"Oh, set us down together in some place
Where not a voice can break our heaven of bliss,
Where naught but rocks and I can see her face
Softening beneath the marvel of thy grace,
Where not a foot our vanished steps can track—
The golden age, the golden age come back!"
"To-day," says Eric, when we start from Flat Rock the next morning, "we shall cross the Blue Ridge, and go down to the lower world again."
"How do we cross?" asks Aunt Markham. "By Hickory-Nut Gap?"
"Partly," he answers. "We go through the Reedy Patch Gap, and come into Hickory-Nut about a third of the way down—high enough for the grandest scenery, however."
"If you wish to appreciate the elevation of the country," says Charley, "observe that in approaching the Blue Ridge we shall not rise at all—but simply travel on a level until we begin to descend the mountains."
We accordingly observe this—which, indeed, could hardly fail to be observed by anyone who either enters or leaves the transmontane region. As we bowl along the excellent r of Henderson, with the blue chain of mountains directly in our front, we are hardly able to realize that when evening comes they will be no longer in front, but behind us.
The day is beautiful, an autumn crispness in the air, an autumn glory in the streaming sunshine and richly-tinted foliage. We look wistfully at the lovely landscape as we travel onward. There is something of sadness in saying farewell to this fair land, in ending the pleasant Bohemian existence of the past two months, and turning our faces toward the ordinary life which awaits us in the world below. But we remind each other that all summer holidays must end, and that ours has been a decided success. It is true that we are all a half-dozen shades darker than when we left home, but complexions are not the only things in the world to be considered, and we have gained health and strength enough to make us regard tan and sunburn with philosophy.
"How differently we should feel if we had gone to a fashionable watering-place!" says Sylvia. "What unsatisfactory sensations of the vanitas vanitatum order one has at the fag end of a season of that description! One has spent a great deal of money, ruined any number of dresses, danced oneself thin, conceived a disgust for one's fellow-creatures—and had hardly three days of real enjoyment to pay for it all!—while in Arcadia one spends little money, needs few dresses, and enjoys oneself to the top of one's bent! Hereafter I shall throw my cap in the air and cry 'Vive la Nature!'"
"Yes," asserts Charley. "No doubt you will—for a month. We shall see whether your pastoral fever lasts till next summer. I prophesy that it will have died into ashes before that time."
"Which means, I suppose, that you are already anxious to leave me behind when you take your hunting-trip to the Balsam," she retorts. "But I mean to go! I give you warning of that."
"'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,'" he replies, with a smile.
In profitable conversation like this we pass the time as we travel on, drawing nearer and nearer to the mountains, which begin to lose their blue tint and loom in dark, rugged masses before us. Presently we enter fairly among them, and Eric says, as a clear, rapid stream comes dashing in turbulent beauty across our path:
"This is Reedy Patch Creek. We shall cross it more than a dozen times before we reach the BrRiver, to which it is bound."
"Pray tell me," says Aunt Markham, "what is the origin of this name? Reedy Patch—how absurd!"
"It seems so," says Eric. "I can throw no light on its origin, further than that at some remote time there must have been a patch of reeds somewhere about here."
Like all gaps, this Reedy Patch is a narrow defile, winding through the heart of the mountains which hem it on each side, and follows closely the impetuous stream already mentioned. The latter pours downward in foaming rapids and cascades, and, although forced once to turn a rude mill, for the remainder of its way dashes uncurbed over the rocks that strew its course, and crosses our ragain and again, so that we have the music of its water first on one side and then on the other. The way is wild and beautiful, but the ris the worst which we have found in all our wanderings. Apart from its natural disadvantages, it has been badly washed by the heavy August rains, and altogether it is so hard on the vehicles that John shakes his head forebodingly, and, whenever we stop to water the horses, he goes round and shakes all the wheels.
"Anything wrong?" asks Eric, turning to watch this operation.
"No, sir, nothing wrong yit," answers John, with a strong emphasis on the last word. "One of these wheels is pretty weak, though, and I don't think it'll go much farther."
"It will carry us down the mountain, won't it?"
"It may," returns John, cautiously, "if the r git better. These is enough to tare a carriage to pieces."
"The r will get better when we enter Hickory-Nut," says Rupert. "Don't you remember how good they were as we came up?"
"There's bin some heavy freshets since then," observes John, darkly.
In consequence of the weak wheel, a good deal of walking is done by the occupants of the carriage, over those parts of the rwhich are particularly bad. We travel 126at such a slow rate of progress that our passage through the gap seems endless. As we advance the scene grows wilder and more beautiful with every step. Great mountains inclose us on all sides—their tall crests towering against the blue sky, and their forest-clad sides burning with the gorgeous tints of autumn.
