Glimpses of America / A Pictorial and Descriptive History of Our Country's Scenic Marvels

The instructions given upon the separation of our three photographers, after leaving St. Louis, were necessarily indefinite, and discrimination in the selection of routes and views had to be left to individual judgment, since weather and conditions play an important part in the artists’ profession. Our third photographer departed somewhat from the route which he had selected to cover, for after the separation, instead of proceeding directly east through Pennsylvania, as was his first intention, he went south to Cincinnati and east by the Chesapeake and Ohio Railroad, through the lovely Blue Grass region of Kentucky, making his first stop at Charleston, the capital of West Virginia. The capital is a small place of something less than 7,000 inhabitants, and with nothing of particular importance to visitors except the mountain scenery which invests it. The Kanawha River, upon which the town is situated, is navigable for small crafts from this point to its junction with the Ohio, but above Charleston the stream is treacherous and its channel so rock-infested that a skiff can hardly follow the stream without danger. Thirty miles from the capital are the Kanawha Falls, or cataracts, where the river goes tearing over several benches of thinly stratified rocks, and has scooped out a pool of very great depth, where fishing is said to be excellent. On the north side of the river at this point are the Gauley Mountains, rising to a considerable altitude, but so gently that the slopes have been reclaimed from thick timber growths and converted into beautiful farms.

The scenery all through the valley of the Kanawha is tumultuously grand, but nine miles beyond the falls it attains its greatest glory. Here the tremendous cliffs rise vertically to a height of 1,200 feet, and at a point called “The Hawk’s Nest” a breast of the bluffs extends out over the river in a perilous shelf 1,000 feet high, from which lofty elevation the river becomes a ribbon of white, and a train of cars running along the mountain skirts on the opposite side looks like a string of army-ants hurrying to an attack. The view down the valley is one of ineffable magnificence, presenting as it does a double file of noble mountains dressed in uniforms of lovely green, which, as they recede, assume a sky-blue hue, and then gradually fade away in the opalescent mist of distance.

Thirty miles above Kanawha Falls, at a town called Hinton, the New and Green-Brier Rivers unite to form the Kanawha, and here the scenery is likewise charmingly picturesque. The line of lofty bluffs continues along the south shore of New River, under which the Chesapeake and Ohio Railroad runs upon a bare passageway, while the north line is marked by graceful mountains that in the distance look like lines of beauty tracing the horizon. In some places the ledges are 1,200 feet high, and the river so contracted that the cañon is almost dark at midday. The view is further diversified by successive rapids and cataracts, while at frequent intervals the bluffs recede, leaving stretches of fertile valley that are in a high state of cultivation, with pretty farm houses dotting the landscape and imparting an appearance of prosperous animation to these pleasing interludes. The road follows the valley of Green-Brier River twenty miles further, to Caldwell, then passes through White Sulphur Springs, and a few minutes later crosses the James River at Clifton Forge, where that romantic stream, drawing its inspiration from the Alleghenies, cuts its way through the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Clifton Forge is forty miles east of White Sulphur Springs, and from this junction a branch of the Chesapeake and Ohio Road runs northeast to form a connection with the Shenandoah Valley Railroad at Waynesborough. All the region hereabout is very rugged, and intersected by beautiful streams whose sources are springs that break out of the sides of mountains, and the waters are generally more or less impregnated with sulphur. Eighteen miles due north of Clifton Forge, and reached by a delightful road that winds through charming vales, is the village of Warm Springs, the capital of Bath county, and adjacent are the Warm Sulphur Springs, which attract so many visitors in search of health and fine scenery. It is a mountain town, whose population fluctuates with the season, for while the place is one of some animation from April to October, during the other months there are not enough people in the village to keep the mud-daubers out of the houses. A more picturesque district, however, can scarcely be found; too mountainous to permit agriculture, nature has given other blessings than fertility to the region. The climate is extremely invigorating, and the numerous springs possess medicinal properties of undoubted value, while the scenery is inspiring to even the most phlegmatic. One of the chief objects which serves to further diversify the landscape of high-lifted peaks, jutting cliffs, meandering brooks, green coverts, sylvan solitudes and cloistral caverns, is Falling Spring, a sheet of rainbow-flecked water that dashes over a ledge seventy feet high, and which, seen from a little distance, may be likened in appearance to the white trailing trousseau of a bride, so delicate, graceful, and gossamer-like is its form, so joyous is its laughter. After leaving Clifton Forge the road winds along the sinuous valley of James River, with charming views on both sides, until interest, charm and excitement are superseded by wonder as Natural Bridge, that marvelous curiosity of ages, is reached, and preparation is immediately made to examine and to photograph its astounding formation and immensity. This great natural wonder, which is an old acquaintance to all school-children, is two miles from the railway station, at the termination of a very deep gorge, through which flows a capricious little stream called Cedar Creek. At one time this feeble brook may have been a raging river, and needed bridging, but like an old man, it has lost the vigor of former days and fallen into the seventh age of decrepitude. But the bridge which Titans might have constructed still spans the creek’s deep bed and has grown in mightiness as the waters below subsided. To speak with mathematical exactness, without employing statistical details, it may be said that the Natural Bridge spans with graceful and architectural proportions the perpendicular ledges of Cedar Creek, which rise 200 feet above the stream. The center of its wondrous arch is forty feet in perpendicular thickness and sixty feet wide, while the span is exactly eighty-nine feet. A public highway utilizes the bridge, and it is the only means of passage for wagons within a mile either way, except by a steep bank, very difficult to ascend, a short distance below the gorge. Just above the bridge the creek bluffs are broken into masses that look like immense buttresses, pinnacled at places and reaching to a height of 250 feet. The most imposing view is obtained from a position fifty yards below the bridge, where the arch appears both lighter and higher, and the walls more dangerously precipitous. From this point of view this world-famous natural structure appears as perfect as if cut by design; a colossal arch that shines in the sun like variegated marble, without stratification or displacement, so high that the largest sailing vessel might pass under without touching the peak of her mainmast. On the abutments of the bridge are carved the names of many adventurous youths who sought fame by leaving a record of their reckless efforts to scale the dizzy heights of stone. George Washington was not above this ambition to win reputation by carving his name higher up than any of his fellow-youths, and for nearly seventy years he held the honor of being the most intrepid and expert wall-climber, for, like Ben Adam, his name led all the rest. But in 1818 this distinction was surrendered to James Piper, of Washington College, who performed the daring, and what was long thought to be impossible, feat of climbing from the foot of the abutment to the top of the arch, an exploit so dangerous that no one has since made a mad attempt to repeat it. Thomas Jefferson was moved to write a eulogium of this incomparable natural wonder in this wise:

