Specimen Days — Begin a Long Jaunt West -- The Women of the West

BEGIN A LONG JAUNT WEST

The following three or four months (Sept.

to Dec.

'79) I made quite a western journey, fetching up at Denver, Colorado, and penetrating the Rocky Mountain region enough to get a good notion of it all.

Left West Philadelphia after 9 o'clock one night, middle of September, in a comfortable sleeper.

Oblivious of the two or three hundred miles across Pennsylvania; at Pittsburgh in the morning to breakfast.

Pretty good view of the city and Birmingham--fog and damp, smoke, coke-furnaces, flames, discolor'd wooden houses, and vast collections of coal-barges.

Presently a bit of fine region, West Virginia, the Panhandle, and crossing the river, the Ohio.

By day through the latter State--then Indiana--and so rock'd to slumber for a second night, flying like lightning through Illinois.

IN THE SLEEPER

What a fierce weird pleasure to lie in my berth at night in the luxurious palace-car, drawn by the mighty Baldwin--embodying, and filling me, too, full of the swiftest motion, and most resistless strength!

It is late, perhaps midnight or after--distances join'd like magic--as we speed through Harrisburg, Columbus, Indianapolis.

The element of danger adds zest to it all.

On we go, rumbling and flashing, with our loud whinnies thrown out from time to time, or trumpet-blasts, into the darkness.

Passing the homes of men, the farms, barns, cattle--the silent villages.

And the car itself, the sleeper, with curtains drawn and lights turn'd down--in the berths the slumberers, many of them women and children--as on, on, on, we fly like lightning through the night--how strangely sound and sweet they sleep!

(They say the French Voltaire in his time designated the grand opera and a ship of war the most signal illustrations of the growth of humanity's and art's advance beyond primitive barbarism.

Perhaps if the witty philosopher were here these days, and went in the same car with perfect bedding and feed from New York to San Francisco, he would shift his type and sample to one of our American sleepers.

) MISSOURI STATE

We should have made the run of 960 miles from Philadelphia to St. Louis in thirty-six hours, but we had a collision and bad locomotive smash about two-thirds of the way, which set us back.

So merely stopping over night that time in St. Louis, I sped on westward.

As I cross'd Missouri State the whole distance by the St. Louis and Kansas City Northern Railroad, a fine early autumn day, I thought my eyes had never looked on scenes of greater pastoral beauty.

For over two hundred miles successive rolling prairies, agriculturally perfect view'd by Pennsylvania and New Jersey eyes, and dotted here and there with fine timber.

Yet fine as the land is, it isn't the finest portion; (there is a bed of impervious clay and hard-pan beneath this section that holds water too firmly, "drowns the land in wet weather, and bakes it in dry," as a cynical farmer told me.

) South are some richer tracts, though perhaps the beauty-spots of the State are the northwestern counties.

Altogether, I am clear, (now, and from what I have seen and learn'd since,) that Missouri, in climate, soil, relative situation, wheat, grass, mines, railroads, and every important materialistic respect, stands in the front rank of the Union.

Of Missouri averaged politically and socially I have heard all sorts of talk, some pretty severe--but I should have no fear myself of getting along safely and comfortably anywhere among the Missourians.

They raise a good deal of tobacco.

You see at this time quantities of the light greenish-gray leaves pulled and hanging out to dry on temporary frameworks or rows of sticks.

Looks much like the mullein familiar to eastern eyes.

LAWRENCE AND TOPEKA, KANSAS

We thought of stopping in Kansas City, but when we got there we found a train ready and a crowd of hospitable Kansians to take us on to Lawrence, to which I proceeded.

I shall not soon forget my good days in L. , in company with Judge Usher and his sons, (especially John and Linton,) true westerners of the noblest type.

Nor the similar days in Topeka.

Nor the brotherly kindness of my RR.

friends there, and the city and State officials.

Lawrence and Topeka are large, bustling, half-rural, handsome cities.

I took two or three long drives about the latter, drawn by a spirited team over smooth roads.

THE PRAIRIES (_and an Undeliver'd Speech_) At a large popular meeting at Topeka--the Kansas State Silver Wedding, fifteen or twenty thousand people--I had been erroneously bill'd to deliver a poem.

As I seem'd to be made much of, and wanted to be good-natured, I hastily pencill'd out the following little speech.

