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While calling on F. C. Beaman, member of Congress, and wife, I was urged to rest three or four days, at least, before leaving for home. But I told them I must hasten home to rest. Transportation was secured for fifty-five adults and fifteen orphans.
Steward's trouble had not sufficiently improved to warrant his risking further exposure, so he had returned to his home in Illinois. Bishop was in a similar plight, and went to Salt Lake to regain his health, and Beaman had started off to carry on some photographic operations of his own.
The river widened somewhat, and was now about two hundred and fifty feet. A cascade was passed on the 7th, which we recognized as one Beaman, who had climbed up to it during the winter, from the mouth of the Kanab, had photographed.
As we continued, the canyon finally widened, and at one place there was a broad, rocky beach on the left. The opposite wall was nearly three thousand feet high. Beaman, by setting his camera far back on the rocks, was able to get a view to the top, with us in it by the river, while we were trying to work the boats past a rapid.
Beaman as a good-natured man remembers how squeamish we are, and being also shy and dainty indicates some matters but briefly.
Some reported that he was up Red River assisting General Banks, but at length, with thoroughly blistered feet, I found him. I introduced myself, as usual, by handing him my papers from Governor Blair and F. C. Beaman, member of Congress. After looking them over, he asked: "What can I do for you?"
Hulme Beaman, correspondent of the London Standard, and his charming wife, who live just across the way from me, in the Boulevard de Courcelles. Mr. Beaman passed Sunday at Poissy, where he usually goes fishing for gudgeon.
Those thoughts will never come home again to stay. It is strange to me that publishers should suppose that books, intimate about the invisible but abiding shadow which is often more potent than present May sunshine, should not be wanted. Take for example this book I was reading, The Squadroon, by Ardern Beaman.
He spoke with a broad Scotch accent and was in every sense a literalist. Late in the evening Mr. Beaman, a very brilliant lawyer and partner of Evarts and Choate, who was president of the Harvard Alumni Association, said to me: "These proceedings are fearfully prosaic and highbrow. When you are called, you attack President McCosh, and I will defend him."
One resembling a mighty cross lying down was in consequence called the "Butte of the Cross."* This was practically the end of Labyrinth Canyon, and sweeping around a beautiful bend, where the rocks again began to come together, we were in the beginning of the next canyon of the series, two years before named Stillwater. At the suggestion of Beaman, the bend was called Bonito.
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