"All by the shady greenwood-tree
The merry, merry archers roam;
Jovial and bold and ever free,
They tread their woodland home."
"And where," asks Aunt Markham, resignedly, "are we going next?"
"We are going," answers Eric, "to Transylvania, which I consider, take it all in all, the loveliest county in the mountains."
"Then it must be a remarkable county," says Mrs. Cardigan, looking up from a map which she is studying with Mr. Lanier—this has become one of our chief amusements since we obtained a bird's-eye view of the country from the summit of the Black.
"It is a remarkable country for deer," says Charley. "I am glad to hear that we are going there.—But why not venture a little farther, Eric?—why not carry this party of intrepid explorers into the Balsam Mountains?"
"Because it is too wild a region," answers Eric. "We are not prepared for anything so remote from civilization."
"For Heaven's sake," says Aunt Markham, with energy, "don't let us go into any wilder region than we have been in already! It is very well for young people to profess to enjoy hardships, but at my age one prefers the comforts of life—at least to the extent of a bed to sleep on and a roof over one's head."
"My dear aunt," says Sylvia, "that idea springs entirely from a misconception. If you would only try once the delight of sleeping in the open air on balsam boughs, you would never rest until you had tried it again."
"Very likely, indeed!" says Aunt Markham, with profound skepticism. "I hope Eric will believe that I have no desire to try such a thing once."
"I believe it thoroughly," says Eric, "and will take care that you are not forced to do so.—Never mind, Sylvia; next summer we will start out on horseback, take a tent, and thoroughly explore the Balsam and the Nantahala Mountains."
"Thanks," says Sylvia, "but next summer is so very far away! I have never outgrown the childish feeling of wanting a pleasure at once if I am to have it at all. How do I know what may happen before next summer?"
"Life is very uncertain," says Mrs. Cardigan, laughing. "When summer comes, you may be married and gone to Switzerland for your wedding-tour."
Instead of blushing, Sylvia looks haughty.
"I was not alluding to anything of that kind," she says. Then she turns to Charley—poor Charley, who is not likely to be able to afford a wedding-tour to Switzerland.—"You have been to the Balsam Mountains," she says. "Tell me all about them. Is the country very wild?"
"It is exceedingly wild," he replies. "Eric is right; we are not fitted out for going there this summer. In a tour of that description one must prepare for roughing of every description."
Failing the Balsam Mountains—against which a majority of the party strongly vote—it is decided that we turn our faces toward Transylvania.
As I predicted, Mrs. Cardigan makes one of our party. "As far as Csar's Head," she says. "There I expect to meet some friends."
"I don't believe that she expects to meet 92anybody at all," says Aunt Markham, confidentially. "I believe that she has simply determined to make Eric fall in love with her, and—O Alice, do you think he will?"
I laugh.
"It is impossible to say," I answer, "but I don't think he will. If Eric ever marries— which is doubtful—he will not be likely to choose a beguiling widow for his wife."
Notwithstanding this opinion, I am forced to admit that the beguiling widow in question makes herself so agreeable that even Eric is partial to her society, and when we start she is on the front seat of the phaeton by his side.
After a day or two of rest, how glad we are to be in motion once more, and how we pity the people who are forced to remain stationary at tiresome springs and in village hotels! Even when there is nothing in especial to be seen, it is a delight to be in the open air, with the picturesque country spread around one, to bowl over good r, to cross flashing streams, to feel the pleasant breeze in one's face, to watch the shadows on the hills, or the bosky depths of green woods. How many trivial yet delightful things occur in the course of such journeyings! There are wayside lunches on mossy rocks; there are fruit-trees to be rifled, and hills to be climbed; there are inhabitants of the country to be cross-questioned with regard to distances, concerning which no two give the same account; there are r to be lost and found—above all, there are many jests and much gay laughter, and the infinite freshness and sweetness of Nature in all the wide and varying scene, the bending sky, and streaming sunshine.
"Why does not everybody spend the summer in this manner?" says Mrs. Cardigan, enthusiastically. "It is true that women, poor creatures! have not much more choice with regard to their holidays than with regard to anything else; but men are different. How they can prefer lounging about a watering-place to traveling in this manner is something I cannot understand."
"The best class of men—those with most manliness about them—do not prefer it," says Eric. "You rarely find them among the dancers in hotel ballrooms or the loungers on hotel piazzas. But you may meet them by the hundreds with fishing-rods and rifles all through these mountains. Yonder is a party of the kind now."
