'Driftings of my dream do light
All the skies, by day and night.'
But truly, it is mere drift-wood, not fit even to build a 'castle in the
air.'
I was startled from my musings by a rustling of the branches behind me,
and I turned, expecting--not to see a bear or a fox, but my fancies
incorporate. The leaves were still quivering, but I saw no apparent
cause for so much disturbance. I probably had startled a brace of
partridges from their roost. They brought me back to the actual world,
and I came home to an excellent dinner, which I found my father
practically commending.
_Sunday._--My father has brought us up to so scrupulous an observance of
the Puritan Sabbath, that I was rather surprised, this morning, by his
proposition to drive over to the Flume. His equanimity had been
disturbed by finding one of the horses that had brought us here,
seemingly in a dying condition. He was one of the 'team' that had taken
us on to Mount Willard, and my father had then prophesied that he would
suffer from the driver's neglect to blanket him. He was in nowise
comforted by the verification of his 'I told you so!' but walked to and
fro from the stable, watching the remedies administered, and
vituperating all youth as negligent, reckless, and hard-hearted. I think
it was half to get rid of this present annoyance that he proposed the
drive to the Flume, saying, as he did so: 'These mountains are a great
temple, my children; it matters not much where we stand to worship.'
We stopped for a half-hour at a little fall just by the roadside, called
by the mountain-folk 'The Basin,' and by fine people, 'The Emerald
Bowl,' a name suggested by the exquisite hue of the water, which truly
is of as soft and bright a green as an emerald's. The stream has
curiously cut its way through a rock, whitened, smoothed, and almost
polished by its fretting, which overhangs the deep, circular bowl like a
canopy, or rather, like a half-uplifted lid, its inner side being
mottled and colored like a beautiful shell. The stream glides over the
brim of its sylvan bowl and goes on its way rejoicing. We loitered here
for a half-hour watching the golden and crimson leaves that had dropped
in, and that lay in rich mosaics in the eddies of the stream.
The morning was misty, and the clouds were driven low athwart the
mountains, forming, as Alice well said, pedestals on which their lofty
heads were upreared. No wonder that people in mountainous and misty
regions become imaginative, even superstitious. These forms, falling,
rising, floating, over the eternal hills, susceptible of heavenly
brightness, and deepening into the gloomiest of earth's shadows, spur on
fancy and fear to act at will.
I shall not attempt, my friend, to describe this loveliest of all
five-mile drives, from the Profile House to the Flume under the Eagle's
Cliff, and old 'Prospero,' and beside his lake, and the Emerald Bowl,
and then finished by the most curious, perhaps the most beautiful
passage we have yet seen in the mountains--'The Flume'--thus called,
probably, from a homely association with the race-way of a mill. The
ravine is scarcely more than a fissure, probably made by the gradual
wearing of the stream. I am told the place resembles the Bath of
Pfeffers, in Switzerland. That world's wonder can scarcely be more
romantically beautiful than our Flume.
The small stream, which is now reduced to a mere rill by the prolonged
droughts, forces its way between walls of rock, upheaved in huge blocks
like regular mason-work. Where you enter the passage, it may be some
hundred yards wide, but it gradually contracts till you may almost touch
either side with your outstretched arms. I only measured the height of
the rock-walls with my eye--and a woman's measure is not very
accurate--it may be one hundred or one hundred and fifty feet. Tall
trees at the summits interlace, and where they have fallen, bridge the
passage from one side to the other. Rich, velvety mosses cover the rocks
like a royal garment, and wild vines, almost glittering in their
autumnal brightness, lay on them like rich embroidery, so that we might
say, as truly as was said of the magnificence of oriental nature, that
'Solomon, in all his glory, was not arrayed like one of these.'
But how, dear Susan, am I to show the picture to you--the sun glancing
on the brilliant forest above us, and the indescribable beauty of the
shrubs--golden, and crimson, and fine purple--that shot out of the
crevices of the rocks? It is idle to write or talk about it; but only
let me impress on you that this enchanting coloring is limited to the
first days of October. I am afraid it may be said of scenery as has been
said of lover's _tête-à-tête_ talks, that it resembles those delicate
fruits which are exquisite where they are plucked, but incapable of
transmission. As my father can never enjoy any thing selfishly, he was
particularly pleased with the nice little foot-path won from the
mountain-side, and the frequent foot-bridges that indicate the numbers
that have taken this wild walk before us. My father fancies he enjoys
our security from the summer swarms, but the social principle born in
him masters his theories.
