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[Illustration: TRAVELLERS IN A STORM, MOUNT WASHINGTON.]




Tourist's Edition

THE HEART
OF THE
WHITE MOUNTAINS

THEIR LEGEND AND SCENERY

BY

SAMUEL ADAMS DRAKE

AUTHOR OF "NOOKS AND CORNERS OF THE NEW ENGLAND COAST"
"CAPTAIN NELSON" ETC.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY

W. HAMILTON GIBSON

"_Eyes loose: thoughts close_"

NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS. FRANKLIN SQUARE
1882




Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1881, by

HARPER & BROTHERS,

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

_All rights reserved._


To JOHN G. WHITTIER:

_An illustrious and venerated bard, who shares with you the love and
honor of his countrymen, tells us that the poets are the best travelling
companions. Like Orlando in the forest of Arden, they "hang odes on
hawthorns and elegies on thistles."

In the spirit of that delightful companionship, so graciously announced,
it is to you, who have kindled on our aged summits

    "The light that never was on sea or land,
     The consecration and the poet's dream."

that this volume is affectionately dedicated by_

THE AUTHOR.




PREFACE.


The very flattering reception which the sumptuous holiday edition
of "The Heart of the White Mountains" received on its _début_ has
decided the Messrs. Harper to re-issue it in a more convenient and less
expensive form, with the addition of a Tourist's Appendix, and an Index
farther adapting it for the use of actual travellers. While all the
original features remain intact, these additions serve to render the
references in the text intelligible to the uninstructed reader, and at
the same time help to make a practical working manual. One or two new
maps contribute to the same end.

I take the opportunity thus afforded me to say that, when "The Heart of
the White Mountains" was originally prepared, I hoped it might go into
the hands of those who, making the journey for the first time, feel the
need of something different from the conventional guide-book of the day,
and for whom it would also be, during the hours of travel or of leisure
among the mountains, to some extent an entertaining as well as a useful
companion. So far as author and publisher are concerned, that purpose is
now realized.

Finally, I wrote the book because I could not help it.

SAMUEL ADAMS DRAKE.

MELROSE, _January, 1882_.




GENERAL CONTENTS.


FIRST JOURNEY.

                               PAGE

I. _MY TRAVELLING COMPANIONS_.....1

II. _INCOMPARABLE WINNIPISEOGEE_: Voyage from Wolfborough to Centre
Harbor.--The Indians.--Centre Harbor.--Legendary.--Ascent of Red
Hill.--Sunset on the Lake.....8

III. _CHOCORUA_: Stage Journey to Tamworth.--Scramble for
Places.--Valley of the Bear Camp.--Legend of Chocorua.--Sandwich
Mountains.--Chocorua Lake.--Ascent of Mount Chocorua.....18

IV. _LOVEWELL_: Fryeburg.--Lovewell's Fight.--Desperate Encounter with
the Pigwackets.--Death of Paugus.....33

V. _NORTH CONWAY_: The Antechamber of the Mountains.--White
Horse Ledge.--Fording the Saco.--Indian Custom.--Echo Lake.--The
Cathedral.--Diana's Baths.--Artists' Falls.--The Moats.--Winter Ascent
of Mount Kearsarge.....39

VI. _FROM KEARSARGE TO CARRIGAIN_: Conway Intervales.--Bartlett
Bowlder.--Singular Homicide.--Bartlett.--A Lost Village.--Ascent of
Mount Carrigain.--A Shaggy Wilderness.....55

VII. _VALLEY OF THE SACO_: Autumnal Foliage.--The Story of
Nancy.--Doctor Bemis.--Abel Crawford, the Veteran Guide.--Ethan A.
Crawford.--The Mount Crawford Glen.--Giant's Stairs.--Frankenstein
Cliff.--Superb View of Mount Washington.--Mount Willey.....66

VIII. _THROUGH THE NOTCH_: Great Notch of the White Mountains.--The
Willey House, and Slide of 1826.--"Colonizing" Voters.--Mount
Willard.--Mount Webster, and its Cascades.--Gate of the Notch.--Summit
of the Pass.....76

IX. _CRAWFORD'S_: The Elephant's Head.--Crawford House, and
Glen.--Discovery of The Notch.--Ascent of Mount Willard.--Magnificent
_coup d'oeil_.....87

X. _THE ASCENT FROM CRAWFORD'S_: The Bridle-path.--Wreck of
the Forest.--A Forest of Ice.--Dwarf Trees.--Summit of Mount
Clinton.--Caught in a Snow-storm.--The Colonel's Hat.--Oakes's
Gulf.--The Plateau.--Climbing the Dome.--The Summit at Last.....95


SECOND JOURNEY.

I. _LEGENDS OF THE CRYSTAL HILLS_: Indian Tradition and Legend.--Ascent
of Mount Washington by Darby Field.--Indian Name of the White Mountains
.....113

II. _JACKSON AND THE ELLIS VALLEY_: Thorn Hill.--Jackson.--Jackson
Falls.--Goodrich Falls.--The Ellis.--A Captive Maiden's Song.--Pretty
Indian Legend.--Pinkham Notch, from the Ellis.--A Mountain
Homestead.--Artist Life.....122

III. _THE CARTER NOTCH_: Valley of the Wildcat.--The Guide.--The
Way In.--Summit of The Notch.--Awful Desolation.--The Giant's
Barricade.--Carter Dome.--The Way Out.....132

IV. _THE PINKHAM NOTCH_: The Glen House.--Thompson's Falls.--Emerald
Pool.--Crystal Cascade.--Glen Ellis and its Legend.....144

V. _A SCRAMBLE IN TUCKERMAN'S_: Tuckerman's Ravine.--The Path.--Hermit
Lake.--"No Thoroughfare."--Interior of the Ravine.--The Snow
Arch.....155

VI. _IN AND ABOUT GORHAM_: The Peabody Valley.--Copp's Farm.--The
Imp.--Nathaniel Copp's Adventure.--Gorham and the Androscoggin.--Mount
Hayes.--Mount Madison.--Wholesale Destruction of the Forests.--Logging
in the Mountains.--Berlin Falls.--Shelburne and Bethel.....165

VII. _ASCENT BY THE CARRIAGE-ROAD_: Bruin and the Travellers.--The
Ledge.--The Great Gulf.--Fatal Accident.--Lost Travellers.--Arrival at
the Signal-station.--A Night on the Summit.....178

VIII. _MOUNT WASHINGTON_: View from the Summit.--The Great Gale.--Life
on the Summit.--Shadow of Mount Washington.--Bigelow's Lawn.--The Hunter
Monument.--Lake of the Clouds.--The Mountain Butterfly.....189


THIRD JOURNEY.

I. _THE PEMIGEWASSET IN JUNE_: Plymouth.--Death of Hawthorne.--John
Stark, the Hunter.--Livermore Fall.--Trout and Salmon
Breeding.--Franconia Mountains from West Campton.--Settlement of
Campton.--Valley of Mad River.--Tripyramid Mountain.--Waterville and its
Surroundings.....209

II. _THE FRANCONIA PASS_: The Flume House.--The Pool.--The
Flume.--Ascent of Mount Pemigewasset.--The Basin.--Mount
Cannon.--Profile Lake.--Old Man of the Mountain.--Summit of the
Pass.....224

III. _THE KING OF FRANCONIA_: Profile House and Glen.--Eagle
Cliff.--Echo Lake.--Ascent of Mount Lafayette.--The Lakes.--Singular
Atmospheric Effects.....237

IV. _FRANCONIA, AND THE NEIGHBORHOOD_: The Roadside Spring.--Franconia
Iron Works and Vicinity.--Sugar Hill.....248

V. _THE CONNECTICUT OX-BOW_: Newbury and Haverhill.....256

VI. _THE SACK OF ST. FRANCIS DE SALES_: Robert Rogers, the
Ranger.--Destruction of the Abenaqui Village.--Retreat and Pursuit of
the Rangers.--Legend of the Silver Image.....259

VII. _MOOSEHILLOCK_: Ascent of the Mountain from Warren.--View from the
Summit.....267

VIII. _BETHLEHEM_: Bethlehem Street.--Sudden Rise of a Mountain
Resort.--The Environs.--Maplewood and the Great Range.--The Place of
Sunsets.--The "Hermit."--The Soldier turned Peddler.....276

IX. _JEFFERSON, AND THE VALLEY OF ISRAEL'S RIVER_: Jefferson
Hill.--Starr King and Cherry Mountains.--The Great Chain Again.--Thomas
Starr King.--Ethan Crawford's.--Ravine of the Cascades.--Randolph Hill
and King's Ravine.--The Cherry Mountain Road.--Fabyan's.--Captain
Rosebrook .....291

X. _THE GREAT NORTHERN PEAKS_: The Mountain Railway.--An Evening
Ascension.--Moonlight on the Summit.--Sunrise.--A March to Mount
Adams.--The Great Gulf of the Five Mountains.--The Castellated
Ridge.--Peak of Mount Adams.--Conclusion.....304





Illustrations.


These Illustrations, excepting those marked *, were designed by W.
HAMILTON GIBSON.

SUBJECT.      ENGRAVER.      PAGE.
TRAVELLERS IN A STORM, MOUNT WASHINGTON   _R. Hoskin_    Frontispiece

WINNIPISEOGEE, FROM RED HILL              _J. Tinkey_              15

*"ALONE WITH ALL THOSE MEN!"              _V. Bernstrom_           20
      _Designed by W. A. Rogers._

PASSACONNAWAY, FROM THE BEAR-CAMP RIVER   _Smithwick and French_   24

CHOCORUA                                  _R. Hoskin_              26

LOVEWELL'S POND                           _J. P. Davis_            34

MOUNT WASHINGTON, FROM THE SACO           _F. S. King_             40

THE LEDGES, NORTH CONWAY                  _E. Held_                41

ECHO LAKE, NORTH CONWAY                   _G. J. Buechner_         45

KEARSARGE IN WINTER                       _R. Hoskin_              48

*SLIDING DOWN KEARSARGE                   _H. Deis_                53
      _Designed by W. A. Rogers._

CONWAY MEADOWS                            _W. H. Morse_            56

BARTLETT BOWLDER                          _E. Held_                58

*NANCY IN THE SNOW                        _J. P. Davis_            68
      _Designed by Sol Eytinge._

*ABEL CRAWFORD (PORTRAIT)                 _Thos. Johnson_          70

STORM ON MOUNT WILLEY                     _J. Linton_              75

MOUNT WILLARD, FROM WILLEY BROOK          _G. Smith_               78

THE CASCADES, MOUNT WEBSTER               _F. S. King_             85

ELEPHANT'S HEAD, WINTER                   _H. Wolf_                88

LOOKING DOWN THE NOTCH                    _C. Mayer_               91

GIANT'S STAIRS, FROM THORN MOUNTAIN       _J. Hellawell_           124

MOAT MOUNTAIN, FROM JACKSON FALLS         _F. Pettit_              126

THE CARTER NOTCH                          _Smithwick and French_   134

THE EMERALD POOL                          _W. H. Morse_            147

THE CRYSTAL CASCADE                       _H. Wolf_                149

THE PATH, TUCKERMAN'S RAVINE              _R. Hoskin_              157

HERMIT LAKE                               _W. J. Dana_             160

SNOW ARCH, TUCKERMAN'S RAVINE             _N. Orr_                 163

THE IMP                                   _J. Tinkey_              166

THE ANDROSCOGGIN AT SHELBURNE             _G. Smith_               176

MOUNT ADAMS AND THE GREAT GULF            _W. H. Morse_            182

WINTER STORM ON THE SUMMIT                _R. Schelling_           187

*THE TORNADO FORCING AN ENTRANCE          _J. Tinkey_              194
      _Designed by Thure de Thulstrup_

LAKE OF THE CLOUDS                        _J. P. Davis_            200

ON THE PROFILE ROAD                       _Smithwick and French_   213

WELCH MOUNTAIN, FROM MAD RIVER            _J. Hellawell_           217

BLACK AND TRIPYRAMID MOUNTAINS            _J. S. Harley_           220

FRANCONIA NOTCH, FROM THORNTON            _F. S. King_             222

A GLIMPSE OF THE POOL                     _C. Mayer_               225

THE FLUME, FRANCONIA NOTCH                _J. P. Davis_            227

THE BASIN                                 _G. J. Buechner_         230

*THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN              _A. Measom_              234
      _Designed by Granville Perkins._

*EAGLE CLIFF AND THE ECHO HOUSE           _P. Annin_               238
      _Designed by Granville Perkins._

ECHO LAKE, FRANCONIA                      _G. J. Buechner_         240

MOUNT CANNON, FROM THE BRIDLE-PATH,
LAFAYETTE                                 _R. Schelling_           242

CLOUD EFFECTS ON MOUNT LAFAYETTE          _R. Hoskin_              245

*FRANCONIA IRON WORKS AND NOTCH           _C. Mayer_               248
      _Designed by Granville Perkins._

*THE ROADSIDE SPRING                                               250
      _Designed by W. A . Rogers._

*ROBERT ROGERS (PORTRAIT)                 _C. Mayer_               260

*THE BUCK-BOARD WAGON                                                  274
      _Designed by W. A. Rogers._

MOUNT LAFAYETTE, FROM BETHLEHEM           _J. Tinkey_              280

THE NORTHERN PEAKS, FROM JEFFERSON        _Smithwick and French_   292

MOUNT WASHINGTON, FROM FABYAN'S           _E. Held_                301

*MOUNTAIN RAILWAY-STATION IN STAGING
TIMES                                     _T. Johnson_             305
      _Designed by Granville Perkins._

ASCENT BY THE RAILWAY                     _J. Hellawell_           309

THE CASTELLATED RIDGE, MOUNT JEFFERSON    _J. Tinkey_              315

MAP OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS (_East Side_)                            xv

  "    "    " (_Central and Northern Section_)                     111

  "    "    " (_West Side_)                                        207


FIRST JOURNEY.


