THE 



AMERICAN 



SPORTSMAN'S JOURNAL. 



NEW YORK, THURSDAY, JULY 26, 1877- 



LEGEND OF YOSEMITE VALLEY. 



IT Is only a legend— a wild, strange tale 

 That may fade with the vanishing Indian trail— 

 The trail that the ancient Aztecs trod 

 To the northern shrine of an Aztec god. 



The trail still stretches, but dimly seen, 

 From the prairie, brown to the uplands green ; 

 From uplands green to the mountains white 

 It Is visible still to the Indian's sight, 

 And Indians murmur in native rhyme 

 Of Aztec rite3 in the olden time. 



Yosemite canyons still bear trace 



Of mystic marks of a former race— 



Of a race that has faded and left no sign 



Bat the legend told in this tale of mine, 



And a few wierd marks on the canyon's side 



That gathering lichens dimly hide. 



The Aztecs came by the southern trail 

 To the Vernal Fall and the Bridal Veil, 

 From the Tlascalan Temples and Aztec fanes 

 That moulder now on the southern plains ; 

 From the sun-god's throne to the star-kiDg's bed 

 In the miracle vale of the bright Merced. 



And the Indians gazed on the cortege small, 

 Passing up through a rift in the canyon wall ; 

 And they heard the peal of the Aztec bell, 

 The drumbeat's throb and the trumpet's swefl ; 

 And they saw the deeds which were done below, 

 And they heard the shrieks in the mountain snow, 

 And they fled, like deer from a forest flame, 

 When the Tlascalan priests and their cortege came: 

 Three filleted priests with sun-king's bands. 

 Plumed, jeweled and stained by an Inca's hands: 

 Three innocent virgins borne to bleed, 

 To suffer and die by a Pagan creed— 

 A sturdy band of the Inca's braves, 

 A toiling throng of the Inca's slaves. 



They slowly file from the canyon's gloom, 

 And wearily climb to the highest dome; 

 And the Indians say that the victims' shrieks 

 Still echo at night through the mountain peaks. 



Two on the mountain and one below, 

 One by the river and two in the snow, 

 Cometh sullenly, sweeping, a vapor gray, 

 And encircles the peak where the virgins lay. 



In Yosemlte's valley still grimly stands 

 An altar chiseled by human hands ; 

 The lichen has burnished the cruel stains 

 or virgin blood from virgin veins, 

 And richer and greener the mosses cling. 

 To the cromlech stone of the Pagan king. 



Were Druid rites of the distant East 

 Held here, of old, by the Aztec priests? 

 The convex stone and the sculptured wall, 

 And the perishing Indian tale are all ; 

 Are all that are, till a poet's strain 

 Shall awaken the past to the world again. 



— San Joaquin Valley Argiu. 



For Forest and Stream and Rod and Gun. 



$h% geart of the J£*//a^. 



EXPERIENCES IN MISSOURI — BEMINISOENOES OP ANTE-DBLLUM 



DATS— HOMBS FOK SPORTSMEN — THE METROPOLIS OF 



THE SOUTHWEST. 



LATE in the night of a stormy, blustering April day of 

 the prsjent year, the westward-bound train, on the Mo. 

 Pacific R. E. from St. Louis, packed with legislators, lobby- 

 ists, emigrants and the omnipresent commercial traveler, 

 rushed shrieking into the depot at Jefferson City, the capital 

 of Missouri. There were a few pleasure seekers aboard the 

 train, but not many ; for at this season of the year there are 

 few pleasures to be found in travel, and they are to be sought 

 for in the woods and along the river bottoms. But the num- 

 ber of enthusiasts who shoulder their guns and pack their 

 "grip sacks" with the wardrobe necessary for a ducking ex- 

 pedition, are not by any means named legion. Our sleeping 

 coach was detached from the train, and run upon a siding, 

 while the remaining cars thundered onward in their westward 

 course, leaving us to quietly sleep away the balance of the 



night, with the mighty Missouri rolling by on the one side, 

 and the silent city reposing on the bluffs above. The genial 

 rays of the early sun streamed in through the narrow 

 windows of our nomadic lodging house, and our eyes were 

 opened upon daylight and a due realization of the stomach's 

 wants. The appreciation of the first was glorious after the 

 satisfaction of the latter. Daybreak had dispelled darkness. 

