With the World's Great Travellers, Volume 2
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Title: With the World's Great Travellers, Volume 2
Editor: Charles Morris
Oliver Herbrand Gordon Leigh
Release date: August 20, 2010 [eBook #33472]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33472
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WITH THE WORLD'S GREAT TRAVELLERS, VOLUME 2 ***
Produced by D Alexander and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
_SPECIAL EDITION_
WITH THE WORLD'S
GREAT TRAVELLERS
EDITED BY CHARLES MORRIS
AND OLIVER H. G. LEIGH
VOL. II
CHICAGO
UNION BOOK COMPANY
1901
COPYRIGHT 1896 AND 1897
BY
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
COPYRIGHT 1901
E. R. DUMONT
[Illustration: BOSTON COMMON, BOSTON, MASS.]
CONTENTS.
SUBJECT. AUTHOR. PAGE
New York, Washington, Chicago OLIVER H. G. LEIGH 5
Winnipeg Lake and River W. F. BUTLER 21
A Fine Scenic Route HENRY T. FINCK 31
South Pass and Fremont's Park JOHN C. FREMONT 42
In the Yellowstone Park FERDINAND V. HAYDEN 49
The Country of the Cliff-Dwellers ALFRED TERRY BACON 58
Lake Tahoe and the Big Trees A. H. TEVIS 68
The Chinese Quarter in San Francisco HELEN HUNT JACKSON 78
Mariposa Grove and Yosemite Valley CHARLES LORING BRACE 88
A Sportsman's Experience in Mexico SIR ROSE LAMBERT PRICE 99
The Scenery of the Mexican Lowlands FELIX L. OSWALD 108
Among the Ruins of Yucatan JOHN L. STEPHENS 119
The Route of the Nicaragua Canal JULIUS FROEBEL 130
The Destruction of San Salvador CARL SCHERZER 137
Scenes in Trinidad and Jamaica JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE 145
The High Woods of Trinidad CHARLES KINGSLEY 157
Animals of British Guiana C. BARRINGTON BROWN 169
Life and Scenery in Venezuela ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT 179
The Llaneros of Venezuela RAMON PAEZ 190
The Forests of the Amazon and Madeira
Rivers FRANZ KELLER 200
Canoe- and Camp-Life on the Madeira FRANZ KELLER 212
Besieged by Peccaries JAMES W. WELLS 219
The Perils of Travel IDA PFEIFFER 232
Brazilian Ants and Monkeys HENRY W. BATES 240
The Monarchs of the Andes JAMES ORTON 251
Inca High-Roads and Bridges E. GEORGE SQUIER 261
List of Illustrations
VOLUME II
BOSTON COMMON, BOSTON, MASS. _Frontispiece_
PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE, WASHINGTON 14
MEMORIAL MONUMENT TO SAMUEL DE CHAMPLAIN, FOUNDER OF
QUEBEC 34
THE UPPER YELLOWSTONE FALLS 50
GRAND CANON, ARIZONA 66
RED WOOD TREE, CALIFORNIA 96
REGINA ANGELORUM (Queen of the Angels) 116
A WATERFALL IN THE TROPICS 146
LA GUAYRA, VENEZUELA 180
A SOUTH SEA ISLAND 214
THE MONARCHS OF THE ANDES 252
WITH THE WORLD'S
GREAT TRAVELLERS.
THE WORLD'S GREAT CAPITALS OF TO-DAY.
OLIVER H. G. LEIGH.
NEW YORK, WASHINGTON, CHICAGO.
The reflective voyager, on his first sight of New York, is baffled when
he attempts to catalogue his sensations. All is so completely in
contrast with the capitals of Europe. The gloriously bright sky, air
that drinks like champagne, the resultant springiness of life and
movement, that overdoes itself in excitement and premature exhaustion,
and the obtrusively visible defects of this surface enthusiasm,
monotonous streets, unfinished or unbegun city improvements, and the
conspicuous lack of play-spaces for children--this is the rough
portrait sketch New York draws of itself for the newcomer. It does not
disguise the fact that money-making was for many years the dominant
consideration. The city was laid out for business, and public comfort
had to look out for itself. The workers, the poor, and the helpless were
apparently overlooked.
But there are at least three New Yorks to explore. Old New York
stretches from the bay up to once aristocratic Madison Square, and this
is the section that first leaves its mark on the aforesaid visitor. Then
comes new New York, the splendid modern metropolis that spreads from
Central Park along the Hudson to the northern heights where the stately
mausoleum of Grant, the transplanted Columbia University, and the great
Cathedral-to-be add majestic dignity to the grandly picturesque panorama
by the river. The antiquated brownstone wilderness of fashionable houses
blossoms into white and gray and red clusters of mansions, richly varied
in form and treatment, with the welcome grassy settings so pitifully
missing in the older quarter. From a neglected span of prairie ground,
pimpled with bare rocks and goat-sheltering shanties also shared by dago
families, this section has in a few years qualified itself to rival the
famous features of old-world cities. A nobler prospect than Riverside
Drive alongside the mighty Hudson cannot be desired nor found. At
last the city has discovered and worthily utilized its splendid
opportunities. Then, thirdly, there is Greater New York. For the
simplification of local government it is doubtless excellent policy for
London and New York to lasso their humbler neighbor towns that the big
cities may pose as suddenly greater than ever. The thing is done with a
stroke of the pen and does not wound the pride of the newly scooped-in
citizens, because the individuality of the suburban districts remains
unchanged, but in our infantile capacity as mere sightseers the
side-shows do not affect the glories of the ring proper. If this fashion
of acquiring greatness continues, being inclusion rather than expansion,
there need be no limit to the ciphers periodically tacked on to the
population of the world's swarming hives. Now that New York is growing,
it might drop its insignificant borrowed name and assume its rightful
one of dignity and historic import, Manhattan. It fills the twenty-two
square miles between Harlem river, the Hudson, the East River, and the
bay, which area is Manhattan Island. North of the Harlem it includes
the district of the Bronx, a little stream which for half a mile or
so affords as exquisite a picture of nature's beauty as can be found
anywhere. The drift from town to country homes is a sign of the times
and an augury of great good to the coming generation, physical and
patriotic. After all, bricks and mortar are not the making of a city.
New York is at its best beyond the borders. Its rich citizens overflow
into these northern suburbs and lordly estates, and across the East
River into Brooklyn and Long Island's garden villages, and across the
Hudson into New Jersey's charming towns, and down the bay to Staten
Island. In no great metropolis this side of Constantinople is it so easy
and inexpensive to slip quickly from the office or home and enjoy the
bracing delights of a sail down the salt water (the upper bay has
fourteen square miles and the lower over eighty) or up a stately river
with all the charms of the Hudson. Everything is on the grand scale,
once the city's square blocks of barracky houses are left behind.
Old-world quietists are surprised to discover one cosy quarter, perhaps
two, in the grimy section of New York. Stuyvesant Square and its
immediate belongings around St. George's Church still survive as an
oasis of sweetness and light in a wilderness of dismal commonplace.
Washington Square carries somewhat of the old aristocratic flavor to
the borders of Bohemia, and the Theological College in Chelsea used
to give a solemnizing leaven to that changing district. The social
transformation is still in progress. It may, perhaps, be a token of the
rise to metropolitanism that the distinctively American hotels of the
old-fashioned type have virtually disappeared. European models have
the preference for the time being in the in- and outdoor life of New
Yorkers. English sports have apparently taken firm root, as seen in the
popularity of golf, football, horse-racing, rowing, and some less
desirable practices incident to one or two of these erstwhile sports
that have developed into business undertakings, to the regret of true
sportsmen. In this connection it is worth while to notice the striking
disparity in the sizes of the audiences and outdoor crowds of New York
and London. If fifteen thousand people pay to see the Harvard-Yale
football game, or other such sport, it is considered worthy of special
headlines in the papers. Madison Square Garden holds that number,
seated, but the occasions when it has been filled at meetings have been
few. Football crowds in England range from thirty up to seventy
thousand, by turnstile record. The Crystal Palace accommodates over one
hundred thousand holiday-makers without being crowded, in its central
nave, sixteen hundred feet by eighty, besides transepts, and its famous
grounds. The late Rev. C. H. Spurgeon had congregations of six thousand,
seated, twice each Sunday for twenty-eight years. Mr. Gladstone and
others have addressed twenty-five thousand in the Agricultural Hall,
which covers over three acres, and St. Paul's Cathedral has occasional
congregations of over twenty thousand. These facts are the more curious
as applying to a small country.
One explanation of this contrast lies in the fact that New York is not a
homogeneous community. In a more marked degree than other capitals it is
a congeries of towns and colonies, largely alien in sympathies. You can
wander in turn through Judea, China, Italy, Ireland, France, Russia,
Poland, Germany, Holland, and colored colonies. Local color is strong
in each. The English speech is not used, not known, by many of these
people. The picturesqueness of tenement life and its Babel sounds does
not atone for the want of the deep-rooted Americanism which must sooner
or later be the test of welcome immigration.
Broadway is one of the great streets of the world though really a
Narrow-way for so important a thoroughfare. Running north and south
and having no rival for its most used section it has more than its
natural share of traffic. From the historic Bowling Green and Trinity
Church--two fine monuments of pre-Revolution days--up to Fourteenth
Street, Broadway is mainly a wholesale market. Then it changes to a
retail bazaar, and its trading features disappear as it nears the park.
There used to be a well-defined sky-line in the lower city, but this has
been sadly damaged by the towering office Babels that make the older
quarter of the city a cave of the winds. If some day an earthquake were
to shake the lower end of Manhattan Island, mighty would be the fall of
these presumptuous files and woe betide their inhabitants. Fifth Avenue
up to Thirty-fourth Street has given up its fashionable prestige in
exchange for the profits of business. The Stock and Produce Exchanges
are far down-town, among the multitude of banks that crowd around the
spot made sacred ground to future generations of patriots as the scene
of Washington's inauguration as President. The city and its environs are
rich in historic sites and monuments of the Revolutionary struggle.
These, happily for the country's future, are every year being sought and
studied by the young, also by bands of teachers from states near and
far, and by visitors from abroad. The devotion of one or more societies
of private individuals has of late years conferred a boon upon the
public which can hardly be too highly appreciated, in causing durable
memorial tablets to be placed on buildings of historic interest. In this
and kindred ways New York is fast removing all justification for the
stale reproach that it cared not for shrines and took small interest in
its own history.
A mere suggestion, yet a very helpful one, toward realizing somewhat of
the enormous shipping business done for the country by New York can be
got by a tour of the main wharves. There is a water-front of twenty-five
miles around the island, without reckoning the shores of Brooklyn and
Hoboken. The bird's-eye view from the wonderful and graceful Suspension
Bridge enlarges one's conception of what such a metropolis is and can
do. Alpine grain elevators circle the city on the opposite shore of the
rivers and upper bay. Two thousand ships sail out each year laden with
the grain that feeds the nations on the other hemisphere. Three thousand
steamships enter these wharves yearly with human and commercial freight
from foreign ports. Nearly ten thousand steerage immigrants land each
week the year round, besides an immense passenger contingent. These are
the sights that fascinate the thoughtful: the comings and goings of the
peoples of the earth and its products. Old Castle Garden and the Battery
have greatly changed in recent years, but their memories linger. If it
had been possible to keep the triangle south of Fourteenth Street as the
select residential quarter, what an unrivalled site it would now be! A
water panorama worth crossing the Atlantic to see, for its immensity,
its picturesque bordering, and the magnificent view of the foreground of
an embowered city by the sea.
Human needs shaped these water avenues to other destinies. They draw
from the great ocean beyond the Narrows the sources of all that has gone
to the building of national greatness. In turn they have borne to other
lands the seeds of a larger liberty, patterned after and stimulated by
the unparalleled success that has so splendidly rewarded self-achieved
freedom to grow, to think, to speak out, and to speed the commerce of
the world.
The wealth thus created has of recent years done much to beautify the
city with palatial residences. In the northern districts detached
mansions in grass-plots supersede the monotonous brownstone rows. Many
of these vie with each other in the extent and delicacy of decorative
carvings outside. Others are fashioned after the castellated structures
of Europe. The general impression left by a town of the newer fashion
quarter is that Jeffersonian simplicity, in architecture at least, is no
longer to be understood as synonymous with severe plainness. Probably no
other city can point to an equally rapid transition from conventional
taste, excellent for its period, to the present enthusiasm for the best
in artistic construction, whatever its cost.
The bicycle proved a revolutionizer of dress as well as a stimulus
to outdoor exercise. Each nation learns from the others and so we
progress, though there is possible weakness in the tendency toward
rigid uniformity. The picturesque and the primitive are disappearing
in every land. National individuality should not lightly be allowed
to lapse, even in minor matters of costume and recreation.
Experienced travellers know that a country is not to be judged by its
metropolis. There is a sturdier back-bone of conservatism in the
provinces than in the great cities, so largely made up of aliens and
sojourners. A goodly proportion of the business men whose genius has
made New York what it is, and who are admittedly qualifying it soon to
become the financial centre of the world, are country-born and raised.
Great as New York is, and mightier as it will become by reason of its
situation, the true and abiding greatness of the nation is spread over
the thousand cities and towns that equally represent American pluck and
stability. In the farming districts and the scattered rural communities,
in vast agricultural areas of which city people take too little note,
and in the steady, plodding, smaller towns, there abides a calm but
potent force that throbs with high patriotism, and will prove an
all-sufficient strength in time of peril.
* * * * *
Washington! Its very name an inspiration, its every feature a
fascination to the lover of his country who makes his first pilgrimage
to the national shrine. Other great cities bear the glorious marks of
the tribulations and triumphs they suffered and enjoyed as they passed
through their historic experiences. Here is a capital created as the
consummation of a people's release from thralldom. A new city, invented
as the proclamation of a new nation's advent, the symbol and promise
of a mightier world-power than its proudest founders ever conceived
possible in their highest enthusiasms. The youngest of famous capitals,
it already holds its own with the best of its kind for grandeur and the
_rus in urbe_ charm. Its spacious avenues, one hundred and sixty feet
wide, are lined with trees and grassy walks. Their stately sweep gives
chances for fine landscape effects, which are finely used. The vistas of
the grand avenues are bounded by some piece of memorial statuary or an
imposing structure in the distance, as is Pennsylvania avenue by the
incomparable Capitol. No national monument is better known throughout
the world than this noble edifice. Its majestic stateliness is enhanced
by its snowy whiteness.
The Capitol is the greatest building for its purposes in the United
States. It covers three acres and a half, and has a frontage of seven
hundred and fifty feet. The great dome, with its figure of Liberty,
reaches a height of over three hundred and seven feet. Standing on the
rising ground among the rich foliage it has an aspect of quiet strength,
an impressive assurance of dignity and permanence peculiar to itself
among massive buildings in the great cities. Everyone goes, or should
go, to see Congress at work, and to explore the corridors trod by
generations of the nation's legislators, soldiers, jurists, orators, in
short, by all the great makers of the nation since Washington laid its
foundation stone. A singular instance of fate thwarting intention is
found in the situation of the Capitol. It was planned to face eastward,
the White House was to be in the rear, and the city was expected to
spread away from the river, eastwardly. But it perversely grew to the
northwest, with the result that the Capitol turns its back on the
capital. No one would suppose this is so unless told, so splendidly
balanced in architectural dignity are both fronts of the edifice.
Another peculiarity is that the head city of the republic is
monarchically governed, and governed better than any other city in the
Union. Three commissioners are appointed by the President, and the
citizens have no political franchise. The city was planned as a grand
example of what a capital should be. Impressed by the lessons of the
revolutions in Paris the designer dotted the area with circular
grass-plots or miniature parks, from which avenues and streets radiate
like wheel-spokes. In case of need a gun in each of the circles could
command an enemy approaching from any quarter. The peaceful use of these
charming sites is more befitting the spirit of the republic. Statues of
its soldier-heroes who saved the Union adorn each circle and give
historic interest to the vistas. There are two hundred miles of streets.
In summer-time they are groves of rich foliage. They and the park spaces
take up half the area of the city. It is wisely intended to re-name the
principal streets after famous American patriots instead of
alphabetically.
Washington is pre-eminently a city of "sights." The great government
buildings are distributed over the city with excellent effect. They are
noble edifices, worthy of the Capitol and the capital. The Treasury,
with its never-to-be-forgotten scenes inside, the Army and Navy offices,
the Smithsonian Institution, and the rest of the head-quarters of
national business need no further mention here. The Corcoran Art
Gallery, the Patent Office, and the new Library of Congress demand a
special word. The latter is one of the most exquisite buildings in the
world, with interior decorative treatment quite beyond anything hitherto
known in the country. Its brilliant dome does not suffer by proximity to
the Capitol. An inspection of the Patent Office is a revelation of
genius peculiarly American, and its display throws the clearest light
on the secret of the country's amazing material prosperity. A visit to
Washington ought to be the finishing touch to the schooling of every
girl and boy. Historic sites and shrines appeal to the mature mind, but
the show places of the capital peculiarly suit the youthful instinct for
the novel and striking in matters of fact.
[Illustration: PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE, WASHINGTON]
To see the Senate and House of Representatives in session is a high
privilege for any citizen, yet it is hampered by few, if any, such
restrictions as are imposed in other national legislatures. The chambers
are spacious and handsome, so are the classified galleries for
spectators, and the sessions are held in daylight. Equally impressive is
the Supreme Court of the United States--a temple of equity in all its
features, wherein the instinctive reverence for the highest embodiment
of justice and legal authority is encouraged by the surroundings. The
robes worn by the justices invest the bench and court with a dignity
which various state courts wisely emulate by adopting the same rule.
Isolated in striking grandeur, the lofty Washington obelisk lifts the
contemplative mind to heights above the level of material evidences of
prosperity. Like the Stuart portrait, this memorial of Washington leaves
the meaner measurements of a man's stature for other seasons and moods,
and by a touch of sublimity gives the nobler cue to patriotic devotion
and whole-hearted enthusiasm for him who, though human indeed, in his
life-work neared the divine.
Summer is not the best time to appreciate the social life of the
capital. It lies low, the Potomac's swampy margin is near and the street
forests of trees aid humidity. The White House snugly reposes in
beautiful grounds, with the great obelisk as a perpetual reminder of the
first President's example and reward. Another white portico gleams in
the distance, Arlington, the resting-place of the nation's hero-martyrs.
In the winter season Washington blooms into cosmopolitan grandeur. It
becomes the focus of the nation's lights in statesmanship, art,
literature, and social pleasures. The foreign embassies supply the grace
of brilliant color so lacking in the gatherings of men in the sombre
attire of the period. A continuous round of social festivities gladdens
the mild winter days and nights. Here, as in royal capitals, society has
its greater and lesser constellations. There are the senatorial,
judicial, diplomatic, military, and naval groups, too sharply divided,
to judge from audible criticisms in New York circles. Still literature,
art, and commerce have as free a welcome in Washington salons as
anywhere else, despite the plaints of overlooked suppliants. The White
House knows nothing of artificial shibboleths. It happily dispenses its
hospitalities--which are coveted honors--impartially upon all whom it
is an honor to honor, and so sustains the true American principle of
equal courtesy to citizens and sojourners of every degree. Washington is
an inexhaustible field for the student of men, manners and movements, a
theatre on whose stage the comedy of life plays itself, with all-potent
moulders of opinion and legislation as the actors, backed by a
supernumerary army of minor aids. Among its most eager auditors are
outsiders, reporting every byplay to profoundly interested critics
across the seas. The drama cannot be too deeply watched and pondered,
for it is fraught with issues vital to the well-being of coming
generations.
* * * * *
Chicago is usually figured as a conventionally insipid beauty, in
flowing garments which would obstruct her progress and could never be
kept white. This is a mistake. Most masculine of cities, most American
of America's great centres, its shield should portray a strong youth in
the flush of adolescence, conscious power in his proud curled lip, fire
in his eye, springing to the foreground in the first ray of dawn, in his
right hand the sceptre of genius and his left grasping the key of
destiny. The good people of Chicago are not conspicuously lacking in
civic self-appreciation. They are accustomed to being twitted by rivals
in the rear on their boundless faith in their city's future greatness.
