THIS is my last night in Denver. After a month beside and among the Rocky Mountains, I am going (as the people here say) "to America." My place is taken in the stage which leaves to-morrow morning for the East, by the Platte route.

Had not the commencement of the rainy season and the condition of our animals prevented me from reaching Cañon and Colorado cities, my tour would have embraced all of the mountain regions which are easily accessible, and some that are not so. What I have seen is amply sufficient to convince me how much more there is to see. During a journey on horseback of four hundred miles, which led me through two of the three Parks, and thrice across the great range, I have obtained a tolerably extensive knowledge of the climate, scenery, and other features of a region which is destined, I think, to become for us what Switzerland is to Europe. Our artists, with true instinct, have first scented this fact, and they are the pioneers who point out to ignorant Fashion the way it should go.

Whoever comes to the Rocky Mountains with pictures of the Alps in his memory, expecting to find them repeated on a grander and wilder scale, will certainly be disappointed. He will find no upper world of unbroken snow, as in the Bernese Oberland; no glaciers, thrusting far down between the forests their ever-moving fronts of ice; no contrast of rich and splendid vegetation in the valleys; no flashing waterfalls; no slopes of bright green pasturage; no moss; and but rarely the gleam of lakes and rivers, seen from above. With no less lofty chain can the Rocky Mountains be measured, it is true; but it is merely a general comparison of height, not of resemblance in any important feature.

In the first place, the atmospheric effects are those which result from the intense dryness of the heart of a continent in the temperate zone. The Alps not only touch the Mediterranean at either extremity, but are no further from the Atlantic than from here to the Missouri River. Four or five cloudless days in succession are considered a rare good fortune by the tourist; the higher peaks are seldom without their drapery of shifting cloud. Here a clear sky is the rule. There is seldom vapor enough — except just at present, during the brief rainy season — for the artist’s needs. Perspective is only obtained by immense distances. The wonderful, delicate grays of the mountain landscapes demand changes of light and shadow which are often lacking; they lie too barely in the broad, unobstructed sunshine. Yet an air more delicious to breathe can scarcely be found anywhere. It is neither too sedative nor too exciting; but has that pure, sweet, flexible quality which seems to support all one’s happiest and healthiest moods. Moreover, it holds in solution an exquisite variety of odors. Whether the resin of the coniferous trees, the balm of the sage-bush, or the breath of the orchis and wild rose, it is equally grateful and life-giving. After a day in this atmosphere you have the lightest and most restorative slumber you ever knew.

On first entering the Rocky Mountains, you find the scenery rugged, cramped, and somewhat monotonous. Press forward, and they open anon — the higher the summits become the more breadth of base, the clearer outline they demand. They push away the crowd of lower ridges, leaving valleys for the streams, parks with every variety of feature, and finally gather into well-defined ranges, or spurs of ranges, giving you still broader and grander landscapes.

The San Luis Park, from the accounts I have heard, must be equally remarkable. It is on a much grander scale, and has the advantage of a milder climate, from its lesser elevation above the sea-level. The North Park is rarely visited except by an occasional prospector or trapper. It has no settlement, as yet, and I have met with no one who has thoroughly explored it. There are a number of smaller parks on both sides of the main chain, and some of them are said to possess great natural beauties. The singular rock formations at the eastern base of the mountains furnish in themselves a rare and most original field for the tourist and the artist. The glimpse I had of those on the south bank of the Platte, on my return from the South Park, satisfy me that they surpass in magnitude and picturesque distortion the celebrated basaltic formations of Saxony.

It was part of my plan to have ascended either Pike’s or Long’s Peak, but I find that it is too soon in the season to make the attempt. Pike’s Peak is comparatively easy of ascent; the summit, thirteen thousand two hundred feet above the level of the sea, has several times been reached by ladies. It is a very laborious, but in no sense a dangerous undertaking. On account of its isolated position, the view from the top, in favorable weather, must be one of the finest panoramas in the world. Long’s Peak has never yet been ascended. Mr. Byers, two years ago, reached a point about five hundred feet below the summit, and was then compelled to return. He is quite confident, however, that it can be scaled from another side, and if the summer were six weeks further advanced, I should be willing to join him in making the attempt. On the northern side he says there is a valley or rather gulf, with walls of perpendicular rock between two and three thousand feet in height, resembling a section of the Yosemite.

A comparison of this peak with Mont Blanc — the altitude of both being just about the same — may give a clear idea of the differences between the Alps and the Rocky Mountains. When you see Mont Blanc from the western part of Lake Leman, in July or August, he appears to you as a dome of complete snow, the few rocky pinnacles which pierce his mantle being hardly discernible specks. He is a white vision on the horizon. Long’s Peak, at the same distance, is of the faint blue or purple which a rocky mass assumes, veined and streaked with white, but showing only one snow-field of much apparent extent. His outline is very fine,—a little sharper than Mont Blanc,—the western side (as seen from Denver) having convex, and the eastern principally concave curves. He rests on a dark, broad base of forest and rock, his snows marking the courses of deep clefts and ravines. At present, the topmost summit is bare on the southern side. It is rare that one sees Mont Blanc from summit to base: I have not yet seen Long’s Peak (except during a passing thundershower) otherwise.

