Three loud knocks upon my bed-room door at Burlington, awakened me from
“a deep dream of peace.” “The eastern stage is ready,” said my landlord,
as he handed me a light; whereupon, in less than five minutes after the
hour of three I was on my way to Portland, and inditing on the tablet of
my memory the following disjointed stage-coach rhapsody.
A fine coach, fourteen passengers, and six superb horses. My seat is on
the outside, and my eyes are on the alert for anything of peculiar
interest, which I may meet with in my journey. Now does the beautiful
range of the Green Mountains meet my view. The day is breaking, and lo!
upon either side of me, and like the two leaders of an army, rise the
peaks of Mansfield Mountain and the Camel’s Hump. Around the former the
cloud-spirits of early morning are picturing the fantastic poetry of the
sky; while just above the summit of the other, may be seen the new moon
and the morning star, waiting for the sun to come, like two sweet human
sisters, for the smiles and kisses of a returning father. And now, as
the sunbeams glide along the earth, we are in the solitude of the
mountains, and the awakened mist-creatures are ascending from the cool
and silent nooks in the deep ravines.
Young Dana’s description of a ship under full sail is very fine, but it
does not possess the living beauty of that picture which is now before
me, in those six bay horses, straining every nerve to eclipse the
morning breeze. Hold your breath, for the road is hard and smooth as
marble, and the extended nostrils of those matchless steeds speak of a
noble pride within. There, the race is done, the victory theirs, and
now, as they trot steadily along, what music in the champing of those
bits and the striking of those iron-bound hoofs! Of all the soulless
animals on earth, none do I love so dearly as the horse,—I sometimes am
inclined to think that they have souls. I respect a noble horse, more
than I do some men. Horses are the Indian chiefs of the brute creation.
The Winooski, along whose banks is the most picturesque stage route in
Vermont, is an uncommonly interesting stream,—rapid, clear, and cold. It
is remarkable for its falls and narrow passes, where perpendicular rocks
of a hundred feet or more frown upon its solitary pools. Its chief
pictorial attraction is the cataract at Waterbury, which is a deep and
jagged chasm in the granite mountain, whose horrors are greatly
increased by the sight and the smothered howl of an avalanche of pure
white foam. On its banks, and forty miles from its outlet near
Burlington, is situated Montpelier, the capital of Vermont. It is a
compact town, mostly built upon two streets, and completely hemmed in by
rich and cultivated mountains. Its chief attractions to my mind,
however, during my short stay, was a pair of deep black eyes, only half
visible under their drooping lids. O the dear, dear women, I verily
believe they will be the ruin of me!
During one of my rambles near Montpelier, I discovered an isolated and
abandoned dwelling, which stands upon a little plot of green, in the lap
of the forest near the top of a mountain. I entered its deserted
chambers, and spent a long time musing upon its solemn admonitions. The
cellar had become the home of lizards and toads. The spider and cricket
were masters of the hearth, where once had been spun the mountain
legend, by an old man to the only child of his widowed son. They were,
as I am told, the last of a long line, which once flourished in Britain,
but with them their name would pass into forgetfulness. Only the years
of a single generation have elapsed since then, but the dwellers upon
yonder mountain are sleeping in the grave. And is this passing record of
their existence the only inheritance they have left behind? Most true;
but would it have been _better_ for them, or for us, had they bequeathed
to the world a noted name or immense possessions? What is our life?
The route between Montpelier and Danville lies along the Winooski, and
is not less beautiful than that down the river. Its chief picture is
Marshfield Waterfall. While at Montpelier a pleasure ride was got up by
some of my friends, and as they were bound to the east, and I was
honored with an invitation, I sent on my baggage and joined them, so
that the monotony of my journey was agreeably relieved. We had our
fishing-rods with us, and having stopped at the fall, we caught a fine
mess of trout, which we had cooked for dinner at the next tavern on our
way,—and our dessert was fine singing from the ladies, and good stories
from the lips of Senator Phelps, who was of the party, and is celebrated
for his conversational powers. For further particulars concerning that
expedition, I would refer you to Mr. George Langdon and Lady of
Montpelier, and to that pair of eyes, which I just now mentioned as
having beamed upon me with a bewitching brilliancy. But alas! the dear
creature is already,—excuse me, I cannot, I will not speak the hateful
word. The lucky fellow ought to carry a liberal and kind soul hereafter,
if he has never done so before.