Unfortunately, (or fortunately,) I had such a good time and rest, and talk and dinner, with the U. boys, that I let the hours slip away and didn't drive over to the meeting and speak my piece.

But here it is just the same: "My friends, your bills announce me as giving a poem; but I have no poem--have composed none for this occasion.

And I can honestly say I am now glad of it.

Under these skies resplendent in September beauty--amid the peculiar landscape you are used to, but which is new to me--these interminable and stately prairies--in the freedom and vigor and sane enthusiasm of this perfect western air and autumn sunshine--it seems to me a poem would be almost an impertinence.

But if you care to have a word from me, I should speak it about these very prairies; they impress me most, of all the objective shows I see or have seen on this, my first real visit to the West.

As I have roll'd rapidly hither for more than a thousand miles, through fair Ohio, through bread-raising Indiana and Illinois--through ample Missouri, that contains and raises everything;

as I have partially explor'd your charming city during the last two days, and, standing on Oread hill, by the university, have launch'd my view across broad expanses of living green, in every direction--I have again been most impress'd, I say, and shall remain for the rest of my life most impress'd, with that feature of the topography of your western central world--that vast Something, stretching out on its own unbounded scale, unconfined, which there is in these prairies, combining the real and ideal, and beautiful as dreams.

"I wonder indeed if the people of this continental inland West know how much of first-class _art_ they have in these prairies--how original and all your own--how much of the influences of a character for your future humanity, broad, patriotic, heroic and new?

how entirely they tally on land the grandeur and superb monotony of the skies of heaven, and the ocean with its waters?

how freeing, soothing, nourishing they are to the soul?

"Then is it not subtly they who have given us our leading modern Americans, Lincoln and Grant?

--vast-spread, average men--their foregrounds of character altogether practical and real, yet (to those who have eyes to see) with finest backgrounds of the ideal, towering high as any.

And do we not see, in them, foreshadowings of the future races that shall fill these prairies?

"Not but what the Yankee and Atlantic States, and every other part--Texas, and the States flanking the south-east and the Gulf of Mexico--the Pacific shore empire--the Territories and Lakes, and the Canada line (the day is not yet, but it will come, including Canada entire)--are equally and integrally and indissolubly this Nation, the _sine qua non_ of the human, political and commercial New World.

But this favor'd central area of (in round numbers) two thousand miles square seems fated to be the home both of what I would call America's distinctive ideas and distinctive realities."

ON TO DENVER--A FRONTIER INCIDENT

The jaunt of five or six hundred miles from Topeka to Denver took me through a variety of country, but all unmistakably prolific, western, American, and on the largest scale.

For a long distance we follow the line of the Kansas river, (I like better the old name, Kaw,) a stretch of very rich, dark soil, famed for its wheat, and call'd the Golden Belt--then plains and plains, hour after hour--Ellsworth county, the centre of the State--where I must stop a moment to tell a characteristic story of early days--scene the very spot where I am passing--time 1868. In a scrimmage at some public gathering in the town, A. had shot B.

quite badly, but had not kill'd him.

The sober men of Ellsworth conferr'd with one another and decided that A. deserv'd punishment.

As they wished to set a good example and establish their reputation the reverse of a Lynching town, they open an informal court and bring both men before them for deliberate trial.

Soon as this trial begins the wounded man is led forward to give his testimony.

Seeing his enemy in durance and unarm'd, B. walks suddenly up in a fury and shoots A. through the head--shoots him dead.

The court is instantly adjourn'd, and its unanimous members, without a word of debate, walk the murderer B. out, wounded as he is, and hang him.

In due time we reach Denver, which city I fall in love with from the first, and have that feeling confirm'd, the longer I stay there.

One of my pleasantest days was a jaunt, via Platte cañon, to Leadville.

AN HOUR ON KENOSHA SUMMIT

Jottings from the Rocky Mountains, mostly pencill'd during a day's trip over the South Park RR.

, returning from Leadville, and especially the hour we were detain'd, (much to my satisfaction,) at Kenosha summit.

As afternoon advances, novelties, far-reaching splendors, accumulate under the bright sun in this pure air.

But I had better commence with the day.