They can afford to listen smilingly. If the child is father of the man,
full-grown Chicago must some day tower above the up-stretched heads of
its envious seniors like a giant among, say, a committee of venerable
municipal Solons. Ordinary cities develop as babies do, slow growth to
maturity, but this extraordinary late-comer into the family attained
mental and muscular precocity in shorter time than its sisters required
to cut their wisdom-teeth. Considered in relation to its geographical
position and its express-speed rate of progress, Chicago has the
promise and potency of an imperial greatness no easier to exaggerate
than to limit. It was tried by fire in the day of small things, but
quickly rose to a new life and it still carries the memorial glow in its
heart as an inspiration to great things.
The word Chicago is a simpler form of the Indian name, Chacaqua, given
to the river in honor of their deity, the Thunderer. The position of
Chicago makes it the greatest lake port in the world. It is already the
second city in the United States, though only born in 1830, and has
hopes of becoming the first, by growth, and not by annexation policy.
True, the newest city inherits the wealth and experience which the older
ones had to gain for themselves, yet Chicago has done some fine original
things. It hitched up an inland sea as its beast of burden and made a
vast lake its pleasure pond. Finding itself only seven feet above the
level of Lake Michigan it lifted itself bodily another seven feet,
churches, warehouses, dwellings and all, with jack-screws, and shovelled
a new foundation of dry earth beneath. Fifteen years later the great
fire laid it lower than ever. On Oct. 8, 1871, began the disaster that
made nearly a hundred thousand people homeless, destroyed seventeen
thousand buildings and two hundred lives, and caused the loss of two
hundred millions of dollars. Within a year or so the wooden town was
transformed into a city of massive palaces built of stone and brick. It
is now fast changing itself into a maze of towering Babels, whose tops
support the pall of smoke that tells of manufacturing activity. It drove
tunnels beneath its river for street-cars. Its thirty-five bridges were
not enough for the constant rush. On its lake first swam the novel
whale-back boats. One sin will rise up against the city on the day of
doom: the twenty-mile line of lake shore has been largely prostituted
to railway interests instead of being conserved as an unrivalled
pleasure park for the people and an adornment to the city. It can plead
in mitigation of sentence that its six public parks cover more than
three square miles, besides some sixty linear miles of park-like
boulevards of which Paris might be proud. Of these Michigan Avenue has a
well-won fame. No business traffic is permitted on its wide and
well-sprinkled roadway, the morning and afternoon procession of
carriages taking its wealthy residents to and from business at times
recalls the Queen's Drive in the London season. If the Chicago man of
affairs works hard at his calling, he takes his pleasure zestfully and
plenty of it. On the grand occasion of the American Derby (for Chicago
has its Epsom and Ascot in one) it is a revelation to see the gay
caravan _en route_ to the race-course, as impressive a display of
metropolitan luxury as any capital can present. And on this day the West
can match the big crowds of England with this sixty thousand throng,
each person paying two dollars for bare admission to the ground.
In a city primarily devoted to business it takes time for the
development of the beautiful. Chicago has its "sights" for seekers after
the merely outlandish, who often miss the real greatnesses that are less
catchy to the eye. One of its achievements which impresses both the
trained and untrained observer is the undertaking which has the
uninviting name of Drainage Canal. The pure water of Lake Michigan used
to be polluted by the inflow of the Chicago River. To prevent this the
city has made an immense waterway by which the lake water is carried to
the Illinois River and the tide of the Chicago River is diverted from
its former course. The new canal is navigable and opens a route between
the great lakes and the Gulf of Mexico. The territory involved embraces
the city and forty-three square miles of Cook County. The main channel
is twenty-eight miles long and the cost was about thirty millions.
In their commercial aspect the famous Stock-yards have greater interest
than as a show place. They cover four hundred acres, the plant is valued
at four million dollars, and about twenty millions of animals are killed
and packed in a year. Similarly imposing are the statistics of most of
Chicago's enterprises. The Board of Trade is one of the most remarkable
sights in the country. Its public galleries are usually filled with
spectators of the feverish bidding of the grain operators, whose
slightest nod affects the markets of the world. The Stock Exchange is
yearly taking a more important share in the money market. The financial
institutions of Chicago and the West have more than once saved the East
from impending panic, and immense loans are constantly being renewed,
insuring the speedy recognition of the city as a force in the money
markets of the nations.
More interesting is the honor-roll of Chicago's intellectual enterprise.
The Columbian World's Fair of 1893 astonished the world with its beauty,
its perfection of artistic skill and taste. It gave an impetus to the
pursuit of the beautiful and refining which has borne substantial
results. Near the site of the Fair is a cluster of buildings
constituting the University of Chicago, dating from 1891, to which a
single donor has given nine million dollars, and loyal citizens are
continually adding to its possessions. The heads of the University count
on an endowment fund of fifty millions. Nowhere is Chicago enthusiasm
for progress more finely manifested than here. The great public
libraries of the city are envied by foreign visitors. The central Public
Library is a splendid triumph of architecture, next in interior
elegance to the Library of Congress. It is valued at three millions,
exclusive of its books. The Newberry and Crerar libraries form special
branches of the system. The city's churches and charities are doing
nobly in ameliorating the condition of the toilers and the handicapped
in life's race. The name and fame of Miss Jane Addams and the Hull House
settlement are world-wide. How difficult the task is may be conceived
from the fact that out of a million and seven hundred thousand people in
the city, nine hundred thousand are Americans, German, and Irish; the
remainder represent twenty-four nationalities, exclusive of negroes. A
report issued by an investigating committee of Hull House states that
"the density of population in the Polish quarter in Chicago is three
times that of the most crowded portions of Tokio, Calcutta, and many
other Asiatic cities."
As in New York there is a marked tendency among the richer people
to set up country homes. New suburban towns and villages of great
attractiveness are drawing an increasing number away from the smoky
city. On the other hand the far-famed hospitality of its people to
prophets of every school of thought, and the spirit of enterprise which
welcomes every new idea, attracts eccentrics and adventurers whose
trumpetings are loud enough to mislead superficial observers into the
notion that Chicago is the crank's paradise. If a fault at all, this
amiable toleration leans to virtue's side. Rightly to appreciate the
depth and breadth of Chicago's influence we must follow its trade to the
remotest corners of the earth. We must trace the influences of its seats
of learning and refinement. We must count, if we can, the tremendous
results of its world-renowned enterprises that have stimulated nations
to follow the successful lead. Be its faults what they may, Chicago has
the heart, the will, and the muscle to mend them, as the world will
see, and then will the true greatness of the Western metropolis be
discerned, and its full influence be felt.
WINNIPEG LAKE AND RIVER.
W. F. BUTLER.
[Colonel W. F. Butler, in "The Great Lone Land," gives us some
very interesting information about the life and scenery of the
great American Northwest, from which we select the following
description of a picturesque lake and river. His journey was
made during the Riel rebellion, and the traveller was on his
way to the Lake of the Woods, where he expected to meet an
expedition sent for the suppression of the rebellion. The Red
River Indians gave him a hearty send-off.]
The chief gave a signal, and a hundred trading guns were held aloft,
and a hundred shots rang out on the morning air. Again and again the
salutes were repeated, the whole tribe moving down to the water's edge
to see me off. Putting out to the middle of the river, I discharged my
fourteen-shooter into the air in rapid succession; a prolonged war-whoop
answered my salute, and, paddling their very best, for the eyes of the
finest canoers were upon them, my men drove the little craft flying over
the water until the Indian village and its still firing braves were
hidden behind a river bend. Through many marsh-lined channels, and
amidst a vast sea of reeds and rushes, the Red River of the North seeks
the water of Lake Winnipeg. A mixture of land and water, of mud, and of
the varied vegetation which grows thereon, this delta of the Red River
is, like other spots of a similar description, inexplicably lonely.
The wind sighs over it, bending the tall weeds with mournful rustle, and
the wild bird passes and repasses with plaintive cry over the rushes
which form his summer home.
Emerging from the sedges of the Red River, we shot out into the waters
of an immense lake,--a lake which stretched away into unseen spaces, and
over whose waters the fervid July sun was playing strange freaks of
mirage and inverted shore-land.
This was Lake Winnipeg,--a great lake, even on a continent where lakes
are inland seas. But vast as it is now, it is only a tithe of what it
must have been in the earlier ages of the earth.
The capes and headlands of what once was a vast inland sea now stand far
away from the shores of Winnipeg. Hundreds of miles from its present
limits these great landmarks still look down on the ocean, but it is an
ocean of grass. The waters of Winnipeg have retired from their feet, and
they are now mountain-ridges, rising over seas of verdure. At the bottom
of this by-gone lake lay the whole valley of the Red River, the present
Lakes Winnepegoos and Manitoba, and the prairie islands of the Lower
Assiniboine,--one hundred thousand square miles of water. The water
has long since been drained off by the lowering of the rocky channels
leading to Hudson Bay, and the bed of the extinct lake now forms the
richest prairie-land in the world.
But although Winnipeg has shrunken to a tenth of its original size, its
rivers still remain worthy of the great basin into which they once
flowed. The Saskatchewan is longer than the Danube, the Winnipeg has
twice the volume of the Rhine. Four hundred thousand square miles of
continent shed their waters into Lake Winnipeg; a lake as changeful as
the ocean, but, fortunately for us, in its very calmest mood to-day.
Not a wave, not a ripple on its surface, not a breath of breeze to
aid the untiring paddles. The little canoe, weighed down by men and
provisions, had scarcely three inches of its gunwale over the water, and
yet the steersman held his course far out into the glassy waste, leaving
behind the marshy headlands which marked the river's mouth.
A long low point stretching from the south shore of the lake was faintly
visible on the horizon. It was past mid-day when we reached it; so,
putting in among the rocky boulders which lined the shore, we lighted
our fire and cooked our dinner. Then, resuming our way, the Grand
Traverse was entered upon. Far away over the lake arose the point of the
Big Stone, a lonely cape whose perpendicular front was raised high above
the water. The sun began to sink towards the west; but still not a
breath rippled the surface of the lake, not a sail moved over the wide
expanse, all was as lonely as though our tiny craft had been the sole
speck of life on the waters of the world. The red sun sank into the
lake, warning us that it was time to seek the shore and make our beds
for the night. A deep sandy bay, with a high backing of woods and rocks,
seemed to invite us to its solitudes. Steering in with great caution
among the rocks, we landed in this sheltered spot, and drew our boat
upon the sandy beach. The shore yielded large store of drift-wood, the
relics of many a northern gale. Behind us lay a trackless forest, in
front the golden glory of the western sky. As the night shades deepened
around us and the red glare of our drift-wood fire cast its light upon
the woods and rocks, the scene became one of rare beauty.
As I sat watching from a little distance this picture so full of all
the charms of the wild life of the voyageur and the Indian, I little
marvelled that the red child of the lakes and the woods should be loath
to quit such scenes for all the luxuries of our civilization. Almost as
I thought with pity over his fate, seeing here the treasures of nature
which were his, there suddenly emerged from the forest two dusky forms.
They were Ojibbeways, who came to share our fire and our evening meal.
The land was still their own. When I lay down to rest that night on the
dry sandy shore, I long watched the stars above me. As children sleep
after a day of toil and play, so slept the dusky men who lay around me.
It was my first night with these poor wild sons of the lone spaces; it
was strange and weird, and the lapping of the mimic wave against the
rocks close by failed to bring sleep to my thinking eyes.
[The next day an early start was made]
We entered the mouth of the Winnipeg River at mid-day and paddled up to
Fort Alexander, which stands about a mile from the river's entrance.
Here I made my final preparations for the ascent of the Winnipeg,
getting a fresh canoe better adapted for forcing the rapids, and at five
o'clock in the evening started on my journey up the river. Eight miles
above the fort the roar of a great fall of water sounded through the
twilight. In the surge and spray and foaming torrent the enormous volume
of the Winnipeg was making its last grand leap on its way to mingle its
waters with the lake. On the flat surface of an enormous rock which
stood well out into the boiling water we made our fire and our camp.
The pine-trees which gave the fall its name stood round us dark and
solemn, waving their long arms to and fro in the gusty winds that swept
the valley. It was a wild picture. The pine-trees standing in inky
blackness; the rushing water, white with foam; above, the rifted
thunder-clouds. Soon the lightning began to flash and the voice of
the thunder to sound above the roar of the cataract. My Indians made
me a rough shelter with cross poles and a sail-cloth, and, huddling
themselves together under the upturned canoe, we slept regardless of the
storm....
A man may journey very far through the lone spaces of the earth without
meeting with another Winnipeg River. In it nature has contrived to place
her two great units of earth and water in strange and wild combinations.
To say that the Winnipeg River has an immense volume of water, that it
descends three hundred and sixty feet in a distance of one hundred
and sixty miles, that it is full of eddies and whirlpools, of every
variation of waterfall from chutes to cataracts, that it expands into
lonely pine-cliffed lakes and far-reaching island-studded bays, that
its bed is cumbered with immense wave-polished rocks, that its vast
solitudes are silent and its cascades ceaselessly active,--to say all
this is but to tell in bare items of fact the narrative of its
beauty. For the Winnipeg, by the multiplicity of its perils and the
ever-changing beauty of its character, defies the description of
civilized men as it defies the puny efforts of civilized travel. It
seems part of the savage,--fitted alone for him and for his ways,
useless to carry the burdens of man's labor, but useful to shelter the
wild things of wood and water which dwell in its waves and along its
shores. And the red man who steers his little birch-bark canoe through
the foaming rapids of the Winnipeg, how well he knows its various ways!
To him it seems to possess life and instinct, he speaks of it as one
would of a high-mettled charger which will do anything if he be rightly
handled. It gives him his test of superiority, his proof of courage. To
shoot the Otter Falls or the Rapids of Barriere, to carry his canoe down
the whirling of Portage-de-l'Isle, to lift her from the rush of water at
the Seven Portages, or launch her by the edge of the whirlpool below the
Chute-a-Jocko, all this is to be a brave and a skilful Indian, for the
man who can do all this must possess a power in the sweep of his paddle,
a quickness of glance, and a quiet consciousness of skill, not to be
found except after generations of practice. For hundreds of years the
Indian has lived amidst these rapids, they have been the playthings of
his boyhood, the realities of his life, the instinctive habit of his old
age. What the horse is to the Arab, what the dog is to the Esquimaux,
what the camel is to those who journey across Arabian deserts, so is the
canoe to the Ojibbeway. Yonder wooded shore yields him from first to
last the materials he requires for its construction: cedar for the
slender ribs, birch bark to cover them, juniper to stitch together the
separate pieces, red pine to give resin for the seams and crevices. By
the lake or river shore, close to his wigwam, the boat is built;
"And the forest life is in it,--
All its mystery and its magic,
All the tightness of the birch-tree,
All the toughness of the cedar,
All the larch's supple sinews.
And it floated on the river
Like a yellow leaf in autumn,
Like a yellow water-lily."
It is not a boat, it is a house; it can be carried long distances
overland from lake to lake. It is frail beyond words, yet you can load
it down to the water's edge; it carries the Indian by day, it shelters
him by night; in it he will steer boldly out into a vast lake where land
is unseen, or paddle through mud and swamp or reedy shallows; sitting in
it, he gathers his harvest of wild rice, or catches his fish or shoots
his game; it will dash down a foaming rapid, brave a fiercely running
torrent, or lie like a sea bird on the placid water.
For six months the canoe is the home of the Ojibbeway. While the trees
are green, while the waters dance and sparkle, while the wild rice bends
its graceful head in the lake, and the wild duck dwells amidst the
rush-covered mere, the Ojibbeway's home is the birch-bark canoe. When
the winter comes and the lake and rivers harden beneath the icy breath
of the north wind, the canoe is put carefully away; covered with
branches and with snow, it lies through the long dreary winter until the
wild swan and the wavey, passing northward to the polar seas, call it
again from its long icy sleep.
Such is the life of the canoe, and such the river along which it rushes
like an arrow.
The days that now commenced to pass were filled from dawn to dark with
moments of keenest enjoyment, everything was new and strange, and each
hour brought with it some fresh surprise of Indian skill or Indian
scenery.
The sun would be just tipping the western shores with his first rays
when the canoe would be lifted from its ledge of rock and laid gently on
the water; then the blankets and kettles, the provisions and the guns,
would be placed in it, and four Indians would take their seats, while
one remained on the shore to steady the bark upon the water and keep its
sides from contact with the rock; then when I had taken my place in the
centre, the outside man would spring gently in, and we would glide away
from the rocky resting-place. To tell the mere work of each day is no
difficult matter: start at five o'clock A.M., halt for breakfast at
seven o'clock, off again at eight, halt at one o'clock for dinner, away
at two o'clock, paddle until sunset at seven-thirty; that was the work
of each day. But how shall I attempt to fill in the details of scene and
circumstance between these rough outlines of time and toil, for almost
every hour of the long summer day the great Winnipeg revealed some new
phase of beauty and of peril, some changing scene of lonely grandeur? I
have already stated that the river in its course from the Lake of the
Woods to Lake Winnipeg, one hundred and sixty miles, makes a descent of
three hundred and sixty feet.
This descent is effected not by a continuous decline, but by a series of
terraces at various distances from each other; in other words, the river
forms innumerable lakes and wide expanding reaches bound together by
rapids and perpendicular falls of varying altitude; thus when the
_voyageur_ has lifted his canoe from the foot of the Silver Falls and
launched it again above the head of that rapid, he will have surmounted
two-and-twenty feet of the ascent; again, the dreaded Seven Portages
will give him a total rise of sixty feet in a distance of three miles.
(How cold does the bare narration of these facts appear beside their
actual realization in a small canoe manned by Indians!) Let us see if we
can picture one of these many scenes. There sounds ahead a roar of
falling water, and we see, upon rounding some pine-clad island or ledge
of rock, a tumbling mass of foam and spray studded with projecting rocks
and flanked by dark wooded shores; above we can see nothing, but below,
the waters, maddened by their wild rush amidst the rocks, surge and leap
in angry whirlpools. It is as wild a scene of crag and wood and water as
the eye can gaze upon, but we look upon it not for its beauty, because
there is no time for that, but because it is an enemy that must be
conquered.
Now mark how these Indians steal upon this enemy before he is aware of
it. The immense volume of water, escaping from the eddies and whirlpools
at the foot of the fall, rushes on in a majestic sweep into calmer
water; this rush produces along the shores of the river a counter- or
back-current which flows up sometimes close to the foot of the fall;
along this back-water the canoe is carefully steered, being often
not six feet from the opposing rush in the central river; but the
back-current in turn ends in a whirlpool, and the canoe, if it followed
this back-current, would inevitably end in the same place. For a minute
there is no paddling, the bow-paddle and the steersman alone keeping the
boat in her proper direction as she drifts rapidly up the current. Among
the crew not a word is spoken, but every man knows what he has to do,
and will be ready when the moment comes; and now the moment has come,
for on one side there foams along a mad surge of water, and on the other
the angry whirlpool twists and turns in smooth hollowing curves round an
axis of air, whirling round it with a strength that would snap our birch
bark into fragments, and suck us down into the great depths below. All
that can be gained by the back-current has been gained, and now it is
time to quit it; but where? for there is often only the choice of the
whirlpool or the central river. Just on the very edge of the eddy there
is one loud shout given by the bow-paddle, and the canoe shoots full
into the centre of the boiling flood, driven by the united strength of
the entire crew; the men work for their very lives, and the boat breasts
across the river, with her head turned full towards the falls; the
waters foam and dash about her, the waves leap high over the gunwale,
the Indians shout as they dip their paddles like lightning into the
foam, and the stranger to such a scene holds his breath amidst this war
of man against nature. Ha! the struggle is useless; they cannot force
her against such a torrent; we are close to the rocks and foam; but see,
she is driven down by the current, in spite of those wild fast strokes.
The dead strength of such a rushing flood must prevail. Yes, it is true,
the canoe has been driven back; but behold, almost in a second the whole
thing is done,--we float suddenly beneath a little rocky isle on the
foot of the cataract. We have crossed the river in the face of the
fall, and the portage landing is over this rock, while three yards out
on either side the torrent foams its headlong course.
Of the skill necessary to perform such things it is useless to speak.
A single false stroke and the whole thing would have failed; driven
headlong down the torrent, another attempt would have to be made to
gain this rock-protected spot, but now we lie secure here; spray all
around us, for the rush of the river is on either side, and you can
touch it with an outstretched paddle. The Indians rest on their paddles
and laugh; their long hair has escaped from its fastening through their
exertion, and they retie it while they rest. One is already standing
upon the wet, slippery rock, holding the canoe in its place; then the
others get out. The freight is carried up, piece by piece, and deposited
on the flat surface some ten feet above; that done, the canoe is lifted
out very gently, for a single blow against this hard granite boulder
would shiver and splinter the frail birch-bark covering; they raise her
very carefully up the steep face of the cliff and rest again on the top.