He points as he speaks to a wagon which we are in the act of passing. It contains a tent and other provisions for camping out. Half a dozen young men in hunting-shirts— several of them carrying guns on their shoulders—tramp alongside. They lift their hats as we pass, showing sunburned faces beneath—the faces of gentlemen unmistakably. Eric returns their salutation, and then inquires—
"Where bound?"
"To the Balsam Mountains, for fishing and hunting," answers one of the number.
"Hope you'll have good luck."
"Much obliged."
We all bow and smile—then glance back as we wind round a curve of the r in time to see the equestrian members of our party halt and speak to them. Charley apparently finds an acquaintance, for a general hand-shaking takes place.
"Now Sylvia is in her element," says Eric. "How she will question those fellows, and indirectly flatter them, and set them at their ease by her cordial frankness! In ten minutes she will draw out of them all their information—and anything else they may possess."
"I never knew any one with a greater gift of winning the popular heart than she possesses," says Mrs. Cardigan. "What an invaluable wife she would make for a politician!"
"Such a gift loses its value and much of its charm when it is turned to a purpose of that kind," I remark.
We drive on, and some time elapses before anything more is seen of the riders. Then Sylvia, attended by Mr. Lanier, comes up at a canter, and the first thing we perceive is a brace of pheasants hanging over the horn of her saddle.
"Did you see those delightful young men?" she asks. "Charley's friend Grimes— you've heard him talk of Grimes, haven't you?—is one of them. I was very glad, for I wanted to question them all about where they were going. They have been to the Roan, and now they are going on a hunting-trip to the Balsam. Oh, I wish I could go! Charley says he thinks he will."
"Did Grimes give you those?" asks Eric, pointing to the birds.
"No, another one—very handsome, with a dark mustache—gave them to me. I did 93not want to take them, but he insisted—and won't they be delicious?"
"Very," answers Eric. "Now if we can only meet another party with a slaughtered deer, and you will be good enough to cajole that out of them, we shall fare royally."
"Cajole!" repeats Sylvia, indignantly. "Didn't they press me to take these?" she asks, turning to Mr. Lanier.
"Certainly they did," assents that gentleman, promptly.
Presently Charley appears within conversational distance, and Eric accosts him.
"What is this I hear?" he inquires. "Are you thinking of turning deserter?"
"I was strongly tempted," the other answers, "but on the whole I have decided to stand by you all. No doubt we'll get some good hunting at Buck Forest."
We are at this time traveling once more along the banks of the French Br though we can scarcely fancy that this tranquil river, with its glassy current and smiling valley, is one with the impetuous stream which a little later tears its headlong way through the heart of the mountains. No river could be more placid and well-behaved than it is here. We do not follow its course very long, but bear away across a comparatively level though very elevated country. Evidences of thrift and prosperity abound. One farm succeeds another in rapid succession, while the houses, as a rule, are large and comfortable. We pass the lovely valleys of the Mills and Davidson Rivers, with breadths of fertile lowlands in the foreground and purple-crested hills beyond, miles of rustling corn and brmeadows sowed in grass. All the rugged features of mountain landscape have disappeared; a pastoral softness fills the outlines of every picture, while a freshness of which words can convey but a faint idea rests over the land, and the atmosphere seems with every mile to grow purer and more stimulating.
We take our dinner by the rside, on the shady banks of the Davidson. This river is short in its course, being a tributary of the French Br but no stream carries a more limpid current through fairer scenes.
"One might spend a week in exploring it," says Eric. "The scenery is romantic in the extreme."
"And its head-waters abound in trout," says Charley.
"If we stopped to explore everything, we should never have done," says Aunt Markham, who feels that it is very necessary to restrain the wandering inclinations of the party.
"Really now," says Mr. Lanier, "are you in earnest about the trout? Since I haven't seen one yet, my skepticism may be excused."
"You haven't been at any place where you could see one—except on the Black, and nobody had time for trout-fishing there," says Charley. "The speckled trout are only found in the purest and coldest streams—generally on the north sides of mountains. If you joined those fellows whom we passed going to the Balsam, you would soon be able to catch more than you'd know what to do with."
"I am not sufficiently anxious to catch them to be willing to endure all the discomforts which those fellows are going to encounter," says Mr. Lanier. "Our mode of traveling is quite adventurous enough, I think."