At cock-crowing this morning I was again in my seat outside of the
stage-coach, anxiously waiting for the mists to evaporate in the east.
The sun proved to be my friend, and soon as he appeared, they vanished
like a frightened troop, and he was marching up the sky in the plenitude
of his glory. And then, for the first time, did my vision rest upon the
White Mountains, as they reposed in the distance, like a mighty herd of
camels in the solitude of the desert. In the charming valley of the
Connecticut we only tarried about ten minutes, but long enough for me to
hear the mower whet his scythe, the “lark sing loud and high,” and the
pleasant tinkle of a cow-bell far away in a broad meadow. While there I
took a sketch, wherein I introduced the father of New England rivers,
and the bald peak of Mount Lafayette, with the storm-inflicted scar upon
its brow. A noble monument is yonder mountain to the memory of a noble
man.
While breakfasting at Littleton this morning, I came to the conclusion
to leave my baggage and visit Franconia. I jumped into the stage, and
after a very pleasant ride of seventeen miles, found myself far into the
Notch, in the midst of whose scenery I am to repose this night. I would
not have missed the trip _even_ for a _sincere_ love-smile from the girl
of my former idolatry. I reached here in time to enjoy an early dinner
with “mine host”; after which I sallied forth to examine the wonders of
the place, but was so delighted with everything around, that I did not
take time to make a single sketch. I saw the Flume, and was perfectly
astonished. It is a chasm in the mountain, thirty feet wide, about a
hundred deep, and some two thousand long, and as regular in its shape as
if it had been cut by the hand of man. Bridging its centre is a rock of
many tons weight, which one would suppose could only have been hurled
there from the heavens. Through its centre flows a little brook, which
soon passes over a succession of rocky slides, and which are almost as
smooth and white as marble. And to cap the climax, this Flume is the
centre of as perfect and holy a wilderness of scenery as could be
imagined.
I have also seen (what should be the pride of the Merrimack, as it is
upon one of its tributaries) the most superb pool in this whole country.
The fall above it is not remarkable, but the forest-covered rocks on
either side, and the pool itself, are wonderfully fine. In the first
place, you must remember, that the waters of this whole region are cold
as ice, and clear as possible. The pool forms a circle of about one
hundred feet in diameter, and is said to be fifty feet in depth. Owing
to the fall, it is the “head-quarters” of the trout, which are found all
along the stream in great abundance. After I had completed a drawing, I
laid aside my pencils and fixed my fishing rod. I threw the line _only_
about two hours and caught _only_ forty-five trout, but they were real
beauties, I assure you. Among them was the great-grandfather of all
trout,—he was _only_ seventeen inches long, and weighed _only_ two
pounds and one ounce. It does take me, and no mistake, to throw a
scientific fly.
The Old Man of the Mountain, is another of the lions of this place. It
is a cone-shaped mountain, (at the foot of which is a small lake,) upon
whose top are some rocks, which have a resemblance to the profile of an
old man. It is really a very curious affair. There the old fellow
stands, as he has stood perhaps for centuries, “looking the whole world
in the face.” I wonder if the thunder never frightens him! and does the
lightning play around his brow without making him wink? His business
there, I suppose, is to protect the “ungranted lands” of New Hampshire,
or keep Isaac Hill from lecturing the White Mountains on Locofocoism. He
need not trouble himself as to the first fear, for they could not be
deeded even to a bear; and as to the second, I don’t believe the
mountains could ever be persuaded to go for the annexation of Texas.
Every plant upon them speaks of freedom, and in their fastnesses does
the eagle find a home,—their banner-symbols are the stars and stripes,
and therefore they must be Whigs.
And another curiosity, which everybody goes to see, is called the
Basin,—which is indeed an exquisite little spot,—fit for the abode of a
very angel. It is formed in the solid rock, and though twenty feet in
depth, you can see a sixpence at the bottom,—it is so wonderfully clear.
But the wild beauties of this Notch, unknown to fame, are charming
beyond compare. There goes the midnight warning of the clock, and I must
retire. O that my dreams may be of yonder star, now just beaming with
intense brightness above the dark outline of the nearest mountain.
