WHITE MOUNTAINS
The traveler who comes to the White Mountains should not fail to
see Chocorua. "Chocorua," how rich and sonorous is that word. It
has in it something expressing the wildness and loneliness of
these lovely hills. Its rhythm suggests the sigh of the wind
among mountain pines or the continuous and far-heard melody of
distant waterfalls. This famous peak is everything that a New
Hampshire mountain should be. It bears the name of an Indian
chief. It is invested with traditional and poetic interest. In
form it is massive and symmetrical. The forests of its lower
slopes are crowned with rock that is sculptured into a peak with
lines full of haughty energy in whose gorges huge shadows are
entrapped and whose cliffs blaze with morning gold, and it has
the fortune to be set in connection with lovely water scenery,
with squam and Winnepesaukee, and the little lake directly at
its base.
"On one side of its jagged peak a charming lowland prospect
stretches east and south of the Sandwich range, indented by the
emerald shores of Winnepesaukee, which lies in queenly beauty
upon the soft, far-stretching landscape. Pass around a huge rock
to the other side of the steep pyramid, and you have turned to
another chapter in the book of nature. Nothing but mountains
running in long parallels, or bending ridge behind ridge,
visible, here blazing in sunlight, there gloomy with shadow, and
all related to the towering mass of the imperial Washington.
"And Chocorua is the only mountain here whose summit is honored
with a legend. 'In the valley where the lovely forest-clad
mountains tower above the blue lakes dwelt Chocorua, the last
chief of his tribe. Here too lived a settler by the name of
Cornelius Campbell.
"Chocorua had a son, nine or ten years old, to whom Caroline
Campbell had occasionally made such gaudy present as were likely
to attract his savage fancy. This won the child's affections, so
that he became a familiar visitant, almost an inmate of their
dwelling, and, being unrestrained by the courtesies of civilized
life, he would inspect everything which came in his way. Some
poison, prepared for a mischievous fox which had long troubled
the little settlement, was discovered and drunk by the Indian
boy, and he went home to his father to sicken and die. When
Chocorua had buried his wife by the side of a brook, all that
was left to him was his little son. After the death of the boy,
jealousy and hatred took possession of Chocorua's soul. He never
told his suspicions, but he brooded over them in secret, to
nourish the deadly revenge he contemplated against Cornelius
Campbell.
"The story of Indian animosity is always the same. Campbell left
his but for the fields early one bright, balmy morning in June.
Still a lover, though ten years a husband, his last look was
towards his wife, answering her parting smile; his last action a
kiss for each of his children. When he returned to dinner, they
were dead--all dead--and their disfigured bodies too cruelly
showed that an Indian's hand had done the work.
"In such a mind, grief, like all other emotions, was
tempestuous. Home had been to him the only verdant spot in the
desert of life. In his wife and children he had centered all
affection, and now they were torn from him. The remembrance of
their love clung to him like the death grapple of a drowning
man, sinking him down into darkness and death. This was followed
by a calm a thousand times more terrible, the creeping agony of
despair, that brings with it no power of resistance.
"It was as if the dead could feel
The icy worm around him steal."
Such for many days was the state of Cornelius Campbell. Those
who knew and reverenced him feared that the spark of reason was
forever extinguished. But it rekindled, and with it came a wild,
demoniac spirit of revenge. The death groan of Chocorua would
make him smile in his dreams, and when he waked, death seemed
too pitiful a vengeance for the anguish that was eating into his
very soul.
Chocorua's brethren were absent on a hunting expedition at the
time he committed the murder, and those who watched his
movements observed that he frequently climbed the high
precipice, which afterwards took his name. He was probably
looking for indications of their return. Here Campbell resolved
to carry out his deadly plan. A party was formed, under his
guidance, to cut off all chance of retreat, and the dark-minded
prophet was to be hunted like a wild beast to his lair.
