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    Chapter 57

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    Chapter 56
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    Chapter 57
    An Archangel

    FROM St. Louis northward there are all the enlivening signs of
    the presence of active, energetic, intelligent, prosperous, practical
    nineteenth-century populations. The people don't dream, they work.
    The happy result is manifest all around in the substantial outside
    aspect of things, and the suggestions of wholesome life and comfort
    that everywhere appear.

    Quincy is a notable example--a brisk, handsome, well-ordered city;
    and now, as formerly, interested in art, letters, and other high things.

    But Marion City is an exception. Marion City has gone backwards
    in a most unaccountable way. This metropolis promised
    so well that the projectors tacked 'city' to its name in the
    very beginning, with full confidence; but it was bad prophecy.
    When I first saw Marion City, thirty-five years ago,
    it contained one street, and nearly or quite six houses.
    It contains but one house now, and this one, in a state of ruin,
    is getting ready to follow the former five into the river.
    Doubtless Marion City was too near to Quincy. It had
    another disadvantage: it was situated in a flat mud bottom,
    below high-water mark, whereas Quincy stands high up on the slope
    of a hill.

    In the beginning Quincy had the aspect and ways of a model New England town:
    and these she has yet: broad, clean streets, trim, neat dwellings
    and lawns, fine mansions, stately blocks of commercial buildings.
    And there are ample fair-grounds, a well kept park, and many
    attractive drives; library, reading-rooms, a couple of colleges,
    some handsome and costly churches, and a grand court-house, with grounds
    which occupy a square. The population of the city is thirty thousand.
    There are some large factories here, and manufacturing, of many sorts,
    is done on a great scale.

    La Grange and Canton are growing towns, but I missed Alexandria;
    was told it was under water, but would come up to blow in the summer.

    Keokuk was easily recognizable. I lived there in 1857--an extraordinary
    year there in real-estate matters. The 'boom' was something wonderful.
    Everybody bought, everybody sold--except widows and preachers;
    they always hold on; and when the tide ebbs, they get left.
    Anything in the semblance of a town lot, no matter how situated,
    was salable, and at a figure which would still have been high if the ground
    had been sodded with greenbacks.

    The town has a population of fifteen thousand now, and is progressing with
    a healthy growth. It was night, and we could not see details, for which we
    were sorry, for Keokuk has the reputation of being a beautiful city.
    It was a pleasant one to live in long ago, and doubtless has advanced,
    not retrograded, in that respect.

    A mighty work which was in progress there in my day is finished now.
    This is the canal over the Rapids. It is eight miles long,
    three hundred feet wide, and is in no place less than six feet deep.
    Its masonry is of the majestic kind which the War Department
    usually deals in, and will endure like a Roman aqueduct.
    The work cost four or five millions.

    After an hour or two spent with former friends, we started up
    the river again. Keokuk, a long time ago, was an occasional
    loafing-place of that erratic genius, Henry Clay Dean.
    I believe I never saw him but once; but he was much talked of
    when I lived there. This is what was said of him--

    He began life poor and without education. But he educated himself--
    on the curbstones of Keokuk. He would sit down on a curbstone
    with his book, careless or unconscious of the clatter of commerce
    and the tramp of the passing crowds, and bury himself in his
    studies by the hour, never changing his position except to draw
    in his knees now and then to let a dray pass unobstructed;
    and when his book was finished, its contents, however abstruse,
    had been burnt into his memory, and were his permanent possession.
    In this way he acquired a vast hoard of all sorts of learning,
    and had it pigeon-holed in his head where he could put his intellectual
    hand on it whenever it was wanted.

    His clothes differed in no respect from a 'wharf-rat's,' except that
    they were raggeder, more ill-assorted and inharmonious (and therefore
    more extravagantly picturesque), and several layers dirtier.
    Nobody could infer the master-mind in the top of that edifice from
    the edifice itself.

    He was an orator--by nature in the first place, and later by the training
    of experience and practice. When he was out on a canvass, his name was
    a lodestone which drew the farmers to his stump from fifty miles around.
    His theme was always politics. He used no notes, for a volcano does
    not need notes. In 1862, a son of Keokuk's late distinguished citizen,
    Mr. Claggett, gave me this incident concerning Dean--

    The war feeling was running high in Keokuk (in '61), and a great
    mass meeting was to be held on a certain day in the new Athenaeum.
    A distinguished stranger was to address the house.
    After the building had been packed to its utmost capacity with
    sweltering folk of both sexes, the stage still remained vacant--
    the distinguished stranger had failed to connect.
    The crowd grew impatient, and by and by indignant and rebellious.
    About this time a distressed manager discovered Dean on a curb-stone,
    explained the dilemma to him, took his book away from him,
    rushed him into the building the back way, and told him to make
    for the stage and save his country.