                                PAGE

I. _MY TRAVELLING COMPANIONS_      1

II. _INCOMPARABLE WINNIPISEOGEE_   8

III. _CHOCORUA_                   18

IV. _LOVEWELL_                    33

V. _NORTH CONWAY_                 39

VI. _KEARSARGE TO CARRIGAIN_      55

VII. _VALLEY OF THE SACO_         66

VIII. _THROUGH THE NOTCH_         76

IX. _CRAWFORD'S_                  87

X. _ASCENT FROM CRAWFORD'S_       95

[Illustration: [Map]]




THE

HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS.




FIRST JOURNEY.

I.

_MY TRAVELLING COMPANIONS._

    "Si jeunesse savait! si viellesse pouvait!"


One morning in September I was sauntering up and down the
railway-station waiting for the slow hands of the clock to reach the
hour fixed for the departure of the train. The fact that these hands
never move backward did not in the least seem to restrain the impatience
of the travellers thronging into the station, some with happy, some with
anxious faces, some without trace of either emotion, yet all betraying
the same eagerness and haste of manner. All at once I heard my name
pronounced, and felt a heavy hand upon my shoulder.

"What!" I exclaimed, in genuine surprise, "is it you, colonel?"

"Myself," affirmed the speaker, offering his cigar-case.

"And where did you drop from"--accepting an Havana; "the Blue Grass?"

"I reckon."

"But what are you doing in New England, when you should be in Kentucky?"

"Doing, I? oh, well," said my friend, with a shade of constraint; then
with a quizzical smile, "You are a Yankee; guess."

"Take care."

"Guess."

"Running away from your creditors?"

The colonel's chin cut the air contemptuously.

"Running after a woman, perhaps?"

My companion quickly took the cigar from his lips, looked at me with
mouth half opened, then stammered, "What in blue brimstone put that into
your head?"

"Evidently you are going on a journey, but are dressed for an evening
party," I replied, comprising with a glance the colonel's black suit,
lavender gloves, and white cravat.

"Why," said the colonel, glancing rather complacently at himself--"why
we Kentuckians always travel so at home. But it's now your turn; where
are you going yourself?"

"To the mountains."

"Good; so am I: White Mountains, Green Mountains, Rocky Mountains, or
Mountains of the Moon, I care not."

"What is your route?"

"I'm not at all familiar with the topography of your mountains. What is
yours?"

"By the Eastern to Lake Winnipiseogee, thence to Centre Harbor, thence
by stage and rail to North Conway and the White Mountain Notch."

My friend purchased his ticket by the indicated route, and the train
was soon rumbling over the bridges which span the Charles and Mystic.
Farewell, Boston, city where, like thy railways, all extremes meet, but
where I would still rather live on a crust moistened with east wind than
cast my lot elsewhere.

When we had fairly emerged into the light and sunshine of the open
country, I recognized my old acquaintance George Brentwood. At a gesture
from me he came and sat opposite to us.

George Brentwood was a blond young man of thirty-four or thirty-five,
with brown hair, full reddish beard, shrewdish blue eyes, a robust
frame, and a general air of negligent repose. In a word, he was the
antipodes of my companion, whose hair, eyebrows, and mustache were
coal-black, eyes dark and sparkling, manner nervous, and his attitudes
careless and unconstrained, though not destitute of a certain natural
grace. Both were men to be remarked in a crowd.

"George," said I, "permit me to introduce my friend Colonel Swords."

After a few civil questions and answers, George declared his
destination to be ours, and was cordially welcomed to join us. By way
of breaking the ice, he observed,

"Apropos of your title, colonel, I presume you served in the Rebellion?"

The colonel hitched a little on his seat before replying. Knowing him
to be a very modest man, I came to his assistance. "Yes," said I, "the
colonel fought hard and bled freely. Let me see, where were you wounded?"

"Through the chest."

"No, I mean in what battle?"

"Spottsylvania."

"Left on the field for dead, and taken prisoner," I finished.

George is a fellow of very generous impulses. "My dear sir," said he,
effusively, grasping the colonel's hand, "after what you have suffered
for the old flag, you can need no other passport to the gratitude and
friendship of a New-Englander. Count me as one of your debtors. During
the war it was my fortune--my misfortune, I should say--to be in a
distant country; otherwise we should have been found fighting shoulder
to shoulder under Grant, or Sherman, or Sheridan, or Thomas.

The colonel's color rose. He drew himself proudly up, cleared his
throat, and said, laconically, "Hardly, stranger, seeing that I had the
honor to fight under the Confederate flag."

You have seen a tortoise suddenly draw back into his shell. Well, George
as suddenly retreated into his. For an instant he looked at the Southron
as one might at a confessed murderer; then stammered out a few random
and unmeaning words about mistaken sense of duty--gallant but useless
struggle, you know--drew a newspaper from his pocket, and hid his
confusion behind it.

Fearing my fiery Kentuckian might let fall some unlucky word that would
act like a live coal dropped on the tortoise's back, I hastened to
interpose. "But really, colonel," I urged, returning to the charge,
"with the Blue Ridge always at your back, I wager you did not come a
thousand miles merely to see our mountains. Come, what takes you from
Lexington?"

"A truant disposition."

"Nothing else?"

His dark face grew swarthy, then pale. He looked at me doubtfully a
moment, and then leaned close to my ear. "You guessed it," he whispered.

"A woman?"

"Yes; you know that I was taken prisoner and sent North. Through the
influence of a friend who had known my family before the war, I was
allowed to pass my first days of convalescence in a beautiful little
village in Berkshire. There I was cured of the bullet, but received a
more mortal wound."

"What a misfortune!"

"Yes; no; confound you, let me finish."

"Helen, the daughter of the gentleman who procured my transfer from the
hospital to his pleasant home" (the proud Southerner would not say his
benefactor), "was a beautiful creature. Let me describe her to you."

"Oh," I hastened to say, "I know her." Like all lovers, that subject
might have a beginning but no ending.

"You?"

"Of course. Listen. Yellow hair, rippling ravishingly from an alabaster
forehead, pink cheeks, pouting lips, dimpled chin, snowy throat--"

The colonel made a gesture of impatience. "Pshaw, that's a type, not a
portrait. Well, the upshot of it was that I was exchanged, and ordered
to report at Baltimore for transportation to our lines. Imagine my
dismay. No, you can't, for I was beginning to think she cared for me,
and I was every day getting deeper and deeper in love. But to tell her!
That posed me. When alone with her, my cowardly tongue clove to the roof
of my mouth. Once or twice I came very near bawling out, 'I love you!'
just as I would have given an order to a squadron to charge a battery."

"Well; but you did propose at last?"

"Oh yes."

"And was accepted."

The colonel lowered his head, and his face grew pinched.

"Refused gently, but positively refused."

"Come," I hazarded, thinking the story ended, "I do not like your Helen."

"Why?"

"Because either you are mistaken, or she seems just a little of a
coquette."

"Oh, you don't know her," said the colonel, warmly; "when we parted she
betrayed unusual agitation--for her; but I was cut to the quick by her
refusal, and determined not to let her see how deeply I felt it. After
the Deluge--you know what I mean--after the tragedy at Appomattox, I
went back to the old home. Couldn't stay there. I tried New Orleans,
Cuba. No use."

Something rose in the colonel's throat, but he gulped it down and went
on:

"The image of that girl pursues me. Did you ever try running away from
yourself? Well, after fighting it out with myself until I could endure
it no longer, I put pride in my pocket, came straight to Berkshire, only
to find Helen gone."

"That was unlucky; where?"

"To the mountains, of course. Everybody seems to be going there; but I
shall find her."

"Don't be too sanguine. It will be like looking for a needle in a
hay-stack. The mountains are a perfect Dædalian labyrinth," I could not
help saying, in my vexation. Instead of an ardent lover of nature, I had
picked up the "baby of a girl." But there was George Brentwood. I went
over and sat by George.

It was generally understood that George was deeply enamored of a young
and beautiful widow who had long ceased to count her love affairs,
who all the world, except George, knew loved only herself, and who
had therefore nothing left worth mentioning to bestow upon another.
By nature a coquette, passionately fond of admiration, her self-love
was flattered by the attentions of such a man as George, and he, poor
fellow, driven one day to the verge of despair, the next intoxicated
with the crumbs she threw him, was the victim of a species of slavery
which was fast undermining his buoyant and generous disposition. The
colonel was in hot pursuit of his adored Helen. Two words sufficed to
acquaint me that George was escaping from his beautiful tormentor. At
all events, I was sure of him.

"How charming the country is! What a delightful sense of freedom!"
George drew a deep breath, and stretched his limbs luxuriously. "Shall
we have an old-fashioned tramp together?" He continued, with assumed
vivacity, "The deuce take me if I go back to town for a twelve-month.
How we creep along! I feel exultation in putting the long miles between
me and the accursed city," said George, at last.

"You experience no regret, then, at leaving the city?"

George merely looked at me; but he could not have spoken more eloquently.

The train had just left Portsmouth, when the conductor entered the car
holding aloft a yellow envelope. Every eye was instantly riveted upon
it. Conversation ceased. For whom of the fifty or sixty occupants of
the car had this flash overtaken the express train? In that moment the
criminal realized the futility of flight, the merchant the uncertainty
of his investments, the man of leisure all the ordinary contingencies of
life. The conductor put an end to the suspense by demanding,

"Is Mr. George Brentwood in this car?"

In spite of an heroic effort at self-control, George's hand trembled as
he tore open the envelope; but as he read his face became radiant. Had
he been alone I believe he would have kissed the paper.

"Your news is not bad?" I ventured to ask, seeing him relapse into a
fit of musing, and noting the smile that came and went like a ripple on
still water.

"Thank you, quite the contrary; but it is important that I should
immediately return to Boston."

"How unfortunate!"

George turned on me a fixed and questioning look, but made no reply.

"And the mountains?" I persisted.

"Oh, sink the mountains!"

I last saw George striding impatiently up and down the platform of the
Rochester station, watch in hand. Without doubt he had received his
recall. However, there was still the lovelorn colonel.

Never have I seen a man more thoroughly enraptured with the growing
beauty of the scenery. I promised myself much enjoyment in his society,
for his comments were both original and picturesque; so that by the time
we arrived at Wolfborough I had already forgotten George and his widow.

There was the usual throng of idlers lounging about the pier with
their noses in the air, and their hands in their pockets; perhaps more
than the usual confusion, for the steamer merely touched to take and
leave passengers. We went on board. As the bell tolled the colonel
uttered an exclamation. He became all on a sudden transformed from a
passive spectator into an excited and prominent actor in the scene.
He gesticulated wildly, swung his hat, and shouted in a frantic way,
apparently to attract the attention of some one in the crowd; failing in
which he seized his luggage, took the stairs in two steps, and darting
like a rocket among the astonished spectators, who divided to the right
and left before his impetuous onset, was in the act of vigorously
shaking hands with a hale old gentleman of fifty odd when the boat swung
clear. He waved his unoccupied hand, and I saw his face wreathed in
smiles. I could not fail to interpret the gesture as an adieu.

"Halloo!" I shouted, "what of the mountains?"

"Burn the mountains!" was his reply. The steamer glided swiftly down the
little bay, and I was left to continue my journey alone.




II.

_INCOMPARABLE WINNIPISEOGEE._

                       First a lake
    Tinted with sunset, next the wavy lines
    Of far receding hills.--WHITTIER.


When the steamer glides out of the land-locked inlet at the bottom
of which Wolfborough is situated, one of those pictures, forever
ineffaceable, presents itself. In effect, all the conditions of a
picture are realized. Here is the shining expanse of the lake stretching
away in the distance, and finally lost among tufted inlets and
foliage-rounded promontories. To the right are the Ossipee mountains,
dark, vigorously outlined, and wooded to their summits. To the left,
more distant, rise the twin domes of the Belknap peaks. In front, and
closing the view, the imposing Sandwich summits dominate the scene.

All these mountains seem advancing into the lake. They possess a
special character of color, outline, or physiognomy which fixes them
in the memory, not confusedly, but in the place appropriate to this
beautiful picture, to its fine proportions, exquisite harmony, and
general effectiveness. Even M. Chateaubriand, who maintains that
mountains should only be seen from a distance--even he would have found
in Winnipiseogee the perfection of his ideal _mise en scène_; for here
they stand well back from the lake, so as to give the best effect of
perspective.

