“This brief glimpse in the twilight makes us long for a view by day, and we promise ourselves a longer visit the next time we come.”
As we bowl along we look up at the steep, rocky walls of the cañon, shutting us in from all disturbing thoughts and sights, and the moon floods all with its peaceful light, and all fatigue and disquiet vanishes, and we realize that we are having a fitting ending to a glorious day.
The electric lights at Manitou recall us to ourselves, and we finish a well-rounded day, begun with Pike’s Peak by sunrise, and we leave him sleeping under the watchful eye of the purest moon that ever shone.
Another brilliant day. An early breakfast. Carriages were taken for the most wonderful drive of the trip. First to “Iron Springs” and “Ruxton Glen,” then to the “Garden of the Gods,” more wonderful than can be told; then to “Glen Eyrie”; then the “Messa Road”--who will forget the beauty of its scenery?
We then turned our way to the scene of what was to be the culmination of our journey. As we approached Cheyenne Mountain, memories of (H. H.) Helen Hunt Jackson, arose in every mind. Her solitary grave upon Cheyenne Mountain, selected by herself, is unmarked, except as friendship’s hand has raised a mound of small stones and pieces of marble, an evidence of affection more significant than formal monument could be. It is an illustration of one of her own verses:
“But no decaying Can reach it in this sepulchre, whose stone Our hearts must make! To an exceeding glory grown, This grief outweighing.”
[Illustration: GATEWAY, GARDEN OF THE GODS.]
In Cheyenne Cañon where, almost imprisoned by the perpendicular rocks, lunch was eaten with keen relish, and the health of our host drank with cool, foaming “Manitou Spring water,” Wall Street was forgotten. Attention was directed to a prominent Wall Street bank president sitting on a rock enjoying the bountiful collation, with two young ladies acting as waitresses.
After lunch we rambled through the beautiful cañon and visited the Falls, where for 500 feet cascade follows cascade, till in “Seven Falls” they reach the bottom of the cañon.
How reluctantly we entered our carriages, for it was to be our last drive on this delightful journey. The “Pillars of Hercules” from a height of 1,500 feet looked down upon us with approval, and the “Seven Falls” united with us in singing the “Doxology.” We drove back to Colorado Springs and through its principal streets to our inviting quarters in the “Dalmatia,” ever ready to welcome us.