We passed Prairie du Chien, another of Father Marquette’s
camping-places; and after some hours of progress
through varied and beautiful scenery, reached La Crosse.
Here is a town of twelve or thirteen thousand population,
with electric lighted streets, and with blocks of
buildings which are stately enough, and also architecturally
fine enough, to command respect in any city.
It is a choice town, and we made satisfactory use
of the hour allowed us, in roaming it over, though
the weather was rainier than necessary.
We added several passengers to our list, at La
Crosse; among others an old gentleman who had come
to this north-western region with the early settlers,
and was familiar with every part of it. Pardonably
proud of it, too. He said—
’You’ll find scenery between here and
St. Paul that can give the Hudson points. You’ll
have the Queen’s Bluff—seven hundred
feet high, and just as imposing a spectacle as you
can find anywheres; and Trempeleau Island, which isn’t
like any other island in America, I believe, for it
is a gigantic mountain, with precipitous sides, and
is full of Indian traditions, and used to be full
of rattlesnakes; if you catch the sun just right there,
you will have a picture that will stay with you.
And above Winona you’ll have lovely prairies;
and then come the Thousand Islands, too beautiful
for anything; green? why you never saw foliage so
green, nor packed so thick; it’s like a thousand
plush cushions afloat on a looking-glass—when
the water ’s still; and then the monstrous bluffs
on both sides of the river—ragged, rugged,
dark-complected—just the frame that’s
wanted; you always want a strong frame, you know, to
throw up the nice points of a delicate picture and
make them stand out.’
The old gentleman also told us a touching Indian legend
or two—but not very powerful ones.
After this excursion into history, he came back to
the scenery, and described it, detail by detail, from
the Thousand Islands to St. Paul; naming its names
with such facility, tripping along his theme with such
nimble and confident ease, slamming in a three-ton
word, here and there, with such a complacent air of
’t isn’t-anything,-I-can-do-it-any-time-I-want-to,
and letting off fine surprises of lurid eloquence at
such judicious intervals, that I presently began to
suspect—
But no matter what I began to suspect. Hear
him—
’Ten miles above Winona we come to Fountain
City, nestling sweetly at the feet of cliffs that
lift their awful fronts, Jovelike, toward the blue
depths of heaven, bathing them in virgin atmospheres
that have known no other contact save that of angels’
wings.
’And next we glide through silver waters, amid
lovely and stupendous aspects of nature that attune
our hearts to adoring admiration, about twelve miles,
and strike Mount Vernon, six hundred feet high, with
romantic ruins of a once first-class hotel perched
far among the cloud shadows that mottle its dizzy
heights—sole remnant of once-flourishing
Mount Vernon, town of early days, now desolate and
utterly deserted.
