Wayside Pencilings
By
Evaline Amelia DeLano
Born 1842 - Died 1882
A
journal kept by Evaline Delano of Adrian, Michigan
who, at age nineteen, accompanied her father to
Colorado to sell supplies to miners working the gold fields of
Clear Creek County west of Denver.
Included
are letters from home written by her
mother, Mary Ann Slater Delano.
Edited by
Thomas Patrick
Copyright, 2000 by
Firelands Corporation
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e talk of life as a journey, but how variously is that journey performed? There are those who come forth girt and shod and mantled to walk on velvet lawns and smooth terraces where every goal is arrested and every storm is tempered.
There are others who walk in the Alpine paths of life against driving misery and through stormy sorrows, over sharp afflictions walk with bare feet and naked breast, jaded mangled and chilled. In the life of the most unfortunate person, there are some occasions when by prompt and vigorous action he may win the things he has most at heart. There is nobody whom Fortune does not visit once in his life, but when she finds he is not ready to receive her, she goes in at the door and out through the window.
We must not be content with waiting for “something to turn up,” we must try to make something turn up. We must not only strike the iron while it’s hot, but strike it ‘till it is made hot.
“...Be the day many or be the day long,
At length it sinketh to evening...”
Quincy,
Illinois
April 8, 1861
On Tuesday night, with heavy hearts and tearful eyes, we bade farewell to our dearest healthy friends, took a last long look at our pleasant home, and then were whirled rapidly away from Adrian.
Our first stopping place was Chicago. After a delay of a couple of hours, we were again in motion. This time on the Great Western Road.
We arrived at Quincy, Illinois about twelve P.M., very tired and quite glad to take possession of comfortable rooms at the Clealand House. Quincy is a very pleasant place. It is built principally of brick and stone. It is situated on the Mississippi and a fine view it has of the river for some distance.
En Route — April 9, 1861
At an early hour next morning we took the boat “Black Hawk” for Hannibal. We arrived at that place about nine o’clock, went directly on board the cars and were soon whizzing along at anything but steamboat pace.
We saw some fine plantations and the poor slaves busy at work under the sharp eyes of their overseers. Some parts of the country through Missouri are very pleasant but there are too many level prairies and lowlands to suit any ideas of beauty.
Log Highway and Railroad Line West of Hannibal
St. Joseph, Missouri — April 11, 1861
We arrived at St. Joseph Thursday night. I was very weary and glad to rest even for a day. It rained most of the time we were in the place and I had no opportunity of going out had I been inclined and I could only pity the few pedestrians that waded by through the mud, very thankful it was not me.
Some of the gentlemen belonging to our party joined us in the drawing room and we did our best to call up sunshine within the house at least. During the day we visited the billiard rooms attached to the house and whiled away a little time in trying to learn the very interesting game of billiards. So passed the day.
Leavenworth, Kansas — April 11, 1861
At eleven in the evening, we resumed our journey. We proceeded as far as Atchison, Kansas in the cars and then took a boat for Leavenworth, Kansas where we arrived about eight in the morning. We took the Mansion House “bus” and were soon seated in a cozy parlor at the Mansion House, which place I now write from.
Meat Packing Houses on the Missouri River
Mrs. C. and J. are both stretched out upon a sofa fast asleep. I sit by the window looking out into the busy street. Just opposite is the Market House and it has numerous visitors of all colors, sizes and ages for tomorrow is Sunday and all the people here seem to remember it by getting plenty of eatables, if in no other way. As soon as the lazy ones have finished their nap we are going out for a walk over town. From what I can see from my present place of observation, I think it is a very busy place.
Leavenworth, Kansas — April 17, 1861
It is a beautiful day. I find it quite a pleasure to sit and look upon the living panorama below; it will be a week tomorrow since our arrival here.
Quite an excitement was created yesterday, caused by the arrival of a boat from St. Louis showing a Secession flag. Canons were brought out and fierce words passed between the parties. The townspeople ordered them to tear down their flag and show the stars and stripes or they would blow them out of the water. Finding it useless to contend, they obeyed with many a lowering brow and curses not loud but deep.
This morning we took a long walk. We first went to the Convent School and Sisters of Charity. The building occupied by them is very fine; a large brick building with shady walks, pleasant little nooks and beautiful flowers here were found. The Sisters were all clothed in black with close white caps in which the prettiest face looked plain and severe. They looked at us in silence as we passed them by, breathing perhaps a prayer for our souls, looked upon by them as wholly lost.
Four of our men are at St. Joseph. We expect them on the afternoon boat. I hope they will come for the rest think they can do nothing until the others come.
Leavenworth, Kansas Territory, Population 3,000
Leavenworth, Kansas — April 22, 1861
Last night we went out upon the roof of the Melodian Hall to see the minstrels perform. The music was good, the singing and acting was passing fair and we passed quite a pleasant evening until twelve o’clock when we retired. But not to sleep, for it commenced raining and we had a very severe thunder storm. The wind blew very hard and it was a long time before we could lose ourselves in sleep.
In the morning, I was awakened by soft sweet music floating in at the window and filling my room with heavenly melody. In a incredibly short space of time, I was up, dressed and upon the balcony making eyes at the muddy Missouri. There I perceived the beautiful boat “White Cloud” from St. Louis that had arrived during the night. There was a full band of musicians on board and they were out upon the hurricane deck playing. Oh, how I enjoyed it! Music never sounds more sweetly than when played upon the water.
There is some excitement about the Missourian’s threats of coming to take the Fort. If they come, they will find the people of Leavenworth prepared for them and if they do take the Fort, it will cost them dear.
Leavenworth
Kansas
Monday, April 22, 1861
We had another severe thunderstorm last night. The wind cut some queer pranks. It unroofed the new Church, tipped over two large Government wagons, and went tearing and ripping about like an angry Secessionist.
Three men were arrested last night for attempting to set fire to a number of buildings situated in the business portion of the city. If they had succeeded in this diabolical work, Leavenworth at this minute would have been in ruins, for the wind would have scattered the fire in every direction.
I am sitting upon the balcony enjoying the cool breezes from the river. We have been having quite warm weather for the past few days, almost suitable for July. I almost think some uneasy genius has been turning the seasons around a month or two. If so, I petition to the Legislature for another change, if it may be for the better.
Leavenworth, Kansas — April 24, 1861
Last night we went out to a euchre party and a merry time we had. We formed several acquaintances and tonight we expect company at our rooms, and no doubt but we will have a fine time. We have been downtown. We took a long walk down the river banks which I enjoyed very much. I feel quite tired and will lie down for an hour or so.
Leavenworth, Kansas — April 25, 1861
Today, I had a tumor extracted from my lip. The surgeon called it a tubliear tumor and said if it was not removed, it would grow into a cancer. Its removal caused me great pain, but I felt willing to suffer for the sake of having it removed. I feel very unwell today, but will doubtless feel much better tomorrow. I have been writing home today. I found it quite an exertion. I suppose there are some sad mistakes in it but I am sure Mother will excuse them when she knows the reason.
After her operation in Leavenworth, Eva DeLano did not make an entry in her journal for over three weeks, until the party was well on its way to Fort Kearney.
Across the Plains
On the Plains — May 18, 1861
We are many miles from the civilized world traveling along rather slowly. We are enjoying ourselves very well, but find it somewhat tiresome and I shall not feel very sorry when our journey is ended.
We have just caught sight of some antelope, the first we have seen. They resemble the deer very much. The wind is blowing a perfect hurricane.
We had a comical time eating our dinner today. Our food was well-peppered with dirt but our appetites were sharpened by hunger and we were glad to get anything to eat. We were in the tent, seated on blankets Indian fashion, all in a circle with our dinner in the center and it might have been fun (if anyone had been there to look) to see me down on my knees pouring coffee and passing meat, potatoes, bread and cheese to as hungry a set of men as ever I have had the misfortune to behold.
