Stonington—Great Falls of the Potomac
The greatest pleasure I had promised myself in visiting Washington was
the seeing a very old friend, who had left England many years ago, and
married in America; she was now a widow, and, as I believed, settled in
Washington. I soon had the mortification of finding that she was not in
the city; but ere long I learnt that her residence was not more than
ten miles from it. We speedily met, and it was settled that we should
pass the summer with her in Maryland, and after a month devoted to
Washington, we left it for Stonington.
We arrived there the beginning of May, and the kindness of our
reception, the interest we felt in becoming acquainted with the family
of my friend, the extreme beauty of the surrounding country, and the
lovely season, altogether, made our stay there a period of great
enjoyment.
I wonder not that the first settlers in Virginia, with the bold Captain
Smith of chivalrous memory at their head, should have fought so stoutly
to dispossess the valiant father of Pocohantas of his fair domain, for
I certainly never saw a more tempting territory. Stonington is about
two miles from the most romantic point of the Potomac River, and
Virginia spreads her wild, but beautiful, and most fertile Paradise, on
the opposite shore. The Maryland side partakes of the same character,
and perfectly astonished us by the profusion of her wild fruits and
flowers.
We had not been long within reach of the great falls of the Potomac
before a party was made for us to visit them; the walk from Stonington
to these falls is through scenery that can hardly be called forest,
park, or garden; but which partakes of all three. A little English girl
accompanied us, who had but lately left her home; she exclaimed, “Oh!
how many English ladies would glory in such a garden as this!” and in
truth they might; cedars, tulip-trees, planes, shumacs, junipers, and
oaks of various kinds, most of them new to us, shaded our path. Wild
vines, with their rich expansive leaves, and their sweet blossom,
rivalling the mignionette in fragrance, clustered round their branches.
Strawberries in full bloom, violets, anemonies, heart’s-ease, and wild
pinks, with many other, and still lovelier flowers, which my ignorance
forbids me to name, literally covered the ground. The arbor judae, the
dog-wood, in its fullest glory of star-like flowers, azalias, and wild
roses, dazzled our eyes whichever way we turned them. It was the most
flowery two miles I ever walked.
The sound of the falls is heard at Stonington, and the gradual increase
of this sound is one of the agreeable features of this delicious walk.
I know not why the rush of waters is so delightful to the ear; all
other monotonous sounds are wearying, and harass the spirits, but I
never met any one who did not love to listen to a waterfall. A rapid
stream, called the “Branch Creek,” was to be crossed ere we reached the
spot where the falls are first visible. This rumbling, turbid, angry
little rivulet, flows through evergreens and flowering underwood, and
is crossed _a plusieures reprises_, by logs thrown from rock to rock.
The thundering noise of the still unseen falls suggests an idea of
danger while crossing these rude bridges, which hardly belongs to them;
having reached the other side of the creek, we continued under the
shelter of the evergreens for another quarter of a mile, and then
emerged upon a sight that drew a shout of wonder and delight from us
all. The rocky depths of an enormous river were opened before our eyes
and so huge are the black crags that inclose it, that the thundering
torrents of water rushing through, over, and among the rocks of this
awful chasm, appear lost and swallowed up in it.
The river, or rather the bed of it, is here of great width, and most
frightful depth, lined on all sides with huge masses of black rock of
every imaginable form. The flood that roars through them is seen only
at intervals; here in a full heavy sheet of green transparent water,
falling straight and unbroken; there dashing along a narrow channel,
with a violence that makes one dizzy to see and hear. In one place an
unfathomed pool shows a mirror of inky blackness, and as still as
night; in another the tortured twisted cataract tumbles headlong in a
dozen different torrents, half hid by the cloud of spray they send high
into the air. Despite this uproar, the slenderest, loveliest shrubs,
peep forth from among these hideous rocks, like children smiling in the
midst of danger. As we stood looking at this tremendous scene, one of
our friends made us remark, that the poison alder, and the poison vine,
threw their graceful, but perfidious branches, over every rock, and
assured us also that innumerable tribes of snakes found their dark
dwellings among them.
To call this scene beautiful would be a strange abuse of terms, for it
is altogether composed of sights and sounds of terror. The falls of the
Potomac are awfully sublime: the dark deep gulf which yawns before you,
the foaming, roaring cataract, the eddying whirlpool, and the giddy
precipice, all seem to threaten life, and to appal the senses. Yet it
was a great delight to sit upon a high and jutting crag, and look and
listen.
I heard with pleasure that it was to the Virginian side of the Potomac
that the “felicity hunters” of Washington resorted to see this fearful
wonder, for I never saw a spot where I should less have liked the
annoying “how d’ye,” of a casual rencontre. One could not even give or
receive the exciting “is it not charming,” which Rousseau talks of, for
if it were uttered, it could not be heard, or, if heard, would fall
most earthly dull on the spirit, when rapt by the magic of such a
scene. A look, or the silent pressure of the arm, is all the
interchange of feeling that such a scene allows, and in the midst of my
terror and my pleasure, I wished for the arm and the eye of some few
from the other side of the Atlantic.
The return from such a scene is more soberly silent than the approach
to it; but the cool and quiet hour, the mellowed tints of some gay
blossoms, and the closed bells of others, the drowsy hum of the insects
that survive the day, and the moist freshness that forbids the foot to
weary in its homeward path, have all enjoyment in them, and seem to
harmonize with the half wearied, half excited state of spirits, that
such an excursion is sure to produce: and then the entering the cool
and moonlit portico, the well-iced sangaree, or still more refreshing
coffee, that waits you, is all delightful; and if to this be added the
happiness of an easy sofa, and a friend like my charming Mrs. S—, to
soothe you with an hour of Mozart the most fastidious European might
allow that such a day was worth waking for.