_EXCURSION TO CRYSTAL CASCADE._
“Ho for Glen Ellis Falls and the Crystal Cascade!”
Amidst the confused din of other voices, these words rang out in the
clear morning air. This exuberant hilarity proceeded from a party
of excursionists who had seated themselves in a mountain wagon for
an all-day picnic. The scene was in front of a hotel at Jackson, in
the heart of the White Mountains; and the time about the middle of
September. Four spirited horses that were attached to the vehicle
champed their bits, as if impatient for a start. The voice which in
lively tones had announced their destination was that of Rosamond
Bonbright. A group of tourists were standing on the front piazza, and
as the driver drew up his reins the restless steeds started away at a
brisk pace.
The peculiar staccato cheer distinctive of that hotel burst forth from
the lips of the gathered throng, giving the departing guests a hearty
“send-off;” to which the excursionists responded, by nearly cracking
their throats to emphasize the special “sis--boom--bah” which was the
rallying cry of their favorite hostelry.
The Bonbrights had closed their Bar-Harbor cottage, and were visiting
the mountains on their way homeward. It would be a deprivation to miss
the latter half of September in the mountain regions, while the foliage
was taking on its autumnal tints.
The Sea-Foam had returned to Boston, but Lord Percival, Burton, and
Tapley joined in the mountain trip. Lord Percival wished to see
something of the White Mountains; and as for Burton, it was directly
on his homeward route. Tapley had promised another visit to Burton’s
village home, where he was to be the guest of his friend, after they
had passed a few days at Jackson.
Van Roden quite abruptly took his leave of the Bonbrights on the day
after the Green-Mountain excursion, and Miss Jenness had returned to
Philadelphia two days later.
The village of Jackson, which recently had become a favorite resort,
has a picturesque situation upon the Glen Ellis River, and is hemmed
in by mountains on every side. The narrow valleys of the Glen Ellis
and the Wildcat here unite, and crowd back the steep slopes for a
little space, forming a plateau upon which the village, consisting
mainly of summer hotels, is situated. Here in the heart of the “White
Hills” the towering peaks are crowded together so thickly that the
valleys are compressed, and at first the precipitous steeps seem so
close as to give one almost a feeling of oppression. But wait a little,
and the superb scenery will expand in its conscious realization, and
the sense of overpowering nearness become modified. Climb to the
higher, neighboring altitudes, and new vistas and ravishing views
reveal themselves. Mountains are piled upon mountains, until their
ever-changing glories fill the soul with an inexpressible awe and
inspiration.
“Wherever they rear their majestic summits to the clouds, there is an
indescribable commingling of heaven and earth. The mountain is the
religion of the landscape.”
The road followed by the merry picnickers wound up the narrow valley
of the Glen Ellis; often by a rude bridge crossing its rapid current;
its track so sinuous that it seemed to hide itself before and behind,
and here and there was crowded by the obtrusive hills almost into the
river’s bed. At intervals, a “Glen House” coach drawn by six horses,
with its towering, top-heavy load of tourists and Saratoga trunks,
bore down upon them, and dashed by where the road scarcely seemed wide
enough for a single vehicle. At certain points along the course the
close-drawn portière of trees and near-by hills was opened, and the
majestic, towering form of Mount Washington loomed up before them, the
one great Monarch, to which all the lesser potentates did homage.
“By Jove! this really is fine as a spectacle,” exclaimed Lord Percival.
“At the same time, you know, it lacks that romance and mellowness which
would be manifest were its location in England or on the Continent. If
its crude, sharp lines were softened by historic association, mediæval
conflict, and an occasional baronial castle invested with poetic charm
and tradition, it would be far more interesting, you know. As related
to human history, it is new, garish, utterly lacking in color and tone.
It is not the fault of the mountain, but suggests the rawness of the
country.”
“You are quite right, my lord,” replied Rosamond. “Mountain scenery,
like wine, can only be ripened by age. There is the great, sharp fact
of the rocky mass staring you in the face, but it wears a rustic garb,
and is unsophisticated and prosaic.”
“I am unable to sympathize with a sentiment which regards human
oppression, and the tyranny and disorder of feudal times, as
embellishments to God’s rocks and trees,” observed Burton. “Human
history has value only so far as we can profit by and improve upon it.