We are near Fort Kearney and will doubtless arrive there tomorrow and I shall expect to receive letters from the loved ones at home.
News From Home
The following letter was written by Mary Ann Slater DeLano on April 21, 1860. Eva and her father probably received it when they arrived at Fort Kearney. Much of the letter is addressed to Evaline. She writes:
Adrian, Sunday Morning, April 21, 1861
To Mr. Delano and Eva,
It seems to me as though you had been gone from home six months or more. Or rather, it seems as though you were such people that I had been acquainted with some time, but who seem so far off that I can hardly recall you.
I have not been as well since you went away, but I think after the weather gets better that I shall feel better. It has been cold and windy and rains and snows most of the time since you went away.
I think I never saw a more unpleasant day than last Sunday. It was cold and cloudy and stormy out doors. No one came in to see us and Emma was not very well and was so nervous that I was glad when it was night, so she would go to sleep. She would run around the house and say: “What shall I do? I am so lonesome.” She went into the woods yesterday and she brought home a nice bunch of May flowers. She was delighted with her walk. She seemed quite cheerful for awhile while she went down town and brought me back your letter. I did not get it until yesterday afternoon.
Why did you not write more particulars about your journey and how much it cost you to get where you are and how you all withstood the journey? I expected to hear that your Pa was completely tired out. I wanted to hear how you felt in mind and body, and how the weather is there, and what the prospects were in regard to food while crossing the plains. I hope that you will be more particular next time that you write.
It is a beautiful morning. H.P. Fairfield speaks here today at half-past three o’clock this afternoon. I think I shall try to go.
Grandpa Graves is dead, as is Mrs. Adam Grant and Mrs. Childs, the lame shoemaker’s wife. Mrs. Seamon is failing. I have not been in to see her yet, but I think that I shall the coming week.
There is the greatest excitement here about the War. They are enlisting soldiers. Part of the Adrian Guards are going, as are part of the Hardy Cadets. They were out drilling yesterday. Charles Blossom and By Smith have enlisted. I heard that Will Graves and Lem Saber were going. Omer Folsome called here Friday. He told me he thought of going. He has joined the Guards. He said if he went, he would call and bid me good bye. He was very anxious to hear from you. He seems sad and low-spirited. William Irish spent last evening here. He told me when I wrote to you to say that he was here to hear the news and he wanted to be remembered to you both. He said to tell you that he had not enlisted to go south as he thought that he should not. He said he would rather go west. He says you must remember him. He thinks that Randy and Omer are not doing much, which is the reason that Omer is in such low spirits.
The Adrian Guards and Cadets are all going to church in full uniform today, as are the new recruits. I have seen no one from Fairfield since you went away. Maganza Aldrich has had another crazy spell. When Mrs. Aldrich got up to get breakfast, she heard a strange noise in the bedroom and went in to find her husband with his throat cut from ear to ear. The paper stated that he was nearly dead and only breathed a few times. Dreadful, was it not?
John English fell from his shop. They took him up for dead, but he is able to be about the streets now.
I have not collected any money since you went away, but Mr. Throop has paid that hundred dollar note. He paid it the sixteenth of the month. I tried to find Mrs. Warn to see if she would take it, but did not succeed. I think that I should have found her or where she lives, if I had been able to give out myself. I am going to practice walking a little every day as soon as it gets better weather. I have no one to depend on now but myself and I have got to do, or not have it done.
You wanted to know how I liked Mr. Mood’s folks. I am very much pleased with them and I think that I shall like them very much. They take a good deal of pains to find out what we like to eat and seem to want to suit in every respect. Emma does not like the little girl very well, but I am in hopes that she will after a while.
I feel as though I was all alone in the world with ten thousand around me. How many lonesome hours I spend in the still waters of the night when all is locked in sleep. None but a merry person can tell the restlessness of mind and body. I hope that you will be prosperous in all things, your health in particular.
I am too nervous to write. I begin to feel as I did last Sunday. I cannot keep from crying ..... It seems as though if I ever needed your company and sympathy it is now. I feel as though I wanted someone to lean upon and strength to sustain me at this present time.
Mrs. Taylor has just came out from Mr. Grandy. She wishes me to write to tell you how they are. Mrs. Grandy has been confined. She has a little daughter a week and a half old. She is quite comfortable. I went down to see Maria Parron and she agreed to come the first of last week to wash and clean one chamber. But she did not come. Mrs. Wood cleaned the chamber and Mr. Wood nailed down the carpet and helped me set up the bedstead. We have got our chambers settled, as well as the dressing room and the cellar. We have got new cellar stairs. The rest of the house remains as it was.
Jane is about the same that she was. She had a letter from Harriet. She writes that Mother is quite sick and wants me to come out there to see her. I did think that I should finish this sheet, but I am too tired and you will think that this is plenty long enough. Write soon about your directions. Be particular and make them plain. Emma says “Tell Pa and Emma to come back,” for she is lonesome.
This from wife and mother to husband and daughter. Remember me to all.
Yours Truly Mrs. DeLano
On the Plains — May 29, 1861
I cannot describe the spot where I am now sitting as I would like to, but imagine to yourself a little glen filled with waving trees, running rivers and fragrant flowers; a carpet of leaves and grass cover the ground. Upon every side rise huge bluffs and only a few rods away shining through the leaves are the waters of the Platte. It seems like an old friend as it goes singing and laughing far away. Here in a shady spot by myself, I sit writing and dreaming this beautiful day away.
We are within eighty miles of Denver and yesterday we had a view of the mountains. They look “in the distance” like clouds with their snow-capped heads rising in majestic grandeur, seeming to reach the very heavens.
We passed Fremont’s Orchard yesterday. It is a lovely spot; a beautiful little valley surrounded by high bluffs. It is filled with grand old trees. They are all gnarled and crooked, sometimes growing with their heads exceedingly near together.
And then such oceans of roses as we found! The very air seemed laden with their perfume. It was indeed a lovely spot and the few hours I spent there will long be remembered by me with emotions of pleasure and gratitude (for how I can help feeling so for being permitted to visit such lovely grounds as these?).
Dame Nature was doubtless in such a happy mood when she fashioned this spot! And now if I had a few of my heart’s friends beside me, wouldn’t we enjoy it?
Down in yonder Fairy Glen is a tiny cottage. How it came to be in such an out-of-the-way place is quite a mystery to me. There it stands at quite a distance from the road, entirely hidden among the huge cottonwood trees. My discovery of it was quite sudden and unexpected. I was nearly frightened of my wits for a moment as I had not the remotest idea of finding a such miniature house in this wilderness. And I was quite nearly at the door before I discovered it and of course, I expected to find it occupied. I drew back with the intention of leaving as quickly as may well be imagined, but a second look showed me that it was empty and I had little cause for fear. This is truly a fit place for “Queen Mal” herself. Here she might hold her fairy court quite unnoticed.
The Central Overland Route, c.1861
Lake Gulch — June 1, 1861
We arrived at Denver on Saturday last. We were glad to see brick walls and broadcloth once more. I received a letter and paper from my dear brother F.L.; also letters from other dear friends but was much disappointed in receiving none from home. Father is a little homesick and a letter from home, if it was a good cheerful one, would be quite a comfort. He has got a boil on his face which is quite painful, otherwise he seems quite well.
We are stopping in Lake Gulch, about eight miles from the Mill and the company of men, as no one but Mrs. C. and J. and myself are stopping here.
Blake Street in Denver, Colorado Territory c.1861
Mr. Wadsworth is quite homesick and will start for home soon. The rainy season is just commencing. It rains every day but it is not at all unpleasant, as it is only a little shower in the afternoon. It soon clears away and the sun shines brighter than before and the rain drops sparkle in the sunlight like tears resting on the cheek of childhood. With them it is alternately smiles and tears and I think the mountains resemble them in that respect, if in no other.
