University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER VII.

THE DALE ON THE POTOMAC—AND A SOMEWHAT PARTICULAR
DESCRIPTION OF THE ARRAY.

It was somewhere about four o'clock next morning
when we began to give out in sleeping; and so,
lightly and airily, with gentle breathings, whisperingly,
we now soon finished off the last delicate
touches and roundings of our dreams about bears,
and panthers, and rattlesnakes, and lost babes in
the woods (meaning thereby ourselves), &c., &c.,
just as the early cock uplifted his clear clarion,
and roused his dame Pertelotte and all the attendant
damsels of the roost from their slumbers.

How finely our old first poet—he who

—famous Chaucer—head of the English poet peerage—has
pictured the gallant chanticleer:—

And how, with the soul of eloquence and poetry
he makes him discourse—hear again:—

And again; what a lordly cozener is our chanticleer—what
handsome flattery of his dame—and
with what pleasant humor he trifles with the sex.

And then how like a prince—royal in his port,
and gallant is he—very much after the model of
Henry IV. of France, when in the midst of his
dames.

The reader is now aware, that some time since,
the early cock had proclaimed the morning. In
the beautiful verse of Chatterton—

It is now broad day, and the ruddy streaks are
beginning to glimmer in the east. Up rise we, then,
one and all, and shout aloud, "For the Blackwater!"
The doors and windows are thrown wide open, and
the mountain atmosphere—three thousand feet here
above the sea—is all about us; and if you have
never tried it, O unblessed lowlander! you can have
no idea of its extremely animating powers: there
are few things more stirring to both body and soul.
It compels to many extravagances of both speech
and action. Especially it makes you sing, whether
you can or not: and so it was that, chanting songs
of the morning, we made our orisons to the god of day,
Phœbus Apollo, now emerging in all-unutterable
glory through the golden portals of the east:—

"Thou splendid luminary! honored, in some form
or other, by all the nations of old; proclaimed prince
of the lights of heaven throughout all the realms of
Christendom; worshipped by the barbarian, wonder
of the savage; saluted in thy rising with the clash
of cymbals and gongs, and the flourish of trumpets
and horns, the roll of drums, and the roar of morning

guns; man everywhere doing thee homage—
in the old East, prostrate with slavish adoration;
here in the new West, standing erect (as I do now),
and with dilated chest, pouring out his soul in
hymns of praise, as befits his free-born nature!—
Great God-send of all mankind! particularly of all
poets and orators; filling the world with the grandest
of the grandeurs of simile, and trope, and metaphor;
also at the same time usefully beneficent in
imparting both light and heat, without which this
earth would be about as dark and cold as a rat-hole,
and almost as fit to live in—really the dim spot
that a disconsolate philosophy would make it out
to be!—Beneficent and beautiful mystery! such as
thou art here in thy rising over these broken and
piled-up Alleganies; lighting up the grand countenance
of Nature around, as with the smile and the
glory of a god! no wonder that all languages and
tongues, even from the Chaldee down to our modernest
Brother-Jonathan dialects, should be exhausted
in the utterance of such a worship."—("Goodmorning,
Mr. Towers. You seem to be in considerable
astonishment. Take a seat. The expedition,
through Mr. Butcut, is addressing the great luminary,
whose gorgeous rising we take to be a happy
omen for our enterprise.")—"Fountain of light and
life!—hailed by the choir of birds; encircled by
clouds of gold; fair as a bride and fiery as a bridegroom!
thee to resemble—thee!—that was the
very boy's first wish and proud desire, through every
vicissitude of fortune, amid the glitter of prosperity,
above the tempests of mischance, to maintain an
undecaying splendor!"

After this address to the rising Splendor—part
of which was made once before by Alcibiades when
a banished man in Thrace at the court of King
Seuthes—where, it will be remembered by the
learned reader, he outdrank the whole barbarian
court—the king, queen, princes, courtiers, warriors,
ladies-in-waiting, and all—thus fulfilling his matchless
destiny—peerless in everything, even in these
wild Thracian orgies—after this address to the great
luminary, we speedily arrayed ourselves, and forthwith
appeared below-stairs, as respectable and picturesque
a set of outlaws in appearance as ever
robbed a rich grandee of his gold, plundered monastery
or cathedral of old of its molten gold and silver,
or bore away shrieking maiden to the hidden
fastness in the forest.