The distance from Knight’s tavern to the western outlet of Franconia
Notch is eight miles. The eastern stage was to pass through about the
middle of the afternoon, so after eating my breakfast I started on,
intending to enjoy a walk between the mountains. With the conceptions
and feelings that were with me then, I should have been willing to die,
for I was perfectly happy. Now, as I sat upon a stone to sketch a mass
of foliage, a little red squirrel came within five feet of me, and
commenced a terrible chattering, as if his lady-love had given him the
“mitten,” and he was blowing out against the whole female sex; and now
an old partridge with a score of children came tripping along the
shadowy road, almost within my reach, and so fearless of my presence,
that I would not have harmed one of them even for a crown. Both of these
were exceedingly simple pictures, and yet they afforded me a world of
pleasure. I thought of the favorite haunts of these dear creatures,—the
hollow tree,—the bed of dry leaves,—the cool spring,—the mossy yellow
log,—the rocky ledges overgrown with moss,—the gurgling brooklet
stealing through the trees, with its fairy waterfalls in a green shadow
and its spots of vivid sunlight,—and of a thousand other kindred _gems_
in the wonderful gallery of Nature. And now as I walked onward, peering
into the gloomy recesses of the forest on either side, or fixed my eyes
upon the blue sky with a few white clouds floating in their glory, many
of my favorite songs were remembered, and, in a style _peculiarly_ my
own, I poured them upon the air, whilst I was answered by unnumbered
mountain echoes. Nothing had they to do with the place or with each
other, but like the pictures around me, they were a divine food for my
soul,—so that I was in the perfect enjoyment of a heavenly feast. Now,
as I looked through the opening trees, I saw an eagle floating above the
summit of a mighty cliff,—now, with the speed of a falling star
descending far into the leafy depths, and then, slowly but surely
ascending, until hidden from view by a passing cloud. Fly on, proud
bird, glorious symbol of my country’s freedom! O what a god-like life is
thine? Yes, thou art the “sultan of the sky,” and from thy craggy home
forever lookest upon the abodes of man with indifference and scorn. The
war-whoop of the Savage, the roar of artillery on the bloody battle
field, and the loud boom of the ocean cannon, have fallen upon thy ear,
and thou hast listened, utterly heedless as to whom belonged the
victory. What strength and power in thy pinions! traversing in an hour a
wider space
“Than yonder gallant ship, with all her sails
Wooing the winds, can cross from morn till eve!”
When thy hunger-shriek echoes through the wilderness, with terror does
the wild animal seek his den, for thy talons are of iron and thy eyes of
fire. But what is thy message to the sun? Far, far into the zenith art
thou gone, forever gone—emblem of a mighty hope that once was mine.
My thoughts were upon the earth once more, and my feet upon a hill out
of the woods, whence might be seen the long broad valley of the
Amonoosack, melting into that of the Connecticut. Long and intently did
I gaze upon the landscape, with its unnumbered farm-houses, reposing in
the sunlight, and surmounted by pyramids of light blue smoke, and also
upon the cattle gazing on a thousand hills. Presently I heard the
rattling wheels of the stage-coach;—one more look over the charming
valley,—and I was in my seat beside the coachman.
In view of the foregoing and forthcoming facts, and though I am
sometimes hard pushed for the dollars needful, I cannot but conclude
that I am a most lucky fellow. My ride from Franconia to Littleton was
attended with this interesting circumstance. A very pretty young lady,
who was in the stage, found it necessary to change her seat to the
outside on account of the confinement within. Of course, I welcomed her
to my side with unalloyed pleasure. The scenery was fine, but what do
you suppose I cared for that,—as I sat there talking in a most eloquent
strain to my companion, with my right arm around her waist to keep her
from falling? That conduct of mine may appear “shocking” to those who
have “never travelled,” but it was not only an act of politeness but of
absolute necessity. Neither, as my patient’s smile told me, “was it bad
to take.” And O, how perfectly delightful it was to have her cling to
me, and to hear the beating of her heart, as the driver swung his whip
and run his horses down the hills! Animal magnetism is indeed a great
invention,—and I am a believer in it, so far as the touch of a beautiful
woman is concerned.
