Part 9

As I descended in the cog train, a furious thunder-storm blotted all the landscape from the view; but soon the converging lines of the mountains became visible, the sun shone out once more from the west, and that great plain was spanned with a double rainbow, so huge, so brilliant, so all-embracing, that its like could not easily be seen, except under similar conditions, and those would be hard to match. It was the most splendid spectacle I have ever beheld.

We had two days at Colorado Springs and vicinity, and enjoyed to the full the charm of our situation at Manitou, where our good car "Lucania" again found a pleasant anchorage.

The mineral springs at Manitou, are of iron and soda. They are now all tamed and chained to commerce; and the place, in the season (we were too early for it), is a scene of excursions, and merry-makings, and all that kind of life which delights in shows and curio shops, and restaurants at all prices.

How sacred a place it must have been to the wild children of the mountain and the plain, as they sought its mystic retreat, for the sake of its healing waters, and its strange, sparkling streams! It was for them, indeed, from Manitou, the Great Spirit.

From the parching drought of the burning summer sun, or the ice-bound cold of winter, they could enter here, at any time, and find refreshment for their thirst, and healing for their wounds.

There surely must be a whole treasury of Indian myth and legend clustering round this spot and its wonderful sacred fountains, all well worth the study of the antiquarian and the poet. I am confident that the place is as rich, in all such matters, as ever Delphi was, or the sacred places of the Greeks.

We were charmed, while at Manitou, by a visit to a superb collection of minerals, beautifully arranged, and all, the product of Colorado. There is something especially attractive in mineral beauty. It took its form in the mystery of darkness, and there, in all its beauty, would remain forever, content to be. But man brings it to the light of day, and we are thrilled as we look at the perfect forms of the crystal, at the rich verdure of the velvet malachite, at the varied veinings of onyx and of agate, and at the many wonders which we admire, but cannot name.

We were told that this splendid collection had been purchased for ten thousand dollars, and was to be shown at the Paris Exhibition of 1900. It is well worthy of such a place.

While at Colorado Springs we had one or two splendid drives. We went through Glen Eyrie, the residence of General Palmer. The romantic place is kept generously open for carriages, but it is not permitted to any one to dismount, or drive in the roads marked private. It is a delightful spot, where nature is left yet in much of its wildness, and just enough of landscape gardening introduced to give a note of home and refinement. An eagle's nest, high up on the rocks, gives the name Glen Eyrie to the attractive place.

We also went to the Garden of the Gods. This is a great space hemmed in by huge crags, and covered all over with fantastic rock formations.

As we drove through, our coachman sounded out the names of the grotesque groups as we passed them by. It required but little imagination to improve on his list. Whatever the mind might fancy, the sandstone was ready to give. The rocks were as variable and changing as the clouds in "Hamlet." They might be whales, or bears, or dragons, or toadstools, or demons, or anything else vague and fantastic.

I can imagine how such a place would set a nervous person mad. Not, that it is not beautiful also, in a certain sense, but, the gibing, the mocking, the absurd prevails; and one is almost shocked, even when in most sober mood. The mental distress, possible in such a place, seemed all concentrated in the face of a lone young bicyclist, with bicycle by his side, who eagerly questioned us as to the way to Manitou. He had lost his way amid these gruesome wonders, and although it was ludicrous to see his distress, one could not but sympathize with his misery, while lost in this wild, so full of monsters. I may here quote what Victor Hugo, in his "Alps and Pyrenees," says of sandstone. It would seem as if he was actually describing some of the fantastic forms which we saw in the Garden of the Gods.

"Sandstone," he says, "is the most interesting of stones. There is no appearance which it does not take, no caprice which it does not have, no dream which it does not realize. It has every shape; it makes every grimace. It seems to be animated by a multiple soul. Forgive me the expression with regard to such a thing.

"In the great drama of the landscape, sandstone plays a fantastic part. Sometimes it is grand and severe, sometimes buffoon-like; it bends like a wrestler, it rolls itself up like a clown; it may be a sponge, a pudding, a tent, a cottage, the stump of a tree; it has faces that laugh, eyes that look, jaws that seem to bite and munch the ferns; it seizes the brambles like a giant's fist suddenly issuing from the earth. Antiquity, which loved perfect allegories, ought to have made the statue of Proteus of sandstone.