Rough though the rmay be, this part of the journey is a delight. The encircling hills "clasp us in their deep repose," as they stand before, around, behind— the farther ones wearing a faint, mauve-like haze over their mighty shoulders. We are in the heart of the Blue Ridge, and its heights hem us like the serried ranks of an army.
"Mountains are beautiful when one views them from a distance," says Sylvia, "but they are sublime when one is among them! Nothing else in the world impresses one with such a sense of steadfast, unchangeable grandeur. The sea shifts: these never do. One finds one's self repeating all the time, 'Fixed as the everlasting hills.'"
"But they are not everlasting," says Eric. "Geology—"
At that word Sylvia stops her ears.
"I don't believe in geology," she says. "I believe in common-sense and—poetry."
"Two rather incompatible things, are they not?" asks Charley.
"We shall be at the foot of the Bald—the shaking Bald—this evening," says Rupert. "I wish it would give us a few shakes."
"If it did you would soon become anxious to leave the neighborhood," says Eric. "The shakes of the Bald are not trifling. I was fortunate enough to be on the mountain when one of them occurred. It was the most severe earthquake I ever felt, accompanied by a rumbling noise unlike any other noise that I ever heard."
"Earthquakes are common in this region, are they not?" asks Sylvia.
"Not exactly common, but they occur at intervals. The earliest Cherokee traditions give accounts of them, and they have often occurred since white men have held the country. None, however, have been so long continued as the shocks of the Bald—which rumbled and shook with slight intermissions for more than a month."
"Whereupon all the people who lived on or near the mountain forsook their business, and became extremely pious—until the rumbling and shaking ceased," says Charley. "Then they forgot their piety with as much celerity as they had gained it."
"A certain Methodist preacher is said to be accountable for the whole excitement," says Eric. "Being disgusted with the hard-heartedness of his flock, and their insensibility to all his appeals, he desired the Lord to make the mountain move beneath their feet. Shortly afterward the mountain did move, and a gratifying number of instantaneous conversions took place."
We are strolling along the rwhile we talk in this manner, the carriages being some distance ahead, with Aunt Markham's bonnet nodding to and fro, in testimony to the roughness of the r over the lowered phaeton top. Far above us rise the mountains, beside us brawls the stream, on the banks which inclose our way glowing leaves shine, the delicate fronds of ferns appear, tiny streams trickle—there is perpetual moisture and perpetual shade.
Presently the carriage stops: Aunt Markham turns and beckons us to draw near.
"It strikes me that we had better take our luncheon," she says.
"Not yet," answers Eric. "It is early, and we have not passed through the Reedy Patch. Wait till we reach the BrRiver, where we enter Hickory-Nut Gap. That will be a good halting-place, and there is a house near there where John can buy something for the horses."
"Very well," says Aunt Markham, resignedly, "but it is my opinion that we shall spend the day passing through Reedy Patch."
"I hope not," says Eric. "Now, Alice, you had better enter the carriage for a while."
I enter accordingly, and we press on more rapidly for the next mile or two. The descent is now very marked, and before long we cross Reedy Patch Creek for the last time, and reach the BrRiver.
Why this stream should have such a misnomer attached to it no one can say— further than that the early settlers of the country (in a spirit of irony, it is supposed) named all the narrow rivers they could find "Br"
"First Brand Second Brare below here," says Eric. "This is properly Rocky Brand you must admit that the first part of the name is well bestowed."
"We admit that," says Sylvia, "since 127there seem to be more rocks than water in the channel. Is it so along its entire course?"
"It is this way until it leaves the mountains," says Eric. "It rises in this gap, and not far above here Hickory-Nut Creek flows into it. Now we enter the grandest pass in the whole line of the Blue Ridge, and if you can restrain your anxiety for luncheon a little longer, mother, we can halt at a delightful wayside spring in the midst of the finest scenery."
"I can wait very easily," says Aunt Markham, who does not fancy this allusion to her appetite.
So we go on, crossing the river, and keeping it on our right as we turn down Hickory-Nut Gap. We are not more than three miles from the foot of the mountains, but along this three miles, as Eric has said, is some of the finest scenery of the magnificent pass. Much as we have heard of it, we are almost awestruck by its grandeur.
"Swannanoa is nothing, nothing to this!" cries Sylvia, as we wind downward, pausing at every few steps.