Away, away—thoughts of the human world! for I am entering into the heart
of the White Mountains. Ah me! how can I describe these glorious
hierarchs of New England! How solemnly do they raise their rugged peaks
to heaven! Now, in token of their royalty, crowned with a diadem of
clouds; and now with every one of their cliffs gleaming in the sunlight
like the pictures of a dream! For ages, have ye been the playmates of
the storm, and held communion with the mysteries of the midnight sky.
The earliest beams of the morning have bathed you in living light, and
there too have been the last kisses of departing day. Man and his
empires have arisen and decayed, but ye have remained unchanged, a
perpetual mockery. Upon your summits, Time has never claimed dominion.
There, as of old, does the eagle teach her brood to fly, and there does
the wild bear prowl after his prey. There do thy waterfalls still leap
and shout on their way to the dells below, even as when the tired Indian
hunter, some hundred ages agone, bent him to quaff the liquid element.
There still, does the rank grass rustle in the breeze, and the pine, and
cedar, and hemlock, take part in the howling of the gale. Upon Man alone
falls the heavy curse of time; Nature has never sinned, therefore is her
glory immortal.
But how in thunder shall I get down from this great poetical eminence?
Why, by giving you a simple matter-of-fact description. As you know, the
highest of these mountains was christened after our beloved Washington,
and with it, as with him, are associated the names of Jefferson,
Madison, and Adams. Its height is said to be six thousand and eight
hundred feet above the sea, but owing to its situation in the _centre_
of a brotherhood of hills, it does not _appear_ to be so grand an object
as South Peak Mountain among the Catskills. Its summit, like most of its
companions, is destitute of vegetation, and is therefore more desolate
and monotonous. It is somewhat of an undertaking to ascend Mount
Washington, though the trip is performed on horseback; but if the
weather is clear, the traveller will be well repaid for his labor. The
Painter will be pleased with the views which he will command in
ascending the route from Crawford’s, and which abounds in the wildest
and most diversified charms of mountain scenery. But the prospect from
the summit of Washington, will mostly excite the soul of the Poet. Not
so much on account of what he will behold, but for the _breathless
feeling_, which will make him deem himself for a moment to be an angel
or a god. And then, more than ever, if he is a Christian, will he desire
to be alone, so as to anticipate the bliss of heaven by a holy communion
with the Invisible.
I spent a night upon this mountain, and my best view of the prospect was
at the break of day, when, as Milton says,
“——morn, her rosy steps in th’ Eastern clime
Advancing, sow’d the earth with orient pearls,”
and,
“Wak’d by the circling hours, with rosy hand
Unbarr’d the gates of light;”
or when, in the language of Shakspeare,
“The grey-eyed morn smiled on the frowning night,
Checkering the eastern clouds with streaks of light.”
Wonderfully vast, and strangely indistinct and dreamy, was the scene
spread out on every side. To the west lay the superb Connecticut, with
its fertile valley reposing in the gloom of night, while to the east,
the ocean-bounded prospect, just bursting into the life of light, was
faintly relieved by Winnepiseogee and Sebago lakes, and like rockets
along the earth, wandered away the Merrimack, the Saco, and the
Androscoggin, to their ocean home,—the whole forming an _epic
landscape_, such as we seldom behold excepting in our dreams. Heavens!
with what exquisite delight did I gaze upon the scene, as in the eyes of
truth and fancy it expanded before my mind. Yonder, in one of a hundred
villages, a young wife, with her first-born child at her side, was in
the midst of her morning dream; and there, the pilgrim of fourscore
years was lying on his couch in a fitful slumber, as the pains of age
crept through his frame. There, on the Atlantic shore, the fisherman in
the sheltering bay, hoisted anchor and spread his sail for the sea;—and
there, the life-star of the lighthouse was extinguished, again at its
stated time to appear with increased brilliancy. In reality, there was
an ocean of mountains all around me, but in the dim light of the hour,
and as I looked _down_ upon them, it seemed to me that I stood in the
centre of a plain, boundless as the universe; and though I could not see
them, I felt that I was in a region of spirits, and that the summit of
the mount was holy ground. But the morning was advancing, and the rising
mists obscuring my vision, and, as I did not wish to have that day-break
picture dissipated from my mind, I mounted my faithful horse, and with a
solemn awe at heart descended the mountain.