"The aspects presented by sandstone, those curious copies of a thousand things which it makes, possess this peculiarity: the light of day does not dissipate them and cause them to vanish. Here at Pasajes, the mountain, cut and ground away by the rain, the sea, and the wind, is peopled by the sandstone with a host of stony inhabitants, mute, motionless, eternal, almost terrifying. Seated with outstretched arms on the summit of an inaccessible rock at the entrance of the bay, is a hooded hermit, who, according as the sky is clear or stormy, seems to be blessing the sea, or warning the mariners. On a desert plateau, close to heaven, among the clouds, are dwarfs, with beaks like birds, monsters with human shapes, but with two heads, of which one laughs and the other weeps--there where there is nothing to make one laugh and nothing to make one weep. There are the members of a giant, _disjecti membra gigantis_; here the knee, there the trunk and omoplate, and there, further off, the head. There is a big-paunched idol with the muzzle of an ox, necklets about its neck, and two pairs of short, fat arms, behind which some great bramble-bushes wave like fly-flaps. Crouching on the top of a high hill is a gigantic toad, marbled over by the lichens with yellow and livid spots, which opens a horrible mouth and seems to breathe tempest over the ocean."

It was a regret to leave Colorado Springs, but dear home was before us, and Denver, which we reached in the darkness, brought us nearer there.

XXI

Denver.--The Union Station.--The Departing Trains.--The Beauty of Denver.--Dean Hart and the Cathedral.--The Funeral Service.--Seeing Denver.

It was quite late in the evening when we reached Denver; but late as it was, we could enjoy, for an hour or so, the handsome Union Station, and watch the trains, made up for their midnight start, east, west, north, and south. It is really a beautiful thing to see those various trains, awaiting their departure, side by side upon the tracks.

Their appointments are so splendid; the life exhibited so varied; and the lighted trains, the uniformed attendants, and the whole scene so interesting, that it is well worth observing. The quiet of the whole thing, too, is remarkable. It is all intensely busy, but almost noiseless and at rest. American force, ever quiet, is behind all. Off the trains go, as if by magic, just a little creeping, gentle motion at first; and then, the great steam monsters in front eat the ground, and in thunderous motion the long trains speed away, to their one, two, or even three thousand-mile destinations. How splendid it all is! To some, perhaps, a mere commonplace thing, but to me, ever a scene of deep interest, filled with human force, and freighted down with human cares, and hopes; with sorrows, too; and, let us hope, also, with many joys.

In the morning we could see how Denver looked by daylight. The little city is a beauty that need not fear the day. One gets such an agreeable impression of Denver from the very first. The great Union Station is attractive, and when one leaves it for home or hotel, one is greeted by a garden of living green, and by trees and shrubs in flourishing verdure. These gardens which greet one on emerging from the station, are like the beautiful initial letters one sees on old manuscripts, all glittering in gold and colors, inviting one to peruse and value the precious pages.

We had two lovely days in Denver, and our party scattered about at will. Some went to call on old friends, and cemented anew the ties which might rust, but could never break. Some went shopping, while others lounged in delicious idleness, without helm or oar, just drifting.

To visit Denver and not see Dean Hart at the Cathedral would be an irreparable loss. We called upon him, and found him, as he always is, genial, animated, and brimful of good humor and hospitality. Busy as he also always is, he yet found time to call at the "Lucania," and to tell more than one of his good stories.

Some of our party attended a missionary meeting of ladies, held in the Cathedral, and brought from thence impressions of earnest workers, of bright, telling speeches, and of much hospitable good cheer.

The Cathedral at Denver is a Romanesque structure, of quite stately proportions, with an effective interior; some very good stained glass; a choir screen of wrought iron, interesting in workmanship; and the whole place has a comfortable sumptuousness quite attractive. It is the intention to face the outside, some time or other, with native sandstone, and the interior also with some suitable material of more ornamental character.

I have a memory of a service held in that Cathedral, which in sad solemnity I have never seen surpassed.

It was the funeral of a gentleman who lost his life in the wild waters of the Grand Canon of the Colorado. He was with a railroad surveying party; the boat he was in was upset, and the waters were so violent, that his body was instantly sucked down in the boiling depths, and never more was found.

His dear wife was in London, when the news reached her. At once she returned to Denver, and hoped that once more she would lay eyes on her beloved dead. But all in vain. No human hand could reach the depths, where all that was mortal of her love, was forever hidden.

In this sad condition of circumstances, it was determined to hold the funeral services, as if the body were present, to his wife and friends, as it was to God, Whose All-Seeing Eye beholds all depths.

The mourning group was met at the door of the church; the sentences were read as usual, proceeding up the aisle; the service went on in the accustomed manner, and the words of committal, "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes," were read, with the added awfulness of that body being we knew not where. The thrilling silence and tears of that congregation were almost painful as the words were uttered. Then came the final prayers, and, while we were yet on our knees, the organist, in deep, muffled tones, whispered out the Dead March in "Saul."

No one moved until all the strains of that sublime, yet simple wail of sorrow were ended; and then, all rose in silence, and remained standing until the mourning party had left the church.

It was such a funeral as few have ever seen with all its strangeness, and its pathos. I have never forgotten it.

