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    Chapter 22

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    Chapter 22
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    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!'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?
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