July 7th.—I fell asleep, and when I was awakened at dawn this morning, by my companion, that I might not lose the scene, I started with surprise and delight. I was in the midst of a prairie! A world of grass and flowers stretched around me, rising and falling in gentle undulations, as if an enchanter had struck the ocean swell, and it was at rest forever. Acres of wild flowers of every hue glowed around me, and the sun arising from the earth where it touched the horizon, was ‘kissing with golden face the meadows green.’ What a new and wonderous world of beauty! What a magnificent sight! Those glorious ranks of flowers! Oh that you could have ‘one glance at their array!’ How shall I convey to you an idea of a prairie. I despair, for never yet hath pen brought the scene before my mind. Imagine yourself in the centre of an immense circle of velvet herbage, the sky for its boundary upon every side; the whole clothed with a radiant efflorescence of every brilliant hue. We rode thus through a perfect wilderness of sweets, sending forth perfume, and animated with myriads of glittering birds and butterflies:—
“A populous solitude of bees and birds,
And fairy formed, and many colored things.”
It was, in fact, a vast garden, over whose perfumed paths, covered with soil as hard as gravel, our carriage rolled through the whole of that summer day. You will scarcely credit the profusion of flowers upon these prairies. We passed whole acres of blossoms all bearing one hue, as purple, perhaps, or masses of yellow or rose; and then again a carpet of every color intermixed, or narrow bands, as if a rainbow had fallen upon the verdant slopes. When the sun flooded this Mosaic floor with light, and the summer breeze stirred among their leaves, the irredescent glow was beautiful and wonderous beyond any thing I had ever conceived. I think this must have been the place where Armida planted her garden, for she surely could not have chosen a fairer spot. Here are
‘Gorgeous flowrets in the sun light shining,
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day;
Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining
Buds that open only to decay.’
The gentle undulating surface of these prairies, prevent sameness, and add variety to its lights and shades. Occasionally, when a swell is rather higher than the rest, it gives you an extended view over the country, and you may mark a dark green waving line of trees near the distant horizon, which are shading some gentle stream from the sun’s absorbing rays, and thus, ‘Betraying the secret of their silent course.’ Oak openings also occur, green groves, arranged with the regularity of art, making shady alleys, for the heated traveller. What a tender benevolent Father have we, to form for us so bright a world! How filled with glory and beauty must that mind have been, who conceived so much loveliness! If for his erring children he has created so fair a dwelling place, how well adorned with every goodly show, must be the celestial home reserved for his obedient people. Eye hath not seen it—ear hath not heard it—nor can it enter into our hearts to conceive it.
Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,
God hath written in those stars above—
But not less in the bright flowrets under us,
Stands the revelation of his love.
I observe in all fashionable tours, what is eaten and drank seems to be matter of immense importance, and perhaps you will be disappointed if I do not touch upon themes of such high import. We had been warned our fare upon these ‘lonesome prairies’ would be poor, and of course we did not expect the tables of a New York hotel. The scarcity of stone, and of wood—as there are no pine and cedar except in the northern parts of Wisconsin—forbids much elegance in the few houses scattered along the road, and the first post house at which we stopped for breakfast was a rude log cabin. Our detention during the night had prevented our arriving at the usual breakfast hour, and it was supposed we had taken our meal elsewhere, and of course we were obliged to wait. ‘Breakfast! Breakfast!’ was the cry of driver and passengers, as we alighted. ‘Aye, aye!’ returned the landlord—‘I will scare you up as good a feed as you could find in Chicago.’ The room we entered was plainly furnished, but I remarked a pile of books upon a bureau, among which were the life of Gen. Harrison—Rollins Ancient History—Vicar of Wakefield, and several religious works. I regretted I could only place a few tracts among them. When I travel again in such lonely parts, I will endeavor to find a corner in my trunks for a few good books to leave among this reading people. The mistress and her daughter were very busy scaring up our breakfast, of which, I should think the chickens were the most scared. They soon placed upon the table cloth, some fine smoking potatoes from their garden—nice indian meal cakes, eggs, milk, cheese, cucumbers, butter, bread, and ‘chicken fixens.’ Every thing, being native produce, was very nice, but the coffee being a foreign article, was not as good as I have seen before, I must confess. The landlady’s method of preparing it was so novel, that I will write off the recipe for your edification. I had retreated to the kitchen fire, as I slept rather cold last night, it being misty, and there observed her process. She placed some coffee grains in an iron pot, which, being scared about a little until somewhat brownish, were laid upon the kitchen table, and pounded with a rolling pin. Boiling water being poured upon it, the coffee was dished up. Every one drank it contentedly, and I, being thirsty drank it also. The driver who sat next to me, having lived much in Chicago and other refined places rather turned up his nose, saying it was not half as good as he got at the Lake House. My companion contented himself with milk. While waiting at the door for the stage, our hosts’, son galloped up, dismounted and tied his horse to the fence. The animal looked as untamed as if just caught, his wild bright eyes flashed from beneath his shaggy uncut mane, and he pawed the ground, snorted and struggled, as if determined to break away and scour the free plains again. ‘Your horse loves not restraint,’ said I, ‘he wishes to be free.’ ‘Aye, aye! the critter snuffs a wolf and wants to be after him.’ ‘A wolf!’ ‘Yes—he is my wolf hunter, and dearly does he love a chase after them. When he sees them, nothing can stop him from chasing them—but they give him a pretty tough run sometimes. I have seen him follow one for a mile ere he overtook him, and then, with one stroke of his foot, the wolf is dead.’ I am sure the horse understood his master—his eye was fixed upon us while he spoke, and when he ended, tost his mane with a triumphant expression and stamped fiercely upon the ground, as if his enemy were beneath his foot.
