“Once I sat upon a mountain,
Gazing on the mist before me;
Like a great gray sheet of canvas,
Shrouding all things in its cover,
Did it float ’twixt earth and heaven.”
Twilight is brief on the summit of the Black. A hundred miles or more
away— behind the far peaks and passes of the Tennessee mountains—the
sun sinks in a bed of glory, and the last rim of his disk has scarcely
disappeared before a soft mantle of darkness falls over us. Then we
remember that there is a full moon, and we turn toward the east. Yes,
she is coming! There is a glow along the horizon, out of which a yellow
shoulder presently appears, and, before the crimson light has faded
out of the distant west, the “silver sister-world” has mounted into
the blue depths of the eastern sky, and her light streams on the deep
chasms and high peaks of the great mountain, with its dark plumage of
firs.
Wrapped closely in heavy shawls—for the air is sharply cold—we sit and
watch this beauty deepen as dusk gives place to night. Over the immense
expanse spread below—from Virginia to Georgia, from Tennessee to South
Carolina—a white glamour lies, showing the dim outlines of countless
mountains, the dark shadows of unnumbered valleys, and deepening to
silver mist where the remote landscape meets the arching sky. Around
us this radiance has almost the brightness of day, so rarefied is the
air, while the mica—which enters largely into the composition of all
the rocks and even of the soil on the surface of the peak—sparkles in
the light like precious stones. So brilliantly white is all around, so
dark the firs sweeping downward below, so far-stretching and mysterious
the immeasurably distant view, that words are hushed on our lips. We
are thrilled by the greatness of the silent scene, by the solemnity of
the glorious night. To be on this lonely mountain-top, uplifted so high
above the world, fills us with a sense of exaltation and awe.
“How still, how vast, how beautiful!” says Sylvia, in a low voice. “How
strange to think of the thousands of people scattered below us, going
their accustomed social or domestic ways, while we sit here, midway
between heaven and earth—alone with the mountains and the moon!”
“And each other,” says Mr. Lanier. “Pray don’t forget that.”
“I should like to forget it,” she answers, gazing far away over the
broken expanse of distant country with something wistful in the
expression of her face as the moon shines on it. “I should like to be
here entirely alone—for once. It would be something one could never
forget.”
“I should think not, indeed,” says Mrs. Cardigan, with a shudder.
“It would be something to set one crazy with fright. It is the most
beautiful place I have ever seen; but there is something terrible in
its loneliness. Listen! What eerie sound is that?”
“Only the wind sighing among the balsam-trees,” answers Charley. “I
wish we could hear the cry of a wild-cat. That _does_ sound eerie when
one is in the woods at night.”
“I wish a bear would walk out of those firs,” says Sylvia. “Oh, why
will nothing ever happen? It seems that our journeyings are doomed to
be lamentably tame.”
“Tame!” repeats Mr. Lanier, in a tone of amazement. “Why, have we not
had storms and floods—”
“Hallo!”—it is Rupert’s voice which speaks in the rear—“are you going
to stay here all night? The fire’s made, and the coffee’s made, and
Brother Eric says, come down to the cave.”
“A very good suggestion,” says Mr. Lanier, rising promptly. “It is
really exceedingly chilly. A fire will be very welcome.”
“Even though one may have to take smoke along with it,” says Mrs.
Cardigan, mischievously.
The ideas which Rupert’s words have presented are more or less pleasing
to all of us, so we rise and stumble down the steep path which leads
to the cave. A picturesque sight greets us when we come within view of
this shelter. Immediately in front of it an enormous fire is burning,
lighting up the rugged, lichened face of the rock, the group of figures
within the cave, and the dark forest around. To our relief, we see
that the column of smoke mounts steadily upward, so that we have no
annoyance on this score to dread.
“That supply of fuel must be intended to last during the week you wish
to stay here, Miss Norwood,” says Mrs. Cardigan, pointing to the pile
of wood which lies on the farther side of the fire—an imposing pile,
certainly, of freshly-cut logs.
“And what are these for?” asks Mr. Lanier, pausing to regard a heap of
boughs.
“Those,” says Charley, “are the best substitute for mountain heather to
be found in this part of the world, and form an excellent bed.—Well,
Eric, you have succeeded in making the balsam-wood burn for once.”
“It burns as well as any other wood if you put enough on,” answers Eric.
“And if you keep puttin’ on,” adds the guide, a little dryly.
We declare that it is delightful, and certainly the red heart of the
fire is beautiful when we draw near and seat ourselves in front of it.