The scenery here is grand beautiful! Oh, I hold my very breath while I stand and drink in this glorious sight. I shall never regret the fatigue I endured and the many lonely hours I have passed on my way to this place. All is forgotten as if remembered with indifference. For am I not repaid for all this in beholding this grand piece of Nature’s work?
Friday Afternoon
We have arrived at our resting place. Yes, after journeying so long, we have found a haven of rest and I for one am very glad to find a spot where I can sit down and not have to move until I chose. I find great difference in the air, as it is so much drier and lighter. It seems so pure and fresh and I cannot help but enjoy it.
I am about commencing letters home, and I suppose they are looking for letters by this time. We are very anxious to hear from home. Mother was not very well when we last had news and we fear she may be worse. And little sister Emma, I miss her sweet face and winning ways. I wish they were here with us. They would enjoy this romantic scenery as much as I do.
Clear Creek County, Colorado Territory
Clear Creek — June 29, 1861
We have just moved into our new house and we think it very fine, to be sure. It is nothing but log. The parlor, kitchen and sleeping rooms are all in together, but it is a house and very comfortable to those who have been gypsying for the last two months. I once thought I could not live in a log house, but I make a virtue of necessity and like it very well.
I have been to take a walk up the side of one of the Mountains that surround us on every side. I found a few ripe strawberries, the first I had seen this season and they tasted very good indeed.
It is quite pleasant here where we are stopping. A beautiful little stream rambles along within sight of the house. Huge mountains lift their majestic forms on every side and we find ourselves hidden entirely from the world. Pines, firs and balsams lift their heads proudly as though glad to be seen in such a spot. Great rocks are scattered everywhere. The scenery is of every kind and is very picturesque. In my heart of hearts I feel like praying for this seems to me like holy ground and the following comes to my lips, all unsought:
Prayer
God of the Universe before thy matchless throne
We humbly bend the knee and bow the contrite heart.
And kneeling pray for strength, the strength that thou
From out thy boundless love can well impart.
There was a time when love and faith
Dwelt in my heart and beautiful my life,
But o’er me surged the simoom’s[1] scorching breath;
With cold distrust and devastation rife,
We pray for strength when in the hush of night.
We clasp the loving hand with death-damp chill.
And watch the light go out from dearest eyes,
And freed the very soul from every ill,
We rain our kisses on the pallid brow,
And fold the hands, then turn away and weep.
We pray, oh God, for strength to bear the cross,
Then lay them down to their last long sleep.
Clear Creek — July 4, 1861
I had quite an adventure today. Directly after breakfast, I went down to the creek to bathe my head as it was aching in a most scandalous manner. Stepping upon a huge rock, I bent down to wet the napkin I held in my hand when Angels and Ministers defend us, didn’t my head clean dress and my own precious self got such a bathing as I ever had before! And as for my headache, I have not seen it since. It got drowned completely, I suppose. Yes, I actually fell into the water and went floating down the river (but not in my little bark canoe) at ten knots an hour! I took a nice, cold bath!
Ah, it makes me shiver now to think of it. I just escaped landing “on the other side of the Jordan.” A friendly bush caught my clothes and I managed to gain the shore after some exertion. As it is the fourth of July and I, of course, feel very independent and wishing to celebrate, have done so most decidedly by taking a plunge bath.
Clear Creek — July 5, 1861
The sun is setting brilliantly tonight, leaving behind it a long trail of glory. It is retouching the snow-clad mountains with luminous hues. Facing my window is a little clump of clouds, which are—I have stopped writing every little bit to admire—of the richest amber, leaning lovingly against one of sapphire blue. But alas! Even as I write it, the blue fades into purple, the purple to gray and my beautiful tissue of amber and blue has vanished like a dream at the approach of dawn.
The vapory, fleecy clouds, golden and blue-purple and crimson-sunlighted are fading into gray twilight. The starry-sent night gathers about us. The storm clouds, lifted by the fierce lightning are beautiful and serve to lift our thoughts upward. How dreary it would be if the sky was always lead-colored or gray. Earth can produce nothing like the sublime grandeur of the clouds sailing on in their majestic ever-changing beauty.
Then, I sit musing in this twilight hour, a very poor employment truly, but alas: how much time do women dream away? It is a crying sin that it is that above all else which makes women so dependent and slavish creatures, and keeps them so. Besides, it is very dangerous. A fixed idea allowed to take root in the mind insensibly becomes a governing one, and the immortal soul ought to own no governor but its own idea of duty to the immortal inspiration of God. His voice speaketh in the soul. The present is, for us, to work in and to use for ourselves and others. But ah, what incalculable hours of woman’s most golden age the time of her youthful years, ere home cares and responsibilities press upon her, are wasted in this most pernicious habit. The hours spent with crochet needles and embroidery are often only passed in simple dreaming, and every mesh of silk and every stitch as it passes through the fair fingers is only adding another strand to the net of destiny in which she is wrapped.
Few women stand serene and ready to play life’s humble parts and perform life’s humble duties in a kindly or cheerful spirit. Will and courage are needed, unless she would risk being the loser, for chance befriends but few. Let her cultivate the habit of leaving things as they are. The true view of life is not the least poetic. Human nature blooms and blossoms with poetry if “it will only remain true to itself” as naturally as a prairie is covered with flowers.
The Rocky Mountains and the Platte River Near Denver
Clear Creek — July 6, 1861
Fancy, generally, is short-lived. For ere we can acquire the means for rendering it a reality, we become so encumbered with the baggage of care “that rapture breaks” and bright anticipations fade away into the somber and destructive retreats of that gravity which crushes fun, forces out merriment, and plays the old Beelzebub generally with all the jollyfying forces of human nature. The halcyon days of a fun-loving child so soon fade into the golden of maturity and the absorbing darkness of old age.
But the moon is brushing away the clouds from his face and here and there the stars are peeping forth. So I will lay aside my pen and look out into the pale moonlight and muse and dream for a little while ere I join the gay group not far away.
Call From the Summer Land
In the hush of evening with the zephyrs bland,
Round me softly stealing comes a shadow hand,
Comes with distant footsteps from the spirit land.
Come to cheer me onward in my gloomy way,
Lighting up the darkness where I blindly stray,
While they softly whisper sister, come away.
Sister come, Earth’s pleasures are not worth your stay
All below is fleeting, doomed to swift decay.
Life’s most valued blessings melt like dew away.
Sister come, the shadows of a saddened heart
On thy brow have fallen; sorrow’s poisoned dart
In thy bosom rankles, death will hide its smart.
Death is but an angel merciful and kind
Who will rend the fetters that thy spirit bind,
Opening life’s portals to a ransomed mind.
Clear Creek — July 8, 1861
Not as Bad as We Seem
This is doubtless, a very wicked world and we all take a terrible delight in magnifying its wickedness. We talk of it day and night. We dwell upon it constantly. “We really rejoice over” it while pretending to deplore it. But to be unusually candid, we don’t believe in the prevalence of half the iniquity we all dwell upon with so much of moral eloquence.
We don’t believe that all the men in public office are rascals—we don’t believe all women are capricious, we don’t believe that every pious man is a hypocrite, every thoughtless one a thief, and that all whose opinions differ from ours are consigned, perforce, to the tender mercies of the evil one.
We believe in nothing of the kind. We feel much better in our charitable heresy, in this respect, than we could possibly feel if we believed the Earth was a whole urcedama[2] of sin and everybody in it a corporal mass of corruption. In good sooth we are vividly impressed with the idea that the world is a pretty good one, as worlds go, and that the people in it at large are about as honest and correct as poor human nature consistently can be under the temptations to which it is perpetually subjected.
Friendship
A slighting shadow on the grass;
A sun gleam on the sea;
All things that quickly come and pass,
Are typical of thee.
