MOUNT DESERT ISLAND.
"There, gloomily against the sky,
The Dark Isles rear their summits high;
And Desert Rock, abrupt and bare,
Lifts its gray turrets in the air."
WHITTIER.
Islands possess, of themselves, a magnetism not vouchsafed to any spot
of the main-land. In cutting loose from the continent a feeling of
freedom is at once experienced that comes spontaneously, and abides no
longer than you remain an islander. You are conscious, in again setting
foot on the main shore, of a change, which no analysis, however subtle,
will settle altogether to your liking. Upon islands the majesty and
power of the ocean come home to you, as in multiplying itself it
pervades every fibre of your consciousness, gaining in vastness as you
grow in knowledge of it. On islands it is always present--always roaring
at your feet, or moaning at your back.
Islands have had no little share in the world's doings. Corsica, Elba,
and St. Helena are linked together by an unbroken historical chain.
Homer and the isles of Greece, Capri and Tiberius loom in the twilight
of antiquity. Thinking on Garibaldi or Victor Hugo, the mind
instinctively lodges on Caprera or Guernsey. An island was the death of
Philip II., and the ruin of Napoleon. In the New World, Santo Domingo,
Cuba, and Newfoundland were first visited by Europeans.
[Illustration: MAP OF MOUNT DESERT ISLAND.]
The islands of the New England coast have become beacons of her history.
Mount Desert, Monhegan, and the Isles of Shoals, Clark's Island,
Nantucket, The Vineyard, and Rhode Island have havens where the
historian or antiquary must put in before landing on broader ground. I
might name a score of others of lesser note; these are planets in our
watery system. On this line many peaceful summer campaigns have been
brought to a happy conclusion. Not a few have described the more genial
aspects of Mount Desert. It has in fact given employment to many busy
pens and famous pencils. I am not aware that its wintry guise has been
portrayed on paper or on canvas. The very name is instinctively
associated with an idea of desolateness:
"The gray and thunder-smitten pile
Which marks afar the Desert Isle."
[Illustration: SAMUEL CHAMPLAIN.]
Champlain was no doubt impressed by the sight of its craggy summits,
stripped of trees, basking their scarred and splintered steeps in a
September sun. "I have called it," he says, "the Isle of Monts Deserts."
In a little "_pattache_" of only seventeen or eighteen tons burden, he
had set out on the 2d of September, 1604, from St. Croix, to explore the
coast of Norumbega. Two natives accompanied him as guides. The same day,
as they passed close to an island four or five leagues long, their bark
struck a hardly submerged rock, which tore a hole near the keel. They
either sailed around the island, or explored it by land, as the strait
between it and the main-land is described as being not more than a
hundred paces in breadth. "The land," continues the French voyager, "is
very high, intersected by passes, appearing from the sea like seven or
eight mountains ranged near each other. The summits of the greater part
of these are bare of trees, because they are nothing but rocks." It was
during this voyage, and with equal pertinence, Champlain named Isle au
Haut.[12] According to Pere Biard, the savages called the island of
Mount Desert "_Pemetiq_" "meaning," says M. l'Abbe Maurault, "that which
is at the head." A crowned head it appears, seen on land or sea.
It is curious to observe how the embouchure of the Penobscot is on
either shore guarded by two such solitary ranges of mountains as the
Camden and Mount Desert groups. They embrace about the same number of
individual peaks, and approximate nearly enough in altitude. From Camden
we may skirt the shores for a hundred and fifty miles to the west and
south before meeting with another eminence; and then it is an isolated
hill standing almost upon the line of division between Maine and New
Hampshire that is encountered. On the shore of the main-land, west of
Mount Desert, is Blue Hill, another lone mountain. Katahdin is still
another astray, of grander proportions, it is true, but belonging to
this family of lost mountains. Although they appear a continuous chain
when massed by distance, the Mount Desert range is, in reality, broken
into little family groups, as exhibited on the map.
Another peculiarity of the Mount Desert chain is that the eastern
summits are the highest, terminating generally in precipitous and
inaccessible cliffs. I asked a village ancient his idea of the origin of
these mountains, and received it in two words, "Hove up." The cluster
numbers thirteen eminences, to which the title "Old Thirteen" may be
more fitly applied than to any political community of modern history.