The ride from the Notch House through the Notch valley, which is some
twelve miles long, is perfectly magnificent. First is the Gap itself,
only some twenty feet in width, and overhung with jagged rocks of
wondrous height, and then the tiny spring alive with trout, which gives
birth to the untamed Saco. A few more downward steps, and you are in
full view of a bluff, whose storm-scathed brow seems to prop the very
heavens,—its deep grey shadows strongly contrasting with the deep blue
sky. A little further on, and you find yourself in an amphitheatre of
mountains, whose summits and sides are perfectly barren and desolate,
where the storms of a thousand years have exhausted their fury. Downward
still and farther on, and you come to the memorable Wiley cottage, whose
inhabitants perished in the avalanche or slide of 1826. The storm had
been unceasing for some days upon the surrounding country, and the
dwellers of the cottage were startled at midnight by the falling earth.
They fled,—and were buried in an instant; and up to the present time,
only one of the seven bodies has ever been found. As it then stood, the
dwelling still stands—a monument of mysterious escape, as well as of the
incomprehensible decrees of Providence. The Saco river, which runs
through the valley, was lifted from its original bed, and forced into a
new channel. The whole place, which but a short time before was “a
beautiful and verdant opening amid the surrounding rudeness and deep
shadow, is now like a stretch of desolate sea-shore after a
tempest,—full of wrecks, buried in sand and rocks, crushed and ground to
atoms.”
After witnessing so much of the grand and gloomy, I was glad to reach
the bottom of the Notch valley, and to continue along the picturesque
Saco, through a very pleasant and well cultivated country, to Conway. My
_last_ view of Mount Washington and its lordly companions was the most
_beautiful_. The sun was near his setting, and the whole western sky was
suffused with a glow of richest yellow and crimson, where hung two
immense copper-colored clouds just touching the outline of the
mountains; and through the hazy atmosphere the mountains themselves
looked cloud-like, but with more of the bright blue of heaven upon them.
In the extensive middle distance faded away wood-crowned hills, and in
the foreground an exquisite little farm, with the husbandman’s happy
abode almost hidden by groups of elms, and with the simple figures, only
a few paces off, of a little girl sitting on a stone, with a bunch of
summer flowers in her hand, and a basket of berries and a dog at her
side. One more yearning gaze upon the dear old mountains, and the
fountain of my affections was full, and I wept like a very child.
Well, here I am at last in Portland. At the time of starting this
morning from Conway it commenced raining, and all the way here were we
attended with refreshing showers. There were six passengers, and it so
happened that we were acquainted with each other before we reached the
mountains, and having for the most part enjoyed their scenery in
company, we were in a fitting mood to be somewhat entertaining. Doctor
Orville Dewy, of New York, his lady and daughter, and John Frothingham,
of Montreal, and daughter, are the friends whose names will ever be
associated with my recollections of the White Mountains. The Doctor’s
faculty for telling a good story or cracking a joke, is well worthy of
the orator and writer; and if Mr. Frothingham excels as a merchant in
proportion to his entertaining manner of relating his European travels,
he must indeed be a merchant prince. As to the fair ladies, I cannot pay
them a better compliment than by letting
“Expressive silence muse their praise.”
Portland is a thriving city of some twenty thousand inhabitants, and
commands a very fine view of the ocean. If for no other reason, it
should interest the admirers of genius because it is the native place of
Mrs. Seba Smith, Professor Longfellow, and John Neal. I have just
received an invitation to hear some singing from the lips of one of my
fellow-travellers, and as I know it will be of the rarest kind, I must
conclude this rhapsody, and _migrate_ to the parlor.
MOOSEHEAD LAKE AND THE
KENNEBECK.
Moosehead Lake is the largest and the wildest in New England. It lies in
the central portion of the State of Maine, and distant from the ocean
about one hundred and fifty miles. Its length is fifty miles, and its
width from five to fifteen. It is embosomed among a brotherhood of
mountains, whose highest peak hath been christened with the beautiful
name of Katahden. All of them, from base to summit, are covered with a
dense forest, in which the pine is by far the most abundant. It is the
grand centre of the only wilderness region in New England, whose
principal denizens are wild beasts. During the summer months, its
tranquil waters remain in unbroken solitude, unless some scenery-hunting
pilgrim, like myself, should happen to steal along its shores in his
birchen canoe. But in the winter the case is very different, for then,
all along its borders, may be heard the sound of the axe, wielded by a
thousand men. Then it is that an immense quantity of logs are cut, which
are manufactured into lumber at the extensive mills down the Kennebeck,
which is the only outlet to the Lake.
