I welcome every flower I see with tender pleasure as if the gift of a friend—for I know they were planted among us to add to our enjoyment. Their culture has soothed many a mourning heart, and their blossoming is as eagerly looked for in the spring, as if their own loved one was returning from the earth. There is nothing that can so soon transport us to scenes and friends long gone, and awaken buried memories of former joy as these brilliant creations. Earth would look dim without them—the bride would want a grace—the bier would seem more gloomy—while the sculptor, the artist, and the embroiderer, would lose their prettiest model of adornment.
A line of trees proclaimed a river near, and we soon dashed through the Au Sable, the horses dancing with joy, as the clear cool waters curled about their feet. The sight of a house upon the opposite bank, seemed quite a novelty, as we had not seen one since leaving Joliet, at nine o’clock, and it was now one. The house was of boards painted white, and a hanging sign proclaimed it one of entertainment. Here we dined and changed horses. The meats were very good, the pies and custards tolerable, but the vegetables were the finest we had ever tasted. Peas, beans, potatoes all were very excellent. Every thing we saw was from the landlords farm, which extended over the prairie some distance from his house. He and his men, came in from the corn fields when the conch, sounded for dinner, and without their coats—their shirt sleeves rolled up, they placed themselves beside us—one does not dress for dinner upon the prairies. While travelling in unsettled countries one must leave all one’s nicities at home. It took us some little time to shut our eyes against soiled table covers, iron knives and forks, &c.,—but once resolved to overlook it, we succeeded, and ceased to notice it. When we consider what a life these early settlers have led, we should only wonder things are as decent as they are. The man comes out here in his youth, with an axe, upon his shoulder—hews him a space in the forest and erects a log hut—here upon the floor, spread with the skin of a beast perhaps, he sleeps, his only companions, his dog, or an Indian—he gradually acquires furniture of his own making, and when he came to eating from a table instead of a stone or a stump, he thinks himself very comfortable. A table cloth is such a luxury that he scarcely remarks when it gets soiled, as even then it is cleaner than his log table, and knives of the coarsest description are treasures to him. Our landlord spoke of his prairie land with the greatest enthusiasm. The ground is very hard to break, generally requiring several yoke of oxen, while beneath that the mould is several feet in thickness without stones, requiring no manuring and apparently inexhaustible. Some of the old settlements, where farms had been worked for twelve years, it was still as fertile as ever—giving the tiller very little trouble, and yielding rich crops. The oasis, or ‘oak openings,’ upon the prairies are very beautiful. We passed through one this morning. It presented the appearance of a lawn, or park around some gentleman’s seat. The trees are generally oak, arranged in pretty clumps or clusters upon the smooth grass—or in long avenues, as if planted thus by man. From their limbs hang pretty vines, as the pea vine—lonicera flava, honey-suckle—and white convolvulus. While our carriage wound among these clumps, or through the avenues, it was almost impossible to dispel the illusion that we were not driving through the domain of some rich proprietor, and we almost expected to draw up before the door of some lordly mansion. Our afternoon drive from the Au Sable to Ottowa was through a treeless prairie, looking very much like a vast lake or ocean. So much is this appearance acknowledged by the country people that they call the stage coach, a prairie schooner. When the sun shines brightly over the landscape, its yellow light gives the prairie an azure hue, so that one can scarcely see where the earth ends, and the sky begins. The undulations are a very singular feature in the landscape. This is best seen at early morning or sunset light—the summit of every little swell is illumined, while the hollow between lies in shadow, thus making the ground a curious chequer work. We saw many prairie hens, or species of grouse this afternoon, but no wolves or deer, much to my regret. The road is so much travelled that they avoid it and retire to more sequestered places. Birds innumerable, were sporting in the sun’s light among the flowers, and butterflies clad like Miltons angels, in ‘purple beams, and azure wings, that up they fly so drest.’