Lovely as the lake is, the eye will rove among the mountains that we
have come to see. They, and they alone, are the objects which have
enticed us--entice us even now with a charm and mystery that we cannot
pretend to explain. We do not wish it explained. We know that we are
as free, as light of heart, as the birds that skim the placid surface
of the lake, and coquet with their own shadows. The memory of those
mountains is like snatches of music that come unbidden and haunt you
perpetually.

Having taken in the grander features, the eye is occupied with its
details. We see the lake quivering in sunshine. From bold summit to
beautiful water the shores are clothed in most vivid green. The islands,
which we believe to be floating gardens, are almost tropical in the
luxuriance and richness of their vegetation. The deep shadows they fling
down image each islet so faithfully that it seems, like Narcissus,
gloating over its own beauty. Here and there a glimmer of water through
the trees denotes secluded little havens. Boats float idly on the calm
surface. Water-fowl rise and beat the glossy, dark water with startled
wings. White tents appear, and handkerchiefs flutter from jutting points
or headlands. Over all tower the mountains.

The steamer glided swiftly and noiselessly on, attended by the echo
of her paddles from the shores. Dimpled waves, parting from her prow,
rolled indolently in, and broke on the foam-fretted rocks. There was a
warmth of color about these rocks, a pure transparency to the water, a
brightness to the foliage, an invigorating strength in the mountains
that exerted a cheerful influence upon our spirits.

As we advanced up the lake new and rare vistas rapidly succeeded.
After leaving Long Island behind, the near ranges drew apart, holding
us admiring and absorbed spectators of a moving panorama of distant
summits. An opening appeared, through which Mount Washington burst upon
us blue as lapis-lazuli, a chaplet of clouds crowning his imperial
front. Slowly, majestically, he marches by, and now Chocorua scowls upon
us. A murmur of admiration ran from group to group as these monumental
figures were successively unveiled. Men kept silence, but women could
not repress the exclamation, "How beautiful!" The two grandest types
which these mountains enclose were thus displayed in the full splendor
of noonday.

I should add that those who now saw Mount Washington for the first
time, and whose curiosity was whetted by the knowledge that it was the
highest peak of the whole family of mountains, openly manifested their
disappointment. That Mount Washington! It was in vain to remind them
that the eye traversed forty miles in its flight from lake to summit.
Fault of perspective or not, the mountain was not nearly so high as
they imagined. Chocorua, on the contrary, with its ashen spire and
olive-green flanks, realized more fully their idea of a high mountain.
One was near, the other far. Imagination fails to make a mountain higher
than it looks. The mind takes its measure after the eye.

Our boat was now rapidly nearing Centre Harbor. On the right its
progress gradually unmasking the western slopes of the Ossipee range,
more fully opened the view of Chocorua and his dependent peaks. We
were looking in the direction of Tamworth. Ossipee, and Conway. Red
Hill, a detached mountain at the head of the lake, now moved into the
gap, excluding further views of distant summits. Moosehillock, lofty
but unimpressive, has for some time showed its flattened heights over
the Sandwich Mountains, but is now sinking behind them. To the west,
thronged with islands, is the long reach of water toward the outlet of
the lake at Weirs.[1]

This lake was the highway over which Indian war-parties advanced or
retreated during their predatory incursions from Canada. Many captives
must have crossed it whom its mountain walls seemed forever destined to
separate from friends and kindred. The Indians who inhabited villages at
Winnipiseogee (Weirs), Ossipee, and Pigwacket (Fryeburg), were hostile;
and from time to time during the old wars troops were marched from
the English settlements to subdue them. These scouting-parties found
the woods well stocked with bear, moose, and deer, and the lake with
salmon-trout, some of which, according to the narrative before me, were
three feet long, and weighed twelve pounds each.

Traces of Indian occupation remained up to the present century.
Fishing-weirs and woodland paths were frequently discovered by the
whites; but a greater curiosity than either is mentioned by Dr. Belknap,
in his "History of New Hampshire," who there tells of a pine-tree,
standing on the shore of Winnipiseogee River, on which was carved a
canoe with two men in it, supposed to have been a mark of direction to
those who were expected to follow. Another was a tree in Moultonborough,
standing near a carrying-place between two ponds. On this tree was a
representation of one of their expeditions. The number of killed and
the prisoners were shown by rude drawings of human beings, the former
being distinguished by the mark of a knife across the throat. Even the
distinction of sex was preserved in the drawing.

Centre Harbor is advantageously situated for a sojourn more or less
prolonged. Although settled as early as 1755, it is, in common with the
other lake towns, barren of history or tradition. Its greatest impulse
is, beyond question, the tide of tourists which annually ebbs and flows
among the most sequestered nooks, enriching this charming region like an
inundation of the Nile. An anecdote will, however, serve to illustrate
the character of the men who first subdued this wilderness. Our anecdote
represents its hero a man of resources. His career proves him a man of
courage. Although a veritable personage, let us call him General Hampton.

The fact that General Hampton lived in that only half-cleared atmosphere
following the age of credulity and superstition, naturally accounts
for the extraordinary legend concerning him which, for the rest, had
its origin among his own friends and neighbors, who merely shared the
general belief in the practice of diabolic arts, through compacts with
the arch-enemy of mankind himself, universally prevailing in that
day--yes, prevailing all over Christendom. By a mere legend, we are thus
able to lay hold of the thread which conducts us back through the dark
era of superstition and delusion, and which is now so amazing.

The general, says the legend, encountered a far more notable adversary
than Abenaki warriors or conjurers, among whom he had lived, and whom it
was the passion of his life to exterminate.

In an evil hour his yearning to amass wealth suddenly led him to declare
that he would sell his soul for the possession of unbounded riches.
Think of the devil, and he is at your elbow. The fatal declaration was
no sooner made--the general was sitting alone by his fireside--than
a shower of sparks came down the chimney, out of which stepped a man
dressed from top to toe in black velvet. The astonished Hampton noticed
that the stranger's ruffles were not even smutted.

"Your servant, general," quoth the stranger, suavely, "but let us make
haste, if you please, for I am expected at the governor's in a quarter
of an hour," he added, picking up a live coal with his thumb and
forefinger and consulting his watch with it.

The general's wits began to desert him. Portsmouth was five leagues,
long ones at that, from Hampton House, and his strange visitor talked,
with the utmost unconcern, of getting there in fifteen minutes. His
astonishment caused him to stammer out,

"Then you must be the--"

"Tush! what signifies a name?" interrupted the stranger, with a
deprecating wave of the hand. "Come, do we understand each other? is it
a bargain or not?"

At the talismanic word "bargain" the general pricked up his ears. He had
often been heard to say that neither man nor devil could get the better
of him in a trade. He took out his jack-knife and began to whittle. The
devil took out his, and began to pare his nails.

"But what proof have I that you can perform what you promise?" demanded
Hampton, pursing up his mouth, and contracting his bushy eyebrows.

The fiend ran his fingers carelessly through his peruke; a shower of
golden guineas fell to the floor, and rolled to the four corners of the
room. The general quickly stooped to pick up one; but no sooner had his
fingers closed upon it than he uttered a yell. It was red-hot.

The devil chuckled. "Try again," he said.

But Hampton shook his head, and retreated a step.

"Don't be afraid."

Hampton cautiously touched a coin. It was cool. He weighed it in his
hand, and rung it on the table. It was full weight and true ring. Then
he went down on his hands and knees, and began to gather up the guineas
with feverish haste.

"Are you satisfied?" demanded Satan.

"Completely, your majesty."

"Then to business. By-the-way, have you anything to drink in the house?"

"There is some Old Jamaica in the cupboard."

"Excellent. I am as thirsty as a Puritan on election-day," said the
devil, seating himself at the table and negligently flinging his mantle
back over his shoulder.

Hampton brought a decanter and a couple of glasses from the cupboard,
filled one and passed it to his infernal guest, who tasted it, and
smacked his lips with the air of a connoisseur. Hampton watched every
gesture. "Does your excellency not find it to his taste?" he ventured to
ask.

"H'm, I have drunk worse; but let me show you how to make a salamander,"
replied Satan, touching the lighted end of the taper to the liquor,
which instantly burst into a spectral blue flame. The fiend then
raised the tankard, glanced approvingly at the blaze--which to
Hampton's disordered intellect resembled an adder's forked and agile
tongue--nodded, and said, patronizingly, "To our better acquaintance."
He then quaffed the contents at a single gulp.

Hampton shuddered. This was not the way he had been used to seeing
healths drunk. He pretended, however, to drink, for fear of giving
offence, but somehow the liquor choked him. The demon set down the
tankard, and observed, in a matter-of-fact way that put his listener in
a cold sweat,

"Now that you are convinced I am able to make you the richest man in all
the province, listen. In consideration of your agreement, duly signed
and sealed, to deliver your soul"--here he drew a parchment from his
breast--"I engage, on my part, on the first day of every month, to fill
your boots with golden elephants like these before you. But mark me
well," said Satan, holding up a forefinger glittering with diamonds; "if
you try to play me any trick you will repent it. I know you, Jonathan
Hampton, and shall keep my eye upon you. So beware!"

Hampton flinched a little at this plain speech; but a thought seemed to
strike him, and he brightened up. Satan opened the scroll, smoothed out
the creases, dipped a pen in the inkhorn at his girdle, and pointing to
a blank space said, laconically, "Sign!"

Hampton hesitated.

"If you are afraid," sneered Satan, "why put me to all this trouble?"
And he began to put the gold in his pocket.

His victim seized the pen, but his hand shook so he could not write. He
gulped down a swallow of rum, stole a look at his infernal guest, who
nodded his head by way of encouragement, and a second time approached
his pen to the paper. The struggle was soon over. The unhappy Hampton
wrote his name at the bottom of the fatal list, which he was astonished
to see numbered some of the highest personages in the province. "I shall
at least be in good company," he muttered.

"Good!" said Satan, rising and putting the scroll carefully within his
breast. "Rely on me, general, and be sure you keep faith. Remember!"
So saying, the demon waved his hand, wrapped his mantle about him, and
vanished up the chimney.

Satan performed his part of the contract to the letter. On the first day
of every month the boots, which were hung on the crane in the fireplace
the night before, were found in the morning stuffed full of guineas. It
is true that Hampton had ransacked the village for the largest pair to
be found, and had finally secured a brace of trooper's boots, which came
up to the wearer's thigh; but the contract merely expressed boots, and
the devil does not stand upon trifles.

Hampton rolled in wealth. Everything prospered. His neighbors regarded
him first with envy, then with aversion, at last with fear. Not a few
affirmed he had entered into a league with the Evil One. Others shook
their heads, saying, "What does it signify? that man would outwit the
devil himself."

But one morning, when the fiend came as usual to fill the boots, what
was his astonishment to find that he could not fill them. He poured in
the guineas, but it was like pouring water into a rat-hole. The more he
put in, the more the quantity seemed to diminish. In vain he persisted:
the boots could not be filled.

The devil scratched his ear. "I must look into this," he reflected.
No sooner said than he attempted to descend, but found his progress
suddenly arrested. The chimney was choked up with guineas. Foaming with
rage, the demon tore the boots from the crane. The crafty general had
cut off the soles, leaving only the legs for the devil to fill. The
chamber was knee-deep with gold.

The devil gave a horrible grin, and disappeared. The same night Hampton
House was burnt to the ground, the general only escaping in his shirt.
He had been dreaming he was dead and in hell. His precious guineas were
secreted in the wainscot, the ceiling, and other hiding-places known
only to himself. He blasphemed, wept, and tore his hair. Suddenly he
grew calm. After all, the loss was not irreparable, he reflected. Gold
would melt, it is true; but he would find it all, of course he would,
at daybreak, run into a solid lump in the cellar--every guinea. That is
true of ordinary gold.

The general worked with the energy of despair clearing away the rubbish.
He refused all offers of assistance: he dared not accept them. But the
gold had vanished. Whether it was really consumed, or had passed again
into the massy entrails of the earth, will never be known. It is certain
that every vestige of it had disappeared.

When the general died and was buried, strange rumors began to circulate.
To quiet them, the grave was opened; but when the lid was removed from
the coffin, it was found to be empty.

Having reached Centre Harbor at two in the afternoon, there was still
time to ascend Red Hill before sunset. This eminence would be called
a mountain anywhere else. Its altitude is inconsiderable, but its
situation at the head of the lake, on its very borders, is highly
favorable to a commanding prospect of the surrounding lake region.
There are two summits, the northern and highest being only a little
more than two thousand feet.

[Illustration: WINNIPISEOGEE FROM RED HILL.]

For such an excursion little preparation is necessary. In fact a
carriage-road ascends within a mile of the superior summit; and from
this point the path is one of the easiest I have ever traversed. The
value of a pure atmosphere is so well understood by every mountain
tourist that he will neglect no opportunity which this thrice-fickle
element offers him. This was a day of days.

After a little promenade of two hours, or two hours and a half, I
reached the cairn on the summit, from which a tattered signal flag
fluttered in the breeze. Without extravagance, the view is one of the
most engaging that the eye ever looked upon. I had before me that
beautiful valley extending between the Sandwich chain on the left and
the Ossipee range on the right, the distance filled by a background of
mountains. It was across this valley that we saw Mount Washington, while
coming up the lake. But that noble peak was now hid.