I do not think the parks and the upper valleys of the mountains will produce anything except hardy vegetables, and perhaps barley and rye. But they abound with the richest grasses; and" Colorado cheese" may one day be as celebrated as Gruyère or Neufchatel. They offer precisely those things which the summer tourist seeks — pure air, lovely nights, the finest milk, butter, trout, and game, and a variety of mineral springs. The summer climate I know; and I am told that the winter is equally enjoyable. It sounds almost incredible to hear of persons in the latitude of New York, and eight thousand feet above the sea, rarely needing an overcoat during the whole winter season. There is a great depth of snow, and an occasional severe day, but the sides are generally cloudless, and the air termperate and bracing. The extremes of heat and cold are greater in Denver than in the mountains. As nearly as 1 can learn, the coldest weather yet experienced in San Luis Park, was seven degrees below zero; in the Middle Park, fifteen degrees; and in Denver, thirty degrees below.

The heavy snow-fall, while it is a godsend to the agriculture of Colorado, by swelling all the streams at the very season when water is needed for irrigation, nevertheless interferes with the mining interests. There are many rich placers in the mountains where gold-washing can only be carried on for three or four months in the year, and even the stamp and smelting mills are hindered in procuring their supplies. It will also be the principal difficulty which the Pacific Railroad will be obliged to overcome. All other obstacles are much less than I had imagined. Greater achievements have already been done in railroading than the passage of the Rocky Mountains. By the Clear Creek, the South Park, or the Arkansas Valley, the Pacific slope can be reached, with not much more labor than you find on the Baltimore and Ohio road between Piedmont and Grafton. The facilities of construction beyond the range, however, must determine where the range should be crossed. A thorough exploration of the region watered by the Green and Blue Rivers must first be made.

I am, therefore, quite unable to tell you where the road will cross the Rocky Mountains; it is enough that they will be crossed. My conjectures — given for what they may be worth — take this form: that the Central Pacific Railroad, now rapidly advancing up the Platte, will cross in the neighborhood of Bridger’s Pass; that the Eastern Division will follow the Smoky Hill, and make directly for Denver; that a road running northward along the base of the mountains will connect the two; that this road will then be extended to Montana on one side and New Mexico on the other; and that, finally, a second central road will be pushed westward from Denver into and across the Middle Park, and so to Nevada. The business of Colorado alone, with the stimulus which a completed road would give, will keep that road fully employed. By the time the last rail is spiked down on the road connecting New York and San Francisco, we shall want, not one line across the continent, but five.

I hazard nothing, at least, in predicting that Colorado will soon be recognized as our Switzerland. The enervated luxury, the ignorant and imitative wealth, and the overtasked business of our cities, will come hither, in all future summers, for health, and rest, and recreation. Where Kit Carson chased Arapahoes, and Frémont’s men ate mule-meat, and Jim Beckworth went through apocryphal adventures, there will be drawling dandies, maidens both fast and slow, ungrammatical mammas, and the heaviest of fathers. The better sort of people will come first, nor be scared away afterward by the rush of the unappreciating. We shall, I hope, have Alpine clubs, intelligent guides, good roads, bridges, and access to a thousand wonders yet unknown. It will be a national blessing when this region is opened to general travel. That time is not now distant. Before the close of 1868 Denver will only be four days from New York, and you can go through with one change of cars. Therefore I am doubly glad that I have come now, while there are still buffaloes and danger of Indians on the Plains, camp-fires to build in the mountains, rivers to swim, and landscapes to enjoy which have never yet been described.

The weather continues intensely hot by day, with cool and perfect nights. Sometimes the edge of the regular afternoon thunder-storm overlaps Denver, and lays the hot dust of the streets. These storms are superb aerial pictures. After they pass, their cloudy ruins become the material out of which the setting sun constructs unimaginable splendors. If I were to give the details of them it would seem like color run mad. Such cool rose-gray, such transparent gold, such purple velvet as are worn by the mountains and clouds, are fresh wonders to me every evening. The vault of heaven seems ampler than elsewhere; the lines of cloud cover vaster distances, — probably because a hundred miles of mountains give you a more palpable measure of their extent, — and your eye recognizes infinite shades, gradations, and transitions either unseen before or unnoticed. This amplification of the sky and sky-effects struck me when I first entered upon the Plains. It is grand, even there; but here, with such accessories, it is truly sublime.

I do not now wonder at the attachment of the inhabitants of the territory for their home. These mountains and this atmosphere insensibly become a portion of their lives. I foresee that they will henceforth be among the clearest and most vivid episodes of mine.  NEXT