Alice and I were amused this morning, just at the highest access of our
enthusiasm, while we stood under a huge rock wedged in between the two
walls, on looking back, to see my father sitting on a bench arranged as
a point of sight, not gazing, but listening profoundly, his graceful
person and beautiful old head inclined in an attitude of the deepest
attention to a loafer who had unceremoniously joined us, and who, as my
father afterwards rather reluctantly confessed, was recounting to him
the particulars of his recent wooing of a third Mrs. Smith or Mrs.
Brown, or whatever might be her name. And when we returned to our
quarters at the Profile House, and came down to dinner, we met our
landlord at the door, his face even more than usually effulgent with
smiles.
'There has a lady and gentleman come in,' he said, 'and your father has
no objection to their dining at table with you?'
His voice was slightly deprecatory; I think he didn't quite give us
credit for our father's affability. Of course we acquiesced, and were
afterwards edified by our brief acquaintance with the strangers, a
mother and son, who had come up from the petty cares of city life for a
quiet ramble among the hills to find here
'A peace no other season knows.'
The mother wears widow's weeds, and has evidently arrived at the
'melancholy days.' As we just now sat enjoying our evening fire, 'My
hearthstone,' she said, 'was never cold for seventeen years, but there
is no light there now. My children are dispersed, and he who was dearest
and best lies under the clods. My youngest and I hold together--I can
not let him go.'
The loving companionship of a mother and a son who returns to her
tenderness the support of his manly arm, never shrinking from the
shadows that fall from her darkened and stricken heart, or melting those
shadows in his own sunny youth, is one of the consoling pictures of
life.
This poor lady seems to have the love of nature which never dies out. It
is pleasant to see with what patience her son cares for the rural wealth
she is amassing in her progress through the hills, the late flowers and
bright leaves and mosses, though I have detected a boyish, mischievous
smile as he stowed them away.
* * * * *
We had something approaching to an adventure this evening on Echo Lake,
the loveliest of all these mountain lakes, and not more than half a mile
from our present inn--the Profile House. Our dear father consented to go
out with us, and let Alice and me, who have been well trained at that
exercise on our home-lake, take our turns with him in rowing. This lake
is embosomed in the forest, and lies close nestled under the mountains
which here have varied shape and beautiful outlines. It takes its name
from its clear echoes; we called, we sang, and my father whistled, and
from the deep recesses of the hills our voices came back as if spirit
called to spirit, musical and distinct. You know the root of fascination
there is in such a scene. The day had continued misty to the last, the
twilights at this season are at best short, and while my father was
whistling, one after another, the favorite songs of his youth, we were
surprised by nightfall. My father startled us with 'Bless me, girls,
what are you about?' (it was he who was most entranced,) 'I can not see
our landing-place!'
Neither, with all possible straining, could our younger eyes descry it.
We approached as near the shore as we dared, but could go no nearer
without the danger of swamping our boat, when suddenly we perceived a
blessed apparition, a long white signal flying, made quite obvious in
the dim light by a background of evergreens. We rowed toward it with all
our might, wondering what kind friend was waving it so eagerly. As we
approached near the shore it suddenly dropped and hung motionless, and
when we landed we saw no person and heard no footstep. I untied the
signal, and finding it a man's large, fine linen handkerchief, I eagerly
explored the corner for the name, but the name had evidently just been
torn off. Strange! We puzzled ourselves with conjectures. My father cut
us short with:
'It's that young man at the hotel: young folks like this sort of thing.'
But it was not he; we found him reading to his mother, who said she was
just about sending him to look after us.
* * * * *
Thus abruptly ended Mary Langdon's journal-letter. The reason of its
sudden discontinuance will be found in our own brief relation of the
experience of the following morning, (Monday,) which we had from all the
parties that partook in it.
Our friends were to leave the Profile House on Monday, on their return
to the lowlands, to go from there to the Flume House, visit 'the Pool,'
and then down to the pretty village of Plymouth, in New-Hampshire.
Mary and her sister rose early, and having a spare half-hour before
breakfast, went down to take a last look of Prospero and his 'Bowl.'
There they found a crazy, old, leaky boat, with a broken oar, and Mary,
spying some dry bits of board on the shore, deftly threw them in and
arranged them so that she and her sister could get in dry-shod. Alice
looked doubtfully at the crazy little craft and hung back--the thought
of husband and children at home is always a sedative--but her eager
sister overcame her scruples, and they were soon fairly out from shore
in deep water. They went on, half-floating, half-rowing, unconscious of
the flying minutes. Not so their father, who after waiting breakfast 'an
eternity,' (as he said, possibly some five minutes,) came to the lake to
recall them. Just as he came within fair sight of them--for they were
not two hundred yards from him--the boat suddenly began whirling round.