What a view there is from coigne of vantage! We are on the lip of the
fall; on each side it makes its plunge, and below we mark at leisure the
torrent we have just braved; above, it is smooth water, and away ahead
we see the foam of another rapid. The rock on which we stand has been
worn smooth by the washing of the water during countless ages, and from
a cleft or fissure there springs a pine-tree or a rustling aspen. We
have crossed the Petit Roches, and our course is onward still.
Through many scenes like this we held our way during the last days of
July. The weather was beautiful; now and then a thunder-storm would roll
along during the night, but the morning sun, rising clear and bright,
would almost tempt one to believe that it had been a dream, if the
pools of water in the hollows of the rocks and the dampness of blanket
or oil-cloth had not proved the sun a humbug. Our general distance each
day would be about thirty-two miles, with an average of six portages. At
sunset we made our camp on some rocky isle or shelving shore: one or two
cut wood, another got the cooking things ready, a fourth gummed the
seams of the canoe, a fifth cut shavings from a dry stick for the fire;
for myself, I generally took a plunge in the cool, delicious water;
and soon the supper hissed in the pans, the kettle steamed from its
suspending stick, and the evening meal was eaten with appetites such
as only the _voyageur_ can understand.
Then when the shadows of the night had fallen around and all was silent,
save the river's tide against the rocks, we would stretch our blankets
on the springy moss of the crag, and lie down to sleep with only the
stars for a roof.
Happy, happy days were these,--days the memory of which goes very far
into the future, growing brighter as we journey farther away from them;
for the scenes through which our course was laid were such as speak in
whispers, only when we have left them,--the whispers of the pine-tree,
the music of running water, the stillness of great lonely lakes.
A FINE SCENIC ROUTE.
HENRY T. FINCK.
[From Henry T. Finck's "The Pacific Coast Scenic Tour" we
select the following description of the Canadian Pacific
Railway route, which is acknowledged to possess a long
succession of grand and beautiful scenery, unequalled by any
other railroad route in America. The description is too long a
one to be given in full, and for further acquaintance with it
the reader must be referred to the book itself.]
After leaving Vancouver, and before reaching Westminster, the train for
some time runs along Burrard Inlet, on which is situated Fort Moody,
another town which had hoped to be chosen as terminus, and actually did
enjoy that privilege for a short time. The shores of the inlet are
beautifully wooded, and some of the trees are of enormous size. At the
crossing of Stave River a fine view is obtained of Mount Baker, looking
forward to the right; and the bridge over the Harrison River, where it
meets the Frazer, also affords a picturesque view. For the next fifteen
or sixteen hours the train follows the banks of the Frazer River and its
tributaries, and this is one of the grandest sections of the route.
At the first the Frazer is a muddy, yellow river, about the size of
the Willamette above Oregon City, but more rapid and winding, and an
occasional steamer may be seen floating along with the current, or
slowly making headway against it. In some places the railway runs so
close to the precipitous bank of the river that a handkerchief might be
dropped from a car window into the swirling eddies, fifty feet below.
At other places it leaves room--and just room enough--for the old
wagon-road between the track and the river; but it would take a cool
driver, with much confidence in his horses, to remain on his wagon here
when a train passes. At last the road itself becomes frightened and
crosses the river on a bridge, whereupon it winds along the hill-side
above the opposite bank, at a safe distance.
This road was made during the Frazer River gold excitement in 1858, when
twenty-five thousand miners flocked into this region, and wages for any
kind of work were ten to eighteen dollars a day. To-day the metal no
longer exists in what white men consider paying quantity; but Chinamen
may still be seen along the river, washing for remnants, their earnings
being about fifty cents a day. There is also a "Ruby Creek" in this
neighborhood, and some Indian habitations and salmon-fishing places.
Shortly before reaching Yale, which for a long time was the western
end of the road, there is a slight intermission in the scenic drama,
represented by some rich, level, agricultural lands, as if to give the
passengers a moment's rest before the wonders of the Frazer Canyon begin
to monopolize their bewildered attention, till darkness sets in and
drops the curtain on the superb panorama.
Yale, which is so completely shut in by high, frowning mountain walls on
every side that the sun touches the village only during part of the day,
has lost its importance since it ceased to be a terminus, and seems at
present to be inhabited chiefly by Indians and half-breeds. The train is
invaded by a bevy of half-breed girls with baskets of splendid apples
and pears, which could not be beaten for size and flavor in any of our
States, and indicate a possible use for these mountain regions in the
future. And now the train plunges into the midst of the series of
terrific gorges which constitute the Frazer Canyon, and which make this
railway literally the most gorge-ous in the world. Here were appalling
engineering difficulties to overcome, which no private corporation
without the most liberal government support could have undertaken. Yet
the builders had to be thankful even for this wild and rugged canyon dug
out by the Frazer River, without which the Cascade range would have been
impassable.
The palace cars of the Canadian Pacific, which contain all the best
features of the Pullman cars, with home improvements, have a special
observatory, with large windows, at the end of the train, whence the
canyon should be viewed; but to see it at its best one must sit on the
rear platform, so as to see at the same time both of the wild and
precipitous canyon walls, between which the river rushes along as if
pursued by demons. At every curve you think the gorge must come to an
end, but it only grows more stupendous, and the river, lashed into foam
and fury, dashes blindly against the rocks which try to arrest its
course. These rocks, ten to thirty feet wide and sometimes twice as
long, form many pretty little stone islands in the middle of the
torrent, and are a characteristic feature of the canyon scenery. Numerous
tunnels, resembling those on the Columbia River, are built through
arches seemingly projecting over the river. The train plunges into them
recklessly, but always comes out fresh and smiling on the other side,
although it seems that if the bottom of the tunnel should by any chance
drop out, the train would be precipitated into the river below.
Once in a while the river takes a short rest, and in these comparatively
calm stretches hundreds of beautiful large red fish can be seen from
the train, in the clear water, struggling up-stream. With their dark
backs and bright red sides they form a sight which is none the less
interesting when you are told that they are "only dog salmon," which
are not relished by whites, though the Indians eat them.
[A night now passes, during which much fine scenery is missed.
But the best is reserved for the next day.]
Scenic wonders now succeed one another with bewildering rapidity
throughout the day. This second day, in fact, represents the climax of
the trip, and the attention is not allowed to flag for a second. However
much such a confession may go against the grain of patriotism, every
candid traveller must admit that there is nothing in the United States
in the way of massive mountain scenery (except, perhaps, in Alaska) to
compare with the glorious panorama which is unfolded on this route.
Within thirty-six hours after leaving Vancouver we traverse three of
the grandest mountain ranges in America,--the Cascades, Selkirks, and
Rockies,--all of them the abode of eternal snow and glaciers, and all of
them traversed through by canons which vie with each other in terrific
grandeur.
[Illustration: MEMORIAL MONUMENT TO SAMUEL DE CHAMPLAIN, FOUNDER OF
QUEBEC]
Before the Selkirks are reached the train passes the Columbia or Gold
range, through the Eagle Pass, so called because it was discovered by
watching an eagle's flight. Eagle's Pass is a poetic and appropriate
name, and yet I think it would be well to re-name this mountain pass and
call it Mirror Lake Canyon, because that would call the attention of
tourists to what is its most characteristic feature, which may otherwise
be overlooked. There are four lakes and many smaller bodies of water in
this valley, in whose placid surface the finely-sloped mountain ridges
and summits of the pass are reflected with marvellous distinctness, so
that here, as in the Yosemite Mirror Lake, the copy is more lovely than
the original. Some of the mountain-sides reflected in these mirrors are
naked rocks, others are covered with living evergreen trees, and others
still with dead trees. In the mirror these dead forests look hardly less
beautiful than the living ones; but in the original the eye dwells with
more pleasure on the green forests which here, and almost everywhere in
British Columbia, grow with the rank luxuriance of a Ceylon jungle. The
soil under these dense tree-masses, consisting of decayed pine- and
fir-needles, a foot deep, and always moist, makes a paradise for lovely
mosses and ferns. Here, also, is the home of the bear, and one would not
have to walk far in this thicket to encounter a grizzly, black, or
cinnamon bruin.
On emerging from the Mirror Lake Canyon, a great surprise awaits the
passengers. The Columbia River--to which they had fancied they had said
a final farewell when they were ferried across it on the way from
Portland to Tacoma--suddenly comes upon the scene again, as clear and
as picturesque as ever; and even at this immense distance from its mouth
still large enough to require a bridge half a mile long to cross it. A
few hours later the train again crosses the Columbia, at Donald, where
the river has become much smaller than it seems that it should in such a
short distance.
To get an explanation of this circumstance, it is interesting to glance
at the map and notice what an immense curve northward the Columbia has
made in this interval in order to find a passage through the Selkirk
range; and in thus encircling the snowy Selkirks it has, of course,
added to its volume the contents of innumerable glacier streams and
mountain brooks. Its real sources are southeast of Donald, on the summit
of the Rockies, separated by but a short distance from springs which run
down on the eastern side and find their way through the Mississippi into
the Gulf of Mexico. Thus do extremes meet. It would be difficult to find
anything so curious in the course of any other river as this immense,
irregular parallelogram which the Columbia here describes from its
sources to Arrow Lake....
The snow-peaks of the Selkirks are now looming up on all sides, and the
atmosphere becomes more bracing and Alpine as the train slowly creeps up
the mountain-side, doubling up on itself in a loop. The Glacier House is
reached before long, and here every tourist who has time to spare should
get off and spend a day or two, since next to Banff, in the National
Park, this is the finest point along the whole route, scenically
speaking, while the air is even more salubrious, cool, and intoxicating
than at Banff, owing to the nearness of the glacier. It would be
difficult, even in Switzerland, to find a more romantic spot for a hotel
than the location of the Glacier House. High peaks rise up on every
side, so finely moulded, so deeply mantled with snow, and presenting
such various aspects from different points of view, that we forget our
disgust at the fact that, as usual in the West, these grand eternal
peaks have been named after ephemeral mortals,--Browns, Smiths, and
Joneses. The Grizzly and Cougar Mountains are more aptly named, as these
animals will long continue to abound in the impenetrable forests which
adorn these peaks below the snow-line. Looking from the hotel towards
the glacier, to the left is a peak which looks like the Matterhorn, the
most unique mountain in Switzerland, and, what is still more striking,
at its side is another smaller peak, which is an exact copy of the
Little Matterhorn....
The principal difference between the Swiss Alps and the Selkirk range
lies in the aspect of the mountain-sides below the snow-line. These, in
Switzerland, are green meadows dotted with browsing cows, and presenting
one unbroken mass of dark green, except where an avalanche has
tobogganed down and opened what seems at a distance like a roadway, but
is found to be a battle-field strewn with the corpses of cedars three
and four feet in diameter.
The most imposing view of such a mountain forest unbroken by a single
avalanche path is obtained from the snow-sheds just above the hotel.
Sitting outside these sheds and looking towards the left, you see a vast
mountain slope covered with literally millions of dark-green trees. Why
has none of the world's greatest poets ever been permitted to gaze on
such a Selkirk forest, that he might have aroused in his unfortunate
readers who are not privileged to see one emotions similar to those
inspired by it? But I fear that neither verse nor photographs, nor even
the painter's brush, can ever more than suggest the real grandeur of
such a forest scene. This mountain is not snow-crowned in September, but
its wooded summit makes a sharp green line against the snow-peaks beyond
and above. From this summit down to the foot stand the giant cedars, as
crowded as the yellow stalks in a Minnesota wheatfield. But in place of
the flat monochrome of a wheatfield, our sloping forest presents a most
fascinating color spectacle. The slanting rays of the sun tinge the
waving tree-tops with a deeply saturated yellowish-green, curiously
interspersed with a mosaic of dark, almost black streaks and patches of
shade, due to clouds and other causes, and the whole edged by the
dazzling snow.
If we descend and enter this forest, a cathedral-like awe thrills the
nerves. Daylight has not the power to penetrate to the ground hidden by
this dense mass of tree-tops rising two hundred to three hundred feet
into the air,--except that an occasional ray of sunlight may steal in
for a second, like a flash of lightning. And the carpet on which this
forest stands! In America we rarely see a house, even of a day-laborer,
without a carpet; why, then, should these royal trees do without one?
The carpet is itself a miniature forest of ferns and mosses, luxuriating
in riotous profusion on an ever-moist soil, the product of thousands of
generations of pine-needles. Nor is this carpet a monochrome, for the
green is varied by numerous berries of various kinds, most of which are
red, as they should be,--the complementary color of green. But there are
also acres of blueberries as large as cherries; and if you will tear off
a few branches of these and bring them to the young bear chained up near
the Glacier Hotel, he will be very grateful, and you will find it
amusing to watch him eating them.
There is music, too, in this Forest Cathedral, which is heard to best
advantage from the elevated gallery occupied by the snow-sheds. It takes
a trained ear to distinguish the steady, rippling _staccato_ sound of a
snow-fed mountain brook from the prolonged _legato_ sigh of a pine
forest, swelling to _fortissimo_, and dying away by turns. In the
romantic spot we have chosen these sounds are blended, the music
of the torrents being caught up by the sloping forest as by a huge
sounding-board, and increased in loudness by being mingled with the
mournful strains of the tree-tops, as orchestral colors are blended by
modern masters. Those err who say there is no music in nature. It is not
in "Siegfried" alone that the _Waldweben_ is musical, that leaves sing
as well as birds, while the thunder occasionally adds its loud _basso
profundo_. The aesthetic exhilaration which we owe to these poetic sights
and sounds is intensified by the salubrious breezes which waft this
music to our ears. Born among the clouds and glaciers, they are perfumed
in passing across the forests, warmed by the sun's rays in passing over
the valley; and every breath of this elixir adds a day to one's life. It
is not surprising that mountains should make the best health-resorts;
for do they not themselves understand and obey the laws of health? They
keep their heads cool under a snow-cap, their feet warm in a mossy
blanket, and their sides covered with a dense _fir_ overcoat....
For the greater part of the two hours which the train requires to go
from Donald to Golden City it passes along the bank of the Columbia
River; and there is, perhaps, no part of the whole route where grandeur
and beauty are so admirably united as here, especially in the autumn.
The grandeur lies in the snowy summits which frame in this Columbia
valley--the Selkirks on one side, the Rockies on the other. The beauty
lies in the river itself and in the young trees and bushes along its
banks, dressed in fall styles and colors, some as richly yellow as a
golden-rod, others as deeply purple or crimson as fuchsias or begonias,
the yellow predominating. These colored trees occur in groups and
streaks along the river, and in isolated patches on the mountain-sides,
where they might be mistaken for brown mosses or lichen-colored rocks.
There may be as beautifully colored trees in our Eastern forests, but
they are not mixed, as here, with young evergreen pines, nor have they a
framework of snow mountains, like these, to enhance their beauty.
High up on the ridges there is another variety of trees of a beautiful
russet color set off by a deep-blue sky. Talk of color symphonies. Here
they are--miles of them--long as a Wagner trilogy, and as richly
orchestrated. Even the masses of blackened logs and stumps--if one can
set aside for the moment all thought of pity for the poor charred trees,
so happy before the fire in their green luxuriance, and of the sad waste
of useful timber--enhance the charm of this scene by contrast.
I have said that the time-table of the Canadian Pacific Railway is
so arranged that the finest scenery is passed in daylight, in both
directions; but of course there must be exceptions, and, as a matter of
fact, as long as the road crosses the three great mountain ranges of the
Cascades, Selkirks, and Rockies, there is hardly a mile that does not
offer something worth seeing. Consequently, as darkness again closes in
soon after leaving Golden, east-bound passengers must resign themselves
to lose sight of the Kicking Horse Canyon, the Beaverfoot and Ottertail
Mountains, the large glacier on Mount Stephen, etc.,--which is all the
more provoking as they have to sit up anyway till midnight, when Banff
is reached; for, of course, every tourist who is in his right senses and
not a slave to duty gets off here to spend a few days in the Canadian
National Park.
[The description of this park we can give only in summary.]
Summing up on the Canadian National Park, we may say it has not so many
natural wonders as the Yellowstone Park,--no geysers, steam-holes,
gold-bottomed rivulets, paint-pots, nor anything to place beside the
Yellowstone Canyon and Falls. But the Minnewonka Lake may fairly
challenge comparison with the Yellowstone Lake, and the mountain scenery
is grander in the Canadian Park, and the snow and glaciers are nearer,
though not so near as at the Glacier House, where the air is in
consequence cooler and more bracing in summer than even at Banff. As
the Canadian Park is only twenty-six miles long and ten wide, while the
Yellowstone Park is about sixty-two by fifty-four miles, the former can
be seen in much less time than it takes to do justice to the latter.
When we get ready to leave Banff we have to take the midnight train, so
there is no chance to say good-by to the mountains. But we have seen so
much of them since leaving Vancouver, that we have felt almost tempted
to cry out to Nature, "Hold, enough; less would be more!" Now we get
ample opportunity to ruminate in peace over our crowded impressions.
When we get up we are on the prairie; we go to bed on the prairie, after
traversing a territory larger than a European kingdom; again we rise on
the prairie, and again go to bed on it; and not till Lake Superior is
approached does the scenery once more become interesting....
As a general thing, it is no doubt wiser to take the Canadian Pacific
Railway westward than eastward, as the scenic climax is on the western
side. However, it is quite possible to avoid the feeling of anti-climax
on going east, if we conclude the trip with the Thousand Islands and the
Rapids of the St. Lawrence, together with Montreal; or with Niagara
Falls and the Hudson River. The Pacific slope, no doubt, is scenically
far more attractive than the Atlantic; still, there are some things in
the East which even California would be proud to add to her attractions.
SOUTH PASS AND FREMONT'S PEAK.
JOHN C. FREMONT.
[Captain John Charles Fremont, one of the earliest government
explorers of the Rocky Mountain region and the Pacific slope,
was born at Savannah, Georgia, in 1813. Becoming a civil
engineer in the government service, in 1842 he explored the
South Pass of the Rocky Mountains, ascending in August the
highest peak in the Wind River range. This has since been known
as Fremont's Peak. In the following year he explored Great Salt
Lake. In 1845 he led a third expedition to the Pacific, and
during the Mexican war was instrumental in securing California
for the United States. He led subsequent expeditions westward,
was Republican candidate for the Presidency in 1856, served
during the war, and in 1878-82 was governor of Arizona. He died
in 1890. We subjoin his account of the crossing of the South
Pass and discovery and ascent of Fremont's Peak.]
The view [of the Wind River Mountains] dissipated in a moment the
pictures which had been created in our minds by many travellers who have
compared these mountains with the Alps in Switzerland, and speak of the
glittering peaks which rise in icy majesty amidst the eternal glaciers
nine or ten thousand feet into the region of eternal snows.
[Continuing their course, they encamped on August 7 near the
South Pass, and the next morning set out for the dividing
ridge.]
About six miles from our encampment brought us to the summit. The ascent
had been so gradual that, with all the intimate knowledge possessed by
Carson, who had made the country his home for seventeen years, we were
obliged to watch very closely to find the place at which we reached the
culminating point. This was between two low hills, rising on either
hand fifty or sixty feet. When I looked back at them, from the foot of
the immediate slope on the western plain, their summits appeared to be
about one hundred and twenty feet above. From the impression on my mind
at this time, and subsequently on our return, I should compare the
elevation which we mounted immediately at the Pass to the ascent of the
Capitol hill from the avenue at Washington. It is difficult for me to
fix positively the breadth of this pass. From the broken ground where
it commences, at the foot of the White River chain, the view to the
southeast is over a champaign country, broken, at the distance of
nineteen miles, by the Table Rock, which, with the other isolated hills
in its vicinity, seem to stand in a comparative plain. This I judged to
be its termination, the ridge recovering its rugged character with the
Table Rock.
