Christian fiction; Neighborhoods -- Scotland -- Fiction
By this time the descent on the grass was getting too steep and
slippery to admit of our continuing to advance in that direction. We
turned, therefore, down the valley in the direction of the sea. It was
but a narrow cleft, and narrowed much towards a deeper cleft, in which
we now saw the tops of trees, and from which we heard the rush of
water. Nor had we gone far in this direction before we came upon a gate
in a stone wall, which led into what seemed a neglected garden. We
entered, and found a path turning and winding, among small trees, and
luxuriant ferns, and great stones, and fragments of ruins down towards
the bottom of the chasm. The noise of falling water increased as we
went on, and at length, after some scrambling and several sharp turns,
we found ourselves with a nearly precipitous wall on each side, clothed
with shrubs and ivy, and creeping things of the vegetable world. Up
this cleft there was no advance. The head of it was a precipice down
which shot the stream from the vale above, pouring out of a deep slit
it had itself cut in the rock as with a knife. Halfway down, it tumbled
into a great basin of hollowed stone, and flowing from a chasm in its
side, which left part of the lip of the basin standing like the arch of
a vanished bridge, it fell into a black pool below, whence it crept as
if half-stunned or weary down the gentle decline of the ravine. It was
a perfect little picture. I, for my part, had never seen such a
picturesque fall. It was a little gem of nature, complete in effect.
The ladies were full of pleasure. Wynnie, forgetting her usual reserve,
broke out in frantic exclamations of delight.
We stood for a while regarding the ceaseless pour of the water down the
precipice, here shot slanting in a little trough of the rock, full of
force and purpose, here falling in great curls of green and gray, with
an expression of absolute helplessness and conscious perdition, as if
sheer to the centre, but rejoicing the next moment to find itself
brought up boiling and bubbling in the basin, to issue in the gathered
hope of experience. Then we turned down the stream a little way,
crossed it by a plank, and stood again to regard it from the opposite
side. Small as the whole affair was--not more than about a hundred and
fifty feet in height--it was so full of variety that I saw it was all
my memory could do, if it carried away anything like a correct picture
of its aspect. I was contemplating it fixedly, when a little stifled
cry from Wynnie made me start and look round. Her face was flushed, yet
she was trying to look unconcerned.
"I thought we were quite alone, papa," she said; "but I see a gentleman
sketching."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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