Change is written all throughout the glorious book of Nature. We see it in the shifting gorgeous cloud-tints, in the angriest never-resting sea, in the alternative of day and night, in the delicately painted blossoms that live but to die; made so supernal[3] in their loveliness to prove most unquestionably that the brightest earthly perfections and glories must wither and return to the dust whence they came.
There is something mournful in the continued vicissitudes of the seasons, each giving up of its own beautiful life for the other; the present dying that the future may be born. Silently and stealthily its hours creep in upon us with their wealth of hidden treasure—their undeveloped wisdom—their unlearned lesson. There is an element of sadness in these changes of the natural world about us. We weep when the summer dies; when the lovely things of earth pass away. But what are these when the spirit mourns the hurried affections of loved ones?
We may see in all this material change about us the perfecting of the wondrous plans of the Mighty Creator and hence we pronounce it all good. But in this moral instability, this fickleness of the affections, there is nothing to reconcile us. For in it we see crushed out the noblest and purest features of the human soul.
There are holy passions in our nature that to smother which, it were better we had never been born. There are heaven-gleamings from the “Sun of Brightness” shining down into the soul. And woe to the destroying hand that shall close the spirit portals from the far-off Eternity. There comes to our sad tired hearts now and then upon sweet music-making pinions—beautiful gifts from a Paradise of the “Blest—joys that are tasted by the angels; the joys of loving and being loved. Strangely fallen must be that nature who can trample upon these rose blossoms of immortality and cast them ruthlessly away.
Oh! do not angels pity that abject being who has rudely plundered from the loving tender heart its beautiful faith? Casting it forth like a bark upon the stormy sea, without a rudder, to drift upon the ruinous rocks of infidelity—for if the soul loves faith in human goodness it will soon lose faith in God.
Friendship is called a fickle fancy, a glittering bauble, a utopian excellence. But to me, it is happiness to believe that there is such a thing as real, disinterested, enduring friendship which, when adversity visit the hearth—when poverty and self dependence come rapping so loudly as to waken all the slumbering powers of our nature and call them forth in their native strength and purity—is noble enough to appreciate that superior goodness and dignity of those newly-awakened energies. Energies which broaden and deepen in their fervency[4] and devotion as their objects grow better, noble, and more worthy. How happy we are in the knowledge of having one such a friend. But alas, I fear me not all have even one.
Clear
Creek
July 1861
To Sister Fannie
The grass is on thy grave
And weary years have flown,
Since first thy spirit took its flight
To worlds of joy unknown.
But go where’er I may Fannie,
I seem to see thee yet.
And though I know that thou art dead,
I cannot thee forget.
When all
around is gay Fannie,
And many a voice is light.
My heart sees but thy grave
And in the silent night,
I long to steal away Sister
And on the grass grown sod,
To throw myself and clasp it close
And rest alone with God.
They tell
me it is wrong Fannie
To weep so long for thee.
They say that thou art happy now
And from earth’s sorrows free.
But my poor heart is sad sister
That thou from me art riven.
And clouds of grief hang heavily
Across the way of heaven.
Another Letter From Home
The first page of the letter is missing, but this fragment remains. It was written on patriotic Civil War stationary. The letter from Mary Ann Delano to her husband and daughter reads:
“... we have had quite an excitement here for days about
the return of the Hardy Cadets.
“Will Graves, their captain, has returned wounded in the leg just above the ankle. It is a flesh wound. Jo Warner has lost two fingers on the left hand. Billy has deserted and went to Mansfield. He telegraphed to Wat and she went to him. Then she wrote to her father for money, but he did not send her any. Then she wrote to Warner and he did not send any. What they will do, is more than I can tell.
“Those of the Company that I have seen are looking well.
“Speaking of the 4th of July, it was like all the days to me. I was out to William Nelson’s. We had chicken and peas for dinner, but it was scorching hot day. We have had a very dry summer. The harvesting here, or at least Noel, has done his haying and harvesting and threshing without rain. It is so hot here that it doesn’t seem as though we could live.
“It is Sunday evening. I have just been home. I looked around and wished you were here once more with us for what is home if one half of the family is gone? If I had to feel as I do all the time, I should pray that my days might be few. Emma is so lonesome that she does not know what to do with herself. She goes to the Post Office for me and she knows when the letters come from you. She feels as disappointed as I do when she does not get one. She came home Saturday so pleased that she cried: “I have gotten a letter and I guess it’s from our folks for it’s very heavy.” I opened it and as soon as I commenced to read it, she could see how bad I felt. She walked the floor and cried, but said nothing until I had overcome my feelings in some measure. Then she wanted to know if you were not coming home. She is a sensitive little plant. She partakes of all my bad feelings. She wants to do everything to keep me from being tired. She says: “Let me do it, Ma for it makes you so tired.”
“You wanted to know if she went to school. It is vacation. If school kept in, I should not send her in this warm weather. She wants to tell Pa that his little white bantam has got ten little white chicks. They look cunning enough.
“Just as soon as you can sell to save yourself, I want you to come home. I will still try to do what is for the best as far as I can. I will write to you in a few days again. I should have written, but you said in your letter that after I got these that I was not to write until I heard from you again, for if you got Warnes to come home, you would not get my letter. That is the reason I have not written to you before.
“Jermain says that he sent you the papers since the first of May. I told him that I should like to have him give me your address, for I did not know where to direct a letter to you. He said he did not know because his clerk mailed them. I then asked to see the clerk, but he said he had gone out. I then made up my mind that he had not sent the papers and I told him I would take them. Wad said that you had received none.
“Emma was very pleased with those flowers that came in the letter that you sent.
“Jane’s health is very poor. Mrs. Sears tries to do her work, all but washing and ironing. She has to lay down quite often to rest. We have had a little shower through the night and it is a little cooler this morning.
“My speaking of your friends, they are like mine when clouds surround you. They are amongst the missing-something friends I don’t care for. I find that we have had so many such. There is so few that inquire about you. Will Irish is about the only gentleman that calls to inquire about you. He and his friend Raymond have called and played euchre. Often times they are expressing great times with you. They are looking, at least Will is, at every train that comes in and will until I see him and tell him that you are not coming. I would send you .... if I thought there was a possibility of your .... it.
“In speaking of my visit to Hudson wrote all about it to you and directed my letter Denver ...., it should have been there either before you got there that was all of and add up that you gave me until this last letter. I asked Wad where to direct it and he told me two different places but . . . . . . about either one of them. You see that I . . . . been to blame you doubtless hear . . . . . . Dick. Her husband has gone to the War and she was feeling very bad when here have not heard from her since she . . . . . come from here. Lide Bradley has had a baby and lost it. She is feeling very bad about it. Has Frank sent you his picture yet? He told me he was going to send it after you had written to him. I have received a number of letters from him since he left here. Nelson, I want that you should write a few lines to me in the next letter. Take a little time to do it. I can read it as long as you (stay). Write often it seems as though . . . . . could not . . . . . have got so much to say, yet my pen and inking so poor that I can hardly write.
“Emma, poor child, is sleeping. She has a good deal to tell you when you come. She says: “They can never go away again and leave us.”
This from Ma and Emma
While staying in Clear Creek County, Evaline DeLano continues to record her observations in her journal.
Clear Creek — July 13, 1861
The hopes of youth are always bright, gay visions of future happiness and glory rise before them, and they only see rose tinted clouds. Beautiful flowers from the ideal world are scattered in their pathway. The hard hand of misfortune is not yet seen. Stern reality is hidden from our view. Alas, too soon are we awakened from our fairy land of visions. Too soon we find that the friends of yesterday have proved false. Fortune, perhaps, has withdrawn her approving smile and we are left to endure the first rude awakening from our bright dreams alone.
