by Edgar Allan Poe
(1850)
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 word 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 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 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 the bypaths. Indeed, in America
generally, the traveller who would behold the finest
landscapes, must seek them not by the railroad, nor by the
steamboat, not by the stage-coach, nor in his private carriage,
not 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 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 neighborhood 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 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 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 gentle 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 picnics 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 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 outstretched, 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 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, 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.