“The Natural Bridge, the most sublime of nature’s works, though not comprehended under the present head, must not be pretermitted. Though the sides of this bridge are provided in parts with a parapet of fixed rocks, yet few men have resolution to walk to them and look over into the abyss. If the view from the top be painful and intolerable, that from below is delightful in an equal extreme. It is impossible for the emotions arising from the sublime to be felt beyond what they are here; so beautiful an arch, so elevated, so light and springing, as it were, up to heaven! The rapture of the spectator is really indescribable.”

From Natural Bridge our photographer took train on the Norfolk and Western Railroad, and proceeded southwestwardly to the junction of that road with the Tennessee, Virginia and Georgia Railroad, by which he passed into Tennessee as far as Knoxville, and from that point made excursions into the famous East Tennessee region, where scenes and scenery are quite unlike anything which he had ever before transferred to photographs. Nowhere in all the world are there richer lands, prettier women, braver men, finer landscapes, and bigger prospects than Tennessee affords. It is a region of boundless resources and charming views, and possessing as it does so many advantages, it likewise presents remarkable contrasts and conditions. Where can the scenery about Cumberland Gap be equaled, or the panorama from the summit of Lookout Mountain be matched? But there is relaxation in the quiet views of rural life in East Tennessee which are here reproduced, and the pastime reader as well as the student of geography, will appreciate the restful change.

