Halcyon Days in the Dream City

by Mrs. D. C. Taylor

Continued from Part 15

Let us go through the “Golden Gate,” not the gate of the Holy City, but a gate the architect of which must have been dreaming of wondrous Bible imagery, when he designed it.[1] Arch beyond arch, receding, diminishing as they recede, till the last one is about the dimensions of some grand cathedral door, while the noble proportions of the first, are almost awe inspiring. These are overlaid and thickly incrusted with gold leaf which takes on a faintly greenish tinge, wrought into forms of leaf and flower, vine and spray.

On either side of the great arch are panels apparently of beaten silver, representing ancient and modern methods of transportation. On the left a rude, primitive cart drawn by long-horned bullocks, holds a mother and her babes, while the father and other male members of the family, walk beside and behind. On the right hand panel is portrayed the interior of a Pullman car, with elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen sitting at their ease while gliding rapidly along.

Now we walk through the arch and gain the interior where the subdued light and cool atmosphere, odorous of leather, popcorn, and sprinkled floors, is grateful to senses weary of the heat and glare outside. “Long drawn aisles” lined with vehicles for transportation on land and sea, lake and river, lie before us. Near us is a huge ocean steamer, with its hotel like accommodations for hundreds of people; and looking like a huge, black demon, the propulsive power that shall speed it over the waves, with its tireless walking beam, like a monstrous arm, working with vicious energy.

Not far from it the clumsy little vessel in which the early mariners braved the dangers of the deep. We gaze at a lovey electric launch, with lavish ornamentation of paneled, satin polished woods, gay red velvet cushions, and nickel plated finishings, made to glide like a swan upon the surface of the rivers, bearing freight of delicate ladies and dainty gentlemen; while near it stands a long narrow canoe, roughly hewn from a single log, to be propelled by naked savage arms, upon streams that darkly wind through the dense African forest. Broad unwieldy fishing boats, and “slender, arrowy shells;” the man of war with it many devices for shedding man’s blood, and life boats to rescue that same man when the sea is raging, tossing up its white capped billows to engulf him. Yachts like high mettled racing steeds, and here a battered and sea worn craft, that brings to rememberance [sic] the tale of a weak woman’s arm, made strong by a heroic and compassionate woman’s heart. Sacred be thy memory Grace Darling!

Here is a royal coach, the body of rich dark blue, polished like a gem; its panels exquisitely painted with flowers, and the royal arms in heavy gold relief; its perfumed satin lining, and silken curtained windows, high velvet draped gold fringed seat for the coachman, speak of swift rolling wheels and champing steeds, before whom the humble subjects flee in abject self abasement, and here is a democratic omnibus, with seats around, above, behind, before, where those same subjects jostle one another in crowded sociability.

Here is an English tally-ho; gay in scarlet and yellow paint, banded and buckled with russett [sic] leather, balustraded with brass; its roof covered with perilously high seats, where ladies will flutter their ribbons and laces, while the guard blows on his horn, and the roan steeds gallop to the strain. Here are deep hood topped, two-wheeled, Russian droschkys, handsome, heavy, English dog carts, spider-wheeled, American sulkys and trotting wagons, barouches, victorias, surreys, landaus, phaetons, double and single, lining the aisle on either side. Here is a fine open landau, harnessed to it are two prancing dapple-gray horses in trappings of gold tipped patent leather, driven by a white gloved coachman in livery, with two fine kid gloved gentlemen on the back seat, all apparently stricken motionless in mid career, and staring into space with waxen eyeballs.

Here is a child’s tiny cart of white polished wood, cushioned with white cloth, having a little white fur rug for childish feet, and white toy whip for childish hands. Here is a satin lined, closed coach with plate glass windows, in which my lady rides to ball or opera, and here is another, also satin lined, with mournful drapery of black, in which she rides in solemn state, alone, with folded hands. Here is a Turkish cart, with hooped canopy, like an emigrant wagon, covered, cushioned and lined with scarlet cloth. It is drawn by a small, long horned bullock, harnessed with red ropes and covered with a yellow and red fringed net, while high above his shoulders, rises an arch strung with little bells. Here is a rude cart, square and springless, with wheels formed of solid slabs sawn from the trunk of a large tree, and here is an Indian pony, with two long poles tied to his sides and trailing behind him on the ground, across which are thrown the tent skins and other luggage of his master.

Here is a square, blunt ended, Russian sledge, resting so low upon its long runners that it almost touches the ground, overflowing with furs, and calling up visions of iron skies, icy winds, and lonely Russian steppes; and here is a long, velvet lined, American sleigh, with swan shaped prow, calling up visions of winter starlight, and merry lads and lasses gliding over the snow to the music of their own laughter and the “jingle, jingle, jingle of the bells.”

Here is an old worn, torn, leather-covered stage coach, that has made many journeys over the western plains carrying Uncle Sam’s mails, has been in many a battle with the wily savage, and borne the blood stained victors to a place of safety. Here are trucks, farm wagons, bakers carts, delivery wagons, every form of useful vehicle tor the transporting of the world’s merchandise.

Here are rows and rows—a very web and tangle of bicycles, with velvet tires, thread like wheels and glittering plated handles, on which man rushes along, swift and silent as a shadow.

Here are long lines of tram-ways, with beautiful palace like cars upholstered as richly and delicately as a duchess’ boudoir, containing every luxurious appliance that the age affords; and here are the engines to draw them, huge, black, shining monsters, that will vomit smoke and flame and move with a smooth resistless power unlike any other known to this world. Here stands the first passenger train that ran in the United States, a queer looking line of genuine old fashioned stage coaches mounted on low wheels grooved to fit the iron track, and drawn by a puny little attempt at a locomotive, that carried its water supply in a barrel on an uncovered platform behind it, and one of us recalls, how her mother had told her of her first ride upon a railway in one of these self same coaches on its first trip, and how the passengers that day, were kept busily engaged in plucking from their clothing, the fiery sparks that drifted backward in showers from the unprotected smoke stack of the engine. Here but a few feet away is “giant 999,” monarch of locomotives, standing beside which, one seems to be gazing at some silent force waiting with grim patience for the moment when with shriek and roar it shall break its bonds and rush resistlessly into space.[2] So! here we are, out in the broad sunlight again, and those primitive agents for transportation, our weary feet, lag slowly homeward.

Continued in Part 17

NOTES

[1] One of the architectural wonders of the 1893 World’s Fair was the Golden Door of the Transportation Building, designed by Chicago architect Louis Sullivan.

[2] Shortly after the record-breaking run of the Empire State Express engine No. 999 on May 10, 1893, it travelled to the World’s Fair in Chicago. Retired from service in 1952, the engine returned to the old fairgrounds in 1962 to become part of the collection of the Museum of Science and Industry, where it is on display today.