The first chain trending to the west threw one gigantic arm around the
beautiful little Squam Lake, which like a magnificent gem sparkled at my
feet. The second stretched its huge rampart along the eastern shores of
Winnipiseogee.

The surface of this valley is tumbled about in most charming disorder.
Three villages crowned as many eminences in the foreground; three little
lakes, half hid in the middle distance, blue as turquoise, lighted the
fading hues of field and forest. Hamlets and farms, groves and forests
innumerable, were scattered broadcast over this inviting landscape. The
harvests were gathered, and the mellowed tints of green, orange, and
gold resembled rich old tapestry. Men and animals looked like insects
creeping along the roads.

From this point of view the Sandwich Mountains took far greater interest
and character, and I remarked that no two summits were precisely alike
in form or outline. Higher and more distant peaks peered curiously
over their brawny shoulders from their lairs in the valley of the
Pemigewasset; but more remarkable, more weird than all, was the gigantic
monolith which tops the rock-ribbed pile of Chocorua. The more I looked,
the more this monstrous freak of nature fascinated. As the sun glided
down the west, a ruddy glow tinged its pinnacle; while the shadows
lurking in the ravines stole up the mountain side and crouched for a
final spring upon the summit. Little by little, twilight flowed over the
valley, and a thin haze rose from its surface.

I had waited for this moment, and now turned to the lakes. Winnipiseogee
was visible throughout its whole length, the multitude of islands
peeping above it giving the idea of an inundation rather than an inland
sea. On the farthest shores mere specks of white denoted houses; and
traced in faint relief on the southern sky, so unsubstantial, indeed,
as to render it doubtful if it were sky or mountain, was the Grand
Monadnock, the fixed sentinel of all this august assemblage of mountains.

Glowing in sunset splendor, streaked with all the hues of the rainbow,
the lake was indeed magnificent.

In vain the eve roved hither and thither seeking some foil to this
peerless beauty. Everywhere the same unrivalled picture led it captive
over thirty miles of gleaming water, up the graceful curves of the
mountains, to rest at last among crimson clouds floating in rosy vapor
over their notched summits.

Imagination must assist the reader to reproduce this ravishing
spectacle. To attempt to describe it is like a profanation. Paradise
seemed to have opened wide its gates to my enraptured gaze; or had
I surprised the secrets of the unknown world? I stood silent and
spellbound, with a strange, exquisite feeling at the heart. I felt a
thrill of pain when a voice from the forest broke the solemn stillness
which alone befitted this almost supernatural vision. Now I understood
the pagan's adoration of the sun. My mind ran over the most striking or
touching incidents of Scripture, where the sublimity of the scene is
always in harmony with the grandeur of the event--the Temptation, the
Sermon on the Mount, the Transfiguration--and memory brought to my aid
these words, so simple, so tender, yet so expressive, "And he went up
into the mountain to pray, himself, alone."




III.

_CHOCORUA._

    "There I saw above me mountains,
    And I asked of them what century
    Met them in their youth."


After a stay at Centre Harbor long enough to gain a knowledge of its
charming environs, but which seemed all too brief, I took the stage at
two o'clock one sunny afternoon for Tamworth. I had resolved, if the
following morning should be clear, to ascend Chocorua, which from the
summit of Red Hill seemed to fling his defiance from afar.

Following my custom, I took an outside seat with the driver. There being
only three or four passengers, what is frequently a bone of contention
was settled without that display of impudent selfishness which is seen
when a dozen or more travellers are all struggling for precedence. But
at the steamboat landing the case was different. I remained a quiet
looker-on of the scene that ensued. It was sufficiently ridiculous.

At the moment the steamboat touched her pier the passengers prepared to
spring to the shore, and force had to be used to keep them back until
she could be secured. An instant after the crowd rushed pell-mell up
the wharf, surrounded the stage, and began, women as well as men, a
promiscuous scramble for the two or three unoccupied seats at the top.

Two men and one woman succeeded in obtaining the prizes. The woman
interested me by the intense triumph that sparkled in her black eyes
and glowed on her cheeks at having distanced several competitors of her
own sex, to say nothing of the men. She beamed! As I made room for her,
she said, with a toss of the head, "I guess I haven't been through Lake
George for nothing."

Crack! We were jolting along the road, around the base of Red Hill, the
horses stepping briskly out at the driver's chirrup, the coach pitching
and lurching like a gondola in a sea. What a sense of exhilaration,
of lightness! The air so pure and elastic, the odor of the pines so
fragrant, so invigorating, which we breathe with all the avidity of
a convalescent who for the first time crosses the threshold of his
chamber. Each moment I felt my body growing lighter. A delicious
sense of self-ownership breaks the chain binding us to the toiling,
struggling, worrying life we have left behind. We carry our world with
us. Life begins anew, or rather it has only just begun.

The view of the ranges which on either side elevate two immense walls of
green is kept for nearly the whole distance. As we climb the hill into
Sandwich, Mount Israel is the prominent object; then brawny Whiteface,
Passaconnaway's pyramid, Chocorua's mutilated spire advance, in their
turn, into line. Sometimes we were in a thick forest, sometimes on a
broad, sunny glade; now threading our way through groves of pitch-pine,
now winding along the banks of the Bear-Camp River.

The views of the mountains, as the afternoon wore away, grew more
and more interesting. The ravines darkened, the summits brightened.
Cloud-shadows chased each other up and down the steeps, or, flitting
slowly across the valley, spread thick mantles of black that seemed to
deaden the sound of our wheels as we passed over them. On one side all
was light, on the other all gloom. But the landscape is not all that may
be seen to advantage from the top of a stage-coach.

From time to time, as something provoked an exclamation of surprise or
pleasure, certain of the inside occupants manifested open discontent.
They were losing something where they had expected to see everything.

While the horses were being changed, one of the insides, I need not say
it was a woman, thrust her head out of the window, and addressed the
young person perched like a bird upon the highest seat. Her voice was
soft and persuasive:

"Miss!"

"Madam!"

"I'm so afraid you find it too cold up there. Sha'n't I change places
with you?"

The little one gave her voice a droll inflection as she briskly replied,
"Oh dear no, thank you; I'm very comfortable indeed."

"But," urged the other, "you don't look strong; indeed, dear, you don't.
Aren't you very, very tired, sitting so long without any support to your
back?"

"Thanks, no; my spine is the strongest part of me."

"But," still persisted the inside, changing her voice to a loud whisper,
"to be sitting alone with all those men!"

[Illustration: "ALONE WITH ALL THOSE MEN!"]

"They mind their business, and I mind mine," said the little one,
reddening; "besides," she quickly added, "you proposed changing places,
I believe!"

"Oh!" returned the other, with an accent impossible to convey in words,
"if you like it."

"I tell you what, ma'am," snapped the one in possession, "I've been all
over Europe alone, and was never once insulted except by persons of my
own sex."

This home-thrust ended the colloquy. The first speaker quickly drew in
her head, and I remarked a general twitching of muscles on the faces
around me. The driver shook his head in silent glee. The little woman's
eyes emitted sparks.

From West Ossipee I drove over to Tamworth Iron Works, where I passed
the night, and where I had, so to speak, Chocorua under my thumb.

This mountain being the most proper for a legend, it accordingly has
one. Here it is in all its purity:

After the terrible battle in which the Sokokis were nearly destroyed,
a remnant of the tribe, with their chief, Chocorua, fled into the
fastnesses of these mountains, where the foot of a white man had never
intruded. Here they trapped the beaver, speared the salmon, and hunted
the moose.

The survivors of Lovewell's band brought the first news of their
disaster to the settlements. More like spectres than living men, their
haggard looks, bloodshot eyes, and shaking limbs, their clothing hanging
about them in shreds, announced the hardships of that long and terrible
march but too plainly.

Among those who had set out with the expedition were three brothers--one
a mere stripling, the others famous hunters. The eldest of the three,
having fallen lame on the second day, was left behind. His brethren
would have conducted him back to the nearest village, but he promptly
refused their proffered aid, saying,

"'Tis enough to lose one man; three are too many. Go; do my part as well
as your own."

The two had gone but a few steps when the disabled ranger called the
second brother back.

"Tom," said the elder, "take care of our brother."

"Surely," replied the other, in some surprise. "Surely," he repeated.

"I charge you," continued the first speaker, "watch over the boy as I
would myself."

"Never fear, Lance; whatever befalls Hugh happens to me."

"Not so," said the other, with energy; "you must die for him, if need
be."

"They shall chop me as fine as sausage-meat before a hair of the lad's
head is harmed."

"God bless you, Tom!" The brothers then embraced and separated.

"What was our brother saying to you?" demanded the younger, when Tom
rejoined him.

"He begged me, seeing he could not go with us, to shoot two or three
redskins for him; and I promised." The two then quickened their pace in
order to overtake their comrades.

Among those who succeeded in regaining the settlements was a man who had
been wounded in twenty places. He was at once a ghastly and a pitiful
object. Faint with hunger, fatigue, and loss of blood, he reeled, fell,
slowly rose to his feet, and sunk lifeless at the entrance to the
village. This time he did not rise again.

A crowd ran up. When they had wiped the blood and dirt from the dead
man's face, a by-stander threw himself upon the body with the cry, "My
God, it is Tom!"

The following day the surviving brother joined a strong party despatched
by the colonial authorities to the scene of Lovewell's encounter, where
they arrived after a forced march. Here, among the trampled thickets,
they found the festering corpses of the slain. Among them was Hugh, the
younger brother. He was riddled with bullets and shockingly mangled.
Up to this moment, Lance had hoped against hope; now the dread reality
stared him in the face. The stout ranger grew white, his fingers
convulsively clutched the barrel of his gun, and something like a curse
escaped through his clinched teeth; then, kneeling beside the body, he
buried his face in his hands. Hugh's blood cried aloud for vengeance.

Thorough but unavailing search was made for the savages. They had
disappeared, after applying the torch to their village. Silently and
sadly the rangers performed the last service for their fallen comrades,
and then, turning their backs upon the mountains, commenced their march
homeward.

The next day the absence of Lance was remarked; but, as he was their
best hunter, the rangers made no doubt he would rejoin them at the next
halt.

Chocorua was not ignorant that the English were near. Like the vulture,
he scented danger from afar. From the summit of the mountain he had
watched the smoke of the hostile camp-fires stealing above the forest.
The remainder of the tribe had buried themselves still deeper in the
wilderness. They were too few for attack, too weak for defence.

One morning the chief ascended the pinnacle, and swept the horizon
with his piercing eye. Far in the south a faint smoke told where the
foe had pitched his last encampment. Chocorua's dark eye lighted with
exultation. The accursed pale-faces were gone.

He turned to descend the mountain, but had not taken ten steps when a
white hunter, armed to the teeth, started from behind the crags and
barred his passage. The chief recoiled, but not with fear, as the muzzle
of his adversary's weapon touched his naked breast. The white man's
eyes shone with deadly purpose, as he forced the chieftain, step by
step, back to the highest point of the mountain. Chocorua could not pass
except over the hunter's dead body.

Glaring into each other's eyes with mortal hate, the two men reached the
summit.

"Chocorua will go no farther," said the chief, haughtily.

The white man trembled with excitement. For a moment he could not speak.
Then, in a voice husky with suppressed emotion, he exclaimed,

"Die, then, like a dog, thou destroyer of my family, thou incarnate
devil! The white man has been in Chocorua's wigwam; has counted their
scalps--father, mother, sister, brother. He has tracked him to the
mountain-top. Now, demon or devil, Chocorua dies by my hand."

The chief saw no escape. He comprehended that his last moment was come.
As if all the savage heroism of his race had come to his aid, he drew
himself up to his full height, and stood erect and motionless as a
statue of bronze upon the enormous pedestal of the mountain. His dark
eye blazed, his nostrils dilated, the muscles of his bronzed forehead
stood out like whip-cord. The black eagle's feather in his scalplock
fluttered proudly in the cool morning breeze. He stood thus for a moment
looking death sternly in the face, then, raising his bared arm with a
gesture of superb disdain, he spoke with energy:

"Chocorua is unarmed; Chocorua will die. His heart is big and strong
with the blood of the accursed pale-face. He laughs at death. He spits
in the white man's face. Go; tell your warriors Chocorua died like a
chief!"

With this defiance on his lips the chief sprung from the brink into
the unfathomable abyss below. An appalling crash was followed by
a death-like silence. As soon as he recovered from his stupor the
hunter ran to the verge of the precipice and looked over. A horrible
fascination held him an instant. Then, shouldering his gun, he retraced
his steps down the mountain, and the next day rejoined his comrades.

[Illustration: PASSACONNAWAY FROM THE BEAR-CAMP RIVER.]

