University of Virginia Library

7. VII.
HORACE GREELEY'S RIDE TO PLACERVILLE.

When Mr. Greeley was in California ovations
awaited him at every town. He had written powerful
leaders in the Tribune in favor of the Pacific
Railroad, which had greatly endeared him to the
citizens of the Golden State. And therefore they
made much of him when he went to see them.

At one town the enthusiastic populace tore his
celebrated white coat to pieces, and carried the pieces
home to remember him by.

The citizens of Placerville prepared to fête the
great journalist, and an extra coach, with extra relays
of horses, was chartered of the California Stage
Company to carry him from Folsom to Placerville
—distance, forty miles. The extra was in some way
delayed, and did not leave Folsom until late in the
afternoon. Mr. Greeley was to be fêted at 7 o'clock
that evening by the citizens of Placerville, and it was
altogether necessary that he should be there by that

hour. So the Stage Company said to Henry Monk,
the driver of the extra, “Henry, this great man must
be there by 7 to-night.” And Henry answered,
“The great man shall be there.”

The roads were in an awful state, and during the
first few miles out of Folsom slow progress was made.

“Sir,” said Mr. Greeley, “are you aware that I
must be at Placerville at 7 o'clock to-night?”

“I've got my orders!” laconically returned Henry
Monk.

Still the coach dragged slowly forward.

“Sir,” said Mr. Greeley, “this is not a trifling
matter. I must be there at 7!”

Again came the answer, “I've got my orders!”

But the speed was not increased, and Mr. Greeley
chafed away another half hour; when, as he was
again about to remonstrate with the driver, the horses
suddenly started into a furious run, and all sorts
of encouraging yells filled the air from the throat of
Henry Monk.

“That is right, my good fellow!” cried Mr. Greeley.
“I'll give you ten dollars when we get to
Placerville. Now we are going!”

They were indeed, and at a terrible speed.

Crack, crack! went the whip, and again “that
voice” split the air. “Git up! Hi yi! G'long!
Yip—yip!”

And on they tore, over stones and ruts, up hill and
down, at a rate of speed never before achieved by
stage horses.

Mr. Greeley, who had been bouncing from one end
of the coach to the other like an india-rubber ball,
managed to get his head out of the window, when
he said:

“Do—on't—on't—on't you—u—u think we—e—
e—e shall get there by seven if we do—on't—on't
go so fast?”

“I've got my orders!” That was all Henry Monk
said. And on tore the coach.

It was becoming serious. Already the journalist
was extremely sore from the terrible jolting, and
again his head “might have been seen” at the window.

“Sir,” he said, “I don't care—care—air, if we
don't get there at seven!”

“I have got my orders!” Fresh horses. Forward

again, faster than before. Over rocks and
stumps, on one of which the coach narrowly escaped
turning a summerset.

“See here!” shrieked Mr. Greeley, “I don't care
if we don't get there at all!”

“I've got my orders! I work for the Californy
Stage Company, I do. That's wot I work for.
They said, `git this man through by seving.' An'
this man's goin' through. You bet! Gerlong!
Whoo-ep!”

Another frightful jolt, and Mr. Greeley's bald
head suddenly found its way through the roof of
the coach, amidst the crash of small timbers and the
ripping of strong canvas.

“Stop, you —— maniac!” he roared.

Again answered Henry Monk:

“I've got my orders! Keep your seat, Horace!”

At Mud Springs, a village a few miles from Placerville,
they met a large delegation of the citizens
of Placerville, who had come out to meet the celebrated
editor, and escort him into town. There was
a military company, a brass band, and a six-horse
wagon-load of beautiful damsels in milk-white dresses,

representing all the States in the Union. It was
nearly dark now, but the delegation were amply
provided with torches, and bonfires blazed all along
the road to Placerville.

The citizens met the coach in the outskirts of
Mud Springs, and Mr. Monk reined in his foam-covered
steeds.

“Is Mr. Greeley on board?” asked the chairman
of the committee.

“He was, a few miles back!” said Mr. Monk;
“yes,” he added, after looking down through the
hole which the fearful jolting had made in the coach-roof—“yes,
I can see him! He is there!”

“Mr. Greeley,” said the Chairman of the Committee,
presenting himself at the window of the coach,
“Mr. Greeley, sir! We are come to most cordially
welcome you, sir——why, God bless me, sir, you
are bleeding at the nose!”

“I've got my orders!” cried Mr. Monk. “My
orders is as follers: Git him there by seving! It
wants a quarter to seving. Stand out of the way!”

“But, sir,” exclaimed the Committee-man, seizing
the off leader by the reins—“Mr. Monk, we are come

to escort him into town! Look at the procession,
sir, and the brass band, and the people, and the
young women, sir!”

“I've got my orders!” screamed Mr. Monk.
“My orders don't say nothin' about no brass bands
and young women. My orders says, `git him there
by seving!' Let go them lines! Clear the way
there! Whoo-ep! Keep your seat, Horace!” and
the coach dashed wildly through the procession, upsetting
a portion of the brass band, and violently
grazing the wagon which contained the beautiful
young women in white.

Years hence grey-haired men, who were little boys
in this procession, will tell their grandchildren how
this stage tore through Mud Springs, and how Horace
Greeley's bald head ever and anon showed
itself, like a wild apparition, above the coach-roof.

Mr. Monk was on time. There is a tradition that
Mr. Greeley was very indignant for awhile; then he
laughed, and finally presented Mr. Monk with a brannew
suit of clothes.

Mr. Monk himself is still in the employ of the California
Stage Company, and is rather fond of relating

a story that has made him famous al lover the
Pacific coast. But he says he yields to no man in
his admiration for Horace Greeley.