It will be seen that it in no manner resembles the places to which the
term is commonly applied,--nothing of the gorge-like character and
winding ascents of the Alleghany passes in America; nothing of the Great
St. Bernard and Simplon passes in Europe. Approaching it from the mouth
of the Sweet Water, a sandy plain, one hundred and twenty miles long,
conducts, by a gradual and regular ascent, to the summit, about seven
thousand feet above the sea; and the traveller, without being reminded
of any change by toilsome ascents, suddenly finds himself on the waters
which flow to the Pacific Ocean. By the route we had travelled, the
distance from Fort Laramie is three hundred and twenty miles, or nine
hundred and fifty from the mouth of the Kansas.
[They continued their course westward, crossing several
tributaries of the Colorado River, and on the 10th reached
unexpectedly a beautiful lake.]
Here a view of the intensest magnificence and grandeur burst upon our
eyes. With nothing between us and their feet to lessen the effect of the
whole height, a grand bed of snow-capped mountains rose before us, pile
upon pile, glowing in the bright light of an August day. Immediately
below them lay the lake, between two ridges, covered with dark pines,
which swept down from the main chain to the spot where we stood. "Never
before," said Mr. Preuss, "in this country or in Europe, have I seen
such grand, magnificent rocks." I was so much pleased with the beauty of
the place that I determined to make the main camp here, where our
animals would find good pasturage, and explore the mountains with a
small party of men.
[On the 12th this party set out, crossing intervening hills,
and ascending through dense forests to the summit of the ridge.]
We had reached a very elevated point, and in the valley below, and among
the hills, were a number of lakes of different levels, some two or three
hundred feet above others, with which they communicated by foaming
torrents. Even to our great height the roar of the cataracts came up,
and we could see them leaping down in lines of snowy foam. From this
scene of busy waters we turned abruptly into the stillness of a forest,
where we rode among the open bolls of the pines, over a lawn of verdant
grass, having strikingly the air of cultivated grounds. This led us,
after a time, among masses of rock, which had no vegetable earth but in
hollows and crevices, though still the pine-forest continued. Towards
evening we reached a defile, or rather a hole in the mountains, entirely
shut in by dark pine-covered rocks.
[In the morning they ascended a mountain stream, to its source
in a small lake surrounded by a lawn-like expanse.]
Here I determined to leave our animals, and make the rest of our way
on foot. The peak appeared so near that there was no doubt of our
returning before night; and a few men were left in charge of the mules,
with our provisions and blankets. We took with us nothing but our arms
and instruments, and, as the day had become warm, the greater part left
our coats. Having made an early dinner, we started again. We were soon
involved in the most rugged precipices, nearing the central chain very
slowly, and rising but little. The first ridge hid a succession of
others; and when, with great fatigue and difficulty, we had climbed up
five hundred feet, it was but to make an equal descent on the other
side; all these intervening places were filled with small deep lakes,
which met the eye in every direction, descending from one level to
another, sometimes under bridges formed by huge fragments of granite,
beneath which was heard the roar of the water. These constantly
obstructed our path, forcing us to make long _detours_; frequently
obliged to retrace our steps, and frequently falling among the rocks.
Maxwell was precipitated towards the face of a precipice, and saved
himself from going over by throwing himself flat on the ground. We
clambered on, always expecting, with every ridge that we crossed, to
reach the foot of the peaks, and always disappointed, until about four
o'clock, when, pretty well worn out, we reached the shore of a little
lake, in which was a rocky island.
By the time we had reached the farther side of the lake we found
ourselves all exceedingly fatigued, and, much to the satisfaction of the
whole party, we encamped. The spot we had chosen was a broad, flat rock,
in some measure protected from the winds by the surrounding crags, and
the trunks of fallen pines afforded us bright fires. Near by was a
foaming torrent, which tumbled into the little lake about one hundred
and fifty feet below us, and which, by way of distinction, we have
called Island Lake. We had reached the upper limit of the piney region;
as, above this point, no tree was to be seen, and patches of snow lay
everywhere around us, on the cold sides of the rock. From barometrical
observations made during our three days' sojourn at this place, its
elevation above the Gulf of Mexico is ten thousand feet....
[They set out early the next morning.]
On every side, as we advanced, was heard the roar of waters, and of a
torrent, which we followed up a short distance, until it expanded into a
lake about one mile in length. On the northern side of the lake was a
bank of ice, or rather of snow covered with a crust of ice. Carson had
been our guide into the mountains, and, agreeably to his advice, we
left this little valley and took to the ridges again, which we found
extremely broken, and where we were again involved among precipices.
Here were ice-fields, among which we were all dispersed, seeking each
the best way to ascend the peak. Mr. Preuss attempted to walk along the
upper edge of one of these fields, which sloped away at an angle of
about twenty degrees; but his feet slipped from under him, and he went
plunging down the plain. A few hundred feet below, at the bottom, were
some fragments of sharp rock, on which he landed; and, though he turned
a couple of somersets, fortunately received no injury beyond a few
bruises.
[That day's work failed, and they returned at evening to the
camp. The next day they ascended a long defile on mule-back,
and soon had the satisfaction to find that they had taken the
right course. Finally, leaving their mules, they continued on
foot, eventually reaching a point near the summit. Here was an
overhanging buttress of rock, which could be surmounted only by
passing around one side of it, which was the face of a
precipice several hundred feet in depth.]
Putting hands and feet in the crevices between the blocks, I succeeded
in getting over it, and when I reached the top, found my companions in
a small valley below. Descending to them, we continued climbing, and in
a short time reached the crest. I sprang upon the summit, and another
step would have precipitated me into an immense snow-field five hundred
feet below. To the edge of this field was a sheer icy precipice; and
then, with a gradual fall, the field sloped off for about a mile, until
it struck the foot of another lower ridge. I stood on a narrow crest,
about three feet in width, with an inclination of about 20 deg. north, 51 deg.
east.
As soon as I had gratified the first feeling of curiosity I descended,
and each man ascended in his turn; for I would only allow one at a time
to mount the unstable and precarious slab, which it seemed a breath
would precipitate into the abyss below. We mounted the barometer in the
snow of the summit, and, fixing a ramrod in a crevice, unfurled the
national flag to wave in the breeze where never flag waved before.
During our morning's ascent we had met no sign of animal life, except a
small sparrow-like bird. A stillness the most profound and a terrible
solitude forced themselves constantly on the mind as the great features
of the place. Here, on the summit, where the stillness was absolute,
unbroken by any sound, and solitude complete, we thought ourselves
beyond the region of animated life; but while we were sitting on the
rock, a solitary bee (_Bombus, the bumble-bee_) came winging his flight
from the eastern valley, and lit on the knee of one of the men.
It was a strange place, the icy rock and the highest peak of the Rocky
Mountains, for a lover of warm sunshine and flowers; and we pleased
ourselves with the idea that he was the first of his species to cross
the mountain barrier,--a solitary pioneer to foretell the advance of
civilization. I believe that a moment's thought would have made us let
him continue his way unharmed; but we carried out the law of this
country, where all animated nature seems at war; and seizing him
immediately, put him in at least a fit place,--in the leaves of a large
book, among the flowers we had collected on our way. The barometer stood
at 18.293, the attached thermometer 44 deg.; giving for the elevation of
this summit thirteen thousand five hundred and seventy feet above the
Gulf of Mexico, which may be called the highest flight of the bee. It is
certainly the highest known flight of that insect.
From the description given by Mackenzie of the mountains where he
crossed them, with that of the French officer still farther to the
north, and Colonel Long's measurements to the south, joined to the
opinion of the oldest traders of the country, it is presumed that this
is the highest peak in the Rocky Mountains. [Fremont's Peak is now
estimated at thirteen thousand seven hundred and ninety feet. There are
many peaks now known over fourteen thousand feet. The highest point is
Blanca Peak, fourteen thousand four hundred and sixty-three feet high.]
The day was sunny and bright, but a slight shining mist hung over the
lower plains, which interfered with our view of the surrounding country.
On one side we overlooked innumerable lakes and streams, the spring of
the Colorado of the Gulf of California; and on the other was the Wind
River Valley, where were the heads of the Yellowstone branch of the
Missouri; far to the north we could just discover the snowy heads of the
_Trois Tetons_, where were the sources of the Missouri and Columbia
Rivers; and at the southern extremity of the ridge the peaks were
plainly visible among which were some of the springs of the Nebraska or
Platte River. Around us the whole scene had one main, striking feature,
which was that of terrible convulsion. Parallel to its length, the ridge
was split into chasms and fissures; between which rose the thin lofty
walls, terminated with slender minarets and columns.
[The party reached camp the next day, and on the 17th turned
their faces homeward, the purpose of the expedition having been
accomplished.]
IN THE YELLOWSTONE PARK.
FERDINAND V. HAYDEN.
[About the middle of this century reports began to be heard of
a veritable wonderland in the far West, as yet seen only by
trappers and other adventurers, whose stories of the marvels
they had beheld whetted the appetite of scientific explorers.
The first attempt to reach the region of the Yellowstone was
made in 1856, but failed, and it was not until 1869 that an
exploring party entered this marvellous valley. A second party
reached the Yellowstone region in 1870, and Mr. N. P. Langford
wrote a glowing account of the wonders observed. The first
detailed description of the locality was made by Dr. Hayden,
chief of the Geological Survey of the Territories, in 1871.
From this extended and highly interesting account we can only
quote a few passages, selecting those which relate to the hot
springs and geysers of the wonderful Fire-Hole River region.]
Early in the morning of August 30 the valley was literally filled with
columns of steam, ascending from more than a thousand vents. I can
compare the view to nothing but that of some manufacturing city like
Pittsburg, as seen from a high point, except that instead of the black
coal smoke there are here the white delicate clouds of steam. Small
groups or solitary springs that are scattered everywhere in the woods
upon the mountain-sides, and which would otherwise have escaped
observation, are detected by the columns of steam. It is evident that
some of these groups of springs have changed their base of operations
within a comparatively recent period; for about midway on the east side
of the lower basin there is a large area covered with a thick,
apparently modern, deposit of the silica, as white as snow, while
standing quite thickly all around are the dead pines, which appear to
have been destroyed by the excessive overflow of the water and the
increased deposition. These dry trees have a most desolate look; many of
them have fallen down and are incrusted with the silica, while portions
that have fallen into the boiling springs have been reduced to a pulp.
This seems to be one of the conditions of silicification, for when these
pulpy masses of wood are permitted to dry by the cessation of the
springs, the most perfect specimens of petrified wood are the result. In
one instance a green pine-tree had fallen so as to immerse its thick top
in a large hot basin, and leaves, twigs, and cones had become completely
incrusted with the white silica, and a portion had entered into the
cellular structure, so that when removed from the water and dried in the
sun, very fair specimens were obtained. Members of my party obtained
specimens of pine-cones that were sufficiently silicified to be packed
away among the collections.
[Illustration: THE UPPER YELLOWSTONE FALLS
FROM A PAINTING BY THOMAS MORAN]
In order that we might get a complete view of the Lower Geyser Basin
from some high point, we made a trip to the summit of Twin Buttes, on
the west side of the basin. From the top of one of these buttes, which
is six hundred and thirty feet above the Fire-Hole River, we obtained a
bird's-eye view of the entire lower portion of the valley, which was
estimated to be about twenty miles long and five miles wide. To the
westward, among the mountains, were a number of little lakes, which were
covered with a huge species of water-lily, _Nuphar advena_. The little
streams precipitated their waters in the most picturesque cascades or
falls. One of them was named by Colonel Barlow the "Fairy Fall," from
the graceful beauty with which the little stream dropped down a clear
descent of two hundred and fifty feet. It is only from a high point
that it can be seen, for the water falls gently down from the lofty
overhanging cliff into a basin at the foot, which is surrounded by a
line of tall pines one hundred to one hundred and fifty feet in height.
The continual flow of the waters of this little fountain has worn a deep
channel or furrow into the vertical sides of the mountain. As far as the
eye can reach can be seen the peculiar plateau mountain ranges, black
with the dense forests of pine, averaging from nine thousand to ten
thousand feet above sea-level....
A spring on a level with the river has an enormous square basin thirty
feet across, of unknown depth. We called this the "Bath Spring." A
little below is another singular form of wonderful beauty. The water
issues from beneath the crust near the margin of the river from several
apertures. The basin itself is fifteen by twenty feet and twenty feet
deep. It seemed to me that nothing could exceed the transparent
clearness of the water. The slightest object was reflected in its clear
depths, and the bright blue tints were indescribable. We called this the
"Cavern." The mud springs are also numerous and important in this group.
As usual, they are of all sizes, from an inch or two to twenty or thirty
feet in diameter, with contents varying from mere turbid water to stiff
mud. They seldom have any visible outlet, but are in a constant state of
agitation, with a sound that varies with the consistency of the
contents. There are several of the mud-pots that give off a suppressed
thud as the gases burst their way through the stiff mortar. Sometimes
the mortar is as white as snow, or brown, or tinged with a variety of
vivid colors....
On the west side of the Fire-Hole, and along the little branch that
flows into it from the west, are numbers of springs of all grades, and
the broad bottom is covered with a snow-white silicious crust. Near the
base of the mountains there is a massive first-class boiling spring, in
a constant state of violent agitation, sending forth great columns of
steam, with a singular toadstool rim.... About three miles up the
Fire-Hole we meet with a small but quite interesting group of springs on
both sides of the stream. There is a vast accumulation of silica,
forming a hill fifty feet along the level of the river; upon the summit
one of the largest springs yet seen, nearly circular, one hundred and
fifty feet in diameter, boils up in the centre, but overflows with such
uniformity on all sides as to admit of the formation of no real rim, but
forming a succession of little ornamental steps, from one to three
inches in height, just as water would congeal from cold in flowing down
a gentle declivity. There was the same transparent clearness, the same
brilliancy of coloring to the waters, but the hot steam and the thinness
of the rim prevented me from approaching it near enough to ascertain its
temperature or observe its depth. It is certainly one of the grandest
hot springs ever seen by human eye.
But the most formidable one of all is near the margin of the river. It
seems to have broken out close by the river, and to have continually
enlarged its orifice by the breaking down of its sides. It evidently
commenced on the east side, and the continual wear of the under side of
the crust on the west side has caused the margin to fall in, until an
aperture at least two hundred and fifty feet in diameter has been
formed, with walls or sides twenty to thirty feet high, showing the
laminae of deposition perfectly. The water is intensely agitated all the
time, boiling like a caldron, from which a vast column of steam is ever
rising, filling the orifice. As the passing breeze sweeps it away for a
moment, one looks down into this terrible seething pit with terror. All
around the sides are large masses of the silicious crust that have
fallen from the rim. An immense column of water flows out of this
caldron into the river. As it pours over the marginal slope it descends
by numerous small channels, with a large number of smaller ones
spreading over a broad surface, and the marvellous beauty of the
strikingly vivid coloring far surpasses anything of the kind we have
seen in this land of wondrous beauty,--every possible shade of color,
from vivid scarlet to a bright rose, and every shade of yellow to a
delicate cream, mingled with vivid green from minute vegetation. Some of
the channels were lined with a very fine, delicate yellow, silky
material, which vibrates at every movement of the waters. There was one
most beautiful funnel-shaped spring, twenty feet in diameter at the top,
but tapering down, lined inside and outside with the most delicate
decorations. Indeed, to one looking down into its clear depths, it
seemed like a fairy palace. The same jelly-like substance or pulp to
which I have before alluded covers a large area with the various shades
of light red and green. The surface yields to the tread like a cushion.
It is about two inches in thickness, and although seldom so tenacious as
to hold together, yet it may be taken up in quite large masses, and when
it becomes dry it is blown about by the wind, like fragments of
variegated lichens.
[From this description of the hot springs of the region we
proceed to an account of its marvellous geyser phenomena.]
We camped the evening of August 5 in the middle of the Upper Geyser
Basin, in the midst of some of the grandest geysers in the world.
Colonel Barlow and Captain Heap, of the United States Engineers, were
camped on the opposite side of the Fire-Hole. Soon after reaching camp
a tremendous rumbling was heard, shaking the ground in every direction,
and soon a column of steam burst forth from a crater near the edge of
the east side of the river. Following the steam, arose, by a succession
of impulses, a volume of water, apparently six feet in diameter, to the
height of two hundred feet, while the steam ascended a thousand feet or
more. It would be difficult to describe the excitement which attended
such a display. It is probable that if we could have remained in the
valley several days, and become accustomed to all the preliminary
warnings, the excitement would have ceased, and we could have admired
calmly the marvellous ease and beauty with which this column of hot
water was held up to that great height for the space of twenty minutes.
After the display is over the water settles down in the basin several
inches, and the temperature slowly falls to 150 deg.. We called this the
"Grand Geyser," for its power seemed greater than any other of which we
obtained any knowledge in the valley.
[After describing more particularly the peculiarities of the
Grand Geyser and the smaller neighboring geysers, Dr. Hayden
gives us an enthusiastic pen-picture of a beautiful type of
springs.]
On the summit of the great mound is one of a class I have called central
springs; it is located on the highest point of the mound on which this
great group belongs; has a crater twenty feet in diameter, very nearly
quiescent, slightly bubbling, or boils near the centre, with a thin,
elegant rim projecting over the spring, with the water rising within a
few inches of the top. The continual but very moderate overflow of this
spring, uniformly on every side, builds up slowly a broad-based mound,
layer by layer, one-eighth to one-sixteenth of an inch thick. Looking
down into these springs, you seem to be gazing into fathomless depths,
while the bright blue of the water is unequalled even by the sea. There
are a number of these marvellous central springs, with projecting rims
carved with an intricate delicacy which of itself is a marvel; and as
one ascends the mound and looks down into the wonderfully clear depths,
the vision is unique. The great beauty of the prismatic colors depends
much on the sunlight, but about the middle of the day, when the bright
rays descend nearly vertically, and a slight breeze just makes a ripple
on the surface, the colors exceed comparison; when the surface is calm
there is one vast chaos of colors, dancing, as it were, like the colors
of a kaleidoscope.
As seen through this marvellous play of colors, the decorations on the
sides of the basin are lighted up with a wild, weird beauty which wafts
one at once into the land of enchantment; all the brilliant feats of
fairies and genii in the "Arabian Nights" entertainments are forgotten
in the actual presence of such marvellous beauty; life becomes a
privilege and a blessing after one has seen and thoroughly felt these
incomparable types of nature's cunning skill....
Our search for new wonders leading us across the Fire-Hole River, we
ascended a gently incrusted slope, and came suddenly upon a large oval
aperture with scalloped edges, the diameters of which were eighteen and
twenty-five feet, the sides corrugated and covered with a grayish-white
silicious deposit, which was distinctly visible at the depth of a
hundred feet below the surface. No water could be discovered, but we
could distinctly hear it gurgling and boiling at a great distance below.
Suddenly it began to rise, boiling and spluttering, and sending out huge
masses of steam, causing a general stampede of our company, driving us
to some distance from our point of observation. When within about forty
feet of the surface it became stationary, and we returned to look down
upon it. It was foaming and surging at a terrible rate, occasionally
emitting small jets of hot water nearly to the mouth of the orifice.
All at once it seemed seized with a fearful spasm, and rose with
incredible rapidity, hardly affording us time to withdraw to a safe
distance, when it burst from the orifice with terrific momentum, rising
in a column the full size of this immense aperture to the height of
sixty feet; and through and out of the apex of this vast aqueous mass
five or six lesser jets or round columns of water, varying in size from
six to fifteen inches in diameter, were projected to the marvellous
height of two hundred and fifty feet. These lesser jets, so much higher
than the main column, and shooting through it, doubtless proceed from
auxiliary pipes leading into the principal orifice near the bottom,
where the explosive force is greater. If the theory that water by
constant boiling becomes explosive when freed from air be true, this
theory rationally accounts for all irregularities in the eruptions of
the geysers.
This grand eruption continued for twenty minutes, and was the most
magnificent sight we ever witnessed. We were standing on the side of the
geyser nearest the sun, the gleams of which filled the sparkling column
of water and spray with myriads of rainbows, whose arches were
constantly changing, dipping and fluttering hither and thither, and
disappearing only to be succeeded by others, again and again, amid the
aqueous columns, while the minute globules into which the spent jets
were diffused when falling sparkled like a shower of diamonds, and
around every shadow which the denser clouds of vapor, interrupting the
sun's rays, cast upon the column, could be seen a luminous circle,
radiant with all the colors of the prism, and resembling the halo of
glory represented in paintings as encircling the head of Divinity. All
that we had previously witnessed seemed tame in comparison with the
perfect grandeur and beauty of this display. Two of these wonderful
eruptions occurred during the twenty-two hours we remained in the
valley. This geyser we named the "Giantess."
