Backwards March. 34«J 



brought vividly to mind the recollection of my own girl face beyond the- 



Father of Waters : 



" I'm going to write to papa, 

 And, oh, how glad he'll be 

 To get a little letter 



That is written all by me I " 



I do not know how many notches there are in the mountain wall around 

 8alt Lake valley ; but the Denver & Rio Grande makes its way out to the 

 eastward through the gorge of the Gunnison. The ascent of this canon is 

 rapid; and the river, half bound in most parts with its rugged fetters of ice, 

 plunges down headlong to meet you. It is a full, roaring stream of dark- 

 colored water, reminding you of the pine-stained streams of Wisconsin and 

 the north. The gorge is crooked to the last degree. Nature had her throes 

 and pangs and travail when this great chasm was torn asunder for the pas- 

 sage of the river. Up and on you go ; and the precipices on either hand rise 

 to higher and grander elevations. Their face is of blasted granite, weird and 

 dreadful. It was not often, amid the sublime scenes of the coast, that my 

 imagination had been really oppressed by the wildness and magnificence of 

 the landscapes ; but in the pass of the Gunnison I began to feel a certain 

 awe, under the shadow of solemn nature. Here she sat in her glory and 

 silence among the terrors of the mountains. Her features were beetling 

 cliffs and dark gorges and overhanging rocks and the glory of distant snow. 

 As you begin to approach the continental divide your attention is drawn to 

 one startling view after another, until wonder is paralyzed and perception 

 loses its sweep. 



I had been told that the Denver & Eio Grande would bring us through 

 the wildest and grandest scenery of the continent ; but words are impotent 

 symbols when it comes to conveying an impression of the sublimity of these 

 Rocky Mountain fastnesses. I will try, however, to particularize by men- 

 tioning a few of the principal features of the inspiring journey from the 

 valley of Salt Lake to Denver. Here we are at Castle Gate. The day is rap- 

 idly sinking into night. The gorge is full of shadows. Yonder, before us, 

 is the Gate itself. It is a vast wall, for all the world like the projection of 

 the Colosseum at Rome. Above its ragged edge some stars are shining, and 

 the rising moon yonder casts its faint light through the rifts of ruin. I 

 could not shake off the illusion that it was the Colosseum itself ; and pres- 

 ently, when we had returned to our Httle Pullman and extemporized a party 

 for declamations and songs — when Dr. Cobbett had told us a story, after the 

 manner of Dickens, and little Claudia had sung a song, and Mr. Anderson 

 had given one of his excellent pieces — the specter of the Colosseum was still 

 before me; and, in my turn, I recited for the company the splendid verses 

 from Byron's Manfred descriptive of the ruins of the Flavian Amphitheater. 



Morning found us still rushing along among the higher peaks of the 

 Rocky Mountains. We were coming to Marshall's Pass, which is the true- 

 continental divide. Ah, such engineering as it has taken to bring this little 