This assemblage of hills with lakes in their laps at once recalled the
Adirondack region, with some needful deductions for the height and
nakedness of the former when compared with the greater altitudes and
grand old forests of the wilderness of northern New York.
Should any adventurous spirit, after reading these pages, wish to see
the Desert Isle in all its rugged grandeur, he may do so at the cost of
some trifling inconveniences that do not fall to the lot of the summer
tourist. In this case, Bangor or Bucksport will be the point of
departure for a journey of from thirty to forty miles by stage. I came
to the island by steamboat from Boston, which landed me at Bucksport;
whence I made my way _via_ Ellsworth to Somesville.
After glancing at the map of the island, I chose Somesville as a central
point for my excursions, because it lies at the head of the sound, that
divides the island almost in two, is the point toward which all roads
converge, and is about equally distant from the harbors or places of
particular resort. In summer I should have adopted the same plan until I
had fully explored the shores of the Sound, the mountains that are
contiguous, and the western half of the island. In twenty-four hours the
visitor may know by heart the names of the mountains, lakes, coves, and
settlements, with the roads leading to them; he may thereafter establish
himself as convenience or fancy shall dictate. At Somesville there is a
comfortable hostel, but the larger summer hotels are at Bar Harbor and
at South-west Harbor.
The accentuation should not fall on the last, but on the first syllable
of Desert, although the name is almost universally mispronounced in
Maine, and notably so on the island itself. Usually it is Mount
De_sart_, toned into De_sert_ by the casual population, who thus give it
a curious significance.
Mount Desert is one of the wardens of Penobscot Bay, interposing its
bulk between the waters of Frenchman's Bay on the east and Blue Hill Bay
on the west. A bridge unites it with the main-land in the town of
Trenton, where the opposite shores approach within rifle-shot of each
other. This point is locally known as the Narrows. When I crossed, the
tide was pressing against the wooden piers, in a way to quicken the
pace, masses of newly-formed ice that had floated out of Frenchman's Bay
with the morning's ebb.
You get a glimpse of Mount Desert in sailing up Penobscot Bay, where its
mountains appear foreshortened into two cloudy shapes that you would
fail to know again. But the highest hills between Bucksport and
Ellsworth display the whole range; and from the latter place until the
island is reached their snow-laced sides loomed grandly in the gray
mists of a December day. In this condition of the atmosphere their
outlines seemed more sharply cut than when thrown against a background
of clear blue sky. I counted eight peaks, and then, on coming nearer,
others, that at first had blended with those higher and more distant
ones, detached themselves. Green Mountain will be remembered as the
highest of the chain, Beech and Dog mountains from their peculiarity of
outline. A wider break between two hills indicates where the sea has
driven the wedge called Somes's Sound into the side of the isle. Western
Mountain terminates the range on the right; Newport Mountain, with Bar
Harbor at its foot, is at the other extremity of the group. In
approaching from sea this order would appear reversed.
[Illustration: HEAD OF SOMES'S SOUND.]
The Somesville road is a nearly direct line drawn from the head of the
Sound to the Narrows. Soon after passing the bridge, that to Bar Harbor
diverged to the left. Crossing a strip of level land, we began the
ascent of Town Hill through a dark growth of cedar, fir, and other
evergreen trees. A little hamlet, where there is a post-office, crowns
the summit of Town Hill. Not long after, the Sound opened into view one
of those rare vistas that leave a picture for after remembrance. At
first it seemed a lake shut in by the feet of two interlocking
mountains, but the vessels that lay fast-moored in the ice were plainly
sea-going craft. Somesville lay beneath us, its little steeple pricking
the frosty air. Cold, gray, and cheerless as their outward dress
appeared, the mountains had more of impressiveness, now that they were
covered from base to summit with snow. They seemed really mountains and
not hills, receiving an Alpine tone with their wintry vesture.
After all, a winter landscape in New England is less gloomy than in the
same zone of the Mississippi Valley, where, in the total absence of
evergreen-trees, nothing but long reaches of naked forest rewards the
eye, which roves in vain for some vantage-ground of relief. Jutting
points, well wooded with dark firs, or clumps of those trees standing by
the roadside, were agreeable features in this connection.