Indeed, not only Swannanoa Gap, but everything else that we have seen is dwarfed to comparative insignificance by the majestic beauty that surrounds us. What was the gorge of the French Brto these mighty mountains which rise more than two thousand feet over our heads, and stand not more than a quarter of a mile apart, while far down in the green chasm below us the BrRiver whirls and foams around its countless rocks? The day has now reached its zenith, and is perfect in splendor. Our r on the eastern side of the gap, is well shaded, but the sunlight falls bry on the mass of varied foliage beneath, bringing out every vivid color and jewel-like tint.
Suddenly Rupert, who is riding in front, halts abruptly and points across the gorge. The next moment we see what he is indicating. Far up, over the top of a mountain, a stream of flashing silver falls down the bare face of a rock, and is lost to sight amid the verdure which meets it. The sunlight strikes the cascade with dazzling effect, and draws the arc of a prismatic rainbow upward from its spray.
"That water," says Eric, "falls three hundred and fifty feet, and most of it is dissolved into spray before it reaches the bottom of the rock."
"How high is it above us?" asks Sylvia.
"About nine hundred feet. If we had time, you might climb up to it. I did so once, but found the ascent very steep. Now see what a superb mountain stands next! It is like a castle—only no castle was ever half so grand. And yonder is a glimpse of the Chimney Rock. We shall see it better as we get farther down."
We pause, enraptured and overwhelmed. A castle, indeed! What castle ever built by mortal hands would not seem a flimsy toy beside this immense mountain, with its sides of solid rock, worn smooth by the floods of uncounted centuries, and rising sheer and bare for more than a thousand feet? On one side of this the peculiar rocks which form the Chimney stand—so high and so apparently toppling that it seems as if the slightest touch would send them down the precipice which they overlook.
"Here is the spring where we stop for dinner," says Eric. "This arrangement has been a feature of Hickory-Nut Gap from time immemorial. You find these springs scattered all along the rto the top of the mountains."
"How pleasant and Arcadian!" says Sylvia, regarding kindly the primitive arrangement of which he speaks. A small stream comes trickling down through mossy rocks, and is conducted into a miniature trough of bark, through which it flows, and pours from its mouth in a clear, inviting thread of crystal. On the outstretched bough of a tree near by a gourd hangs.
"'Drink, weary pilgrims, drink, and pray'
that we may some time return to this beautiful country," says Sylvia, gayly, filling the gourd and offering it to the company.
None of us refuse the pledge. Even Aunt Markham looks on past dangers and discomforts with philosophy, and declares that she has enjoyed the expedition very much.
The spot selected for this last of our many wayside dinners is one of the loveliest points on the gap. The r which is uniformly excellent—in this respect a great contrast to the one over Swannanoa—is here arched with shade through which the warm sunbeams quiver and dance, and fling capricious shadows on the way. A hundred feet below the river rushes between a world of picturesque foliage, the changing tints of which contrast strikingly with the rich green of the pines, as they lift their tapering crests in all directions. Across the narrow pass rises the mountain, on one side of which the flashing cascade falls from its birthplace among the clouds, and on the other the Chimney Rock leans into sight. Farther up the gorge great hills stand, which have already drawn about them the blue robes of distance.
It is no wonder that we linger, loath to go down to the lower country which is now so near. But Eric says at last that we must go on if we wish to see the Pools. "A visit to them will take us a mile or two out of our way," he says, "and the house where I mean to spend the night is several miles beyond the gap."
On we go, therefore, and it is but a short distance farther before we pass between the castellated heights that form the natural gateway of this most grand of all approaches to our Eden of the Sky. One last glance up the gorge, already draped in purple and azure, then a sharp turn of the r and Hickory-Nut Gap is crossed and left behind us.
It is with an absolute pang that we realize this.
"I feel inclined to turn round and go back," says Sylvia.
"Keep heart!" says Charley, in a tone of consolation. "I have entered into negotiations for a tract of land in Transylvania, where I mean to erect a hunting-lodge, and where any or all of the present company will be welcome."
"Are you in earnest?" asks Eric, skeptically. "I have heard nothing of such negotiations."
"Probably not," Charley serenely answers, "since they were conducted while you were at Csar's Head. I have found a place that I think will suit me exactly."
"Charley, you're a trump!" cries Rupert, enthusiastically. "I'll spend every vacation with you!"
"And, unless you object, I'll go shares in the purchase," says Eric. "I was thinking of such a place myself."
"What is to become of us, Aunt Markham?" demands Sylvia. "We shall never be able to command an escort for a watering-place again."
"But I thought you had abjured watering-places?" I observe.