"Quite," says Aunt Markham.
Nobody else endorses this opinion, but those who utter it are too well convinced of its soundness to need any endorsement. The rest of us merely laugh. One does not feel inclined to argue with crystal water swirling gently by, and boughs interlacing overhead, through the greenness of which one catches glimpses of a sky blue as the heart of a turquoise.
"'Not Ariel lived more merrily
Under the blossoming bough than we,'"
says Sylvia. "Who wants to play a game of whist? This is one of those periods in a journey when one does not care in the least about moving on."
Since John and Harrison are engaged in taking their dinner, and the horses are still munching the oats which have been purchased at a neighboring farm-house for them, this proposal is very well received; and the cards are produced. Mrs. Cardigan and Eric play against Sylvia and Mr. Lanier—the table being a convenient rock. Charley and I look on and offer unasked advice to the players. Aunt Markham leans back between the spreading roots of a large oak and takes a refreshing nap against its trunk. There is a ford in the river not far from us, and a 94countryman who drives his ox-cart into the water, and pauses for the poor patient beasts to drink, looks amused at the scene before him.
We linger so long that Eric shakes his head when we finally start again.
"I don't know where we shall spend the night," he says. "This delay has altogether upset my calculations."
Aunt Markham's Nap.
"Serves you right for making such things!" says Charley. "It is a mistake in a journey like ours. We should loiter as we like during the day, and trust to luck for the night's shelter."
"I had rather trust to something more definite," says Aunt Markham. "Eric, where did you expect to spend the night?"
"I expected to spend it at Buck Forest," answers Eric, "but we can't possibly reach there now."
"It does not matter," says Sylvia, cheerfully. "There are plenty of houses along the rwhere we can stop and improve our knowledge of the manners and customs of Arcadia."
"That might be an agreeable prospect," says Mrs. Cardigan, "if it was not so entirely an Arcadian custom to fry a chicken in a pound of lard, and to provide one with a feather-bed to sleep on."
The serene brightness of afternoon is spread over the land, as we travel on at a rapid pace—for the r are smooth turnpikes along which the horses trot gayly. Far and wide the varied prospect extends, bathed in golden sunlight, flecked by deep shadows. It is nearly sunset when we cross the French Bronce more—a much narrower stream now, flowing swiftly under the bridge over which we pass. Then we have our first glimpse of the magic beauty which will some day make Transylvania famous! The valley of the river lies before us like a garden—a level expanse of cultivated greenness, curving away to the right—where, framing its brfields and gently swelling hills, there stretches along the entire western horizon a range of the most beautiful mountains which we have seen—the most beautiful, I think, which can be seen anywhere. Nothing can surpass the grace of their undulating outlines, the marvelous purity of their tints. They stand, like the very heights of heaven, against the evening sky—softly and ineffably fair—with the pastoral landscape spread at their feet.
We cross the lovely valley with this view before our eyes. From the great hills long shadows stretch; all manner of sweet, fresh odors are on the dewy air; no sapphire is half so blue as the peaks behind which the sun is setting with such majesty that a wonderful glow lights up the entire sky; in the east, over the dark, wooded hills that bound the prospect, some fleecy clouds are floating, which catch the splendor and turn to tenderest rose upon the deep-blue ether.
"This is Arcadia!" says Sylvia. "We have reached it at last! By many ways, through many scenes have we come—but never before have we found such a scene as this!"
"It is the fairest valley in the mountains!" says Eric, regarding it with pride and admiration.
Even Aunt Markham is so much absorbed that she has forgotten to ask where we are to spend the night, but the deepening shades of twilight recall this question to her mind. She looks round apprehensively.
"I hope you don't mean to travel after night, Eric," she says. "In the mountains it is very dangerous, and the moon does not rise until late."
95"I shall not travel after night if I can help it," answers Eric, touching up the horses. "I think I know a place about two miles from here where we can stop. I don't promise you excellent accommodation, however."
"Oh, never mind about that," says Mrs. Cardigan. "We have learned not to be fastidious."
"But we should like, if possible, to be comfortable," says Aunt Markham, with an expression of anxiety.