It was in this order that we began our march:
Three of us were on horseback, with wallets hung
across our saddles, containing the provant for the
expedition—which provision consisted of six large
loaves of bread; some pounds of ground coffee;
sugar; about ten pounds of middling of bacon, to
fry our trout with; a boiled ham; salt, pepper—
and that's about all. Cigars and tobacco to smoke,
each adventurer carried about his own person, together

with a flask of spirits to cure himself in case
he was bitten by a rattlesnake, or peradventure to
prepare his system beforehand against any deleterious
effects from the bite—a somewhat unnecessary
precaution, indeed, since we were all pretty well
convinced there were no snakes in the Canaan.

Three of us were afoot—two of our original party
and Powell, one of the hunters—he equipped, among
other things, with his rifle; Conway, the other hunter,
we were to pick up on the way.

We were to ride and walk alternately—ride and
tie—until we reached the end of the settlements,
which was as far as we could take the horses.

Pursuing the Northwestern road some three miles,
we reached the top of the Backbone ridge. Here,
turning at right-angles to the left, we followed a
mountain-road along the top of the ridge for some
miles, which at length took its course along the
eastern side of the mountain, gradually growing into
a mere single horse-track, until we reached Conway's
house, the last settlement in this direction.
Here we picked up Conway, with his rifle and frying-pan;
and after a walk of some six miles or more
through a most noble forest of sugar-trees, the beech,
maple, wild-cherry, balsam-firs, and hemlocks, and
over tracts of land wonderfully fertile, judging by
the great size of the trees, and the growth of the
wild timothy upon one or two slight clearings we
passed through, we at length descended into a beautiful

little glade—more properly a dale in the mountains—some
three hundred yards wide and two or
three miles long, where we were to turn out our
horses to pasture until our return.

This dale is girt round upon its edges by a broad
belt of the Rhododendron—commonly called the
big laurel out here—which makes the dale a safe
enclosure for keeping our horses; for it is impossible
that a horse can make his way through it, so
thick and lapped together everywhere are its branches.
We had to enter it by a path cut out for the
purpose. When within, we barricaded the entrance
by piling up some young trees and brushwood
(which was equivalent to putting up the bars in a

fenced field), and rode on down the middle of the
wild meadow, through green grass, knee-high, and
waving gently in the summer wind, until we reached
a small stream, whose banks were overgrown with
osiers and other delicate shrubs. This was the infant
Potomac, destined before it reached the sea to expand
into that mighty river on whose broad bosom whole
navies may ride in safety or "flame in battle;" and
also famous all over Christendom for that it holds
fast-founded by its shores the capital of the star-emblazoned
republic. Here we halted and dismounted—took
off saddles and bridles—turned
our horses loose—and prepared ourselves to enter
the untrodden wild that rose up before us, dark
with the glimmer and the gloom of the immemorial
woods!

Before the expedition moves, it is necessary that
we should enter into a few particulars descriptive
of the adventurers in the new aspect in which we
are about to present them to the reader.

Behold, then, at about one o'clock in the day,
the knights-errant of the Blackwater, in the middle
of this little grassy dale of the Potomac. Let us
point them out to the reader by name, and in a general
way by character.

