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[page 249:]
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MORNING ON THE WISSAHICCON.
BY EDGAR A. POE.
THE natural
scenery of America
has often been contrasted, in its general features as well as in
detail,
with the landscape of the Old World — more especially of Europe — and
not
deeper has been the enthusiasm, than wide the dissension, of the
supporters
of each region. The discussion is one not likely to be soon closed,
for,
although much has been said on both sides, a world more yet remains to
be said.
The most conspicuous of the British
tourists who
have attempted a comparison, seem to regard our northern and eastern
seaboard,
comparatively speaking, as all of America, at least as all of the
United
States, worthy consideration. They say little, because they have seen
less,
of the gorgeous interior scenery of some of our western and southern
districts
— of the vast valley of Louisiana, for example, — a realization of the
wildest dreams of paradise. For the most part, these travellers content
themselves with a hasty inspection of the natural lions of the
land
— the Hudson, Niagara, the Catskills, Harper's Ferry, the lakes of New
York, the Ohio, the [page 250:] prairies, and the
Mississippi.
These, indeed, are objects well worthy the contemplation even of him
who
has just clambered by the castellated Rhine, or roamed
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone;
but these are not all of which we can boast;
and, indeed, I will
be so hardy as to assert that there are innumerable quiet, obscure, and
scarcely explored nooks, within the limits of the United States, that,
by the true artist, or cultivated lover of the grand and beautiful amid
the works of God, will be preferred to each - and to all of the
chronicled
and better accredited scenes to which I have referred.
In fact, the real Edens of the land
lie far away
from the track of our own most deliberate tourists — how very far,
then,
beyond the reach of the foreigner, who, having made with his publisher
at home arrangements for a certain amount of comment upon America, to
be
furnished in a stipulated period, can hope to fulfil his agreement in
no
other manner than by steaming it, memorandum-book in hand, through only
the most beaten thoroughfares of the country!
I mentioned, just above, the valley
of Louisiana.
Of all extensive areas of natural loveliness, this is perhaps the most
lovely. No fiction has approached it. The most gorgeous imagination
might
derive suggestions from its exuberant beauty. And beauty is,
indeed,
its sole character. It has little, or rather nothing, of the sublime.
Gentle
undulations of soil, interwreathed with fantastic crystallic streams,
banked
by flowery [page 251:] slopes, and backed by a
forest
vegetation, gigantic, glossy, multicoloured, sparkling with gay birds
and
burthened with perfume — these features make up, in the vale of
Louisiana,
the most voluptuous natural scenery upon earth.
But, even of this delicious region,
the sweeter portions
are reached only by bypaths. Indeed, in America generally, the
traveller
who would behold the finest landscapes, must seek them not by the
railroad,
nor by the steamboat, nor by the stage-coach, nor in his private
carriage,
nor yet even on horseback — but on foot. He must walk, he must
leap
ravines, he must risk his neck among precipices, or he must leave
unseen
the truest, the richest, and most unspeakable glories of the land.
Now in the greater portion of Europe
no such necessity
exists. In England it exists not at all. The merest dandy of a tourist
may there visit every nook worth visiting without detriment to his silk
stockings; so thoroughly known are all points of interest, and so
well-arranged
are the means of attaining them. This consideration has never been
allowed
its due weight, in comparisons of the natural scenery of the Old and
New
Worlds. The entire loveliness of the former is collated with only the
most
noted, and with by no means the most eminent items in the general
loveliness
of the latter.
River scenery has, unquestionably,
within itself,
all the main elements of beauty, and, time out of mind, has been the
favourite
theme of the poet. But much of this fame is attributable to the
predominance
of travel in fluvial over that in mountainous districts. In the same [page
252:] way, large rivers, because usually highways, have, in
all countries, absorbed an undue share of admiration. They are more
observed,
and, consequently, made more the subject of discourse, than less
important,
but often more interesting streams.
A singular exemplification of my
remarks upon this
head may be found in the Wissahiccon, a brook, (for more it can
scarcely
be called,) which empties itself into the Schuylkill, about six miles
westward
of Philadelphia. Now the Wissahiccon is of so remarkable a loveliness
that,
were it flowing in England, it would be the theme of every bard, and
the
common topic of every tongue, if, indeed, its banks were not parcelled
off in lots, at an exorbitant price, as building-sites for the villas
of
the opulent. Yet it is only within a very few years that any one has
more
than heard of the Wissahiccon, while the broader and more navigable
water
into which it flows, has been long celebrated as one of the finest
specimens
of American river scenery. The Schuylkill, whose beauties have been
much
exaggerated, and whose banks, at least in the neighbourhood of
Philadelphia,
are marshy like those of the Delaware, is not at all comparable, as an
object of picturesque interest, with the more humble and less notorious
rivulet of which we speak.
