CHAPTER IX.
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.