n especial, that empties into the Schuylkill, which
comes from some water-bed under the shady hills in Montgomery
County,--some pool far underground, which never in all these ages has
heard a sound, or seen the sun, nor ever shall; therefore the water
flowing from it carries to the upper air a deeper silence than the spell
left by the old Quaker on the hills, or even the ghostly memory of the
Indian tribes, who, ages long ago, hunted and slowly faded away in these
forests on its shores.

When they came to the New World, at a time so far gone from us that no
dead nation even has left of it any record, they found the river flowing
as strangely silent and pure as now, and the name they gave it,
Wissahickon, it bears to-day. The hills are there as when they first saw
them, wrapping themselves every year in heavier mantles of hemlocks and
cedars; but a shaded road winds now gravely by the river-side, and along
it the city sends out those who are tired, worn out, and need to hear
that message of the river. No matter how dull their heads or hearts may
be, they never fail to catch something of its meaning. So quiet it is
there, so pure, it is like being born again, they say. So, all the time,
in the cool autumn-mornings, in the heavy lull of noon, or with the low
harvest-moon slanting blue and white shadows, sharp and uncanny, across
its surface, the water flows steadily from its dark birthplace, clear,
cheerful, bright. The hills crouch attentive on its edge, shaggy with
shadows; from the grim rocks ferns and mosses sleep out delicate color
unmolested, the red-bearded grass drops its seed unshaken. The
sweetbrier trails its pink fingers through the water. They know what the
bright little river means, as well as the mill-boy fishing by the bank:
how He sent it near the city, just as He brought that child into the
midst of the hackneyed, doubting old tax-gatherers and publicans long
ago, with the same message. Such a curious calm and clearness rest in
it, one is almost persuaded, that, in some day gone by, some sick,
thirsty soul has in truth gone into its dewy solitude in a gray summer
dawn, and, finding there the fabled fountain of eternal life, has left
behind a blessing from all those stronger redeemed years to come.

There is a narrow road which leaves the main one, and penetrates behind
the river-hills, only to find others, lower and more heavily wooded,
with now and then odd-shaped bits of pasture-land wedged in between