A brisk trot over the frozen road brought us to the end of the
half-dozen miles that stretch between Somesville and the Narrows. The
snow craunched beneath the horses' feet as we glided through the village
street; in a moment more the driver drew up with a flourish beside the
door of an inn which bears for its ensign a name advantageously known in
these latitudes. A rousing fire of birchen logs blazed on the open
hearth. Above the mantel were cheap prints of the presidents, from
Washington to Buchanan. I was made welcome, and thought of Shenstone
when he says,
"Whoe'er has travel'd life's dull round,
Whate'er his fortunes may have been,
Must sigh to think how oft he's found
Life's warmest welcome at an inn."
An island fourteen miles long and a dozen broad, embracing a hundred
square miles, and traversed from end to end by mountains, is to be
approached with respect. It excludes the idea of superficial
observation. As the mountains bar the way to the southern shores, you
must often make a long _detour_ to reach a given point, or else commit
yourself to the guidance of a deer-path, or the dry bed of some mountain
torrent. In summer or in autumn, with a little knowledge of woodcraft, a
well-adjusted pocket-compass, and a stout staff, it is practicable to
enter the hills, and make your way as the red huntsmen were of old
accustomed to do; but in winter a guide would be indispensable, and you
should have well-trained muscles to undertake it.
The mountains have been traversed again and again by fire, destroying
not the wood alone, but also the thin turf, the accumulations of years.
The woods are full of the evidences of these fires in the charred
remains of large trees that, after the passage of the flames, have been
felled by tempests. At a distance of five miles the present growth
resembles stubble; on a nearer approach it takes the appearance of
underbrush; and upon reaching the hills you find a young forest
repairing the ravages made by fire, wind, and the woodman's axe. "Fifty
years ago," said Mr. Somes, "those mountains were covered with a dark
growth." Cedars, firs, hemlocks, and other evergreens, with a thick
sprinkling of white-birch, and now and then a clump of beeches, make the
principal base for the forest of the future on Mount Desert--provided
always it is permitted to arrive at maturity. Hitherto the poverty or
greed of the inhabitants has sacrificed every tree that was worth the
labor of felling. In the neighborhood of Salisbury's Cove there are
still to be seen in inaccessible places, trees destined never to feel
the axe's keen edge.
Mine host of the village tavern, Daniel Somes, or "Old Uncle Daniel," as
he is known far and near, is the grandson of the first settler of the
name who emigrated from Gloucester, Massachusetts, and "squatted"
here--"a vile phrase"--about 1760. Abraham Somes built on the little
point of land in front of the tavern-door, from which a clump of shrubs
may be seen growing near the spot. Other settlers came from Cape Cod,
and were located at Hull's and other coves about the island. I asked my
landlord if there were any family traditions relative to the short-lived
settlement of the French, or traces of an occupation that might well
have set his ancestors talking. He shook his gray head in emphatic
negative. Had I asked him for "Tam O'Shanter" or the "Brigs of Ayr," he
would have given it to me stanza for stanza.
There are few excursions to be made within a certain radius of
Somesville that offer so much of variety and interest as that on the
western side of the Sound, pursuing, with such wanderings as fancy may
suggest, the well-beaten road to South-west Harbor. It is seven miles of
hill and dale, lake and stream, with a succession of charming views
constantly unfolding themselves before you. And here I may remark that
the roads on the island are generally good, and easily followed.
[Illustration: ECHO LAKE.]
The map may have so far introduced the island to the reader that he
will be able to trace the route along the side of Robinson's Mountain,
which is between the road and the Sound, with two summits of nearly
equal height, rising six hundred and forty and six hundred and eighty
feet above it. At the right, in descending this road, is Echo Lake, a
superb piece of water, having Beech Mountain at its foot. You stumble on
it, as it were, unawares, and enjoy the surprise all the more for it.
Broad-shouldered and deep-chested mountains wall in the reservoirs that
have been filled by the snows melting from their sides. There are
speckled trout to be taken in Echo Lake, as well as in the pond lying in
Somesville. Of course the echo is to be tried, even if the mount gives
back a saucy answer.