The surges and upheavals of human passion, expressed in conquests,
religious persecutions, and race conflicts, form a dark background
in a study of the past. Why should we wish to live them over through
the power of association with natural scenery? These mountains are
purer and more truly romantic as a simple expression of creative power
than if they had been desecrated by human greed and cruelty. They are
scarred and rent by the past energy of cosmic forces, but are free from
the stains of man’s inhumanity to man.”
“Pardon me,” replied his lordship. “From an abstract, moral standpoint
you may be technically correct, though I should modify your statement.
Human history, with all its incidental evils and oppressions, is
an interesting, and, I think, profitable study. The contests and
inhumanities of the past are so interwoven with its patriotism,
heroism, and virtue, that they cannot be eliminated. I fancy that a
kind of inspiration is kindled by visiting the sites of battles and
other great historic events, which stimulates an unselfish devotion to
the honor of one’s government, church, or race. A country destitute
of traditions and crumbling ruins may serve a practical purpose, but
can scarcely be called interesting when compared with one rich in
ancestral renown, whose story shades off into the dim, the misty, the
indefinable.”
“Yes,” exclaimed Rosamond. “This hard, matter-of-fact present is too
tame and stupid for anything.”
“I believe in looking forward rather than in living in the past,”
replied Burton. “I am optimistic, and think it more profitable to
idealize the future than to dwell in the brutal events of bygone
periods. A fair knowledge of the facts of history is well enough, but
I would mentally luxuriate in the grand hopes and aspirations of the
future. History, substantially, is an account of human friction in
detail.”
After a ride of an hour and a half they arrived at the rude little
house of a mountain-guide, near which the footpath leading to the
Crystal Cascade branches off from the carriage-road. The path follows
near the course of the stream, which some distance beyond forms the
cascade, and much farther up has its origin in the tremendous chasm
known as Tuckerman’s Ravine.
They plunged into the forest, following the winding path “Indian file,”
and in about half an hour arrived at the cascade.
A waterfall like this is a liquid poem.
Distilled from the snows and springs in the impenetrable gorge
above, the crystalline torrent plunges in successive falls, until
it is transformed into a vapory mist, shining with opalescent hues
and miniature rainbows. Who can paint it? What a mighty chasm has
been cut through the great mountain by this facile chisel, which has
industriously wrought for interminable ages before man’s advent upon
the earth! What fluid prepared by the unwholesome chemistry of human
art can compare with this nectar?
What a symbol of exuberant youthful life! Down it comes from the awful
chasm above, leaping, dancing, laughing, tripping, sliding, gushing,
sparkling, till it shatters itself into a glowing, opalescent mist,
soon to be gathered again into its original form, and glide onward in
its ceaseless round.
“For men may come, and men may go,
But I go on forever.”
On either side of the yawning chasm, the successive cliffs, or shelves,
are carpeted with a thick elastic pile of mosses, which have been
nourished by centuries of dampness and protected by the dense shade of
trees and shrubs, the roots of which penetrate deeply downward and hug
the rocks in their tenacious embrace.
As the party climbed up the steep incline to find the vantage-points
from which the finest prospects were possible, they scattered
somewhat, as people of different minds invariably do.
Lord Percival and Rosamond led the way, and discovered a most romantic
natural bower a few rods above the place where the others seated
themselves.
The gleam of the sunlight through the trees above, the dash and
abandon of the living torrent below, the quiet seclusion, the
aroma of the firs, and the luxurious softness of the mossy cushion
and carpet, together with the conscious remoteness of the prosy,
matter-of-fact world, were enough to inspire romance in the most stolid
nature. Lord Percival was not stolid. With Rosamond by his side,
amid such accessories, what more fitting time and place for all the
sentimentality and tenderness of his nature to come to the surface and
find expression?
The intimacy between them had rapidly broadened and deepened, week
by week, during the delightful and prolonged summer vacation. Each
possessed much in common with the other. Their tastes, views of life,
institutions, and society, were quite in unison, and their aims and
aspirations upon the same plane. Together they had explored the
environs of Bar Harbor, noted all its vantage-points, and enjoyed its
unequalled scenery. Together they had communed among the recesses of
the Shore-Walk, and at Sunset Hill had gloried in the gorgeous hues of
departing day. Together they had walked and driven along the devious
windings of the Cornice road; had rowed upon the bay; had moralized
over the aborigines; had danced at receptions, and partaken of dinners.
