Thus is the whole distance of two hundred and eighty miles from St. Joseph to Fort Kearney - a gentle ascent of a quarter to half a mile, and then a corresponding descent, its regularity broken occasionally by a creek or a river. In May and June the road is alive with an almost continuous caravan, moving westward. Here is a train of twenty-six wagons, twenty-five of them laden with merchandise, and the remaining one carrying the provisions for the attachés of the train. Five yoke of oxen is the motive power for each wagon, and these are urged forward by a 'bull-whacker,' armed with a whip, carrying a lash from six to twelve feet in length, which makes its mark wherever it falls. When the train halts, it goes into corral,' that is, the wagons are placed so as to inclose an oval space, with an opening at one end. When the cattle are to be yoked, they are driven into this corral, and a chain is stretched across the entrance to keep them within. In case of an attack by Indians, the corral makes an excellent barricade; from such a temporary fortress, many a 'redskin' has received his death-wound. Here are wagons with families, and wagons without families. Here is a sorry-looking team with a load of provisions and mining outfits, and a dozen sorrier-looking followers on foot. The canvas wagon-cover is labeled: 'Pike's Peak or Bust.' Three months hence it may bear in addition the words: 'Busted, by Thunder.' Here is a squad of footmen, and just in advance four men harnessed to a hand-cart, and past them all rolls gracefully along one of the Central Overland coaches. Soon a clatter of hoofs is heard, and the Pony,' bearing letters that are to reach San-Francisco in twelve days, sweeps gayly by; passing alike pedestrian, ox-wagon, ambulance and coach. 'Make ten miles an hour, or kill a pony!' is the order given to each rider, and it is faithfully obeyed. Two hundred and eighty miles have been made by this line in twenty-four hours.

Such is a picture of the road from St. Joseph to Denver, on almost any day in the months of the spring migration. It is an almost unbroken line of wagons and pedestrians for the entire distance. In the variety of outfits, the grotesque costumes of the emigrants, the inscriptions upon the wagons, the appearance of the teams, the woe-begone aspect of the weary walkers, and the complacency of those who ride, the rough and unpresentable tout ensemble of the few women to be seen in all these there is sufficient to give the lover of the ludicrous constant enjoyment. But anon there may be a serious side to the picture. How many in that living panorama will enjoy the realization of their golden dreams? How many, now so joyous, will return at the approach of winter, cursing the day they started on that weary journey? How many will lie down to their long rest where fall the mountain shadows? How many a youth who left the paternal roof, pure and innocent, will return hardened and corrupted by contact with this semi-barbaric life? What deeds of crime, what suffering and penury, sorrow and remorse, will follow this search to satisfy the cursed thirst for gold!'

Marysville, in Kansas, is the last village of any importance passed by the traveller to the Western Gold Fields. It is situated on the Big Blue river, at the crossing of the old military road from Fort Leavenworth to Fort Kearney and California. It was started a few years ago by General Marshal, a noted

'border-ruffian,' but withal an agreeable and affable gentleman. He gallantly called the future metropolis 'Marysville,' in honor of his wife, and modestly named the county after himself. The city has great prospective and some actual importance. A railroad is confidently talked of to connect it with St. Joseph, the mines, and the Pacific Ocean. If you stop an hour or two, you will encounter a gentleman with a deal of dignity, who will kindly volunteer to show you through the town. After exhibiting the site of the court-house, and of the grand Union dépôt, the location for the cemetery, and several eight-story brick warehouses, he will bring up at a small groggery, and stand treat. At parting, after an affectionate shake of the hand, he will extort from you a promise to invest in Marysville lots on your return, sagely concluding, that if you now had any spare funds you would not be travelling to Pike's Peak. In your perambulations you will doubtless hear of fights and law-suits innumerable, for this little town has the reputation of being fonder of fist, knife and pistol encounters, and of settling them in courts, than any other in Eastern Kansas. Sometimes those who administer the law get strangely mixed up in its violation. On my first visit several men were arrested for the heinous crime of horse-racing. They anticipated and received an acquittal, for the wearer of the ermine had acted as 'judge' at the very race where the crime was committed. His honor had no idea of being particeps criminis in an offence against the law in such case made and provided.'

