University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER XI.

THE BLACKWATER VILLA.

Our Blackwater villa is placed in the most picturesque
position imaginable—almost immediately
upon the banks of the most lovely of all amber
streams. It is protected on one side by masses of
gray sandstone rock, dashed with spots of a darker
and lighter hue of gray, and occasionally a tinge of
red—these rocks coated over in places with moss
of various mingled colors—gray, blue, green, yellow,
and purple, and soft and glossy as the richest
velvet. A noble overshadowing fir-tree rises up
from one corner of the villa, some hundred and
fifty feet, to the skies. The laurel grows thick and
matted back of it, in impenetrable masses; and the
glory of its flower, now just swelling into bloom,
gives an air of elegance—even of splendor, to the
embowered dwelling. In front, the pure cool stream
leaps over the falls like a river of calf's-foot jelly
with a spray of whipped syllabub on top of it, and
tumbles wildly down through its rocky and obstructed
bed, filling your imagination with the

poetry of unpolluted mountain waters—running
pure to your ideal, as the kingdom of heaven.

The valley of the Blackwater is not more than a
hundred yards wide, here where we have made our
home; and embowered on all sides, by mountains
of noble forms and various, it wears an air of entire
seclusion from the world we have deserted. No
intruding footsteps of man, we instinctively feel,
will here disturb our chosen, perfect solitude. All
customs, manners, modes of life, that we have heretofore
known, are felt to be the remembrance of an
almost forgotten dream. The earth is entirely new
to our senses; and it is all our own—an entire and
absolutely perfect fee-simple estate of inheritance
in land and water, the deed recorded in the most
secret recesses of our own breasts. Therefore we
feel an unbounded liberty of thought, speech, and
action, and this is manifest in all we say and do;
and hence the reader will easily understand how
it is, that there is such entire freedom of remark
among us, one to another; how it is that we lay
about on the hemlock, now that night has set in
upon us, in such careless luxuriance of attitude;
how that the Prior is now stretched out with his feet
to the fire, and one of the hunters squatted down
confidingly between them; how the Signor goes on
all fours over our bodies, in getting to a snug place
in a corner of the camp, whither his fancy now
urges him; how that Mr. Butcut is flat upon his

back in the middle of the softest hemlock, his face
direct to the heavens, and his body spread out as
usual in his favorite position of a supple-jack distorted
to the utmost; how Triptolemus's lame leg is
thrown over one of old Conway's shoulders, with a
view to the convenient drying of a wet stocking
before the fire; how it is that Adolphus, with a
blanket sweeping his shoulders, half sits, half reclines
in among the roots of the great fir-tree,
wishing he could smoke a mild Havana like the
rest of us—but compensating his soul for his inability,
by indulging in visions of trout swimming
about in all beautiful imaginary waters—the daydream
haunting the lights and shadows of his face,
like an angel of Paradise.

Lying about thus in all unrestrained felicity, we
told stories, and discoursed much learning of the
fisherman and the hunter, ancient and modern;
every now and then interweaving some very entertaining
and free—sometimes very slashing comment
upon one another; all of which we regret it
is out of the question for us to impart to the reader,
because of its too great freedom, even for this outspoken
age. Herein, therefore, that we may not
fall below the dignity of history—having pitched
our chronicle up to the very highest standard—we
must exercise a becoming self-denial, hard as it is
to refrain.

The moon has now risen, and although a few

light fleecy clouds are gathering about here and
there above us, yet the goddess of the night shines
down as silvery soft upon the Canaan, as she did
of old upon the garden of Verona, where Lorenzo
and Jessica vied with each other in chanting her
worship in such beautiful strains. And, oh! most
beautiful reader—now absorbing this inspired
chapter, like Geraldine, when in her night-robes
loose, she lay reclined on couch of Ind, and poured
over Surrey's raptured line—how soothingly soft
its influence upon us here in the wild, you—you
can never altogether know—not even from this
rapt page!—how all at once, as if at another Prospero's
wand, our mood was changed from that of
wanton, reckless mirth, and a gentle dreamy inspiration,
all poetry and romance (all the finer for
our satisfaction in the regard of the trout—heavenly
fish!)—came with the balmy south wind, and
took possession of our souls! You—even you,
blissful girl, upon whom the favoring gods have
bestowed the gift of genius, as well as of beauty—
you, with your "finely-fibred frame," like Georgiana's,
duchess of Devonshire, whom Coleridge
has so finely commemorated in his beautiful lines
addressed to that lady—even you can not ever
know this, unless, perchance, you would go with
me, and live a sylvan huntress by my side in the
Canaan, as did Ruth with her roving lover in the
wilds of Georgia! But God temper the wind to you,
shorn lamb, if you should ever trust yourself to my
freebooter's faith!—unless, indeed, a latent Helen
MacGreggor might be contained in your inches!