Tennessee is the neutral ground between North and South, because it does not distinctively belong to either, but its contiguity to both gives to the State some of the characteristics of each. Adopting slavery, it is Southern, but developing a strong pro-Union sentiment in the beginning of the civil war, Tennessee became Northern in her affinities; but the slave-marks of one hundred years have not been effaced even after thirty years of freedom, for in the country and villages there are old slave-cabins, rickety, but still habitable, the homes of white-haired relics of ante-war times, and the new generation that has not been taught to tie up their hair with cotton strings. All over the South it is the same; but in East Tennessee there is something else to bring back old memories, for here the brazen front of war marched through the land, and turned its fair acres of waving grain and fruitful orchards into battle-fields, furrowed with dead and harrowed with destruction. And yet Tennessee was pro-Union, with secession tendencies, because her interests were indissolubly linked with the South. But the wounds have all healed; the impetuous youth who went forth to battle is now a peace-loving grandfather; his daughter was captured by a Yankee, and she has never regretted it, and the railroad runs every day between the two sections with mail-bags full of peace-messages. Why, the war has been over so long that we get mixed in our history, and sometimes we are not quite clear whether it was in 1776 or 1861. In fact, many of the old farm houses along the way look decidedly Revolutionary, and none of the mountains have changed or added another wrinkle to their imperturbable faces.

In some of the towns there is a lazy air that barely stirs the little wind-mills on the marten-boxes, and indolence and shiftlessness have their votaries even here. Up in the mountains there are shadows of hard times, which are projected into the valleys and villages in the form of bull-teams and crotchety “mover-wagons.” The driver has a sang-froid appearance, and as if he was ahead of his expectations, and is willing to wait for tardy time to catch up. His team is glad to encourage the waiting ambition, and lies down in the street to keep him patient company.

To exhibit the diversity of scenes in East Tennessee and the resourceful expedients of the people, photograph was made of another mountaineer’s team, wherein the traction energy of a bull is compared with that of a horse, to the humiliation, no doubt, of the latter. In order to throw a little more animation into the scene, our photographer grouped a party of natives about the team, so that two purposes might be served with one stone, and no mistake might be made as to types of the people and their conveyances.

On a trip to the north boundary of the State several lovely landscape pictures were secured, one of the most exquisite being a view in the vicinity of Galbraith Springs, where the headwaters of Tennessee River pour through Short Mountains, which are the outposts of Cumberland Range, and go careening and pirouetting in many cascades between that point and Knoxville. The scenery hereabout presents the majesty of imperious isolation, the lonely grandeur of undisputed lordliness; and under the shadows which these towering mountains cast, are people that live in a little world of their own, almost forgetful that the earth projects beyond the horizon of their vision. But in this valley of delight the flowers run riot over the hills, the woods and fields are musical with songs of many birds, and there are the sweets of peace and the bloom of plenty beneath these opalescent skies.

From the pleasant vales about Galbraith the route was south to Morristown, and thence southeast along the valley of the French Broad River, through Unaka Pass of the Great Smoky Mountains, to North Carolina. Many writers have exhausted the dictionary of adjectives in describing the romantic beauties of the French Broad, but the stream, and its intervales, bedighted with marvelous cliffs, continues as nature made it, beyond the power of description. The course of this lovely stream cuts through the charming hills about Asheville and pours its crystal waters through a narrow gorge until it passes the blockade of the Smoky Mountains. In this space of forty miles the French Broad is indeed a “racing river,” to which the Cherokees applied the name Tahkecostee, which has that significance, for it is impetuous, torrential, terrific. From a gentle stream above Asheville, by the contraction of its banks below, the river becomes angry, and the roar of cataract as it rushes over opposing bowlders fills the air with noise like thunder. At Stack House the current dashes over a fall twenty feet high, and at Mountain Island it makes another leap and then becomes a noisy rapid to a point known as “Deep Water.” Here the mountains close in upon the river, forcing it through a narrow channel only one hundred and fifty feet wide and forty feet deep. The railroad to reach the opposite bank, crosses the river diagonally by an iron bridge, with a clear span of two hundred and sixty feet, squeezing itself, as it were, around the rocky face of the mountain on the right bank, to be received with the same grudging hospitality by the hard face of the left bank, and twists itself by a very short curve into line, which in a very few minutes brings it into the beautiful, smiling valley of Hot Springs.

No one has ever been able to convey a just idea of the remarkable magnificence of this wonderful cañon, with its wild and ceaseless splendor of tumultuous waters, its overhanging cliffs, its noble mountains and fairy islets. In the time of stage-coaching it was an experience never to be forgotten—the day’s journey from Asheville to the Warm Springs, along the turnpike which followed the old Indian trail and lay between the river and the cliffs, hemmed in by the whirling emerald waters of the first and overhung by the fern-draped escarpments of the last, with vistas of wild and yet wilder beauty opening at every step.