First, there stands before you a slight, elastic,
and somewhat gaunt gentleman, with a dark, concentrated
eye, sunk deep beneath a marked and
rugged brow. The expression of his face at present

is particularly indicative of that sort of energy
and determination of character, which is very apt
to make its possessor what is vulgarly called
head-devil in all matters of feud, foray, or whatever
enterprises that might be classed under the
designation of marauding—all dare-devil achievements.
The imagination of the wilderness before
him, has called into play these latent qualities of
his nature. This gentleman wears a beard, after
the fashion of the middle ages, that has held undisturbed
possession of his lower face for now some
fifteen years; with all his present surroundings, it
gives him the look of a brigand as in a picture;
meet him in the streets of a capital, and it would
impress you with the idea that he was a practitioner
of astrology, or some other occult matter—may
be some Italian philanthropist, or revolutionary
conspirator—the friend of liberty all over the
world, wherever liberty had a market: his disdain
of a feather and all melo-dramatic show of appearance,
precludes any idea of the Hungarian, as recently
impressed upon our minds. He wears a
green cloth cap, with a straight, projecting square
visor to it, like the European military caps. An
old black coat, with gray pantaloons, and a pair of
rough boots with large red tops—these drawn on
outside complete his dress. He has no small wallet
strapped to his back—a blanket and a great
coat rolled up constitute it. Around his neck is
suspended an artist's sketch-book. In his right
hand is a frying-pan. This is our artist, the Signor
Andante Strozzi. Of course, he is of the illustrious
Florentine family of that name, some one of his
ancestors having escaped from the feuds and broils
of Italy, some centuries ago, and taken refuge on
these shores. The name has changed so much in
the course of time, and one thing and another, here
with us, that you would hardly recognise it, as it is
spelt and pronounced now in these days of democratic
disdain of all things appertaining to a man's
name and lineage. We, however, his more learned
friends, and not too extreme in our democracy,
choose to call him, according to the old Italian spelling
and sound—Strozzi. There is a Dutch family
in Pennsylvania, the Strodes, who are disposed to
trace their origin in the same way from the Strozzi;
but this they have no right to do. The Strodes are
Teutonic in their descent; they are the old Saxon
—the undoubted High Dutch: Stride was the name
originally. The Strides, Striders, Strodes, and all
these, are of German extraction, and in fact the
same people originally. Our friend is the true
Strozzi, however; and he shows his Italian origin
by the peculiar beard he wears, his love of and genius
for the arts (particularly those of painting and
music), and some slight brigandish characteristics
that belong to him, which last make him a somewhat
dangerous antagonist for man or beast to dally
with, and therefore one in every way the very person
for an expedition into the Canaan—a man who
would laugh a bear in the face, and take particular
pleasure in pitching into a panther; one who would
be about as careless of consequences in any encounter
as either of these two last-named gentlemen!
So much for the Signor Andante Strozzi.

That stout, thick-set, well-knit gentleman, whose
manner is somewhat eager, with face in a glow,
eye red, and mouth open—look at him! He is
laboring at present under an undue quantity of excitement.
The idea of the wilderness has electrified
his system into intense sensation. His ideas are
exaggerated out of all bounds. He has just finished
strapping on his shoulders an immense wallet, big
enough for a mule to carry. But he looks stout,
and broad, and strong—is well made—and you
think it is all right, and that he has generously
loaded himself according to his greater power.
Well, he'll be tested presently. This is the gentleman
who had the pleasant conversation with Towers
yesterday, on the porch, about the rattlesnakes.
He wears an old brown sack-coat. His boots are
drawn on outside his pantaloons, and they are very
big, and stout, and rough, and reach up to his
knees: he bought them as a special defence against
the rattlesnake. On his head he has a broad-brimmed,
black, slouch hat. On his shoulders he
has the aforesaid large roll. In his right hand he

has a stick of laurel, with portions of the root attached,
and which is as tall as himself. Tied to his
waist behind is a bit of sheepskin with the wool on
it, that he may have something soft to sit down
upon when he rests himself in the wilderness. You
perceive he goes in for the conveniences of life. On
the whole survey of this gentleman, you would say
that he was the make and look of a man to lift or
carry a heavy weight, or to pull up a sapling by its
roots—to hit a hard blow; good at knocking down
and dragging out; but not the best show of a man
for a hard walk, or climbing mountains, or getting
well through a half-mile brake of the rhododendron.
This is Mr. Butcut.

