Though the sun was near the meridian, and all the sky above was “darkly, deeply, beautifully blue,” and perfectly clear, yet all the earth beneath was covered by a thick, low-lying fog.
On reaching the highest point of the pass, both travellers drew rein and paused, looking—North, South, East, West—over the ocean of vapor rolling from horizon to horizon below them! And while they so pause, let us catch that nearly vertical ray of the sun that falls upon them, lighting up the group like fire above the fog, and daguerreotype them as they stand.
Both are young men of about the same age, probably twenty-five; both are well mounted upon fine bay horses, and both wear the undress uniform of the ———— Regiment of Cavalry; and here all resemblance between them ceases.
He on the right hand, who holds in his horse’s head with so tight a rein, causing the gallant steed to arch his beautiful neck so gracefully, while he lets fly a falcon-glance around the shrouded horizon, is Archer Clifton, of Clifton, now holding the rank of Captain in the —— Regiment of Cavalry. His form is of middle size, strongly built, yet elegantly proportioned. His complexion is dark and bronzed as by exposure; his features are Roman; his hair and whiskers trimly cut, are of the darkest chestnut, with what painters call cool lights, which is to say, that there is no warmth of coloring even where the sun lights. Indeed, there is no warmth about the looks of the whole man. His eyes are singularly beautiful and brilliant, combining all those dark, shifting, scintillating, prismatic hues, that would drive an artist mad, for want of colors to portray, or an author to despair, for lack of words to describe. He wears the dark blue uniform of his regiment, and manages his noble charger with the ease and grace only to be found in the accomplished cavalry officer.
He upon the left hand, who, with languid air and loosened rein, inclines his body forward, permitting his graceful horse to droop his head and scent the earth, as in quest of herbage, is Francis Fairfax, of Green Plains, a Lieutenant in the company under the command of Captain Clifton. He is of about the same height of Clifton, but his figure is slender almost to fragility. His features are delicate and piquant. His complexion is fair and transparent. His hair is also very fair, and waves off from a forehead so snowy, round and smooth, as to seem child-like, especially with those clear blue eyes, that now brood roguishly under their golden lashes, as in profound quest of mischief, and now light up and sparkle with fun and frolic. He missmanages his spoiled pet of a steed with the charming insouciance, only to be seen in the amateur poet, painter, player, musician, etc., etc., etc. And yet there is sometimes an earnest, thoughtful aspect about the youth, that surprises one into the suspicion that all his levity is superficial, and hides his deeper and better nature, as stubble sometimes covers and conceals a mine of precious metal.
“Well!” at last spoke Mr. Fairfax, “it is now about twelve hours since we were emptied out of that atrocious old stage coach, which, for a week past, has been beating us about in its interior, from side to side, and from seat to ceiling, as if we were a lump of butter in an old woman’s churn, and whose kindest turn of all to us was, when it turned over and shook us out down the precipice, and into the trough of the Wolf’s Lick, as if we had been apples fed to the pigs. Oh! by the lost baronetcy of the house of Fairfax, my self-esteem will never recover the effects of it! Perdition seize the picturesque at this price! And ever since long before daybreak this morning, have we been wandering about over those mountain tops, with the earth below us hidden in mist and only the highest peaks looming through the sea of vapor like islands in the ocean! And we plunging wildly about in the fog, like death on the pale horse riding the waves! And to the momentarily recurring risk of riding over some hidden precipice of a thousand feet perpendicular. If this be your glorious mountain scenery, to the demon with it! For I had as lief be on the open sea with the ‘Ancient Mariner!’”
To this half petulant, half laughing philippic Captain Clifton, while his glance still roved over the shrouded hemisphere, replied, with an indulgent smile—
“You cannot see the face of the country for the morning veil she chooses to wear. But wait till high noon, when the sun, her royal lover, in the meridian of his glory, shall raise that gauzy covering, and she, like a right royal bride, shall smile and blush in light and glory.”
“By my soul, I could fancy the lady earth wore this veil to conceal fast gathering tears, rather than smiles or blushes! Anglicé, I think we shall have rain soon—though blistered be my tongue for saying it!—not about the rain but about the veil! For, look you! Fret as I may at this journey through the mist—yet this fine scenery, under a cloud as it literally is, gives me a feeling of breadth, grandeur! I expand, spread out over the vast area of its shrouded solitudes. Oh! it is only on the boundless sea or on the mountain top, with a hemisphere below me, that I feel as if I had room enough to live in! And you give me a feeling of suffocation by drawing in this awful shrouded world to the simile of a lady’s veiled face! But it is not to be wondered at! No, by the shade of Marc Antony, and all other great men, who held the whole world light in the balance with a woman’s evanescent smile or tear! everything is apropos du femmes with you now. Could the music of the spheres suddenly burst upon your astonished ears, as soon as you had recovered your senses, your highest note of admiration would be to compare that universal diapason of divine harmony to Lady Carolyn’s silver laugh!”
“I do not recollect ever to have heard ‘Lady’ Carolyn laugh.”