety, as our comfort. How wonderful to think that our eight thousand miles of travel was all conducted like clockwork, with entire reliability, and precision, from point to point, across the continent and back again, without hitch or accident.

Then we must remember the Pullman employees, to whom the whole journey was but an episode, in lives of such journeys; and yet how enthusiastic and attentive they were, at all times.

And we must remember Delia and Charles, in their sphere of usefulness, ever ready and willing to carry out the hospitable intentions of our good host and hostess.

It is all over, our "Flight in Spring," with all its pleasant incidents. Some of the sweetest moments were, when we turned in upon ourselves for amusement and pleasure, at the evening hours, when formal sightseeing was over; or in those hours of travel, when the eyes refused to gaze longer on the flying landscape.

Then came the Nonsense Verses, and the Stories, and the Songs, and the Machine Poetry, and all the fun. Shall we not gather up some of those trifles, as worthy of preservation in our record? Yes, certainly we will.

We will first start out with the machine poetry. Rhymes were furnished, which were these dreadful collocations, "give, live, dove, love, merry, cherry, go, slow, tease, squeeze, muddle, fuddle." A hopeless list surely.

Dear Fred, who said he could not write poetry, evolved the following:

POEM BY FRED

And when a pretty orange he did give, He thought it was too sweet to live, So he gave it to his dove To ever sustain their love.

One day when all was merry, He gave to her a cherry; And he said she should not go, For fear it would be slow.

First he began to tease, Then he began to squeeze, Until there was a muddle-- Soon afterwards a fuddle.

This realistic effort was received with rounds of applause. The next poetic effort on the procrustean rhymes was by Miss Hayden, as follows:

POEM BY MISS HAYDEN

Oh, why should I give, Or expect me to live, When, you called me a dove, Yet you now cease to love?

I once was so merry, My lips like a cherry, I wept when you'd go, And my heart beat so slow.

Then at once you would tease, And kiss me, and squeeze,-- But--my brain's in a muddle, And--you in a fuddle.

This effort, too, was greeted with approbation, and its tenderness duly appreciated.

But the Nonsense Verses were the best fun. One would shout out a line, an additional line would come from some one else, and by the time the whole thing was complete, it would be hard to discriminate as to who was the author.

Here is one hurled at me:

There was a Canon named Knowles, Whose mission it was to save souls; When out on this trip, He said, "Let them rip, We'll save them all yet from the coals."

Some of our young ladies were deeply interested in the sailor boys at war, and for their benefit this nonsense had wing:

There was a young lady named Harding, Whose sweetheart, the nation was guarding. The rumor of war, Went to her heart's core For fear he'd be lost while bombarding.

These verses, too, have a maritime flavor:

There was a young lady of nerve, Who bet on the Naval Reserve. She got a flat cap Like that of her chap, And said, "This our love will preserve."

We had lots of others, and ever so many good stories, but it is time to end. This last must suffice for the Nonsense Verses:

There was a young lady _en route_, Who wanted to go on a toot, So she jumped off the ca--ah When no one was ne--ah, And feasted on candy and fruit.

This was the favorite refrain of all, for its reckless suggestions, and the special intonations of its third and fourth lines. Its echoes would sound out in the most unexpected connections--

"So she jumped off the ca--ah When no one was ne--ah,"

and then would come a merry peal of laughter.

Sometimes the laughter even, would cease, and, we were all so free and unaffected, that siestas were taken, quite unceremoniously, when silence would settle down upon our party.

In such a quiet interval, one of our fair sleepers inspired the following lines, as she lay at rest, on the couch in the dining-room. This is what the poet said:

TO ETHEL ASLEEP

Our car glides on with giddy speed, But Ethel feels no motion; Her soul and body take no heed, Wrapt still, in sleep's deep ocean.