I had been but a few weeks on the Press, and all was going on well, when one morning the Colonel abruptly asked me if I could start in the morning for Fort Riley, of which
all I knew was that it constituted an extreme frontier station in Kansas. There was to be a Kansas Pacific railway laid out, and a large party of railroad men intended to go as far as the last surveyor’s camp. Of course, a few editors had been invited to write up the road, and these in turn sent some one in their place. I knew at once that I should have something like the last year’s wild life over again, and I was delighted. I borrowed John Forney’s revolver, provided an agate-point and “manifold paper” for duplicate letters to our “two papers, both daily,” and at the appointed hour was at the railway station. There had been provided for us the director’s car, a very large and extremely comfortable vehicle, with abundance of velvet “settees” or divan sofas, with an immense stock of lobster-salad, cold croquettes, game, with “wines of every fineness,” and excellent waiters. The excursion, indeed, cost £1,000; but it was made to pay, and that to great profit.
We were all a very genial, congenial party of easy-going geniuses. There was Hassard, the “day editor” of the New York Tribune, who had been with me on the Cyclopædia, and to whom I was much attached, for he was a gentlemanly scholar, and withal had seen enough of life on the Tribune to hold his own with any man; and Captain William Colton, who had been with me in Tennessee; Robert Lamborn, who had studied science in Germany, and was now a railroad man, and many more who are recorded in my pamphlet, “Three Thousand Miles in a Railway Car,” and my old associate, Caspar Souder, of the Bulletin. This excursion was destined, in connection with this pamphlet, to have a marvellous effect on my future life.
In every town where we paused—and our pauses were frequent, as we travelled very much on the “go-as-you-please” plan—we were received by the authorities with honour and speeches and invited to dinners or drinks. Our conductors were courtesy itself. One afternoon one of them on a rough bit of road said, “Gentlemen, whenever you wish to open a
bottle of champagne, please to pull the cord and stop the train. You can then drink without spilling your wine.”
So we went to Chicago and St. Louis, where we were entertained by Mr. Blow, and where I became acquainted with his daughter Susan. She was then a beautiful blonde, and, as I soon found, very intelligent and cultured. She was long years afterwards busy in founding philanthropic schools in St. Petersburg, Russia, when I was there—a singularly noble woman. However, at this time neither of us dreamed of the school-keeping which we were to experience in later years. At this soirée, and indeed for the excursion the next day, we had as a guest Mr. Walter, of the London Times.
The next day we had a special train and an excursion of ladies and gentlemen to visit the marvellous Knob or Iron Mountain. This is an immense conical hill with a deep surrounding dale, beyond which rise other hills all of nearly solid iron. Returning that evening in the train, a very strange event took place. There was with us a genial, pleasant, larky young fellow, one of the famous family of the MacCooks. When the war came on he was at college—went into the army, fought hard—rose to be captain, and then after the peace went back to the college and finished his studies. This was the “event.” We were telling stories of dreams; when it came to my turn I said:—
“In 1860 I had never been in Ohio, nor did I know anything about it. One night—it was at Reading, Pennsylvania—I fell asleep, I dreamed that I woke up, rose from the bed, went to the match-box, struck a light, and while it burned observed the room, which was just the same as when I had retired. The match went out. I lit another, when what was my amazement to observe that everything in the room had changed its colour to a rich brown! Looking about me, I saw on a kind of étagère scores of half-burned candles in candlesticks, as if there had been a ball. I lighted nearly all of them. Hearing a sound as of sweeping and the knocking of a broom-handle without, I went into the next room, which
was the hall where the dance had been held. A very stupid fellow was sweeping it out. I asked him where I was. He could not reply intelligently. There came into the hall a bustling, pleasant woman, rather small, who I saw at a glance was the housekeeper. She said something to the man as to the room’s being dark. I remarked that there was light enough in my room, for I had lit all the candles. She cried, laughing, ‘What extravagance!’ I answered, ‘My dear little woman, what does a candle or two signify to you? Now please tell me where I am. Last night I went to sleep in Reading, Pennsylvania. Where am I now?’ She replied (and of this word I was not sure), ‘In Columbus, Ohio.’ I asked if there was any prominent man in the place who was acquainted with Philadelphia, and who might aid me to return. She reflected, and said that Judge Duer and his two daughters (of whom I had never heard) had just returned from the East.”
Here MacCook interrupted me eagerly: “You were not in Columbus, but in Dayton, Ohio. And it was not Judge Duer, but Judge Duey, with his two daughters, who was that summer in the East.” I went on:—