It was not until Fanny Kemble, in her
droll book
about the United States, pointed out to the Philadelphians the rare
loveliness
of a stream which lay at their own doors, that this loveliness was more
than suspected by a few adventurous pedestrians of the vicinity. But,
the
"Journal'' having opened all eyes, the Wissahiccon, to [page
253:]
a certain extent, rolled at once into notoriety. I say "to a certain
extent,''
for, in fact, the true beauty of the stream lies far above the route
of the Philadelphian picturesque-hunters, who rarely proceed farther
than
a mile or two above the mouth of the rivulet — for the very excellent
reason
that here the carriage-road stops. I would advise the adventurer who
would
behold its finest points to take the Ridge Road, running westwardly
from
the city, and, having reached the second lane beyond the sixth
mile-stone,
to follow this lane to its termination. He will thus strike the
Wissahiccon,
at one of its best reaches, and, in a skiff, or by clambering along its
banks, he can go up or down the stream, as best suits his fancy, and in
either direction will meet his reward.
I have already said, or should have
said, that the
brook is narrow. Its banks are generally, indeed almost universally,
precipitous,
and consist of high hills, clothed with noble shrubbery near the water,
and crowned at a greater elevation, with some of the most magnificent
forest
trees of America, among which stands conspicuous the liriodendron
tulipiferum.
The immediate shores, however, are of granite, sharply-defined or
moss-covered,
against which the pellucid water lolls in its gentle flow, as the blue
waves of the Mediterranean upon the steps of her palaces of marble.
Occasionally
in front of the cliffs, extends a small definite plateau of
richly
herbaged land, affording the most picturesque position for a cottage
and
garden which the richest imagination could conceive. The windings of
the
stream are many and abrupt, as is [page 254:] usually
the case where banks are precipitous, and thus the impression conveyed
to the voyager's eye, as he proceeds, is that of an endless succession
of infinitely varied small lakes, or, more properly speaking, tarns.
The
Wissahiccon, however, should be visited, not like "fair Melrose,'' by
moonlight,
or even in cloudy weather, but amid the brightest glare of a noonday
sun;
for the narrowness of the gorge through which it flows, the height of
the
hills on either hand, and the density of the foliage, conspire to
produce
a gloominess, if not an absolute dreariness of effect, which, unless
relieved
by a bright general light, detracts from the mere beauty of the scene.
Not long ago I visited the stream by
the route described,
and spent the better part of a sultry day in floating in a skiff upon
its
bosom. The heat gradually overcame me, and, resigning myself to the
influence
of the scenes and of the weather, and of the gently moving current, I
sank
into a half slumber, during which my imagination revelled in visions of
the Wissahiccon of ancient days — of the "good old days'' when the
Demon
of the Engine was not, when pic-nics were undreamed of, when "water
privileges''
were neither bought nor sold, and when the red man trod alone, with the
elk, upon the ridges that now towered above. And, while gradually these
conceits took possession of my mind, the lazy brook had borne me, inch
by inch, around one promontory and within full view of another that
bounded
the prospect at the distance of forty or fifty yards. It was a steep
rocky
cliff, abutting far into the stream, and [page 255:] presenting
much more of the Salvator character than any portion of the shore
hitherto
passed. What I saw upon this cliff, although surely an object of very
extraordinary
nature, the place and season considered, at first neither startled nor
amazed me — so thoroughly and appropriately did it chime in with the
half-slumberous
fancies that enwrapped me. I saw, or dreamed that I saw, standing upon
the extreme verge of the precipice, with neck out-stretched, with ears
erect, and the whole attitude indicative of profound and melancholy
inquisitiveness,
one of the oldest and boldest of those identical elks which had been
coupled
with the red men of my vision.
I say that, for a few moments, this
apparition neither
startled nor amazed me. During this interval my whole soul was bound up
in intense sympathy alone. I fancied the elk repining, not less than
wondering,
at the manifest alterations for the worse, wrought upon the brook and
its
vicinage, even within the last few years, by the stern hand of the
utilitarian.
But a slight movement of the animal's head at once dispelled the
dreaminess
which invested me, and aroused me to a full sense of the novelty of the
adventure. I arose upon one knee within the skiff, and, while I
hesitated
whether to stop my career, or let myself float nearer to the object of
my wonder, I heard the words "hist! hist!'' ejaculated quickly but
cautiously,
from the shrubbery overhead. In an instant afterwards, a negro emerged
from the thicket, putting aside the bushes with care, and treading
stealthily.
He bore in one hand a quantity of salt, and, holding it towards the
elk,
gently yet steadily approached. The noble animal, although a little
fluttered, [page 256:] made no attempt at escape.
The negro advanced;
offered the salt; and spoke a few words of encouragement or
conciliation.
Presently, the elk bowed and stamped, and then lay quietly down and was
secured with a halter.
Thus ended my romance of the elk. It
was a pet
of great age and very domestic habits, and belonged to an English
family
occupying a villa in the vicinity. |
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