CHAPTER 22

I Return to My Muttons

AFTER twenty-one years' absence, I felt a very strong desire to see the

river again, and the steamboats, and such of the boys as might be left;

so I resolved to go out there. I enlisted a poet for company, and a

stenographer to 'take him down,' and started westward about the middle

of April.

As I proposed to make notes, with a view to printing, I took some

thought as to methods of procedure. I reflected that if I were

recognized, on the river, I should not be as free to go and come, talk,

inquire, and spy around, as I should be if unknown; I remembered that it

was the custom of steamboatmen in the old times to load up the confiding

stranger with the most picturesque and admirable lies, and put

the sophisticated friend off with dull and ineffectual facts: so I

concluded, that, from a business point of view, it would be an advantage

to disguise our party with fictitious names. The idea was certainly

good, but it bred infinite bother; for although Smith, Jones, and

Johnson are easy names to remember when there is no occasion to remember

them, it is next to impossible to recollect them when they are wanted.

How do criminals manage to keep a brand-new _alias _in mind? This is a

great mystery. I was innocent; and yet was seldom able to lay my hand on

my new name when it was needed; and it seemed to me that if I had had

a crime on my conscience to further confuse me, I could never have kept

the name by me at all.

We left per Pennsylvania Railroad, at 8 A.M. April 18.

'EVENING. Speaking of dress. Grace and picturesqueness drop gradually

out of it as one travels away from New York.'

I find that among my notes. It makes no difference which direction you

take, the fact remains the same. Whether you move north, south, east,

or west, no matter: you can get up in the morning and guess how far you

have come, by noting what degree of grace and picturesqueness is by that

time lacking in the costumes of the new passengers,--I do not mean of

the women alone, but of both sexes. It may be that _carriage _is at the

bottom of this thing; and I think it is; for there are plenty of ladies

and gentlemen in the provincial cities whose garments are all made

by the best tailors and dressmakers of New York; yet this has no

perceptible effect upon the grand fact: the educated eye never mistakes

those people for New-Yorkers. No, there is a godless grace, and snap,

and style about a born and bred New-Yorker which mere clothing cannot

effect.

'APRIL 19. This morning, struck into the region of full

goatees--sometimes accompanied by a mustache, but only occasionally.'

It was odd to come upon this thick crop of an obsolete and uncomely

fashion; it was like running suddenly across a forgotten acquaintance

whom you had supposed dead for a generation. The goatee extends over

a wide extent of country; and is accompanied by an iron-clad belief in

Adam and the biblical history of creation, which has not suffered from

the assaults of the scientists.

'AFTERNOON. At the railway stations the loafers carry _both _hands in

their breeches pockets; it was observable, heretofore, that one hand

was sometimes out of doors,--here, never. This is an important fact in

geography.'

If the loafers determined the character of a country, it would be still

more important, of course.

'Heretofore, all along, the station-loafer has been often observed to

scratch one shin with the other foot; here, these remains of activity

are wanting. This has an ominous look.'

By and by, we entered the tobacco-chewing region. Fifty years ago, the

tobacco-chewing region covered the Union. It is greatly restricted now.

Next, boots began to appear. Not in strong force, however. Later--away

down the Mississippi--they became the rule. They disappeared from other

sections of the Union with the mud; no doubt they will disappear from

the river villages, also, when proper pavements come in.

We reached St. Louis at ten o'clock at night. At the counter of the

hotel I tendered a hurriedly-invented fictitious name, with a miserable

attempt at careless ease. The clerk paused, and inspected me in the

compassionate way in which one inspects a respectable person who is

found in doubtful circumstances; then he said--

'It's all right; I know what sort of a room you want. Used to clerk at

the St. James, in New York.'

An unpromising beginning for a fraudulent career. We started to the

supper room, and met two other men whom I had known elsewhere. How odd

and unfair it is: wicked impostors go around lecturing under my _Nom

De Guerre_ and nobody suspects them; but when an honest man attempts an

imposture, he is exposed at once.

One thing seemed plain: we must start down the river the next day, if

people who could not be deceived were going to crop up at this rate:

an unpalatable disappointment, for we had hoped to have a week in

St. Louis. The Southern was a good hotel, and we could have had a

comfortable time there. It is large, and well conducted, and its

decorations do not make one cry, as do those of the vast Palmer House,

in Chicago. True, the billiard-tables were of the Old Silurian Period,

and the cues and balls of the Post-Pliocene; but there was refreshment

in this, not discomfort; for there is rest and healing in the

contemplation of antiquities.