A hundred yards distant from the Giantess was a silicious cone, very
symmetrical, but slightly corrugated upon its exterior surface, three
feet in height and five feet in diameter at its base, and having an oval
orifice twenty-four by thirty-six and a half inches in diameter, with
scalloped edges. Not one of our company supposed that it was a geyser;
and among so many wonders it had almost escaped notice. While we were at
breakfast upon the morning of our departure, a column of water, entirely
filling the crater, shot from it, which, by accurate triangular
measurement, we found to be two hundred and nineteen feet in height. The
stream did not deflect more than four or five degrees from a vertical
line, and the eruption lasted eighteen minutes. We named it the
"Beehive."...
On our return to the lake from this basin we passed up the Fire-Hole
River to its source in the divide. Early in the morning, as we were
leaving the valley, the grand old geyser which stands sentinel at the
head of the valley gave us a magnificent parting display, and with
little or no preliminary warning it shot up a column of water about six
feet in diameter to the height of a hundred to a hundred and fifty feet,
and by a succession of impulses seemed to hold it up steadily for the
space of fifteen minutes, the great mass of water falling directly back
into the basin, and flowing over the edges and down the sides in large
streams. When the action ceases, the water recedes beyond sight, and
nothing is heard but the occasional escape of steam until another
exhibition occurs. This is one of the most accommodating geysers in the
basin, and during our stay played once an hour quite regularly. On
account of its apparent regularity, and its position overlooking the
valley, it was called by Messrs. Langford and Doane "Old Faithful." It
has built up a crater about twenty feet high around its base, and all
about it are decorations similar to those previously described.
On the morning of August 6 we ascended the mountains at the head of the
Fire-Hole River, on our return to the hot-spring camp on the Yellowstone
Lake. We had merely caught a glimpse of the wonderful physical phenomena
of this remarkable valley. We had just barely gleaned a few of the
surface observations, which only sharpened our desire for a larger
knowledge. There is no doubt in my mind that these geysers are more
active at certain seasons of the year than at others. We saw them in
midsummer, when the surface waters are greatly diminished. In the
spring, at the time of the melting of the snows, the display of the
first-class geysers must be more frequent and powerful. We left this
valley, with its beautiful scenery, its hot springs and geysers, with
great regret.
THE COUNTRY OF THE CLIFF-DWELLERS.
ALFRED TERRY BACON.
[Ruskin, among his reasons for not visiting the United States,
declared that it would be impossible for him to exist, even for
a short interval, in a country that had no old castles. Had he
known it, he might have found here old castles in abundance,
older perhaps, and grander in situation, than any to be found
in his own land. These are the ruined dwellings of the ancient
inhabitants of the western canons and of the pueblo-builders of
Arizona and New Mexico. We give a traveller's account of the
Cliff-dwellers' habitations.]
The attraction which drew the conquerors of Mexico forty-five days'
journey away into the North was the fame which had reached them of the
Seven Cities of Cibola (the buffalo), great in wealth and population,
lying in the valley of the Rio de Zuni. To the grief of the invaders,
they found not cities, but rather villages of peaceful agricultural
people dwelling in great pueblos three and four stories high, and they
searched in vain for the rumored stores of gold. At that time the
pueblos held a large population skilled in many arts of civilization.
They cultivated large tracts of ground, wove fabrics of cotton, and
produced ornate pottery. Their stone-masonry was admirable. But even
three hundred years ago it seems that the people were but a remnant of
what they had once been. Even then the conquerors wondered at the many
ruins which indicated a decline from former greatness. The people have
not now the same degree of skill in their native arts which the race
once had, and it is probable that when the Spaniards came and found them
declining in numbers the old handicrafts were already on the wane.
In a remote age the ancestors of these Pueblo tribes, or a race of
kindred habits, filled most of that vast region which is drained by the
Colorado River and its affluents, and spread beyond into the valley of
the Rio Grande. The explorers of a great extent of country in Utah,
Arizona, New Mexico, and Colorado have found everywhere evidences of
the wide distribution and wonderful industry of that ancient people.
On the low land which they used to till lie the remains of their
villages,--rectangular buildings of enormous dimensions and large
circular _estufas_, or halls for council and worship. On the sides of
the savage cliffs that wall in or overarch the canons are scattered in
every crevice and wrinkle those strange and picturesque ruins which give
us the name "Cliff-dwellers" to distinguish this long-forgotten people.
And on commanding points, seen far away down the canons or across the
mesas, stand the solitary watch-towers where sentinels might signal to
the villagers below on the approach of Northern barbarians....
There is no other district which embraces in so small a compass so great
a number and variety of the Cliff-dwellers' ruined works as the canyon of
the Little Rio Mancos in Southwestern Colorado. The stream rises in a
spur of the San Juan Mountains, near the remote mining-camp called
Parrott City. Flowing southward for a few miles through an open valley,
it is soon enclosed between the walls of a profound canyon which cuts for
nearly thirty miles through a table-land called the Mesa Verde. The
canyon is wide enough to have permitted the old inhabitants to plant
their crops along the stream, and the cliffs rising on either side to
a height of two thousand feet are so curiously broken and grooved
and shelving, from the decay of the soft horizontal strata and the
projection of the harder, as to offer remarkable facilities for building
fortified houses hard of approach and easy of defence. Therefore the
whole length of the canyon is filled with ruins, and for fifteen miles
beyond it to the borders of New Mexico, where the river meets the Rio
San Juan, the valley bears many traces of the ancient occupation.
The scenery of the canyon is wild and imposing in the highest degree. In
the dry Colorado air there are few lichens or weather-stains to dull the
brightness of the strata to the universal hoariness of moister climates:
the vertical cliffs, standing above long slopes of debris, are colored
with the brilliant tints of freshly-quarried stone. A gay ribbon of
green follows the course of the rivulet winding down through the canyon
till it is lost to sight in the vista of crags. The utter silence and
solitude of the wilderness reigns through the valley. It is not occupied
by any savage tribe, and only a few white men within the last few years
have passed through it and told of its wonders; and yet its whole
length is but one series of houses and temples that were forsaken
centuries ago. I can hardly imagine a more exciting tour of exploration
than that which Mr. Jackson's party made on first entering this canyon in
1874.
Above the entrance of the canyon the evidences of prehistoric life begin.
On the bottom-land, concealed by shrubbery, are the half-obliterated
outlines of square and circular buildings. The houses were of large
size, and were plainly no temporary dwelling-places, for an accumulation
of decorated pottery fills the ground about them, indicating long
occupation. No doubt they were built of adobe,--masses of hard
clay dried in the sun,--which the wear of ages has reduced to
smoothly-rounded mounds. For some miles down the canyon remains of this
sort occur at short intervals, and at one point there stands a wall
built of squared sandstone blocks. Along the ledges of the cliffs on the
right bits of ruinous masonry are detected here and there, but for a
time there is nothing to excite close attention. At last a watchful eye
is arrested by a more interesting object perched at a tremendous height
on the western wall of the canyon. It is a house built upon a shelf of
rock between the precipices, but, standing seven hundred feet above the
stream and differing not at all in color from the crags about it, only
the sharpest eyesight can detect the unusual form of the building and
the windows marking the two stories.
The climb up to the house-platform is slow and fatiguing, but the
trouble is repaid by a sight of one of the most curious ruins on this
continent. Before the door of the house, part of the ledge has been
reserved for a little esplanade, and to make it broader three small
abutments of stone, which once supported a floor, are built on the
sloping edge of the rock. Beyond this the house is entered by a
small aperture which served as a door. It is the best specimen of a
Cliff-dweller's house that remains to our time. The walls are admirably
built of squared stones laid in a hard white mortar. The house is
divided into two stories of three rooms each. Behind it a semicircular
cistern nearly as high as the house is built against the side of it,
and a ladder is arranged for descending from an upper window to the
water-level. The floor of the second story was supported by substantial
cedar timbers, but only fragments of them remain. The roof, too, has
entirely disappeared, but the canopy of natural rock overhanging serves
to keep out the weather. The front rooms in both stories are the largest
and are most carefully finished. Perhaps they were the parlor and "best
bedroom" of some prehistoric housewife. They are plastered throughout
with fine smooth mortar, and even in that remote age the mania for
household decoration had a beginning: floor, walls, and ceiling were
colored a deep red, surrounded by a broad border of white.
The same cliff on which this house stands has on its side many other
ruins; some half destroyed by gradual decay, some crushed by falling
rocks, none so perfect as the one described; but all are crowded into
the strangest unapproachable crevices of the canyon-wall, like the
crannies which swallows choose to hold their nests, far removed from
the possibility of depredation. Some are so utterly inaccessible that
the explorers, with all their enthusiasm and activity, have never been
able to reach them. How any beings not endowed with wings could live at
such points it is hard to conceive: it makes one suspicious that the
Cliff-dwellers had not quite outgrown the habits of monkey ancestors.
As the canyon widens with the descent of the stream, the ruins in the
western wall increase in number. One fearful cliff a thousand feet in
height is chinked all over its face with tiny houses of one room each,
but only a few of them can be detected with the naked eye. One, which
was reached by an explorer at the peril of his life, stands intact:
ceiling and floor are of the natural rock, and the wall is built in a
neat curve conforming to the shape of the ledge.
A mile farther down the stream there is a most interesting group of
houses. Eight hundred feet above the valley there is a shelf in the
cliff sixty feet in length that is quite covered by a house. The
building contains four large rooms, a circular sacred apartment and
smaller rooms of irregular shape. It was called by its discoverers "The
House of the Sixteen Windows." Behind this house the cliff-side rises
smooth and perpendicular thirty feet, but it can be scaled by an ancient
stairway cut into it which ascends to a still higher ledge. The stairs
lead to the very door of another house filling a niche a hundred and
twenty feet long. A great canopy of solid rock overarches the little
fortress, reaching far forward beyond the front wall, while from below
it is absolutely unapproachable except by the one difficult stairway of
niches cut in the rock. In time of war it must have been impregnable.
These dwellings have given more ideas about their interior furnishing
than any of the others. Among the accumulated rubbish were found corn
and beans stored away. In the lower house were two large water-jars of
corrugated pottery standing on a floor covered with neatly-woven rush
matting. In a house not far above were found a bin of charred corn, and
a polished hatchet of stone made with remarkable skill.
From this point onward both the valley and the cliffs are filled with
the traces of a numerous population, every mile of travel bringing many
fresh ones into sight. Among the cliff-houses there is of necessity a
variety in form and size as great as the differences of the caves and
crevices that hold them; but among the buildings of the low ground there
is more uniformity, not only in this canyon, but in all the valleys of
the region. Most of them may be classed as aggregated dwellings or
pueblos with rectangular rooms, round watch-towers and large circular
buildings. To these must be added a few which seem to have been built
only for defence. The straight walls have generally fallen, except the
parts supported by an angle of a building; but, as usual in old masonry,
the circular walls have much better resisted decay.
About midway down the canyon the curved wall of a large ruin rises above
the thicket. It is a building of very curious design. The outer wall
was an exact circle of heavy masonry a hundred and thirty feet in
circumference. Within, there is another circular wall, concentric with
the outer, enclosing one round room with a diameter of twenty feet. The
annular space between the two walls was divided by partitions into ten
small apartments. Other buildings of the same type occur in this region,
some of much larger size and with triple walls. Even in this one, which
is comparatively well preserved, the original height is uncertain,
though the ruin still stands about fifteen feet high.
The vast quantity of debris about some of them indicates that they were
of no insignificant height, and their perfect symmetry of form, the
careful finish of the masonry, the large dimensions and great solidity,
made them the most imposing architectural works of that ancient people.
I find no reason to doubt that they were their temples, and the
presumption is very strong that they were temples for sun-worship. The
occurrence of a circular room in connection with nearly every group of
buildings is of special interest, as seeming to link the Cliff-dwellers
to the modern Pueblo tribes in their religious customs.
Most striking and picturesque of all the ruins are the round
watch-towers. On commanding points in the valley, and on the highest
pinnacles of the cliffs overlooking the surface of the mesa, they occur
with a frequency which is almost pathetic as an indication of the life
of eternal vigilance which was led by that old race through the years,
perhaps centuries, of exterminating warfare which the savage red men
from the North waged upon them. To us the suffering of frontier families
at the hands of the same blood-thirsty savages is heart-rending. What
was it to those who saw year by year their whole race's life withering
away, crushed by those wild tribes?
Near the lower end of the canyon stands one of the most perfect of these
towers, rising sixteen feet above the mound on which it is built. It
was once attached to an oblong stone building which seems to have
been a strongly-fortified house. The rectangular walls, as usual, are
prostrate, and have left the tower standing as solitary and picturesque
and as full of mystery as the round towers of Ireland....
In the Montezuma Canyon, just beyond the Colorado State border, there are
some remains built after an unusual manner with stones of great size.
One building of many rooms, nearly covering a little solitary mesa, is
constructed of huge stone blocks not unlike the prehistoric masonry
of Southern Europe. In the same district there is a ruined line of
fortification from which the smaller stones have fallen away and
are crumbling to dust, leaving only certain enormous upright stones
standing. They rise to a height of seven feet above the soil, and the
lower part is buried to a considerable depth. Their resemblance to the
hoary Druidical stones of Carnac and Stonehenge is striking, and there
is nothing in their appearance to indicate that they belong to a much
later age than those primeval monuments of Europe.
All the certain knowledge that we have of the history and manners of
the Cliff-dwellers may be very briefly told, for there is no written
record of their existence, except their own rude picture-writing,
cut or painted on the canyon walls, and it is not likely that those
hieroglyphics will ever be deciphered. But much may be inferred from
their evident kinship to the Moquis of our time; and the resemblance of
the ancient architecture and ceramics to the arts as they are still
practised in the degenerate pueblos of Arizona gives us many intimations
in regard to the habits of the Cliff-dwellers.
[Illustration: GRAND CANON, ARIZONA
IN THE COUNTRY OF THE CLIFF-DWELLERS]
It was centuries ago--how long a time no one will ever know--when that
old race was strong and numerous, filling the great region from the
Rio Grande to the Colorado of the West, and from the San Juan
Mountains far down into Northern Mexico. They must have numbered many
hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions. It is not probable that they
were combined under one government, or that they were even closely
leagued together, but that they were essentially one in blood and
language is strongly indicated by the similarity of their remains.
That they were sympathetic in a common hostility to the dangerous
savage tribes about them can hardly be doubted. They were of peaceful
habits and lived by agriculture, having under cultivation many
thousands of acres in the rich river-bottoms, which they knew well how
to irrigate from streams swollen in summer by the melting snows of the
high mountain-ranges. We read of their dry canals in Arizona, so deep
that a mounted horseman can hide in them. We know that they raised
crops of corn and beans, and in the south cotton, which they skilfully
wove. That they had commercial dealing across their whole country
is shown by the quantity of shell-ornaments brought from the Pacific
coast, which are found in their Colorado dwellings. They did not
understand the working of metals, but their implements of stone are of
most excellent workmanship. Their weapons indicate the practice of
hunting, and while the race was still numerous their forts and their
sharp obsidian arrows made easy their resistance to the wandering
savage hordes.
I believe that no instance can be cited of a people still in their Stone
Age who have surpassed that old race in the mason's art: indeed, I doubt
if any such people has even approached their skill in that respect. The
difficulty of constructing a great work of well-squared, hammer-dressed
stones is enormously increased if the masons must work only with stone
implements. Imagine the infinite, toilsome patience of a people who in
such a way could rear the ancient Pueblo Bonito of New Mexico, five
hundred and forty feet long, three hundred and fourteen feet wide, and
four stories high! In one wall of a neighboring building of stone less
carefully dressed it is estimated that there were originally no less
than thirty million pieces, which were transported, fashioned, and laid
by men without a beast of burden or a trowel, chisel, or hammer of
metal....
At the time of the Spanish conquest the Pueblo tribes were worshippers
of the sun and fire, like all the races of this continent which were
above barbarism. To-day, even in those pueblos where a corrupted form of
the Roman faith is accepted, there are traces of the old sun-worship
mingled with it, and in all pueblos there are large circular rooms,
called estufas, reserved for councils and for worship. The invariable
appearance of estufas among the ruined towns, and even on the ledges of
the cliffs, shows what sacredness was attached to the circular room,
which, perhaps, was symbolic of the sun's orb: it indicates a unity of
religious faith between the ancients and moderns.
LAKE TAHOE AND THE BIG TREES.
A. H. TEVIS.
[To Rev. A. H. Tevis, author of "Beyond the Sierras; or,
Observations on the Pacific Coast," we owe the following
description of a most charming example of American lake
scenery, one of the varied and striking regions of beauty which
California offers to the tourist.]
Of the many curiosities that nature has scattered over the length and
breadth of this coast, Lake Tahoe is one of the most charming.
This is a land of wonders, certainly of curiosities. Providence has made
this vast area, between the Rocky Mountains and the sea, his chief
receptacle of the wealth of the country. And what folly to travel in
foreign countries to see the sights until you have at least seen some of
the wonders and treasures of our own great Commonwealth! You can spend
your life in exploring these various wonders, and then not find an
end,--petrified forests; lost rivers, whose _termini_ no one knows, and
of whose source there is great doubt; brackish lakes, whose waters are
worse than the Dead Sea, and in which no living thing can exist;
bubbling, hissing, thundering geysers, whose awfulness impresses the
hardest heart; roaring cataracts, that with a band of silver seem to
bind together earth and sky; boiling springs, hither and yon in almost
countless profusion, that send their breath of steam as through the
throats of some great furnace from Vulcan's forge; geographical and
topographical features that are marvellous in themselves; the big trees,
whose magnitude is a wonder, and whose age links the present almost to
the days of Solomon; Yosemite, unlike anything of the kind in the known
world, whose sublimity is beyond description; and charming, silvery,
unique Tahoe, or Pearl of the Sierras.
There is no patent on the name, hence we have chosen to christen it
thus. And who will say it is a misnomer that has seen its grandeur and
enjoyed the beauty of its surroundings? Its name belongs to the Indian
tongue, and signifies _clear water_.
This lake in its greatest length is twenty-three miles, and greatest
width eleven miles; hence it has an area of two hundred and fifty-three
square miles. Its altitude is six thousand two hundred and twenty feet
above the level of the sea. Here, spread out before me, like the finest
of burnished silver, is a lake unlike any other body of water in the
world, save one in Switzerland, and that has only a few marks of
similarity.
This lies nestled away, like a very jewel, in the summit of the
Sierras,--the Alps of America,--at an altitude of a mile and a quarter
above the level of the sea. Think of it! A body of water containing an
area of more than two hundred and fifty square miles, and deep enough to
float the largest vessel that ever traversed the sea, and then have
almost immeasurable depths below the keel; think of this being in the
very summit of the greatest range of mountains in America!
It has been sounded along the line between Nevada and California, which
runs through the lake, to the distance of two hundred and fifty-three
fathoms, or fifteen hundred and eighteen feet. But other places have
been sounded to the great distance of nearly twenty-five hundred feet.
The character of the water is almost incredible to one who has never
looked upon it. Coming down from the springs that burst from the canons,
and the everlasting snows that crown the mountain-tops, where
"'Tis the felt presence of the Deity,"
the water is almost perfectly pure.
I have leaned over the side of the boat and watched the play of the
trout a _hundred and fifty feet_ below the surface. I have dropped a
small, shining, metallic button, and watched distinctly its oscillations
in sinking for three or four minutes.
The transparent nature of the water is best seen in the morning, when
the lake is perfectly calm; not even the small surface ripples that
nearly always exist on ordinary streams and lakes are visible.
The various angles of vision present the most charming scene. Yonder the
lake looks like a quiet mass of molten silver; yonder, where the rays of
the sun meet you, is a gorgeous array of crimson and gold; then there is
a range of purest emerald, deepening into blue-black as the scene
stretches away from you, bespangled in the distance by the rising
white-caps. This, fringed with the green of the deep pine-forests that
skirt the mountains, and capped with the everlasting snows, made radiant
with the flood of sunlight, furnishes a picture of incomparable beauty,
and worthy of a master's brush.
But here by you, right at your feet, is one of the most pleasing
features of all: so still in the morning quietness, and such air-like
purity withal. You think you can reach down and pick up those shining
pebbles, and yet they are twenty, thirty, or forty feet beneath you. And
that boat or skiff seems to be poised in mid-air. You can count the
small indentures and nail-heads in the very keel.
