Nesbitt Memorial Library Journal, Volume 9, Number 3, September 1999 Page: 149
[68] p. : ill. ; 28 cm.View a full description of this periodical.
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The Writings of Fannie Amelia Dickson Darden
emotions of wonder and admiration. And this is
the Rio Grande!-the river of historic memo-
ries-the line which separates two nations. The
Rio Grande traversed by a railroad! that river
which to us of the past seemed so far away,
hidden among its mountains, the visionary, the
unattainable; the river which our heroes of the
frontier had sought with longing eyes and wea-
ried hearts, and which, when after painful
journeyings they had found, refreshed them with
its cooling waters, and, in the exceeding loveli-
ness of its scenery, compensated them for all
the privations they had undergone.
It would be a vain task to attempt to
describe this magnificent journey along the moun-
tain side, overlooking this deep canyon. To at-
tempt to do so, would be only to detract from its
glory. The mountain ledge traversed by the rail-
road is, in several places, intersected by deep
canyons, now dry, but bearing evidence of the
flood of mighty waters and cataracts which, in
past ages, cut great fissures through these moun-
tains of rock. Iron bridges span them, and far
below these we look down on the tops of tall
trees that grow beneath.
The Rio Grande runs close to the oppo-
site wall of the canyon. This wall of dark-gray
rock forms a continuous panorama of beauty and
changing forms. Old time has painted the rocks
with a ground-work of every shade, from black,
dark and light gray to white, which throws out
the warm colors of red, yellow and green, in bright
relief. Nature has lent her hand to this work of
decoration, and brightened with her graceful fo-
liage the never-to-be-forgotten scene of gran-
deur and beauty. Our train passes through two
long tunnels which shut the world of light from
view. How dark-how intensely dark-does it
seem in these tunnels, buried as we are in the
very womb of the earth! When we first entered
them the wide arch of the opening gave a dim
light into the interior; but now all is pitch dark
save where we pass openings cut in the sides to
admit air and a little occasional light. What won-derful engeering skill it must have taken to have
projected the road along that difficult path! Now
we emerge from the tunnel, and again bursts upon
us (we can only use superlatives in this country
of grandeur) the sublime, the inexpressibly lovely
and magnificent scene. The crowning beauty of
this point is where the swift and strong Pecos
comes rushing through its deep canyon to join
the Rio Grande. At this junction the walls of the
canyon reach their highest altitude. There is a
quiet majesty mingled with the grandeur and rug-
gedness of the scene. Crossing the iron bridge
which spans the stupendous canyon, we look with
awe to the mountain of rock on either side and
down the Pecos river, seemingly dwindled to a
small stream, from the great height from which
we survey it. As we pass, two fisherman in a
boat are rowing upon its surface. They are per-
fectly defined, but the boat seems only a foot in
length, and the men mere toys within it. How
often, through the centuries, have the words spon-
taneously burst from other lips which at this mo-
ment spring from mine, "Muy grande! muy
bonita!" Surely there can be nothing more wor-
thy of the artist's brush or the photographer's
skill than is to be found in this meeting of the
waters, this marriage which mingles two impor-
tant streams into one, a meeting where nature
has consummated her grandest work to celebrate
this union of majesty and beauty.
We stop a few moments at Painted Cave,
an immense cavern far above us in the mountain
side, in the interior of which the Seminole Indians
had painted in various colors the forms of ani-
mals, serpents and weapons. A widened part of
the ledge affords room here for an encampment
of Chinese, who elicited a good deal of interest
from the passengers. As they are all small of
stature, and wear long, loose saques, have their
hair tucked up, and carry fans, I thought they
were women, and inquired where were the men,
but was reprovingly told that these were all men,
and that the women were never brought here.
From Eagle's Nest, consisting of a house149
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Nesbitt Memorial Library. Nesbitt Memorial Library Journal, Volume 9, Number 3, September 1999, periodical, September 1999; Columbus, Texas. (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth151407/m1/21/?q=nesbitt%20memorial%20library%20journal: accessed April 26, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu; crediting Nesbitt Memorial Library.