Alone, ah! Time was when I trembled at the thoughts of being deprived of friends and being left at the mercy of the cold, rude and selfish ones whom I constantly come in contact with. But now I view things differently. Summer friends have vanished and I am nearly all alone. For any true heart friends are very few and I would not have it otherwise, for now I know how to appreciate what few that remain to me.
To pleasure and her giddy
troop,
Farewell without a sigh or tear;
But heart gives way and spirits droop
To think that love must leave us
here.
Clear Creek — July 17, 1861
It seems as if this morning the angels had put aside the curtains of heaven—had rolled back the mighty scroll and thus some of its glorious light had streamed down and rested here; as though some of the fragrance which is inhaled by the inhabitants of heaven was being borne hence by the gentle wafting of Seraphs’ wings.
My soul is filled with awe and radiance at the grand and sublime. But the rich and beautiful always penetrates my whole being—closely and beautifully winds itself around my heart-strings; finds the way into that inner sanctuary and nestles there in sweetness and in power, filling my soul with holy thoughts and purer motivations.
The uplifted mountains crowned with verdure commands any reverence. The mighty thundering cataract fills my soul with awe. But the little rill[5] meandering along through the vale and at the mountain’s foot, dancing for joy and rippling soft gushes of music and thus to the noble river, and perhaps to the mighty ocean, it steals my very soul and brings out my better being.
Ah! there is much of beauty all around our pathway. If we could detect its exquisite workmanship in even the little things in life. The unfolding bud, the murmuring rivulet, the tiny flower, the green leaf, and in short all the works of Nature and Art present to the observant eye. And vast fields of knowledge, over which we may start and run and yet never seem to have passed over much of its extent, worlds of knowledge lying dormant—concealed perhaps, before now—springing up in newer and richer beauties. How seldom do we discover in the thorny paths of life anything beautiful. Instead of letting our souls go out after the beauties, we keep them closed up within ourselves, leaving all the other grand, ennobling things of life for other hearts, when we may partake of this fullness as well as others.
Clear Creek — July 19, 1861
Today we start for Denver. I would like to stop longer in this picturesque spot. The grand old mountains with their rocky and weather-worn faces, already do they seem like old friends. Their dear familiar forms will soon be hidden from my sight forever; for it is scarcely probable that I shall ever return to this rocky paradise. It is with mingled pleasure and regret I leave this place, witness of many pleasant and of course a few lonely ones. But it has been, for a short time, my home and as such I shall always hold it dear.
Denver, Colorado — July 20, 1861
We have just arrived in this place. We are stopping at the house of Mr. Akins, a former resident of Adrian and a fast friend of Father’s. They seem like very pleasant people and without doubt we shall enjoy ourselves while here.
The Overland Coach Office in Denver
Denver is one of the places that has grown in one short year from a few log cabins to be quite a miniature city. There is a vast amount business done here. I have seen my last day in the mountains. I think I would like to live among them longer if my surroundings were pleasant and congenial.
Today we passed through Mount Vernon (not the Washington Mount Vernon). It is situated near the foot of the mountains and is a very pleasant little town, or rather a hamlet for it does not comprise more than a dozen houses. This morning a man was found dead in that place, hanging to the limb of a tree. He had been caught stealing horses and “Judge Lynch’s Law” came into immediate effect!
Denver — July 20, 1861
We have been out for a walk about town. We made several calls and I like the people here very much. They are kind and friendly, social and free-hearted. And it ought not to be otherwise, separated as they all are from friends and kindred far away in a new country. They are in great degree dependent upon each other.
We did talk of going to the church this evening but feel so much fatigue with our walk, we are glad to remain home. Mrs. Akin is a very pleasant woman and I like her very much, for so short an acquaintance as I have had with her.
Monday, July 21, 1861
Today we have started forth again to lead, for a little while, a sort of gypsy life not very pleasant to me. I scarcely like the idea of so much promiscuous company as we are obliged to have here, but we must make the best of it and not be in the least fastidious.
We are still within sight of the mountains and tonight they look very beautiful with the gorgeously tinted clouds sailing above them. The sun is just setting, leaving a trail of golden light which bathes us in hues of golden.
We started from Denver at half past three this afternoon and have camped for the night at the Toll Gate ten miles out.
Tuesday, July 22, 1861
We started this morning at half past five. Weather very fine. Our morning drive has been 22 miles. We have just eaten our dinner it consisted of bread, cold boiled ham, stewed gooseberries, apple pie, and coffee. Mrs. Pease, “one of our fellow passengers,” has laid down for an after-dinner nap. Mr. Burten is lighting his pipe for a smoke. Joe is feeding the antelope. Father is nodding in the shade and Miss Eva is thinking of a certain book that Mr. Somebody gave her as she was starting from Denver and thinks she had better commence reading it.
There are five wagons camped near us. If I should judge from appearances I would say they were loaded mostly with women. Someone has doubtless thought it might prove profitable to take over a load. If anyone would only think to take over a load of cats they might make a fortune in a short time as there is great need for the canines and no one to supply them. Only last week a cat sold in Denver for ten dollars!
Six O’clock
Camped at Living Springs, forty miles from Denver. Looks like some rain.
On the Plains — July 23, 1861
Camped for noon at the stage station. Weather very warm. Have been to dinner and will soon start again. I can scarcely find time to scratch off a few lines. Camped for night on the Bijou River. We have had quite a blow just now with a little rain. I fear we shall have a severe storm before morning. We are sixteen miles from the Platte River and shall dine beside it tomorrow noon.
On the Plains — July 24, 1861
Down by the Platte once more. Its muddy waters looks like some dear familiar face. It seems to smile a welcome to me, glad I have come back once more. Ah, you treacherous river! Want to coax me into your arms again! But I have not forgotten the time when you drew me down so close to your cold bosom and would have kept me forever! Yes, would have taken me beyond the vale on to the bright Summer Land. In the years that are coming to me, I may regret that I did not listen to the sweet music of thy waters, and rested from this turmoil, this struggle for life and its pleasures. Yes, already does the shadow of a weary, tired spirit rest upon me, but the future rests with God.
Mr. Burten has just bought another antelope. He has now a pair of them; also two magpies. He intends to get a pair of prairie dogs, then his family will be complete.
On the Plains — July 25, 1861
We have made a long drive today. It has been the warmest of any day since we started. “Jenny,” one of the antelope, is sick and I have been taking care of her. I guess she is homesick, poor little creature. She is mourning the absence of kind friends and familiar faces.
Well, it is supper time. Mr. Burten has it nearly ready and I must see if I can be of any assistance.
On
the Plains
July 26, 1861
We have just been to dinner and I am feeding “Jenny” with sugar. She seems quite attached to me and tries to follow me everywhere I go. Mr. Burten has been reckoning up how long it will take us to get home. He thinks it will be about the sixteenth of August.
Joe “the mischief” has just remarked that I would have to stop on the way and bleach out. I tell him: “no indeed.” I will let my hair hang in braids down my neck, tuck up my dress, throw a blanket over my shoulders, and I will be the nicest little squaw imaginable. He has been brushing out my hair and he wants me to commence now. I tried to braid it, failed, and left it in an interminable tangle. I’ll play the royne[6] tonight when we camp.
We have considerable sand to pass through this P.M. and we shall find it quite hard traveling. Father has started on ahead and I had quite a walk this morning. I think I won’t venture again today.
Half past three: We are just passing Lillian Springs. Got some nice cold water and did not get some fresh butter as we expected. It is four miles to the station where we stop for the night.
On the Plains — July 27, 1861
It is night and we are about retiring. Mrs. Pease is combing her hair. She does it very carefully in papers every night so it will curl. Her hair is short and red—yes decidedly red.