Paint Rock is six miles below Hot Springs, and directly on the line between North Carolina and Tennessee. The rock itself is massive in size and would attract attention, if not admiration, aside from the legends which make it famous. The name Paint Rock is given to perpetuate a tradition that the Cherokee Indians colored portions of it with an indelible paint, and in the form of hieroglyphics which no one has been able to decipher, though the legend represents that it is the tribe’s prayer to the Great Spirit; and being approved, ages will not suffice to efface it. Twenty miles east of Asheville is Round Knob, on the line of the Western North Carolina Railroad and nestled in the very heart of the Blue Ridge Mountains, where the scenery surpasses in wildness and sublimity that of any other section of the State. It is a basin so completely shut in by lofty peaks, that if a person were dropped into it without knowing the point of entrance, he would find difficulty in escaping. A brawling mountain stream rushes by, in whose crystal waters bask the speckled trout to tempt the angler, while near the hotel is to be seen one of the most beautiful spectacles in the world—a magnificent fountain that throws its spray two hundred and eighty-six feet high, then like a bridal veil floats off in misty fragments. It is beautiful by day, but far more beautiful in the moonlight, as it throws its sparkling vapor high in the air, giving to the scene a weird enchantment.

Overhead, apparently weaving in and out like a silver thread, winds the glistening track over which the tourist must pass to gain the summit of the Blue Ridge. So great and difficult is the ascent that at one point four parallel tracks may be seen, one above the other, while at another point, as the train passes over a winding trestle sixty feet high, the tourist might easily drop his hat on the track below over which he had passed a few minutes before, but now going in an entirely opposite direction, having gained nothing on his journey save about ninety feet in elevation. So often does the track turn, twist and double upon itself to gain the summit, that at one place of observation it may be seen at seventeen distinct points. After having gained a distance of over five miles of the ascent, the train is again within one-fourth of a mile of the Knob, now lying far below, but still the center of this grand system of iron loops, by means of which the train is gradually rising to the region of the clouds. From this point to the summit, in the short space of one and a half miles, the train passes through six tunnels and across numerous gorges, whose sides are clothed with the primeval forest where perhaps the foot of man never trod. The most noted of these is “Royal Gorge,” seen from the car window, whose precipitous sides and deep-yawning chasm form a scene of magnificent grandeur, from the top of whose butting cliffs the mountains of South Carolina are visible, two hundred miles distant. As the train rushes forward, suddenly it plunges into Swannanoa Tunnel, which is nearly two thousand feet long, and upon emerging at the western end, along the massive walls, we reach the highest point in that Land of the Sky, where the waters of a spring divide, a part flowing into the Atlantic Ocean and an equal share being contributed to the Gulf of Mexico.

Having crossed the Blue Ridge Mountains and passed through Hickory-Nut Gap to the valley, the road leads into one of the grandest cañons of the Broad River. Here for a distance of nine miles on either side of the river giant mountains rise to a dizzy height, forming massive walls of blue granite, often reaching a height of more than a thousand feet, while not a sprig of vegetation appears on their surface.

A creek large enough to turn a mill plunges over one of these embattlements and falls in a single stream a distance of over thirteen hundred feet, known as Hickory-Nut Falls, said to be the third highest falls in the United States. Passing on down this great gorge, we see Chimney Rock on the right, a circular column four hundred feet high, while on the opposite side is Round Top, with its pyramidal dome resting against the sky.

“High mountains bound this vale on north and south, while directly in front of us, like companion sentinels guarding the western gateway, down which the sun was to march, stands Round Top and Chimney Rock Mountains. Behind Chimney Rock, trending toward the west, arise in close succession a number of mountains with distinct, broken summits—a long palisade fencing the gap in whose depth rushes the Broad River. In the center of the west stands Bear Wallow Mountain, the last visible knob of Hickory-Nut Gap.

“The sun was sinking behind the white cumuli that capped this mountain. Streamers of golden light, like the spokes of a celestial chariot, whose hub was the hidden sun, barred the western sky. The clouds shone with edges of beaten gold. Their centers, with every minute, changed to all hues imaginable. The fronts of the Sentinel Mountains were somber in the shadows, while the gap was radiant with the light pouring through it, and every pine on the top of the palisade stood black against the glowing sky.” The “Old Man’s Face” is another wonderful natural curiosity which divides interest with the finest scenery in this remarkable region, and is on the west side of Bald Mountain, in prominent view, for the rocks are barren and garish from the light of the sun. This singular formation is a faithful representation of a three-quarter view of an old man’s face, with forehead, eyes, nose, mouth and beard in such perfect proportion that one can hardly believe, without close examination, the face is only an accidental result of the elements, in their unceasing work of denudation.