"She abjured them with the saving clause, 'until I change my mind,'" Charley remarks.
Not far from the gap we turn to the right, ford the river, and follow a rwhich leads immediately along the foot of the mountains. On one side the latter rise, on the other lies a fertile valley. We skirt the hills, and reach presently a log-cabin, with its door overrun with vines, and its tiny garden full of gaudy flowers. A man so tall that he looks altogether out of proportion with his house comes out and bids us "drive straight ahead" if we want to find the Pools.
"But, if we drive farther, can we find any place to turn?" Eric asks—a very important question, since the ris of the narrowest possible description.
"Oh, yes, plenty of places," is the reassuring reply; so, despite a remonstrance from John, who would prefer to halt where he is, we drive on through some bars which Harrison has meanwhile let down.
"I wonder whar them places for turning is, Mass Eric?" says John, presently, as we jolt along a rough rwith a mountain on one side and a steep declivity on the other.
"Not far ahead, I think," replies Eric. "Here's the stream—now you can turn."
"Let me out first," cries Aunt Markham, who has an aversion to narrow turns.
We all alight, and follow Eric up a hillside-path by the side of the stream, which is a well-sized creek of crystal clearness. A more charming glen than the one in which we find ourselves it would be impossible to imagine. On each side the mountains rise sheer from the bed of the stream, while between these walls of green the water rushes downward in a succession of cascades, falling finally into three circular pools, the sides of which are worn to the smoothness of the most carefully-polished stone.
"That water must surely have a rotary motion," I say, "to have chiseled out such perfect wells."
"Certainly it has a rotary motion," answers Eric. "Throw a bough in, and you will see it drawn under, disappear for some time, and finally reappear on the opposite side of the pool, from which it will gradually drift into the current."
"The people here call that largest pool 129next the bank over yonder, bottomless," says Charley.
"Stuff!" says Eric. "But it is really forty or fifty feet deep by actual measurement."
"Not a nice place to go down in," says Sylvia, with a slight shudder. "Yet how lovely!"
Certainly the whole scene is lovely beyond all terms of praise or description. Limpid water, gray rocks, semi-tropical foliage—who can tire of these things in ever varied and picturesque combination?
"What a place for a painter!" says Sylvia; "better than many wilder ones which we have seen. The Saluda Gorge, for instance, is far grander, but this is full of the most romantic beauty."
"Come higher," says Charley, "and you will have a view of the upper falls."
We go above the cascade, which pours into the pools, and obtain a partial view of a higher and less accessible fall. Just here an enormous tree has been cut down, and forms a bridge across the stream. In the centre, immediately under the bridge, is a point of rock that the current does not cover, and to this Charley springs.
"There is a capital view of the upper fall from here," he says; "the only good view to be had.—Sylvia, do you think you could reach here?"
No! Sylvia essays to do so, and finds that she cannot, the intervening water being too wide and too deep.
"But I can come that far on the tree," she says, turning to climb the bank.
"If you do, you will surely fall!" Aunt Markham and I remonstrate.
"No, you won't, Sylvia!" cries Rupert, who has crossed. "It is very good walking if your head don't swim."
"My head never swims," asserts Sylvia, confidently.
She advances out on the trunk as she speaks. It is certainly wide enough to afford good footing, but the farther end does not rest very firmly against the opposite bank, and the consequence is that it shakes as she walks. This, added to the fact of her elevation (six feet, at least) above the stream, with a sweeping fall on each side, and swift-rushing water underneath, makes her, as she afterward confesses, suddenly and unaccountably giddy. She stops, and Charley, seeing her change of color, springs into the water above which she has paused, and seizes the only thing within his reach—one of her feet!
"Sit down!" he says, imperatively. "You'll fall if you don't!"
She obeys instantly, dropping down on the log with a slight gasp.
"I—don't know what makes me so silly," she says. "And how am I to get back?"
"Easily enough," he answers. "Bend down and put your hands on my shoulders— that is it!"
As soon as she bends within his reach he lifts her, staggering back a little under her weight—for it is only in that muscular heroes can bear substantial heroines as if they were feathers—but carries her safely through the water to the dry rock. There he deposits her, with a laugh.
"Set that against the Bridal-Veil Fall!" he says.
Sylvia on her part lifts her hand at once to her head.
"My hat!" she says. "I've lost it!"
"Yonder it goes!" cries Rupert, with unfeeling gayety. "Sailing down-stream as fast as it can to the pools."
We all turn just in time to see the hat whirled over the ledge of rock, and, after bobbing about for a minute or two in the largest pool, finally disappear.