The confronting of Platte cañon just at dawn, after a ten miles' ride in early darkness on the rail from Denver--the seasonable stoppage at the entrance of the cañon, and good breakfast of eggs, trout, and nice griddle-cakes--then as we travel on, and get well in the gorge, all the wonders, beauty, savage power of the scene--the wild stream of water, from sources of snows, brawling continually in sight one side--the dazzling sun, and the morning lights on the rocks--such turns and grades in the track, squirming around corners, or up and down hills--far glimpses of a hundred peaks, titanic necklaces, stretching north and south--the huge rightly-named Dome-rock--and as we dash along, others similar, simple, monolithic, elephantine.

AN EGOTISTICAL "FIND"

"I have found the law of my own poems," was the unspoken but more-and-more decided feeling that came to me as I pass'd, hour after hour, amid all this grim yet joyous elemental abandon--this plenitude of material, entire absence of art, untrammel'd play of primitive Nature--the chasm, the gorge, the crystal mountain stream, repeated scores, hundreds of miles--the broad handling and absolute uncrampedness--the fantastic forms, bathed in transparent browns, faint reds and grays, towering sometimes a thousand, sometimes two or three thousand feet high--at their tops now and then huge masses pois'd, and mixing with the clouds, with only their outlines, hazed in misty lilac, visible.

("In Nature's grandest shows," says an old Dutch writer, an ecclesiastic, "amid the ocean's depth, if so might be, or countless worlds rolling above at night, a man thinks of them, weighs all, not for themselves or the abstract, but with reference to his own personality, and how they may affect him or color his destinies."

) NEW SENSES: NEW JOYS

We follow the stream of amber and bronze brawling along its bed, with its frequent cascades and snow-white foam.

Through the cañon we fly--mountains not only each side, but seemingly, till we get near, right in front of us--every rood a new view flashing, and each flash defying description--on the almost perpendicular sides, clinging pines, cedars, spruces, crimson sumach bushes, spots of wild grass--but dominating all, those towering rocks, rocks, rocks, bathed in delicate vari-colors, with the clear sky of autumn overhead.

New senses, new joys, seem develop'd. Talk as you like, a typical Rocky Mountain cañon, or a limitless sea-like stretch of the great Kansas or Colorado plains, under favoring circumstances, tallies, perhaps expresses, certainly awakes, those grandest and subtlest element-emotions in the human soul, that all the marble temples and sculptures from Phidias to Thorwaldsen--all paintings, poems, reminiscences, or even music, probably never can.

STEAM-POWER, TELEGRAPHS, ETC

I get out on a ten minutes' stoppage at Deer creek, to enjoy the unequal'd combination of hill, stone and wood.

As we speed again, the yellow granite in the sunshine, with natural spires, minarets, castellated perches far aloft--then long stretches of straight-upright palisades, rhinoceros color--then gamboge and tinted chromos.

Ever the best of my pleasures the cool-fresh Colorado atmosphere, yet sufficiently warm.

Signs of man's restless advent and pioneerage, hard as Nature's face is--deserted dug-outs by dozens in the side-hills--the scantling-hut, the telegraph-pole, the smoke of some impromptu chimney or outdoor fire--at intervals little settlements of log-houses, or parties of surveyors or telegraph builders, with their comfortable tents.

Once, a canvas office where you could send a message by electricity anywhere around the world!

Yes, pronounc'd signs of the man of latest dates, dauntlessly grappling with these grisliest shows of the old kosmos.

At several places steam saw-mills, with their piles of logs and boards, and the pipes puffing.

Occasionally Platte cañon expanding into a grassy flat of a few acres.

At one such place, toward the end, where we stop, and I get out to stretch my legs, as I look skyward, or rather mountain-topward, a huge hawk or eagle (a rare sight here) is idly soaring, balancing along the ether, now sinking low and coming quite near, and then up again in stately-languid circles--then higher, higher, slanting to the north, and gradually out of sight.

AMERICA'S BACK-BONE

I jot these lines literally at Kenosha summit, where we return, afternoon, and take a long rest, 10,000 feet above sea-level.

At this immense height the South Park stretches fifty miles before me.

Mountainous chains and peaks in every variety of perspective, every hue of vista, fringe the view, in nearer, or middle, or far-dim distance, or fade on the horizon.