Next below us is Dog Mountain. It has been shut out from view until you
have uncovered it in passing by the lake. Dog Mountain's eastern and
highest crest is six hundred and eighty feet in the air. How much of
resemblance it bears to a crouching mastiff depends in a great measure
upon the imagination of the beholder:
_Ham_. "Do you see yonder cloud that's almost in shape of a
camel?"
_Pol_. "By the mass, and 'tis like a camel indeed."
_Ham_. "Methinks it is like a weasel."
_Pol_. "It is backed like a weasel."
_Ham_. "Or like a whale?"
_Pol_. "Very like a whale."
Between Dog and Brown's Mountain on its eastern shore the Sound has
forced its way for six or seven miles up into the centre of the island.
At the southern foot of Dog Mountain is Fernald's Cove and Point, the
supposed scene of the attempted settlement by the colony of Madame the
Marchioness De Guercheville. Mr. De Costa has christened Brown's
Mountain with the name of Mansell, from Sir Robert Mansell, vice-admiral
in the times of James I. and Charles I. The whole island was once called
after the knight, but there is a touch of retributive justice in
recollecting that the English, in expelling the French, have in turn
been expelled from its nomenclature.
Turning now to what Prescott calls "historicals" for enlightenment on
the subject of the colonization of Mount Desert, it appears that upon
the return of De Monts to France he gave his town of Port Royal to Jean
de Poutrincourt, whose voyage in 1606 along the coast of New England
will be noticed in future chapters. The projects of De Monts having been
overthrown by intrigue, and through jealousy of the exclusive rights
conferred by his patent, Madame De Guercheville, a "very, charitable and
pious lady" of the court,[13] entered into negotiation with Poutrincourt
for the founding of Jesuit missions among the savages. Finding that
Poutrincourt claimed more than he could conveniently establish a right
to, Madame treated directly with Du Guast, who ceded to her all the
privileges derived by him from Henry IV. The king, in 1607, confirmed
all except the grant of Port Royal, which was reserved to Poutrincourt.
The memorable year of 1610 ended the career of Henry, in the Rue de la
Ferronerie. In 1611 the fathers, Pere Biard and Enemond Masse, of the
College d'Eu, came over to Port Royal with Biencourt, the younger
Poutrincourt. During the next year an expedition under the auspices of
Madame De Guercheville was prepared to follow, and, after taking on
board the two Jesuits already at Port Royal, was to proceed to make a
definitive settlement somewhere in the Penobscot.
The colonists numbered in all about thirty persons, including two other
Jesuit fathers, named Jacques Quentin and Gilbert Du Thet.[14] The
expedition was under the command of La Saussaye. In numbers it was about
equal to the colony of Gosnold.
La Saussaye arrived at Port Royal, and after taking on board the
fathers, Biard and Masse, continued his route. Arriving off Menan, the
vessel was enveloped by an impenetrable fog, which beset them for two
days and nights. Their situation was one of imminent danger, from which,
if the relation of the Pere Biard is to be believed, they were delivered
by prayer. On the morning of the third day the fog lifted, disclosing
the island of Mount Desert to their joyful eyes. The pilot landed them
in a harbor on the east side of the island, where they gave thanks to
God and celebrated the mass. They named the place and harbor St.
Sauveur.
Singularly enough, it now fell out, as seven years later it happened to
the Leyden Pilgrims, that the pilot refused to carry them to their
actual destination at Kadesquit,[15] in Pentagoet River. He alleged that
the voyage was completed. After much wrangling the affair was adjusted
by the appearance of friendly Indians, who conducted the fathers to
their own place of habitation. Upon viewing the spot, the colonists
determined they could not do better than to settle upon it. They
accordingly set about making a lodgment.[16]
The place where the colony was established is obscured as much by the
relation of Biard as by time itself. The language of the narration is
calculated to mislead, as the place is spoken of as "being shut in by
the large island of Mount Desert." The Jesuit had undoubtedly full
opportunity of becoming familiar with the locality, and his account was
written after the dissolution of the plantation by Argall. There is
little doubt they were inhabiting some part of the isle, as Champlain in
general terms asserts. Meanwhile the grassy slope of Fernald's Point
gains many pilgrims. The brave ecclesiastic, Du Thet, could not have a
nobler monument than the stately cliffs graven by lightning and the
storm with the handwriting of the Omnipotent. The puny reverberations of
Argall's broadsides were as nothing compared with the artillery that has
played upon these heights out of cloud battlements.