"Oh, I am so sorry!" says Sylvia. "I have worn that hat all over the mountains, and I wanted to take it home. How provoking to think of losing it here, on this side of the Blue Ridge!"
"Wait a bit," says Charley. "You shall have it yet."
He springs up the bank, darts lightly over the fallen tree, and we watch him making his way through the dense undergrowth which lines the opposite bank until he reaches the pool. There he provides himself with a long, crooked stick and waits.
"Now," says Eric, "when that hat reappears he is going to fish for it, and ten to one he'll tumble into the pool himself."
"Oh, he must not do that!" cries Sylvia, alarmed. "The hat is not worth any risk— in fact, I don't care about it at all. Of course, it is utterly ruined. Charley!" (elevating her voice), "O Charley! please come away! Let the hat alone!"
But Charley is obstinate. He means to capture that hat, and, when it reappears a 130minute later, he at once begins to chase it with his stick. Sylvia watches him in great anxiety, as, with one arm around a tree to steady himself, he leans far over the pool and fishes indefatigably.
"I know he will fall!" she says. "It is exactly the way he did at Lover's Retreat."
"Don't distress yourself," says Eric. "If he falls, I will go down and fish for him."
"He's got it on the stick," says Rupert. "Now he's drawn it out. Look, Sylvia!"
Sylvia is looking. Charley waves the hat triumphantly, then turns and makes his way up the bank, crosses the tree, and displays the dripping prize to its owner. Luckily, it is merely a felt hat, with no other trimming than a band of ribbon. Therefore, when dry, it will not be much the worse for its wetting, and its owner regards it with pride and complacency.
"It has been down to the bottom of the bottomless pool!" she says. "What an adventure for it—and what a souvenir for me! Thank you, Charley, for restoring it to me—but what if you had fallen in yourself?"
"Should you have cared?" asks Charley. "By the law of reprisal, I ought to have a ducking to pay for yours at the Bridal—"
"Why do you harp on that?" she interrupts, impatiently. "It was not your fault—I said that at the time."
"It was my fault for trying to force an answer which you did not care to give," says Charley, "and you served me exactly right when you gave it as you did."
Mem.: These two are on the rocks by the fallen tree alone; the others have gone down to the pools, and only I—who lingered on the hillside to gather some ferns— overhear this conversation.
"You shall not blame yourself even for that," says Sylvia. "I deserved all I got for being so—so contrary and provoking. A woman might at least have the grace to tell the truth when she is asked for it."
"She may be tender-hearted about telling it, if it should chance to be an unpleasant truth," says Charley. "Yet it is best to give a victim the coup de grace—as you gave it to me."
"I think you are very unkind to attach importance to any pettish speech I may have made at such a time as that," she answers, stooping to gather a flower from a crevice of the rock.
"What!" says Charley. "Not attach importance to such a forcible, downright 'No?' By Jove! it would be an odd fellow who didn't!"
Silence follows this. Sylvia has gone as far as she can go—has said all that a woman can say. She ends the pause by rising and extending her hand for the hat which he is still carrying.
"If you wish to abide by it I am quite willing for you to do so," she says, with the coldness of pride in her voice.
"If I wish to abide by it!" repeats Charley, taking the hand, while the hat drops unheeded, and narrowly escapes floating off down-stream again. "Do you think it likely I wish to do so—after all these years? Sylvia, you know that I love you—that I shall love you till I die—but if you are only drawing me back for your amusement, for God's sake, let me abide by that 'No!'"
The earnestness of this appeal—earnestness so unlike Charley that it startled even me among the ferns—touches Sylvia. She extends her other hand—the soft, gray eyes look at him beseechingly.
"Don't talk like that, Charley!" she says. "You make me sorrier than ever that I uttered that foolish word. I never meant it. How could I mean it when I love you with all my heart? Is that enough?"
Enough! One might have been pardoned for thinking so who saw him take her into his arms, and then—ashamed of playing the spy—I go down the hillside and leave them together.
"Look back!" says Eric, an hour later. "The Blue Ridge is behind you."
We turn with one accord and look back as he directs. The grand, dark-blue heights stand behind us, fold upon fold, peak overlooking peak, knob rising beyond knob, the great crest of the famous Bald in the distance, Harris's Pinnacle near at hand, towering needle-like in its eminence. And behind these splendid masses the sun is sinking in clouds of ruby and gold, while the tender young moon gazes down from the fleecy sapphire of the upper heaven.
And so we bid farewell to the Land of the Sky.
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