Perhaps during our stay in Denver, our trip on the street-cars gave us most pleasure, and this, too, at little cost. On a sign at the Brown Palace Hotel we saw an inscription--"Seeing Denver, Twenty-Five Miles, Twenty-Five Cents." There was genius in that simple, fetching announcement. At the hour named for starting we got on board an electric car, and away we went. We were switched in all directions through the business part of Denver, by all the public buildings, round and round, and then away out to the suburbs. At one point we had a magnificent view of the mountains, with Pike's Peak, eighty miles away, snow-crowned, and plainly visible.

We had a magnificent ride, and it seemed even more than twenty-five miles. During it all we were accompanied by the proprietor of the enterprise, a keen-looking young fellow, who acted as guide, giving us his information, in a sort of languid manner, which made his witty sallies more witty still. His closing speech, in which he intimated that his sole and only motive for getting up this really convenient system of "seeing Denver" was for our special benefit, was irresistibly comic in its assumed seriousness. He deserved all he got from the trip, and we wished him the extensive patronage he deserves.

When we left Denver it was as if all the special novelties of the trip had come to an end, and the sooner home the better; such is the effect of satiety even in the luxurious travel we had been enjoying.

We left Denver, teeming as it is with interest, the Paris of the West; and night settled down upon us as we bore directly east from Pueblo.

XXII

Through Kansas.--Kansas City.--The Cattle Yards.--The Bluffs.--The Fight between the Merrimac and the Monitor.

Our homeward route took us through the southern part of Kansas. It was refreshing to see the vast, verdant plains which greeted us in the early morning light. It is a great and glorious land, and all day long we watched the farms, the houses, the villages, and the towns, as we journeyed onward, ever onward. The whole country was in richest green, resulting from the recent almost too profuse rains. But nothing in Kansas goes by halves. It is a drought or a deluge, a dead calm or a cyclone. How can it be otherwise! From the Rockies to the Alleghanies, it is all a vast, curving plain. The fluid air, in such a wide area, when influenced in any way, must be on a gigantic scale. A tilt of half an inch at one point, will be a mile in height, thousands of miles farther on. Such a proportion of oscillation tells.

One could but dream of coming empire and Western enterprise and power yet unthought of, while lounging about in our flying train, homeward, still homeward, every moment, over those vast plains. We had ample leisure for this delicious, idle dreaming. We looked on, as if we were denizens of another world, as we saw the bustle at passing stations, and the play of varied human interests which disported themselves before our magnificent heedlessness of it all. We were cut off, for the nonce, from all such care or thought, flying onward, filled with pleasure, to our Eastern home.

It was night when we made our first stop of any length. That was at Kansas City. We here crossed the "Big Muddy," or the Missouri River, swollen by the extraordinary rains, and looking more than ever like a tawny lion.

As we neared Kansas City we could see across the waters of the river to the other side, where myriads of cattle wandered like spectres, awaiting further immediate shipment east, or, the nearer end of the adjacent slaughter-houses. How sad it all seemed. The cattle, magnified by the intervening air, loomed up hugely across the brown waters of the river. They seemed like victims of destiny, conscious of their doom; and the sullen river, and the shades of the falling day, gave fitting color and setting to the melancholy picture.

I asked a lady by my side, "Do you see all those cattle?" "Yes," said she; "I cannot bear to look at them." Our thoughts were the same.

How fortunate it is for us that our poor, four-footed brethren cannot probe our motives as we fatten our flocks and herds, and tend them with tireless assiduity! The beasts do love us, perhaps, and think us good and kind, and their best friend. I wonder, as they face the knife or the mallet, at the sublime moment of the end, are they awakened at last to the true inwardness of their false friend, man!

All this great prairie journey was a pleasant contrast to the great deserts and mountains we had passed, since we flew down through Jersey, the Southern States, across Texas and Arizona, out to California and the Rockies with all their wonders.

Our stay in Kansas City was limited to a few hours, but in that time some of us ventured out on the streets, which were not very inviting, down on the bottom lands among the grime of the railroad tracks.

Kansas City lies, the best part of it, on high bluffs overlooking the great Missouri River, and its tributary, at this point, the Kaw. It is really a picturesque place, and capable of being beautified to any extent. The bluffs are quite precipitous, and on their shelving sides a number of squatters have settled, with their nondescript cabins and huts, giving a sort of rag-fair look to the general aspect of the town as seen as a whole. But the City Fathers have awakened to the fact, that those precipitous bluffs can be made highly ornamental, by green sod and trees and flowers. A great park plan has been projected for all those curving spaces, and ere long the city will be made unique and beautiful by those winding, aspiring, and splendid plantations, out of which the homes, the churches, and public buildings will rise as from a garden.

