‘We then went out to see a cascade. I trudged unwillingly, and was not
sorry to find it dry.’ Dr. Johnson was not often pleased, it seems, upon
this tour in Wales in the company of ‘my mistress’ and her family, and
the arid waterfall was no doubt a welcome incident, for the scenery had
been tedious to his spirit. He made light of the mountains, and did not
hesitate to propose a strange image to the fancy of his companions when
he derided a river unlucky enough to come into the prospect: ‘Why, sir,
I could clear any part of it by a leap.’ He rated very low the old house
of Mrs. Thrale’s family, though as a house it amused him more than any
view. ‘The addition of another storey would make an useful house, but it
cannot be great.’ The old parish clerk who, seeing Mrs. Thrale again,
‘foolishly said that he was now willing to die,’ is no doubt justly
rebuked; but so seems to be Mrs. Thrale herself: ‘He had only a crown
given him by my mistress.’ Then there was that dispute on the Chester
walls; and, first and last, Dr. Johnson was not found to be best of
companions by the ‘pretty woman’ witty enough to ‘add something to the
conversation’, with whom he himself would have been all content.
There is reason to think that scenery in those days was rather unfairly
and dully insisted upon as a matter of taste. ‘Dispositions of wood and
water’ were the subjects of a kind of expert study, and it is easy to
understand what a bore a landscape might become under the eye of a
judge. Miss Austen shows a distinct tendency to bring water, rising
ground, and well-wooded slopes under review. If a modern mansion has
been erected, with ignorance, in too low a situation, she has an instant
eye for the barbarism. The shrubberies, the curving carriage drives, the
conifers, the farm-buildings, if any, duly planted out, come under the
rapid approval of an elegant mind, and so does the far prospect no less.
The distance is declared to be in harmony with the demands of a lover of
nature; and as you read you can hardly think of the scenery as thrilled
with summer wind, or believe that its miles would mark human feet with
dust, or would be measured by the wavering rods of human weariness, or
subject to any incidents except those of a careful engraving. There is
some charm in the false-classical landscape of that time, merely looked
back upon; but it would be something less than interesting to be
presently in the company of people who talked much of the dispositions
of wood and water. There is a certain way of looking at a view that
affects one almost with dismay to hear of. When a professor of scenery
asks you to enjoy what he always calls a peep, with several kinds of
fir-trees coyly betraying the way to it, there is little delight there;
nor are cottages so pleasant when they, too, are said to peep; but this
is a later and even a duller fancy. Landscape a hundred years ago had
more dignity, though no more ‘spirit in the woods’.
If the dispositions of wood and water allowed of a waterfall, it is
impossible to imagine a more welcome addition at that day to scenery
constructed, like Mr. Pecksniff’s younger daughter, upon good
principles. The cascade had not yet been made quite a common convention,
for the ‘picturesque’ had not then come and gone, making dull in its
passage, at least in art and in letters, the sallies of nature. To find
a waterfall, in the right place, was in those days an elegant and
natural joy; and it must have been no small disappointment to see Dr.
Johnson trudging unwillingly. But no doubt there had been too much said.
Taste, always so nearly in peril of derogation, and, in fact, so
quickly, according to all experience, dimmed by habit, has done wrong,
by its weak preferences, to all the flowers of scenery—not to the actual
flowers of vegetation only, though these have long been turned to the
basest uses of all decoration—but to the other outbreaks of the movement
and vitality of earth. The white tops of mountains and the climax of
storms, forests in their utmost leaf, waves at the crest, the clouds of
sunset newly on fire, waters in haste—what a gathering of blossoms is
this from the summits of the world, whether on heights or on plains!
Light and sound seem to be set free by the mere resounding thought of so
much fruition. But, for their all-intelligible beauty, these crowns of
things were long tossed together for the use of any one who so much as
knew their names, and not the less cheaply because the language of
description grew to be more subtle, more expert, and more poetic. Soon
that expert quality also became, as it were, the waste and refuse of
literature.
Waterfalls, then, have been too much in use. Not only by the travelling
party of the Thrales have they been proposed too pressingly to
admiration. They cannot be restored at second hand to their dignity. A
very great man might restore them to his readers by a word, but no one
of less authority than his need begin to take the trouble to look for
it. The right course is to see them where they are, and to let the
literature of the matter rest. Any phrase written here in praise of
waterfalls—if such should escape—is not intended to do more than point
the way whither the traveller may trudge if he will. Norway and the
Pyrenees keep for us the surprise of perpetually new waters drawing to
the ancient fall.
The Alps, even, have many a slender stream, perhaps bearing no name, and
certainly known by no names out of sight of their nearest peaks, that
are remembered in their solitude, or at least recognized at each return
of the traveller, where they drop, hushed by their distance as much as
by the noisy train. There is one, for instance, seen for but a moment,
that has so long a fall as to grow weak and to swing in all the light
winds. The strong stem of the cascade springs from the bed of its upland
stream; and as from a strong stem a sapling wavers upwards, entangled at
last in all breezes, so the dropping brook wavers downwards to its last
and lighter motion.
Waterfalls that are turned to torrents have not been so much the subject
of the landscape of convention. Their wildness did not so take the
general fancy when conventions were made; but they are the vitality of
the mountains. Theirs is an expression of movement so great that all the
Alpine region seems to manifest its life only by these noisy valleys.
All communications, all signals and messages of the range, hasten in and
out by these brilliant cataracts, one in the depth of every ravine.
They are not only the traffic and the mission of their mountains, the
coursing of that cold blood and the pulse of the rock, but they carry
the mountain spirit far out. There is no country under mountains but has
its quietness awakened by wilder rivers than other lands are watered by.
When the range is out of sight, the torrents are still hasty, cataract
below cataract, shallow and clear, quick from the impulse of waterfalls.
No loitering rivers in earthy beds keep level banks in those plains that
have their horizon lifted by the line of great mountains; no silent
rivers.
If the torrent runs dry, there is no one to be vexed by the silence. Dr.
Johnson would not, perhaps, be asked to trudge for the sake of the rough
charms of a mere torrent; but even if the disposition of wood and water
comprised a torrent, he would have no revenge for his literary weariness
in seeing his guide abashed. For a dry torrent is a most beautiful
wreck, the ruin of a splendid progress and procession, of which the
leader, when he went by, did not pass unknown. Such are the wide
watercourses of the valleys in the Canton de Vaud, the colour of their
innumerable stones a bright daylight grey, and the threads of water of
their time of drought rippling just audibly by night.
Not all waterfalls make the conspicuous show of the cascades that take
their leap from the rocks. In early autumn there is nothing fresher or
sweeter than the minute, perpetual waterfall that hides in moss and
undergrowth, and slips everywhere from the Alps. The air is nowhere
silent, and hardly a blade of grass is unstirred by the delicate thrill
of water. Without paths it drops minutely and invisibly into the lakes,
the gentlest of all the signs of the barren and lofty snow.