The general and front views of the Sandwich group, which may be had in
perfection from the hill behind the Chocorua House, or from the opposite
elevation, are very striking, embracing as they do the principal summits
from Chocorua to the heavy mass of Black Mountain. There are more
distinct traits, perhaps, embodied in this range than in any other among
the White Hills, except that incomparable band of peaks constituting the
northern half of the great chain itself. There seems, too, a special
fitness in designating these mountains by their Indian titles--Chocorua,
Paugus, Passaconnaway, Wonnalancet--a group of great sagamores, wild,
grand, picturesque.[2]

The highway now skirted the margin of Chocorua Lake, a lovely little
sheet of water voluptuously reposing at the foot of its overshadowing
mountain. I cannot call Chocorua beautiful, yet of all the White
Mountain peaks is it the most individual, the most aggressively
suggestive. But the lake, fast locked in the embrace of encircling
hills, bathed in all the affluence of the blessed sunlight, its bosom
decorated with white lilies, its shores glassed in water which looks
like a sheet of satin--ah, this was beautiful indeed! Its charming
seclusion, its rare combination of laughing water and impassive old
mountains; above all, the striking contrast between its chaste beauty
and the huge-ribbed thing rising above, awakens a variety of sensations.
It is passing strange. The mountain attracts, and at the same time
repels you. Two sentiments struggle here for mastery--open admiration,
energetic repulsion. For the first time, perhaps, in his life, the
beholder feels an antipathy for a creation of inanimate nature. Chocorua
suggests some fabled prodigy of the old mythology--a headless Centaur,
sprung from the foul womb of earth. The lake seems another Andromeda
exposed to a monster.

A beautiful Indian legend ran to the effect that the stillness of the
lake was sacred to the Great Spirit, and that if a human voice was heard
upon its waters the offender's canoe would instantly sink to the bottom.

Chocorua, as seen from Tamworth, shows a long, undulating ridge of white
rising over one of green, both extending toward the east, and opening
between a deep ravine, through which a path ascends to the summit. But
this way affords no view until the summit is close at hand. Beyond the
hump-backed ridge of Chocorua the tip of the southern peak of Moat
Mountain peers over, like a mountain standing on tiptoe.

The mountain, with its formidable outworks, is constantly in view until
the highway is left for a wood-road winding around its base into an
interval where there is a farm-house. Here the road ends and the ascent
begins.

Taking a guide here, who was strong, nimble, and sure-footed, but who
proved to be lamentably ignorant of the topography of the country, we
were in a few moments rapidly threading the path up the mountain. It
ought to be said here that, with rare exceptions, the men who serve you
in these ascensions should be regarded rather as porters than as guides.

In about an hour we reached the summit of the first mountain; for there
are four subordinate ridges to cross before you stand under the single
block of granite forming the pinnacle.

[Illustration: CHOCORUA.]

When reconnoitring this pinnacle through your glass, at a distance of
five miles, you will say to scale it would be difficult; when you have
climbed close underneath you will say it is impossible. After surveying
it from the bare ledges of Bald Mountain, where we stood letting the
cool breeze blow upon us, I asked my guide where we could ascend. He
pointed out a long crack, or crevice, toward the left, in which a few
bushes were growing. It is narrow, almost perpendicular, and seemingly
impracticable. I could not help exclaiming, "What, up there! nothing but
birds of the air can mount that sheer wall!" It is, however, there or
nowhere you must ascend.

The whole upper zone of the mountain seems smitten with palsy. Except
in the ravines between the inferior summits, nothing grew, nothing
relieved the wide-spread desolation. Beyond us rose the enormous conical
crag, scarred and riven by lightning, which gives to Chocorua its highly
distinctive character. It is no longer ashen, but black with lichens.
There was little of symmetry, nothing of grace; only the grandeur of
power. You might as well pelt it with snow-balls as batter it with the
mightiest artillery. For ages it has brushed the tempest aside, has seen
the thunder-bolt shivered against its imperial battlements; for ages to
come it will continue to defy the utmost power that can assail it. And
what enemies it has withstood, overthrown, or put to rout! Not far from
the base of the pinnacle evidence that the mountain was once densely
wooded is on all sides. The rotted stumps of large trees still cling
with a death-grip to the ledges, the shrivelled trunks lie bleaching
where they were hurled by the hurricane. Many years ago this region
was desolated by fire. In the night Old Chocorua, lighting his fiery
torch, stood in the midst of his own funeral pyre. The burning mountain
illuminated the sky and put out the stars. A brilliant circle of light,
twenty miles in extent, surrounded the flaming peak like a halo; while
underneath an immense tongue of forked flame licked the sides of the
summit with devouring haste. The lakes, those bright jewels lying in the
lap of the valleys, glowed like enormous carbuncles. Superstitious folk
regarded the conflagration as a portent of war or pestilence. In the
morning a few charred trunks, standing erect, were all that remained of
the original forest. The rocks themselves bear witness to the intense
heat which has either cracked them wide open, crumbled them in pieces,
or divested them, like oysters, of their outer shell, all along the path
of the conflagration.

The walk over the lower summits to the base of the peak occupied
another hour, and is a most profitable feature of the ascent. On each
side a superb panorama of mountains and lakes, of towns, villages, and
hamlets, is being slowly unrolled; while every forward step develops the
inaccessible character of the high summit more and more.

Having strayed from the path to gather blueberries, my companion set me
again on the march by pointing out where a bear had been feeding not
long before. Yet, while assuring me that Bruin was perfectly harmless
at this season, I did not fail to remark that my guide made the most
rapid strides of the day after this discovery. While feeling our way
around the base of the pinnacle, in order to gain the ravine by which
it is attacked, the path suddenly stopped. At the right, projecting
rocks, affording a hold for neither hand nor foot, rose like a wall;
before us, joined to the perpendicular rock, an unbroken ledge of
bare granite, smoothly polished by ice, swept down by a sharp incline
hundreds of feet, and then broke off abruptly into profounder depths. To
advance upon this ledge, as steep as a roof, and where one false step
would inevitably send the climber rolling to the bottom of the ravine,
demands steady nerves. It invests the whole jaunt with just enough of
the perilous to excite the apprehensions, or provoke the enthusiasm of
the individual who stands there for the first time, looking askance at
his guide, and revolving the chances of crossing it in safety. While
debating with myself whether to take off my boots, or go down on my
hands and knees and creep, the guide crossed this place with a steady
step; and, upon reaching the opposite side, grasped a fragment of rock
with one hand while extending his staff to me with the other. Rather
than accept his assistance, I passed over with an assurance I was far
from feeling; but when we came down the mountain I walked across with
far more ease in my stockings.[3]

When he saw me safely over, my conductor moved on, with the remark,

"A skittish place."

"Skittish," indeed! We proceeded to drag ourselves up the ravine by the
aid of bushes, or such protruding rocks as offered a hold. From the
valley below we must have looked like flies creeping up a wall. After a
breathless scramble, which put me in mind of the escalade of the Iron
Castle of Porto Bello, where the English, having no scaling-ladders,
mounted over each other's shoulders, we came to a sort of plateau, on
which was a ruined hut. The view here is varied and extensive; but after
regaining our breath we hastened to complete the ascent, in order to
enjoy, in all its perfection, the prospect awaiting us on the summit.

Like Goethe's Wilhelm Meister, it is among mountains that my knowledge
of them has been obtained. I have little hesitation, then, in
pronouncing the view from Chocorua one of the noblest that can reward
the adventurous climber; for, notwithstanding it is not a high peak, and
cannot, therefore, unfold the whole mountain system at a glance, it yet
affords an unsurpassed view-point, from which one sees the surrounding
mountains rising on all sides in all their majesty, and clothed in all
their terrors.

Let me try to explain why Chocorua is such a remarkable and eligible
post of observation.

One comprehends perfectly that the last high building on the skirts of a
city embraces the largest unobstructed view of the surrounding country.
This mountain is placed at the extremity of a range that abuts upon
the lower Saco valley, and therefore overlooks all the hill-country
on the east and south-east as far as the sea-coast. The arc of this
circle of vision extends from the Camden Hills to Agamenticus, or from
the Penobscot to the Piscataqua. The day being one of a thousand, I
distinctly saw the ocean with the naked eye; not merely as a white
blur on the horizon's edge, but actual blue water, over which smoke
was curling. This magnificent _coup-d'oeil_ embraces the scattered
villages of Conway, Fryeburg, Madison, Eaton, Ossipee, with their
numerous lakes and streams. I counted seventeen of the former flashing
in the sun.

In the second place, Chocorua stands at the entrance to the valley
opening between the Sandwich and Ossipee chains, and commands,
therefore, to the south-west, between these natural walls, the northern
limb of Winnipiseogee and of Squam, which are seen glittering on each
side of Red Hill. In the foreground, at the foot of the mountain,
Chocorua Lake is beyond question the most enticing object in a landscape
wonderfully lighted and enriched by its profusion of brilliant waters,
which resemble so many highly burnished reflectors multiplying the rays
of the sun. I was now looking back to my first station on Red Hill,
only the range of vision was much more extensive. It is unnecessary
to recapitulate the names of the villages and summits seen in this
direction. Over the lakes, Winnipiseogee and Squam, the humid peaks of
Mount Belknap and of Mount Kearsarge, in Warner, last caught the eye.
These two sections of the landscape first meet the eye of the climber
while advancing toward the peak, whose rugged head and brawny shoulders
intercept the view to the north, only to be enjoyed when the mountain is
fully conquered.

Upon the cap-stone crowning the pinnacle, supporting myself by grasping
the signal-staff planted on the highest point of this rock, from which
the wind threatened to sweep us like chaff, I enjoyed the third and
final act of this sublime tableau, in which the whole company of
mountains is crowded upon the stage. Hundreds of dark and bristling
shapes confronted us. Like a horde of barbarians, they seemed silently
awaiting the signal to march upon the lowlands. As the wind swept
through their ranks, an impatient murmur rose from the midst. Each
mountain shook its myriad spears, and gave its voice to swell the
sublime chorus. At first all was confusion; then I began to seek out
the chiefs, whose rock-helmed heads, lifted high above their grisly
battalions, invested each with a distinction and a sovereignty which
yielded nothing except to that imperial peak over which attendant clouds
hovered or floated swiftly away, as if bearing a message to those
distant encampments pitched on the farthest verge of the horizon.

At my left hand extended all the summits, forming at their western
extremity the valley of Mad River, and terminating in the immovable
mass of Black Mountain. The peaks of Tripyramid, Tecumseh, and
Osceola stretched along the northern course of this stream, and over
them gleamed afar the massive plateau-ridge of Moosehillock. From my
stand-point the great wall of the Sandwich chain, which from Tamworth
presents an unbroken front to the south, now divided into ridges running
north and south, separated by profound ravines. Paugus crouched at my
feet; Passaconnaway elevated his fine crest next; Whiteface, his lowered
and brilliant front; and then Black Mountain, the giant landmark of half
a score of towns and villages.

Directly at my feet, to the north-west, the great intervale of Swift
River gleamed from the depths of this valley, like sunshine from
a storm-cloud. Following the course of this little oasis, the eye
wandered over the inaccessible and untrodden peaks of the Pemigewasset
wilderness, resting last on the blue ridge of the Franconia Mountains.
About midway of this line one sees the bristling slopes of Mounts
Carrigain and Hancock, and the Carrigain Notch, through which a hardy
pedestrian may pass from the Pemigewasset to the Saco by following
the course of the streams flowing out of it. Besides its solitary,
picturesque grandeur, Carrigain has the distinction of being the
geographical centre of the White Mountain group. Taking its peak for an
axis, a radius thirty miles long will describe a circle, including in
its sweep nearly the whole mountain system. In this sense Carrigain is,
therefore, the hub of the White Mountains.

Having explored the horizon thus far, I now turned more to the north,
where, by a fortunate chance, Chocorua dominates a portion of the chain
intervening between itself and the Saco Valley. I was looking straight
up this valley through the great White Mountain Notch. There was the
dark spire of Mount Willey, and the scarred side of Webster. There was
the arched rock of Mount Willard, and over it the liquid profile of
Cherry Mountain. It was superb; it was idyllic. Such was the perfect
transparency of the air, that I clearly distinguished the red color of
the slides on Mount Webster without the aid of my glass.

From this centre, outlined with a bold, free hand against the azure, the
undulations of the great White Mountains ascended grandly to the dome
of Mount Washington, and then plunged into the defiles of the Pinkham
Notch. Following this line eastward, the eye traversed the mountains of
Jackson to the half-closed aperture of the Carter Notch, finally resting
on the pinnacle of Kearsarge. Without stirring a single step, we have
taken a journey of three hundred miles.

Down in the valley the day was one of the sultriest; up here it was so
cold that our teeth chattered. We were forced to descend into the hollow
lying between the northerly foot of the peak and the first of the bald
knobs constituting the great white ridge of the mountain. Here is a fine
spring, and here, on either side of this singular rock-gallery, is a
landscape of rare beauty enclosed by its walls. Here, too, the mutilated
pyramid of the peak rises before you like an antique ruin. One finds,
without effort, striking resemblances to winding galleries, bastions,
and battlements. He could pass days and weeks here without a single wish
to return to earth. Here we ate our luncheon, and perused the landscape
at leisure. Before us stretched the long course of the Saco, from its
source in the Notch to where, with one grand sweep to the east, it takes
leave of the mountains, flows awhile demurely through the lowlands, and
in two or three infuriated plunges reaches the sea.

