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Edgar Allan Poe: Morning On the Wissahiccon
Up to the EServer | The Complete Works of Edgar Allan
Poe
MORNING ON THE WISSAHICCON
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.
THE END
Edgar Allan Poe: Morning On the Wissahiccon
Up to the EServer | The Complete Works of Edgar Allan
Poe
MORNING ON THE WISSAHICCON
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.
THE END
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