The wind is blowing a perfect hurricane and we look for rain before morning. We are camped beside the river five miles from Julesburg. We are now two hundred miles from Kearney and hope to reach that place on Friday. Mr. Burten bought a paper as we passed through Julesburg. It contained intelligence from the wars. All news to us, although nearly a week old, is quite a comfort to hear how they are getting along in the “States” now and then.
On the Plains — July 28, 1861
It is half past three and we are about to camp for we have just come among the Indians today. They were much pleased to see white squaws, as they call us, although I at least am anything but white. At present, I am quite a little “Brownie.”
I have no doubt but it would be quite amusing, could we understand them, to hear their conversation about us; their remarks on our looks actions and appearances generally.
It is very dry and somewhat dusty. It did not rain last night, as we had hoped for.
On the Plains — July 30, 1861
It is very warm, about the most uncomfortable weather I ever experienced. We started about four this morning and drove until ten. We then stopped as it was too warm to travel. It is now two o’clock and we shall soon start onward. I have been making bread and a woman living in a station near by let us bake it in her oven while she was getting dinner. She only charged twenty-five cents for her trouble.
Last night we camped among a million of mosquitoes and today my face resembles a speckled trout, only more so. One might suppose from my appearance that I had the Smallpox. This afternoon, we drive to Fremont’s Slough where we stop until midnight. Then we start again to avoid the heat and flies for this place is said to be alive with flies of the worst kind.
On the Plains — July 31, 1861
Camped for noon at Box Elder. There are a few Indians here and some of them visited us this noon. They have been amusing us with their bows and arrows. We gave them their dinner, with which they were much pleased. I like to talk with them just for the fun of hearing their queer answers in broken English. After today we shall see no more until we cross the Platte and get into Nebraska. Then we come among the Pawnees and Omahas.
It is cool and pleasant today, quite an agreeable change from the past few days, which have been very warm and disagreeable. Mrs. Pease is asleep as usual. She is not very social and I find little pleasure in her society.
We are about to resume our journey. Heigh-ho! I wish we’d have a thunder storm, the Indians carry us off, the mules run away, the antelope jump out or something queer happen for the sake of a little fun! Anything to create an excitement!
Thursday: August 1st, 1861
We camped for noon at “nowhere point.” As I suppose everyone knows exactly where it is situated, I will not describe it.
We hope to reach Fort Kearney on Saturday, then we will be about ten days longer from there to Des Moines.
We are camped just beside the river and if it was not so muddy, I would be tempted to take a bath for it is very warm and dusty. We are now traveling over almost a level country. It is called the Platte Valley and is several hundred miles in extent. It is from thirty to fifty miles broad. Huge bluffs rise upon both sides and through the center runs the old muddy Platte itself. There is neither tree, house nor shrub in sight. Cactus and prairie flowers are to be seen in every direction. They, at least, will grow anywhere.
We have just passed the teams sent out by the Pacific Telegraph Company. There was quite a train: over thirty wagons. They seem to be making quick of it and soon the Atlantic and Pacific will be united.
August 3, 1861
We are stopping at Kearney and of all God- and man-forsaken places I ever saw, this seems the worst. We have been trying to get some dinner here but found it quite impossible. Our bill of fare today was ham, crackers and molasses and some other trifles.
Left Fort Kearney at two o’clock. Mailed some letters at the Fort and forded the Platte. We had a comical time crossing as we had to wade part of the way. The bottom of the river is composed of quicksand mostly and woe to betide[7] he, she or it who rests too long, for as soon as one stops, they commence to sink. Where one would go if they should stop long enough I cannot say, as I did not stay to experiment.
When we were part way over, one of the mules stopped. The driver tried to urge him on but he would not stir as he was doubtless laboring under the mistaken idea that he was tired and would take a rest. We were a little frightened for a few moments as there was some danger for our selves, baggage and mules.
Mr. Burten took Mrs. Pease and carried her to an island close by before he could return for me. I was out in the water and I might have been doing a little tall walking on my own account, but our fright was all for nothing for we got through safely and here we are at seven in the evening on the North side of the old muddy Platte.
Sunday, August 4, 1861
It is very warm today. We have almost suffered with the heat and what makes it worse, Father is quite sick. I fear he took cold being in the water yesterday. I hope it may prove nothing serious for it would be unfortunate to be sick here.
This noon we stopped at a house just vacated by the Mormons. They had started for Salt Lake, leaving a comfortable house and a good living. The man had charge of a printing office, telegraph office, post office, store and a good ranch. The place is called Wood River, situated on a stream by that name. The river derives its name from the large number of trees growing on its banks.
We passed through a Mormon settlement today. They seem to be a low, ignorant set of persons. There is very little education or refinement among them. There are a few exceptions as I found this noon at our stopping place, a beautiful flower garden. I stopped among them to admire their beauty and partake of the exquisite fragrance that filled the air about me. As I was wandering along, I met a little girl who said the flowers had belonged to a young lady who formerly resided in the house to which the garden was attached. But said the child: “She has now gone to Salt Lake. Didn’t you see her?” questioned the child. I replied that I could not tell but did not think it likely as she doubtless went upon the North side of the Platte while we had traveled, until the day before, on the South side. “Why didn’t you come from Salt Lake and ain’t you a Mormon?” was her next question.
I was quite amused with the child but when she found I was not a Mormon and didn’t come from the City of Saints, she left me in great disgust, quite fearful she would be contaminated.
Nebraska, August 5, 1861
We are stopping for noon under the shadow of a few trees, the first I have seen excepting at a distance since we left the mountains. This A.M., Mr. Burten killed a pair of prairie chickens. He has just killed a snipe, which is for Father. Poor Father, he does not seem much better. I pray he may soon get well for this is no place for sick folks.
It is night once more and I surely expect I shall never be permitted to resume my journal, as the mosquitoes are so plenty and of such monstrous proportions that I fear we I shall be devoured before morning.
August 6, 1861
This morning we made an early start, drove eighteen miles and have stopped for dinner at a ranch. Father still continues to be sickly. I have just had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Brown, a gentleman whose acquaintance I formed on the car between Chicago and St. Joseph on our way out. He is, like ourselves, homeward bound. He is quite agreeable and pleasant. In his conversation, I find considerable pleasure. He is by birth a Cenbian (Serbian?).
It tried hard to rain last night, but did not succeed to my satisfaction.
August 7, 1861
We drove quite late last night then camped among a million of mosquitoes. We started again quite early, crossed at Shin’s Ferry, and have had a nice cool day so far. We have killed some chickens, also some snipe, which we will have for dinner. The country through which we are traveling is very pleasant and quite thickly settled. The people seem kind and friendly.
August 8, 1861
Camped for noon at Fremont, a little village about forty miles from Omaha. A large number of Mormons have just passed. There seemed to be quite a number of women among them. They were a forlorn and ignorant set of people. Mostly Danes, I believe.
Today, we lost sight of the Platte. It is not likely I ever shall see its muddy face again. We have just found some beautiful pond lilies. They were as large as good-size dinner plates and of a delicate, creamy-tinted color.
August 9, 1861
We camped last night at Elkhorn. We found there quite an encampment of Indians. We visited their village in the evening and were witness to some of their performances. Their war songs and buffalo feast was quite comical. A young brave came into our camp and coming up to me said he wished something to eat. I told him if he would sing for me, I would give him something to eat. So he commenced, in a not unmusical voice. It was some love song, I should guess by the sound, as I was unable to understand a word. I kept him singing for some time, much to the annoyance of Joe, who declared I was half in love with the dusky minstrel.
It rained hard all night and this morning. It continues in a drizzly gushing fashion, not at all agreeable to contemplate.
We
drove to Omaha this morning. We stopped
there for dinner, then took the ferry boat for Council Bluffs, where we have
just arrived. We stop here overnight
and then resume our journey.