Eighteen miles from Asheville, in the Balsam Range, is Mount Pisgah, 5,757 feet high, from the apex of which a wonderful expanse of mountain scenery is spread out to view; but it is from the Blue Ridge peaks that the sublimest visions are presented, and the most curious forms of nature-sculpturing occur. Passing southwest from Asheville, the Asheville and Spartanburg Road runs through an exceedingly fertile region, and thence into the Cañon of Little River, where for four miles the stream is a succession of surging rapids, noisy cascades, and picturesque waterfalls, until it approaches the base of tremendous cliffs. These are spurs of the Blue Ridge, one of which is famous as presenting a facial profile which has been named “Cæsar’s Head,” but it takes a person of vivid imagination to distinguish the human features, very plain though the guide declares them to be. As the altitude is nearly 6,000 feet, and 2,000 feet above the valley, the prospect of the peak of this Blue Ridge spur is incomparably magnificent.

From this dizzy height the peaks of the Blue Ridge may be observed for scores of miles in each direction; looking northeast you may see the famous King’s Mountain, seventy miles away, while in the opposite direction, in distinct view, is Stone Mountain, near Atlanta, Georgia, over one hundred miles away. Looking to the north, a distance of a little more than one hundred miles, is the Roan Mountain, while to the northeast is seen the black dome of Mount Mitchell, full sixty-five miles distant. In the northwest, about thirty-five miles away, is Pisgah, resembling a great Egyptian pyramid in outline, while directly to the west are the Highlands of Macon county, with Whiteside Mountain glittering like an iceberg in the sunlight. From the top of this wonderful precipice the view is strangely suggestive of a great stretch of ocean. The blue waves of the sea find their counterpart in the waves of these blue mountains, with their corrugations extending far out until the outline is lost in the hazy distance. There is no grander sight than a view from this point at sunrise, when the world below is buried from sight in an ocean of impenetrable fog, and the great billows of fleecy mist rolling like angry waves, while the breaker-like roar of cataracts a thousand feet below, makes the deception complete.

The loftiest peak of the Appalachian system is Mount Mitchell, which is thirty miles from Asheville, and is easiest reached by way of the Swannanoa River. The ascent is by a comparatively easy roadway, but as the altitude of the summit is 6,717 feet, it is not gained without great exertion. Formerly the mountain was called Black Dome, then Clingman’s Mount, but was afterwards christened Mitchell’s Peak, in honor of Professor Elisha Mitchell, of the State University of North Carolina, who was first to measure its exact altitude, and who lost his life by falling over a precipice in making a second ascent to verify his first measurement. The body was found ten days after the fatal accident and conveyed to Asheville, where it was buried. One year subsequently the remains were disinterred and carried to the summit of Mitchell Mountain, and there committed to the grave, over which a beautiful monument now stands, the tribute of a daughter’s loving memory.

The ascent of the mountain lies through superb forests of deciduous trees and along the banks of the rushing Swannanoa, until after a climb of five miles the second base of the mountain is reached—a small grassy plateau, where a residence once stood—now known as the “Half-way House.” From this point the world below unrolls before the gaze like an azure scroll, while above, awful in its nearness and immensity, towers the dark mass of Black Mountain, clothed with a somber forest, into the depths of which the path now plunges, and which it does not leave again until the final summit is reached. Winding in snake-like turns through the close-growing firs, the trail climbs the steep shoulders of the great mountain, passing over what is now known as Clingman Dome (of the Blacks) and then following its ridges for about three miles, until the bare rocky peak, which is the highest point of land east of the Rocky Mountains, is reached, and all hardships of ascent are forgotten in the view that bursts upon the enraptured vision.

If the day is clear, the prospect is almost boundless in extent and of infinite beauty. Range behind range of great mountains lie below, like a Titanic ocean stilled by some mighty hand. From this supreme elevation it is possible to study the structural character of the region, and to count all the great chains that cross the country, while no words can express the varying and exquisite color that, like a glamour of heavenly enchantment, lies over the wide expanse. The whole earth, “and the beauty thereof,” seems to be spread out at one’s feet, and the airs that come to this high mountain crest are full of freshness and balm.