And now you ask, to what is the prairie land owing; fire or water? Many are the theories upon this subject. The Indian name for prairie, is scutay, (fire;) and they are in the custom of burning off the grass every fall. Some will tell you, to this must be traced the dearth of trees. As the mould is so deep—in some places twenty feet, and there are in it, except in one or two places, no trace of trees or the huge stumps they leave, this does not seem probable, at least the trees must have been burnt from ages. Others will tell you it is the sediment of an ocean which is spread over the land—or in some places large lakes. In Illinois it is said there was once as large a lake as Michigan, which, burst its barrier at the grand tower rocks upon the Mississippi. A chain of lakes it is said have once stood upon the western land which have left these basins of deep alluvion covered with herbage. These water theorists, one of whom is Schoolcraft, point to the bowlder’s of granite and gneiss which are scattered over the country from the northern ocean to the gulf of Mexico, lost rocks, as they are called, as traces of this flood. Why not join the two theories? The land has no doubt been covered with water; this is proved by the ‘lost rocks,’ by the hard packed soil like the bottom of a lake; by its inky blackness, when wet, as we see in marshes, and, by the marsh grasses, and water plants which are seen growing upon it. This land, when dry was occupied by the Indians, who kindled a fire at the edges of a circle, among the rushes, which drove the animals in the centre where they were caught. The roots of the prairie grass is not destroyed by fire, and it therefore could not so completely eradicate the roots of those enormous trees which grow upon the western land. There is nothing in a prairie land to prevent the growth of trees, as wherever the fire is checked they immediately spring up. The rivers also protect their trees from fire.
Prairie land occupies two thirds of the State of Illinois; the dearth of water, and wood, and stone, will prevent them from being settled very thickly, except in the vicinity of the rivers; so that these beautiful plains will long remain undisturbed to gratify the traveller’s eye. The prairies would of course be underlain with coal, as this great mass of vegetation which has been destroyed by the floods which have stood upon them, pressed beneath the incumbent strata and exposed to heat, moisture, and pressure, will produce fermentation, and afterwards hardened strata; accordingly it is found that coal is universal every where in the west. Why should we stop at second causes in considering the origin of prairies; why speak of Indian fires, or rushing floods? The Almighty mind who hath conceived this admirable globe, and who, with such infinite taste, hath formed and beautified it, decking it with flowers and every other delight, has spread out this fair western world with lakes immense, and stately forests, wondrous cataracts, smiling prairies, and broad rolling rivers, to decorate the abode of His loved, although erring sons. He, in his wisdom, foresaw the time would come, when the exhausted soil, and crumbling institutions, and crowded homes of the old world, would require a new field for its overgrown population, and held this world perdu beneath the ocean caves until the fitting moment. When the hour had come, it arose fresh and blossoming from the sea, adorned with a goodly variety of mountain, lake, fair plain, and noble river, to compensate the lonely wanderer for the home he has been forced to leave. Now is not that a pretty theory? That this continent was much longer submerged beneath the diluvial flood, and is indeed a new world, is, I believe, generally conceded by geologists. There is something delightful to look upon the earth, as we do here, in its pristine glory and virgin freshness. The waters may have lingered longer upon the broad valley which lies between the Alleghany and Rocky mountains, depositing that rich alluvion which lies so deep upon the land, and when departing, ploughed its way through those great valleys where now the western rivers flow. It was then, perhaps before the deluge, the abode of that monstrous saurian race, some sixty feet in length, whose bones are now dug up in Texas, and must be under the soil. When their ‘days were fulfilled,’ they were destroyed and sank beneath the floods to harden in the limestone; and when the land had become dry, the mastodon arose and stalked over the western plains; for since he has been discovered buried in the soil of Missouri, with Indian arrows sticking in his flesh, he is proved not to be antediluvial. When his career was over, the Indian tribes were admitted into the new born world; and whatever interest we may take in their fate—however we may pity them, we must all agree they have misused their gift. Their talent was hid, the fields were untilled, the stores of marbles and metals, and materials choice and rare, which were placed there that man might rear him a comfortable habitation, and lordly temples for his God, remained unknown in their secret deposites. The Indian was doomed to share the fate of the mammoth: the barrier which concealed this world from the older part was loosed, and the waves of human population that rolled over it, has pushed back the Indians, step by step, and thinned their ranks, and will thin them, until their race also lies under the soil whose riches they knew not how to use.
It is a singular and interesting thing to stand, as I do now, upon the confines of the earth, as it were, ‘at the green earth’s end,’ and gaze back through the vista of time, over Europe, and Africa, and Asia, upon the nations that have risen and flourished, and become extinct, each in its turn, like those animal races, whose story is sculptured, geologists tell us, upon the ribs and arches of the earth beneath us. There we look upon the decline and fall of nations—here upon their blossoming spring-time. And it is a curious thing to look on here and see the machinery of world making at work—to behold the progress of society going on under your eyes, from its infancy to its maturity. As in a panorama we behold the wigwam of the savage pass away to give place to a log hut; that disappears and a goodly farm appears; then a settlement, a village, a town in succession, until at last, an imposing city filled with institutions for all arts and sciences; with temples, academies, and all appliances of society in its state of culture and maturity. While thus watching nations rising and setting; moved and transported upon the earth’s surface as the pieces of a chess-board, a guiding hand is as distinctly visible, as upon the walls of Beltshazzer’s palace. To the poor Indian the hand-writing again appears: ‘thou art weighed in the balance and found wanting!’ Beware ye, who have inherited his land, that the sentence be not written up against you also!