So, on through the deepening dusk we drive—leaving the French BrValley behind, but keeping in sight the graceful range of mountains with the sunset pomp dying away beyond. O wild and beautiful country, elevated so far above the rest of the world, and encircled by granite barriers, if it were possible to write down all that makes your charm, how soon fame would come to you!—but, then, perhaps fault-finding tourists and inane pleasure-seekers might come too, so that your virgin freshness would be brushed away, and the nymphs and dryads which now seem to haunt the depths of your valleys and the far retreats of your hills would vanish altogether.
Presently—when twilight has purpled and softened all the scene, when the rosy clouds have become gray, filmy vapors, and only a golden glow is left of the sunset pageant—we bowl down to another stretch of lowland.
"Transylvania seems to be rich in rivers," I remark. "Pray, what stream is this?"
"Little River," answers Eric, whose foot is now indeed on his native heath, since he has fished in these waters and hunted over these hills until both are thoroughly familiar to him. "And yonder is the house where I hope we can stay all night."
He points with his whip as he speaks, and we follow the gesture with our glance. After some of our experiences in the matter of wayside lodging, this which we behold appears very encouraging. It is a comfortable farm-house, placed near the r with rich fields stretching back, and wooded heights rising near at hand.
"Leaving here," remarks Eric, "the rturns abruptly around those hills, and enters a gorge, hemmed by mountains on one side and the river on the other.—If these people won't take us in, you must decide, mother, whether you had rather dare the dangers of the pass, or—camp out."
"I'll wait to decide until they refuse to take us in," says Aunt Markham, philosophically.
They do not refuse. Hospitality—that great virtue which is always more or less associated with a pastoral life—now, as ever, pleads in our behalf. The woman of the house at first demurs:
"We are not prepared to accommodate travelers," she says; "we are not accustomed to takin' them in."
But, when Eric represents that if we are not taken in our strait will be desperate, she yields at once:
"You may come in, then," she says, "and I'll do my best to oblige you."
After this, we cannot be ungrateful enough to find fault—even if fault there was to find. When they have opened their doors, these mountain people seem to open their hearts as well, and no one can travel through the country without receiving much kindness and invariable civility—unless his experience be widely different from ours.
The carriages are relieved of their multifarious luggage, the trunks are taken into the house, we make a brief survey of the apartments assigned to us, and then gather on the piazza in the cool, clear dusk, while our hostess betakes herself to the kitchen, whence an ominous fizzling sound soon proceeds.
"Oh, that frying-pan!" says Sylvia, with a groan. "I wish I could make a bonfire of every one in existence!"
"You don't know what cruel desolation you would inflict on a large proportion of your fellow-creatures," says Charley.
"I should enjoy inflicting it," she says, vindictively. "Yonder are two men coming in! I wonder if they are belated travelers? Why, Charley, it's—it's Grimes and another one!"
At this lucid statement we all turn. "Grimes" and the "other one" have entered the gate and are now approaching the piazza.
"If you come for lodging, you are too late," Charley says, with a laugh. "We have engaged all the apartments of this hotel."
"By Jove, it's Kenyon," says one of the young men. Then they doff their hats to the party. "We thought you were ever so 96far ahead of us," the speaker goes on. "How do you come to be here?"
"We idled so long at mid-day that we fell short of our place of destination," Eric answers. "I am sorry for the fact if you have come for lodging."
"For lodging!" they repeat. "We have come for some milk. Our tent is pitched a little distance from here."
"I'll pilot you to the kitchen," says Charley. "We haven't engaged all the milk."
They return presently, laughing and talking—their tin bucket full of the desired fluid—linger to exchange a few remarks, give us a cordial invitation to visit their camp, and then take their departure.
"What delightful times they must have!" says Sylvia, watching them enviously; "what a thing it is to be a man!"
"Sometimes it is very much of a thing to be a woman," observes Mr. Lanier.
When supper is over, Sylvia, Charley, and Rupert announce their intention of going to the camp, and Mrs. Cardigan, Mr. Lanier, Eric, and I decide to accompany them. The walk is very pleasant. Starlight is beautiful in all places—a vague, shadowy light which gives infinite play to the imagination—but it is specially beautiful and marvelously bright in this land of the sky. We stroll along the r hearing the soft rush of water in the semi-darkness, conscious of many different floating odors, and with a dim outline of spreading valley and dark hills around. Above, the magnificent arch of heaven is ablaze with myriads of stars—jewel-like worlds throbbing in their strange, silent glory through all the wide realm of space.
