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DENVER,
November 9.
I
could not make out whether the superiority of the Deer Valley
settlers
extended beyond material things, but a teamster I met in the
evening
said it "made him more of a man to spend a night in such a
house."
In Colorado whisky is significant of all evil and violence and
is
the cause of most of the shooting affrays in the mining camps.
There
are few moderate drinkers; it is seldom taken except to excess.
The
great local question in the Territory, and just now the great
electoral
issue, is drink or no drink, and some of the papers are
openly
advocating a prohibitive liquor law. Some of the districts,
such
as Greeley, in which liquor is prohibited, are without crime, and
in
several of the stock-raising and agricultural regions through
which
I
have traveled where it is practically excluded the doors are
never
locked,
and the miners leave their silver bricks in their wagons
unprotected
at night. People say that on coming from the Eastern
States
they hardly realize at first the security in which they live.
There
is no danger and no fear. But the truth of the proverbial
saying,
"There is no God west of the Missouri" is everywhere manifest.
The
"almighty dollar" is the true divinity, and its worship is
universal.
"Smartness" is the quality thought most of. The boy who
"gets
on" by cheating at his lessons is praised for being a "smart
boy,"
and his satisfied parents foretell that he will make a "smart
man."
A man who overreaches his neighbor, but who does it so cleverly
that
the law cannot take hold of him, wins an envied reputation as a
"smart
man," and stories of this species of smartness are told
admiringly
round every stove. Smartness is but the initial stage of
swindling,
and the clever swindler who evades or defines the weak and
often
corruptly administered laws of the States excites unmeasured
admiration
among the masses.[20]
[20]
May, 1878.--I am copying this letter in the city of San
Francisco,
and
regretfully add a strong emphasis to what I have written above.
The
best and most thoughtful among Americans would endorse these
remarks
with shame and pain.--I. L. B.
I
left Deer Valley at ten the next morning on a glorious day, with
rich
atmospheric
coloring, had to spend three hours sitting on a barrel in a
forge
after I had ridden twelve miles, waiting while twenty-four oxen
were
shod, and then rode on twenty-three miles through streams and
canyons
of great beauty till I reached a grocery store, where I had to
share
a room with a large family and three teamsters; and being almost
suffocated
by the curtain partition, got up at four, before any one was
stirring,
saddled Birdie, and rode away in the darkness, leaving my
money
on the table! It was a short eighteen miles' ride to Denver down
the
Turkey Creek Canyon, which contains some magnificent scenery, and
then
the road ascends and hangs on the ledge of a precipice 600 feet
in
depth,
such a narrow road that on meeting a wagon I had to dismount for
fear
of hurting my feet with the wheels. From thence there was a
wonderful
view through the rolling Foot Hills and over the gray-brown
plains
to Denver. Not a tree or shrub was to be seen, everything was
rioting
in summer heat and drought, while behind lay the last grand
canyon
of the mountains, dark with pines and cool with snow. I left
the
track and took a short cut over the prairie to Denver, passing
through
an encampment of the Ute Indians about 500 strong, a disorderly
and
dirty huddle of lodges, ponies, men, squaws, children, skins,
bones,
and raw meat.
The
Americans will never solve the Indian problem till the Indian is
extinct.
They have treated them after a fashion which has intensified
their
treachery and "devilry" as enemies, and as friends reduces them
to
a degraded pauperism, devoid of the very first elements of
civilization.
The only difference between the savage and the civilized
Indian
is that the latter carries firearms and gets drunk on whisky.
The
Indian Agency has been a sink of fraud and corruption; it is said
that
barely thirty per cent of the allowance ever reaches those for
whom
it is voted; and the complaints of shoddy blankets, damaged
flour,
and
worthless firearms are universal. "To get rid of the Injuns" is
the
phrase used everywhere. Even their "reservations" do not escape
seizure
practically; for if gold "breaks out" on them they are
"rushed,"
and their possessors are either compelled to accept land
farther
west or are shot off and driven off. One of the surest agents
in
their destruction is vitriolized whisky. An attempt has recently
been
made to cleanse the Augean stable of the Indian Department, but
it
has
met with signal failure, the usual result in America of every
effort
to purify the official atmosphere. Americans specially love
superlatives.
The phrases "biggest in the world," "finest in the
world,"
are on all lips. Unless President Hayes is a strong man they
will
soon come to boast that their government is composed of the
"biggest
scoundrels" in the world.
As
I rode into Denver and away from the mountains the view became
glorious,
as range above range crowned with snow came into sight. I
was
sure that three glistening peaks seventy miles north were the
peerless
shapeliness of Long's Peak, the king of the Rocky Mountains,
and
the "mountain fever" returned so severely that I grudged every
hour
spent
on the dry, hot plains. The Range looked lovelier and sublimer
than
when I first saw it from Greeley, all spiritualized in the
wonderful
atmosphere. I went direct to Evans's house, where I found a
hearty
welcome, as they had been anxious about my safety, and Evans
almost
at once arrived from Estes Park with three elk, one grizzly, and
one
bighorn in his wagon. Regarding a place and life one likes (in
spite
of all lessons) one is sure to think, "To-morrow shall be as this
day,
and much more abundant"; and all through my tour I had thought of
returning
to Estes Park and finding everything just as it was. Evans
brought
the unwelcome news that the goodly fellowship was broken up.