Harrison lifts the coffee-pot from the coals on which it is placed,
cups are produced and filled, a paper of sugar is handed round, slices
of ham are broiled on the coals, Sylvia volunteers to toast some bread,
but ends by deputing Rupert to do it under her direction. While we talk
and laugh, and the vivid glare of the fire lights up the gypsy scene,
the silver moon looks serenely down upon us—for our cave faces due
east—as if with a large-minded tolerance for human weakness.
After this we are sufficiently tired to think of rest. Even Sylvia owns
that her eyes are slightly heavy.
“We were waked at such a barbarous hour this morning!” she says, by way
of excuse for this fact.
“And you will be waked at a still more barbarous hour to-morrow
morning, if you want to see the sunrise,” says Eric.
“I don’t know what the rest may be,” says Rupert, yawning, “but I’m
dead tired.”
“I am going to the peak for one last look,” says Sylvia. “After that
I suppose I must yield to the infirmities of nature, and sleep like
a log while all this beauty is holding the world under a spell of
enchantment.”
“Are you going to the peak again?” asks Mrs. Cardigan, addressing me in
a highly-dissuasive tone. “I don’t think I shall.”
“I don’t think I can,” I answer. “I have exhausted my power of climbing
for the present. We will go out in front of the cave while Eric and Mr.
Burnet prepare our sleeping-apartment.”
“Yes, we can see the moon very well from here, and have the benefit of
the fire too,” says Mrs. Cardigan, stepping from under the shadow of
the rock.
I step out also, and am amused to observe how Mr. Lanier hesitates for
a minute, uncertain whether to follow Sylvia, who is mounting the path
leading to the summit of the peak, or to remain with us.
If the former had given one backward glance, his hesitation would have
been short; but she gives none. Whether he comes or not is plainly
a matter on which she does not bestow a thought, as, with Charley’s
assistance, she springs lightly up the rock-strewed way. Almost any man
in such a situation would be piqued. Mr. Lanier is no exception to the
rule. He turns to Mrs. Cardigan and remarks that he is too tired for
further climbing.
[Illustration: “Sylvia volunteers to toast some bread.”]
“We will sit down here,” he says, pointing to a flat, convenient stone,
“and enjoy the moonlight without fatiguing ourselves.”
We sit down, but the moon receives an exceedingly small share of the
attention of my companions. Mrs. Cardigan devotes herself to the
entertainment of Mr. Lanier; Mr. Lanier returns the compliment by
devoting himself to the entertainment of Mrs. Cardigan. In fifteen
minutes they are launched in full tide of flirtation; so, feeling
myself _de trop_, I rise and stroll away.
Eric and Mr. Burnet, assisted by Rupert and Harrison, are making our
couch, an operation which I watch with considerable interest and
amusement. First an oil-cloth is spread, then a number of balsam twigs
are strewed thickly, and over these quilts and shawls are placed.
“There!” says Eric, turning to me when the last has been laid. “If you
don’t call that a good bed, you don’t know what a good bed is! I should
not mind sleeping on it every night.”
“Perhaps that is because you have made it yourself,” I say, with a
laugh. “One is apt to think well of one’s own handiwork.”
But I am constrained to admit, when I try the bed, that it is very
comfortable, the balsam boughs being in a measure elastic, and their
fresh, spicy odor full of delightful woodland suggestions. I wrap my
water-proof around me, take a satchel for a pillow, curl down, and fall
asleep, while figures are still passing to and fro around the ruddy
fire, and the silver splendor of the night lies beyond.
I am dimly conscious of voices talking, of other figures lying down,
and of quietness presently, only broken now and then by a scuffle
(apparently between Charley and Rupert) on the subject of cover, or by
some one rising to replenish the fire. About midnight I overhear, in a
state between sleeping and waking, the following conversation:
“Hallo, Dan!”—it is Eric’s voice which speaks—“what has come over the
night? Isn’t it cloudy?”
“Tol’ably cloudy,” answers Dan—he is standing by the fire which he has
just replenished—“the clouds seem to be gatherin’ pretty thick. We’ll
be in the midst of ’em by mornin’.”
“Fine prospect for a sunrise,” says Eric.
“Capital prospect for sleeping late,” remarks Charley, in a somnolent
tone of voice.
I hear no more. I, too, am indifferent to the sunrise, so, shifting
my satchel a little, I drop off to sleep again. Incredible as it may
seem to those who have never tried such quarters, I never rested with
a greater sense of pleasure and refreshment than on this bed of balsam
under a mountain-rock.
When I wake next, a voice is saying, “Time to be up!—half-past four
o’clock,” and I open my eyes to see a dark figure standing in front
of the smouldering fire—a figure which I know by the carriage of
the shoulders and head to be Eric—while another figure (that of Mr.