A winter at Moosehead must be attended with much that is rare, and wild,
and exciting, not only to the wealthy proprietor who has a hundred men
to superintend, but even to the toiling chopper himself. Look at a
single specimen of the gladdening scenes enacted in that forest world.
It is an awful night, the winds wailing, the snow falling, and the
forests making a moan. Before you is a spacious, but rudely built log
cabin, almost covered with snow. But now, above the shriek of the storm,
and the howl of the wolf, you hear a long, loud shout, from a score of
human mouths. You enter the cabin, and lo, a merry band of noble men,
some lying on a buffalo-robe, and some seated upon a log, while the huge
fire before them reveals every feature and wrinkle of their
countenances, and makes a picture of the richest coloring. Now the call
is for a song, and a young man sings a song of Scotland, which is his
native land; a mug of cider then goes round, after which an old pioneer
clears his throat for a hunting legend of the times of old; now the
cunning jest is heard, and peals of hearty laughter shake the building;
and now a soul-stirring speech is delivered in favor of Henry Clay. The
fireplace is again replenished, when with a happy and contented mind
each woodman retires to his couch, to sleep, and to dream of his wife
and children, or of the buxom damsel whom he loves.
The number of logs which these men cut in a single winter is almost
incredible, and the business of conveying them to the lake upon the snow
gives employment to a great many additional men and their oxen. The
consequence is, that large quantities of flour, potatoes, pork, and hay,
are consumed; and as these things are mostly supplied by the farmers of
the Kennebeck, winter is the busiest season of the year throughout the
region. When the lake is released from its icy fetters in the spring, a
new feature of the logging business comes into operation, which is
called rafting. A large raft contains about eighteen thousand logs, and
covers a space of some ten acres. In towing them to the Kennebeck, a
small steamboat is employed, which, when seen from the summit of a hill,
looks like a living creature struggling with a mighty incubus. But the
most picturesque thing connected with this business is a floating
log-cabin, called a Raft House, which ever attends a raft on its way to
the river. During the summer, as before stated, Moosehead Lake is a
perfect solitude, for the “log chopper” has become a “log driver” on the
Kennebeck,—the little steamer being moored in its sheltering bay, near
the tavern at the south end of the lake, and the toiling oxen been
permitted to enjoy their summer sabbath on the farm of their master.
The islands of Moosehead Lake, of any size, are only four; Moose and
Deer Islands at the southern extremity, Sugar Island in the large
eastern bay, and Farm Island in a north-western direction from that. All
of these are covered with beautiful groves, but the time is not far
distant when they will be cultivated farms. Trout are the principal fish
that flourish in its waters, and may be caught at any time in great
abundance. And thereby hangs a _fish story_.
It was the sunset hour, and with one of my companions I had gone to a
rocky ledge for the purpose of trying my luck. We cut each of us a long
pole, to which we fastened two immensely long lines with stout hooks.
Our bait was squirrel meat, and I was the first to throw my line. It had
hardly reached the water, before I had the pleasure of striking and
securing a two pound trout. This threw my friend into a perfect fever of
excitement, so that he was everlastingly slow in cutting up the
squirrels; and it may be readily supposed that I was somewhat excited
myself, so I grabbed the animal out of his hands, and in less than a
“jiffy,” and with my _teeth_, made a number of good baits. The
conclusion of the whole matter was, that in less than forty minutes we
had caught nearly seventy pounds of salmon trout, and some of them, I
tell you, were real _smashers_. But the trout of Moosehead are not to be
compared with those of Horicon in point of delicacy, though they are
very large, and very abundant. The reason of this is, that its waters
are not remarkably clear, and a good deal of its bottom is muddy. Moose
River, which is the principal tributary to the Lake, is a narrow, deep,
and picturesque stream, where may be caught the common trout, weighing
from one to five pounds.
