“And always, be the landscape what it may—
Blue misty hill, or sweep of glimmering plain—
It is the eye’s endeavor still to gain
The fine, faint limit of the bounding day.
God haply, in this mystic mode, would fain
Hint of a happier home, far, far away.”
“And this is Beaucatcher in front of us!” says Sylvia. “Such a fine
height deserves a better name.”
“The name is vulgarly foolish,” says Eric, “but as far as absolute
ugliness goes, there are worse within the borders of Buncombe. What do
you think of creeks named Hominy, Cane, Turkey, Sandy Mush—?”
“O Eric!”
“Literally true, I assure you. Then there are Beaver Dam, Bull, and
Flat—all clear, rushing mountain streams.”
“It is infamous!” says Sylvia, with the most feeling indignation.
“Something ought to be done—the Legislature ought to interfere! If
the Anglo-Saxon settlers had no sense of poetry in their own rude
organizations, they might at least have spared the Indian nomenclature,
which is beautiful and appropriate wherever it is found.”
“Yes, it is beautiful,” says Eric, who has a passion for all Indian
names, and repeats them with the lingering intonation which makes
them thrice musical. “Compare with such a nomenclature as I have just
mentioned—Swannanoa, Nantahala, Tuckaseegee, Hiawassee, Cheowah,
Feloneke, and Tahkeeostee—all Cherokee names, and all possessing
excellent significations.”
“What are the significations?” I ask.
“Swannanoa means ‘Beautiful’; Nantahala, ‘Woman’s Bosom,’ from
the rise and fall of its breast of waters; Tuckaseegee, ‘Terrapin
Water’; Cheowah, ‘River of Otters’; Feloneke, ‘Yellow River’; and
Tahkeeostee—the Cherokee name of the French Broad— is the most
expressive of all, for it means ‘Racing River.’”
“And no doubt there were any number, just as admirable, which have been
lost,” says Sylvia. “It is unbearable! We do not find that the French
or Spanish settlers left such barbarities behind them.”
“No,” says Victor Dupont, who is walking by her side. “I have been
thinking, while Mr. Markham spoke, of the names in Louisiana and Texas.
None of them are ugly— unless, forgive me!—they are English. Many
melodious Indian names are left, and those which the first settlers
gave are full of a religious poetry—such as Laguna del Madre, Isla del
Padre, Bay of St. Louis, Bayou St. Denis, Île au Breton.”
“Those are certainly very different from Smithville and Jonesville and
Big Pigeon River,” says Sylvia, “but I wish the Indian names could have
been preserved everywhere.”
This conversation takes place as we walk out of Asheville along the
winding road which leads to Beaucatcher. The sun is sinking low toward
the western mountains, spreading a mantle of gold over the uplands,
and leaving the glades and dells full of softly-toned shadows. Eric
and I form the advance guard of the party. We have been tried friends
and comrades for many a day, and, when we were younger, he often paid
me the compliment of wishing I were a boy. Sylvia and Victor come
next; Charley and Adèle loiter in the rear. Scattered around in every
direction are villa-like houses “bosomed high in tufted trees”; before
us are the green hills—that in a different country would be esteemed
mountains—behind, the marvelous peaks at which we are forbidden to
glance.
“Nobody must look round,” cries Adèle playfully, waving a flowering
branch. “You shall all be turned to stones, like the princes in the
story of the singing water, if you do!”
“The view is not to be devoured piecemeal,” says Charley, “but to be
taken whole—like an oyster—from the top of the knob to which we are
bound.”
So we go on, with our backs to the glory which is behind. The ascent of
Beaucatcher is not difficult. A very excellent road leads over it to
a highly cultivated cove in the mountains behind, where day begins an
hour or two later, and ends an hour or two earlier, than in Asheville.
We leave this road at the gap where it crosses the mountain, and follow
a steep path to the top of the knob which rises on the right.
“One could not easily drive up here,” says Sylvia, as we clamber over
the rocks, “but it would be quite possible to ride without difficulty.”
[Illustration: The Ascent.]
“Shall we try it to-morrow, if saddle-horses are to be found in
Asheville?” asks her attendant.
“I thought we were to return to the Sulphur Spring to-morrow,” she
says, laughing.
Eric and I reach the summit first. It is smooth, level, and green.
There is a grass-grown fortification where a Confederate battery was
once planted, and close beside it a dead tree that, from Asheville and
miles beyond, presents the perfect appearance of a large cross.