That thin, sinewy, hard, tough-looking gentleman,
resting himself upon his sound leg, which is his left,
and a-tiptoe on his right, which is his broken one,
shortened and stiffened at the knee, is Mr. Triptolemus
Todd—our Murad the Unlucky. In consideration
of his lameness, it has been decreed that he
shall carry no burden; yet of his own accord he
has mounted Powell's rifle, the muzzle of which he
has pointed right in among us; but, as he is undoubtedly
the most heedless man in the United
States, we have taken care that there shall be no
priming in the pan. This remarkable gentleman's
mind has been, somehow or other, impressed with
an extraordinary idea of the wonderful and amazing
in regard to the Fairfax stone, and he is now looking

away off up the dale, as far as possible, to see
if he can't discover it. He has a confused idea in
his mind that this Fairfax stone is the biggest thing
of its sort in the state of Virginia; but he has no
definite idea about it: it may be like the rock of
Gibraltar, or the rock of ages; it may be a basaltic
pillar, like Lot's wife, or it may be a great, huge
tablet, upon which some boundary hieroglyphics
have been carved. Of course, therefore, he has no
very definite idea of the sort of thing he's looking
for. Just at this moment something vague looms
up before his intent gaze into the distance, and his
face is all ablaze with excitement as he exclaims,
stretching his long, sinewy arm far before him, with
his fingers spread out, and all pointing different
ways—"Fellows, yonder's Fairfax's stone!" Murad
is a light, wiry man, of some five feet ten
inches in stature; and, without going into particulars,
we will only say of him that he has a look of
exposure about him, as if the heavens—cold and
hot—the suns of August and the snows of December—had
been contending for him for many years,
with such equal success, that neither of them had
been able to take him entirely. His dress is a very
indifferent one. It is torn in several places already;
and the fear is that before we get back he will have
none of it, and that we shall have to paint him, or
rather stain him with the juice of berries, to preserve
him from absolute exposure—fix him up like
Prince Vortigern—

To tell the whole truth in regard to Murad, there
never was a man that went upon an expedition of
any sort with so little preparation and under such
unlucky circumstances. He had but one suit of
woollen clothes with him, all the rest being light
summer linens, of no use here. His pocket-book,
with some bank-notes in it, he left behind upon his
table, and had only a small purse with some six or
seven dollars of silver in it. He had a note in bank
for a thousand dollars, due three days after he left
home, and for which he had made no provision;
and, in the hurry of shaving himself to get off in
time, he had cut a great gash in his cheek, which
gave him a look as of a sabre-cut received years
ago at some such battle as Borodino or Waterloo,
or on Pompey's side at Pharsalia, where Cæsar's
veterans aimed at the face.—But enough of Mr.
Todd: the reader will now be able to picture him
sufficiently well for the purposes of this narrative.

The next gentleman that we shall introduce is
Doctor Adolphus Blandy. You see him there over
on the other side of this little rivulet, the Potomac,
in the act of taking an affectionate leave of that
powerful dapple-gray with the bobbed tail. He

has just imprinted a kiss upon the soft muzzle of
the gray. His gentle heart is touched that Rinaldo
has to be committed to the rude mercy of the wild
beasts of Canaan for so many days; and with a tear
of repentance that he brought him here, and a sigh
of regret that he has to leave him, has made his
farewells—half in fear he shall never see Rinaldo
again this side of horse-heaven. The doctor is a
very dainty gentleman, and given much to personal
elegance of life. He is equipped at all points. His
large boots come fully up to the knee, and they are
soft and pliable, made of the best French leather.
His doublet-coat is substantial, with many convenient
pockets, and fits him comfortably. He has a
quarter-dollar rough straw-hat, tied round with a
red riband in a good bow-knot. As he is nearsighted,
he wears a pair of gold spectacles. Blandy
is a large, fine-looking man, and he is of an easy
and gracious presence. There is a sort of disdain
about him of the big wallet that he has strapped to
his shoulders; he seems to feel that it should be
borne by a menial. He has evidently been trained
to a life of luxurious ease—like Dives, has been
clothed in purple and fine linen, and fed daily upon
dainties. Ennuied with indulgence, he has come
into the wilderness, to purchase, at the expense of
its hardships, a new zest to his existence—a zest
which the fortune of his condition can not otherwise
afford him.—But enough of Blandy. Let us
picture to you another gentleman,—remarkable
among the sons of men—also among their daughters.