Council Bluffs is a pretty little town with about three thousand inhabitants. It has been, at one time, a very busy place, but it has had its day and its glory is now on the wane. It is quite pleasantly situated close to the Bluffs from which it derives its name. This was the place where the Chiefs of the different tribes of Indians used to congregate and smoke the amulet of peace or hold councils of war.
August 10, 1861
We have only come about twenty miles today. It has been stormy and unpleasant and oh, how dreary. Everyone seems affected by it and we have had but little conversation of any sort. Mr. Burten has killed six chickens this afternoon, so we are well supplied with poultry for supper.
August 13, 1861
I have not opened my journal in several days. I’ve seen nothing worth writing for:
“. .
.The days leer dark and cold and dreary
It rains and the wind is ever weary . . .”
I have been very unfortunate today. I lost a box of cactus that I brought from the mountains with me. I have mourned this loss all day and I can scarcely become reconciled.
Joe and I have gathered quite a quantity of wild plums. It is quite refreshing to see anything in the shape of fruit.
Des Moines, Iowa — August 16, 1861
We arrived in town last night (15th). I am stopping at Mr. Cole’s. Mrs. Harnes called on me this morning and wanted me to come and stop at her house. We remained in town. I think I will spend the day with her. We expect to leave tomorrow and thus our stay will not be very long among any of our friends.
Thursday Evening
I have been spending a portion of the day with Mrs. Harnes. She formerly resided in Adrian. She is a pleasant woman and I like her much. I have spent the day very pleasantly.
Mr. Barnerd called this evening with his carriage and took us over to see his daughter Kate. I was acquainted with her years ago when they lived in Adrian. I had a pleasant call and nice ride over town.
The Union Pacific Railway Station
Newton, Iowa — August 17, 1861
We are traveling once more. We started from Des Moines this morning. It is a pleasant day; cool and comfortable riding.
There is not much timber through Iowa. There is also a scarcity of fruit. The winters are mostly too severe. I have just been eating an apple, the first I have seen since I left the Mississippi last spring.
There is a gentleman traveling with us who has been in California for the last ten years. He is now on his way home near Hillsdale, Michigan. We, or rather the man we took passage with from Des Moines, was very unfortunate. One of his horses was taken sick and died in less than half an hour after we stopped. Fortunately, the stage came along just then. We jumped in and came to Newton, Iowa where we took supper and changed horses.
We will be obliged to ride all night, which will be unpleasant for me at least as I am very tired already.
Brooklyn, Iowa — August 18, 1861
Have stopped for breakfast at Brooklyn. It is a small village and does not contain more than a dozen houses, including store, blacksmith shop, school house, etc.
I have forgotten to mention my fellow passengers: there are six beside myself. The old lady sitting in the seat with me is from Cleveland. She left home about six weeks ago to visit a son near Des Moines. He (the son) had only been married about a year. The mother had never seen the new daughter and thinking it would be a good way to spend the summer, she started for her son’s western home. When within about twenty miles of the place, she heard that the son’s wife was dead! Hurrying on, she found it was too true and instead of clasping a loving daughter to her bosom, she was obliged to kiss the cold, dead lips of the wife and daughter. Yes! And daughter, for the young wife had left a little baby to be cared for by the bereaved friends. But only for a little while, for it sickened and died and was laid by its mother in a few short weeks.
The gentleman just opposite is her son. He looks very sad. He is going home with his mother for a short time in the hope that a change will be a benefit to him.
The person sitting next to him with those harried gray whiskers and strange wild eyes is a man from California. He says he spent the last winter in Salt Lake among the Mormons. He said the majority of them were poor miserable creatures. Many of them being obliged to gather leaves and herbs as weeds to eat as they were obliged to give the most they raise to Brigham Young. He is said to be worth two million, while hundreds of his dupes are perfectly destitute. Many of them would leave if they were permitted to do so, but there they must remain.
The gong is sounding and I must go down to dinner.
On the Train — August 17/18, 1861
Left Marengo, Iowa at one o’clock and we are now traveling at a pretty good rate toward Davenport. Have just passed Homestead, the first station east from Marengo. It is a pleasant little village with a fine farming country surrounding it. We are continually passing through pleasant wood land and over rolling plains, the most beautiful land I ever saw. I feel that I almost might make this country my home for the coming years of my life, could I have my loved ones with me. The people here are social and pleasant. They impart a home feeling to you at once and you feel that you are among friends though far from home and kindred.
We have just stopped at a station. Nameless, I should judge, at least it deserves to be. I can see but three houses. They are composed of rough planks and well furnished with children to judge from the heads that popped from every conceivable opening.
We are every little bit crossing little streams of water, which I am told is well-filled with fish. Large quantities of wild plums, grapes and crab apples grow here.
Many of Iowa’s sons have gone forth to quell this terrible rebellion; have gone forth to the battlefield to fight for liberty or death.
We have just passed Iowa City. I cannot see much from the depot, but I think it must be a busy place in good times.
Davenport, Iowa — August 17/18, 1861
Six o’clock. We have reached Davenport where we take supper. This place is situated on the Mississippi, and is one of the most delightful places I have ever seen. It is a much larger place than I expected to see. Just across the river is Rock Island. It is rather a pleasant looking place but like all the river towns, swarming with mosquitoes.
Panorama of Davenport, Iowa c. 1861
Chicago, Illinois — August 18, 1861
It is Sunday and we are obliged to wait until seven o’clock this evening before we can resume our journey. I have been out for a walk upon the Lake Shore. Saw numerous little sail boats skipping along right merrily, with one or two steamers puffing lazily along. It was a pleasant sight and I longed to be out upon the water myself.
I took an external view of some of the churches. Many of them are grand pieces of architecture. The chimes of the bells are quite musical.
We visited the court house and from its summit had a very good view of our “Queen City” of the west. It is over six miles long and four wide. Population, one hundred and fifty thousand. Some of the dwellings are “perfect palaces” from four to six stories in height. They have marble fronts, beautiful fountains, rare flowers and every thing to understate refinement and wealth.
I had a laughable time last night. When we changed cars at Rock Island, I felt very tired and somewhat sleepy as I had not had much sleep for several nights. The cars were not very well filled so I took possession of two seats. Father was several seats from me but I felt no alarm with so many people on all sides of me. I had scarcely placed myself in a comfortable position when along came the conductor for my ticket. He said it was all right, said he would keep my ticket as he could remember me and I would doubtless wish to sleep some during the night, so he passed on.
Now, thought I, what a nice time I will have. So with my head on my traveling basket and my feet comfortably disposed on the opposite seat, I prepared to take the long looked-for sleep. I had just got everything arranged to suit my fancy when back comes the conductor and coolly seating himself beside me, commenced a conversation. He questioned as to where I came from, where I was going, and where I lived, in a manner that was highly amusing. He wanted to know if I was going to stop in Chicago. I told him I was not, if the train connected. He said I would be obliged to remain there through the day as the first train for the east did not leave until seven in the evening.
He tried hard to find out something about me but I did not give him much information. He was very polite and civil, and his questions were so well arranged that I could find no fault with him. The fun of it was he thought I was traveling alone.
The cars stopped in a station and he left me. I did not expect him to return so taking off my hat, I tied my veil over my head and prepared to take the long-contemplated nap. Then lo, back comes that provoking conductor and we had another long chat, in the midst of which he was somewhat surprised to find I was not traveling alone. Ah, who shall say the American conductors are not very gallant!
Chicago, Illinois — August 18, 1861
I am sitting in a window of the Hotel gazing out upon the living panorama presented to my view in the streets below. It is quite a pleasure to sit and watch the varieties of humanity that are here presented. Every grade of society is represented, from the highest to the lowest.
I have just been witness to a little love scene. A couple (man and woman) have been standing on the opposite corner for the last half-hour, talking very affectionately to judge from their actions. The woman did most of the loving part however, and I thought he seemed quite relieved a few moments ago when she left him and he did not offer to accompany her. He let the poor creature go alone when he knew she was dying to have him go with her. How could he treat her so and it almost dark, too? Ah me, if my darling would treat me so I would soon find a new love!