We mount the fortification just as the sun sinks behind the distant
mountains. At our feet Asheville is spread, but we scarcely glance
at the picture which the town presents, crowning the verdant beauty
of its summer hills, with the fertile valleys of the French Broad
and Swannanoa on each side. Our gaze turns beyond—to the azure world
that stretches, far as the eye can reach, to the golden gateway of
the sun—an infinity of loveliness, with the sunset radiance trembling
on the crests of more than a hundred peaks. The atmosphere is so
transparent that it is impossible to say how far the range of one’s
vision extends. Mountains rise behind mountains, until they recede away
into dimmest distance, their trending lines lying faint and far against
the horizon. Blue as heaven and soft as clouds, the nearer ranges
stand—serried rank behind rank, and peak upon peak.
The view is so boundless and so beautiful that the imagination is
for a time overwhelmed. Are those sapphire heights the Delectable
Mountains?—and do those dazzling clouds veil the jasper walls of
the city of God? It almost seems so. The sunset sky is a miracle
of loveliness—of tints which it would be presumption to attempt to
describe—and the majestic sides of Pisgah grow softly purple as the
incarnadine glow falls over its towering pinnacle.
“Oh, what a scene!” says Sylvia, with a long sigh. She stands like one
entranced, gazing at the farthest peaks where their blue outlines melt
into the sunset gold.
“I scarcely thought there were so many mountains in the world,” says
Adèle Dupont.
“It is one great charm of the Asheville views,” says Eric, without
looking round— he is standing in front, with his arms folded—“that
they possess such magnificent expanse, and all the effect of
farthest distance. It is difficult to exaggerate the advantages of
the incomparable situation of the town—especially in the fact that,
although surrounded by mountains, it is not overshadowed, but regards
them from a sufficient distance, and a sufficient elevation, to behold
them like this.”
“I see several depressions, like gaps, in the chain,” I observe. “What
are they?”
“They _are_ gaps,” Eric answers. “That farthest west is the gorge
of the French Broad. Yonder is the Hominy Gap—there the Hickory-Nut.
Swannanoa is in the east.”
“Don’t let us go home,” says Sylvia. “Let us live in this land of the
sky forever. It is enchanted.”
“I think it is,” says Victor Dupont.
“As a Frenchman remarked of Niagara, it is ‘grande—magnifique—very
good!’” says Charley. “Do you mean to live just here? Shall we build
you a cottage, and call the hill—to the absurd name of which you very
justly object—Mount Sylvia?”
“The name would suit it very well,” I say. “It is sylvan enough.”
“No,” says Eric, “don’t build a cottage here. Wait until I show you the
view from McDowell’s Hill. It is finer than this.”
_Chorus_: “Finer than this! Impossible!”
“Wait and see,” says our leader.
But we refuse to entertain such an idea. With the enthusiasm of
ignorance, we cannot believe that any thing—not even the view from
the Black Mountain itself—can surpass the scene spread before us in
softest beauty, to the farthest verge of the dying day. We sit on the
fortification and watch the fires of sunset slowly fade, and the lovely
dusk of summer steal over the land. Winds laden with the freshness
of the great hills come to us from remote distances. Venus gleams
into sight like a tremulous diamond in the delicate sky. The immense
expanse, the great elevation, seem to embody at once infinity and
repose.
“This is delightful!” says Charley. “We may fancy ourselves
lotus-eaters, ‘propped on beds of amaranth’ far above the world.”
Sylvia smiles; and, without turning her eyes from the distant scene,
she repeats in the sweetest tone of her sweet voice:
“Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind,
In the hollow lotus-land to live and lie reclined
On the hills like gods together, careless of mankind.
For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurled
Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curled
Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world.”
“That was all very well for the gods,” says Eric, “but we have no
nectar, and _your_ golden house is not yet built, Sylvia—therefore we
must go down to supper.”
_Chorus_: “Not yet. Let us stay a little longer.”
“The enchanted hours of life are short,” says Victor Dupont. “Let us
enjoy them to the last minute.”
“Let me know when the last minute comes,” says Eric, walking away.
It does not come for some time. We cannot resolve to break the spell
which rests over us. We talk very little, and that little in low tones.
It is enough to see the splendor of the west grow faint and more faint,
while the far, heavenly mountains change from blue to tender gray.
Suddenly Charley lifts himself on his elbow and points toward the east.
We turn and see the silver face of the full moon rising slowly over the
tree-tops into the hyacinth sky.
The appearance of her pale, pure majesty above the chain of hills that
stretch eastward to the Black fills our cup of pleasure to the brim.
It is a scene to hold in remembrance while life shall last. We linger
until we see lights like stars, gleaming here and there in Asheville.
Then we know that our enchanted hour has ended.