I do not remember when I have more fully enjoyed the serene calm of a
Sabbath evening than while wandering among the fragrant and stately
pines that skirt the shores of Lake Chocorua. Indeed, except for the
occasional sound of hoofs along the cool and shady road, or of voices
coming from the bosom of the lake itself, one might say a perpetual
Sabbath reigned here. Yonder tall, athletic pines, those palms of the
north, through which the glimmer of water is seen, hum their monotonous
lullaby to the drowsy lake. The mountains seem so many statues to
Silence. There is no use for speech here. The mute and expressive
language of two lovers, accustomed to read each others' secret thoughts,
is the divine medium. Truant breezes ruffle the foliage in playful
wantonness, but the trees only shake their green heads and murmur "Hush!
hush!" A consecration is upon the mere, a hallowed light within the
wood. Here is the place to linger over the pages of "Hyperion," or dream
away the idle hours with the poets; and here, stretched along the turf,
one gets closer to Nature, studying her with ever-increasing wonder and
delight, or musing upon the thousand forms of mysterious life swarming
in the clod under his hand.

Charming, too, are the walks by the lake-side in the effulgence of
the harvest-moon; and enchanting the white splendor quivering on its
dark waters. A boat steals by; see! its oars dip up molten silver. The
voyagers troll a love-ditty. Dangerous ground this colonnade of woods
and yonder sparkling water for self-conscious lovers! Love and the ocean
have the same subtle sympathy with moonlight. The stronger its beams the
higher rises the flood.

Very little of the world--but that little the best part--gets in here.
It is out of the beaten path of mountain-travel, so that those only who
have in a manner served their apprenticeship are sojourners. One small
hotel and a few boarding-houses easily accommodate all comers. For
people who like to refine their pleasures, as well as their society,
or who have wearied of life at the great hotels, such a place offers
a most tempting retreat. Display makes no part of the social regime.
Mrs. P---- is not jealous of Mrs. Q----'s diamonds. Ladies stroll
about unattended, gather water-lilies, cardinal-flowers, and rare
ferns by brook or way-side. Gentlemen row, drive, climb the mountains,
or make little pedestrian tours of discovery. Quiet people are
irresistibly attracted to this kind of life, which, with a good degree
of probability, they assert to be the true and only rational way of
enjoying the mountains.




IV.

_LOVEWELL._

    Of worthy Captain Lovewell I purpose now to sing.
    How valiantly he served his country and his king.
    _Old Ballad._


LET us make a détour to historic Fryeburg, leaving the cars at Conway,
which in former times enjoyed a happy pre-eminence as the centre upon
which the old stage-routes converged, and where travellers, going or
returning from the mountains, always passed the night. But those old
travellers have mostly gone where the name of Chatigee, by which both
drivers and tourists liked to designate Conway, is going; only there is
for the name, fortunately, no resurrection. No one knows its origin;
none will mourn its decease.

It is here, at Conway, or Conway Corner, that first enrapturing view of
the White Mountains bursts upon the traveller like a splendid vision.
But we shall see it again on our return from Fryeburg. Moreover,
I enjoyed this constant espionage from a distance before a nearer
approach, this exchange of preliminary civilities before coming closer
to the heart of the mountains.

Fryeburg stands on a dry and sandy plain, elevated above the Saco River.
It lies behind the mountain range, which, terminating in Conway, compels
the river to make a right angle. Turning these mountains, the river
seems now to be in no hurry, but coils about the meadows in a manner
that instantly recalls the famous Connecticut Ox-Bow. Chocorua and
Kearsarge are the two prominent figures in the landscape.

The village street is most beautifully shaded by elms of great size,
which, giving to each other an outstretched hand over the way, spring an
arch of green high above, through which we look up and down. At one end
justice is dispensed at the Oxford House--an inn with a pedigree; at the
other learning is diffused in the academy where Webster once taught and
disciplined the rising generation. A scroll over the inn door bears the
date of 1763. The first school-house and the first framed house built
in Fryeburg are still standing, a little way out of the village. On our
way to the remarkable rock, emerging from the plain like a walrus from
the sea, we linger a moment in the village graveyard to read the long
inscription on the monument of General Joseph Frye, a veteran of the old
wars, and founder of the town which bears his name. Ascending now the
rock to which we just referred, called the Jockey Cap, we are lifted
high above the plain, having the river meadows, the graceful loops of
the river itself, the fine pyramid of Kearsarge on one side, and on the
other the dark sheet of Lovewell's Pond stretched at our feet.

[Illustration: LOVEWELL'S POND]

It was here, under the shadow of Mount Kearsarge, was fought one of the
bloodiest and most obstinately contested battles that can be found in
the annals of war; so terrible, indeed, that the story was repeated from
fireside to fireside, and from generation to generation, as worthy a
niche beside that of Leonidas and his band of heroes. Familiar as is the
tale--and who does not know it by heart?--it can still send the blood
throbbing to the temples, or coursing back to the heart. Unfortunately,
the details are sufficiently meagre, but, in truth, they need no
embellishment. Their very simplicity presents the tragedy in all its
grandeur. It is an epic.

In April, 1725, John Lovewell, a hardy and experienced ranger of
Dunstable, whose exploits had already noised his fame abroad, marched
with forty-six men for the Indian villages at Pigwacket, now Fryeburg,
Maine. At Ossipee he built a small fort, designed as a refuge in case of
disaster. This precaution undoubtedly saved the lives of some of his
men. He was now within two short marches of the enemy's village. The
scouts having found Indian tracks in the neighborhood, Lovewell resumed
his route, leaving one of his men who had fallen sick, his surgeon, and
eight men, to guard the fort. His command was now reduced to thirty-four
officers and men.

The rangers reached the shores of the beautiful lake which bears
Lovewell's name, and bivouacked for the night.

The night passed without an alarm; but the sentinels who watched the
encampment reported hearing strange noises in the woods. Lovewell
scented the presence of his enemy.

In fact, on the morning of the 8th of May, while his band were on their
knees seeking Divine favor in the approaching conflict, the report of a
gun brought every man to his feet. Upon reconnoitring, a solitary Indian
was discovered on a point of land about a mile from the camp.

The leader immediately called his men about him, and told them that
they must now quickly decide whether to fight or retreat. The men, with
one accord, replied that they had not come so far in search of the
enemy to beat a shameful retreat the moment he was found. Seeing his
band possessed with this spirit, Lovewell then prepared for battle.
The rangers threw off their knapsacks and blankets, looked to their
primings, and loosened their knives and axes. The order was then given,
and they moved cautiously out of their camp. Believing the enemy was in
his front, Lovewell neglected to place a guard over his baggage.

Instead of plunging into the woods, the Indian who had alarmed the camp
stood where he was first seen until the scouts fired upon him, when he
returned the fire, wounding Lovewell and one other. Ensign Wyman then
levelled his musket and shot him dead. The day began thus unfortunately
for the English. Lovewell was mortally wounded in the abdomen, but
continued to give his orders.

After clearing the woods in their front without finding any more
Indians, the rangers fell back toward the spot where they had deposited
their packs. This was a sandy plain, thinly covered with pines, at the
north-east end of the lake.

During their absence, the Indians, led by the old chief, Paugus, whose
name was a terror throughout the length and breadth of the English
frontiers, stumbled upon the deserted encampment. Paugus counted the
packs, and, finding his warriors outnumbered the rangers, the wily
chief placed them in ambush; he divined that the English would return
from their unsuccessful scout sooner or later, and he prepared to
repeat the tactics used with such fatal effect at Bloody Brook, and at
the defeat of Wadsworth. This consisted in arranging his savages in a
semicircle, the two wings of which, enveloping the rangers, would expose
them to a murderous cross-fire at short musket-range.

Without suspecting their danger, Lovewell's men fell into the fatal
snare which the crafty Paugus had thus spread for them. Hardly had they
entered it when the grove blazed with a deadly volley, and resounded
with the yells of the Indians. As if confident of their prey, they even
left their coverts, and flung themselves upon the English with a fury
nothing could withstand.

In this onset Lovewell, who, notwithstanding his wound, bravely
encouraged his men with voice and example, received a second wound, and
fell. Two of his lieutenants were killed at his side; but with desperate
valor the rangers charged up to the muzzles of the enemy's guns, killing
nine, and sweeping the others before them. This gallant charge cost them
eight killed, besides their captain; two more were badly wounded.

Twenty-three men had now to maintain the conflict with the whole Sokokis
tribe. Their situation was indeed desperate. Relief was impossible;
for they were fifty miles from the nearest English settlements. Their
packs and provisions were in the enemy's hands, and the woods swarmed
with foes. To conquer or die was the only alternative. These devoted
Englishmen despaired of conquering, but they prepared to die bravely.

Ensign Wyman, on whom the command devolved after the death of Lovewell,
was his worthy successor. Seeing the enemy stealing upon his flanks as
if to surround him, he ordered his men to fall back to the shore of the
lake, where their right was protected by a brook, and their left by a
rocky point extending into the lake. A few large pines stood on the
beach between.

This manoeuvre was executed under a hot fire, which still further
thinned the ranks of the English. The Indians closed in upon them,
filling the air with demoniac yells whenever a victim fell. Assailing
the whites with taunts, and shaking ropes in their faces, they cried
out to them to yield. But to the repeated demands to surrender, the
rangers replied only with bullets. They thought of the fort and its ten
defenders, and hoped, or rather prayed, for night. This hope, forlorn as
it seemed, encouraged them to fight on, and they delivered their fire
with fatal precision whenever an Indian showed himself. The English were
in a trap, but the Indians dared not approach within reach of the lion's
claws.

While this long combat was proceeding, one of the English went to the
lake to wash his gun, and, on emerging at the shore, descried an Indian
in the act of cleansing his own. This Indian was Paugus.

The ranger went to work like a man who comprehends that his life depends
upon a second. The chief followed him in every movement. Both charged
their guns at the same instant. The Englishman threw his ramrod on the
sand; the Indian dropped his.

"Me kill you," said Paugus, priming his weapon from his powder-horn.

"The chief lies," retorted the undaunted ranger, striking the breech of
his firelock upon the ground with such force that it primed itself. An
instant later Paugus fell, shot through the heart.

"I said I should kill you," muttered the victor, spurning the dead body
of his enemy, and plunging into the thickest of the fight.

Darkness closed the conflict, which had continued without cessation
since ten in the morning. Little by little the shouts of the enemy grew
feebler, and finally ceased. The English stood to their arms until
midnight, when, convinced that the savages had abandoned the sanguinary
field of battle, they began their retreat toward the fort. Only nine
were unhurt. Eleven were badly wounded, but were resolved to march with
their comrades, though they died by the way. Three more were alive, but
had received their death-wounds. One of these was Lieutenant Robbins, of
Chelmsford. Knowing that he must be left behind, he begged his comrades
to load his gun, in order that he might sell his life as dearly as
possible when the savages returned to wreak their vengeance upon the
wounded.

I have said that twenty-three men continued the fight after the bloody
repulse in which Lovewell was killed. There were only twenty-two. The
other, whose name the reader will excuse me from mentioning, fled from
the field and gained the fort, where he spread the report that Lovewell
was cut to pieces, himself being the sole survivor. This intelligence,
striking terror, decided the little garrison to abandon the fort, which
was immediately done, and in haste.

This was the crowning misfortune of the expedition. The rangers now
became a band of panic-stricken fugitives. After incredible hardships,
less than twenty starving, emaciated, and footsore men, half of them
badly wounded, straggled into the nearest English settlements.

The loss of the Indians could only be guessed; but the battle led to the
immediate abandonment of their village, from which so many war-parties
had formerly harassed the English. Paugus, the savage wolf, the
implacable foe of the whites, was dead. His tribe forsook the graves of
their fathers, nor rested until they had put many long leagues between
them and their pursuers. For them the advance of the English was the
Juggernaut under whose wheels their race was doomed to perish from the
face of the earth.




V.

_NORTH CONWAY._

    "Tall spire from which the sound of cheerful bells
     Just undulates upon the listening ear,
     Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote."


The entrance to North Conway is, without doubt, the most beautiful and
imposing introduction to the high mountains.

Although the traveller has for fifty miles skirted the outlying ranges,
catching quick-shifting glimpses of the great summits, yet, when at last
the train swings round the foot of the Moat range into the Saco Valley,
so complete is the transition, so charming the picture, that not even
the most apathetic can repress a movement of surprise and admiration.
This is the moment when every one feels the inadequacy of his own
conceptions.

Nature has formed here a vast antechamber, into which you are ushered
through a gate-way of mountains upon the numerous inner courts,
galleries, and cloisters of her most secluded retreats. Here the
mountains fall back before the impetuous flood of the Saco, which comes
pouring down from the summit of the great Notch, white, and panting with
the haste of its flight. Here the river gives rendezvous to several of
its larger affluents--the East Branch, the Ellis, the Swift--and, like
an army taking the field, their united streams, sweeping grandly around
the foot of the last mountain range, emerge into the open country. Here
the valley, contracted at its extremity between the gentle slope of
Kearsarge and the abrupt declivities of Moat, encloses an ellipse of
verdant and fertile land ravishing to behold, skirted on one side by
thick woods, behind which precipices a thousand feet high rise black and
threatening, overlooked on the other by a high terrace, along which the
village is built. It is the inferior summit of Kearsarge, which descends
by a long, regular slope to the intervale at its upper end, while a
secondary ridge of the Moats, advancing on the opposite side, drops
into it by a precipice. The superb silver-gray crest of Kearsarge is
seen rising in a regular pyramid behind the right shoulder of its lower
summit. Ordinarily the house perched on the top is seen as distinctly as
those in the village. It is the last in the village.