Before we reach our destination, we catch the ruddy gleam of a fire and hear a sound of familiar music.
"By George, they've got a fiddle!" cries Rupert, enthusiastically.
He darts forward eagerly. We turn a sharp bend of the path, and the camp is before us. What is more picturesque than such a scene? The bright glow of the fire extends over a radius of several yards, lighting up fantastically the tangled depths of foliage on a neighboring hillside and the vine-draped face of a great rock. The tent is pitched near—behind which an unseen stream murmurs over its stones. The wagon stands at some distance. Over the foreground the party are scattered in various attitudes, smoking like so many volcanoes. On a large stone immediately in front of the fire sits the fiddler—a negro, whose foot keeps time, and whose body sways with the music.
"I didn't know that you carried a musician along with you, Grimes," says Charley, when we have been welcomed and introduced to the circle.
"Oh, that fellow does double duty," answers Grimes. "He drives the wagon all day and plays the fiddle all night—at least as much of the night as we'll allow him to play. He doesn't make bad music, either, as fiddlers go."
The Fiddler.
"He makes uncommonly good music," says Sylvia, who evidently finds difficulty in keeping her feet still. "What excellent time!" she goes on, addressing Mrs. Cardigan. "Wouldn't you like to dance?"
Before that lady can answer, two or three of the young men speak eagerly.
"Why shouldn't you dance if you would like it?" they inquire. "It's what we have been pining for to such an extent that we have several times danced with each other."
"But where can we dance?" asks Mrs. Cardigan, glancing round.
"On the ground, like fairies," says Eric.
97"In the house we left a few minutes ago," says Charley. "There's quite a large room there. We'll take the fiddler and go back."
So, accompanied by the fiddler and the majority of the party, we return to the house. One or two of the gentlemen demur slightly on the score of their appearance, but, having been assured by Sylvia that their flannel hunting-shirts are very picturesque and altogether appropriate to the occasion, they consent to enter the saloon, which is magnificently lighted by two tallow candles placed on a mantelpiece so high that a person of moderate stature would require a ladder to mount to it.
The Reel.
This is a trifle, however. On waxed floors and under blazing chandeliers I have yet to see a tenth part of the merriment, the absolute enjoyment, which makes this evening delightful. How gayly the laughter rings, how bright the eyes, how light the steps!
"Oh, if in after-life we could but gather
The very refuse of our youthful hours!"
We dance several quadrilles, try a waltz or two, and close with an old-fashioned reel. During this last the mirth grows fairly uproarious, and, as Sylvia leads down the middle with Grimes, she turns her flushed, sparkling face over her shoulder to say to Mrs. Cardigan:
"Isn't this ever so much better than the Springs?"
"It is a most brilliant ball, especially in the matter of costumes," the widow laughs back.
The brilliant ball closes about midnight. Compassion for Tip the fiddler, who assures us, however, that he is not tired, and for Aunt Markham, whose sleeping-apartment adjoins the ballroom, together with a recollection of our travel during the past day and early rising on the morrow, join to make us dismiss our new acquaintances to their camp. The moon has risen and is shining brightly when we go to the piazza to see them off with many jests, farewell words, and good wishes.
This is not the last of them, however. An hour later we are roused from sleep by voices under our window suddenly bursting into song.
"Those scamps!" says Sylvia. "They threatened me with a serenade, and I said to them, 'Don't,' but you see they have come."
"One or two of them have good voices," says Mrs. Cardigan. "Listen! Really this is worth being waked for."
We agree that it is. The silver moonlight streams, the dark foliage sways gently, the merry voices rise in chorus. Song follows song—serenades, woodland ballads, hunting-glees. Several of the voices are excellent. It is a melodious tenor which presently sings that exquisite serenade:
"I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Has led me, who knows how,
To thy chamber-window, sweet."
98"If it is half as pleasant for them to sing as for us to listen, how they must be enjoying themselves!" says Mrs. Cardigan. "What is that? 'Good-by, Sweetheart, Good-by!' They mean to close now."
"I must throw them a flower when they finish," says Sylvia, stealing to the window.
The flower is thrown, "Good-nights" are uttered, then steps and voices recede; the last we hear, some one is singing, as they tramp down the r
"'Tis but a little faded flower,
But, oh, how dear to me!
It brings me back one joyous hour—"
The words grow inaudible, the laughter dies away, our pleasant friends of a day are gone!
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