 All signs of the storm were dissipated, and the generous menu 

 of the Madison soon appeased the gastronomic cravings. Two 

 years had been reeled off into the lap of time since last I had 

 visited the place. 



The prosaic city of Jefferson is spread over the irregular line 

 of bluffs which seemingly have drifted in from the westward 

 during past ages, and terminated a somewhat uncertain 

 prehistoric journey upon the south bank of the "Big Muddy." 

 History informs us, in a traditional manner, that Rome was 

 built on seven hills. Missouri's capital " sees" that, and goes 

 fifty better. Real estate here, in the shape of building lots, is 

 somewhat a delusion. One can never know where to look for 

 a sewer line, whether in mid-heaven or deep in the recesses of 

 the earth. It is not infrequent that denudations of the hilltops 

 occur, and a cottage that once reposed upon a pinnacle may be 

 found, after the phenomenon of a land slide, projected down- 

 ward upon a cherished lawn beneath. But they are a patient 

 people, the dwellers of Cole county, and, unlike Mark Twain's 

 hero of the Sierras, they never find this state of affairs grow- 

 ing monotonous. There is to be found hereabouts scarcely 

 any vestige of former greatness, such as mouldering castles, 

 Cardiff giants and Aztec mummies ; you find no traces of an- 

 tique splendor and no musty chronicles of mighty deeds done 

 by mighty men with lance and sword. No poetic legends 

 cling around ivy-grown ruins, gloomy and grand. True, there 

 stands upon one of the highest bluffs overhanging the turbid 

 waters of the Missouri that dismal architectural affectation, 

 which the present Missourian's grandfather conceived and ded- 

 icated, some time in the early part of the present century, to 

 the use of a law making people, which might be excepted and 

 rendered classic— placed at the disposal of the relic hunter and 

 his Vandal hammer. The Capitol is the hub around which 

 everything in its vicinity revolves. Paradoxical as it may ap- 

 pear, every person's face is turned Capitolward, while the build- 

 ings all present their rear gables. Within the limit of space, 

 as prescribed by the corporate bounds of the city, lies the 

 Capitol's great satellite, the penitentiary, whose influence is 

 felt throughout the plane of the State's social and political 

 elliptic; and it is no mean adjunct to the local census. The 

 enumeration of the indigent unfortunates who are forced 

 through circumstances, referable to sundry unpleasantnesses, 

 to take up a temporary abode and accept, with becoming hu- 

 mility, the munificence which a bountiful commonwealth ex- 

 tends to them, must increase the city's population at least two 

 thousand. The estimated population of Jefferson City is eight 

 thousand. In the government of this institution the State has 

 experimented considerably. The Legislature savants, while 

 in session last winter, w T ere too greatly occupied with the dis- 

 cussion of Retrenchment and Reform, as applicable to cler- 

 ical salaries, the security of their own per diem, and the inves- 

 tigation of "slush takers," to give the requisite attention need- 

 ed by the several charges upon the State. Many of the insti- 

 tutions supported by the State were left in a condition not 

 creditable to the commonwealth of Missouri. The public- 

 school system is good, but the folly of many States in attempt- 

 ing to support a University upon limited endowments is fully 

 exemplified in Missouri. Society at the capital is very similar 

 to that in other States, being quite brilliant, but in Missouri it 

 is marked by an excess of democratic ease and freedom more 

 observable than along the Atlantic coast. The ladies one meets 

 here are intelligent and beautiful — rich types of perfect wo- 

 manhood. Once every two weeks during the session of the 

 Assembly a reception is given at the Executive Mansion. The 

 history of the gubernatorial receptions from early days down 

 to the present is an epitome of reminiscences dear to the heart 

 of every Missourian. How many life destinies have been 

 mapped out in the spacious corridors of the noble mansion! 

 How many gay flirtations have transpired beneath the brilliant 

 chandeliers ! How many convivial assemblies of bon vivants 

 have discussed the sparkling vintage of the blue grass region 

 within those hospitable walls! What lovely women have 

 thronged those halls, and given their exquisite presence to 

 make a thousand hearts beat happily 1 



" Then all was jollity, 

 Feasting and mirth like wantonness and laughter, 

 Piping and playing, dancing and masking, 

 Till life fled from them like an idle dream." 

