Stage-coach—The Winooski—The Green Mountains—The ruined Dwelling—The
White Mountains—The Flume—A deep Pool—The Old Man of the Mountain—The
Basin—Franconia Notch—View of the Mountains—Mount Washington—The Notch
Valley.
In a Stage-coach. June.
Three loud knocks at my bed-room door 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 the White Mountains, 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 on the alert for anything of peculiar interest
which I may meet with in my journey. Now do the beautiful 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 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 runs 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,—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.
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,
and 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
honoured 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 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
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 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 very clear. 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 forty-five trout. Among them was the
great-grandfather of all trout, as I thought at the time, he was
seventeen inches long, and weighed two pounds and one ounce.
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 ever 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 do not believe the
mountains could ever be persuaded to vote for the acquisition of New
Territory. 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,—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. Would
that my dreams might be of yonder star, now 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 very happy.
[Illustration: FRANCONIA NOTCH.]
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
inveighing 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 favourite 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
favourite 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 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! What a god-like life is thine! Thou art the “sultan
of the sky,” and from thy craggy home for ever 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 thine eyes
of fire. But what is thy message to the sun? Far, far into the zenith
art thou gone, for ever 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, 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 does
my reader 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 how delightful it was to have her
cling to me, and to hear the beating of her heart, as the driver swung
his whip and ran 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 they been the playmates of
the storm, and held communion with the mysteries of the midnight sky.
The earliest beams of the morning have bathed them in living light, and
theirs too have been the last kisses of departing day. Man and his
empires have arisen and decayed, but they have remained unchanged, a
perpetual mockery. Upon their 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 the 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.
As is well known, 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
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
labour. The painter will be pleased with the views he may command in
ascending the route from Crawford’s, 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 sleep. 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, the rising mists
obscured 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, (kept by the celebrated hunter, named
Crawford), through the Notch Valley, some twelve miles long, is
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 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 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 retrace
my course back to a more tame country. My last view of Mount Washington
and its lordly companions was the most beautiful. The sun was near his
setting, and the whole sky was suffused with a glow of richest yellow
and crimson, while to the eastward hung two immense copper-coloured
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 I resumed my pilgrimage towards the north.