We have now reach'd, penetrated the Rockies, (Hayden calls it the Front Range,) for a hundred miles or so; and though these chains spread away in every direction, specially north and south, thousands and thousands farther, I have seen specimens of the utmost of them, and know henceforth at least what they are, and what they look like.

Not themselves alone, for they typify stretches and areas of half the globe--are, in fact, the vertebrae or back-bone of our hemisphere.

As the anatomists say a man is only a spine, topp'd, footed, breasted and radiated, so the whole Western world is, in a sense, but an expansion of these mountains.

In South America they are the Andes, in Central America and Mexico the Cordilleras, and in our States they go under different names--in California the Coast and Cascade ranges--thence more eastwardly the Sierra Nevadas--but mainly and more centrally here the Rocky Mountains proper, with many an elevation such as Lincoln's, Grey's, Harvard's, Yale's, Long's and Pike's peaks, all over 14,000 feet high.

(East, the highest peaks of the Alleghanies, the Adirondacks, the Catskills, and the White Mountains, range from 2000 to 5500 feet-only Mount Washington, in the latter, 6300 feet.

) THE PARKS

In the midst of all here, lie such beautiful contrasts as the sunken basins of the North, Middle, and South Parks, (the latter I am now on one side of, and overlooking,) each the size of a large, level, almost quandrangular, grassy, western county, wall'd in by walls of hills, and each park the source of a river.

The ones I specify are the largest in Colorado, but the whole of that State, and of Wyoming, Utah, Nevada and western California, through their sierras and ravines, are copiously mark'd by similar spreads and openings, many of the small ones of paradisiac loveliness and perfection, with their offsets of mountains, streams, atmosphere and hues beyond compare.

ART FEATURES

Talk, I say again, of going to Europe, of visiting the ruins of feudal castles, or Coliseum remains, or kings' palaces--when you can come _here_.

The alternations one gets, too; after the Illinois and Kansas prairies of a thousand miles--smooth and easy areas of the corn and wheat of ten million democratic farms in the future----here start up in every conceivable presentation of shape, these non-utilitarian piles, coping the skies, emanating a beauty, terror, power, more than Dante or Angelo ever knew.

Yes, I think the chyle of not only poetry and painting, but oratory, and even the metaphysics and music fit for the New World, before being finally assimilated, need first and feeding visits here.

_Mountain streams.

_--The spiritual contrast and etheriality of the whole region consist largely to me in its never-absent peculiar streams--the snows of inaccessible upper areas melting and running down through the gorges continually.

Nothing like the water of pastoral plains, or creeks with wooded banks and turf, or anything of the kind elsewhere.

The shapes that element takes in the shows of the globe cannot be fully understood by an artist until he has studied these unique rivulets.

_Aerial effects.

_--But perhaps as I gaze around me the rarest sight of all is in atmospheric hues.

The prairies--as I cross'd them in my journey hither--and these mountains and parks, seem to me to afford new lights and shades.

Everywhere the aerial gradations and sky-effects inimitable; nowhere else such perspectives, such transparent lilacs and grays.

I can conceive of some superior landscape painter, some fine colorist, after sketching awhile out here, discarding all his previous work, delightful to stock exhibition amateurs, as muddy, raw and artificial.

Near one's eye ranges an infinite variety; high up, the bare whitey-brown, above timber line; in certain spots afar patches of snow any time of year; (no trees, no flowers, no birds, at those chilling altitudes.

) As I write I see the Snowy Range through the blue mist, beautiful and far off, I plainly see the patches of snow.

DENVER IMPRESSIONS

Through the long-lingering half-light of the most superb of evenings we return'd to Denver, where I staid several days leisurely exploring, receiving impressions, with which I may as well taper off this memorandum, itemizing what I saw there.

The best was the men, three-fourths of them large, able, calm, alert, American.

And cash!

why they create it here.

Out in the smelting works, (the biggest and most improv'd ones, for the precious metals, in the world,) I saw long rows of vats, pans, cover'd by bubbling-boiling water, and fill'd with pure silver, four or five inches thick, many thousand dollars' worth in a pan.

The foreman who was showing me shovel'd it carelessly up with a little wooden shovel, as one might toss beans.

Then large silver bricks, worth a brick, dozens of piles, twenty in a pile.