An eddying wind had sprung from the mountain upon them. The poor father
saw their dilemma, and could not help them. He could not swim. He
screamed for help, but what likelihood that any one should hear or could
aid him?
Alice prudently sat perfectly still. The oar was in Mary's hand. She
involuntarily sprung to her feet; her head became giddy; not so much,
she afterward averred, with the whirling of the boat as with the sight
of her poor old father, and the sense that she had involved Alice in
this peril. She plunged the oar into the water in the vain hope, by
firmly holding it, of steadying the boat; but she dropped it from her
trembling hand, and in reaching after it, she too dropped over into the
water, and in her struggle she pushed the boat from her, and thus became
herself beyond the possibility of her sister's reach. Her danger was
imminent; she was sinking. Her father and sister shrieked to Him--who
they believed heard them and sent his Messenger; for a plash in the
water, a strong man with wonderful--it seemed superhuman--strength and
speed, was making his way toward Mary. In one moment more he had grasped
her with one hand. She had still enough presence of mind not to
embarrass him by any struggles, and shouting a word of comfort to Alice,
he swam to the shore and laid Mary in her father's arms. He then
returned to the boat, and soon brought it to shore.
There are moments of this strange life of ours not to be
described--feelings for which language is no organ. While such a moment
sped with father and daughters, their deliverer stood apart. The father
gazed upon his darling child, satisfying himself that 'not a hair' had
perished, but she was only 'fresher than before;' and, as he afterward
said, 'fully recovering his wits,' he turned to thank the preserver of
his children. He was standing half-concealed behind a cluster of
evergreens.
'Come forward, my dear fellow,' he said, 'for God's sake, let me grasp
your hand!'
He did not move.
'Oh! come,' urged Mr. Sandford, 'never mind your shirt-sleeves--it's no
time to be particular about trifles.'
Still he didn't move.
'Oh! come, dear Carl!' said Mary.
And her lover sprang to her feet!
* * * * *
What immediately followed was not told me. But there was no
after-coldness or reluctance on the part of the good father. His heart
was melted and fused in affection and gratitude for his daughter's
lover. His prejudices were vanquished, and he was just as well satisfied
as if they had been overcome by the slower processes of reason and
conviction.
The truth was, the old gentleman was not to be outdone in magnanimity.
Mary's filial devotion had prepared him to yield his opposition, and he
confessed that he had, in his own secret counsel with himself,
determined to recall Heiner at the end of another year, if he proved
constant and half as deserving as his foolish girl thought him. But
Prospero--as Mary called the Old Man of the Mountain--had seen fit to
take the business into his own hands, and setting his magic to work, had
stirred up a tempest in his Punch-Bowl, just to bring these young
romancers together. But by what spell had he conjured up the lover, just
at the critical moment?
Heiner confessed, that not being able to get off in the steamer of the
twenty-ninth, as he had purposed, he had delayed his embarkation for ten
days, and the magic of love--really the only magic left in our prosaic
world--had drawn him to the White Mountains, where he might have the
happiness (a lover, perhaps, only could appreciate it) of breathing the
same atmosphere with Mary, and possibly of now and then getting a
glimpse of her. Thus he had stood on the summit of Mount Washington
when, by some mysterious magnetism, she was gazing through the glass;
thus he narrowly escaped detection near the Willey Slide; and preceding
her by a few hours on Mount Willard, he was in time at the Echo Lake to
signalize her, and by a good providence had been present at her hour of
need on the magic domain of 'The Old Man of the Mountain.'
It was flood-tide in the old gentleman's heart. Mary's affairs ripened
rapidly. They seemed to me well typified by one of my Malmaison
rose-buds that I have watched slowly growing through the ungenial
May-days, drooping under a cold rain, suddenly expand into luxurious
perfection with a half-day's June sunshine. The happy future was already
arranged. The thrice-blessed October sun was to shine upon the bridal
festival, and then Mary was to go with her husband, and accompanied by
her father, to pass a year in Europe. 'Mary and I are already wedded,'
said he to me, with a smile of complete satisfaction; 'we only take this
young fellow into the partnership.'
* * * * *
It was a bright day in the outer and inner world when we separated. And
thus ended our October visit to the White Hills of New-Hampshire, but
not our gratitude to Him who had held us
'In his large love and boundless thought.'
If our young friend has imperfectly sketched the beauties of the
mountains, she has exaggerated nothing. We hope our readers--though,
alas! perchance over-wearied now--may make the complete tour of these
White Hills, including, as it should, the enchanting sail on Lake
Winnipiseogee, the beautiful drive by North-Conway, and the ascents of
Kiarsarge, Chicoma, Mount Moriah, and the Red Mountain.