In this portion of Maine every variety of forest game may be found, but
the principal kinds are the grey wolf, the black bear, the deer, and the
moose. Winter is the appropriate season for their capture, when they
afford a deal of sport to the hunter, and furnish a variety of food to
the forest laborers. Deer are so very plenty, that a certain resident
told me, that, in the deep snow of last winter, he caught some dozen of
them alive, and having cut a slit in their ears, let them go, that they
might recount to their kindred their marvellous escape. But the
homeliest animal, the most abundant, and the best for eating, is the
moose. I did not kill one, but spent a night with an old hunter who did.
During the warm summer night these animals, for the purpose of getting
clear of the black-fly, are in the habit of taking to the water, where,
with nothing but their heads in sight, they remain for hours. It was the
evening of one of those cloudless nights, whose memory can never die. We
were alone far up the Moose River, and it seemed to me, “we were the
first that ever burst into that _forest_ sea.” On board a swan-like
birch canoe we embarked, and with our rifles ready, we carefully and
silently descended the stream. How can I describe the lovely pictures
that we passed? Now we peered into an ink-black recess in the centre of
a group of elms, where a thousand fire-flies were revelling in joy;—and
now a solitary duck shot out into the stream from its hidden home,
behind a fallen and decayed tree; now we watched the stars mirrored in
the sleeping waves, and now we listened to the hoot of the owl, the drum
of the partridge, the song of a distant waterfall, or the leap of a
robber-trout. It was not far from midnight when my companion whispered,
“Hush, hush!” and pointed to a dim spot some hundred yards below. The
first fire was allotted me, so I took the best aim I could, and fired. I
heard the ball skip along the water, and on coming near, found my mark
to be only a smooth rock. Two hours more passed on, one small moose was
killed, and at day-break we were in our cabin fast asleep.
The principal outlet to Moosehead Lake is the Kennebeck, which “now
demands my song.” It is the second river in Maine, and one of the most
beautiful I have ever seen. Instead of watering a wilderness, as I had
supposed, all along its valley for over a hundred miles are fertile and
extensive farms, with here and there a thriving village, inhabited by an
intelligent and industrious people. Its principal tributary is Dead
River, and the spot at the junction of the two is called the Forks. The
cultivated region stops here, and between this point and Moosehead the
distance is about twenty-five miles, which is yet a forest wilderness.
The principal attraction at the Forks is a capital tavern, kept by one
Burnham, who is a capital fellow to guide the lover of Nature or the
trout fisherman to Moxy Fall or Lake Lanman, which are in the immediate
vicinity. The mountains about here are quite lofty, and exceedingly
picturesque, abounding in the maple, the oak, the pine, and hemlock.
Emptying into the Kennebeck, a few miles north of the Forks, is a superb
mountain-stream, named Moxy, after an Indian who was there drowned.
Winding for a long distance among the rock of wild ravines, and
eternally singing to the woods a trumpet-song, it finally makes a sudden
plunge into a chasm more than a hundred feet in depth. The perpendicular
rocks on either side rise to an immense height, their tops crowned with
a “peculiar diadem of trees,” and their crevices filled up with
dark-green verdure, whence occasionally issues, hanging gracefully in
the air, beautiful festoons of the ivy, and clusters of the mountain
blue-bell. The depth of the pool was never told, and its waters wash
against the granite walls in a perpetual gloom. On one occasion I
visited it when there was a high freshet, and saw what I could hardly
have believed from a description. I stood on an elevated point, in front
of the Fall, when my eyes rested upon an immense log, some sixty feet
long, coming down the foaming stream with all the fury of a maddened
steed; presently it reached the precipice,—then cleaved its airy pathway
down into the hell of waters,—was completely out of sight for _three
minutes_, then, like a creature endowed with life, shot upward again
clear out of the water, made another less desperate plunge, and quietly
pursued its course into the Kennebeck.
In speaking of _Lake Lanman_, it is necessary that I should be a little
egotistical. It is a fairy-like sheet of pure water in the heart of the
mountain wilderness, only about a mile in length, but full of trout. The
proprietor was of the party that accompanied me on my first visit. While
approaching it, the remark was made, that it was yet without a name;
when it was agreed that it should be christened after that individual,
who should on that day throw the most successful fly. As fortune would
have it, the honor was awarded to me; and on a guide-board in the
forest, three miles from Burnham’s, may be seen the figure of a hand,
and the words “Lake Lanman.” There stands my written name, exposed “to
the peltings of the pitiless storm;” and in a few years, at the longest,
it will be washed away, and the tree which supports it be mingling with
the dust. O, will it be even thus with the _memory_ of name?