During the summer of 1613, Samuel Argall, learning of the presence of
the French, came upon them unawares, and in true buccaneer style. A very
brief and unequal conflict ensued. Du Thet stood manfully by his gun,
and fell, mortally wounded. Captain Flory and three others also received
wounds. Two were drowned. The French then surrendered.
Argall's ship was called the _Treasurer_. Henri de Montmorency, Admiral
of France, demanded justice of King James for the outrage, but I doubt
that he ever received it. He alleged that, besides killing several of
the colonists and transporting others as prisoners to Virginia, Argall
had put the remainder in a little skiff and abandoned them to the mercy
of the waves. Thus ended the fourth attempt to colonize New England.
Argall, it is asserted, had the baseness to purloin the commission of La
Saussaye, as it favored his project of plundering the French more at his
ease, the two crowns of England and France being then at peace. He was
afterward knighted by King James, and became a member of the Council of
Plymouth, and Deputy-governor of Virginia. During a second expedition to
Acadia, he destroyed all traces of the colony of Madame De Guercheville.
It is pretty evident he was a bold, bad man, as the more his character
is scanned the less there appears in it to admire.
Brother Du Thet, standing with smoking match beside his gun, was worthy
the same pencil that has illustrated the defense of Saragossa. I marvel
much the event has not been celebrated in verse.
An enjoyable way of becoming acquainted with Somes's Sound is to take a
wherry at Somesville and drift slowly down with the ebb, returning with
the next flood. In some respects it is better than to be under sail, as
a landing is always easily made, and defiance may be bidden to head
winds.
[Illustration: CLIFFS, DOG MOUNTAIN, SOMES'S SOUND.]
One of the precipices of Dog Mountain, known as Eagle Cliff, has always
attracted the attention of the artists, as well as of all lovers of the
beautiful and sublime. There has been much search for treasure in the
glens hereabouts, directed by spiritualistic conclaves. One too
credulous islander, in his fruitless delving after the pirate Kidd's
buried hoard, has squandered the gold of his own life, and is worn to a
shadow.
When some one asked Moll Pitcher, the celebrated fortune-teller of Lynn,
to disclose the place where this same Kidd had secreted his wealth,
promising to give her half of what was recovered, the old witch
exclaimed, "Fool! if I knew, could I not have all myself?" Kidd's wealth
must have been beyond computation. There is scarcely a headland or an
island from Montauk to Grand Menan which according to local tradition
does not contain some portion of his spoil.
Much interest is attached to the shell heaps found on Fernald's Point
and at Sand Point opposite. There are also such banks at Hull's Cove
and elsewhere. Indian implements are occasionally met with in these
deposits. It is reasonably certain that some of them are of remote
antiquity. Williamson states that a heavy growth of trees was found by
the first settlers upon some of the shell banks in this vicinity.[17]
Associated with these relics of aboriginal occupation is the print in
the rock near Cromwell's Cove, called the "Indian's Foot." It is in
appearance the impression of a tolerably shaped foot, fourteen inches
long and two deep. The common people are not yet freed from the
superstitions of two centuries ago, which ascribed all such accidental
marks to the Evil One.
In my progress by the road to South-west Harbor, I was intercepted near
Dog Mountain by a sea-turn that soon became a steady drizzle. This
afforded me an opportunity of seeing some fine dissolving views: the
sea-mists advancing, and enveloping the mountain-tops, cheated the
imagination with the idea that the mountains were themselves receding. A
storm-cloud, black and threatening, drifted over Sargent's Mountain,
settling bodily down upon it, deploying and extending itself until the
entire bulk disappeared behind an impenetrable curtain. It was like the
stealthy approach and quick cast of a mantle over the head of an
unsuspecting victim.