Together they had played tennis and shopped, and in company had wisely
criticised and discussed the merits of photographs and bric-à-brac.
By that mystical and intangible telegraphy which lovers have at
command, they understood each other, but yet not a word had been
spoken. What more natural and suitable than that the English nobleman,
rich in rank, but moderate in purse, should lay siege to the heart
of the American brunette, wealthy in prospect and attractive in
personality?
“My dear Rosamond,” lovingly observed his lordship, soon after they
were fairly seated, “I fancy that we quite understand each other. Your
English cousin, slightly removed, aspires to be your--knight--your
lover--your--nearer than cousin and _not_ removed.”
Kneeling at her feet, and pressing her unresisting hand to his lips,
he continued in a sweet, low tone: “I love you, Rosamond; my heart is
yours. Will you share my title and be mine?”
Rosamond turned rather pale, cast her dark eyes to the ground,
nervously toyed with her parasol, and remained silent.
“My sweet bird! give me a kind little note,” he continued with an
imploring look.
“This--is very--sudden; you must give me a little time,” she responded
rather softly, and with deliberation. “You do me great honor, my lord,
but--but my father’s permission must be had,--and--and”--
“I have it already,” exclaimed his lordship triumphantly, again
pressing her hand to his lips. “When he was last in Bar Harbor, I
opened the subject to him, and he assured me that no objection of his
should hinder his daughter’s happiness.”
A round, limpid tear trickled down each cheek, and a bright smile
played upon her features.
Percival bent over his head, and again pressed the yielded hands to his
lips, and smothered them with his kisses.
“Rosamond--my darling!--my wife!”
The birds twittered their carols in the tree-tops above.
Half an hour later a voice from below startled them. “Haven’t you
studied the cascade about long enough from that point of view?”
The peculiar, teasing, rollicking intonation was that of Adelbert.
The cascade was a living witness to another little “by-play,” going on
simultaneously below. Tapley and Helen, as they climbed the hillside,
were in advance of Burton, who, to avoid all appearance of intrusion,
kept a little distance in the rear. They were partially hid from his
view, but as he came over an obstructing knoll, he rather indistinctly
saw Tapley frantically grasp Helen’s hand and press it to his lips, and
then they sat down on a mossy bank side by side.
During the previous week Burton was triumphant in the feeling that he
had well-nigh conquered himself, and had been almost uniformly serene
and happy concerning the alliance of his two dearest friends, but
this scene momentarily overcame him, and, stepping behind a friendly
intervening tree, he sat down and buried his face in his hands.
Conflicting emotions again tore his soul. Could all this go on without
a single word or sign as to his interest, his love, his struggle?
A voice within distinctly whispered, “Make an effort yourself, it
is only fair. She might prefer you if she only knew--Tapley is your
friend, but you would do him no injustice to assert yourself, and take
your chances.”
“No,” he exclaimed aloud, as if to stifle the other voice. “It shall
not be! Crushed once for all be this unworthy conflict! She is yours,
Tapley! I am serene, peaceful, content. They have my benediction.”
At that moment the musical tones of Helen’s voice floated down, “Where
are you, Mr. Burton? Have you been hiding from us? Here is a lovely
prospect.”
Burton at once responded by joining them, and soon Adelbert and the
rest came to the same point of view.
“Is it not beautiful?” exclaimed Helen. “Such a picture as this will
not fade out of mind in a lifetime. Such beauty, grace, sparkle, such
a hurrying on to destiny. All is progress, not a backward step. How
typical of life!”
“Yes,” said Burton, “this procession of drops, so soft, so yielding in
themselves, is gradually rending the mountain. The stream represents
life; the mountain, decay and materiality. The scene brings to mind
Shelley’s lines, which I learned years ago, while in school,--
‘Arethusa arose
From her couch of snows,
In the Acroceraunian mountains;
From cloud and from crag,
With many a jag,
Shepherding her bright fountains,
She leapt down the rocks
With her rainbow locks
Streaming among the streams;--
Her steps paved with green
The downward ravine
Which slopes to the western gleams:
And gliding and springing,
She went ever singing,
In murmurs as soft as sleep;
The Earth seemed to love her,
And Heaven smiled above her,
As she lingered towards the deep.’”