In one place in the mountains, at a mining camp, I had a few days before seen rough bullion on the ground in the open air, like the confectioner's pyramids at some swell dinner in New York.

(Such a sweet morsel to roll over with a poor author's pen and ink--and appropriate to slip in here--that the silver product of Colorado and Utah, with the gold product of California, New Mexico, Nevada and Dakota, foots up an addition to the world's coin of considerably over a hundred millions every year.

) A city, this Denver, well-laid out--Laramie street, and 15th and 16th and Champa streets, with others, particularly fine--some with tall storehouses of stone or iron, and windows of plate-glass--all the streets with little canals of mountain water running along the sides--plenty of people, "business," modernness--yet not without a certain racy wild smack, all its own.

A place of fast horses, (many mares with their colts,) and I saw lots of big greyhounds for antelope hunting.

Now and then groups of miners, some just come in, some starting out, very picturesque.

One of the papers here interview'd me, and reported me as saying off-hand: "I have lived in or visited all the great cities on the Atlantic third of the republic--Boston, Brooklyn with its hills, New Orleans, Baltimore, stately Washington, broad Philadelphia, teeming Cincinnati and Chicago, and for thirty years in that wonder, wash'd by hurried and glittering tides, my own New York, not only the New World's but the world's city--but, newcomer to Denver as I am, and threading its streets, breathing its air, warm'd by its sunshine, and having what there is of its human as well as aerial ozone flash'd upon me now for only three or four days, I am very much like a man feels sometimes toward certain people he meets with, and warms to, and hardly knows why.

I, too, can hardly tell why, but as I enter'd the city in the slight haze of a late September afternoon, and have breath'd its air, and slept well o' nights, and have roam'd or rode leisurely, and watch'd the comers and goers at the hotels, and absorb'd the climatic magnetism of this curiously attractive region, there has steadily grown upon me a feeling of affection for the spot, which, sudden as it is, has become so definite and strong that I must put it on record."

So much for my feeling toward the Queen city of the plains and peaks, where she sits in her delicious rare atmosphere, over 5000 feet above sea-level, irrigated by mountain streams, one way looking east over the prairies for a thousand miles, and having the other, westward, in constant view by day, draped in their violet haze, mountain tops innumerable.

Yes, I fell in love with Denver, and even felt a wish to spend my declining and dying days there.

I TURN SOUTH AND THEN EAST AGAIN

Leave Denver at 8 A. M.

by the Rio Grande RR.

going south.

Mountains constantly in sight in the apparently near distance, veil'd slightly, but still clear and very grand--their cones, colors, sides, distinct against the sky--hundreds, it seem'd thousands, interminable necklaces of them, their tops and slopes hazed more or less slightly in that blue-gray, under the autumn sun, for over a hundred miles--the most spiritual show of objective Nature I ever beheld, or ever thought possible.

Occasionally the light strengthens, making a contrast of yellow-tinged silver on one side, with dark and shaded gray on the other.

I took a long look at Pike's peak, and was a little disappointed.

(I suppose I had expected something stunning.

) Our view over plains to the left stretches amply, with corrals here and there, the frequent cactus and wild sage, and herds of cattle feeding.

Thus about 120 miles to Pueblo.

At that town we board the comfortable and well-equipt Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe RR.

, now striking east.

UNFULFILLED WANTS--THE ARKANSAS RIVER

I had wanted to go to the Yellowstone river region--wanted specially to see the National Park, and the geysers and the "hoodoo" or goblin land of that country; indeed, hesitated a little at Pueblo, the turning point--wanted to thread the Veta pass--wanted to go over the Santa Fe trail away southwestward to New Mexico--but turn'd and set my face eastward--leaving behind me whetting glimpse-tastes of southeastern Colorado, Pueblo, Bald mountain, the Spanish peaks, Sangre de Christos, Mile-Shoe-curve (which my veteran friend on the locomotive told me was "the boss railroad curve of the universe,") fort Garland on the plains, Veta, and the three great peaks of the Sierra Blancas.

The Arkansas river plays quite a part in the whole of this region--I see it, or its high-cut rocky northern shore, for miles, and cross and recross it frequently, as it winds and squirms like a snake.

The plains vary here even more than usual--sometimes a long sterile stretch of scores of miles--then green, fertile and grassy, an equal length.

Some very large herds of sheep.