Coldwater, Michigan — August 19, 1861
We arrived here at one o’clock this morning and found Mr. Dibbles’ family well. They had been expecting us for a week or more and had almost come to the conclusion that we had passed by without stopping. They have a cozy, pleasant home and are such dear, good people that one cannot help liking them.
Well if I haven’t gone and done it this time! Instead of waiting as I should have done, I rushed on board the first train that came along. I inquired if that train was going east and was told it was. The train was about starting and not seeing Father, I supposed he was attending to the baggage and not wishing to be left, I went on board thinking that I was all right. We had gone about two miles when I made the overwhelming discovery that I was going in exactly the wrong direction. Fortunately, I found a friend on board who assisted me as far as he could. I got off at Bronson and going to the telegraph office, I sent a dispatch to Coldwater informing my friends of my whereabouts.
I am now awaiting an answer in the parlor of the hotel of this extensive[8] and I am in a great pet[9] at my mistake.
Hudson, Michigan — August 22, 1861
I am stopping with my dear friend Mrs. Dickerson. I arrived here two days ago. I came in the night and gave my friends quite a surprise. I found the place without difficulty and nearly knocked my knuckles to pieces before I could rouse her. Mr. Dickerson is in the Army of the Potomac.
Oh, how many of our loved ones have gone from us, perhaps never to return. Many, oh many will sleep their last long sleep on the battlefield.
I go home this afternoon. Mrs. Dickerson is quite disappointed to think that I cannot remain longer with her, but I want to be at home with my dear mother and sister.
Adrian, Michigan — August 23, 1861
At home once more and oh, how nice and quiet it seems after so much noise and confusion.
Just one party accompanied me to the depot at Hudson and we had a merry time in the midst of which the cars came rushing along and whirled me to my home where others more dear were waiting to welcome me back.
Ah, does it not seem good to know that you have a home somewhere in this wide world. Someone who loves you and will care for you when the body and soul are sick and oh, so weary. Just as I am tonight.
I did not find Mother as well as I wished I could have seen her. She looks pale and sick and I hope we will soon have her better.
Emma is the same “spoilt darling” that she always has been. Everything seems the same except my room. The furniture . . .
At this point in Evaline DeLano’s journal, eight pages have been torn from the diary. Was this the end of the journal that she kept on her journey west? Or was there more? No one knows what might have been on these missing pages.
Her remaining journal entries resume with the following essay:
Spirit Love
We all feel, at some time during our life, the influence of Spirit Love. It may come indirectly and we may be unconscious of its source, but at such times, we feel a happiness that Earth cannot give. It gives us a feeling of purity and holiness, and Earth and its associations fade away and we are indeed lifted up among the angels.
Yes, under the influence of Spirit Love, we become beautiful and lovable. Our inner being becomes developed. We throw the grossness of the external world aside and we see things as they really are. The true view of life is not void of beauty or goodness. No, when we throw off false education and narrow creeds and come out from the cloud that superstition and ignorance have thrown over us like a veil for ages past, then we shall see this world as it truly is. Then shall we become worthy and be conscious of the loves of the Spirits.
True, sometimes the casting off of the external form is the first awakening of the spirit to the knowledge of its higher and more ethereal nature. Our spirit learns for the first time that many of the fine feelings and higher aspirations that it had experienced emanated from a higher and more developed sphere than its own.
Again, I know there are those now occupying the Earth-form who accept and return the pure Spirit-Love. They finally realized the presence of congenial friends from the Summer Land. They have a view of human nature as it should be. They accept and appropriate for themselves the bright gems of wisdom and knowledge that fall in their pathway.
I believe we can be almost anything if we will live for it. But if we do not sacrifice our personal feelings and bodily comforts for the spiritual, we will not seek anything beyond the gratifications of Earthly desires.
Once again, pages (four) have been torn from Eva DeLano’s journal. The remaining text begins in mid entry at the top of the 73rd manuscript page:
. . . . from the heart. I have heard it often remarked “that the Halcyon days of a fun-loving child were the happiest,” for we know nothing then of the trials we shall face after in our lives. Our childish sorrows are soon forgotten in some new pleasure and we are constantly building beautiful air castles that make us very happy for the time.
As children, we look into the future, and in anticipation, we enjoy what perhaps never becomes a reality. I do not think our happiest days are always those of our childhood. I can look back not very far and see days bright and glorious, when all clouds were rose-tinted, so happy. Such perfect happiness as I enjoyed can never be forgotten, tho dark clouds hang over me and grief such as I never thought I should have to experience has fallen upon me.
Yet, I know this world is not all an urcedama[10] of sin. The skies are not always lead-colored or gray. No, the sunshine of happiness envelops all of God’s children at some time during this life, and after all, lets the cloudy and the sunny days, the happy and the sorrowful days, be equally divided. I think we will find that each one gets his share of all that he deserves of either. Do we not, to a great extent, make our lives what they are? Or are we indeed children of circumstances, not responsible for our acts?
I think we might make ourselves and others much happier than we do, save many a dreary heart ache and throbbing brow, and why don’t we? Because we are so selfish, so careless of the way our fingers come in contact with the tender cords of feeling that bind heart to heart.
Let us look within. Perhaps we will not find ourselves as perfect as we have imagined. We may, if we can only search out the cause, find a remedy for many of the lesser evils.
To be sure, we cannot always make others do right if we do not ourselves. We cannot always impart knowledge to others after we acquire it. They won’t always listen to reason, if we take that for an argument, which we don’t always. But we can pick the stones from our own path, and then there will be little time to waste over the affairs of others.
Our lives might be made much happier than they are if we would have a thought for others as well as ourselves. If we could only put that great “I” out of the way and substitute “we,” how much better we would get along. I do think that selfishness is the cause of nine-tenths of the unhappiness of our lives.
Our social as well as our moral natures need a thorough cleansing. If we will take these old stubborn plants such as selfishness, carelessness and a few others too well known for me to mention them, and dig them out by the roots and kill them entirely, we will find ourselves and others enriched ten-fold. There would be little doubt but we could always see the bright sunshine of happiness somewhere about us, feel its warm love-inspiring rays and we would find ourselves at peace with all mankind. Learn first to know thyself.
Evaline Amelia
DeLano
Adrian, December 31st 1861
Postscript
Evaline DeLano and her father returned from their trip to the gold fields of Colorado to their home about ten miles northwest of Adrian, Michigan, on the northwest corner of what is now Shepherd and Townline roads. Eva could hardly have guessed while reading her mother’s letters on the trail that only a few weeks after their return, Mary Ann Slater DeLano would succumb to the illness she mentions in her letters. She died in January of 1862.
Two years later, Eva became the second wife of Oliver Edwards Humphrey of Victor, New York. As did the DeLano family, Humphreys trace their history in America to the Connecticut settlers of the early 1600s. An engineer for the Howe sewing machine company, Eva and Oliver are known to have lived in Cumberland, Richmond, and Baltimore. They had two daughters, both of whom died in infancy. Their two surviving sons are: Charles Vernon Humphrey, who is my great-grandfather, and Julian Louis Humphrey, who became a building inspector in Hammond, Illinois. Eva’s two sons were orphaned when she died in 1882, because her husband had recently been hospitalized in New York State with "softening of the brain," a term to describe the effects of hemorrhage or inflammation caused by a stroke or aneurysm.
Eva Delano is buried with other family members, including her mother, in the family plot at Oakwood Cemetery in Adrian. Her father Nelson DeLano and his second wife Content Johnson DeLano are buried in the Wolf Creek Cemetery, located about a half mile south of the DeLano home site on Townline Road.
Thomas Patrick
Hastings-On-Hudson, New York, 1999