Looking up through this verdant mountain park, at a distance of twenty
miles, the imposing masses of the great summits seem scaling the skies.
Then, heavily massed on the right, comes the Carter range, divided by
the cup-shaped dip of the Carter Notch; then the truncated cone of
Double-Head; and then, with outworks firmly planted in the valley, the
glittering pinnacle of Kearsarge. The mountain in front of you, looking
up the village street, is Thorn Mountain, on the other side of which is
Jackson, and the way up the Ellis Valley to the Pinkham Notch, the Glen
House, Gorham, and the Androscoggin.

The traveller, who is ushered upon this splendid scene with the rapidity
of steam, perceives that he is at last among real mountains, and quickly
yields to the indefinable charm which from this moment surrounds and
holds him a willing captive.

[Illustration: MOUNT WASHINGTON FROM THE SACO.]

Looking across the meadow from the village street, the eye is stopped
by an isolated ridge of bare, overhanging precipices. It is thrust out
into the valley from Moat Mountain, of which it forms a part, presenting
two singular, regularly arched cliffs, seven hundred to nine hundred and
fifty feet in height toward the village. The green forest underneath
contrasts vividly with the lustrous black of these precipitous walls,
which glisten brightly in the sunshine, where they are wet by tiny
streams flowing down. On the nearest of these is a very curious
resemblance to the head and shoulders of a horse in the act of rearing,
occasioned by a white incrustation on the face of the cliff. This
accident gives to it the name of White Horse Ledge. All marriageable
ladies, maiden or widow, run out to look at it, in consequence of the
belief current in New England that if, after seeing a white horse,
you count a hundred, the first gentleman you meet will be your future
husband! Underneath this cliff a charming little lake lies hid.

Next beyond is the Cathedral Ledge, so called from the curious rock
cavity it contains; and still farther up the valley is Humphrey's Ledge,
one of the finest rock-studies of them all when we stand underneath
it. But the reader now has a general acquaintance with North Conway,
and with its topography. He begins his study of mountain beauty in a
spirit of loving enthusiasm, which leads him on and on to the ripeness
of an education achieved by simply throwing himself upon the bosom of
indulgent Nature, putting the world as far as possible behind him.

[Illustration: THE LEDGES, NORTH CONWAY.]

But now from these masses of hard rock let us turn once more to the
valley, where the rich intervales spread an exhaustless feast for the
eye. If autumn be the season, the vase-like elms, the stacks of yellow
corn, the golden pumpkins looking like enormous oranges, the floor-cloth
of green and gold damasked with purple gorse and coppice, give the idea
of an immense table groaning beneath its luxurious weight of fruit and
flowers.

Turn now to the mountain presiding with such matchless grace and dignity
over the village. Kearsarge, in the twilight, deserves, like Lorenzo di
Medicis, to be called "the magnificent." The yellow and orange foliage
looks, for all the world, like a golden shower fallen upon it. The
gray ledges at the apex, which the clear, yellow light renders almost
incandescent, are far more in harmony with the rest of the mountain than
in the vernal season.

Are we yet in sympathy with that free-masonry of art through which our
eminent landscape-painters recognized here the true picturesque point
of view of the great mountains, the effective contrasts and harmonious
ensemble of the near scenery--the grandest allied with the humblest
objects of nature? One cannot turn in any direction without recognizing
a picture he has seen in the studios, or in the saloons of the clubs.

The first persons I saw on the platform of the railway-station were my
quondam companions, the colonel and George. We met like friends who had
parted only half an hour before. During dinner it was agreed that we
should pass our afternoon among the cliffs. This arrangement appeared
very judicious; the distance is short, and the attractions many.

We accordingly set out for the ledges at three in the afternoon.
The weather did not look promising, to be sure, but we decided it
sufficiently so for this promenade of three or four hours.

While en route, let me mention a discovery. One morning, while sitting
on the piazza of the Kearsarge House enjoying the dreamy influence
of the warm atmosphere, which spun its soft, gossamer web about the
mountains, I observed a peculiar shadow thrown by a jutting mass of the
Cathedral Ledge upon a smooth surface, which exactly resembled a human
figure standing upright. I looked away, then back again, to see if I
was not the victim of an illusion. No, it was still there. Now it is
always there. The head and upper part of the body were inclined slightly
forward, the legs perfectly formed. At ten every forenoon, punctual
to the hour, this phantom, emerging from the rock, stands, fixed and
motionless as a statue, in its niche. At every turn of the sun, this
shade silently interrogates the feverish activity that has replaced the
silence of ages. One day or another I shall demand of my phantom what it
has witnessed.

The road we followed soon turned sharply away from the main street of
the village, to the left, and in a few rods more plunged into the Saco,
leaving us standing on the bank, looking askance at a wide expanse of
water, choked with bowlders, around which the swift current whirled and
foamed with rage. We decided it too shallow to swim, but doubted if it
was not too deep to ford. We had reached our Rubicon.

"We must wade," said the colonel, with decision.

"Precisely my idea," assented George, beginning to unlace his shoes.

I put my hand in the river. Ugh! it was as cold as ice.

Having assured ourselves no one saw us, we divested ourselves of shoes,
stockings, pantaloons, and drawers. We put our stockings in our pockets,
disposed our clothing in a roll over the shoulder, as soldiers do on the
march, tied our shoes together, and hung them around our necks. Then,
placing our hands upon each others' shoulders, as I have seen gymnasts
do in a circus, we entered the river, like candidates for baptism,
feeling our way, and catching our breath.

"_Sans-culottes_," suggested the colonel, who knew a little French.

"Kit-kats," added George, who knows something of art, as the water rose
steadily above our knees.

The treacherous bowlders tripped us up at every step, so that one or
the other was constantly floundering, like a stranded porpoise in a
frog-pond. But, thanks to our device, we reached the middle of the river
without anything worse than a few bruises. Here we were fairly stopped.
The water was waist-deep, and the current every moment threatened to
lift us from our feet. How foolish we looked!

Advance or retreat? That was the question. One pointed up stream,
another down; while, to aggravate the situation, rain began to patter
around us. In two minutes the river was steaming. George, who is a great
infant, suggested putting our hands in our pockets, to keep them warm,
and our clothes in the river, to keep them dry.

"By Jove!" ejaculated the colonel, "the river is smoking."

"Let us join the river," said George, producing his cigar-case.

Putting our heads together over the colonel's last match, thus forming
an antique tripod of our bodies, we succeeded in getting a light; and
for the first time, I venture to affirm, since its waters gushed from
the mountains, incense ascended from the bosom of the Saco.

"I'm freezing!" stuttered George.

I was pushing forward, to cut the dilemma short, when the colonel
interposed with,

"Stop; I want to tell you a story."

"A story? here--in the middle of the river?" we shouted.

"In the middle of the river; here--a story!" he echoed.

"I would like to sit down while I listen," observed George.

Evidently the coldness of the water had forced the blood into our
friend's head. He was ill, but obstinate. We therefore resigned
ourselves to hear him.

"This river and this situation remind me of the Potawatamies," he began.

"Potawatamies!" we echoed, with chattering teeth. "Go on; go on."

"When I was on the Plains," continued the colonel, "I passed some time
among those Indians. During my stay, the chief invited me to accompany
him on a buffalo-hunt. I accepted on the spot; for of all things a
buffalo-hunt was the one I was most desirous of seeing. We set out at
daybreak the next morning. After a few hours' march, we came to a stream
between deep banks, and flowing with a rapid current, like this one--"

"Go on; go on!" we shiveringly articulated.

"At a gesture from the chief, a young squaw dismounted from her pony,
advanced to the edge of the stream, and began, timidly, to wade it. When
she hesitated, as she did two or three times, the chief said something
which encouraged her to proceed. All at once she stopped, threw up her
arms, and screamed something in the Indian dialect; at which all the
braves burst into a loud laugh, the squaws joining in.

"'What does she say?' I asked of the chief.

"'Up to the middle,' he replied, pushing his pony into the stream."

The stream grew shallower, so that we soon emerged from the water upon
the opposite bank. Here we poured the water from our shoes, and resumed
our wet clothing. Everything was cooled, except our ardor.

As we approached nearer, the ledges were full of grim recesses, rude
rock-niches, and traversed by perpendicular cracks from brow to base.
"Take care!" I shouted; "there is a huge piece of the cliff just ready
to fall."

In some places the rock is sheer and smooth, in others it is broken
regularly down, for half its whole height, to where it is joined by rude
buttresses of massive granite. The lithe maples climb up the steepest
ravines, but cannot pass the waste of sheer rock stretching between
them and the firs, which look down over the brink of the precipice.
Rusted purple is the prevailing color, blotched here and there with
white, like the drip oozing from limestone. We soon emerged on the shore
of Echo Lake.

Hovering under the great precipices, which lie heavily shadowed on its
glossy surface, are gathered the waters flowing from the airy heights
above--the little rills, the rivulets, the cascades. The tremendous
shadow the cliff flings down seems lying deep in the bosom of the lake,
as if perpetually imprinted there. Slender birches, brilliant foliage,
were daintily etched upon the surface, like arabesques on polished
steel. The water is perfectly transparent, and without a ripple. Indeed,
the breezes playing around the summit, or humming in the tree-tops, seem
forbidden to enter this haunt of Dryads. The lake laps the yellow strand
with a light, fluttering movement. The place seems dedicated to silence
itself.

[Illustration: ECHO LAKE, NORTH CONWAY.]

To destroy this illusion, a man came out of a booth and touched off a
small cannon. The effect was like knocking at half a dozen doors at
once. And the silence which followed seemed all the deeper. Then the
aged rock was pelted with questions, and made to jeer, laugh, menace,
or curse by turns, or all at once. How grandly it bore all these petty
insolences! How presumptuous in us thus to cover its hoary front with
obloquy! We could never get the last word. We did not even come off in
triumph. How ironically the mountain repeated, "Who are you?" and "What
am I!" With what energy it at last vociferated, "Go to the devil!" To
the Devil's Den we accordingly go.

Following a woodland path skirting the base of the cliffs, we were
very soon before the entrance of the Devil's Den, formed by a huge
piece of the cliff falling upon other detached fragments in such a way
as to leave an aperture large enough to admit fifty persons at once. A
ponderous mass divides the cavern into two chambers, one of which is
light, airy, and spacious, the other dark, gloomy, and contracted--a
mere hole. This might well have been the lair of the bears and panthers
formerly roaming, unmolested, these woods.

The Cathedral is a recess higher up in the same cliff, hollowed out
by the cleaving off of the lower rock, leaving the upper portion of
the precipice overhanging. The top of the roof is as high as a tall
tree. Some maples that have grown here since the outer portion of the
rock fell, assist, with their straight-limbed, columnar trunks, the
resemblance to a chancel. A little way off this cavity has really the
appearance of a gigantic shell, like those fossils seen imbedded in
subterranean rocks. We did not miss here the delicious glimpses of
Kearsarge, and of the mountains across the valley which, now that the
sun came out, were all in brilliant light, while the cool afternoon
shadows already wrapped the woods about us in twilight gloom.

Still farther on we came upon a fine cascade falling down a long,
irregular staircase of broken rock. One of these steps extends, a solid
mass of granite, more than a hundred feet across the bed of the stream,
and is twenty feet high. Unless the brook is full, it is not a single
sheet we see, but twenty, fifty crystal streams gushing or spirting
from the grooves they have channelled in the hard granite, and falling
into basins they have hollowed out. It is these curious, circular stone
cavities, out of which the freshest and cleanest water constantly pours,
that give to the cascade the name of Diana's Baths. The water never
dashes itself noisily down, but slips, like oil, from the rocks, with a
pleasant, purling sound no single word of our language will correctly
describe. From here we returned to the village in the same way that we
came.[4]

The wild and bristling little mountain range on the east side of North
Conway embodies a good deal of picturesque character. It is there our
way lies to Artists' Falls, which are on a brook issuing from these
Green Hills. I found the walk, following its windings, more remunerative
than the falls themselves. The brook, flowing first over a smooth
granite ledge, collects in a little pool below, out of which the pure
water filters through bowlders and among glittering pebbles to a gorge
between two rocks, down which it plunges. The beauty of this cascade
consists in its waywardness. Now it is a thin sheet, flowing demurely
along; now it breaks out in uncontrollable antics; and at length, as if
tired of this sport, darts like an arrow down the rocky fissure, and is
a mountain brook again.

The ascent of Kearsarge and of the Moats fittingly crowns the series of
excursions which are the most attractive feature of out-of-door life
at North Conway. The northern peak of Moat is the one most frequently
climbed, but the southern affords almost equally admirable views of the
Saco, the Ellis, and the Swift River valleys, with the mountain chains
enclosing them. The prospect here is, however, much the same as that
obtained from Chocorua, which is seen rising beyond the Swift River
valley. To that description I must, therefore, refer the reader, who is
already acquainted with its principal features.