(One wants new words in writing about these plains, and all the inland American West--the terms, _far, large, vast_, &c. , are insufficient.

) A SILENT LITTLE FOLLOWER-THE COREOPSIS

Here I must say a word about a little follower, present even now before my eyes.

I have been accompanied on my whole journey from Barnegat to Pike's peak by a pleasant floricultural friend, or rather millions of friends--nothing more or less than a hardy little yellow five-petal'd September and October wild-flower, growing I think everywhere in the middle and northern United States.

I had seen it on the Hudson and over Long Island, and along the banks of the Delaware and through New Jersey, (as years ago up the Connecticut, and one fall by Lake Champlain.

) This trip it follow'd me regularly, with its slender stem and eyes of gold, from Cape May to the Kaw valley, and so through the cañons and to these plains.

In Missouri I saw immense fields all bright with it.

Toward western Illinois I woke up one morning in the sleeper and the first thing when I drew the curtain of my berth and look'd out was its pretty countenance and bending neck.

_Sept.

25th_.

--Early morning--still going east after we leave Sterling, Kansas, where I stopp'd a day and night.

The sun up about half an hour;

nothing can be fresher or more beautiful than this time, this region.

I

see quite a field of my yellow flower in full bloom.

At intervals dots of nice two-story houses, as we ride swiftly by.

Over the immense area, flat as a floor, visible for twenty miles in every direction in the clear air, a prevalence of autumn-drab and reddish-tawny herbage--sparse stacks of hay and enclosures, breaking the landscape--as we rumble by, flocks of prairie-hens starting up.

Between Sterling and Florence a fine country.

(Remembrances to E. L.

, my old-young soldier friend of war times, and his wife and boy at S. ) THE PRAIRIES AND GREAT PLAINS IN POETRY

(_After traveling Illinois, Missouri, Kansas and Colorado_) Grand as is the thought that doubtless the child is already born who will see a hundred millions of people, the most prosperous and advanc'd of the world, inhabiting these Prairies, the great Plains, and the valley of the Mississippi, I could not help thinking it would be grander still to see all those inimitable American areas fused in the alembic of a perfect poem, or other esthetic work, entirely western, fresh and limitless--altogether our own, without a trace or taste of Europe's soil, reminiscence, technical letter or spirit.

My days and nights, as I travel here--what an exhilaration!

--not the air alone, and the sense of vastness, but every local sight and feature.

Everywhere something characteristic--the cactuses, pinks, buffalo grass, wild sage--the receding perspective, and the far circle-line of the horizon all times of day, especially forenoon--the clear, pure, cool, rarefied nutriment for the lungs, previously quite unknown--the black patches and streaks left by surface-conflagrations--the deep-plough'd furrow of the "fire-guard"--the slanting snow-racks built all along to shield the railroad from winter drifts--the prairie-dogs and the herds of antelope--the curious "dry rivers"--occasionally a "dug-out" or corral--Fort Riley and Fort Wallace--those towns of the northern plains, (like ships on the sea,) Eagle-Tail, Coyoté, Cheyenne, Agate, Monotony, Kit Carson--with ever the ant-hill and the buffalo-wallow--ever the herds of cattle and the cow-boys ("cow-punchers") to me a strangely interesting class, bright-eyed as hawks, with their swarthy complexions and their broad-brimm'd hats--apparently always on horseback, with loose arms slightly raised and swinging as they ride.

THE SPANISH PEAKS--EVENING ON THE PLAINS

Between Pueblo and Bent's fort, southward, in a clear afternoon sun-spell I catch exceptionally good glimpses of the Spanish peaks.

We are in southeastern Colorado--pass immense herds of cattle as our first-class locomotive rushes us along--two or three times crossing the Arkansas, which we follow many miles, and of which river I get fine views, sometimes for quite a distance, its stony, upright, not very high, palisade banks, and then its muddy flats.

We pass Fort Lyon--lots of adobie houses--limitless pasturage, appropriately fleck'd with those herds of cattle--in due time the declining sun in the west--a sky of limpid pearl over all--and so evening on the great plains.

