Edward Burton

“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.

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,—

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,—

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.

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.

“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.