    Presently a sudden silence fell upon the grumbling audience, and everybody's
    eyes sought a single point--the wide, empty, carpetless stage. A figure
    appeared there whose aspect was familiar to hardly a dozen persons present.
    It was the scarecrow Dean--in foxy shoes, down at the heels; socks of
    odd colors, also 'down;' damaged trousers, relics of antiquity, and a world
    too short, exposing some inches of naked ankle; an unbuttoned vest,
    also too short, and exposing a zone of soiled and wrinkled linen
    between it and the waistband; shirt bosom open; long black handkerchief,
    wound round and round the neck like a bandage; bob-tailed blue coat,
    reaching down to the small of the back, with sleeves which left four
    inches of forearm unprotected; small, stiff-brimmed soldier-cap hung on
    a corner of the bump of--whichever bump it was. This figure moved gravely
    out upon the stage and, with sedate and measured step, down to the front,
    where it paused, and dreamily inspected the house, saying no word.
    The silence of surprise held its own for a moment, then was broken by a just
    audible ripple of merriment which swept the sea of faces like the wash
    of a wave. The figure remained as before, thoughtfully inspecting.
    Another wave started--laughter, this time. It was followed by another,
    then a third--this last one boisterous.

    And now the stranger stepped back one pace, took off his soldier-cap,
    tossed it into the wing, and began to speak, with deliberation,
    nobody listening, everybody laughing and whispering.
    The speaker talked on unembarrassed, and presently delivered
    a shot which went home, and silence and attention resulted.
    He followed it quick and fast, with other telling things; warmed to
    his work and began to pour his words out, instead of dripping them;
    grew hotter and hotter, and fell to discharging lightnings
    and thunder--and now the house began to break into applause,
    to which the speaker gave no heed, but went hammering straight on;
    unwound his black bandage and cast it away, still thundering;
    presently discarded the bob tailed coat and flung it aside,
    firing up higher and higher all the time; finally flung the vest
    after the coat; and then for an untimed period stood there,
    like another Vesuvius, spouting smoke and flame, lava and ashes,
    raining pumice-stone and cinders, shaking the moral earth with
    intellectual crash upon crash, explosion upon explosion, while the mad
    multitude stood upon their feet in a solid body, answering back
    with a ceaseless hurricane of cheers, through a thrashing snowstorm
    of waving handkerchiefs.

    'When Dean came,' said Claggett, 'the people thought
    he was an escaped lunatic; but when he went, they thought
    he was an escaped archangel.'

    Burlington, home of the sparkling Burdette, is another hill city;
    and also a beautiful one; unquestionably so; a fine and flourishing city,
    with a population of twenty-five thousand, and belted with busy factories
    of nearly every imaginable description. It was a very sober city, too--
    for the moment--for a most sobering bill was pending; a bill to forbid
    the manufacture, exportation, importation, purchase, sale, borrowing,
    lending, stealing, drinking, smelling, or possession, by conquest,
    inheritance, intent, accident, or otherwise, in the State of Iowa, of each
    and every deleterious beverage known to the human race, except water.
    This measure was approved by all the rational people in the State;
    but not by the bench of Judges.

    Burlington has the progressive modern city's full equipment of devices
    for right and intelligent government; including a paid fire department,
    a thing which the great city of New Orleans is without, but still employs
    that relic of antiquity, the independent system.

    In Burlington, as in all these Upper-River towns, one breathes
    a go-ahead atmosphere which tastes good in the nostrils.
    An opera-house has lately been built there which is in strong
    contrast with the shabby dens which usually do duty as theaters
    in cities of Burlington's size.

    We had not time to go ashore in Muscatine, but had a daylight
    view of it from the boat. I lived there awhile, many years ago,
    but the place, now, had a rather unfamiliar look; so I
    suppose it has clear outgrown the town which I used to know.
    In fact, I know it has; for I remember it as a small place--
    which it isn't now. But I remember it best for a lunatic
    who caught me out in the fields, one Sunday, and extracted
    a butcher-knife from his boot and proposed to carve me up with it,
    unless I acknowledged him to be the only son of the Devil.
    I tried to compromise on an acknowledgment that he was the only
    member of the family I had met; but that did not satisfy him;
    he wouldn't have any half-measures; I must say he was the sole
    and only son of the Devil--he whetted his knife on his boot.
    It did not seem worth while to make trouble about a little thing
    like that; so I swung round to his view of the matter and saved
    my skin whole. Shortly afterward, he went to visit his father;
    and as he has not turned up since, I trust he is there yet.

    And I remember Muscatine--still more pleasantly--for its summer sunsets.
    I have never seen any, on either side of the ocean, that equaled them.
    They used the broad smooth river as a canvas, and painted on it every
    imaginable dream of color, from the mottled daintinesses and delicacies
    of the opal, all the way up, through cumulative intensities, to blinding
    purple and crimson conflagrations which were enchanting to the eye,
    but sharply tried it at the same time. All the Upper Mississippi
    region has these extraordinary sunsets as a familiar spectacle.
    It is the true Sunset Land: I am sure no other country can show so good
    a right to the name. The sunrises are also said to be exceedingly fine.
    I do not know.
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