‘All aboard!’ cries the driver, and we were again upon our course, our horses prancing gaily as if refreshed by their breakfast. A tree appeared against the horizon, looking exactly like a sail in the distance—others followed it, and soon beautiful groups of forest trees were sprinkled over the prairie in front. This was a token of the vicinity of water, and in a short time we found ourselves upon an elevated bank from which we looked down upon a verdant valley through the centre of which, ran a silver stream. This was the valley of the Des Plaines—having every appearance of being the bed of a broad and deep river. Many geologists, among them, Prof. Sheppard, thinks this and the valley of the Illinois, have been scooped out, by a vast torrent pouring from lake Michigan. Upon the opposite shore of the river and in this vale, at the foot of the ancient bank, stands the pretty town of Joliet, improperly spelt Juliet. The whole scene, was one of great beauty. We descended the bank, which is nearly one hundred feet high, and is composed of yellow water-worn pebbles. Winding down the road, upon the high bank opposite, was a long train of covered waggons, filled with a household upon its way to ‘a new home’ upon the prairies. After fording the stream, now rendered shallow by the summer heats, passing over the green sward we found ourselves before the door of the principal hotel in the town. Joliet takes its name from the old French traveller, father Joliet, who came here as a missionary in 1673, and stands at the mouth of a little stream of the same name. This is growing into a place of some importance, as the Michigan canal crosses the river here, and all travellers to the Illinois pass through it. It has a fine water power, for the descent of this river to the rapids at Ottowa, is great—the lockage of the canal being 142 feet. The population is over 600. There is here a court house, houses of worship, mills, taverns, and several shops. We remained here only long enough to change horses. While standing upon the steps, the covered waggons arrived, from which, looked forth men, women, children, dogs and cats, while pots, and kettles, and chairs, were dangling below. A group of sturdy looking men stood around the door. After our American fashion of asking questions, I addressed one of them who stood near me, and asked from what country he had travelled. ‘From St. Thomas, in Canada ma’am,’ he replied. ‘We are sixty families,’ said another, ‘and have left there because we want more freedom. We would live where we can say what we choose, and do what we choose. There our tongues are fettered!’ I learnt they were going to Rock river, a very fashionable place of emigration now. This is a beautiful stream, running through the north west part of Illinois into the Mississippi. The land is prairie upon its borders, which will well repay the agriculturist’s labors, while its rapids place a great amount of manufacturing power at the disposal of the settlers. The lead region is also in its vicinity. At the mouth of Rock river, in the Mississippi, is a pretty island of limestone, three miles long, which is occupied by fort Armstrong, garrisoned by United States troops. Dixonville on this river is a growing town. This I learned from my emigrants, and afterwards saw confirmed in a Gazetteer. So you see what a nice plan it is while travelling to extract information from all you meet. I am never bashful at asking. I bade adieu to the emigrants, hoping they would have their full of chat from which it seems they were debarred, and let the prairies ‘prate of their whereabouts.’ We re-crossed the river where we found the newer part of Joliet built in a solid manner, of the yellow limestone which is quarried here. The sides of the canal, and viaduct were also formed of this pretty stone, which gives quite a gay look to the place. It is said by Professor Shephard to be magnesian limestone, which occurs also at Chicago, abounding in orthrocera, turbo, terebratula, caryophillia, &c., and extends he thinks through the lakes. It is taken out here in stratified layers; and at Chicago, where it has a slaty structure, it is used for flagging. A few miles from Joliet, we passed an object, to me of the greatest interest—it was an Indian mound. This was a perfect gem—as regular, as smooth, and as green as if cut out of an emerald—being an oblong of fifty rods high, and seventy or eighty long. Although centuries have passed since it was formed, it is as perfect in shape, as if just moulded. A beautiful, solitary thing it is, telling of nations and events now lost in the mists of time. We saw afterwards, several others, bearing upon their summits ancient oaks, plain indication of their great antiquity. Flowers again in untold numbers, were covering the prairies, and here are many of our garden flowers growing wild, as blue bells, flox, bouncing bet, sweet william, roses, cocoris, beliotrope, astre, &c., beside wild flowers as fringed gentean, solidago, orchis, yellow golden rod, scarlet lilly, wild indigo, superb pink moccasin flower, and scarlet lobelia. There were many I had never seen—among them was a species of teazle, having a tall stem, purple head, surrounded by a fringe of long pink leaves—I called it the Indian fairy, for as its dark head bobbed about, and its pink mantle flowed around it, it looked like a tiny Indian. In fact, flowers
‘rich as morning sunrise hue,
And gorgeous as the gemmed midnight,’
were smiling and blooming in every direction. What a nice place for some hortuculturist to transport himself and cottage. Rural Howett would enjoy the scene—and Miller who loves to ‘babble o’ green fields’ and flowers, would find fitting subject here for his blossoming pen.