The moon and the soft south wind held us now
completely enthralled in their divine ravishment;
and in this mood we grew musical—the Signor
Andante at length tuning his voice to the beautiful
serenade of Henry Neele: perhaps the most exquisite
song that has yet been composed by any of
our countrymen. It was thus Andante's voice,
murmured a music sweeter than the Blackwater in
our ears:—

The last notes of the serenade died away upon the
air; and not a sound disturbed the repose of the
wilderness, save the murmur of the waters, and the
whisperings of the trees. Each one of us, according
to his gifts, was enjoying a little world of romance
of his own—his soul lapped up in the creations of
his gently-inspired brain—thinking not at all of
the external world, but only of the ideal, conjured
up by his teeming, beguiling fancy; when all at
once a sudden blow sprung up fitfully out of the
stillness of the air, and threw the whole forest in
commotion. The fire at our feet shot up a startling
blaze, in among the branches of the piled-up fir
and hemlock hitherto untouched, and the crackling
flames, with their myriad spangles, rose high aloft
in spiral curls, almost up to the overhanging branches
of the forest. Startled out of all the glory of

our visioned romance, we arose and looked out upon
the night. Clouds were gathering like mustering
bands everywhere in the heavens, and fast concentrating
their forces. The stars disappeared by
squadrons from the just now blue and shining vault
of heaven; and the fair goddess of the night, queen
of the glittering realm—pale Dian, veiled her mild
glories altogether from our eyes. The southwest—
harbinger of summer storms, is a swift and impetuous
power in the air, and wonderfully does he bestir
himself sometimes. So it was with him to-night;
for he sprang up suddenly upon us, without any
warning, and vented himself, for some cause or
other to us unknown, in outbursts of gusty bluster
and passion, that made us think of a whole deluge
of waters descending upon our devoted camp,
drowning out our fires and drenching our very
beds. But for the present there was more of bravado
than performance in his high mightiness; and
the storm blast blew by. Still darkness was everywhere
over the face of the earth, and the forest
sent forth a low wail, and the waters murmured a
sullen and monotonous song—falling upon the ear
more like a heavy sea breaking lazily upon a flat
shore, than the light, airy, wild, sportive, notes of
the playful, impetuous, young streams of the mountains.

Each man now wrapped himself around more
closely in his blanket. No word was spoken, but

filled with the gloom of the night, we thought wistfully
of our pleasant homes—dry and snug, and of
household security and comfort—books, lights,
music, fruits, flowers, jocund children—that is
those who had them—the sly flirtation by the light
of the chandelier—

—all that makes civilization tolerable; and we out
here, in the wilds of the Canaan, far away from the
knowledge of men—to say nothing of women—
perhaps lost—and to all reasonable certainty a night
of wind and rain before us—bears, panthers, wolves,
owls, around us, and may be not so far off as we
might desire! The melancholy soughing of the
pines, too, above all the voices of the Canaan, had
entered into our hearts, and awakened our superstition,
and no diversion of thought could dispossess
our souls of its influence. The Master, indeed,
seemed rather to encourage it; for presently from
out a dark corner, where half in the glimmer of the
fire and half in the gloom of the hemlock he lay
propped away in a very Ossianly state of mind, in
a low, wild voice, all in harmony with the soughing
sound of the firs and the sullen murmur of the
waters, he broke in upon the gloom of the camp,
crooning the beautiful ballad of Rossmore. It was
thus the mournful descant fell upon our ears—now

low as the lowest moan of the pines—now rising,
now swelling, as the winds blew a louder wail:—

"Hush your horrible croaking!" said Adolphus,
when the Master's voice had come to a stand-still.
"Shut up, or I'll leave the room! Isn't it all miserable
enough already, but you must be keeping us
from going to sleep with ballads about dying men,
and such unearthly things?"