“At least _one_ enchanted hour,” says Sylvia, as Mr. Dupont folds her
shawl around her, “but I hope that there are many more in reserve for
us. Like Moses, I have had a glimpse of the Promised Land, and now I
shall not be content till I have seen every thing that is to be seen.”
Silver lights and dark shadows are lying on the streets of Asheville
when, footsore and weary, we cross the large open square in the
business part of the town, and turn into the street which leads to
our hotel. To tired and hungry humanity, the lights blazing out from
the inn are more cheerful than the beauty of the great constellations
shining overhead; and, although Eric has made one or two astronomical
remarks, we have not paid them the attention which no doubt they
deserve.
“To-morrow night we will go to Battery Porter and study astronomy at
our leisure,” says Sylvia. “To-night I shall first do full justice to
the _cuisine_ of the ‘Eagle,’ then I shall beg Mr. Dupont to play for
me the ‘Cradle Song,’ and perhaps a strain or two of Mendelssohn. After
that I shall say good night to everybody. I shall go to bed, and I
shall sleep—like a top!”
“I thought you would have said like an angel,” says Victor.
“But angels never sleep,” says Charley.
This programme is carried out. After supper the young Creole goes to
the piano, shrugs his shoulders in expressive disgust over its untuned
condition, and makes Sylvia understand that it is only because _she_
desires it that he condescends to touch so poor an instrument. But
when he begins to play, he draws forth, even from it, such melody that
the chattering groups which fill the room are hushed into silence. His
sister is right—he is an admirable musician, an amateur evidently, but
cultivated in taste and _technique_ as few amateurs are. His music
is in the lullaby key which Sylvia suggested—the “Cradle Song” for
which she asked, and those exquisite, dreamy nocturnes in which German
composers excel—until at last he turns and asks with a smile if she is
asleep.
[Illustration: At the Piano.]
“Not yet,” she answers, “but if this goes on, I soon shall be. It is
like mesmerism.”
“Before you go,” he says, “listen to what I thought of when we came
down that hillside this evening with the moonlight and delicate shadows
all about us.”
His lissome fingers sweep the keys, and the next instant we hear the
fairies lightly tripping over the greensward in the wonderful _scherzo_
of Berlioz’s “Queen Mab.” The fairy-like measure seems to us—who have
so lately looked on the scene which suggested it to the musician’s
recollection—filled with a double grace and sentiment. Queen Mab’s
court, if we had surprised them at their revels, could scarcely have
charmed us more.
When the strain ceases, Sylvia looks at the musician with her eyes
shining.
“Whenever I think of this evening,” she says, “I shall always think of
that.”
“And whenever I hear or play it, I shall think of _you_,” says the
young man.
“I am afraid this is going to be a very serious flirtation,” I say to
myself, as I walk across the room to where Aunt Markham is sitting,
trying to look interested in a conversation on mineralogy, which
Eric is holding with a gentleman well known for his devotion to that
science. I am rather inclined to like mineralogy—at least to the extent
of taking an interest in probable diamonds and emeralds—so I join the
group, and receive a great deal of information on the mineral wealth
of Western North Carolina, which unhappily I forget as soon as it is
acquired.
Adèle Dupont is, meanwhile, the centre of a group at the other end
of the apartment. She is charmingly dressed, and her gay, vivacious
manners have a fascination which the men surrounding her plainly feel.
Charley is not among them. Music may have charms to soothe the savage,
but not the jealous, breast. Some time since he muttered something
about smoking, and took his departure. In a lull of the conversation
around me, I hear Adèle’s light tones addressing her court.
“What birds of passage you all seem to be! No two of you come from the
same point, no two of you are going to the same point. It reminds me of
the old nursery game—‘One flew east, and one flew west, and one flew
over the eagle’s nest.’”
“I wish you would fly with us to-morrow,” says one of the gentlemen,
gallantly.
“But with the best disposition in the world to be obliging, I could not
fly with _all_ of you,” she answers, laughing.
When I retire presently and fall asleep, my dreams are a strange
_mélange_ of blue mountains and tripping fairies, of Aladdin’s
garden—the mineralogy is accountable for this—and men in strange
guise flying east and west and north and south over endless peaks.
Notwithstanding these freaks of fancy, my slumbers are sound and sweet,
for Buncombe nights are delicious in their coolness—nights of which to
dream in the heat-parched, mosquito-haunted low country.
I sleep late the next morning, and, when I wake, Sylvia is gone. I
rub my eyes and look again. There is no doubt of the fact—her bed is
empty, her boots have vanished, she is certainly gone. I gaze around in
mute amazement. In all the twenty years that I have had the pleasure of
her acquaintance, such a thing has never happened before—that, of her
own accord—without the most stringent outside pressure—Sylvia should
rise with the lark.
