As we bowl along we look up at the steep, rocky walls of the cañon, shutting us in from all disturbing thoughts and sights, and the moon floods all with its peaceful light, and all fatigue and disquiet vanishes, and we realize that we are having a fitting ending to a glorious day.
The electric lights at Manitou recall us to ourselves, and we finish a well-rounded day, begun with Pike’s Peak by sunrise, and we leave him sleeping under the watchful eye of the purest moon that ever shone.
Wednesday, October 2d.
Another brilliant day. An early breakfast. Carriages were taken for the most wonderful drive of the trip. First to “Iron Springs” and “Ruxton Glen,” then to the “Garden of the Gods,” more wonderful than can be told; then to “Glen Eyrie”; then the “Messa Road”—who will forget the beauty of its scenery?
We then turned our way to the scene of what was to be the culmination of our journey. As we approached Cheyenne Mountain, memories of (H. H.) Helen Hunt Jackson, arose in every mind. Her solitary grave upon Cheyenne Mountain, selected by herself, is unmarked, except as friendship’s hand has raised a mound of small stones and pieces of marble, an evidence of affection more significant than formal monument could be. It is an illustration of one of her own verses:
“But no decaying
Can reach it in this sepulchre, whose stone
Our hearts must make! To an exceeding glory grown,
This grief outweighing.”