A ground swell, rather higher than the rest, placed us upon an elevation, from whence we looked down upon the enchanting vale of Ottowa. A verdant plain lay below us, over which two bright rivers were winding, the Fox and the Des Plaines, which meeting, formed a broad and noble stream, which runs 220 miles from this spot to the Mississippi. The Illinois, first takes that name here. The plain was bounded in the distance by groves of stately trees, and by the bluffs of the Illinois. In the centre of this fair valley, just where the ‘bright waters meet,’ is the little town of Ottowa. It is youngling, just come out, and contains only 1,006 inhabitants, but is rapidly increasing. A gentle descent of about a mile, brought us to the banks of the Fox, beneath the shadow of the shrubbery which fringed its shores we drove some time following its windings and gazing at the bright sheen of its waters glittering through the foliage. We forded it twice while crossing the valley, and so pure and transparent was the stream, that the pebbles which lay upon the sandstone floor, could be seen as distinctly as in the hand. The canal passes here, and the workmen were building a handsome viaduct, across the stream. The Fox river is here about 100 yards wide, but is low at this season. It rises in Wisconsin, and is navigable to within fifteen miles of lake Michigan near Milwaukie. Many parts of its shore are richly wooded. The rapids upon the stream afford a great amount of water power, serviceable for machinery. A short drive, after again crossing the Fox, brought us before the door of the principal hotel, called the Mansion House. The site of Ottowa only having been laid out in 1830, ten years since, you cannot expect many details of its fine streets and churches; I leave that for the next year’s tourist. The buildings principally consist of shops, arranged in a square, upon one side of which is our hotel, and upon another side, a large brick court-house is in progress—this being a county town. The Ottawans are much disappointed that the canal did not terminate at their town, instead of Peru, fifteen miles lower down the Illinois. Notwithstanding this, the town must increase, and enjoys considerable trade, as it is surrounded by a good farming country, prairie and woodland, with abundance of limestone and sandstone in its vicinity. Its water power will in time render it another Rochester for the Genessee farmers, who will soon be raising their grain in the plains around. Beside this it is the centre of an extensive coal basin, which crops out in various places in the neighborhood. Chicago now receives supplies of that article here, which she once obtained from Ohio. When the Illinois is high, steamboats from St. Louis reach here, but at present they ascend no higher than Peru. They gave us a very nice supper here, which we partook in company with the boarders, travellers, and our driver. This last attacked the ham and broiled chickens right manfully, declaring he was as hungry as a prairie wolf. Pray do not expect a bill of fare at every place—suffice every thing was as good as could be expected—nay better, for who would look for such city dainties as orange sweetmeats and iced cakes in this young wilderness settlement. Every thing desirable can be obtained, by the steamboats here, except good cooking, and style at table—these will come in time, and their absence affords variety in our wanderings.