There, off at the edge of the vale, at the foot of a
branching tree, stands one who is no bad idea of the
famous knight of La Mancha, if you would only
suppose the immortal Don to have been not quite
so raw-boned as history has recorded him. This
gentleman is somewhat tall, and of a loose and
dangling aspect, in keeping with the somewhat careless
ease of his character. To look at him now, as
he stands, you would suppose him in the act of propitiating
the god of the wilderness with votive offerings;
for he has just finished hanging up on the
lowermost branches of that beautiful and fairest
tree all the saddles and bridles, and other horseequipments,
rowelled spurs and whips, &c.; and
with his large and lustrous eye ("heaven-eyed creature,"
as Wordsworth calls Coleridge) resting in
pleasure upon the picturesque grouping he has effected
of them, you easily imagine him some deep
enthusiast of the forest, hanging his votive offerings
upon the wilderness-god's shrine. Lingering he
stops, absorbed in what he has done; then turns
slowly away, and having reached the party in the
middle of the dale, he exclaims earnestly, "Well,
gentlemen, I don't think the wild beasts can eat up
our saddles and bridles, spurs and whips, any how
—no matter what they may accomplish upon our

horses!" This gentleman is Mr. Guy Philips—the
County Guy—the Prior—but more properly the
Master of St. Philips, for St. Philips is the name of
his hold, where he keeps the world at bay. He is
somewhat tall and delicate of form, of a high visage
and a lofty carriage—and, as we have said, taking
away the idea of the gaunt appearance of Don Quixotte,
is not very unlike that immortal champion of
the right and redresser of the wrong. The Master
is a man of middle life, and has seen something of
both man and woman in his time, both high and
low. In many a gay and glittering scene of revelry
has he wasted the golden days of his exuberant
youth—his heart swelling to the sounding minstrelsey,
and his soul entranced by love and beauty.
And also, like the good Lord Clifford, he has been

and there learned a wiser lore than life could otherwise
teach him. The Master has long since learned
much sound knowledge in his time—that pleasure
is of the things that perish in the using—that woman's
looks teach but folly—that there is a great
deal of good sense in the Proverbs of Solomon, and
wisdom in the Ecclesiastes, &c., &c.; in fact, he
has begun to know that Solomon was a very wise
man: and, arriving at this distant glimpse of truth,
he has taken to the woods and rills, and has learned
how to be reasonably happy. But what would she,

the beautiful Mary Dale, think of him could she
see him now—he who erewhile basked in the sunshine
of

could she see him now, his whole countenance shedding
rays of joy in every direction, like a golden
aureola on an angel's brow, as he puts his hand to
his mouth and sounds a loud and prolonged bugle-call
from out the midst of this lovely dale, while all
the mountains round cry out responsive with their
thousand voices! "Alas, poor Guy!" she would
say, "I little thought when surrounded by mirrors
that multiplied our image, in rooms gorgeously festooned
with hangings of burnished gold and silver,
and reclining on couches softer than the bed of roses
the emperor Verus dreamed himself away on—I
little thought that you, then stealthily playing with
the tangles of my hair, and openly fettered by
my eye, would ever come to such wild destiny as
this!"

The reader may now picture to himself our two
guides, the hunters Powell and Conway, and he has
the party complete—Powell a thin, sinewy, and
yet muscular man, with long, straight locks falling
down from his head like strands of rope; with a pillow-case
thrown over his shoulders, in which was
our provision: and Conway a short, wiry, stringy,
thick-set little structure of whipcord, equipped in

like manner as Powell—each with his rifle and
pouch.

But we are dallying too long here in the dale—
we must up and away! Let us begin the march,
however, in another chapter.