Burnet) is bringing wood from the diminished pile, and all around are
the recumbent outlines of the sleeping party. Far and faint in the
east—infinitely distant, it seems—a pale streak of light lies along the
verge of the horizon, and, seeing this, I rise to a sitting posture.
“Oh, we _are_ going to have a sunrise, after all!” I say.
“There is generally something of that kind in the morning,” says Eric;
“and it takes place sooner on a mountain than in the lower world, so
you had better rouse your neighbors.”
I proceed at once to shake each of them, while Eric rouses the
masculine sleepers very summarily. There is a little grumbling and much
yawning on the part of the latter; then they rise and gather round
the fire, which by this time is burning brightly. By this time, also,
the glow in the east has widened, so we do not pause for any toilet
arrangements, but, pulling the hoods of our water-proofs over our
heads, announce that we are ready.
We climb the peak in the cold, gray dawn, with just enough of dim light
to show us a mist lying all around.
“Why, there is a fog!” says Mrs. Cardigan.
“A fog!” repeats Eric. “It is a cloud, which has been hovering over us
since midnight.”
“Then we can’t see the sunrise!” cries a disgusted chorus.
“We may see a very fine sunrise if the clouds continue as at present to
lie below. They have been up around us two or three times, but now the
breeze has blown them off, and we overlook them.”
He is right. When we gain the summit, we find a sea of vapor spread
below us, out of which nothing appears but the peak on which we stand,
and on our left the dark dome of Craggy, toward which the moon is
sloping. We are in the midst of a boundless ocean, on the distant limit
of which the sunrise glow is growing brighter.
Of this wonderful glow—which momently waxes greater—it is difficult
to write without seeming to verge on rhapsody. For once in our lives
we realize what the daily miracle which we call sunrise is. Along at
least half the circle of the horizon a flushing radiance extends,
infinitely varied in its combinations of color. There is not a tint
known to earth, or sea, or sky, which does not find a place on the
wide, changing belt of splendor—and many of them are so exquisite that
we can only liken them to the colors of the purest gems. There are seas
of aqua-marine and chrysolite, there are clouds of ruby and gold, of
amethyst and jacinth. And from the rocky point on which we stand to
this heaven of beauty, nothing intervenes save a vast expanse of mist,
over which the luminous glory falls, gilding with prismatic radiance
its myriad waves.
The most careless of us stand enthralled by the majesty of the
spectacle—forgetful of our appearance, indifferent to the sharp
coldness of the morning air. Even Rupert, with his hands in his
pockets and a large plaid shawl of Sylvia’s over his shoulders, gazes
in open-eyed wonder and admiration, while Mr. Burnet—who has probably
beheld a thousand sunrises from mountain peaks—is roused sufficiently
to say, “Now, that’s pretty—ain’t it?”
Suddenly some one exclaims, “Look at the moon!” and we turn abruptly
around. That luminary is half-obscured by clouds as it sinks slowly
behind Craggy—and these clouds have caught the eastern glory. The moon
herself is more yellow than silver in the reflected light, and the
vapors which surround her are crimson and rose-color, burnished with
gold. The effect is beyond all description. We scarcely know whether to
gaze at the east or the west, and we turn from one point to another in
a kind of enraptured distraction.
“Well,” says Eric, “the person who does not feel that he or she is
repaid for the ascent of the Black by _this_, need never hope to be
repaid for any exertion. You might come here for a dozen years without
witnessing such a sight again!”
“We are a hundred-fold repaid,” says Sylvia. “See! yonder comes the
sun. How long has his preparation for rising lasted?”
“An hour,” answers Charley, glancing at his watch. “It was a quarter to
five when we gained the peak, and the first flush of color lay along
the east; it is a quarter to six now, when the sun appears over the
horizon.”
“What an enchanted hour it has been!” says Sylvia, with a soft sigh.
She stands still, watching with level eyes the refulgent glory, from
which the rest of us turn away our dazzled gaze. Over her fair face,
framed in its dark hood, the kindling sunlight falls, showing the
pearly freshness of her complexion, and touching to gold the light
waves of hair around her brow.
“What a thing it is to be young!” says Mrs. Cardigan, in a tone of
half-unconscious envy. “With such a skin as _that_ one can afford to
face a sunrise, but I know that I am looking frightfully sallow, so I
shall return to the cave to practise a few toilet arts. Good-morning!”
She draws her hood farther over her face—“like a witch in a play,” she
says, laughing—declines any escort, and flits away.
No one else moves. We are lost in admiration of the marvelous beauty
which grows greater rather than less now that the sun has risen.
