FURTHER VIEWS ON THE MISSISSIPPI.
Des Moines River—Iowa—Group of Indians—Tributary streams to the Mississippi—Galena—Bishop of Illinois—My sister's grave.
Friday Evening, July 7th.
Having passed the Des Moines river, the whole country bordering on the west bank of the Mississippi, is denominated the Wisconsin Territory, or more commonly here, the Iowa country. It is indeed a most beautiful country. It is said that a little more than four years since, there was not a single white settler west of the Mississippi and north of Des Moines river; now, there are between thirty and forty thousand. The Iowa country will, undoubtedly, soon become a state. Its new towns are springing up rapidly. I stopped at Burlington, where there are more than twelve hundred inhabitants, and where two years since there were only a few log-cabins. How important is it that the gospel should be planted here! The Methodists are beginning to send their preachers to proclaim salvation here. Every where we find them first on the ground. Truly their promptness and zeal are to be commended.—We have not a clergyman in this whole region. Cannot one be found who is willing to go to the Iowa country? Is there not one in the classes now graduating in our seminaries, that will come over to this Macedon and help them?
As the day declined, the scenery around us seemed still more pleasing. The prairies on the left bank of the Mississippi became increasingly interesting. The river stretched before us like a broad lake, indented at a hundred points by masses of luxuriant and thickly clustered trees, that seemed to float in natural and upright form upon the surface. These, with all their verdant foliage, were distinctly reflected from the mirrored bosom of the unruffled waters, so that we seemed, as we gazed upon the watery surface, to look into the very depths of the forest, and see one tree standing back of another almost interminably. While thus gliding on, by a turn of the river we came suddenly upon the corner of another large prairie, and almost the first object that met our view were two rude bark covered wigwams that had just been put up on the very margin of the stream. In front of these cabins a fire had been kindled, either to keep off the musquitoes or to cook their evening meal. At the entrance of these Indian huts lay a dog, and around him stood or sat half a dozen Indian children, some of them in a state of almost entire nudity. Still nearer the water, looking into it, and off on to the opposite shore, stood the adult members of each family. These scarcely raised their head, or deigned to cast a glance at us, as our boat with all its clattering machinery swept proudly by.—While I continued to look at them, and saw them standing amid the solitariness of the prairie, with their eyes still fixed upon the opposite bank of the river, where rested the bones of their ancestors—when I saw how dignified, and serious, and contemplative they seemed, I could not but regard them as the last representatives of a race fast fading away, and who will soon scarcely have a place or name this side of the Rocky Mountains. It seemed to me that they were standing at this twilight hour looking once more upon the shore where rested the bones of their people, before they bade a final adieu to these scenes where they used once to hunt the deer, glide over the watery surface with their bark canoes, raise the luxuriant corn, and build their wigwams. Strangers now possessed their home, and they were just bidding to the scenes of their childhood a long, long farewell! Oh, thought I, that they could have the gospel to tame their fierceness, soften their savage natures, and cheer them in their solitary wanderings through the wilderness! It occurred to me as very likely that those Indians who stood there on the bank of the Mississippi, knew nothing of the way of salvation, and very likely had never heard of the name of Jesus! We know there are thousands that range over the great hunting grounds of the west precisely in this condition. We are going to meet them at the judgment bar—shall we not make every effort to send them the gospel?
Saturday Evening, July 8th.
We found ourselves, when we awoke in the morning, at Stevenson. This is another of those places springing up as by the wand of enchantment. It is located at one of the most beautiful points in all the west. Just here Rock River enters the Mississippi, separating the town from Rock Island, on which stands Fort Armstrong. It was in reference to the section of country just around here, that the Black Hawk war took its rise, and all along above was the scene where it raged. I do not wonder that the Indians gave up this tract of country with reluctance. The eye never looked out upon a more beautiful land—the imagination in its most romantic flight never conceived any thing more lovely. On the Iowa side, especially, the country sweeps off from the shore most beautifully in the form of a rolling prairie, covered here and there with small clusters of trees, that give it the aspect and loveliness of a region that had been under the highest cultivation for the last three centuries. And yet five years ago no foot trod there but the Indian's.
The day passed pleasantly away. As the shades of evening gathered thick around us, we bade adieu to the mighty Mississippi, on whose broad current we had travelled nearly seven hundred miles. Our boat turned in behind an islet of living green, and pushed its way up the serpentine course of Fevre River. At length Galena was in view. It was at the close of the week, and here we were to seek a resting place for a number of days.
Galena, July 15th.
Fevre River, at Galena, runs through a narrow vale, and is hedged in on either side by ranges of hills. The town is built at the base and on the side of the western ridge, which is here quite precipitous. The valley itself is overflown with every rise of the Mississippi above this point. The waters of the Fevre River between Galena and its junction with the "Father of rivers" are very sluggish—so that the waters of the Mississippi flow up to Galena often three or four times a year, and flood the whole lower part of the town. Since I have been here the third rise which they have had this season occurred, occasioned as it was supposed by the melting of the snows and ice around the sources of the most northern tributaries of the Mississippi. One thing is very remarkable in relation to the whole class of western tributaries to this stream. The freshets to which they are subject, all occur at different seasons, beginning with the southernmost and ending with the most northerly. This is accounted for by the fact, that, as these streams take their rise at different points of latitude in the Rocky Mountains, spring and summer reach the source of each of them in regular progression from south to north, by a few weeks later. This is a most merciful provision: for if the freshets in two or three of these streams were to happen at the same time, the effects would be desolating. Let the Red River, the Arkansas, and the Missouri, pour their swollen streams at the time of their annual freshets, together into the Mississippi, and the whole lower regions for hundreds of miles above and around New Orleans would be one unbroken sea. What a tremendous armament of destruction has the Almighty here! Have not the inhabitants of that city which has seated herself as a queen at the mouth of this river, reason to remember that the Lord can bury them in a moment in the midst of the sea? He has only to blow with his wind, and the waters will flow, and the depths cover them! Let those who openly and remorselessly trample on every law of God consider this and tremble.