The most notable absence observable in the billiard-room, was the

absence of the river man. If he was there he had taken in his sign,

he was in disguise. I saw there none of the swell airs and graces, and

ostentatious displays of money, and pompous squanderings of it, which

used to distinguish the steamboat crowd from the dry-land crowd in

the bygone days, in the thronged billiard-rooms of St. Louis. In those

times, the principal saloons were always populous with river men; given

fifty players present, thirty or thirty-five were likely to be from

the river. But I suspected that the ranks were thin now, and the

steamboatmen no longer an aristocracy. Why, in my time they used to

call the 'barkeep' Bill, or Joe, or Tom, and slap him on the shoulder;

I watched for that. But none of these people did it. Manifestly a glory

that once was had dissolved and vanished away in these twenty-one years.

When I went up to my room, I found there the young man called Rogers,

crying. Rogers was not his name; neither was Jones, Brown, Dexter,

Ferguson, Bascom, nor Thompson; but he answered to either of these that

a body found handy in an emergency; or to any other name, in fact, if he

perceived that you meant him. He said--

'What is a person to do here when he wants a drink of water?--drink this

slush?'

'Can't you drink it?'

'I could if I had some other water to wash it with.'

Here was a thing which had not changed; a score of years had not

affected this water's mulatto complexion in the least; a score of

centuries would succeed no better, perhaps. It comes out of the

turbulent, bank-caving Missouri, and every tumblerful of it holds nearly

an acre of land in solution. I got this fact from the bishop of the

diocese. If you will let your glass stand half an hour, you can separate

the land from the water as easy as Genesis; and then you will find them

both good: the one good to eat, the other good to drink. The land is

very nourishing, the water is thoroughly wholesome. The one appeases

hunger; the other, thirst. But the natives do not take them separately,

but together, as nature mixed them. When they find an inch of mud in the

bottom of a glass, they stir it up, and then take the draught as they

would gruel. It is difficult for a stranger to get used to this batter,

but once used to it he will prefer it to water. This is really the case.

It is good for steamboating, and good to drink; but it is worthless for

all other purposes, except baptizing.

Next morning, we drove around town in the rain. The city seemed but

little changed. It _was _greatly changed, but it did not seem so;

because in St. Louis, as in London and Pittsburgh, you can't persuade

a new thing to look new; the coal smoke turns it into an antiquity the

moment you take your hand off it. The place had just about doubled its

size, since I was a resident of it, and was now become a city of 400,000

inhabitants; still, in the solid business parts, it looked about as it

had looked formerly. Yet I am sure there is not as much smoke in St.

Louis now as there used to be. The smoke used to bank itself in a dense

billowy black canopy over the town, and hide the sky from view. This

shelter is very much thinner now; still, there is a sufficiency of smoke

there, I think. I heard no complaint.

However, on the outskirts changes were apparent enough; notably in

dwelling-house architecture. The fine new homes are noble and beautiful

and modern. They stand by themselves, too, with green lawns around them;

whereas the dwellings of a former day are packed together in blocks,

and are all of one pattern, with windows all alike, set in an arched

frame-work of twisted stone; a sort of house which was handsome enough

when it was rarer.

There was another change--the Forest Park. This was new to me. It is

beautiful and very extensive, and has the excellent merit of having been

made mainly by nature. There are other parks, and fine ones, notably

Tower Grove and the Botanical Gardens; for St. Louis interested herself

in such improvements at an earlier day than did the most of our cities.

The first time I ever saw St. Louis, I could have bought it for six

million dollars, and it was the mistake of my life that I did not do

it. It was bitter now to look abroad over this domed and steepled

metropolis, this solid expanse of bricks and mortar stretching away on

every hand into dim, measure-defying distances, and remember that I had

allowed that opportunity to go by. Why I should have allowed it to go

by seems, of course, foolish and inexplicable to-day, at a first glance;

yet there were reasons at the time to justify this course.

A Scotchman, Hon. Charles Augustus Murray, writing some forty-five

or fifty years ago, said--'The streets are narrow, ill paved and ill

lighted.' Those streets are narrow still, of course; many of them are

ill paved yet; but the reproach of ill lighting cannot be repeated, now.