"Let's put him out!" exclaimed Peter.

"Turn him out into the wilderness, and let him
run with Ishmael and the other beasts!"

"Pitch him into the Blackwater!"

"And if there are any big falls below, let him go
down them!"

"Kill him!—curse him—kill him!"

"I have heard about such things, Mr. Philips,"
said Powell—"like that about Rossmore. Do you
believe in them?"

"Oh, certainly, Powell."

"I once saw a spirit," said old Conway.

"With a long tail on him?" asked Peter.

"Well, I can't say but it had," continued the old
man with eagerness. "Once—it was on a dark,
black—the blackest sort of a night—about the end
of one November—I was a-walking alone in the
woods—and I came close upon a—"

"Don't tell it—it was nothing but a bear or a
wolf!" exclaimed Butcut. "I wish I was at home.
What a fool I was for coming here!"—and Peter
tried again to sleep.

The sobbing and sighing wind still kept up its sad
lament throughout the vale; and Andante to its accompaniment
again tuned his voice, and half-spoke,
half-sung the following strange old Scotch ballad:—

"This thing is getting intolerable!" exclaimed
Galen.

"It must be put an end to!" said But.

"Perhaps," observed Guy, "you might prefer to
hear the ballad of `Harold the Grim.' That's a ballad,
now, for such a night as this! I think I could
pitch it to the `Infernal Waltz' in `Robert the
Devil.' Touch us the strain, Signor."

Here the Signor let himself loose upon the waltz,
and went on into the opera in general, joined at
length by Mr. Butcut and our whole orchestra—
Powell and Conway smoking their pipes all the
while in utter amazement at the effect produced.
This led to the performance of divers other pieces
from the other operas, in executing which, "Harold
the Grim," and the wail of the forest, and the sad
murmur of the Blackwater, were all forgotten for
the time.

This spirited defiance of our condition did not
last. It was but a temporary rising up; and, tired
out, we laid ourselves down upon the hemlock, and
again gave way to the Ossianly influences of the
forest. The owls by this time began to hoot about
in alternate question and answer. "Whoo-whoo-whoo-whoo
are you?" said one, and another answered
with a hollow, short laugh—"Whoo-oooo-oo!—Whoo-oo-oo-oo!"
Certain now that the
owls were beginning to come about us—attracted,
no doubt, by the cooking of the camp—we expected,
the next thing, to hear of the approach of the bears
and panthers in our neighborhood. The smell of
the bacon and grease of our kitchen would undoubtedly

bring these gentlemen around us sometime in
the night; it might be, indeed, that our own meat
would draw them: and in the event of its turning
out a night of rain, why then our fire might be
drenched out, and there would be nothing to keep
the animals from coming in upon us.

In the meantime, however, these thoughts naturally
arising in the mind, Triptolemus lifted up his
voice, and of his own accord—in a somewhat discordant
tone, in keeping with the rude character of
the rhythm—chanted the ditty of

This delightful ballad of "Bangum and the Boar"
Trip sang all to himself, for by this time we were
about getting to sleep. Whether this version is a
correct one, Heaven only knows! But we give it
here as Trip sang it, and the probability therefore
is that it is a good deal mixed up. Be this as it
may, it is a very remarkable lyric, and worthy of
being preserved in this chronicle as a specimen of
our earlier and ruder song.

About this time some drops of rain fell down
heavily upon the leaves of the forest—premonitory
of what was in store for us; and in five minutes
more, we, our camp, and everything around, were
drenched. As it seemed to be a rather settled,
steady pouring down of the clouds, without any
wind or noise of any sort about it—and as there
was no help for it, the hunters secured the fire as
well as they could (covering it over partially with
some pieces of hemlock-bark); when, rooting ourselves
about among each other like a litter of pigs
in a barnyard, we soon fell asleep, in defiance of
the pitiless elements.