A Southern poet, who climbed the mountain in the spring of 1891, thus describes the inspiring sight which greeted him when the day was dying: “To witness a sunset from this peak is something long to be remembered. Never shall I forget that evening in June, when in company with my guide, we stood by the grave on the summit of Mount Mitchell, and looked down on that scene of resplendent glory that lay before us; far in the west the sun was slowly sinking in a bed of crimson and gold, the horizon was lighted with a flushing radiance which was infinitely sublime, while the whole landscape was aglow with splendor, every tint and hue imaginable seemed to intermingle in that sea of color, and every jutting crag, and dome, and pinnacle of sullen rock flamed as though a thousand rainbows had fallen out of the sky and hung themselves there like glorious banners; we stand enthralled at the scene before us, no sound is heard, no note of bird breaks the awful stillness. We are in the region of that eternal silence which wraps the summit of the ‘everlasting hills.’ A hush of dreamy repose broods over this lofty peak, which still retains the last rays of the setting sun, while over the world below twilight has fallen.

But it is not only from its unsurpassed view that this great mountain is interesting. Its vast sides are clothed with a forest of bewildering beauty, crystal streams gush from its heights, and there is, altogether, a fascination about this wild, unpeopled region that goes far to account for the passion which caused Professor Mitchell to lose his life in wandering through its wilderness.

Having accomplished a circuit of the wonderlands of Western North Carolina, our artist departed from Asheville by way of the Richmond and Danville Railroad, and thence by its northern connections to Roanoke, Virginia, at which point train was taken on the Shenandoah Valley Route for Luray, a town of 1,500 people, but famous by reason of its proximity to the marvelous caverns of that name, the beauty of which is incomparable, and in wonder they rival the great Mammoth Cave. This marvelous subterranean labyrinth is one mile distant from the town, and is entered by an easy passage-way that has a gradual descent by stone steps. The cave was an accidental discovery by Mr. Andrew J. Campbell, in 1878, who, while examining the locality known as Cave Hill, was led, by the hollow sound produced by stamping the earth, to seek for the cavity which he knew must exist at that point. With spade and mattock he sank a hole four feet deep and was rewarded by finding the great cavern which ought rightfully to bear his name.

To Rev. Horace C. Hovey, of New Haven, we are indebted for the best, as it is the most interesting, description that has ever been written of this underground wonderland, prepared as it was after a careful examination of the geology of the cave as well as of its splendors:

“At some period, long subsequent to its original excavation, and after many large stalactites had grown, the cavern was completely filled with glacial mud, whereby the drip-stone was eroded into singularly grotesque shapes. After the mud had been mostly removed by flowing water, these eroded forms remained amid the new growths. To this contrast may be ascribed some of the most striking scenes of the cave. The many, and extraordinary monuments of aqueous energy include massive columns wrenched from their place in the ceiling and prostrate on the floor; the hollow column forty feet high and thirty feet in diameter, standing erect, but pierced by a tubular passage from top to bottom; the leaning column, nearly as large, undermined and tilting like the Campanila of Pisa; the organ, a cluster of stalactites, dropped point downward, and standing thus in the room known as the Cathedral; besides a vast bed of disintegrated carbonates left by the whirling flood in its retreat through the great space called the Elfin Ramble.

“The stalactite display exceeds that of any other cavern known, and there is hardly a square yard on the walls or ceiling that is not thus ornamented. The old material is yellow, brown or red, and its wavy surface often shows layers like the gnarled grain of costly woods. The new stalactites growing from the old, and made of hard carbonates that had already once been used, are usually white as snow, though often pink, blue or amber-colored. The size attained by single specimens is surprising. The Empress Column is a stalagmite thirty-five feet high, rose-colored and elaborately draped. The Double Column is made of two fluted pillars side by side, the one twenty-five, the other sixty feet high, a mass of snowy alabaster. Several stalactites in the Giant’s Hall exceed fifty feet in length. The small pendants are innumerable; in the canopy above the Imperial Spring it is estimated that forty thousand are visible at once.

“The Cascades are wonderful formations, like foaming cataracts caught in mid-air, and transformed into milk-white or amber alabaster, while the Chalcedony Cascade displays a variety of colors. Brand’s Cascade, which is the finest of all, being forty feet high, and almost as wide, is unsullied and wax-like white, each ripple and braided rill appearing to have been polished.