It was time to retrace their steps. They made their way down the
precipitous path and recrossed the torrent upon the rustic foot-bridge,
returning to the carriage-road by the same route they had passed over
before.
Lord Percival and Rosamond had entered the ravine as two, but they
emerged as one, or at least so engaged to be.
How momentous to the destiny of individual lives is the significance of
a few, quickly spoken words!
It was understood that no formal public announcement of their
engagement should be made until after their return to the city. The
enthusiasm and satisfaction of Lord Percival, and the exuberant gayety
and flushed cheek of Rosamond, told their own story to those who could
interpret that sign-language which is uniform the world over.
After a repast which was spread upon rustic tables, under some trees
near the guide’s house, they started on the homeward course. But a
short distance was passed before they arrived at the place where the
pathway branches off, which leads to the Glen Ellis Falls. A short walk
and then a steep descent of a hundred feet or more, down a series of
stairs, brought them to the foot of the fall. Here the torrent, which
at the Crystal Cascade was so graceful, so maidenly, so delicate,
has been enlarged and re-enforced by tributaries, and, with a strong
masculine spirit of adventure, tumbles in a single unbroken column
to the abyss below. The precipitous, ragged steeps, and the fierce
wildness which characterize this plunge, make the locality seem like a
relic of some planetary cataclysm, preserved as a specimen of titanic
disorder. “This is a place,” remarked Helen, “where in a material sense
one might feel the insignificance of man. As a physical force, his
power is petty. But, in the real and deeper sense, how powerless are
mere masses of matter, when compared with mind or spirit! The material
globe is but a blank background, upon which the tints and colors of
human character and destiny are being worked out, shaded and unified,
to form a perfect and lasting picture.”
“Yes,” replied Burton, “the mind that can measure the mountain; analyze
its materials; divine its laws; discover the truth it embodies; revel
in its form and draperies; enjoy its color, and be inspired by its
grandeur, infinitely outweighs mountains, because it is the image and
reflection of the Creator. A poet somewhere speaks of the earth as a
boat laden with passengers,--
“‘This round sky-cleaving boat
Which never strains its rocky beams;
Whose timbers, as they silent float,
Alps and Caucasus uprear,
And the long Alleghanies here,
And all town-sprinkled lands that be,
Sailing through stars with all their history.’”
After photographing the sublimity expressed by this waterfall upon
their memories, they returned and were rapidly driven through the
Glen, homewards. As they wound along the narrow valley, the declining
sun bathed the autumnal foliage in mystic halo, which heightened its
gorgeous hues, and tipped every leaf with a golden brightness.
“Earth’s crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God:
But only he who sees, takes off his shoes.”
Ye dwellers in the murky atmosphere of town and city; ye toilers in
a wilderness of brick and mortar; go to the mountains in autumn. Go,
if but for a day, and study and enjoy the Great Picture, replete with
color, light and shade, which is painted by the Almighty Artist for the
delight of His children.
“Farewell ye streets! Again I’ll sit
On crags, to watch the shadows flit;
And find a joy in every sound
Of air, the water, or the ground.
Farewell! and in the teeth of care,
I’ll breathe the buxom mountain air,
Feed vision upon dyes and hues
That from the hilltop interfuse.
White rocks, and lichens born of spray,
Dark heather tufts, and mosses gray,
Green grass, blue sky, and boulders brown,
With amber waters glistening down.”
“This excursion has been a romantic poem,” exclaimed Helen, as with a
crack of the whip the horses dashed up in front of the hotel piazza.
“And a pastoral symphony,” added Burton.
In his inmost being, Burton felt that he had passed through his final
struggle, and he was filled with that sense of joy and triumph, of
which all moral heroes have a taste. “Henceforth, I am at peace with
myself and the world,” said he to himself, as he reviewed in detail the
events of the day within the seclusion of his own apartment. “I love
them both, and their happiness is my own.”
In the darkness of the “wee small hours,” Rosamond had wakeful dreams
of coronets, baronial halls, and queen’s receptions, which were
duplicated in sleeping visions as the darkness were away and the gray
dawn stole in through her lattice.