local information. When we departed, late in the afternoon, four stout
negroes ferried us across the river.

A hotel known as the California House was our stopping-place, ten
miles from the Gasconade. As an evidence of our approaching return to
civilization, we found each bed at this house supplied with two clean
sheets, a luxury that Springfield was unable to furnish. I regretted
to find, several months later, that the California House had been
burned by the Rebels. At the time of our retreat, the landlord was
unable to determine on which side of the question he belonged, and
settled the matter, in conversation with me, by saying he was a
hotel-keeper, and could not interfere in the great issue of the day. I
inclined to the belief that he was a Union man, but feared to declare
himself on account of the dubious character of his surroundings.

The rapidity with which the Secessionists carried and received news
was a matter of astonishment to our people. While on that ride
through the Southwest, I had an opportunity of learning their _modus
operandi_. Several times we saw horsemen ride to houses or stables,
and, after a few moments' parley, exchange their wearied horses for
fresh ones. The parties with whom they effected their exchanges would
be found pretty well informed concerning the latest news. By this
irregular system of couriers, the Secessionists maintained a complete
communication with each other. All along the route, I found they knew
pretty well what had transpired, though their news was generally mixed
up with much falsehood.

Even in those early days, there was a magnificence in the Rebel
capacity for lying. Before the war, the Northern States produced by
far the greatest number of inventions, as the records of the Patent
Office will show. During the late Rebellion, the brains of the
Southern States were wonderfully fertile in the manufacture of
falsehood. The inhabitants of Dixie invent neither cotton-gins,
caloric engines, nor sewing-machines, but when they apply their
faculties to downright lying, the mudsill head is forced to bow in
reverence.

In the last day of this ride, we passed over a plateau twelve miles
across, also over a mountain of considerable height. Near the summit
of this mountain, we struck a small brook, whose growth was an
interesting study. At first, barely perceptible as it issued from a
spring by the roadside, it grew, mile by mile, until, at the foot
of the mountain, it formed