"A careless thing, who placed his choice in
chance,
Nursed by the legends of his land's romance.
Eager to hope, but not less firm to bear;
Acquainted with all feelings, save despair."
—Byron.
TEN dollars each, in addition to the usual fare ($52.50),
secured the privilege of joining the teachers of Oakland in an
excursion to the east. The incidents attending this journey were
of a many and varied character, partaking of tragedy, comedy and
serio-comic. On reaching Sacramento a party joined the excursion
consisting of a lady and her two children (Mrs. Dr. Tinckham),
the eldest a beautiful girl 16 years old, the youngest a boy
about 8. The train had reached but a short distance when, at
Rocklin, the report of a pistol was heard from a car in the rear
of us. In common with others I rushed to the melancholy scene to
behold that beautiful young lady in her mother's embrace,
breathing her last. The ball had penetrated her heart, and such
was the sympathetic confusion at the time that the fellow who
did. the shooting was suffered to escape. Opinion on the train
was pretty evenly divided as to whether the tragical event was
the result of accident or design. In either case, had the
scoundrel been caught it would have stood hard with him.
We are slow in remedial measures to check a fearfully growing
evil—the concealed-weapon curse. While we lament the tragic
feature of our excursion, we must not omit the serio-comic
portion thereof. On our way through the valley of Utah from
Ogden to Denver, by the narrow-gauge Rio Grande railroad, the
party was divided up, some desirous of seeing the lions of Salt
Lake City, others anxious to proceed to Denver. The latter party
we joined, and proceeded on our way to Denver. On approaching
Provo City I inquired of the conductor how long we stopped there
for dinner. His laconic answer was, " thirty minutes." Having
dined, I resolved to employ my time taking a photograph of the
snow-capped mountain of Nebo. It seemed posed and draped ready
for its picture. I had succeeded in posing the mountain and had
him in focus when the train was backed, cutting off the view. I
had just time to throw the plate away at the depot and behold
the train growing beautifully less in the distance. Here was I,
penniless, left among the Mormons, with my wife, daughter and
ticket retreating from my helpless view. I seated myself on a
bench and ventilated my feelings by perpetrating the following
doggerel:
This smiling morn of June,
By Utah's lovely banks,
I find my heart in tune
To offer up my thanks,
That thus I'm left behind
This paradise to view.
The faults let others find,
I sing of merits due.
Fleeing from the tyrant,
A helpless, homeless race,
Here they found a desert,
New trials stern to face.
Now a smiling garden|
Meets the wondering gaze,
The traveler stands aghast
At the marvel of the phase;
Nor has he time to probe
The every ways and means,
By which the broad disparity
Is made to lie between;
Whereas he found a wilderness,
A sterile, barren waste.
Now a scene of beauty
Adorned by arts and taste.
While thus engaged, the telegrapher, seeing me writing from
his window, asked me if I was communicating with the train for
my ticket. When shown the fruits of my study he seemed tickled,
and asked permission to copy the lines in his journal. Being
allowed he immediately became my friend. He proffered his
services to row me on the lake, and in two hours handed me a
note from my thoughtful Annie, inclosing my ticket and a $5
bill, with instructions to my erring steps to take the train on
the following day with the remainder of the party. Extraordinary
kindness appeared to be brought into full play by my mishap.
Well entertained at the hotel in Provo I took the train as
directed on the following day. The ladies of the party partook
of no delicacy that I must not share. On reaching the grand
junction we were met by a telegram announcing the destruction of
a bridge between us and Denver, and consequently had to retrace
our steps to Ogden, thence by Cheyenne to Denver—a city which,
for enterprise, was more like Chicago than any I had seen—which
we reached two hours after our folks had started for Omaha,
where, after a separation of some four days, we met to traverse
the rich fertile fields of Iowa and Illinois together to the
live city of Chicago, where we were in two weeks after our
arrival visited by our benefactor, Dr. Stoddart, who, in his
munificence, purchased a splendid new brick house for us,
wherein to dwell and end our days when the time comes for us to
go; and now this juncture suggests itself to me as a fitting
time to close this desultory record. Notwithstanding its being a
pledge redeemed, I go to press with fear and trembling. I have
endeavored, by interspersing such historical matter as came from
time to time under my notice, to tone down that crude
personality which a volume of this nature is apt to assume,
rather than make any attempt to embellish. I ask my circle of
friends to be tender in their criticism. Beyond that circle I
have not the presumption to look.
On politics in these memoirs I have been somewhat reticent.
However, I think due to my democratic friends (and they are
numerous as they are respected) some reasons for my clinging so
pertinaciously to the opposite party. Those friends will
doubtless agree with me in the assertion that hatred of slavery
is natural to a Scottish man. This feeling of hatred had the
effect of drawing me into the ranks of the anti-slavery society
in London. After residing in that city twenty-seven years I
became a citizen of this great republic, and for ten years voted
in Wisconsin by virtue of my first papers. It so happened that,
landing in this country in 1848, I found the agitations of the
factions pretty high. The slave-power, squirming under trammels
of former compromises, was assuming a bolder front, threatening
the stultification of Mason and Dixon's line and the measures
employed in the introduction of Missouri into the Union in 1821.
To counteract those influences a new platform was formed at
Buffalo, under the auspices of Mr. Van Buren, called the
"free-soil platform." Could there be any marvel that I should
become attached to that party whose proclivities were so much in
unison with my past life? This party ripened into what is now
called the Republican party. With its laudable endeavors I have
drifted, and at this late day regret it not, although I think
the nation has profited by our defeat at the last presidential
election. All honor to the present incumbent! May his noble
efforts to purify this grand republic from all evils which the
bias of party spirit inevitably engenders be crowned with
success, is the sincere wish of the subscriber,
D. J. |
