Passing through Woodstock, the county seat of Shenandoah county, and its sister towns Edinburg and Mount Jackson, we were impressed by the fine landscape about us. Vast stretches of golden grain extended far up the ridges, whose meadows and oats fields bounded in some places by rail fences made a charming picture. As we journeyed on, the landscape had that luxuriance of foliage that reminded us of the vales and hills of Scotland. We became aware that our observation was correct, for we soon saw in the distance the town of Edinburgh. In Scotland we miss the vast wealth of forest-crowned ridges we have in the Blue Ridge, and the sweep of unfenced grain-clad hills, stretch far away, reaching the very tops except where they are too steep and rocky. As we paused long and often to gaze in admiration at these wonderful pictures we were always thrilled with their indescribable beauty.
Little did it seem that here, where all was peace and contentment, the cruel scourge of war had fallen upon the land with its blighting power, leaving in its wake thousands of widows and orphans. "But here are evidences of gruesome warfare between unknown Indian tribes long before the day of the Pioneer. At Redbanks Farm, north of Mount Jackson, is a great mound filled with the skeletons of a whole tribe exterminated by a war party of Indians from North Carolina," and throughout this part of the valley there have been repeated and bloody massacres and constant warfare that had other causes than that of slavery for their waging.
Under the bright sky of June that was wonderfully clear and deep lay the charmed landscape before us, with its ever-changing scenery as we wound among its glorious hills or swept with varied speed across the fertile plains. The old-fashioned country homes, quaint and peaceful villages, and variety of forest clad hills, all made this scene one that shall long be treasured in memory for the magnificence and grandeur of its beauty.
Far across the cultivated reaches, the smoothly flowing ridges printed their faint outlines along the horizon in gray veils, resembling a far-distant mass of water; nearer, the ranges were blue-gray while those next to them wore a delicate shade of ethereal blue. The peaks still nearer were clothed in a misty veil of deeper blue while high hills ranked themselves on each side of us with their forests of varying shades of green. Hemlock and pine made dark green patches interspersed with the brighter green of maple, tulip, poplar and beech, enlivened with the frosty blossoms of the chestnut and the creamy tints of the basswood; then there was the rich green of the meadows, the silvery bluegreen of the oats fields, and the golden green of the ripening wheat—all so well blended and harmonized by that mysterious illuminating veil of blue that it challenged the admiration of the most critical observer. On such glorious days as these we seem to imbibe the gladness of the hills. Every nerve thrills and vibrates, and the happy songs of the birds, the myriad insect voices, the softly singing pines, make no more music than our own happy hearts.
What a place is this in which to dine, while the noonday sun sends his sweltering rays on the valley below! Away with your grand hotels with their pretentions of cleanliness and comfort, away with your stuffy restaurants with semi-intoxicating odors of beeves long slaughtered and fish long hooked or chicken a-la- King, whose husky voices have long since ceased to awaken the sleeping farm hands. Away with all these, we say, and let us dine in Nature's terraced roof garden at Hotel de Roadside at the Sign of the Running Board or White Pine Bough. Give us some fresh baked buns with country butter and honey, a dish of delicious berries picked by our own hands fresh from the bushes, a drink of sparkling ale from Nature's fountain among the cool fern-clad rocks, and we shall not lament the fact that we are so far removed from the public boarding house! Here in place of soulless melodies issuing from automatic players we have the heavenly notes of the woodthrush, the clear call of the crested titmouse, and the wild ringing notes of the cardinal. A matchless trio, accompanied by the vagrant breezes played upon the tree-harps, seconded by the singing of distant waterfalls. With greater reverence one breaks bread out here where spicy aromatic fragrance drifts by. Here you have become a pilgrim unawares, for before you are stately tulip poplars and graceful hemlocks like long sought shrines, both reflecting the Creator. Our table flowers were the pungent burgamot amid its border of sweet- scented fern, but it would have been useless to tear them from their places so near to our table did they grow. Other travelers pass along the highway and these very ferns and flowers may be to them "another sacred scripture," as Thoreau would phrase it, cheering them along the road of life. If one really loves these mountains with their wealth of ferns and mosses and floral beauty, few, if any, of these children of the mountains are disturbed. Out here in Nature's garden we feed not only the body, but the soul, which hungers and thirsts for the beautiful—which is not the least of our varied repast.
Like the youth in Excelsior one is always glad to accept the invitation or challenge of the mountain to go higher, especially when the heat flows in tremulous waves in the valley and even the breeze seems like a draught of air from an open oven. The intense heat only serves to make the insects more active. The locusts shrill through the long sultry noon, the bees hum with greater industry among the flowers, multitudes of butterflies flit joyfully from place to place, and the turkey-vulture soars high above the forest, for the intense heat only serves to make his dinner more plentiful and for him more palatable. The small animals now seek the shade of the forest and the birds, with bills open and wings drooping, haunt the streams and seem to enjoy the charm of their cool leafy wilderness that every lover of nature finds.
Memory shall always linger fondly about the wonderful drive from Cumberland to Hagerstown, Maryland. Here may be had the loveliest of Blue Ridge views. Cumberland contains about twenty- nine thousand people and is the second city in the state in size. It is most picturesquely situated on the Potomac river, about six hundred and fifty feet above tide water. It is on the edge of the Cumberland Gorges creek coal region, and its rapid growth and prosperity are largely due to the traffic in coal collected here for shipment over the canal. It is also a manufacturing center possessing extensive rolling mills for the manufacture of railroad materials. It has iron foundries and steel shafting works. The city occupies the site of Fort Cumberland, which by order of General Burgoyne at the beginning of the French and Indian war, Braddock constructed as a base for his expedition against Fort Duquesne. After Braddock's defeat and death the remnant of the ill-fated expedition returned to it under command of Washington. Cumberland was the starting point of the great National road often called the Cumberland road, which was an important agent in the settlement of the West.
The route between Cumberland and Hagerstown is grand beyond telling. This route takes you over a section of the old National road. It would be difficult indeed to find another stretch of road sixty-five miles in length that would lead through another country of such varied and picturesque scenery. The road wound through a very hilly, wooded, and farming country. The fields of wheat were a rich gold that sparkled and gleamed in the warm, mellow light. The oat fields wore a light bluish tinge which contrasted with the deep green of the fresh meadows, thickly starred with ox-eye daisies.
Near Cumberland the finest of mountain scenery is spread out before you. Here you see many beds of tilted strata, vast rocks standing on their heads as it were. How vast and immeasurable the forces to bring to these hills their present contour! How wonderful still those forces at work crumbling these rocks, forming new soil for myriads of new plants to gladden the place with their beauty. Beauty lingers all around; there is much knowledge never learned from books and you receive from many sources, invitations to pursue and enjoy it. How one gazes at those glorious hills clad in their many green hues or distant purple outlines lest their beauty be lost! You will need neither notebook nor camera to aid you in the future to recall their loveliness, for those haunting distances, mysterious illuminations and filmy veils will make delicate yet indelible etchings on your memory while those blue barriers, thrusting their graceful and smoothly-flowing outlines into a clear sky, will remain as long as memories of beautiful things last.
>From scene to scene we drifted along, enchanted, now gazing at a broader, more wondrous view from some lofty ridge, now looking upward in mute admiration and wonder from some charming valley, now seeing again and again the wondrous beauty of the trees, flowers and ferns, now gazing far out over some point to streams and woods and softly lighted fields or vast orchards whose straight rows disappear over the edge of some distant hill to reappear upon another. "In the midst of such manifold scenery where all is so marvelously beautiful, he would be a laggard indeed" who was not touched by its import.