The Piazza Tales | Page 4

fairy-window; at any rate, some glad mountain-girl; it will do me good,
it will cure this weariness, to look on her. No more; I'll launch my
yawl--ho, cheerly, heart! and push away for fairy-land--for rainbow's
end, in fairy-land.
How to get to fairy-land, by what road, I did not know; nor could any
one inform me; not even one Edmund Spenser, who had been there--so
he wrote me--further than that to reach fairy-land, it must be voyaged to,
and with faith. I took the fairy-mountain's bearings, and the first fine
day, when strength permitted, got into my yawl--high-pommeled,
leather one--cast off the fast, and away I sailed, free voyager as an
autumn leaf. Early dawn; and, sallying westward, I sowed the morning
before me.
Some miles brought me nigh the hills; but out of present sight of them.
I was not lost; for road-side golden-rods, as guide-posts, pointed, I
doubted not, the way to the golden window. Following them, I came to
a lone and languid region, where the grass-grown ways were traveled
but by drowsy cattle, that, less waked than stirred by day, seemed to
walk in sleep. Browse, they did not--the enchanted never eat. At least,

so says Don Quixote, that sagest sage that ever lived.
On I went, and gained at last the fairy mountain's base, but saw yet no
fairy ring. A pasture rose before me. Letting down five mouldering
bars--so moistly green, they seemed fished up from some sunken
wreck--a wigged old Aries, long-visaged, and with crumpled horn,
came snuffing up; and then, retreating, decorously led on along a
milky-way of white-weed, past dim-clustering Pleiades and Hyades, of
small forget-me-nots; and would have led me further still his astral path,
but for golden flights of yellow-birds--pilots, surely, to the golden
window, to one side flying before me, from bush to bush, towards deep
woods--which woods themselves were luring--and, somehow, lured,
too, by their fence, banning a dark road, which, however dark, led up. I
pushed through; when Aries, renouncing me now for some lost soul,
wheeled, and went his wiser way.. Forbidding and forbidden ground--to
him.
A winter wood road, matted all along with winter-green. By the side of
pebbly waters--waters the cheerier for their solitude; beneath swaying
fir-boughs, petted by no season, but still green in all, on I
journeyed--my horse and I; on, by an old saw-mill, bound down and
hushed with vines, that his grating voice no more was heard; on, by a
deep flume clove through snowy marble, vernal-tinted, where freshet
eddies had, on each side, spun out empty chapels in the living rock; on,
where Jacks-in-the-pulpit, like their Baptist namesake, preached but to
the wilderness; on, where a huge, cross-grain block, fern-bedded,
showed where, in forgotten times, man after man had tried to split it,
but lost his wedges for his pains--which wedges yet rusted in their
holes; on, where, ages past, in step-like ledges of a cascade,
skull-hollow pots had been churned out by ceaseless whirling of a
flintstone--ever wearing, but itself unworn; on, by wild rapids pouring
into a secret pool, but soothed by circling there awhile, issued forth
serenely; on, to less broken ground, and by a little ring, where, truly,
fairies must have danced, or else some wheel-tire been heated--for all
was bare; still on, and up, and out into a hanging orchard, where
maidenly looked down upon me a crescent moon, from morning.
My horse hitched low his head. Red apples rolled before him; Eve's
apples; seek-no-furthers. He tasted one, I another; it tasted of the
ground. Fairy land not yet, thought I, flinging my bridle to a humped

old tree, that crooked out an arm to catch it. For the way now lay where
path was none, and none might go but by himself, and only go by
daring. Through blackberry brakes that tried to pluck me back, though I
but strained towards fruitless growths of mountain-laurel; up slippery
steeps to barren heights, where stood none to welcome. Fairy land not
yet, thought I, though the morning is here before me.
Foot-sore enough and weary, I gained not then my journey's end, but
came ere long to a craggy pass, dipping towards growing regions still
beyond. A zigzag road, half overgrown with blueberry bushes, here
turned among the cliffs. A rent was in their ragged sides; through it a
little track branched off, which, upwards threading that short defile,
came breezily out above, to where the mountain-top, part sheltered
northward, by a taller brother, sloped gently off a space, ere darkly
plunging; and here, among fantastic rocks, reposing in a herd, the
foot-track wound, half beaten, up to a little, low-storied, grayish cottage,
capped, nun-like, with a peaked roof.
On one slope, the roof was deeply weather-stained, and, nigh the turfy
eaves-trough, all velvet-napped; no doubt