ck or two from the railway station called the New Antlers.
The Rev. Dr. H.H. Messenger, of Summit, Mississippi, an apostolic
looking clergyman, with his wife, accompanied us from Denver to
Colorado Springs, and also to Manitou, at the foot of Pike's Peak and
the mouth of the Ute Pass. From Manitou we drove to the Garden of
the Gods, comprising about five hundred acres, and went through this
mysterious region with its fantastic and wonderful formations,
which seem to caricature men and beasts and to mimic architectural
creations. Here we saw the Scotchman, Punch and Judy, the Siamese
Twins, the Lion, the elephant, the seal, the bear, the toad, and
numerous other creatures. We also viewed the balanced rock, at the
entrance, and the Gateway Cliffs, at the northeast end of the Garden,
and the Cathedral spires. Everything was indeed startling, and as
puzzling as the Sphinx in old Egypt. Nature was certainly in a playful
mood when, with her chisel and mallet, she carved these grotesque
forms out of stones and rocks.

On the outskirts of Manitou the "Haunted House" was pointed out by
the guide, who said that a man and his wife and their son had been
murdered here. No one would live in the house now. He asked me if I
believed in "Ghosts." I said I was not afraid of dead men, and that I
did not think they came back to disturb us. He seemed to agree with
me, but hastened to say that he "met a clergyman yesterday who said
he believed in them." The house in Manitou which, of all others,
interested me most, was the pretty vine-covered cottage of Helen Hunt
Jackson, who wrote "Ramona." It was she, who, with a fine appreciation
of nature, gave this wild and secluded spot, with its riddles in
stone, the suggestive name of "The Garden of the Gods."

At noon on Friday, October 7th, I boarded the Pullman train at
Colorado Springs, on the Denver and Rio Grande Railway, for Salt Lake
City. On this train was my old friend the Rev. James W. Ashton, Rector
of St. Stephen's Church, Olean, N.Y., whom I had not seen for years,
and from this hour he was my constant travelling companion for weeks
in the California tour, ready for every enterprise and adventure. At
Pueblo were some quaint Spanish-looking buildings, and farther on we
were among the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Our train gradually
ascended the heights skirting the bank of the Arkansas River, which
was tawny and turbid for many a mile. But the Grand Canon of the
Arkansas, with i