The
Dewys and Mr. Waller were in Denver, and the house was
dismantled,
Mr.
and Mrs. Edwards alone remaining, who were, however, expecting me
back.
Saturday, though like a blazing summer day, was wonderful in its
beauty,
and after sunset the afterglow was richer and redder than I
have
ever seen it, but the heavy crimson betokened severe heat, which
came
on yesterday, and was hardly bearable.
I
attended service twice at the Episcopal church, where the service
was
beautifully
read and sung; but in a city in which men preponderate the
congregation
was mainly composed of women, who fluttered their fans in
a
truly distracting way. Except for the church-going there were few
perceptible
signs of Sunday in Denver, which was full of rowdies from
the
mountain mining camps. You can hardly imagine the delight of
joining
in those grand old prayers after so long a deprivation. The
"Te
Deum" sounded heavenly in its magnificence; but the heat was so
tremendous
that it was hard to "warstle" through the day. They say
that
they have similar outbreaks of solar fury all through the winter.
GOLDEN
CITY, November 13.
Pleasant
as Denver was, with the Dewys and so many kind friends there,
it
was too much of the "wearying world" either for my health or
taste,
and
I left for my sixteen miles' ride to this place at four on Monday
afternoon
with the sun still hot. Passing by a bare, desolate-looking
cemetery,
I asked a sad-looking woman who was leaning on the gate if
she
could direct me to Golden City. I repeated the question twice
before
I got an answer, and then, though easily to be accounted for, it
was
wide of the mark. In most doleful tones she said, "Oh, go to the
minister;
I might tell you, may be, but it's too great a
responsibility;
go to the ministers, they can tell you!" And she
returned
to her tears for some one whose spirit she was doubtless
thinking
of as in the Golden City of our hopes. That sixteen miles
seemed
like one mile, after sunset, in the rapturous freshness of the
Colorado
air, and Birdie, after her two days' rest and with a lightened
load,
galloped across the prairie as if she enjoyed it. I did not
reach
this gorge till late, and it was an hour after dark before I
groped
my way into this dark, unlighted mining town, where, however, we
were
most fortunate both as to stable and accommodation for myself.
BOULDER,
November 16.
I
fear you will grow tired of the details of these journal letters.
To
a
person sitting quietly at home, Rocky Mountain traveling, like
Rocky
Mountain
scenery, must seem very monotonous; but not so to me, to whom
the
pure, dry mountain air is the elixir of life. At Golden City I
parted
for a time from my faithful pony, as Clear Creek Canyon, which
leads
from it to Idaho, is entirely monopolized by a narrow-gauge
railroad,
and is inaccessible for horses or mules. To be without a
horse
in these mountains is to be reduced to complete helplessness. My
great
wish was to see Green Lake, situated near the timber line above
Georgetown
(said to be the highest town in the United States), at a
height
of 9,000 feet. A single day took me from the heat of summer
into
the intense cold of winter.
Golden
City by daylight showed its meanness and belied its name. It is
ungraded,
with here and there a piece of wooden sidewalk, supported on
posts,
up to which you ascend by planks. Brick, pine, and log houses
are
huddled together, every other house is a saloon, and hardly a
woman
is
to be seen. My landlady apologized for the very exquisite little
bedroom
which she gave me by saying "it was not quite as she would like
it,
but she had never had a lady in her house before." The young
"lady"
who waited at breakfast said, "I've been thinking about you, and
I'm
certain sure you're an authoress." The day, as usual, was
glorious.
Think of November half through and scarcely even a cloud in
the
sky, except the vermilion cloudlets which accompany the sun at
his
rising
and setting! They say that winter never "sets in" there in the
Foot
Hills, but that there are spells of cold, alternating with
bright,
hot
weather, and that the snow never lies on the ground so as to
interfere
with the feed of cattle. Golden City rang with oaths and
curses,
especially at the depot. Americans are given over to the most
atrocious
swearing, and the blasphemous use of our Savior's name is
peculiarly
revolting.
Golden
City stands at the mouth of Toughcuss, otherwise Clear Creek
Canyon,
which many people think the grandest scenery in the mountains,
as
it twists and turns marvellously, and its stupendous sides are
nearly
perpendicular, while farther progress is to all appearance
continually
blocked by great masses of rock and piles of snow-covered
mountains.
Unfortunately, its sides have been almost entirely denuded
of
timber, mining operations consuming any quantity of it. The
narrow-gauge,
steel-grade railroad, which runs up the canyon for the
convenience
of the rich mining districts of Georgetown, Black Hawk, and
Central
City, is a curiosity of engineering. The track has partly been
blasted
out of the sides of the canyon, and has partly been "built" by
making
a bed of stones in the creek itself, and laying the track across
them.
I have never seen such churlishness and incivility as in the
officials
of that railroad and the state lines which connect with it,
or
met with such preposterous charges. They have handsome little
cars
on
the route, but though the passengers paid full fare, they put us
into
a baggage car because the season was over, and in order to see
anything
I was obliged to sit on the floor at the door. The singular
grandeur
cannot be described. It is a mere gash cut by the torrent,
twisted,
walled, chasmed, weather stained with the most brilliant
coloring,
generally dark with shadow, but its utter desolation
occasionally
revealed by a beam of intense sunshine. A few stunted
pines
and cedars, spared because of their inaccessiblity, hung here and
there
out of the rifts. Sometimes the walls of the abyss seemed to
meet
overhead, and then widening out, the rocks assumed fantastic
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