If earth ever owned spot so divinely caressed,
Sure that region of eld was the Land of the West!
The memory of that scene attunes my soul to song, awaking any muse from the silence in which she has long slumbered. But the voice of the coy maiden is less melodious than of yore: she shies me for my neglect: and despite the gentlest courting, refusing to breathe her divine spirit over a scene worthy of a sweeter strain. And this scene lay not upon the classic shores of the Hellespont – not in the famed valleys of Alp and Apennine – not by the romantic borders of the Rhine, but upon the banks of Mud Creek in the state of Tennessee! In truth, it was a lovely landscape, or rather a succession of landscapes, through which I rode, after leaving the cabin of my hospitable host. It was the season of “Indian summer” – that singular phenomenon of the occidental clime, when the sun, as if rueing his southern declension, appears to return along the line of the zodiac. He loves better the “Virgin” than “Aquarius;” and lingering to take a fond look on that fair land he has fertilised by his beams, dispels for a time his intruding antagonist, the hoary Boreas. But his last kiss kills: there is too much passion in his parting glance. The forest is fired by its fervour; and many of its fairest forms the rival trod of the north may never clasp in his cold embrace. In suttee-like devotion, they scorn to shun the flame; but, with outstretched arms inviting it; offer themselves as a holocaust to him who, through the long summer-day, has smiled upon their trembling existence.
At this season of the year, too, the virgin forest is often the victim of another despoiler – the hurricane. Sweeping them with spiteful breath, this rude destroyer strikes down the trees like fragile reeds – prostrating at once the noblest and humblest forms. Not one is left standing on the soil: for the clearing of the hurricane is a complete work; and neither stalk, sapling, nor stump may be seen, where it has passed. Even the giants of the forest yield to its strength, as though smitten by the hand of a destroying angel! Uprooted, they lie along the earth side by side – the soil still clinging to the clavicles of their roots, and their leafy tops turned to the lee – in this prostrate alignment slowly to wither and decay! A forest, thus fallen, presents for a time a picture of melancholy aspect. It suggests the idea of some grand battle-field, where the serried hosts, by a terrible discharge of “grape and canister,” have been struck down on the instant: not one being left to look to the bodies of the slain – neither to bury nor remove them. Like the battle-field, too, it becomes the haunt of wolves and other wild beasts; who find among the fallen trunks, if not food, a fastness securing them from the pursuit both of hound and hunter. Here in hollow log the black she-bear gives birth to her loutish cubs, training them to climb over the decaying trunks; here the lynx and red couguar choose their cunning convert; here the racoon rambles over his beaten track; the sly opossum crawls warily along the log, or goes to sleep among the tangle of dry rhizomes; while the gaunt brown wolf may be often heard howling amidst the ruin, or in hoarse bark baying the midnight moon.
In a few years, however, this sombre scene assumes a more cheerful aspect. An under-growth springs up, that soon conceals the skeletons of the dead trees: plants and shrubs appear – often of different genera and species from those that hitherto usurped the soil – and the ruin is no longer apparent. The mournful picture gives place to one of luxuriant sweetness: the more brilliant sheen of the young trees and shrubs, now covering the ground, and contrasting agreeably with the sombre hues of the surrounding forest. No longer reigns that melancholy silence that, for a while, held dominion over the scene. If, at intervals, be heard the wild scream of the couguar, or the distant howling of wolves, these scarcely interrupt the music falling endlessly upon the ear – the red cardinals, the orioles, the warbling fringillidae, and the polyglot thrushes – who meet here, as if by agreement, to make this lovely sylvan spot the scene of their forest concerts.
Shortly after leaving the cabin of this young backwoodsman, my path, hitherto passing under the gloomy shadows of the forest, debouched upon just such a scene. I had been warned of its proximity. My host, at parting, had given me directions as to how I should find my way across the herrikin– through which ran the trace that conducted to the clearing of the squatter, some two miles further down the creek. I was prepared to behold a tract of timber laid prostrate by the storm – the trees all lying in one direction, and exhibiting the usual scathed and dreary aspect. Instead of this, on emerging from the dark forest, I was agreeably surprised by a glorious landscape that burst upon my view.
It was, as already stated, that season of the year when the American woods array themselves in their most attractive robes – when the very leaves appear as if they were flowers, so varied and brilliant are their hues – when the foliage of the young beeches becomes a pale yellow, and glimmers translucent against the sun – when the maples are dying off of a deep red, and the sumac and sassafras turning respectively crimson and scarlet – when the large drupes of the Osage orange, the purple clusters of the fox-grape, and the golden berries of the persimmon or Virginian lotus, hang temptingly from the tree: just at that season when the benignant earth has perfected, and is about to yield up, her annual bounty; and all nature is gratefully rejoicing at the gift. No wonder I was agreeably impressed by the gorgeous landscape – no wonder I reigned up, and permitted my eyes to dwell upon it; while my heart responded to the glad chorus, that, from bird and bee, was rising up to heaven around me! I, too felt joyous under the reflection that, amid such lovely scenes, I had chosen my future home.
Chapter Eighteen
A Backwoods Venus
After indulging for some time in a sort of dreamy contemplation I once more gave the bridle to my horse, and rode onward. I was prepared for a tortuous path: my host had forewarned me of this. The herrikin, he said, was only three hundred yards in breadth; but I should have to ride nearly twice that distance in crossing it. His statement proved literally true. The old trace, passing down the creek bottom, had run at right angles to the direction of the storm; and, of course, the trees had fallen perpendicularly across the path – where they still lay, thick as hurdles set for a donkey-race. Some of them could be stepped over by a horse, and a few might be “jumped,” but there were others that rose breast high; and a flying-leap over a five-barred gate would have been an easy exploit, compared with clearing one of these monstrous barriers. I might add, also, from experience, that leaping a log is a feat of considerable danger. There is no room for “topping;” and should the iron hoof strike, there is nothing that will yield. On the other side, the rider has the pleasant prospect of a broken neck – either for himself or his horse. Not being in any particular hurry, I took the matter quietly; and wound my way through a labyrinth worthy of being the maze of Fair Rosamond.
I could not help remarking the singular effect which the herrikin had produced. To the right and left, as far as my view could range, extended an opening, like some vast avenue that had been cleared for the passage of giants, and by giants made! On each side appeared the unbroken forest – the trunks standing like columns, with shadowy aisles between: their outward or edge-row trending in a straight line, as if so planted. These showed not a sign that the fierce tornado had passed so near them; though others, whose limbs almost interlocked with theirs, had been mowed down without mercy by the ruthless storm.
I had arrived within fifty yards of the opposite side, and the dark forest was again before my face; but even at that short distance, the eye vainly endeavoured to pierce its sombre depths. I was congratulating myself, that I had passed the numerous logs that lay across the path, when yet one more appeared between me and the standing trees. It had been one of the tallest victims of the tornado; and now lay transversely to the line of the track, which cut it about midway. On nearing this obstacle, I saw that the trace forked into two – one going around the tops of the decaying branches, while the other took the direction of the roots; which, with the soil still adhering to them, formed a rounded buttress-like wall of full ten feet in diameter. The trunk itself was not over five – that being about the thickness of the tree. It was a matter of choice which of the two paths should be followed: since both appeared to come together again on the opposite side of the tree; but I had made up my mind to take neither. One of my motives, in seeking this forest-home, had been a desire to indulge in the exciting exercise of the chase; and the sooner I should bring my horse into practice, the sooner I might take the field with