Leaving this frontier town, with its whiskey, its fights and its justice, we pass on to Fort Kearney. The fort is situated on the southern bank of the Platte river, on a fine grassy plain, and consists of scattered adobe and frame buildings, strong enough to afford protection from Indians, but of small avail against regular troops. One or more companies of our country's brave defenders' are always stationed here; and if one has letters of introduction to the officers, a few days can be passed pleasantly; otherwise, twenty-four hours will be dreary, and the visitor glad to move on. Now the road leaves the rolling prairie, and follows the level valley or 'bottom' of the Platte, broken from a smooth track by an occasional creek or water-course. The Platte is a wide and apparently majestic stream, but an examination convinces the traveller of the truth of the adage: 'Appearances are deceptive.' Like many a loud-mouthed declaimer, it lacks sadly in depth; it has not sufficient water to afford safe navigation to a good-sized cod-fish. Returning 'pilgrims' often attempt to descend it, but in only a few instances have they succeeded in reaching the Missouri, and then only by dragging their boats for hundreds of miles over shoals and quicksands. Fremont tells of a party of French fur-traders who were twenty-five days in going as many miles. In most cases emigrants are overset in the eddies, and lose their entire outfits. Last year, a poor fellow who had dragged his boat to within a few miles of Fort Kearney, was thus overturned, and lost every thing, reaching that post with only a single shirt. So much for the Platte.

Occasionally on our route we find the bluff coming down to the river's edge, and in such places generally encounter sand. Sometimes in a warm day we see before us beautiful lakes, surrounded by pleasant groves, inviting us to

rest and repose. On a near approach they vanish, and we learn that this mirage of the western plains is just as deceptive as that we read of on the deserts of Africa. At the South Platte Crossing, where the road to California leaves that to Denver, and crosses the Platte river, Indians are usually found. Experience has taught these vagabonds of the plains that it is easier to beg and steal their subsistence from the emigrants than to get it by hunting. If, my dear reader, you have derived your ideas of the red-man from 'Hiawatha' and Cooper's novels, I am sorry for you, for your fancy will receive a sad check. Instead of a formidable individual, dressed with care and taste, and looking the personification of those beautiful pictures that adorn bank-notes, you will behold a miserable, unwashed and uncombed creature, wrapped in a blanket that may once have been clean and new, but is now sadly the worse for wear, and covered from head to foot with all varieties of the genus pediculus. Take care that he does not come too near, or in a day or two an 'itching palm' may not be the only cutaneous affection with which you are afflicted. These rascals will beg for flour, whiskey, sugar and tobacco, with the utmost pertinacity, and will steal whatever they can lay their hands on. The only words of English they are capable of are the names of the articles they desire, the word 'How,' used in salutation; 'heap' for describing quantity, and, perhaps, a few sentences of profanity.

From Beaver Creek there are two routes leading to Denver. The one by way of the Platte takes you past several old forts or trading-posts, now in ruins. They were erected years ago when the trade with the Indians and trappers of the west was of far greater importance than at present. The prices at which goods were sold in the by-gone days of trapper history would satisfy the most profit-loving of this money-making age. The trapper who had labored and suffered to procure peltries, betook himself to the fort whenever the size of his 'pile' warranted a visit. Here he bartered the furs for coffee, sugar or flour, paying one dollar for a pint of each, for rum four dollars a pint, and tobacco one dollar a plug. The trader had also 'a boot on the other leg, for he sold the furs in the St. Louis market at a small advance on first cost. Beaver which he had bought at three dollars per pound, and paid for in goods at the above 'orful' rates, brought twelve dollars in hard cash. No wonder that traders were able to make their fortunes in a short time. Some of these wilderness forts were splendidly arranged. Bent's Fort, on the head-waters of the Arkansas river, had its principal apartments furnished with mirrors, chairs and sofas, in the highest style of the upholsterer's art. There were billiardtables from the hands of the most approved makers, with a player expressly employed to amuse visitors. Tropical fruits of every variety, and all the adornments of a metropolitan board, were there in abundance. But now, alas! naught marks the sight of the 'Old Fort,' save a mass of blackened ruins.

Sixty miles below Denver is the 'big bend of the Platte,' where that river sweeps around, changing its course from north to east. At this point is Cherokee City, a newly-fledged St. Louis. By reference to the map that adorns the stock certificates of Cherokee, it will be seen that it has the Pacific Railroad passing through it, is environed by gold mines, and other beauties of nature;

and is, in fact, the place of all others in the far west. If you invest in this town, do so with the conviction that it will make you a millionaire.

As the road by the Platte is much longer than the 'cut-off,' we will take the latter, although it passes away from the river, and has but little grass and water. If from this cause we should lose any of our animals, (supposing we took neither the speedy nor the independent mode of transit,) you will be likely to consider it the 'unkindest cut-off (of) all.' We will risk it, at any rate. But pause a moment - do you see that little cloud on the horizon, hanging there without change, while all around is fast fading away? It is no cloud, my friend, but the Rocky Mountains in the distance. After our long journey over this treeless prairie, is it not cheering to gaze on those grand old cliffs, towering in majesty above this level waste? Watch them as you advance, and note the changes that come over the picture. Now their forms rise distinctly, and you can no longer doubt their reality. Their corrugated sides, adown which the huge avalanche has held its course, now bursts on your view. The hazy, deep-blue mantle which enveloped them is drawn away, and they now are dotted with an ashen veil thin as gossamer. Those first in view are dark with the forests of pine, while farther on the white-clad peaks of the snowy range stand clear and sharp against the western sky. To the north Long's Peak rises like some grim mountain sentinel, thrusting his bold outline full into view. That rounded summit, in the extreme south, rising far above the surrounding mountains, is Pike's Peak, the cynosure for which the weary eyes of all in this mighty caravan have so long been watching. We will yet stand on its highest cliff, and feast our eyes on the picture there spread before us. Now, however, we are on our way to Denver, more of the Peak hereafter.