A calm, pensive, boundless landscape--the perpendicular rocks of the north Arkansas, hued in twilight--a thin line of violet on the southwestern horizon--the palpable coolness and slight aroma--a belated cow-boy with some unruly member of his herd--an emigrant wagon toiling yet a little further, the horses slow and tired--two men, apparently father and son, jogging along on foot--and around all the indescribable _chiaroscuro_ and sentiment, (profounder than anything at sea,) athwart these endless wilds.

AMERICA'S CHARACTERISTIC LANDSCAPE

Speaking generally as to the capacity and sure future destiny of that plain and prairie area (larger than any European kingdom) it is the inexhaustible land of wheat, maize, wool, flax, coal, iron, beef and pork, butter and cheese, apples and grapes--land of ten million virgin farms--to the eye at present wild and unproductive--yet experts say that upon it when irrigated may easily be grown enough wheat to feed the world.

Then as to scenery (giving my own thought and feeling,) while I know the standard claim is that Yosemite, Niagara falls, the upper Yellowstone and the like, afford the greatest natural shows, I am not so sure but the Prairies and the Plains, while less stunning at first sight, last longer, fill the esthetic sense fuller, precede all the rest, and make North America's characteristic landscape.

Indeed through the whole of this journey, with all its shows and varieties, what most impress'd me, and will longest remain with me, are these same prairies.

Day after day, and night after night, to my eyes, to all my senses--the esthetic one most of all--they silently and broadly unfolded.

Even their simplest statistics are sublime.

EARTH'S MOST IMPORTANT STREAM

The valley of the Mississippi river and its tributaries, (this stream and its adjuncts involve a big part of the question,) comprehends more than twelve hundred thousand square miles, the greater part prairies.

It is by far the most important stream on the globe, and would seem to have been marked out by design, slow-flowing from north to south, through a dozen climates, all fitted for man's healthy occupancy, its outlet unfrozen all the year, and its line forming a safe, cheap continental avenue for commerce and passage from the north temperate to the torrid zone.

Not even the mighty Amazon (though larger in volume) on its line of east and west--not the Nile in Africa, nor the Danube in Europe, nor the three great rivers of China, compare with it.

Only the Mediterranean sea has play'd some such part in history, and all through the past, as the Mississippi is destined to play in the future.

By its demesnes, water'd and welded by its branches, the Missouri, the Ohio, the Arkansas, the Red, the Yazoo, the St. Francis and others, it already compacts twenty-five millions of people, not merely the most peaceful and money-making, but the most restless and warlike on earth.

Its valley, or reach, is rapidly concentrating the political power of the American Union.

One almost thinks it _is_ the Union--or soon will be.

Take it out, with its radiations, and what would be left?

From the car windows through Indiana, Illinois, Missouri, or stopping some days along the Topeka and Santa Fe road, in southern Kansas, and indeed wherever I went, hundreds and thousands of miles through this region, my eyes feasted on primitive and rich meadows, some of them partially inhabited, but far, immensely far more untouch'd, unbroken--and much of it more lovely and fertile in its unplough'd innocence than the fair and valuable fields of New York's, Pennsylvania's, Maryland's or Virginia's richest farms.

PRAIRIE ANALOGIES--THE TREE QUESTION

The word Prairie is French, and means literally meadow.

The cosmical analogies of our North American plains are the Steppes of Asia, the Pampas and Llanos of South America, and perhaps the Saharas of Africa.

Some think the plains have been originally lake-beds; others attribute the absence of forests to the fires that almost annually sweep over them--(the cause, in vulgar estimation, of Indian summer.

) The tree question will soon become a grave one.

Although the Atlantic slope, the Rocky mountain region, and the southern portion of the Mississippi valley, are well wooded, there are here stretches of hundreds and thousands of miles where either not a tree grows, or often useless destruction has prevail'd; and the matter of the cultivation and spread of forests may well be press'd upon thinkers who look to the coming generations of the prairie States.

MISSISSIPPI VALLEY LITERATURE

Lying by one rainy day in Missouri to rest after quite a long exploration--first trying a big volume I found there of "Milton, Young, Gray, Beattie and Collins," but giving it up for a bad job--enjoying however for awhile, as often before, the reading of Walter Scott's poems, "Lay of the Last Minstrel," "Marmion," and so on--I stopp'd and laid down the book, and ponder'd the thought of a poetry that should in due time express and supply the teeming region I was in the midst of, and have briefly touch'd upon.