You cringe with fear as your boat glides towards that huge boulder, as
large as a church, thinking surely your vessel will be wrecked; but
there is no danger, as the rock is many feet beneath you. The
transparency of the water makes the danger seem so near.
How often have I wished this place--mountains, lake, and all--could be
the place of one of the grand Eastern camp-meetings! This bracing air,
this unique spot, this wonderful lake, this rich, healthful aroma of
deep pine-forests, this grand scenery, all combined, make it one of the
best of places for religious summer resort.
Yonder is a quaint spot, a veritable Gibraltar on a small scale, a
lonely, rocky island in the centre of Emerald Bay. Some foolish man
built a tomb in the solid rock on its summit, intending to be buried
there, where the marks of decay would come slowly over his grave, and
where he might sleep undisturbed amid the incomparable grandeur that
would have surrounded him. His sarcophagus and all were prepared, but
the treacherous billows of the lake, that occasionally foam and roar
with fury, seized him, and he lies buried at the bottom,--no man knows
where, for no one going down ever comes up again from these waters.
It was first an artless, genial party of three of us that drank in the
poetry of the scenery around Lake Tahoe. The "elect lady," whose
presence has ever been an inspiration and encouragement in life's
blackest, bitterest hours, her best and dearest friend, Miss Torreyson,
and the writer, made up the trio. We were joined by and by with a party
of others kindred in spirit, who entered into all our schemes and
reconnoissances after pleasure.
Those were memorable six weeks; and now, at this distance of many months
on the road of time, that period of frolic and recuperation gleams as
with the radiance of youth's happiest sunset scene. How strange that
happy days even never look so charming as when they are mellowed in the
deep past!...
During the days we enlivened many a bright morning hour with
boat-riding, fishing, gathering wild-flowers, and such other amusements
as this delightful place afforded. On one of these fishing excursions
one of our party came very near falling into the treacherous waters of
the lake.
Our favorite resorts, and it is so with all tourists, were Emerald and
Carnelian Bays. The former is a beautiful, land-locked arm of the lake,
walled in by rugged and towering cliffs. The latter is a long, gravelly
beach, where by the hour we have searched for carnelian stones, of which
some of the purest quality are found.
The mountains and canons are most delightful points of interest as
places of observation and rest, and often charm by the echoes they
throw back. We were given to song; and many a time summering here,
and travelling over the lake, we united in singing the "Evergreen
Mountains of Life" and "A Thousand Years," our favorite lake airs;
the former suggested, no doubt, by the towering mountains that
surrounded us. The effect is peculiarly fascinating, as the song
rings out over the waters, in the pure mountain air, and echoing
dies away, after many reverberations of "evergreen mountains of
life"--"mountains of life"--"life"--in some deep canyon. Or "a thousand
years, Columbia,"--"years, Columbia,"--"Columbia,"--the vowels of the
last becoming beautifully distinct in the echoes.
Nearly south of the head of Lake Tahoe, a distance of perhaps a mile and
a half, is a little lake that bears the name of Fallen Leaf; and then to
the west of this some three miles is Cascade Lake, as charming a little
body of water as ever flashed back the sunlight. Of all the objects of
interest here, none of its kind is more interesting than this delightful
lake, that spreads itself out a half-mile by a mile and a half, and
that at an altitude of four or five hundred feet above Tahoe.
Above this, from the summit of Tallac Mountain, it is positively
asserted _seventeen_ lakes, varying in size, can be seen at one glance
nestled away like a cluster of diamonds in the bosom of the Sierras. All
these lakes abound with the finest of trout, and are surrounded by the
best of game.
On the east side of Tahoe are Cave Rock and Shakespeare Rock. The former
is a bald precipitous peak, that presses its perpendicular side almost
to the water's edge, leaving just room enough for the road of the old
overland stage-coach. Under this rock is a cave of small pretensions,
but with the wild scenery, the bald, dizzy height of the cliff, and the
fine view of the lake, it is one of the many frequented places.
Shakespeare Rock stands back perhaps full half a mile from the landing
at Pray's Bay, or Glenbrook. It is a perpendicular cliff of well on
towards a thousand feet above the waters of the lake. It has its name
from a well-defined portrait of a man, moss-formed or wind-chiselled,
doubtless, that is seen plainly several hundred feet up the rugged side.
It is said to look very much like the old bard of Stratford-upon-Avon.
But of this we cannot say; we never saw him.
It was on one of Nature's brightest days that our trio, lunch-armed,
toiled up its rugged side, the only accessible point, and flung our
handkerchief banners to the breeze from the improvised flag-staff, while
we grew enraptured at the rich perspective from the dizzy height. It
seemed almost like being on "cloud's rest" as some cloud's shadow fell
upon us while there.
Below us lay the bustling, thriving village of Glenbrook, having,
perhaps, well on towards a thousand souls as the number of its
inhabitants; increased by tourists, and, of course, largely diminished
in the winter months, when business here "shuts down." The temperature,
however, is generally fine from the last of April to the first of
November, or even later. It is not unpleasant now, as I write,--the
middle day of January,--to be out boat-riding or rambling by the shore.
This is the outlet of the entire lake and its surroundings; an immense
traffic in lumber, etc., is carried on. Five saw-mills give life
and activity to the place, as they cut nearly three hundred thousand
feet per day, or more than fifty millions during the business months
of the year. A hotel, store, post-office, with daily mail, and
telegraph-office, add to the convenience of the place. There are six
steamers on the lake that run for pleasure-parties and traffic.
From the lake one of the most unique railroads ever built runs to the
summit, a distance of nine miles by the route travelled, although the
distance by an air line is but three, while the elevation that it gains
is eight hundred and fifty feet. It climbs the mountain by zigzag
movements, like a letter Z, the engine sometimes hauling its burden, and
sometimes pushing the train. More than a quarter of a million of dollars
were required to build and stock this novel short line. It is a rare
evidence of engineering skill, and certainly is a good illustration of
Western enterprise. It lacks at least a dozen miles of connecting with
any other railroad point, and its engines, rolling-stock, etc., had to
be hauled up the mountain eight thousand feet high.
[To this description of the liquid marvel of California we add
the author's account of one of its land marvels, a grove of the
"big trees," the vegetable giants of the world.]
The Big Trees, as they are technically called, are of a light, bright
cinnamon color, and have a diameter at the ground of from twenty-five to
forty feet, a height of from three hundred to four hundred and fifty
feet, and a bark that will average one foot and a half in thickness
where it has not been molested. I have seen blocks of bark that would
measure thirty-two inches in thickness, and I have no doubt but some
trees have bark that would average nearly three feet. The texture is
loose and spongy, and when cut transversely it is often worked into
pincushions and such like toys. The wood is light as the cedar, but is
susceptible of a very fine polish. I had a cane made from a piece that I
bought of the guide, and I found it would polish equal to mahogany. The
Mariposa grove is a State park, together with Yosemite Valley, given by
the United States government.
This grove, "together with the Yosemite Valley with its branches and
spurs, an estimated length of fifteen miles, and in average width one
mile back from the edge of the precipice on each side of the valley,
with the stipulation, nevertheless, that the State shall accept this
grant on the express condition that the premises shall be held for
public use and recreation, and shall be inalienable for all time." So it
is absolutely impossible to get a bit of bark or piece of wood except
from the guide, who is allowed to gather them from the outskirts of the
grove from a tree that has fallen or one that stands outside of the
prescribed limits.
There has but one fallen, however, since their discovery, and that was
felled by men's hands. It was done by immense augers. It took five men
twenty-two days to fell the tree, equal to the services of one man for
_one hundred and ten days_. Think of that, nearly four months' work, not
counting any time lost by Sundays, or rainy days, or sickness, to fell
one tree! That tree would have yielded more than a thousand cords of
four-foot wood and a hundred cords of bark, more than eleven hundred
cords altogether. On the stump of this tree there is a house--"whose
foundation is sure"--thirty feet in diameter. This house contains room
enough in square feet, if it were the right shape, for a parlor twelve
by sixteen, a dining-room ten by twelve, a kitchen ten by twelve, two
bedrooms ten feet square each, a pantry four by eight feet, two
clothes-presses one and a half feet deep and four feet wide, and still
have a little to spare.
The foliage of these trees resembles the cedar somewhat. They bear a
cone not more than two inches in length, and a black pitch bitter as
gall. The forests at present have a gloomy appearance, as some time in
the past, no one knows when, the Indians, the better to facilitate their
hunting, burned off the chaparral and rubbish, and, as a matter of
course, disfigured the trees by burning off nearly all the bark.
The first sight of these monarchs is one of sore disappointment. For you
have travelled many miles where the trees are all large, and here,
surrounded as they are by immense pines, their magnitude is not
appreciated. But their greatness grows very rapidly upon you, so that if
there was at first disappointment, there is now a greater awe. Our first
view of interest was the Fallen Monarch, a ponderous old trunk stretched
out upon the ground for more than two hundred feet, upon which a stage
and four horses could be driven with ease. We had to go a hundred feet
towards the top to climb upon the trunk. The diameter of this tree,
without bark, at the base is twenty-two feet; one hundred feet from the
root it is twelve feet.
How long this monarch has been sleeping no one pretends to know. The
guide says it is no more decayed now, to all appearances, than it was
when first discovered. The tree of greatest interest is the Grizzly
Giant, which has an altitude of more than three hundred feet. The first
thing we did to try its magnitude was to surround it on horseback,
passing around in single file, the head of one horse to the tail of
another. It called into requisition twenty-five horses out of the
twenty-eight in our party to complete the measurement. This is not
considered strictly correct, mathematically speaking, but it indicates
the size of the tree by _horse measurement_.
I had prepared myself with a good-sized string, and, with the help of
a friend, made close calculation four feet from the ground, and found
it to be ninety-three feet, giving a diameter of thirty-one feet. This
tree has a limb one hundred feet from the ground that is six feet in
diameter. These trees stand around us in quiet grandeur, but to write
of one is to write of many, hence the reader must not be wearied with
a notice of each. Pluto's Chimney is a hollow tree, standing upright,
into which several of us rode on horseback. Yonder is another that had
fallen in some past age, and sixty feet or more of it had burned from
the root upward, and then towards the top had burned in two, leaving a
barrel-shaped or hollow part of the trunk some fifty feet in length.
Through this we all rode without any inconvenience. I have understood
that several have ridden abreast through it, which I do not think
improbable.
This completed our tour among these forest giants. There are two
groves--and, properly speaking, but two--of these _Sequoia gigantea_,
the Mariposa and Calaveras groves. The first is about twenty miles south
of Yosemite Valley, perhaps a little more, while the latter is some
fifty miles northwest of the valley. Thus it will be seen that they are
not, as many suppose, in the great Yosemite Valley.
The big trees of California, not of this species, however, are not
confined to these two groves. Many of the noted redwood species
(_Sequoia sempervirens_) used to grow back of Santa Cruz, many of which
are standing yet that were very great in size. We once upon a time, with
five others, rode into one of these during a storm. The butt was hollow,
and large enough to hold at least twelve men on horseback, and was not
less than two hundred and fifty feet in height.
THE CHINESE QUARTER IN SAN FRANCISCO.
HELEN HUNT JACKSON.
[We need not tell who Helen Hunt Jackson is. She is well known
to American readers both of verse and prose for her excellent
ability in both these fields of literature. Born in 1831, at
Amherst, Massachusetts, the daughter of Professor N. W. Fiske,
she married first Mr. Hunt, of the United States Engineer
Corps, and after his death a Mr. Jackson. She died in 1885.
From her work entitled "Bits of Travel at Home," a series of
racy sketches of experience east and west, we extract her
narrative of the odd and amusing things she saw in the Chinese
quarter of San Francisco.]
Sing, Wo & Co. keep one of the most picturesque shops on Jackson Street.
It is neither grocer's, nor butcher's, nor fishmonger's, nor druggist's;
but a little of all four. It is like most of the shops on Jackson
Street, part cellar, part cellar-stairs, part sidewalk, and part back
bedroom. On the sidewalk are platters of innumerable sorts of little
fishes,--little silvery fishes; little yellow fishes, with whiskers;
little snaky fishes; round flat fishes; little slices of big
fishes,--never too much or too many of any kind. Sparing and thrifty
dealers, as well as sparing and thrifty consumers, are the Celestials.
Round tubs of sprouted beans; platters of square cakes of something
whose consistency was like Dutch cheese, whose color was vivid yellow,
like baker's gingerbread, and whose tops were stamped with mysterious
letters; long roots, as long as the longest parsnips, but glistening
white, like polished turnips; cherries, tied up in stingy little bunches
of ten or twelve, and swung in all the nooks; small bunches of all
conceivable green things, from celery down to timothy grass, tied tight
and wedged into corners, or swung overhead; dried herbs, in dim
recesses; pressed chickens, on shelves (those were the most remarkable
things. They were semi-transparent, thin, skinny, and yellow, and looked
almost more like huge, flattened grasshoppers than like chickens; but
chickens they were, and no mistake),--all these were on the trays, on
the sidewalk, and on the cellar-stairs.
In the back bedroom were Mrs. Sing and Mrs. Wo, with several little
Sings and Wos. It was too dark to see what they were doing; for the only
light came from the open front of the shop, which seemed to run back
like a cave in a hill. On shelves on the sides were teacups and teapots,
and plates of fantastic shapes and gay colors. Sing and Wo were most
courteous; but their interest centred entirely on sales; and I could
learn but one fact from them in regard to any of their goods. It was
either "Muchee good. Englis man muchee like," or else, "China man like;
Englis man no like." Why should I wish to know anything further than
that some articles would be agreeable to "Englis man's" palate, and
others would not? This must be enough to regulate my purchases. But I
shall always wish I knew how those chickens were fattened and what the
vivid yellow cakes were made of.
[Next our traveller looks into the shop of Ty Wing & Co., where
nothing appears but darkness, dust and cobwebs, and two Chinese
women eating something unknown with chopsticks; that of Chick
Kee, a druggist, with feathers and banners without and nothing
but old dried roots visible within; and of Tuck Wo, a
restaurant-keeper, where nothing is visible that she has the
courage to taste.]
Moo, On & Co. come next. Their shop is full, crowded full,--bags,
bundles, casks, shelves, piles, bunches of utterly nondescript articles.
It sounds like an absurd exaggeration, but it is literally true, that
the only articles in his shop which I ever saw before are bottles. There
are a few of those; but the purpose, use, or meaning of every other
article is utterly unknown to me. There are things that look like games,
like toys, like lamps, like idols, like utensils of lost trades, like
relics of lost tribes, like--well, like a pawnbroker's stock, just
brought from some other world. That comes nearest to it.
Moo, On & Co. have apparently gone back for more. Nobody is in the
shop; the door is wide open. I wait and wait, hoping that some one
will come along who can speak English, and of whom I may ask what this
extraordinary show means. Timidly I touch a fluttering bit, which hangs
outside. It is not paper; it is not cloth; it is not woollen, silk, nor
straw; it is not leather; it is not cobweb; it is not alive; it is not
dead; it crisps and curls at my touch; it waves backward, though no air
blows it. A sort of horror seizes me. It may be a piece of an ancestor
of Moo's doing ghostly duty at his shop door. I hasten on and half fancy
that it is behind me, as I halt before Dr. Li Po Tai's door. His
promises to cure, diplomas, and so forth, are printed in gay-colored
strips of labels on each side. Six bright balloons swing overhead; and
peacocks' feathers are stuck into the balloons. I have heard that Dr. Li
Po Tai is a learned man, and works cures. His balloons are certainly
very brilliant....
Then comes a corner stand, with glass cases of candy. Almond candy, with
grains of rice thick on the top; little bowls of pickles, pears, and
peppers; platters of odd-shaped nuts; and beans baked black as coffee.
As I stand looking curiously at these, a well-dressed Chinaman pauses
before me, and making a gesture with his hand towards the stand, says,
"All muchee good. Buy eat. Muchee good." Hung Wung, the proprietor, is
kindled to hospitality by this, and repeats the words, "Yaas, muchee
good. Take, eat," offering me, with the word, the bowl of peppers.
Next comes a very gay restaurant, the best in the empire. Hang Fee, Low
& Co. keep it, and foreigners go there to drink tea. There is a green
railed balcony across the front, swinging full of high-colored lanterns,
round and square; tablets with Chinese letters on bright grounds are set
in panels on the walls; a huge rhinoceros stands in the centre of the
railing: a tree grows out of the rhinoceros's back, and an India rubber
man sits at the foot of the tree. China figures and green bushes in
flower-pots are ranged all along the railing. Nowhere except in the
Chinese Empire can there be seen such another gaudy, grotesque house
front. We make an appointment on the spot to take some of Hang Fee's
tea, on our way to the Chinese Theatre, the next evening, and then we
hurry home....
After all, we did not take tea at Hang Fee's on our way to the theatre.
There was not time. As it was, we were late; and when we entered the
orchestra had begun to play. Orchestra! It is necessary to use that
name, I suppose, in speaking of a body of men with instruments, who are
seated on a stage, furnishing what is called music for a theatrical
performance. But it is a term calculated to mislead in this instance.
Fancy one frog-pond, one Sunday-school with pumpkin whistles, one
militia training, and two gongs for supper on a Fall River boat, all at
once, and you will have some faint idea of the indescribable noise which
saluted our ears on entering that theatre. To say that we were deafened
is nothing. The hideous hubbub of din seemed to overlap and transcend
all laws and spheres of sound. It was so loud we could not see; it was
so loud we could not breathe; it was so loud there did not seem to be
any room to sit down! The theatre was small and low and dark. The pit
and greater part of the gallery were filled with Chinamen, all smoking.
One corner of the gallery was set aside for women. That was full, also,
with Chinese women. Every woman's hair was dressed in the manner I have
described ["drawn back from her forehead, twisted tight from the nape of
the neck to the crown of the head, stiffened with glue, glistening with
oil, and made into four huge double wings, which stood out beyond her
ears on either side. It looked a little like two gigantic black satin
bats, pinned to the back of her head, or still more like a windmill gone
into mourning."] The bat-like flaps projected so far on each side of
each head that each woman seemed almost to be joined to her neighbors by
a cartilaginous band; and, as they sat almost motionless, this effect
was heightened.
The stage had no pretence of secrecy. It was hung with gay banners and
mysterious labels. Tall plumes of peacock's feathers in the corners and
some irregularly placed chairs were all the furniture. The orchestra sat
in chairs at the back of the stage. Some of them smoked in the
intervals, some drank tea. A little boy who drummed went out when he
felt like it; and the fellow with the biggest gong had evidently no plan
of operations at all except to gong as long as his arms could bear it,
then rest a minute, then gong again.
"Oh, well," said we, as we wedged and squeezed through the narrow
passage-way which led to our box, "it will only last a few minutes. We
shall not entirely lose our hearing." Fatal delusion. It never stopped.
The actors came out; the play began; the play went on; still the
hideous hubbub of din continued, and was made unspeakably more hideous
by the voices of the actors, which were raised to the shrillest falsetto
to surmount the noise, and which sounded like nothing in nature except
the voices of frantic cats....
At first, in spite of the deafening loudness of the din, it is ludicrous
beyond conception. To see the superbly dressed Chinese creatures,--every
one of them as perfectly and exquisitely dressed as the finest figures
on their satin fans or rice-paper pictures, and looking exactly like
them,--to see these creatures strutting and sailing and sweeping and
bowing and bending, beating their breasts and tearing their beards,
gesticulating and rushing about in an utterly incomprehensible play,
with caterwauling screams issuing from their mouths, is for a few
minutes so droll that you laugh till tears run, and think you will go to
the Chinese Theatre every night as long as you stay in San Francisco. I
said so to the friend who had politely gone with me. He had been to the
performance before. He smiled pityingly, and yawned behind his hand. At
the end of half an hour, I whispered, "Twice a week will do." In fifteen
minutes more, I said, "I think we will go out now. I can't endure this
racket another minute. But, nevertheless, I shall come once more, with
an interpreter. I must and will know what all this mummery means."