"The morning sun had scarce cleared away the fogs when Chocorua
started at a loud voice from beneath the precipice, commanding
him to throw himself into the deep abyss below. He knew the
voice of his enemy, and replied with an Indian's calmness, 'The
Great Spirit gave life to Chocorua, and Chocorua will not throw
it way at the command of the white roan.' 'Then hear the Great
Spirit speak in the white man's thunder,' exclaimed Campbell, as
he pointed his gun to the precipice. Chocorua, though fierce and
fearless as a panther, had never overcome his dread for
firearms. He placed his hands upon his ears to shut out the
stunning report. The next moment the blood bubbled from his
neck, and he reeled fearfully on the edge of the precipice, but
he recovered and, raising himself on his hand, he spoke in a
loud voice, that grew more terrific as its huskiness increased:
'A curse upon ye, white men. May the Great Spirit curse ye when
he speaks in the clouds, and his words are fire. Chocorua had a
son and ye killed him while the sun looked bright. Lightning
blast your crops. Winds and fire destroy your dwellings. The
Evil Spirit breathe death upon your cattle. Your graves lie in
the warpath of the Indian. Panthers howl and wolves fatten over
your bones. Chocorua goes to the Great Spirit--his curse stays
with the white man.'
"The prophet sank upon the ground, still uttering curses, and
they left his bones to whiten in the sun, but his curse rested
upon that settlement. The tomahawk and scalping knife were busy
among them; the winds tore up the trees, and hurled them at
their dwellings; their crops were blasted; their cattle died,
and sickness came upon their strongest men. At last the remnant
of them departed from the fatal spot to mingle with more
populous and prosperous colonies. Campbell became a hermit,
seldom seeking or seeing his fellowmen, and two years after he
was found dead in his hut." (footnote: From The White Hills, by
Starr King.)
As we looked out over the sylvan beauty of the scenery that is
unsurpassed, we realized that long ago the curse had been
removed. The hills are intersected by charming labyrinths of
wood that lead to peaceful valleys. These dreamy forest
solitudes, with their deep foliage and singing rills which
wander here and there, lull your senses like an enchantment
after the noise and scrambling bustle of the busy manufacturing
centers from which you no doubt have so recently come.
"The Appalachian mountains in their long majestic course from
northeast to southwest rise to their greatest height in the New
England states, culminating in Mount Washington, sixty-two
hundred and ninety feet elevation, surrounded on all sides by
lesser peaks, mostly from two thousand to five thousand feet
high. "Bretton Woods," an estate of ten thousand acres, lies in
a very picturesque section of these mountains. The Amonoosuc
valley is somewhat less than four miles west from the head of
Crawford's notch. Here a railroad and the one through highway
skirt the east side of the Amonoosuc river; while on the west
side a level meadow extends about a half mile directly across to
a range of low foot-hills back of which Mount Washington rears
his immense bulk. All through this region you will find the most
ample accommodations that tourists could wish; along the
tributary routes as well as in and about the mountains, you will
find comfortable, well-kept rooms and good, wholesome food, and
the finest of American resort hotels, with all the luxuries to
be found in the city. Notably among the latter class is the
Mount Washington, a three-million-dollar hotel, and said to be
the finest tourist hotel in the world.
When we left Crawford's notch the pine needles were still
shimmering with sparkling points of light; the long bright green
of the balsam fir and the silvery blue of the graceful hemlocks
were full of glory and splendor; myriads of luminous green
scalloped beech leaves sent back a million glinting beams of
light as they caught the rays of the morning sun. The yellow and
white birch waved their spicy branches soothingly above the
songful streams, like emerald sprays of art. The vireo's cheery
strain sounded from many points in the vast wilderness of
foliage. This song coming from afar, only served to heighten the
vast and lonely grandeur of the forest solitudes. From the
wooded hills of southeastern Ohio to the Green Mountains of
Vermont we heard his cheery notes. Whether in the morning when
the pine needles glistened in the bright light; at noon when the
heat flowed in tremulous waves; or at evening when the last rosy
beam gladdened the west, his song was alike full of contentment
and rarest melody.
As we proceeded on our journey we beheld country homes
charmingly embowered among their trees and vines, yet the region
still retains that wild and primeval beauty that defies
civilization.
Boys and men were busy making hay and their industry proclaimed
that they had heeded the proverb of "make hay while the sun
shines." Now and then herds of cattle were grazing or standing
up to their knees in the cool of streams. What pictures of
homely contentment they made! How much they add to the beauty of
pastoral scenes!
