Part 8 (1/2)
Reaching our destination we first repaired to the tomb, and with bowed and uncovered heads all reverently gazed upon the mausoleum of departed greatness, and turned to the mansion, each department of which had its own peculiar charm.
Prominent among other relics were his war-equipments, the paraphernalia of Revolutionary times; and as we ever a.s.sociate him with his character as general, these were especially significant from the sword so often wielded with masterly power, to the little canteen, from which, after long and weary marches, he refreshed his parched lips.
In his bed-chamber, with its antique air and quaint garniture, there stood a bedstead, the fac-simile of the one upon which he died. Here we lingered long and lovingly, and turned to another department, in one corner of which stood a harpsichord, once belonging to his niece, Miss Lewis. In fancy I could see her fairy fingers as they swept in ”waves of grace” over its strings, and with the ”concord of sweet sounds” ministered to a circle of distinguished listeners. I could not resist the impulse to pa.s.s my hands over the long neglected strings, and recalled the sentiment of the old song,
”As a sweet lute that lingers In silence alone; Unswept by light fingers.
Scarce murmurs a tone; My own heart resembles, This lute, light and free, 'Til o'er its chord trembles Sweet memories of thee.”
The garden still remained as arranged by his taste and dictation, and at one corner of the house the magnolia tree, planted by his own hand, still bloomed in fragrant beauty.
In the yard was the old well, with ”its moss-covered, iron-bound bucket,”
and at the door the gray-haired negro, the inevitable servant of ”Ma.s.sa Was.h.i.+ngton,” who will doubtless, like a wandering Jew, out live all time, and for centuries to come remain an attache of our country's father.
Several gentlemen present evinced and expressed great surprise that a blind woman should go to _see_ Mount Vernon, yet I very much doubt if any eyes really saw more than my own. When we reached the boat, each gentleman carried in his hand a cane cut from the woods of Mount Vernon, and one and all returned to Was.h.i.+ngton with the consciousness of having spent a pleasant and profitable day.
We soon left for Lynchburg, Virginia, after which we visited the towns en route to Knoxville, Tennessee. At the latter place we had a very enjoyable visit to the home of Parson Brownlow. He was absent in attendance upon the Legislature, but his daughter gracefully and cordially dispensed the hospitalities of their home, and did everything within the bounds of her warm, sympathetic intelligence to heighten the pleasure and interest of our visit.
Back again to Chicago, we were welcomed by Mr. Arms, whom we found engaged in erecting machinery in the Gowan Marble Works, the largest of the kind in the North-west. Resting in the sweet haven of home, we pa.s.sed the winter in this sanctum.
CHAPTER XXV.
”I love not man the less, but nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.”
Renewed and refreshed from our long winter rest, with the migration of the birds we winged our way westward, alighting in many a lovely locality in the flouris.h.i.+ng State of Iowa, whose soft undulations of prairies were now swelling in billows of gorgeous green, and touched with the varied tints of flowery bloom.
Our last resting place was in Council Bluffs, so celebrated for the grandeur of its location at the foot of the beetling bluffs of the Missouri River, and for its flouris.h.i.+ng and progressive spirit, aside from which it holds a place in our historic annals dating back to aboriginal days. When this century was in its early infancy, and the shadowy dawn of our young nation was still wrapt in the mists which enshrouded its first struggling efforts; when the little far-away fur station of Astoria, near the whispering waves of the Pacific coast, held not the mellowing memories of time or the living light with which the genius of an Irving has since invested it; when the great explorers, Lewis and Clarke, were leaving their foot-prints on the land bordering the Columbia River, they held a council with the Red Man at Kanesville, Iowa, ever since known as ”Council Bluffs.”
Thence we went to Omaha, which is one of the most flouris.h.i.+ng places in Nebraska, and from the improvised post-office of early days, the ”plug”
hat of Mr. Jones, its first post-master, has grown the large distributing office of the department.
It was also a military post and winter garrison for our troops in transitu, its cheerful barracks, well-kept roads and clean parade ground converting it into a favorite drive and walk, where resort many strangers to witness the dress parade of ”The Boys in Blue.”
The Platte River Valley is well known to most of my readers from its romantic a.s.sociation with the struggles of the vast army of emigrants, who not only braved the dangers of its uncertain fords and deceitful quicksands, but the tomahawk and scalp knife, ofttimes leaving a nameless grave beside its waters; and, were it not for a laughable incident in this connection, I would pa.s.s it by unnoticed.
There are so many heroes of the Don Quixote school, who are so brave in fighting wind-mills, who, in time of peace, are ”soldiers armed with resolution,” but in the real conflict what Shakspeare designates as ”soldiers and afeard.” There was in our train a young prig, who ”played the braggart with his tongue,” telling of his brave exploits, like a very Oth.e.l.lo recounting the ”dangers he pa.s.sed,” ending with a defiant show of how he should act in the event of an attack from marauding Indians, to which the trains were at that time so subject, after which he fell into a profound slumber, resting upon his imaginary laurels. While he slept the train had changed conductors, and it became necessary to see his ticket.
This new official pa.s.sing by, and finding himself unable to arouse the snoring sleeper by ordinary means, gave him a l.u.s.ty shake, whereupon our hero gave a hideous yell of ”Indians! Indians!” his lips quivering and his frame palsied with fear. The sound was so startling that the affrighted pa.s.sengers imagined themselves for the moment in the merciless grasp of a band of Red Men.
The conductor gave this quaking coward another energetic shake and an imperious demand for ”your ticket, sir!” and the quondam man of war ”smoothed his wrinkled front,” and humbly subsided into a semblance of sleep, while the conductor was no doubt astonished at the loud laughter that followed a brief silence, during which the pa.s.sengers recovered their composure, and realized the full ludicrousness of the incident. In my experience in life I have met a great many people who were ready to tell what they would have done ”had they been there;” but this priggish gascon was the first I had ever seen put to the test, and I believe him to be a fair sample of that smart cla.s.s who could, if you take their words for it, have done better on any given occasion than those whom the occasion found ”there.”
Emerging from the Platte Valley, we realized the fact that we were fairly on our way to the far West, ready to take in with insatiable avidity all the immensity and grandeur of our territorial scenery.
Arriving at Cheyenne, we were surprised to find a comfortable hotel-omnibus in waiting, and most of the concomitants of a metropolis, notwithstanding the oft-expressed surprise and fear of friends at the daring venture of two unprotected women in going alone to this lawless and G.o.d-forsaken country.
Alas for the demoralizing influence of so-called civilization! While in the elegant counting-rooms of polished millionaires in more eastern localities we had occasionally met with insults and snubs; in this place of reputed ”roughs” we received not one rebuff, and were greeted not merely with respect, but with unbounded generosity. While we found rough diamonds, they were diamonds nevertheless.
Over this city has since swept the tidal wave of reform, and a great temperance awakening evoked by one of the great workers in that movement, Mr. Page, who, with gentle yet royal mandate, has said to the many ”troubled waters,” with their sad wrecks of human souls--”peace! be still!”