The friend smiled again incredulously. But we did go again, with an
interpreter; and the drollest thing of all was to find out how very
little all the caterwauling and rushing and bending and bawling and
sweeping and strutting really meant. The difficulty of getting an
interpreter was another interesting feature in the occasion. A lady, who
had formerly been a missionary in China, had promised to go with us;
and, as even she was not sure of being able to understand Chinese
caterwauled, she proposed to take one of the boys from the missionary
school, to interpret to her before she interpreted to us. So we drove to
the school. Mrs. ---- went in. The time seemed very long that we waited.
At last she came back, looking both amused and vexed, to report that not
one of those intelligent Christian Chinese would leave his studies that
evening to go to the theatre.
"I suppose it is an old story to them," said I.
"Not at all," said she. "On the contrary, hardly a boy there has been
inside the theatre. But they cannot bear to lose a minute from their
lessons. Mr. Loomis really urged some of them; but it was of no use."
In a grocery store on Kearny Street, however, we found a clever young
man, less absorbed in learning; and he went with us as interpreter.
Again the same hideous din; the same clouds of smoke; the same hubbub of
caterwauling. But the _dramatis personae_ were few. Luckily for us, our
first lesson in the Chinese drama was to be a simple one. And here I
pause, considering whether my account of the play will be believed. This
is the traveller's great perplexity. The incredible things are always
the only things worth telling; but is it best to tell them?
The actors in this play were three,--a lady of rank, her son, and her
man cook. The play opened with a soliloquy by the lady. She is sitting
alone, sewing. Her husband has gone to America; he did not bid her
farewell. Her only son is at school. She is sad and lonely. She weeps.
Enter boy. He asks if dinner is ready.
Enter cook. Cook says it is not time. Boy says he wants dinner. Cook
says he shall not have it. This takes fifteen minutes.
Mother examines boy on his lessons. Boy does not know them; tries to
peep. Mother reproves; makes boy kneel; prepares to whip; whips. Mother
weeps; boy catches flies on the floor; bites her finger.
Enter cook to see what the noise means. Cook takes boy to task. Boy
stops his ears. Cook bawls. Cook kneels to lady; reproves her also;
tells her she must keep her own temper, if she would train her boy.
Lady sulks, naturally. Boy slips behind and cuts her work out of her
embroidery frame. Cook attacks boy. Cook sings a lament, and goes out to
attend to dinner; but returns in frantic distress. During his absence
everything has boiled over; everything has been burned to a crisp.
Dinner is ruined. Cook now reconciles mother and son; drags son to his
knees; makes him repeat words of supplication. While he does this cook
turns his back to the audience, takes off his beard carefully, lays it
on the floor, while he drinks a cupful of tea.
This is all, literally all. It took an hour and a half. The audience
listened with intensest interest. The gesticulations, the expressions of
face, the tones of the actors, all conveyed the idea of the deepest
tragedy. Except for our interpreter, I should have taken the cook for a
soothsayer, priest, a highwayman and murderer, alternately. I should
have supposed that all the dangers, hopes, fears, delights possible in
the lives of three human beings were going on on that stage. Now we saw
how very far-fetched and preposterous had probably been our theories of
the play we had seen before, we having constructed a most brilliant plot
from our interpretation of the pantomime.
After this domestic drama came a fierce spectacular play, too absurd to
be described, in which nations went to war because a king's monkey had
been killed. And the kings and their armies marched in at one door and
out at the other, sat on gilt thrones, fought with gilt swords, tumbled
each other head over heels with as much vigor and just as much art as
small boys play the battle of Bunker Hill with the nursery chairs on a
rainy day. But the dresses of these warlike monarchs were gorgeous and
fantastic beyond description. Long, gay-colored robes, blazoned and
blazing with gold and silver embroidery; small flags, two on each side,
stuck in at their shoulders, and projecting behind; helmets, square
breastplates of shining stones, and such decorations with feathers as
pass belief. Several of them had behind each ear a long, slender
bird-of-Paradise feather. These feathers reached out at least three feet
behind, and curved and swayed with each step the man took. When three or
four of these were on the stage together, marching and countermarching,
wrestling, fighting, and tumbling, why these tail feathers did not
break, did not become entangled with each other, no mortal can divine.
Others had huge wings of silver filigree-work behind their ears. These
also swayed and flapped at each step.
Sometimes there would be forty or fifty of these nondescript creatures
on the stage at once, running, gesticulating, attacking, retreating,
howling, bowing, bending, tripping each other up, stalking, strutting,
and all the while caterwauling, and all the time the drums beating,
the gongs ringing, and the stringed instruments and the castanets and
the fifes playing. It was dazzling as a gigantic kaleidoscope and
deafening as a cotton-mill. After the plays came wonderful tumbling and
somersaulting. To see such gymnastic feats performed by men in long
damask nightgowns and with wide trousers is uncommonly droll. This is
really the best thing at the Chinese Theatre,--the only thing, in fact,
which is not incomprehensibly childish.
My last glimpse at the Chinese Empire was in Mr. Loomis's Sunday-school.
I had curiosity to see the faces of the boys who had refused our
invitation to the theatre. As soon as I entered the room I was asked to
take charge of a class. In vain I demurred and refused.
"You surely can hear them read a chapter in the New Testament."
It seemed inhuman as well as unchristian to refuse, for there were
several classes without teachers, many good San Franciscans having gone
into the country. There were the eager yellow faces watching for my
reply. So I sat down in a pew with three Chinese young men on my right
hand, two on my left, and four in the pew in front, all with English
and Chinese Testaments in their hands. The lesson for the day was the
fifteenth chapter of Matthew. They read slowly, but with greater
accuracy of emphasis and pronunciation than I expected. Their patience
and eagerness in trying to correct a mispronunciation were touching. At
last came the end of the chapter.
"Now do you go on to the next chapter?" said I.
"No. Arx-play-in," said the brightest of the boys. "You arx-play-in what
we rade to you."
I wished the floor of that Sunday-school chapel would open and swallow
me up. To expound the fifteenth of Matthew at all; above all, to expound
it in English which those poor souls could understand! In despair I
glanced at the clock: it lacked thirty minutes of the end of school; at
the other teachers: they were all glibly responding. Guiltily I said,
"Very well. Begin and read the chapter over again, very slowly; and when
you come to any word you do not understand, tell me, and I will try to
explain it to you."
Their countenances fell. This was not the way they had usually been
taught. But with the meekness of a down-trodden people they obeyed. It
worked even better than I had hoped. Poor souls! they probably did not
understand enough to select the words which perplexed them. They
trudged patiently through their verses again without question. But my
Charybdis was near. The sixth verse came to the brightest boy. As he
read, "Thus have ye made the commandment of God of none effect by your
tradition," he paused after the word tradition. I trembled.
"Arx-play-in trardition," he said.
"What?" said I, feebly, to gain a second's more of time. "What word did
you say?"
"Trardition," he persisted. "What are trardition? Arx-play-in."
What I said I do not know. Probably I should not tell if I did. But I am
very sure that never in all my life have I found myself, and never in
all the rest of my life shall I find myself, in so utterly desperate a
dilemma as I was then, with those patient, earnest, oblique eyes fixed
on me, and the gentle Chinese voice reiterating, "What are trardition?"
MARIPOSA GROVE AND YOSEMITE VALLEY.
CHARLES LORING BRACE.
[Our sketches of travel in America will not be complete without
descriptive narratives relating to its great natural wonders,
of which the United States possesses more examples than any
other country on the globe. The present selection, therefore,
from Brace's "The New West, or California in 1867-68," is
devoted to a brief account of the monster trees of that State
and the scenic marvels of the Yosemite Valley.]
The great pleasure of the American continent will hereafter be the
journey to the Yosemite. There is no one object of nature in the world,
except Niagara, to equal it in attraction. Whenever the Pacific road
brings the two coasts within a fortnight of each other, innumerable
parties will be made up to visit it. I have been tolerably familiar, by
foot-journeys, with Switzerland, Tyrol, and Norway, and I can truly say
that no one scene in those grand regions can compare equally, in all its
combinations, with the wonderful Canyon of the Yosemite. It is a matter
of congratulation, also, to me, that I saw it before any road, or coach,
or rail-car had approached it. It ought not to be visited otherwise than
as our party journeyed to it,--on horses winding in picturesque train
over velvety trails, beneath the gigantic pines of the Sierras....
Among all my many travelling experiences in various countries, I do not
think I can ever forget the romance and the delicious beauty of that
first night's ride towards the Yosemite. The trail was barely wide
enough for two to ride abreast, winding under majestic pines, over
mountains, and down wide, deep dells, each step of the horses springing
elastic from soft pine-leaves. The sun soon set, and a magnificent moon
arose, giving us at one time a broad belt of light over the path, and
then leaving us to descend into a mysterious gulf of darkness, and then
casting strange shadows and half-lights through the pine-branches over
our procession of riders. As we penetrated farther into the forest we
began to wind about beneath trees such as few of us had ever seen,--the
superb sugar-pine, perhaps the most perfect tree in nature, here
starting with a diameter of from seven to twelve feet, and mounting up
with most symmetrical branches to the height say of Trinity Church spire
(two hundred and fifty to two hundred and sixty feet); on the ends of
its branches cones hanging a foot long. Sometimes we came forth from the
forest for a few moments, and had grand glimpses of great mountain
valleys, only partly revealed in the glorious moonlight. Most of the
party were old travellers, and were rather impervious to sensations,
but we all agreed that this was a new one, and gave a most promising
augury of the Yosemite excursion. After fourteen miles--an easy ride--we
all reached Clark's Ranch at a late hour, ready for supper and bed.
[The next morning] we started at not too early an hour for a forest-ride
to the Trees, Mr. Clark kindly guiding us. What may be called the avenue
to these hoary monuments of antiquity lies through a gigantic forest of
sugar-pines, themselves some two hundred to two hundred and fifty feet
high; so that when you reach the mighty towers of vegetation you lose a
little the sense of their vast height. I searched curiously as we rode
through the forest for the conditions which should produce such monsters
of growth. It must be remembered that the _Sequoia gigantea_ is not
found merely here, or at Calaveras and its neighborhood. There appears
to be a belt of them running along the slope of the Sierras, about four
thousand and five thousand feet above the sea-level, and as far south as
Visalia. They are so plentiful near that place as to be sawed for
lumber, though what so light a wood could be used for I can hardly
think. In the neighborhood of the latter place the Indians report a
tree, far in the forest, surpassing in grandeur anything ever seen; but
thus far no white man has ever cast eyes on it. It is a mistake, too, to
suppose the race wearing out. I saw, both here and in Calaveras, young
giant _Sequoiae_, beginning patiently their thousand years of growth with
all the vigor of their grand ancestors; some of but four hundred years,
mere youths, were growing splendidly. There are fewer young trees here
than in Calaveras, because fire or some other cause has swept among the
underbrush of all trees, and must have destroyed many of these burly
saplings.
The Sequoia grows on mountain-slopes, where the slow wash of water,
through ages, brings down minute particles of fertilizing rocks, and
the decayed vegetation of countless centuries, with the moisture of
eternal springs, water and feed its roots. It enjoys a sun of the
tropics without a cloud for six months, and has the balmy air of the
Pacific, with incessant and gentle moisture, and a warm covering of snow
for its winter. Beneath its roots, the ground never freezes. As has been
well said, "It has nothing to do but grow;" and so with all the
favorable conditions that nature can offer--air and sun and moisture--it
pumps up its food from the everlasting hills, and builds up its slow,
vegetable-like substance during century after century into a gigantic,
symmetrical, and venerable pile, while nations begin and pass away
beneath its shadow.
Think of lying under a tree beneath which the contemporary of Attila or
Constantine might have rested, and which shall defy the storm, perhaps,
when the present political divisions of the world are utterly passed
away, and the names of Washington and Lincoln are among the heroes of a
vague past.
But how to give an impression of its size! If my readers will imagine a
Sequoia placed beside Trinity Church, he must conceive it filling up one
of our largest dwelling-houses, say a diameter of thirty feet, with a
circumference of ninety feet; the bark of this gigantic trunk will be
light, porous, and reddish in color, with many scars upon it of fire
(its great enemy); then, perhaps, at the height of the Trinity belfry
(say one hundred feet), two opposing huge branches will protrude, it may
be, themselves, of the size of large trees (say eight feet in diameter);
these will be twisted and much broken; above them will come forth other
heavy branches, which show the marks and blows of the storms of a
thousand years or more, for the giant, so far above his fellows, meets a
continual battering from the gales of the mountains.
There is no symmetry in his top, or delicacy and grace in his outline;
he has battled and struggled with the storm for too many centuries to
preserve an artistic appearance. He looks the giant of the forest,
broad-rooted and strong-limbed, rough and weather-beaten, but defying
snow and frost and hurricane for thousands of years, and still
sheltering bird and beast and cattle beneath his grand shadow....
We visited one big tree in Calaveras which had been blown over two years
before. The enormous weight which each tree carries makes it more
difficult to bear the gales, as it overtops the forest. Perhaps any
ordinary wood, such as oak or maple, would increase the specific
gravity, so that at three hundred feet high the leverage on the roots
would be too great to bear any strain of a gale; but this wood is almost
like cork,--lighter than any wood on the Eastern coast. The fall of this
mighty tower, they say, was heard for miles around, and made the earth
tremble. Where it fell it has buried its top deep in the ground, so that
there is quite a ravine made by the blow in the earth. You strike the
trunk where it is still a large tree, and then walk upon it some two
hundred feet towards the roots. When you reach the roots you are upon a
height equal to the roof of a moderate-sized house, and a fall from the
trunk would be dangerous. You descend by a ladder.
If I recollect rightly, there were three hundred and sixty-five trees in
this Mariposa Grove. I measured one trunk, broken off at the top, where
it was a foot in diameter, which was about two hundred and ninety feet
in length, and estimating thirty feet as the length of the part broken
off, it must have been some three hundred and twenty feet high. We
lunched near a "camp" of the Geological Survey, in the heart of the
grove, lying on our backs beneath the gigantic canopies, and feeling
like pigmies at the feet of these giants. The younger trees were often
wreathed with a strange, yellow, hanging moss. Our ladies were deeply
interested in a remarkable flower which grew beneath the snow, a few
patches of which still remained here in June. It was a blood-red flower
of a fleshy-like substance, like the Pyrola, or "Dutchman's pipe,"
growing somewhat like a garden hyacinth. Its stems were clustered, from
six to ten inches high, with long, erect scales, broader below and
gradually narrower, and finally becoming bracts. The flowers were
numerous, and occupied the upper half of the stem. It is the _Sarcodes
sanguinea_.
[Leaving the Big Tree grove, the travellers made a farther ride
of twenty-five miles through the Sierras to the Yosemite, the
first view of which impressed them deeply.]
No aspect of nature I have ever looked upon, no sight of the desolate
ocean, heaving and lashing in mighty surges beneath wintry storm, or
sudden view of Alpine snow-peaks through rifts of black thunder-clouds,
or glimpses of Norwegian coast-glaciers through the lulls of an Arctic
gale, or even Niagara itself, was so full of the inspiration of awe as
this first opening view of the Yosemite Canyon. All other scenes of
grandeur and beauty must fade away in my memory when this vision is
forgotten. Before the mighty powers which had shaped this tremendous
gorge, and in presence of this scene of unspeakable and indescribable
beauty and majesty, man and his works seemed to sink away to
nothingness.... I almost felt as if I had known nothing of the canyon
before, so surprising were the effects of coloring and shadow. It must
be remembered we had struck the gorge on one of its lateral walls, say
about four miles from its western end. There is no approach to it from
below up the stream. As we lay on the edge of the cliff we gazed up a
narrow green valley perfectly flat, from a mile to half a mile wide,
and winding, some six miles above, between enormous cliffs and
precipices, a small, bright, sparkling stream in the middle, fringed
with green grass or forest-trees. The wall, over the edge of which we
were looking, was nearly three-quarters of a mile high, and far below,
the oaks and willows and poplars and pines in the green intervale looked
like little shrubs. On the other side, a short distance beyond, was the
grand bluff of El Capitan, a sheer precipice of nearly four thousand
feet, its light granite pile, in the evening light, the most majestic
cliff that human eye has looked upon, beyond were other bluffs and
precipices, pearly gray and purplish-white, with green fringes below,
and dark archways or fantastic figures traced by shadows on their
surface. There were buttresses, as of gigantic cathedrals, and archways
such as might support hills of granite, and domes where a mountain was
the substructure, and half domes, and peaks whose regular succession has
given them the name of "Brothers,"--all varying in color and shadow,
incessantly, with the receding light; some with the delicious cool gray
of the rock color, some white, with a reddish shade; others faint
purple; others resplendent in pink and brilliant purple; while over
their edges, giving a joyous life to the scene, rushed sparkling silver
streams, in innumerable waterfalls, dashing into the green valley
below.... But the scene was changing. Over the valley, the heavy shadow
of El Capitan continually increased its gigantic breadth of shade;
beyond him the "Arches," which, to be seen at that distance, must be a
thousand feet in height, grew each instant more strongly marked, but
still farther beyond to the east the North Dome and the Half Dome were
golden and purple in the evening light, and yet beyond the still white
peaks of the Sierras towered above in the pale blue.
On our side of the vast gorge the foot of the various precipices and
cliffs was covered with detritus, making, near the bottom, a
considerable slope, on which grew many evergreen trees.
On the other side there was one line of massive rock, which fell
apparently plumb, without a break or curve, for nearly four thousand
feet, and at its base, so hard was the material, there seemed no recent
detritus at all. One could evidently touch the very bottom of the
immense fall of rock....
The form of the canyon is unique, nothing in Europe resembling it: the
immense vertical walls rising so abruptly from the green vale; the
peaks, too, which surround it, being original, even in the Sierras; the
immense, inaccessible, concentric masses of granite,--domes, or
half-domes, as if melted in some gigantic mould, and then, when cooled,
left standing in the air.
One of the grandest and most beautiful objects in the valley was
directly opposite our hotel, and its music never ceased, day or
night,--the Yosemite Fall. The stream which bears this name heads about
ten miles away, and then flows down, almost directly over the mighty
precipice, into the valley below,--a depth of two thousand five hundred
and fifty feet. At this time it is about thirty-five feet wide by two or
three deep. The fall has almost the appearance of one grand shoot of
water, but it has, in reality, three divisions: the first is a descent
of fifteen hundred feet on a ledge (as it seems), though it is, in fact,
a shelf of rock, a third of a mile broad; then follow a series of
cascades for six hundred and twenty-five feet, and a final leap of four
hundred. There is water enough now to give a bright, foaming, grand
sweep of the whole cataract. It is certainly one of the most beautiful
objects the human eye can ever gaze upon! We never wearied of riding
out over the green meadows and gay, wild flowers to get some new aspect
of it.
The only fall to compare it with, that I have ever seen, is the Voering
Foss, in Norway. This is a fall of nine hundred and fifty feet, but the
water is so scanty that it is all resolved into wreaths of mist before
it reaches the bottom; and it makes but little impression on the mind,
compared with the Yosemite Fall. It is, moreover, confined in a narrow,
dark gorge, and must be seen usually from above. In seeing the
Californian fall, I did not even think of the Norwegian.
The amount of water, at this season, adds immensely to the cheerfulness
and life of the valley; but it also occasioned us a great deal of
trouble in getting round. We were mired several times, and twice one of
our ladies was thrown on the soft greensward.
But the scampering gallops through the groves under these grand scenes,
and the quiet amblings amid such beauty and sublimity, were pleasures
which nothing marred. In our rides down the canyon, we were struck by the
grand mass of the Sentinel Dome, four thousand one hundred and fifty
feet above the valley, and said to give the finest point of view in the
whole region round; the valley itself, it must be remembered, being over
four thousand feet above the sea-level. Then three-quarters of a mile
beyond is the majestic buttress of the Sentinel Rock, three thousand
feet high, of which a thousand feet is a smooth obelisk; opposite to
this are the Three Brothers, the highest three thousand eight hundred
and thirty feet, and each regularly lower than the next.
[Illustration: RED WOOD TREE, CALIFORNIA]
Then comes the Cathedral Rock, two thousand six hundred and sixty feet,
with two perfect spires, the most picturesque object in the valley; then
the exquisite Pohono, or Bridal Veil, a flashing fall of a thousand feet
swaying like a silvery plume in the mountain breezes, and the grand
feature of the gorge, of which I have so often spoken, El Capitan, three
thousand six hundred feet.