More and more we were impressed with the grandeur and grace of
the restful, flowing outlines of these mountains. With the light
gray of their granite walls and the vivid green of their
forests, they make beautiful harmony.
We paused along a beautiful sheet of water, Echo lake. A bugler
whom some tourists paid for his crude attempts was doing his
best (which was none too good) to awake the echoes. How harsh
and grating were the tones he made, seeming like the bleat of a
choking calf; yet, with what marvelous sweetness were those
rasping tones transformed by the nymphs of the mountains. After
a few moments' pause they were repeated among the nearer ridges,
but softer and with a rare sweetness as pure and clear as a
thrush's vesper bell. Again a short pause and we heard them
higher, fainter, sweeter, until they died away among the hills;
too fine for our mortal ears to catch. It seemed as if some
sylvan deity, some Mendelssohn or Chopin of this vast forest
solitude heard those harsh notes and putting a golden cornet to
his lips, sent back the melodies the bugler meant to make. As
the last reverberations died away among the hills we thought of
those lines in Emerson's "May Day":
Echo waits with Art and Care
And will the faults of song repair.
How crude the attempts of man at producing the melodies of life!
How beautiful the discordant notes become when the Master
Musician breathes into them the melodies of infinite love!
"O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on field, or hill or river
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow forever and forever."
The water of the lake was so clear we could see the white
pebbles at the bottom, or the pike that swam slowly to the edge.
How pure the mountains looked! How fresh and new the grass and
flowers! The sky above was blue; the water of Profile lake was
dark blue; the mountains wore a delicate veil of misty blue;
blue were the myriads of delicate campanula that peeped from
their rocky ledges; silvery blue was the smoke that curled from
the forest's green from a dozen camp fires; and out of that
mysterious all-pervading blue lifted the benign countenance of
the Great Stone Face.
When Nature made this grand masterpiece, she set it on the
topmost edge of Cannon Range so that all could see it. It may be
seen from the edge of Profile lake, and stands in the midst of a
magnificent forest preserve of six thousand acres, rising nearly
two thousand feet above sea level. On either side are Profile
and Echo lakes, vieing with each other in their crystal
clearness; behind it are towering cliffs and wooded heights, and
in every direction lead woodland paths and rocky trails offering
ever-changing glimpses of wonderful White mountain scenery.
With what infinite patience has Nature sculptured this great
face! Centuries ago among the American Indians there was a
legend that in time there should appear in the valley a boy
whose features would not only be a resemblance to, but be like
those of the face on the mountain side. When the people of the
valley heard the legend, they too looked for the coming of a
great man who would tower far above the ordinary life of those
who dwelt in the lowly valley. How long they waited in vain for
the appearance of one with features noble, tender and serene as
those upon which they gazed! How many years slipped by and only
rumors came concerning those who were thought to bear a
resemblance to the wonderful "old Man of the Mountains." Yet,
those very people had infinite possibilities with their own
faces while in their youth. Only by having a vision of some day
attaining that far mountain height of purity and victory, as
written on those features, could they carve out a countenance so
divine.
Gazing out over the lake through vistas of maple and beech we
thought of Hawthorne's words: "It was a happy lot for the
children to grow up to manhood or womanhood with the Great Stone
Face before their eyes; for all of the features were noble, and
the expression was at once grand and sweet, as if it were the
glow of a vast, warm heart, that embraced all mankind in its
affections and had room for more."
Truly, this face appears like a great mountain god. A wreath
seems to adorn his brow like that which was worn by the poets of
ancient Greece. A faint light surrounds and illuminates his
features scarcely discernible from the valley below. How one's
earthly schemes seem to pale and fade, as did "Gathergold's"
fortune when he beheld the wealth and beauty of Nature about
him! How sordid the striving for fame and power appear, which as
quickly fade as did that of "Old Blood and Thunder" and "Old
Stoney Phiz!" "Nature is the Art of God." How mighty the forces
that lined these majestic features! How wonderful still the
unseen hands at work to make life richer as the years go by!