While I make my toilet, I wonder what this strange caprice can possibly
mean, and it is not until I am nearly dressed that the mystery is
solved. Then the door opens, and the pleasant, dusky face of our
chambermaid appears. She has come to tell me that “the gentleman” wants
to know if I am ready for breakfast.
The gentleman in question is Eric, so I reply that I shall be ready
presently. “You can hand me a necktie,” I add; “and pray, Malvina, do
you know what has become of my sister?”
Malvina is evidently surprised. She pauses on her way to the trunk and
stares at me.
“I thought you would have heard the young lady, ma’am,” she replies,
“though it’s true she was very careful not to make a noise to disturb
you. I waked her at five o’clock, and she went to ride.”
“To ride!” I exclaim. “With whom?”
“I think she called the gentleman Mr.—Mr. Dewpan,” answers Malvina.
Then I remember that there were signs of a secret understanding between
Sylvia and Victor Dupont the night before, and, when they parted, I
caught the words “sunrise” and “Beaucatcher”—but I was too sleepy to
give them due weight, or to be equal to that mathematical calculation
known as putting two and two together. Now every thing is plain.
“Sunrise—ah!” I say to myself. “Not difficult to understand what that
means!”
Leaving my room, I meet Aunt Markham issuing from hers, and as we go
down-stairs together I tell her of Sylvia’s escapade. She is surprised
and concerned.
“To mount a strange horse—how rash! She may be thrown—there may be a
terrible accident—who knows whether Mr. Dupont understands horses?”
“He is old enough to understand them,” I say—and just then a cheery
voice speaks above us:
“Good-morning, madame! Good-morning, mademoiselle. Ah, what a charming
day—is it not?—how cool, how fresh, how delicious!”
We glance up. Descending the stairs is Madame Latour—Adèle Dupont’s
aunt—a vivacious lady, with dark eyes, a sallow complexion, and a foot
like a fairy.
“It is pleasant to think that, while we have been sleeping, those dear
young people have been enjoying the first freshness of this delightful
morning!” she goes on, after we have returned her greeting. “Chère
petite Adèle was so eager about her ride that she must have waked at
five o’clock. I saw them off from my window. Ah, it was heavenly—the
air sweet, the birds singing!—and then I returned to bed like a
sluggard.”
“So Miss Dupont went to ride also,” says Aunt Markham. “I wonder if
there is no danger about the horses? Do you think Mr. Dupont was quite
sure that they were safe? When one gentleman has charge of two ladies—”
“Pardon!” says Madame Latour, looking a little surprised, “but Mr.
Kenyon went also. He accompanied Adèle. Victor escorted your charming
niece. Be sure she is quite safe under his protection. He is a
dauntless rider,” etc., etc.
I do not hear the end of the panegyric on Mr. Dupont, because I am so
much surprised by this news of Charley. If it is strange that Sylvia
should have been smitten with a mania for the beauties of Nature,
sufficient to rouse her from her slumbers at daylight, what can be
thought of an indolent gentleman, who has consistently and persistently
declined to appreciate those beauties, when he also leaves his pillow
for the saddle at five o’clock in the morning?
We go to breakfast, and are devoting ourselves to beefsteak, hot cakes,
and coffee, when the matutinal equestrians make their appearance. They
come in directly from horseback—the girls still in their habits, loose
locks of hair floating, fresh color mantling, youth and good spirits in
look, manner, and bearing. They cause quite a sensation in the large
dining-room as they make their way to our table. Sylvia sits down and
heaves a deep sigh—a common mode with her of expressing inexpressible
feelings.
“Oh, it was heavenly!” she says.
“I am hungry as a wolf,” remarks Charley. “What will I have?” (to
the waiter:) “Any thing and every thing! When a man has been riding
on an empty stomach for three hours, he is ready to exhaust your
bill-of-fare.”
“Mrs. Markham,” cries Adèle, eagerly, “it was lovely beyond every thing
you can imagine!—Victor, tell them all about it! I am famished.”
“I wonder if she thinks Victor is not famished too?” says Eric, under
his mustache.
However that may be, Victor obeys. Like most Frenchmen and people of
French blood, he describes dramatically—his dark eyes quicken, he uses
many gestures.
“When we rode out of Asheville,” he says, “it was very early—some
time before sunrise—and the mist, like a white curtain, wrapped every
thing. We knew that this would add greatly to the effect if we could
reach the top of the hill on which we were yesterday evening in time to
see the sun rise. So we rode at a brisk pace and soon found ourselves
there—mademoiselle and myself in advance of Adèle and Mr. Kenyon.”