One's mind needs but a moment's deliberation anywhere in the United States to see clearly enough that all the prevalent book and library poets, either as imported from Great Britain, or follow'd and _doppel-gang'd_ here, are foreign to our States, copiously as they are read by us all.

But to fully understand not only how absolutely in opposition to our times and lands, and how little and cramp'd, and what anachronisms and absurdities many of their pages are, for American purposes, one must dwell or travel awhile in Missouri, Kansas and Colorado, and get rapport with their people and country.

Will the day ever come--no matter how long deferr'd--when those models and lay-figures from the British islands--and even the precious traditions of the classics--will be reminiscences, studies only?

The pure breath, primitiveness, boundless prodigality and amplitude, strange mixture of delicacy and power, of continence, of real and ideal, and of all original and first-class elements, of these prairies, the Rocky mountains, and of the Mississippi and Missouri rivers--will they ever appear in, and in some sort form a standard for our poetry and art?

(I

sometimes think that even the ambition of my friend Joaquin Miller to put them in, and illustrate them, places him ahead of the whole crowd.

) Not long ago I was down New York bay, on a steamer, watching the sunset over the dark green heights of Navesink, and viewing all that inimitable spread of shore, shipping and sea, around Sandy Hook.

But an intervening week or two, and my eyes catch the shadowy outlines of the Spanish peaks.

In the more than two thousand miles between, though of infinite and paradoxical variety, a curious and absolute fusion is doubtless steadily annealing, compacting, identifying all.

But subtler and wider and more solid, (to produce such compaction,) than the laws of the States, or the common ground of Congress, or the Supreme Court, or the grim welding of our national wars, or the steel ties of railroads, or all the kneading and fusing processes of our material and business history, past or present, would in my opinion be a great throbbing, vital, imaginative work, or series of works, or literature, in constructing which the Plains, the Prairies, and the Mississippi river, with the demesnes of its varied and ample valley, should be the concrete background, and America's humanity, passions, struggles, hopes, there and now--an _eclaircissement_ as it is and is to be, on the stage of the New World, of all Time's hitherto drama of war, romance and evolution--should furnish the lambent fire, the ideal.

AN INTERVIEWER'S ITEM

_Oct.

17, '79_.

--To-day one of the newspapers of St. Louis prints the following informal remarks of mine on American, especially Western literature: "We called on Mr. Whitman yesterday and after a somewhat desultory conversation abruptly asked him: 'Do you think we are to have a distinctively American literature?'

'It seems to me,' said he,'that our work at present is to lay the foundations of a great nation in products, in agriculture, in commerce, in networks of intercommunication, and in all that relates to the comforts of vast masses of men and families, with freedom of speech, ecclesiasticism, &c. These we have founded and are carrying out on a grander scale than ever hitherto, and Ohio, Illinois, Indiana, Missouri, Kansas and Colorado, seem to me to be the seat and field of these very facts and ideas.

Materialistic prosperity in all its varied forms, with those other points that I mentioned, intercommunication and freedom, are first to be attended to.

When those have their results and get settled, then a literature worthy of us will begin to be defined.

Our American superiority and vitality are in the bulk of our people, not in a gentry like the old world.

The greatness of our army during the secession war, was in the rank and file, and so with the nation.

Other lands have their vitality in a few, a class, but we have it in the bulk of the people.

Our leading men are not of much account and never have been, but the average of the people is immense, beyond all history.

Sometimes I think in all departments, literature and art included, that will be the way our superiority will exhibit itself.

We will not have great individuals or great leaders, but a great average bulk, unprecedentedly great.'

" THE WOMEN OF THE WEST

_Kansas City_.

--I am not so well satisfied with what I see of the women of the prairie cities.

I am writing this where I sit leisurely in a store in Main street, Kansas City, a streaming crowd on the sidewalks flowing by.

The ladies (and the same in Denver) are all fashionably drest, and have the look of "gentility" in face, manner and action, but they do _not_ have, either in physique or the mentality appropriate to them, any high native originality of spirit or body, (as the men certainly have, appropriate to them.

) They are "intellectual" and fashionable, but dyspeptic-looking and generally doll-like; their ambition evidently is to copy their eastern sisters.

Something far different and in advance must appear, to tally and complete the superb masculinity of the west, and maintain and continue it.