The sea itself conveys no stronger impression of immensity than the
boundless ocean of vapor which we overlook.
“It has been the dream of my life to be above the clouds,” cries
Sylvia, “and now _I am!_”
“You certainly are,” says Eric. “No ray of the sunlight which bathes
us, pierces through this canopy.”
“One feels as if one might launch a boat on it,” says Charley.
“Yonder is an island or two,” says Mr. Lanier, pointing eastward.
Several islands appear on the verge of the horizon—the most elevated
points of the Blue Ridge piercing the clouds.
“Yonder is the crest of the Grandfather—which was formerly thought to
be the highest Appalachian mountain,” says Eric.
“I suppose that was in the days when the Black was called the Negro
Mountain,” says Charley. “By Jove, what a sight! We have the Atlantic
on one side and the Pacific on the other.”
“Or rather we have a picture of the Deluge when the waters began
to abate from the face of the earth,” says Sylvia. “The mist is
moving—see!—Eric, will it lift after a while?”
“Very likely it _may_ lift—and envelop us,” answers Eric.
“I think you are mistaken,” remarks Mr. Lanier. “The clouds are passing
away. Look in this direction.”
Our eyes follow the direction of his hand, and we see that the
clouds are undoubtedly passing away from that portion of the view
which lies between us and Tennessee. The great hills of Mitchell and
Yancey stand fully revealed in the clear light and long shadows of
early morning—though the valleys are still transformed to beautiful,
tremulous lakes of mist.
In her enthusiasm Sylvia calls upon Charley to assist her to the top
of the chimney again. “I must see all that can be seen,” she says. “I
don’t know that I shall ever witness another sunrise from the summit of
the Black.”
“It has been very fine, indeed,” says Mr. Lanier, “but one is enough, I
think.”
Then this gentleman, like Mrs. Cardigan, retires for some finishing
touches to his toilet—a matter which has plainly weighed on his mind
for some time.
“Poor Lanier!” says Charley. “He could not enjoy the view from Mont
Blanc if his collar was rumpled, his cravat awry, or his hair out of
accurate wave.”
“It does not become you to laugh at him,” says Sylvia, who never fails
to defend her admirer—when he is absent. “Because collars and cravats
are of no importance to you, and Nature has curled your hair so that
it looks better disordered than any other way, is no reason for making
game of more fastidious and less fortunate persons.”
“I am not making game of him,” says Charley, “though, by Jove! if
I tried— however, it does not matter.—Alice, I want you to witness
something which this young lady promised me last night.”
“Very well,” I answer placidly. I am on one side of the chimney and
Charley on the other, while Sylvia stands on top. The rest have
disappeared—Eric, Mr. Burnet, and Rupert, on thoughts of breakfast
intent. I am more interested in the far, blue peaks of the Unaka, and
the distant range of the Cumberland, than in any thing Sylvia may have
promised, but I am ready to be obliging, so I say, “Very well.”
“Now, Charley,” says that young lady, in a warning tone, “mind you tell
the truth.”
“I always do,” replies Charley, virtuously. “Well, Alice, you know that
she has been in the habit of treating me with—well, I desire to be
moderate, so I will say, a great want of consideration.”
“You know, Alice,” says Sylvia, “that I was obliged to keep him in his
place—else what would become of him?”
“Query, what is my place?” asks Charley. “At your feet?”
“A very good place,” she remarks, coolly. “You might find many worse.
Please don’t let me _fall_—Oh!”
Charley restores her to her proper balance, and then turns again to me.
“Regarding this fact,” he says, “together with the corresponding fact
that I have never been in love with any woman but herself, not even for
a day in all my life—”
“_What_ a story!” says the person on the chimney. “Charley, you ought
to be ashamed! You never dared to tell me such an untruth! I should at
once have reminded you of Sue Collins and Adèle Dupont, not to speak of
Miss Hollis—”
“That is nonsense,” says Charley. “If we began to talk of flirtations,
I could bring forward a list of _your_ amusements that would double
mine.”
“A woman has a right to flirt” (dogmatically).
“Oh! has she?” (skeptically). “That is a right I never heard claimed
before— though it is certainly well practised. All this is straying
from the subject, however.—The long and short of the matter is, Alice,
that she promised last night to think of me, and I want you to stand
witness to the fact.”
“Why should I do anything of the kind?” I ask. “Are you foolish enough
to fancy that ‘thinking of you’ means anything more than giving you a
sop to keep you quiet? You ought to know Sylvia better after all these
years.”
“Oh, how shameful!” cries Sylvia. “To slander me in that manner, and to
talk of ‘all these years,’ as if I were thirty-five!”