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As we ascend this ridge, cast your eyes down the valley of the Platte, and tell me what you behold. There, sure enough, is Denver, stretched for a mile or more along the river. Its motley group of brick, frame and log-houses is a welcome sight after our wilderness journey of seven hundred miles. That line of timber stretching from our left down to the centre of the town skirts the banks of Cherry Creek, at whose embouchure the first gold in the Pike's Peak region was discovered. Those white dots along its margin are the tents of emigrants like ourselves, who have reached their journey's end, and are now resting from their fatigues. How far is it from Denver to the Mountains?' 'A mile or two,' you may answer; but if some day you attempt it, you will find it at least twelve miles, and those liberal measure. It takes some time to become accustomed to the deception of this wonderfully clear atmosphere. Yonder is a flag floating from a staff in the centre of the city, and near it you can discern the outline of a huge warehouse. We will quicken our pace, and halt as soon as possible, at the door of some friendly hotel. But pause! before we enter the city of the living, let us glance at the city of the dead. Even this young metropolis has its cemetery, and here, two miles from the busy streets, it is located. Nine-elevenths of those lying here met violent deaths; the revolver and the bowie-knife have been far more destructive than disease, and here are their victims. No pains have as yet been taken to adorn and beautify

this burial-ground; it does not even boast an inclosure. Let us pass on, our business is not with the dead but with the living.

Almost the first building on our left is a small frame-house, some fourteen by twenty feet, with a modest little kitchen in the rear. Six Pike's Peakers reside here, and as they are at home this fine morning, and we happen to know one of them, we will enter. The house is like many habitations in Pike's Peak; what an Easterner would call a mere shell, being entirely innocent of lath or plaster. Its one room boasts of a pine table which serves alike for dining, writing, and whist-playing purposes. One of the occupants indulges in the luxury of a chair, but the remainder consider it an unwarranted extravagance, and content themselves with those modest articles of household economy known as 'three-legged stools.' That bed in the corner nightly holds a pair of sleepers, while their four friends take their rest at their places of business. Yonder mahogany desk in the opposite corner, once adorned an editorial sanctum in Cincinnati, and afterward in Kansas. That shelf holds a diminutive library; and among its volumes are Webster's Dictionary, several books of travel, Shakspeare's Works, and Kames' Elements of Criticism. A miscellaneous array of reading matter, indeed!

nean.

While we are glancing around the room, the cook, an ebony complexioned fellow, exulting in the name of Sam, enters to prepare the table for breakfast. Sam is a bright, active fellow, and is the same darkey who, while acting as barber in Lecompton, refused to shave Governor Medary by the month, because, as he expressed it: 'Kansas Gub'ners don't stay dere month out; dey is mighty onsartin, anyhow.' With care Sam spreads the cloth, arrays the crockery, and places the dishes in order. The four outside members of the family having entered, we will postpone our hotel visit, and accept an invitation to take our morning meal with them. All are seated at the table, and while cooling our coffee we will take a look at the assemblage. The man at the head has been a miner in California, a stage-driver in Australia, a land speculator in Iowa, and is now a merchant in Pike's Peak. That youth at his right, in appearance barely eighteen, has been two voyages up the MediterraThe individual on the left came from the old Bay State years ago, and has pretty well rambled over the indefinite region known as 'out west;' he took an active part in the Kansas wars, spent three long months in the famous Lecompton prison, and finally escaped with a few scars to give him occasional remembrance of old times. That bearded fellow, so busy with his coffee and beefsteak, is a traveller of twenty years' experience. With buffalo and polar bears, elephants and Esquimaux, Parisians and Tahitians, corn-bread and curry, cava and cocktails, he is equally familiar. Engage him in conversation at some leisure time, and you will find him interesting. The fifth is a journalist who has taken notes among Cincinnati pork-dealers, Kansas fights, Choctaw fevers, Arkansas bowie-knives, Missouri lead-mines, New-Mexican hombres, and Pike's Peak miscellanies. The sixth, and last, is also a journalist, whilom principal of a flourishing academy in the Granite State. Though but a few months in the country, he is as good a Peaker as the next man, and says life here is a pleasant change from its quietly civilized condition at the East. have briefly described each one of the semi-dozen, and if you look around you, you will find that every collection of the same number of individuals contains

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