The 'Catholic New Church' was the only notable building then, and Mr.

Murray was confidently called upon to admire it, with its 'species of

Grecian portico, surmounted by a kind of steeple, much too diminutive

in its proportions, and surmounted by sundry ornaments' which the

unimaginative Scotchman found himself 'quite unable to describe;' and

therefore was grateful when a German tourist helped him out with the

exclamation--'By--, they look exactly like bed-posts!' St. Louis is

well equipped with stately and noble public buildings now, and the

little church, which the people used to be so proud of, lost its

importance a long time ago. Still, this would not surprise Mr. Murray,

if he could come back; for he prophesied the coming greatness of St.

Louis with strong confidence.

The further we drove in our inspection-tour, the more sensibly I

realized how the city had grown since I had seen it last; changes in

detail became steadily more apparent and frequent than at first, too:

changes uniformly evidencing progress, energy, prosperity.

But the change of changes was on the 'levee.' This time, a departure

from the rule. Half a dozen sound-asleep steamboats where I used to see

a solid mile of wide-awake ones! This was melancholy, this was

woeful. The absence of the pervading and jocund steamboatman from the

billiard-saloon was explained. He was absent because he is no more. His

occupation is gone, his power has passed away, he is absorbed into the

common herd, he grinds at the mill, a shorn Samson and inconspicuous.

Half a dozen lifeless steamboats, a mile of empty wharves, a negro

fatigued with whiskey stretched asleep, in a wide and soundless vacancy,

where the serried hosts of commerce used to contend!{footnote [Capt.

Marryat, writing forty-five years ago says: 'St. Louis has 20,000

inhabitants. _The river abreast of the town is crowded with steamboats,

lying in two or three tiers_.']} Here was desolation, indeed.

'The old, old sea, as one in tears, Comes murmuring, with foamy lips,

And knocking at the vacant piers, Calls for his long-lost multitude of

ships.'

The towboat and the railroad had done their work, and done it well and

completely. The mighty bridge, stretching along over our heads, had

done its share in the slaughter and spoliation. Remains of former

steamboatmen told me, with wan satisfaction, that the bridge doesn't

pay. Still, it can be no sufficient compensation to a corpse, to know

that the dynamite that laid him out was not of as good quality as it had

been supposed to be.

The pavements along the river front were bad: the sidewalks were rather

out of repair; there was a rich abundance of mud. All this was familiar

and satisfying; but the ancient armies of drays, and struggling throngs

of men, and mountains of freight, were gone; and Sabbath reigned in

their stead. The immemorial mile of cheap foul doggeries remained, but

business was dull with them; the multitudes of poison-swilling Irishmen

had departed, and in their places were a few scattering handfuls of

ragged negroes, some drinking, some drunk, some nodding, others

asleep. St. Louis is a great and prosperous and advancing city; but the

river-edge of it seems dead past resurrection.

Mississippi steamboating was born about 1812; at the end of thirty

years, it had grown to mighty proportions; and in less than thirty

more, it was dead! A strangely short life for so majestic a creature. Of

course it is not absolutely dead, neither is a crippled octogenarian who

could once jump twenty-two feet on level ground; but as contrasted with

what it was in its prime vigor, Mississippi steamboating may be called

dead.

It killed the old-fashioned keel-boating, by reducing the freight-trip

to New Orleans to less than a week. The railroads have killed the

steamboat passenger traffic by doing in two or three days what the

steamboats consumed a week in doing; and the towing-fleets have killed

the through-freight traffic by dragging six or seven steamer-loads of

stuff down the river at a time, at an expense so trivial that steamboat

competition was out of the question.

Freight and passenger way-traffic remains to the steamers. This is in

the hands--along the two thousand miles of river between St. Paul and

New Orleans---of two or three close corporations well fortified with

capital; and by able and thoroughly business-like management and system,

these make a sufficiency of money out of what is left of the once

prodigious steamboating industry. I suppose that St. Louis and New

Orleans have not suffered materially by the change, but alas for the

wood-yard man!

He used to fringe the river all the way; his close-ranked merchandise

stretched from the one city to the other, along the banks, and he sold

uncountable cords of it every year for cash on the nail; but all

the scattering boats that are left burn coal now, and the seldomest

spectacle on the Mississippi to-day is a wood-pile. Where now is the

once wood-yard man?