“‘Old in guile if not in years,’” quotes Charley. “I suppose you are
right, Alice. I suppose I _am_ a fool. I have nothing in particular to
offer, while Lanier is abundantly gifted with the substantial charms
which win a woman’s heart—or at least her hand.”
“If you think _that_,” cries Sylvia, “you may consider that I take back
all I said last night.—Alice, I submit to you—”
“Pray excuse me,” I say. “Settle it between yourselves. No good ever
comes of introducing a third person into love-making or flirtation.”
With this I walk away, and leave them to fight it out according to
their usual custom. The result, as I afterward learn from Charley, is
by no means definite. “I’m much where I was before,” he says. “Sylvia
has promised nothing.”
“And she never will promise anything,” I say, for his comfort. “If
there is one thing that Sylvia is averse to, it is binding herself to
anything. Perhaps she means to settle the matter according to romantic
precedent. She will fall into a torrent or over a precipice, and reward
whoever rescues her with the inestimable treasure of her hand.”
“I shall look out for precipices and torrents, then, with great
interest,” says Charley. “Lanier might easily break _his_ neck over one,
but he will never rescue any one else.”
These remarks are exchanged in a corner of the cave during
breakfast—which is taken whenever, wherever, and however one likes.
During its progress we begin to perceive that Eric was right—a cloud is
settling on the mountain. It comes up around us like a white fog, so
dense that one might cut a slice and take it home, Rupert observes.
“Surely it will lift after a while,” we say, despondently, since few
of us are not anxious for another glimpse of the great view; but Mr.
Burnet shakes his head.
“’Tisn’t likely,” he says. “There’s goin’ to be a change of weather
shortly, and the Black’s gatherin’ clouds. There won’t be another clear
view to be had from this peak fur a week.”
“O Mr. Burnet!” cries Sylvia, in a tone of appeal, “I have set my heart
on seeing the view again. I had not time to _take it in_ yesterday.
Don’t you think, if we staid till noon, the cloud might lift?”
“I’m afraid there ain’t any hope of it,” says Mr. Burnet, shaking his
head regretfully.
“Come, come,” says Eric, “if you knew how uncertain the view from the
Black is, you would be grateful for what you have had without fretting
over what you can’t get. We may as well go down, for we shall see
nothing more.”
With this ultimatum we are forced to be content; so, after a farewell
to the cave, we ascend the peak to find the fog-like mist encompassing
us on all sides. Even Craggy is shut off from our view; indeed, at a
few yards distant every object becomes indistinct.
“We are wrapped in a cloud,” says Sylvia, whom this fact partly
consoles for the loss of the view.
“So we see—and feel,” says Mrs. Cardigan, drawing a shawl around her,
for the dampness of the cloud is exceedingly penetrating.
There is a general putting on of wraps; then we go down to the prairie,
where Mr. Burnet and Harrison have the horses saddled and ready. We
mount, and, with the cloud condensing moisture all around us, set our
faces down the mountain.
“I believe,” says Charley, addressing Sylvia, “that I have heard
you express a wish to be lost in the mountains. Here is a golden
opportunity for such an adventure. You have only to drop behind, to
lose the path a little, and you will be lost in a wilderness where we
might search for days and weeks without finding you.”
“But how is one to drop behind when one is mounted on a mule that will
not go anywhere but in front?” she asks, pulling with fruitless energy
at the rein of her lively, irrepressible animal.
[Illustration: The Descent.]
This descent of the mountain is not likely to be forgotten by any of
us. Through the dark balsam-firs, past beds of exquisite moss and
graceful ferns, we wind in single file, doing no more than keep in
sight of the figure immediately in front. All around is the dense,
white cloud, the moisture of which, like fine rain on a winter day,
washes our faces and covers our garments. I laugh when I turn and look
at Eric, who is riding behind me. He has pulled his hat over his brows
and his overcoat-collar up round his ears, but the ends of his long
mustache are dripping with crystal drops, and himself and his steed
looming gigantically large through the mist, which seems to possess a
magnifying power. Now and then I catch a glimpse of the line of figures
ahead, and they resemble a procession of muffled specters more than the
cavalcade which only yesterday set forth so “gayly bedight.”
We do not leave the cloud until we have passed out of the region of
the firs, and entered the fair green forest, in which we hear again
the voice of the impetuous streams as they come rushing down the
mountain-ravines. Here, to our surprise, we find half-cloudy sunlight,
which grows brighter as we ride downward, until it is beaming on us
with oppressive heat, as we dismount, tired and jaded, at the door of
“Patton’s.”