Not to attempt a description of the scenery of the Kennebeck, which
could be faithfully given only by the pictures of a Cole or Durand, I
will take you down its beautiful valley, and tell you what I know
respecting its beautiful villages.
The first in order is Bingham, situated on a fertile “interval,”
surrounded with picturesque hills, charming and quiet as a summer day,
and containing within the jurisdiction of its town an uncommonly fine
farm, belonging to a Mr. Parlin, who manufactures large quantities of
maple sugar.
Solon is the next village in the Kennebeck valley, remarkable for
nothing but Caritunk Falls, which are twenty feet high, and run through
a gorge fifty feet wide. Here I saw some twenty men “driving” the logs
that had been lodged all along the river when it was low. It is a
laborious life which these men lead, but they receive good pay, and meet
with many interesting adventures. They generally have the soul to enjoy
fine scenery, and therefore demand the respect of the intelligent
traveller.
Anson, though in the valley of the Kennebeck, is situated on Seven Mile
Brook, and is a flourishing business place. From its neighboring hills
may be seen the sky-piercing peaks of Mount Blue, Saddleback, Bigelow,
and Mount Abraham, which are the guardian spirits of Maine. The town is
distinguished for its agricultural enterprise, and the abundance of its
wheat, having actually produced more than is reported from any other
town in the State.
Norridgwock, so named by the Kennebeck Indians, because, when fighting
with their enemies at this place, they could find _no-ridge-to-walk_
upon, which was a desirable object. It is a charming little village, and
associated with a celebrated Indian Chief named Bomazeen, and also with
a Jesuit Missionary, whose name I do not remember. Not far from here is
a picturesque fall, also a picturesque bend of the Kennebeck, where
empties Sandy River, upon which are many extensive farms.
Skowhegan is a thriving village, where there are fine Falls, which I
never could look upon without thinking of the famous Glen’s Falls in New
York, of which they are a perfect counterpart, though on a smaller
scale. Many and very dear to me are my recollections of its “choice
bits” of scenery, of the fine singing I there heard, of the
acquaintances there formed, and of the pleasant literary communings
which were mine in company with one of the best and most intellectual of
women, and who has for many years been my “guide, counsellor, and
friend.”
Waterville, the next town on the river, is the seat of a Baptist
College, and the head of navigation on account of the Ticonic Falls. It
is the centre of an extensive farming district, which fact, together
with the literary taste of its people, make it an uncommonly interesting
place.
Augusta, the capital of the State, is also on the Kennebeck, and with
its State House and other State buildings, its admirably conducted
hotels, its commanding churches, its large bridge, and pleasant
residences, is one of the most picturesque and interesting towns in the
whole of New England.
Hallowell, two miles below Augusta, was once a great place of business,
and is still a very pleasant place, though unable to compete with its
rival the Capital. In my mind it is chiefly associated with some fine
people, and particularly with three beautiful sisters, who are great
lovers of poetry, and fine singers, either with the piano or guitar.
Gardiner, further down, is a tremendous place for saw-mills,—and
lumbering I look upon as one of the nicest and surest kinds of business.
It contains the handsomest church-building in the State, and a number of
fine residences, belonging to its wealthy citizens, of which that one
belonging to Mr. Gardiner, (after whom the place was named,) is the
finest.
Bath is the next and most southern town on the Kennebeck; it is quite a
large place, where there is a great deal of shipping done, and is now in
a flourishing condition. The sail down the river from here is a most
delightful one, for the eye revels on a continual succession of pleasant
farms, quiet headlands, solitary islands, and vessels of every kind
passing up and down the stream. Even to the present day, the Kennebeck
abounds in salmon, which are caught with nets from the first of May till
mid-summer. To take them with the hook is a _leetle_ the _tallest_ kind
of sport _in all creation_, and for the manner in which I conquered a
solitary individual, I refer you to a certain passage in Scrope on
Salmon Fishing. Few are the rivers that I love more than the Kennebeck,
and very dear to me are its manifold associations.