To the east of the hotel, about two miles above the falls, the valley
ends and divides into three canons, each containing scenery as
remarkable as those of the main gorge. The northwest canyon is the Tinaya
Fork; here we have the Half Dome, a majestic inaccessible crest of
concentric granite, four thousand seven hundred and thirty-seven feet
above the valley, with a vertical face where the half sphere split off
of two thousand feet in height; the North Dome, a rounded mass, three
thousand five hundred and sixty-eight feet, and easy to ascend from the
north. In this fork is the exquisite Tisayic Lake, on which the morning
reflections are so beautifully given.
The middle canyon, that of the Merced River, is the most important
one of the three. No ravine scenery in Europe equals this wild and
extraordinary gorge. The river, which at this season has a tremendous
body of water, descends through a wild ravine of two miles, nineteen
hundred and eighty feet. The path winds along over a series of wild
falls and rapids, till a cloud and gale of mist and wet cover it,
through which we reach a dry place at the foot of a magnificent fall,
four hundred and seventy-five feet high,--the Vernal. Then ladders are
ascended up the face of the cliff, and we rest on the dry, sunny ledge
over the boiling and whirling cataract. Still another scramble for a
mile, and we find ourselves blinded, gasping, in the breath of the
furious cataract above. We are all clad in India-rubber coats (furnished
by a guide), and drip with water, and work up, inch by inch, stooping,
as against a violent current. The gale takes away our breaths, and we
have every now and then to catch a breath; there is nothing visible
ahead but clouds of mist and driving swirls of rain, with a roar
filling the air, which prevents all voices from being heard. We are
helping the ladies on with the utmost difficulty, but at last all
reluctantly give out and turn back; but I cannot bear to give up the
view; and after groping in the furious storm and mist, I at length find
a side path through the chaparral, and soon reach a dry ledge beneath
the superb Nevada Fall,--a majestic sweep of thundering water, six
hundred and thirty-nine feet in height, more grand than any waterfall in
the valley, because of the volume of water. There is a peculiar twist in
the upper portion of it, which adds to its picturesque effect. On the
other side rises a most remarkable peak of granite, solitary and
inaccessible,--Mount Broderick, some two thousand feet. The scene as I
stood there alone beneath this sublime sweep of waters, and amid those
mighty mountain-cliffs, can never be forgotten.
The South Fork I did not visit, but the photographs show that it
possesses scenery as romantic as the other branches of the canyon. It is
interesting to notice that these enormous waterfalls in the Merced Canyon
have scarcely an indentation on this most hard rock,--a fact probably
indicating that they have not existed a great length of time. The
comparative absence of detritus in the upper part of the main valley
would seem to show the action of water and ice, pressing the debris into
the lower portion, where more of it is found. There are, too (as was
discovered by Mr. King), something which may be called lateral moraines,
and perhaps a terminal moraine in the middle of the canyon, so that it
seems not improbable, though there is no absolute evidence, that in a
comparatively recent period glaciers existed in the upper part, and a
lake in the body of the Yosemite Canyon, the descent of the whole valley,
it must be remembered, being only fifty feet during some eight miles.
A SPORTSMAN'S EXPERIENCE IN MEXICO.
SIR ROSE LAMBERT PRICE.
[Major Price, whose hunting adventures seem to have extended
from Terra del Fuego to the northern boundary of the United
States, gives us, in his "Sport and Travel; or, The Two
Americas," a record full of incident and observation. From his
greatly varied hunting experience we select a description of
the pursuit of game in the vicinity of Acupulco, Mexico, which
is of interest as showing the conditions of animal and
vegetable life in that region.]
The day after our arrival, H---- and myself, getting mules and a guide,
started for Pira de la Questa, a small Indian village about twelve miles
from Acupulco, and situated near the extremity of a large lagoon, some
thirty miles in circumference, which we were informed was full of wild
fowl. Over many a rough road and in many lands have I ridden, but never
did I travel a highway like unto this. The path ran over the mountains
through a thick forest, and more resembled the bed of a water-course
than an actually connected route. Nothing but mules, whose cat-like
propensities enable them to overcome apparently insurmountable
difficulties, could possibly have done the journey. In places the path
was so narrow that two of these animals were unable to pass abreast, so
that one would be obliged to go back into a convenient corner, or
scramble up a bank, to permit the other to go by.
The forest was dense, but, as it was just prior to the rains, almost
leafless, everything being burned and parched up except in the valleys
and bottoms of ravines, where running water rendered the vegetation
luxuriant and flourishing. This absence of foliage, though detracting
considerably from the beauty of the forest, permitted us to view all
the better its feathered denizens, and in few tropical countries have I
seen such lovely birds, or in such numbers as out here. To classify or
name them would require a man to be a perambulating encyclopaedia of
natural history; but among them all I was most struck with the number of
specimens of the woodpecker class, several of which were very beautiful.
One in particular with a blood-red topknot, which glittered vividly in
the sun, I envied much for my fishing-book, and regretted the guide had
my gun in his possession nearly a mile behind.
As the sun was setting we entered the village, which consisted of a few
mud huts with sideless roofs, and halting before one of them, was
informed by the guide that it was to be our quarters for the night. It
was simply a roof of palm-leaves over a mud floor, there being no kind
of wall or even screen, and it formed the universal dormitory of men,
women, and children, pigs and poultry, at the principal hotel--the
Claridge's, in fact--of Pira la Questa. Leaving the proprietress and her
numerous progeny engaged in hunting down an active-looking fowl for our
evening repast, we rode to the lagoon, and giving the guide our mules
to hold, shot a few of the curious-looking aquatic birds, which he
pronounced to be "bueno," or good for eating, that were feeding round
the banks. It was rapidly getting dark, and seeing at a distance some
birds that I took to be duck, I noiselessly crept down on them. To do so
I had to pass over a small spot of white sand, concealed, until I was on
it, by a clump of bushes.
While still silently watching the birds I saw something move a little to
my right, and on turning round discovered a huge alligator, whom I had
almost cut off from the lake. The bushes had hidden us until absolutely
face to face, and he came by me with his teeth grinning and tail half
cocked, in the most unamiable frame of mind I ever saw in one of his
tribe. Without intending it, I had very nearly cut him off from his
native element; and though naturally a cowardly brute, feeling himself
to a certain degree cornered, he had evidently made up his mind to
fight. Not being prepared, with only small shot in my gun, for a duel
with the reptile, I stopped short and gave him right of way, and, as he
cleared me at about two yards, let him have both barrels behind the
shoulder to expedite his movements, and had the satisfaction of seeing
him give a jump into the water that would have done credit to a
performer for the Grand National.
They are cowardly brutes, and though I have been frequently in parts of
the world they inhabit, I have never yet heard of an instance of a man
being attacked by one on land. In the water it is different. A boy had,
while bathing, been taken down some months since close to this very
spot; and from what I saw of the lagoon next morning, I would not have
ventured a swim there for untold gold. Had I been a little quicker, and
unintentionally barred this fellow's way to the lake, I am quite certain
he would have attacked me, as he must have passed somehow. These
creatures never take to the jungle, and, like a rat driven into a
corner, he would have been obliged to fight.
On returning to the village we found our dinner nearly ready; bread and
liquor we had brought with us, but the hunted fowl, new-laid eggs, and
hot tortillas formed no bad meal for travellers sharp set by a mountain
ride. After feeding, we visited some of the principal houses in the
village, chaffed some of the good-humored and pretty little Indian
girls, and arranged about a canoe for the following morning. We then
slung our grass hammocks among the miscellaneous company and wooed the
drowsy god of slumber, our guide slinging his hammock up between us,
and sleeping with his machete buckled around him, ready for attack or
defence at a moment's notice.
The machete is the invariable companion of the poorer and middle classes
of Mexicans, and the multiplicity of uses to which it is dedicated are
something wonderful to the uninitiated. With it he clears the tangled
paths in the forest; it helps to build his hut, to cut his firewood, and
eat his dinner; he uses it for purposes of warfare, and too frequently
also for purposes of assassination. The blade is broad, slightly curved,
a little shorter than an infantry officer's regulation sword, and about
twice as heavy. The handle is generally made of wood, the scabbard
leather, and the edge invariably as keen as a razor. Occasionally the
blades are ornamented with gold or silver, but the ordinary machete is
perfectly plain.
Next morning we were up before daylight, and hastened to the banks of
the lagoon, where according to agreement we should have found our canoe.
None was forthcoming, however, and not until the sun broke fiercely
on our heads and our patience was completely exhausted did our guide
prevail on the man who was to have provided it to go in search of
another. After a still further considerable delay, at last he arrived,
but with a rickety conveyance that would only hold one gun besides the
paddler; and H----taking the canoe, I walked along the edge, and our
shooting commenced.
The place was full of all kinds of odd-looking waterfowl. Geese, duck,
teal, pelicans, flamingo, and spoonbills were in hundreds, and many
kinds of waders unknown to me; in fact, such an extraordinary variety
of fresh-water birds I had never seen together before. The ducks were
particularly handsome, having bright bronze breasts, which shone like
burnished metal in the sun. Of teal I shot several varieties, many of
them with exceedingly beautiful and brilliant plumage; but I think among
the queer ones I killed there were none more beautiful in plumage than
the spoonbill; for though his singular and uncouth beak did not improve
his countenance, he had the most lovely and delicate tinge of rose-color
through his white feathers it is possible to conceive. We had him for
dinner two days afterwards, and found him excellent.
Not knowing a quarter of the birds that got up, and many being fishy and
unfit for food, whenever one rose the guide would cry either "Bueno" or
"No bueno," as it happened to be fit or unfit for culinary purposes; and
so on for nine miles along the banks, sometimes through mud, at others
through sand, and at others through jungle or water, did I plod along,
taking whatever was termed "bueno," and occasionally peppering an
obtrusive alligator when he came anything inside twelve yards.
The heat was intense, and, to add to the discomfort of walking, the
paths through the jungle and mangrove swamps occasionally bordered the
edges of the lake, and were so thickly crossed by cobwebs that they were
perpetually knocking off my hat, getting in my mouth and eyes, and at
times almost impeded my progress. I never saw anything like them.
Occasionally large forest-trees were entirely covered from top to
bottom, and so thickly shrouded that not a leaf or twig could be seen
through its unnatural-looking winding-sheet. The lagoon seemed full of
fish, which were jumping in shoals all over it; but not once during the
day did we see a single bird settle on its surface; and from the number
of alligators swimming about, I think they showed their wisdom.
It was capital sport, but precious hard work also, and I was just about
"played out," when we reached a "ranche," where, after a pull of cold
water that must have somewhat alarmed my constitution, I tumbled into a
grass hammock, uncommonly glad to get out of the burning sun.
A pleasant-featured young Mexican woman, with a dark-eyed, good-looking
sister, soon despatched between them one of the many chickens running
about the house; and while the _cazuela_ was preparing they very
good-naturedly washed out my shirt, lending me, _ad interim_, some
embroidered garment of their own. The rest of my clothes were hung up to
dry, every stitch on me being thoroughly saturated. H---- and the canoe
soon after arrived, and how we did enjoy the homely but excellent fare
our hostess put before us! Then came pipes and a siesta, and a couple of
hours' rest saw us fit to return. H---- had got enough of it, and,
borrowing a horse, rode back to the village. I returned in the canoe,
and got a good many shots _en route_. Our bag was a mixed one, and
consisted of the birds I have already mentioned, with several others
whose names we did not know, and four rabbits. Wild duck and teal
predominated, and the guides could hardly stagger from the canoe to the
houses with our united bag.
The sun was fast setting as we left Pira la Questa on our return
journey, and ere we reached the mountain-top it was quite dark. Unable
to see a yard before us, but knowing we must go on, I threw the reins on
my mule's neck, and, lighting a pipe, resigned myself implicitly to his
sagacity, not only to find the path, but to avoid the obstacles which
at every step lay before him. My confidence was not misplaced. With
nose almost touching the ground, he seemed to smell his way along, and
not once during our long ride did he deviate for a second from the
proper track, or make a single false step or stumble. The sounds and
strange cries during the dark stillness of the night were very
remarkable. Whether caused by bird or insect I could not tell; but
one in particular, resembling the prolonged whistle of a locomotive
steam-engine, was frequently of more than a minute's duration without
ceasing, and of such volume and intensity that unless I had been aware
of the utter impossibility of a train being within hundreds of miles, I
would have almost sworn to so familiar a sound. The lights of Acupulco
at last came in sight, and our animals soon after deposited us safely,
after a somewhat trying but very agreeable trip....
On the 10th of May we left Acupulco and steamed quietly along the
Mexican coast in sight of land until we reached Manzanillo Bay, on
the southeast part of which are situated the few wretched huts that
constitute the village. The harbor is well protected from southerly
winds, but not from those directly from the westward. Behind the
village, and only a few hundred yards from the sea-beach, is a large
shallow lagoon which runs nearly forty miles into the interior, and at
the end of the dry season becomes almost empty. The exhalations at this
time rising from the mud and stagnant water are most dreadful, and even
at our anchorage the stench during the night was almost unbearable....
Next morning, before daylight, we started with Mr. D---- across the
lagoon to a place about an hour's row from the village, where he said
he was in the habit of getting wild duck. The lake was so shallow that
our boat often grounded, and the oars at each stroke disturbed the
black, ink-like mud that constituted the bottom. The sides were
beautifully wooded, and surrounded by ranges of hills extending far
into the interior, the edges of the water being fringed with a belt
of mangrove-trees, whose peculiarly bright green foliage contrasted
pleasingly with the sombre coloring of the leafless trees behind them.
The perfectly stagnant water was of a light-yellow tint, and as full of
alligators as it could well be....
After firing a good many shots, and gathering a somewhat miscellaneous
bag, Mr. D---- saw a large alligator asleep on some mud, lying half in
and half out of the water; and as I was the only one of the party who
had brought any bullets, he sent one of the guides to show me where it
lay, in hope that I might get a shot.
Slowly, and with the greatest caution, I waded through water until I got
within twelve yards of where the brute lay, and aiming about an inch
behind the eye, drove a bullet clean into his brain. He gave a
convulsive kind of shudder and lash with his tail, and was, I believe,
dead; but to make certain I gave him the second barrel at about four
yards' distance behind the shoulder, and then felt quite confident that
I had indeed "wound him up."
It was some time before we could induce the natives to assist in pulling
him on dry land. Though they do not mind them living and swimming about,
they are particularly careful of a wounded one, a single sweep of its
powerful tail, even when mortally stricken, being known to break both
legs of a man like a pipe-stem. Though dead enough to all intents and
purposes, an alligator, like either a shark or a turtle, will continue
possessed of a certain amount of vitality and motion for a long period
after life is really extinct. This fellow was still gently swaying his
tail about while we bent on a rope to it, and, all five of us clapping
on, soon hauled him to the dry mud on the bank, where we took his
length, opened his jaws, and generally examined the formidable-looking
reptile at our leisure. He was about fifteen feet long and inconceivably
hideous. The first bullet had smashed a large hole exactly where I
aimed,--namely, about one inch behind the eye; the skull seemed
comparatively thin there, was unprotected by any thick skin, and a large
lump of his brain was oozing through the wound. The second bullet went
through his heart; but I am convinced that it was unnecessary, as the
first shot had done all that was needful.
Much as people have written to the contrary, I am quite satisfied now
that an alligator is as easily slain as a rabbit, if only hit in the
right place; and that place is not in the eye, as is generally stated,
but on the same level, and from an inch to an inch and a half behind it.
The brain in all reptiles lies rather far back in the head, joining
almost to the neck. By striking one in the eye from many positions it is
quite possible that the brain may not be touched at all; while, if the
ball hits the slightest degree in front of it, on the creature's long
ugly snout, the bullet might as well be chucked in the river for all
the harm it will do the alligator. Unsightly as these gentry are, the
Indians occasionally eat them. The skins are sometimes tanned; but
they smell so strong, it is an awkward job to handle them. During dry
seasons they collect in vast quantities in the small pools still left
unevaporated, and are then killed in large numbers for their hides,
which when tanned are found serviceable for many purposes. They are
tougher than ordinary leather, and resist water better. Only the belly
pieces are used.
Some few years ago during a very heavy rain, a number of alligators got
taken out of the lake by a small river running into the sea, which was
greatly flooded. They were immediately attacked by the sharks, and a
strange battle ensued between these equally voracious monsters, which
all the people of the village flocked out to witness. The battle lasted
all day, and the noise of the combat could be heard half a mile off.
John Shark was, however, more at home in his native element than his
scaly antagonist, and eventually the alligators were all eaten up or
killed.
THE SCENERY OF THE MEXICAN LOWLANDS.
FELIX L. OSWALD.
[Mexico is made up of two distinctively different regions; one,
the central plateau, temperate in climate, and marked by a
great dearth of rainfall; the other, the lowland areas between
the plateau and the bordering oceans, tropical in climate and
productions, and luxuriant from abundant rains. Dr. Oswald, in
the following selection, leads us through the Valley of Oaxaca,
a section of this Tierra Caliente, or warm country, and makes
us familiar with its interesting vegetable and animal
productions and its scenic features.]
We had a glimpse of the sun before we finished our short breakfast, and
when we plunged into the maze of the forest the occasional vistas
through the leafy vault revealed larger and larger patches of bright
blue sky. Our so-called road, however, was worse than anything I had
ever seen or heard of Flemish or South Louisiana synonymes of that
word,--miry lagoons and spongy mud as black and as sticky as pitch. I
followed at the heels of my carrier, who preferred the lagoons and
seemed to find the shallow places by a sort of instinct, and the Switzer
managed to propel his heavy boots through the toughest quagmire; but his
boy, after losing his shoes five or six times, slung them across his
shoulder and splashed on barefoot. We kept through a comparatively open
forest of cottonwood- and tulip-trees, with a dense jungle on our
right-hand side, while on our left the land sloped towards the bottom of
the Rio Verde, which is here about five hundred paces wide, and during
the rainy season fills its muddy banks to the brink. These lower coast
forests abound in gigantic trees, whose fruits are only accessible to
the winged and four-handed denizens of the forest, but farther up the
river-shores are lined for miles with a dense growth of wild-growing
plantains, of which the natives distinguish four varieties under as
many different names. The fruit of the largest, the _cuernavacas_
("cow-horns"), attains a weight of seven pounds, and resembles in shape
the crooked pod of the tamarind rather than the cucumber-shaped little
bananas which reach our Northern markets. They ripen very slowly, and
often rot on the tree before they become eatable, but the Mexicans
cure them over a slow fire of embers and green brushwood, after which
their taste can hardly be distinguished from that of the finest
yellow bananas. Palm-trees mingle here with the massive stems of the
cottonwoods, talipot-palms, and the _Palma prieta_, whose nut might
become a profitable article of export, having a close resemblance to a
filbert. The plum-clusters of the mango can only be reached by a bold
climber, as the trunk rises like a mast, often perfectly free from
branches for eighty or ninety feet, and the chief beneficiaries of
this region are still the macaws and squirrel-monkeys; but farther
up Pomona becomes more condescending, and the ancient Gymnosophists,
whose religion restricted true believers to a diet of wild-growing
tree-fruits, would have found their fittest home in the terrace-land
between the lower twenty miles of the Rio Verde and the foot-hills of
the Sierra de San Miguel.
Plum-bearing bushes abound from June to September with red, yellow,
and wax-colored fruit; the _morus_, or wild mulberry-tree, literally
covers the ground with its dark, honey-sweet berries; the crown of the
pino-palm is loaded with grape-like clusters, which, struck by a cudgel,
discharge a shower of rich acorn-shaped nuts; guavas, alligator-pears,
mamayos, chirimoyas, and wild oranges display flowers and fruit at the
same time, and under the alternate influence of heat and moisture
produce their perennial crops with unfailing regularity; the algarobe
(_Mimosa siliqua_), a species of mezquite not larger than an apple-tree,
yields half a ton of the edible pods known as carob-beans or St. John's
bread; the figs of the gigantic banyan-tree furnish an aromatic syrup;
the trunks of the _Robinia viridis_ exude an edible gum; and from
the vine-tangle forming the vault of the forest hang the bunches and
clusters of forty or fifty varieties of wild grapes, many of them
superior to our scuppernongs and catawbas, while the amber-colored _Uva
real_ rivals the flavor of the finest Damascene raisin-grapes. A forced
march of ten hours through fens and silent virgin woods brought us at
last to the hummock region; the plain swelled into mounds, and the
currents of the sluggish bayous became more perceptible. The higher
levels showed vestiges of cultiv
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