In our brief stay we called on our dear and old-time friend, the Rev. J. Stewart Smith, of St. Mary's, or, rather, I should say he called on us, for, having announced our coming by telegraph, he was there at the station to meet us.

It so happened that a day or two before he had written, for one of the local papers, his recollection of the great fight between the Merrimac and the Monitor in Hampton Roads in the year 1862.

How much has transpired since then!

In view of it all, and our Cuban War still on, all now happily over as I write, I thought that my dear friend's recollections would be of interest, as that of an eye-witness of that great first battle between armored ships.

Here is what he says:

"One of my earliest recollections is of the United States frigate, Merrimac, which anchored off Norfolk in 1855 before making her first voyage. Like most small boys, I was deeply interested in anything that would float, and when one of the officers took me on board and showed me everything to be seen, explaining, so far as was possible to make a child understand, the workings of a warship, I was perfectly happy. I asked many questions, and ever afterward I felt a peculiar interest--almost a sense of ownership--in that vessel.

"At the beginning of the war the Merrimac was again in Hampton Roads, undergoing repairs at the navy yard, just across the river from Norfolk. One Saturday night early in April, 1861, Norfolk was abandoned by the Federal forces. The next day the dry dock was blown up, the navy yard, all the smaller crafts, the Pennsylvania, perhaps the largest vessel in the service--too large, in fact, to be seaworthy, but which had been for years used as a training-ship at the port--and the Merrimac were set on fire.

"I can never forget the scene on that Sunday morning. Words cannot describe the excitement of the people. The harbor was dotted with burning vessels; the ear was startled by repeated explosions, and the whole scene was backed by a mass of roaring flame devouring shops, storehouses, and sheds about the navy yard.

"The fires were brightly burning when, with hundreds, I found myself on the ground, which was still hot, picking out nails from the touch-holes of the heavy guns hastily abandoned. Some were properly spiked, nails had been simply dropped into others, and many had not received even this attention. But the thing that interested me more than all else was the flames still licking the black sides of the huge Pennsylvania, and the graceful form of 'my ship,' the Merrimac, now burning to the water's edge.

"The Confederate Government was quick to take advantage of the situation. The navy yard was rebuilt, and the dry dock repaired. The plan of rebuilding the Merrimac was proposed, but was found impracticable on account of the expense, although her hull was almost uninjured. Lieutenant John Mercer Brooks and Joseph L. Porter then presented a plan for converting her into a floating battery, which was accepted. A high fence was built around the dock and the work began. Great secrecy was maintained, but I was able to gain admission two or three times, and to look with wondering eyes on the strange structure. The hull was cut down to the water-line, a low deck was built out at the bow and stern, heavy oak timbers were set up like the rafters of a house inclined at an angle of about 45 degrees, and these were covered with several thicknesses of railroad iron, which extended into the water. When finished, the vessel looked like a long, black roof with the top cut off so as to be flat. Around this ran a light iron rail, a wide funnel rose about the middle, and a low pyramidal structure pierced with small sight-holes served to protect the pilot. As I recall her, she carried two guns forward and three aft on each side, and one or two at both bow and stern. She had no mast, except a short one at the stern for the flag. The bow was pointed without curving, and an oak ram, protected by a heavy iron shoe, extended forward under water. Her name was changed to the Virginia, but every one spoke of her still as the Merrimac. One day it was announced that she was ready to go out, and the next that she was a failure. For weeks reports of the most conflicting character were in circulation, and no one could find out anything definite.

"The report of her failure had, however, generally been credited, when on Saturday morning, March 8, 1862, the news came that she was going out. It spread like wildfire, and soon every one in the city was wrought up to the highest pitch of excitement. Slowly she steamed down the river, looking like a floating shed, and with her went the Jamestown, the Patrick Henry, and several other vessels that made up the Confederate fleet. The town was wild; whistles blew, bells rang, guns were fired, people shouted, the air was full of flags and hats and cries. Every one who could do so hastened toward Sewell's Point to see the expected battle. Vehicles of every description were pressed into service, and those who could not ride set out to walk through the sand.

"The Congress and the Cumberland rode at anchor a few hundred yards from shore, and not far away the Minnesota and the Roanoke. These vessels were a part of the United States blockading fleet. As the Merrimac drew near, we on the shore could see the preparations making on the wooden ships to receive their strange foe. The guns of the Congress roared out, and those of the Cumberland joined in the chorus, but although fired at short range, their shot fell harmless from the iron sides of the Merrimac. The flash of cannon, and the exploding shells, were clearly seen when the smoke would lift.

"As if in disdain of the puny weapons turned against her, the ironclad went slowly on till she seemed to bury herself in the side of the Cumberland. She had rammed the big ship. The guns roared again and again, but without effect, and lurching forward, the Cumberland sank in fifty feet of water, her masthead, from which floated the flag, remaining visible above the waves.