A peep at the ‘Ottowa Republican,’ and several neighboring papers, amused us until the stage horn sounded—we entered our stage—the leaders were touched, and we bade adieu to Ottowa I fear forever. I shall not soon forget that lovely purple evening, which threw such a charm over the scenery as we drove from Ottowa to Peru, a distance of fifteen miles. Our road lay beside the bright Illinois, upon prairie or bottom land, which lines each side of the river throughout its whole length, making a valley from one to five miles broad, skirted with high limestone and sandstone bluffs. The ground was gay with flowers, and as the twilight threw its purple haze over the opposite shore, it became alive with hundreds of brilliant fire flies, larger and more luminous than any I had ever seen. Many a time have you and I sat in our early days upon the banks of the Passaic, watching these brilliant creatures as they starred the black robe of night, but we never beheld them so large, and dazzling as these western lights. The river was as smooth as a mirror, upon which was reflected the trees and rocks with perfect distinctness, but it had a darker hue than those bright waters we had passed, being tinted with a brownish topaz. I remarked this to my companion, who attributed its dark shade to the alluvion and black mould through which it flowed. ‘It cannot be wholesome,’ I said, ‘I should not like to drink it.’ ‘I guess if you had been on top of that rock three hundred years ago,’ said an old man who sat opposite me, peering out the stage at the opposite bluffs, ‘you’d been glad to drink it ever so muddy or unhealthy.’ I opened my eyes and stared enquiringly at him. ‘That’s the rock where the Ingins were starved to death,’ he said in answer to my look. ‘Indeed!’ I exclaimed, ‘Is that starved rock?’ Our heads were out the window, and we looked with much interest upon the scene of that Indian tragedy. A high cliff of alternate sandstone and limestone layers, stands out like a turret from the rocky bluffs one hundred and forty feet above the river—it was spotted with moss, and fringed with trees, which the sun’s last rays had tinged with gold, and amber, and rose. ‘Yes, ma’am, that’s the rock,’ continued our fellow traveller. ‘Down to the river they sunk their kettles with bark ropes, in hopes of getting water, but the cruel Pottawattamies cut the strings, and so they died.’ And so they died! What images of anguish, sorrow, rage and despair, does that short sentence convey to our minds!
The fate of the unhappy band of Illini, who dwelt in the fair land which has taken their name, has been related by Schoolcraft and Flint; but as I think you have not seen their works, I will tell it you. The Illini were defeated in battle by the Pottowattamies, and retreated to the top of this rock, which by a narrow ledge joins the land. This spot they defended some time, but at length their provisions and water failed. They scorned to surrender, but one by one lay down in dignified composure, and, like Cæsar, drawing their mantles over them, died in silence. The last one who had defended the rock at length expired, and the enemy seeing no one appear, entered the strong-hold to find them all at rest. Their bones repose there now. The rock is passed, and upon the prairie at our right we behold the brazen glare of a fire lighting up a dozen dark figures which are flitting around it. This is an emigrant bivouac. Some of their wagons taken from their wheels shelter the center where the men repose; the women and children remain in the other vehicles. A fire in the midst keeps off the moschetoes, and perhaps a prairie wolf, thus affording under the mild sky a comfortable place of repose without the expense of a hotel. The prairie grass forms a soft bed for the men, and food for the cattle.
‘I reckon the Ottowa folks are pretty considerably nettled,’ said our old traveller, in a voice which rendered ‘night hideous’ with its harshness. ‘They thought the canal would end there, and they would git all the trade.’ ‘The Ottowa folks don’t depend on no canals, I guess,’ replied another passenger, apparently a neighboring farmer, taking up the cudgels for his favorite town. ‘Ottawa’s a great and increasing place, which will beat Chicorgo yet. Wait a while and you’ll see rows of factories and mills upon the Fox, and you’ll see the rapids scooped out below, so that the steamboats can come up at all times, and then I wouldn’t give a cent for your Peru. Ottawa folks keep their eyes skinned I tell you!’ ‘Oh! you prairie chickens crow loud; you are always laying out for mills to grind the grain what you mean to raise. You’d better come and open a shop now, or a bank, at Peru; things will rise when old Tippecanoe comes to the white house.’ ‘Tip me none of your old ginerals, if you please,’ said his opponent. ‘Van’s the man for me. Give me Van Buren for President and things will rise enough.’ The gurgling of water, as we forded the Little Vermillion, drowned the noise of these village politicians much to my comfort. Soon after we found ourselves in the midst of a group of Irish shantees, occupied by the canal laborers, flanked by a row of low wooden tenements, upon the bank of the moon-illumined Illinois. ‘This, ladies and gentlemen,’ said the farmer, in a tone of derision, ‘is the grand town of Peru!’ ‘Yes, and bigger than Ottawa was, when it was as newly settled as Peru,’ answered the Peruvian disdainfully. As I looked around me, I thought of Tinkerville and its public square in the forest; but every thing must have a beginning. The steamboat frontier was waiting to receive us, and we were soon, with our luggage, translated to her deck. Fatigued as we were we could not leave the deck for some time, for the night sun, as the Indians call the moon, was shining brightly down upon the smooth surface of the Illinois, lighting up her forest glades as we passed, and throwing fantastic shadows over the silver water. However, a night and a day in a stage coach has beaten all romance out of us, and we at length retreated to our snug state-room. The mosquitoe nets were drawn over us, and we soon bid to nature and to you a fair good-night.