 Reviewing the administrations of the past, one who is ac- 

 quainted with the history of the Capitol deduces the conclu- 

 sion that society, during the sitting of the 29th General As- 

 sembly, more nearly approaches the select circle of ante-bel- 

 lum days. There was a time when Jefferson City boasted of 

 the genuine aristocracy of the South and her " high-toned 

 southern chivalry." But the devastating hand of war changed 

 affairs materially. Property and fortune were lost, and the 

 population of the country unsettled and demoralized. Of 

 late, the work of reconstruction has steadily revived society 

 and brought it nearer to the pristine era of glory. Many an- 

 ecdotes are told of the eccentricities of Missouri's free-hearted 

 governors. One in particular I recall that was related to me 

 by an old newspaper man : 



" There was big-hearted Bob Stewart, and I tell you, Coio- 

 nel (everybody gets a shoulder- piece in this country), he was 

 one of the boys. Good wine and lovely women were his 

 weakness ; good fellowship his motto. A bright future dawn- 

 ed for him, but liquor got the upper hand and laid him low. 

 He was a most convivial fellow, and when he slipped into the 

 Governor's chair he made wild riot in the old mansion. But 

 with all his weaknesses, he had a great heart, and there was of 

 ton a fund of humor, which cropped out in singular instances. 

 Upon one occasion, he came across a gang of convicts at work 

 and questioned each of them in turn as to the offense commit- 

 ted. The first one said he had been sentenced for robbery, a 

 crime of which he was innocent. The second one had been 

 sent up for horse stealing, and declared his entire guiltlessness 

 of so heinous an offense. The whole gang were suffering in- 

 nocents, except one old man, whom the Governor spoke to last. 

 " ' Well, old party, what are you in for ?' 

 " ' I stole a sheep.' 

 " ' So, you stole a sheep, eh ?' 



"'Yes, sir. My family were starving, and I stole it for 

 them to eat,' 



Gov. Bob mused a moment, and then turning to his secre. 

 tary, who accompanied him, said : 



"'See here, make out this rascal's pardon immediately. 

 We can't have him in the penitentiary any longer corrupting 

 all of these innocent men.' " 



I had not been in Jefferson but a few days before I met that 

 genial sportsman, Dr. Phil. T. Miller, also Maj. J. A. Han- 

 nay, of the Versailles Gazette, a person of decided piscatorial 

 proclivities; gentlemen both, with hearts that warmed to- 

 ward their brethren of the rod and gun. To meet them was 

 to dine with them. The Doctor is a strong advocate of the 

 No. 10 moderate choke, and the Major thinks that the pleas- 

 ures of the forest and stream are centred wholly in the rod, 

 while your correspondent bases his expectations of earthly 

 bliss in the 26-inch sporting rifle, mats ckaucon son gout. As 

 we tarried late over an evening dinner, a discussion arose upon 

 the merits of our respective sports. 



"I tell you," said the doctor, as he lifted a glass of the 

 sparkling "Imperial," and marked with a critic's eye the danc- 

 ing bead and play of light through the rich hyaline,—" I tell 

 you that the only pleasure of the gentleman is to be found be- 

 hind a good double gun, over well-trained dogs ; and I ask 

 nothing better than a Lefever or Scott, No. 10. I never re- 

 turn from shooting in the crisp, bracing air of early morning 

 without feeling invigorated and prepared for the day's work to 

 follow. The delightful companionship of my gun and dogs, 

 the full game bag and the keen appreciation of a richly earned 

 breakfast bring joy to the senses and strength to body and 

 mind. And apropos of dogs, Eastern gentlemen seem to have 

 gone wild on the subject of setters, insinuating thereby that 

 the pointer must take second place. I prefer the pointer. I 

 find him easier to manage and keep than the setter. He is 

 staunchcr, stands heat better, and his short, sleek coat is as a 

 suit of mail against burrs." 



" In some respects," I replied, " I quite agree with 

 you. Tha gentlemen of New York and other northern 

 States adopt the setter from many weighty reasons. 

 He is better able to endure the rigors of the cold climate 

 and chilly waters of the northern latitude than his thin- 

 skinned compeer, and his 3haggy coat is a safeguard against 

 thoiny underbrush. But I am not prejudiced in favor 

 of one particular breed of dogs. 1 believe in both the setter 