Galena is by no means a pleasant town. There are some situations on the hills which environ it that would furnish delightful sites for residences, but at present these are chiefly unoccupied. The streets of this place are narrow, and after a rain unspeakably muddy. The houses are small, poor, and crowded. There is nothing interesting or attractive about the appearance of the town, except in a business point of view. Galena is the port where almost all the lead raised from the vast mines scattered through this region is brought to be shipped, and will therefore unquestionably be a place of great importance. Its moral character, I fear, is far from what we could wish it. Like many of these western towns, till recently, there has been scarcely the semblance of a Sabbath here. Drinking, duelling, and gambling, have all been common.—And yet there are many here that wish things were different, and are making some successful efforts to cause them to be so.
The Bishop of Illinois was here, and officiated the first Sunday I spent in Galena. He bore his testimony very faithfully, in rebuking the prevailing sins of the country, especially duelling, Sabbath-breaking, and profane swearing. I believe his counsel was very kindly received. There is a great deal of intelligence among the residents in this place, and they seem willing to have the truth preached to them plainly.
To me there was one object of thrilling interest in Galena—its grave yard! Some half-mile from the town, on the head lands beyond the western range of hills that encompassed it, where one stands and looks down into the valley of Fevre River, and off upon the far-spreading prairie, in a retired place, is the spot of earth allotted to the dead, shut in and guarded from unhallowed tread by a neat enclosure. Owing to the newness of the country, and the difficulty in procuring marble, scarcely a single sculptured monument appears on this ground which has already become the resting place of many who were once engaged amid the activities of life. But affection has displayed itself in another form. Not a few of the graves are enclosed by a little fence, painted beautifully white, and the graves are adorned with wild roses which scatter their fragrance and leaves over the place where rests the mouldered dust beneath. When I first entered this sacred enclosure, and trod through the high tangled grass that grew here, I felt at each step that I was treading on holy ground. I was led to a spot where rested the mortal part of one whose image came up before me with the vividness of living reality. The long grass had grown, and become matted over her grave! Fifteen years had elapsed since I had looked upon that dear form, that rested in unbreathing stillness below. During this period I had passed through many trying scenes and often drank deep into the cup of sorrow. And now with the image of this dear departed one, all of "life's troubled dream" rose up before me with a power that paralyzed every effort I made to subdue or control my feelings. I then felt and wept like a child. Why should I not have done so? I was standing on the grave of the sister of my childhood, whose existence and mine for many years had run along together as though our being had been woven in the same web. I remembered how when I was but a very little child, she led me to the country school—how we wandered together in playful glee on the green bank of the Housatonic, and her hand gathered for me the wild flowers that grew there. I remembered how in the wild buoyancy of childhood we strolled together through the orchard, and gathered fruit from a favourite tree? With what kind looks and affectionate greeting our dear mother met us when we returned from such a ramble. And could I then fail to remember the sad hour when that dear sainted mother gasping in the agonies of death bade us all a long farewell? When a mother's kind eye no longer gazed upon me, was it not natural that my heart should turn with deeper and stronger affection to the sister of my childhood? But where was she? She no more came, bounding along with sparkling eyes, and flowing locks, and animated features at the call of her brother. There she lay sleeping, oh how silently, how profoundly in the grave! The solitude and stillness of the mighty prairie were around me. No mortal was present to witness or intermeddle with the feelings or overflowings of my heart, save him who recognised in this heaped hillock of earth the resting place of the loved one of his heart—the wife of his youth—the mother of his children. Together we bowed down there in silent grief? Our hearts were so full that we could do nothing but mingle our tears together over that sacred spot, which I would again travel all the way from the Atlantic to the Mississippi to look upon! A thought full of light and glory, however, darted across my mind as I bent over that grave. I remembered that this dear sister had closed her eyes upon this mortal scene, full of faith, full of trust in Christ, and of calm resignation to his blessed will. I recollected the words of my Saviour, and his promise to raise the dead. This recollection chased away my tears, and brought a flood of heavenly radiance down upon that grave. I said, "my sister shall rise again." "The Lord Jesus will bring her with him." This is his promise.
The last time I visited this grave, I brought away a little flower that bloomed on it. It has already faded—but that glorious body which Christ will give to that dear mouldered form will never fade, but bloom on in immortal youth, through the unending ages of eternity. Oh, how happy shall we be, when we have passed all these gloomy scenes that now surround us, and stand in the midst of that "land where the inhabitants no more say I am sick"—when we shall have done with sin, and behold the Redeemer in all his glory! May the Lord safely bring us there.