[Illustration: The Morning Ride.]
“My horse was slow,” says Adèle, “and I grew tired of urging him on—I
knew we should reach there soon enough.”
“We rode up to the fortification,” continues Mr. Dupont. “The east was
all aglow with radiance—the most beautiful colors momentarily changing
on the sky—and the reflection fell over and gilded the great sea of
vapor at our feet, which the wind was gently agitating into billows.”
“The resemblance to the sea was perfect,” says Sylvia, eagerly. “You
cannot imagine any thing more delusive! The waves caught the light on
their crests, just as ocean-waves do. All below us—all over Asheville
and the distant mountains—there was nothing to be seen but this
boundless, rippling expanse, aglow with tints so roseate and so radiant
that we could only stand and gaze in breathless wonder. The effect
lasted—I cannot tell how long—but for some time.”
“At least half an hour,” says Mr. Dupont. “Then the sun rose over the
hills behind us, and his rays fell horizontally over the shifting sea
of vapor. For a minute it was like a vasty deep of molten gold, heaving
and tossing at our feet. Then it began to dissolve, and peaks tinged
with the same beautiful tints appeared here and there like islands.”
“Pisgah first!” says Sylvia. “You should have seen how superbly the
great crest came up out of the mist which still clung around the lower
heights. Then gradually the other mountain-tops appeared, and we saw
islands and continents, diversified by seas and lakes—all bathed in the
most delicious colors!”
“I’ll tell you what it was like,” says Charley, speaking for the first
time. “It was as if the world was being newly created, and we saw the
water divided from the land.”
“And every thing was so fresh!” cries Sylvia. “The earth seemed, as
Charley says, new-made. I don’t think I have ever known an hour of
purer delight than that which we spent on Beaucatcher—odious name!”
“Mount Sylvia,” says Victor Dupont, with a smile.
“Well, Mount Sylvia, then. Even after our sea was dried up, the mist
of early morning still wrapped in soft haze the far heavenly heights
of the glorious prospect. Asheville remained submerged to the last,
but, when finally we saw its green hills and scattered houses emerge,
we turned our horses’ heads and, piloted by Charley, descended—Mount
Sylvia at the back. The road led us down through a shaded gorge of the
hills to the valley of the Swannanoa. Oh, if I could—if I only _could_
tell you of all the beautiful things we saw! We rave over evening
scenes—over the long shadows and westering light—yet how pathetic it
is compared with the joyousness of early morning! The effects of light
and shade are somewhat similar, but the spirit is so different. If you
could have seen the rocks this morning blushing in the sun, the mosses
and lichens gemmed with dew and hung with fairy-like cobwebs, the
ineffable freshness of the whole landscape—as if Nature had washed her
face—and then the river, when we reached it—ah!”
“Total bankruptcy in the matter of adjectives!” says Eric, aside. “I
have been anticipating it for some time. What a fortunate thing that
Miss Dupont’s appetite is so excellent, else she would probably take up
the strain and chant for us the beauties of the Swannanoa!”
After breakfast, I chance to be coming down-stairs just as Charley is
standing alone in the hall, lighting a cigar. I take advantage of the
opportunity to walk up to him, to button-hole him, and conduct him into
a private corner. Here I look straight into his eyes.
“Charley,” I say, “what is the meaning of your conduct this morning?
What unhallowed influence is at work with you? Such a thing has never
been known before—that you—_you_ should rise at daylight for the
pleasure of riding several miles with a young lady! Tell me, honestly
and seriously, are you flirting, or are you falling in love with this
girl?”
“Women’s heads always run on flirting and falling in love,” replies
Charley, with an air of carelessness. “Suppose I return your question
and ask you whether Sylvia is flirting or falling in love with
_Monsieur le Musicien_?”
“What insufferable nonsense! How dare you imagine that she is doing
either? Can she not be civil and agreeable to the young man without
incurring such suspicions?”
“And can I not be civil and agreeable to Miss Dupont without incurring
ditto?”
“Of course, if you choose to take that tone about it, there is nothing
to be said,” I remark, with dignity. “But, if you think I do not
understand the matter, you are vastly mistaken!”
“I don’t know that there is any thing to understand,” says Charley,
coolly, “except that Sylvia is amusing herself with Mr. Dupont, and I
am allowing Miss Dupont to amuse herself with me. _Voilà tout!_”
“I hope you are not both playing with fire,” I say, vexedly.
“If we are, we shall probably be scorched,” returns Monsieur
Imperturbable, walking away.