You almost imagine you see the natural pulpit set in its rich
framework of verdure and festooned with vines placid in a nook
in the hills. You seem to hear the words of life uttered by the
pure lips of Ernest because "a life of good deeds and holy love
is melted into them." The ancient pines stand hushed and
tranquil in the quiet light as if awaiting a message from those
lips of stone. You gain new faith in the beauty and freshness of
Nature out here. Those lips seem to say "do not live in the mean
valleys of earthly ambition, but strive to gain higher
conceptions of life with truer, nobler aims, that soar above the
sordid world until you attain that benign look of the Great
Stone Face." It comes to you like a far-off echo of a divine
chant, sweeter than any melody you have ever caught.
Many people on first beholding the Great Stone Face ascribe
firmness to its features. They perhaps judge their fellowmen in
like manner. They fail to see the depth of thought or honest
sincerity of soul that shines forth from many a rough exterior,
beneath which beats a heart of purest gold. How many seek high
positions, notoriety, or public approbation, but alas! how few,
like Ernest, put forth the effort to fit them for the places
sought!
Almost as remarkable as the Great Stone Face itself are the
cannon that seem to guard the abode of the Man of the Mountains.
Indeed, they have been sculptured so remarkably well that some
tourists exclaim, "I wonder how they ever got those huge guns up
there." On being told these guns too, had been carved out of
rock and set in place to guard ever this beautiful and vast
domain since the beginning of time, they still were not
convinced that they were only harmless piles of stones, whose
thundering tones never had awakened the echoes of this peaceful
spot. One of the party said, "but see, up there are the gun
carriages!" True, they were very like the original implements of
destruction, but no lurid light ever profaned the night skies,
and no warriors shall ever drag these guns across the ocean to
do grim service in a "Meuse-Argonne."
Again you gaze at Profile lake, the source of the wild and
beautiful Pemigewasset river, which is joined by a few, small
streams the first few miles of its journey, then other branches
unite with it to form the Merrimac, which, after gradually
descending through Concord, supplies immense amounts of water
power to Manchester, Nashua, Lowell, Lawrence and Haverhill
before passing majestically out to sea at Newbury port.
No wonder Whittier wrote so much about the Merrimac river and
Lake Winnepesaukee, because both seem to typify the Indian name
of the latter "The Smile of the Great Spirit."
In the immediate locality about the lake a botanist will find
the hours passing all too swiftly, for here is indeed a place to
commune with Nature. You will find rare flowers and ferns, and
to what rich and lovely places they lead you! Along lonely
mountain roads where the golden song of the wood thrush comes
from the cool depths and the sweet, pearly notes of the winter
wren ripple down through the gloom; out along lonely forest
lakes or where trout brooks wander beneath dark hemlock trees
and lose their way in the shadows; high up on inaccessible
mountain ledges where the river plunges in a solid amber sheet
and breaks up into avalanches of shimmering rainbow mist, and
down in the marsh where acres and acres of green grass and sedge
stretch away like gleaming stars on a winter night. Going out to
commune with Nature sounds very nice, but it requires the
patience of a job, the eyes of a Burbank, the ears of a Mozart,
and the great loving heart of a Burroughs if one is to gain the
most from one's rambles. You will never learn the hymns that the
forest and waterfalls have been singing for ages; never really
know the song of the hermit thrush or the mystery and grandeur
of mountains, if you are unwilling to pay the price. You must be
willing to climb high mountains, scramble down rocky gorges and
ravines, thread the almost impenetrable bogs and marshes, endure
fierce heat, mosquito bites, hunger and toil, "but once you are
admitted into the secrets of the out-of-doors you will begin to
wonder why you ever dined in hot stuffy restaurants, spent your
holidays in smoky, dirty cities, or did any of those
conventional things that rob us of so many fine moments of
life!"
We looked once more at the view across the lake. Someone said
God never made anything more beautiful than the scenery at
Franconia notch. But as we turned away from this entrancing
scene, we saw a boy gazing in rapt admiration away across the
lake, his face glowing with enthusiasm, his every gesture
speaking of joy and love. Here, we said, is a work more
beautiful than any mountain scenery. What infinite possibilities
are wrapped up in the soul of a boy! Leaving him standing there
we wondered what thoughts were passing through his mind, we made
our way along the mountain road.
The soul of music slumbers in the shell,
Till waked and kindled by the master's sped,
And feeling hearts--touch them but rightly--pour
A thousand melodies unheard before.