Very few were abroad in the storm, but I saw a nut-cracker and chickadee
making the best of it. I remarked that under branching spruces or
fir-trees the grass was still green, and the leaves of the checker-berry
bright and glossy as in September. On this road admirable points of
observation constantly occur from which to view the shifting contours of
Beech and Western mountains, with the broad and level plateau extending
along their northern baseline far to the westward. Retracing with the
eye this line, you see a little hamlet snugly ensconced on the hither
slope of Beech Mountain, while the plateau is rounded off into the
bluffs rising above Echo Lake.
South-west Harbor is usually the stranger's first introduction to Mount
Desert. The approach to it is consequently invested with peculiar
interest to all who know how to value first impressions. Its
neighborhood is less wild and picturesque than the eastern shores of the
island, but Long Lake and the western range of mountains are
conveniently accessible from it; while, by crossing or ascending the
Sound, avenues are opened in every direction to the surpassing charms of
this favored corner of New England.
[Illustration: THE STONE WALL.]
At South-west Harbor the visitor is usually desirous of inspecting the
sea-wall, or _cheval-de-frise_ of shattered rock, that skirts the shore
less than three miles distant from the steamboat landing. And he may
here witness an impressive example of what the ocean can do. An
irregular ridge of a mile in length is piled with shapeless rocks,
against which the sea beats with tireless impetuosity.
Fog is the bane of Mount Desert. Its frequency during the months of July
and August is an important factor in the sum of outdoor enjoyment.
Happily, it is seldom of long continuance, as genial sunshine or light
breezes soon disperse it.
There is, however, a weird sort of fascination in standing on the shore
in a fog. You are completely deceived as to the nearness either of
objects or of sounds, though the roll of the surf is more depended upon
by experienced ears than the fog-bell. In sailing near the land every
one has noticed the recoil of sounds from the shore, as voices, or the
beat of a steamer's paddles. Coming through the Mussel Ridge Channel one
unusually thick morning, the fog suddenly "scaled up," discovering White
Head in uncomfortable proximity. The light-house keeper stood in his
door, tolling the heavy fog-bell that we had believed half a mile away.
Our pilot gave him thanks with three blasts of the steam-whistle.
[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO SOME'S SOUND]
Off the entrance to the Sound are several islands--Great Cranberry, of
five hundred acres; Little Cranberry, of two hundred acres; and, farther
inshore, Lancaster's Island, of one hundred acres. The eastern channel
into the Sound is between the two last named. Duck Island, of about
fifty acres, is east of Great Cranberry; and Baker's, on which is the
light-house, is the outermost of the cluster.
The cranberry is indigenous to the whole extent of the Maine sea-board.
It grows to perfection on the borders of wet meadows, but I have known
it to thrive on the upland. The culture has been found very remunerative
in localities less favored by nature, as at Cape Cod and on the New
Jersey coast. Some attempts at cranberry culture have recently been made
with good success at Lemoine, on the main-land, opposite Mount Desert.
Blue-berries are abundant on Mount Desert. I saw one young girl who had
picked enough in a week to bring her seven dollars. Formerly they were
sent off the island, but they are now in good demand at the hotels and
boarding-houses. In poorer families the head of it picks up a little
money by shore-fishing. He plants a little patch with potatoes, dressing
the land with sea-weed, which costs him only the labor of gathering it.
His fire-wood is as cheaply procured from the neighboring forest or
shore, and in the autumn his wife and children gather berries, which are
exchanged for necessaries at the stores.
At the extreme southerly end of Mount Desert is Bass Harbor, with three
islands outlying. It is landlocked, and a well-known haven of refuge.
FOOTNOTES:
[12] "Champlain's Voyages," edit. 1613. Mount Desert was also made out
by the Boston colonists of 1630. The reader is referred for materials of
Mount Desert's history to Champlain, Charlevoix, Lescarbot, Biard, and
Purchas, vol. iv.
[13] She was one of the queen's ladies of honor, and wife of the Duke of
Rochefoucauld Liancourt.
[14] Champlain: Mr. Shea says he was only a lay brother.
[15] This has a resemblance to Kenduskeag, and was probably the present
Bangor.
[16] Charlevoix says the landing was on the north side of the island.
[17] "History of Maine," vol. i., p. 80.
[Illustration: PROFESSOR AGASSIZ.]