The River and I | Page 4

a-fishing"! The
Babylonian streams by which we have all pined in captivity; the
sentimental Danube's which we can never forget because of "that night
in June"; and at a very early age I had already developed a decent
respect for the verbose manner in which the "waters come down at
Lodore."
But the Missouri is more than a sentiment--even more than an epic. It is
the symbol of my own soul, which is, I surmise, not unlike other souls.
In it I see flung before me all the stern world-old struggle become
materialized. Here is the concrete representation of the earnest desire,
the momentarily frustrate purpose, the beating at the bars, the
breathless fighting of the half-whipped but never-to-be-conquered spirit,
the sobbing of the wind-broken runner, the anger, the madness, the

laughter. And in it all the unwearying urge of a purpose, the
unswerving belief in the peace of a far away ocean.
If in a moment of despair I should reel for a breathing space away from
the fight, with no heart for battle-cries, and with only a desire to pray, I
could do it in no better manner than to lift my arms above the river and
cry out into the big spaces: "You who somehow understand--behold
this river! It expresses what is voiceless in me. It prays for me!"
Not only in its physical aspect does the Missouri appeal to the
imagination. From Three Forks to its mouth--a distance of three
thousand miles--this zigzag watercourse is haunted with great
memories. Perhaps never before in the history of the world has a river
been the thoroughfare of a movement so tremendously epic in its
human appeal, so vastly significant in its relation to the development of
man. And in the building of the continent Nature fashioned well the
scenery for the great human story that was to be enacted here in the
fullness of years. She built her stage on a large scale, taking no account
of miles; for the coming actors were to be big men, mighty travelers,
intrepid fighters, laughers at time and space. Plains limited only by the
rim of sky; mountains severe, huge, tragic as fate; deserts for the trying
of strong spirits; grotesque volcanic lands--dead, utterly
ultra-human--where athletic souls might struggle with despair;
impetuous streams with their rapids terrible as Scylla, where men might
go down fighting: thus Nature built the stage and set the scenes. And
that the arrangements might be complete, she left a vast tract unfinished,
where still the building of the world goes on--a place of awe in which
to feel the mighty Doer of Things at work. Indeed, a setting vast and
weird enough for the coming epic. And as the essence of all story is
struggle, tribes of wild fighting men grew up in the land to oppose the
coming masters; and over the limitless wastes swept the blizzards.
I remember when I first read the words of Vergil beginning Ubi tot
Simois, "where the Simois rolls along so many shields and helmets and
strong bodies of brave men snatched beneath its floods." The far-seeing
sadness of the lines thrilled me; for it was not of the little stream of the
_Æneid_ that I thought while the Latin professor quizzed me as to

constructions, but of that great river of my own epic country--the
Missouri. Was I unfair to old Vergil, think you? As for me, I think I
flattered him a bit! And in this modern application, the ancient lines
ring true. For the Missouri from Great Falls to its mouth is one long
grave of men and boats. And such men!
It is a time-honored habit to look back through the ages for the epic
things. Modern affairs seem a bit commonplace to some of us. A horde
of semi-savages tears down a town in order to avenge the theft of a
faithless wife who was probably no better than she should have
been--and we have the Iliad. A petty king sets sail for his native land,
somehow losing himself ten years among the isles of Greece--and we
have the Odyssey. (I would back a Missouri River "rat" to make the
distance in a row boat within a few months!) An Argive captain returns
home after an absence of ten years to find his wife interested overmuch
in a friend who went not forth to battle; a wrangle ensues; the tender
spouse finishes her lord with an axe--and you have the Agamemnon.
(To-day we should merely have a sensational trial, and hysterical
scareheads in the newspapers.) Such were the ancient stories that move
us all--sordid enough, be sure, when you push them hard for fact. But
time and genius have glorified them. Not the deeds, but Homer and
Æschylus and the hallowing years are great.
We no