University of Virginia Library

LETTER XIII.
CROW WING TO ST. CLOUD.

YESTERDAY morning at seven I took my departure, on the stage, from Crow Wing. It was a most delightful morning, the air not damp, but bracing; and the welcome rays of the sun shed a mellow lustre upon a scene of "sylvan beauty." The first hour's ride was over a road I had passed in the dark on my upward journey, and this was the first view I had of the country immediately below Crow Wing. No settlements were to be seen, because the regulations of military reservations preclude their being made except for some purpose connected with the public interests. A heavy shower the night before had effectually laid the dust, and we bounded along on the easy coach in high spirits. The view of the prairie stretching "in airy undulations far away," and of the eddying current of the Mississippi, there as everywhere deep and majestic, with its banks skirted with autumn-colored foliage, was enough to commend the old fashioned system of stages to more general use. Call it poetry or what you please, yet the man who can contemplate with indifference the wonderful profusion of nature, undeveloped by art—inviting, yet never touched by the plough—must lack some one of the senses. Indeed, this picture, so characteristic of the new lands of the West, seems to call into existence a new sense. The view takes in a broad expanse which has never produced a stock of grain; and which has been traversed for ages past by a race whose greatest and most frequent calamity was hunger. If we turn to its past there is no object to call back our thoughts. All is oblivion. There are no ruins to awaken curious images of former life—no vestige of humanity—nothing but the present generation of nature. And yet there are traces of the past generations of nature to be seen. The depressions of the soil here and there to be observed, covered with a thick meadow grass, are unmistakeable indications of lakes which have now "vanished into thin air." That these gentle hollows were once filled with water is the more certain from the appearance of the shores of the present lakes, where the low water mark seems to have grown lower and lower every year. But if the past is blank, these scenes are suggestive of happy reflections as to the future. The long perspective is radiant with busy life and cheerful husbandry. New forms spring into being. Villages and towns spring up as if by magic, along whose streets throngs of men are passing. And thus, as "coming events cast their shadows before," does the mind wander from the real to the probable. An hour and a half of this sort of revery, and we had come to the Fort Ripley ferry, over which we were to go for the mail. That ferry (and I have seen others on the river like it) is a marvellous invention. It is a flat-boat which is quickly propelled either way across the river by means of the resistance which it offers to the current. Its machinery is so simple I will try to describe it. In the first place a rope is stretched across the river from elevated objects on either side. Each end of the boat is made fast to this line by pullies, which can be taken up or let out at the fastenings on the boat. All that is required to start the boat is to bring the bow, by means of the pully, to an acute angle with the current. The after part of the boat presents the principal resistance to the current by sliding a thick board into the water from the upper side. As the water strikes against this, the boat is constantly attempting to describe a circle, which it is of course prevented from doing by the current, and so keeps on—for it must move somewhere—in a direction where the obstruction is less. It certainly belongs to the science of hydraulics, for it is not such a boat as can be propelled by steam or wind. I had occasion recently to cross the Mississippi on a similar ferry, early in the morning, and before the ferryman was up. The proprietor of it was with me; yet neither of us knew much of its practical operation. I soon pulled the head of the boat towards the current, but left down the resistance board, or whatever it is called, at the bow as well as at the stern. This, of course, impeded our progress; but we got over in a few minutes; and I felt so much interested in this new kind of navigation, that I would have been glad to try the voyage over again.

On arriving within the square of the garrison, I expected to find the mail ready for delivery to the driver; but we had to wait half an hour. The mail is only weekly, and there was nothing of any consequence to change. We repaired to the post office, which was in a remote corner of a store-room, where the postmaster was busy making up his mail. Some of the officers had come in with documents which they wished to have mailed. And while we stood waiting, corporals and privates, servants of other officers brought in letters which Lieutenant So-and-so "was particularly desirous of having mailed this morning." The driver was magnanimous enough to submit to me whether we should wait. We all felt accommodating—the postmaster I saw was particularly so—and we concluded to wait till everything was in, and perhaps we would have waited for some one to write a letter. I could not but think it would be a week before another mail day; and still I could not but think these unnecessary morning hindrances were throwing a part of our journey into the night hours. Returning again to the eastern bank of the river by our fine ferry, we soon passed the spacious residence of Mr. Olmsted, a prominent citizen of the territory. We made a formal halt at his door to see if there were any passengers. Mr. Olmsted has a large farm under good cultivation, and several intelligent young men in his service. In that neighborhood are some other as handsome farms as I ever saw; but I think they are on the reservation, and are cultivated under the patronage of the war department. The winter grain was just up, and its fresh verdure afforded an agreeable contrast with the many emblems of decaying nature. It was in the middle of the forenoon that we reached Belle Prairie, along which are many good farm houses occupied by half-breeds. There is a church and a school-house. In the cemetery is a large cross painted black and white, and from its imposing appearance it cannot fail to make a solemn impression on minds which revere any tangible object that is consigned sacred. A very comfortable-looking house was pointed out to me as the residence of a Catholic priest, who has lived for many years in that section, spreading among the ignorant a knowledge of Christianity, and ministering to their wants in the hour of death. And though I am no Catholic, I could not but regard the superiority of that kind of preaching—for visiting the sick, consoling the afflicted, and rebuking sin by daily admonitions, is the true preaching of the Gospel—over the pompous declamation which now too often usurps the pulpit.

The dinner was smoking hot on the table when we drove up to the hotel at Swan River; and so charming a drive in the pure air had given me a keen appetite. The dinner (and I speak of these matters because they are quite important to travellers) was in all respects worthy of the appetite. The great staple article of Minnesota soil appears to be potatoes, for they were never known to be better anywhere else—Eastport not excepted—and at our table d'hote they were a grand collateral to the beef and pork. The dessert consisted of nice home made apple pies served with generosity, and we had tea or milk or water, as requested, for a beverage. After partaking of a dinner of this kind, the rest of the day's journey was looked forward to with no unpleasant emotions. The stage happened to be lightly loaded, and we rolled along with steady pace, and amidst jovial talk, till we reached the thriving, but to me not attractive, town of Watab. Three houses had been put up within the short time since I had stopped there. We got into Mr. Gilman's tavern at sundown. I was rejoiced to find a horse and carriage waiting for me, which had been kindly sent by a friend to bring me to St. Cloud. It is seven miles from Watab to this town. It was a charming moonlight evening, and I immediately started on with the faithful youth who had charge of the carriage, to enjoy my supper and lodging under the roof of my hospitable friend at St. Cloud.