Over the Rocky Mountains to Alaska | Page 7

three hours by rail from Denver; and
yet here, in Manitou, were the very elements so noticeably lacking
there. Nature in her natural state--primitive forever; the air seasoned
with the pungent spices of odoriferous herbs; the sweetest sunshine in
abundance, and all the shade that makes sunshine most agreeable.
Manitou is a picturesque hamlet that has scattered itself up and down a
deep ravine, regardless of the limiting lines of the surveyor. The
railway station at Manitou might pose for a porter's lodge in the
prettiest park in England. Surely there is hope for America when she

can so far curb her vulgar love of the merely practical as to do that sort
of thing at the right time and in the right place.
A fine stream brawls through the bed of this lovely vale. There are
rustic cottages that cluster upon the brink of the stream, as if charmed
by the music of its song; and I am sure that the cottagers dwelling
therein have no wish to hang their harps upon any willows whatever; or
to mingle their tears, though these were indeed the waters of Babylon
that flow softly night and day through the green groves of Manitou.
The breeze stirs the pulse like a tonic; birds, bees, and butterflies dance
in the air; the leaves have the gloss of varnish--there is no dust
there,--and everything is cleanly, cheerful and reposeful. From the hotel
veranda float the strains of harp and viol; at intervals during the day
and night music helps us to lift up our hearts; there is nothing like
it--except more of it. There is not overmuch dressing among the women,
nor the beastly spirit of loudness among the men; the domestic
atmosphere is undisturbed. A newspaper printed on a hand-press, and
distributed by the winds for aught I know, has its office in the main
lane of the village; its society column creates no scandal. A solitary
bicycle that flashes like a shooting star across the placid foreground is
our nearest approach to an event worth mentioning.
Loungers lounge at the springs as if they really enjoyed it. An amiable
booth-boy displays his well-dressed and handsomely mounted foxskins,
his pressed flowers of Colorado, his queer mineralogical jewelry, and
his uncouth geological specimens in the shape of hideous bric-a-brac,
as if he took pleasure in thus entertaining the public; while everybody
has the cosiest and most sociable time over the counter, and buys only
by accident at last.
There are rock gorges in Manitou, through which the Indian tribes were
wont noiselessly to defile when on the war-path in the brave days of
old; gorges where currents of hot air breathe in your face like the breath
of some fierce animal. There are brilliant and noisy cataracts and
cascades that silver the rocks with spray; and a huge winding cavern
filled with mice and filth and the blackness of darkness, and out of
which one emerges looking like a tramp and feeling like--well! There

are springs bubbling and steeping and stagnating by the wayside;
springs containing carbonates of soda, lithia, lime, magnesia, and iron;
sulphates of potassa and soda, chloride of sodium and silica, in various
solutions. Some of these are sweeter than honey in the honeycomb;
some of them smell to heaven--what more can the pampered palate of
man desire?
Let all those who thirst for chalybeate waters bear in mind that the Ute
Iron Spring of Manitou is 800 feet higher than St. Catarina, the highest
iron spring in Europe, and nearly 1000 feet higher than St. Moritz; and
that the bracing air at an elevation of 6400 feet has probably as much to
do with the recovery of the invalid as has the judicious quaffing of
medicinal waters. Of pure iron springs, the famous Schwalbach
contains rather more iron than the Ute Iron, and Spa rather less. On the
whole, Manitou has the advantage of the most celebrated medicinal
springs in Europe, and has a climate even in midwinter preferable to all
of them.
On the edge of the pretty hamlet at Manitou stands a cottage half
hidden like a bird's nest among the trees. I saw only the peaks of gables
under green boughs; and I wondered when I was informed that the
lovely spot had been long untenanted, and wondered still more when I
learned that it was the property of good Grace Greenwood. Will she
ever cease wandering, and return to weave a new chaplet of greenwood
leaves gathered beneath the eaves of her mountain home?
At the top of the village street stands Pike's Peak--at least it seems to
stand there when viewed through the telescopic air. It is in reality a
dozen miles distant; but is easily approached by a winding trail, over
which ladies in the saddle may