The high ridge is an arid and desolate heap of summits stripped bare
of vegetation by fire. When this fire occurred, twenty odd years
ago, it drove the bears and rattlesnakes from their forest homes in
great numbers, so that they fell an easy prey to their destroyers. A
depression near its centre divides the ridge in two, constituting, in
effect, two mountains. We crossed the range in its whole length, and,
after newly refreshing ourselves with the admirable views had from
its greater elevation, descended the northern peak to Diana's Baths.
Probably the most striking view of the Moats is from Conway. Here the
summits, thrown into a mass of lawless curves and blunted, prong-like
protuberances, rear a blackened and weird-looking cluster on high. But
for a wide region they divide with Chocorua the honors of the landscape,
constituting, at Jackson especially, a large and imposing background,
massively based and buttressed, and cutting through space with their
trenchant edge.

In the winter of 1876, finding myself at North Conway, I determined to
make the attempt to ascend Mount Kearsarge, notwithstanding two-thirds
of the mountain were shrouded in snow, and the bare shaft constituting
the spire sheathed in glittering ice. The mountain had definitively gone
into winter-quarters.

I was up early enough to surprise, all at once, the unwonted and
curiously-blended effect of moonlight, starlight, and the twilight of
dawn. The new moon, with the old in her arms, balanced her shining
crescent on the curved peak of Moat Mountain. All these high,
surrounding peaks, carved in marble and flooded with effulgence,
impressed the spirit with that mingled awe and devotion felt among
the antique monuments of some vast cemetery. The sight thrilled and
solemnized by its chaste magnificence. Glittering stars, snow-draped
summits, black mountains casting sable draperies upon the dead white
of the valley, constituted a scene of sepulchral pomp into which the
supernatural entered unchallenged. One by one the stars went out. The
moon grew pale. A clear emerald, overspreading the east, was reflected
from lofty peak and tapering spire.

[Illustration: KEARSARGE IN WINTER.]

Day broke bright, clear, and crisp. There, again, was the same matchless
array of high and noble summits, sitting on thrones of alabaster
whiteness. While the moon still lingered in the west, the broad red
disk of the sun rose over the wooded ridges in the east. So sun and
moon, monarch and queen, saluted each other. One gave the watchword,
and descended behind the moated mountain; the other ascended the vacant
throne. Thus night and day met and exchanged majestic salutation in the
courts of the morning.

The mercury stood at three degrees below zero in the village, when I
set out on foot for the mountain. A light fall of snow had renewed
the Christmas decorations. The trees had newly-leaved and blossomed.
Beautiful it was to see the dark old pines thick-flaked with new snow,
and the same feathery substance lodged on every twig and branchlet,
tangle of vines, or tuft of tawny yellow grass. Fir-trees looked like
gigantic azaleas; thickets like coral groves. Nothing too slender or too
fragile for the white flight to alight upon. Talk of decorative art!
Even the telegraph-wires hung in broad, graceful festoons of white,
and the poor washer-woman's clothes-line was changed into the same
immaterial thing of beauty.

The ascent proved more toilsome than I had anticipated, as my feet
broke through the frozen crust at every step. But if the climb had been
difficult when in the woods, it certainly presented few attractions when
I emerged from them half a mile below the summit. I found the surface of
the bare ledges, which now continue to the top of the mountain, sheeted
in ice, smooth and slippery as glass.

Many a time have I laughed heartily at the feverish indecision of a dog
when he runs along the margin of a pond into which he has been urged
to plunge. He turns this way and that, whines, barks, crouches for the
leap, laps the water, but hesitates. Imagine, now, the same animal
chasing some object upon slippery ice, his feet spread widely apart;
his frantic efforts to stop; the circles described in the air by his
tail. Well, I experienced the same perplexity, and made nearly the same
ridiculous evolutions.

After several futile attempts to advance over it, and as often finding
myself sliding backward with entire loss of control of my own movements,
I tried the rugged ravine, traversing the summit, with some success,
steadying my steps on the iced bowlders by grasping the bushes which
grew there among clefts of the rock. But this way, besides being
extremely fatiguing, was decidedly the more dangerous of the two; and
I was glad, after a brief trial, to abandon it for the ice, in which,
here and there, detached stones, solidly embedded, furnished points of
support, if they could be reached. By pursuing a zigzag course from
stone to stone, sometimes--like a pious Moslem approaching the tomb of
the Prophet--upon my hands and knees, and shedding tears from the force
of the wind, I succeeded in getting over the ledges after an hour's
obstinate battle to maintain an upright position, and after several
mishaps had taught me a degree of caution closely approaching timidity.
By far the most treacherous ground was where fresh snow, covering the
smooth ice, spread its pitfalls in the path, causing me several times
to measure my length; but at last these obstacles were one by one
surmounted; I groped my way, foot by foot, up the sharp rise of the
pinnacle, finding myself at the front door of the house which is so
conspicuous an object from the valley.

Never was air more pure, more crisp, or more transparent. Besides,
what air can rival that of winter? I felt myself rather floating than
walking. Certainly there is a lightness, a clearness, and a depth that
belongs to no other season. At no other season do we behold our native
skies so blue, so firm, or so brilliant as when the limpid ether,
winnowed by the fierce north wind to absolute purity, presents objects
with such marvellous clearness, precision, and fidelity, that we hardly
persuade ourselves they are forty, fifty, or a hundred miles distant. To
realize this rare condition was all the object of the ascent--an object
attained in a measure far beyond any anticipations I had formed.

As may easily be imagined, the immediate effect was bewildering in the
extreme. In the first place, the direct rays of the noonday sun covered
the mountain-top with dazzling brilliancy. The eye fairly ached with
looking at it. In the second, the intensity of the blue was such as to
give the idea that the grand expanse of sky was hard frozen. Nothing
more coldly brilliant than this immense azure dome can be conceived.
There was not the faintest trace of a cloud anywhere; nothing but this
splendid void. Under this high-vaulted dome, imagine now a vast expanse
of white etched with brown--a landscape in sepia. Such was the general
effect.

But the inexpressible delight of having all this admirable scene to
one's self! Taine asks, "Can anything be sweeter than the certainty
of being alone? In any widely known spot, you are in constant dread
of an incursion of tourists; the hallooing of guides, the loud-voiced
admiration, the bustle, whether of unfastening horses, or of unpacking
provisions, or of airing opinions, all disturb the budding sensation;
civilization recovers its hold upon you. But here, what security and
what silence! nothing that recalls man; the landscape is just what it
has been these six thousand years."

The view from this mountain is justly admired. Stripped of life and
color, I found it sad, pathetic even. Dead white and steel blue rudely
repulsed the sensitive eye. The north wind, cold and cutting, drove me
to take shelter under glaring rocks. The cracking of ice first on one
side, then on the other, diverted the attention from the landscape,
as if the mountain was continually snapping its fingers in disdain.
I had constantly the feeling that some _one_ or some _thing_ was at
my elbow. What childishness! But where now was the lavish summer, the
barbaric splendors of autumn--its arabesques of foliage, its velvet
shadows, its dappled skies, its glow, mantling like that of health and
beauty? All-pervading gloom and defoliation were rendered ten times more
melancholy by the splendid glare. Winter flung her white shroud over the
land to hide the repulsiveness of death.

I looked across the valley where Moat Mountain reared its magnificent
dark wave. Passing to the north side, the eye wandered over the wooded
summits to the silvery heap of Washington, to which frozen, rose-colored
mists were clinging. A great ice-cataract rolled down over the edge
of Tuckerman's Ravine, its wave of glittering emerald. It shone with
enchanting brilliancy, cheating the imagination with the idea that
it moved; that the thin, spectral vapor rose from the depths of the
ice-cold gorge below. There gaped, wide open, the enormous hole of
Carter Notch; there the pale-blue Saco wound in and out of the hills,
with hamlets and villages strung along its serpentine course; and, as
the river grows, villages increase to towns, towns to cities. There
was the sea sparkling like a plain of quicksilver, with ponds and
lakes innumerable between. There, in the south-west, as far as the eye
could reach, was Monadnock demanding recognition; and in the west,
Moosehillock, Lafayette, Carrigain peaks, lifted with calm superiority
above the chaos of mountains, like higher waves of a frozen sea.
Finally, there were the snow-capped summits of the great range seen
throughout their whole extent, sunning their satin sides in indolent
enjoyment.

This view has no peer in these mountains. Indeed, the mountain seems
expressly placed to command in one comprehensive sweep of the eye the
most impressive features of any mountain landscape. Being a peak of the
second order--that is to say, one not dominating all the chains--while
it does not unfold the topography of the region in its whole extent,
it is sufficiently elevated to permit the spectator to enjoy that
increasing grandeur with which the distant ranges rise, tier upon tier,
to their great central spires, without lessening materially their
loftiness, or the peculiar and varied expression of their contours. The
peak of Kearsarge peeps down over one shoulder into New Hampshire, over
the other into Maine. It looks straight up through the open door of the
Carter Notch, and boldly stares Washington in the face. It sees the
sun rise from the ocean, and set behind Mount Lafayette. It patronizes
Moat, measures itself proudly with Chocorua, and maintains a distant
acquaintance with Monadnock. It is a handsome mountain, and, as such,
is a general favorite with the ladies and the artists. Like a careful
shepherd, it every morning scans the valleys to see that none of its
flock of villages has wandered. For these villagers it is a sun-dial, a
weather-vane, an almanac; for the wayfarer, a sure guide; and for the
poet, a mountain with a soul.

[Illustration: SLIDING DOWN KEARSARGE.]

The cold was intense, the wind piercing. On its north side the house
was deeply incrusted with ice-spars--windows and all. I feel that only
scant justice can be done to their wondrous beauty. All the scrubby
bushes growing out of interstices of the crumbling summit--wee twig
and slender filament--were stemmed with ice; while the rocks bristled
with countless frost feathers. With my pitch-cakes and a few twigs
I lighted a fire, which might be seen from the half-dozen villages
clustered about the foot of the mountain, and pleased myself with
imagining the astonishment with which a smoke curling upward from
this peak would be greeted for fifty miles around. I then prepared to
descend--I say prepared to descend, for the thing at once so easy to
say and so difficult of performance suddenly revived the recollection
of the hazardous scramble up the ledges, and made it seem child's play
by comparison. For a brief hour I had forgotten all this. However, go
down I must. But how? The first step on the ice threatened a descent
more rapid than flesh and blood could calmly contemplate. I had no
hatchet to cut steps in the ice; no rope to attach to the rocks, and
thus lower myself, as is practised in crossing the glaciers of the
Alps; and there was no foothold. For a moment I seriously thought of
forcing an entrance into the house, and, making a signal of distress,
resign myself to the possibility of help from below. But while sitting
on a rock looking blankly at the glassy declivity stretching down from
the summit, a bright idea came to my aid. I remembered having read in
Bourrienne's "Memoirs" that Bonaparte--the great Bonaparte--was forced
to slide down the summit of the Great St. Bernard _seated_, while
making his famous passage of the Alps. Yes, the great Corsican really
advanced to the conquest of Italy in this undignified posture. But never
did great example find more unworthy imitator. Seating myself, as the
Little Corporal had done, using my staff as a rudder, and steering for
protruding stones in order to check the force of the descent from time
to time, I slid down with a celerity the very remembrance of which makes
my head swim, arriving safe, but breathless and much astonished, at
the first irregular patch of snow. The pleasure of standing erect on
something the feet could grasp was one not to be translated into words.

Upon reaching the hotel, I procured another pair of pantaloons of my
host, and some court-plaster from the village apothecary. If any of my
readers think my dignity compromised, I beg him to remember the example
of the great Napoleon, and his famous expedient for circumventing the
Great St. Bernard.




VI.

_FROM KEARSARGE TO CARRIGAIN._

    _Raleigh._--"Fain would I climb, but that I fear to fall."
    _Queen Elizabeth._--"If thy heart fail thee, climb thou not at all."


After the storm, we had a fine lunar bow. The corona in the centre was a
clear silver, the outer circle composed of pale green and orange fires.
Over the moon's disk clouds swept a continuous stormy flight. The great
planet resembled a splendid decoration hung high in the heavens.

Having now progressed to terms of easy familiarity with the village, it
was decided to pay our respects to the Intervale, which unites it with
the neighboring town of Bartlett.

The road up the valley first skirts a wood, and through this wood are
delicious glimpses of Mount Adams. During the heat of the day or cool
of the evening this extensive and beautiful forest has always been a
favorite haunt. Tall, athletic pines, that bend in the breeze like
whalebone, lift their immense clusters of impenetrable foliage on high.
The sighs of lovers are softly echoed in their green tops; voices and
laughter issue from it. We, too, will swing our hammock here, and
breathe the healing fragrance that is so grateful.

In a little enclosure of rough stone, on the Bigelow place, lie the
remains of the ill-fated Willey family, who were destroyed by the
memorable slide of 1826. The inscription closes with this not too lucid
figure:

    "We gaze around, we read their monument;
     We sigh, and when we sigh we sink."

Where the high terrace, making one grand sweep to the right, again
unveils the same superb view of the great summits, now wholly
unobstructed by houses or groves, we halt before that picture,
unrivalled in these mountains, not surpassed, perhaps, upon earth, and
which we never tire of gazing upon. Its most salient features have
already been described; but here in their very midst, from their very
heart, nature seems to have snatched a garden-spot from the haggard
mountains arrested in their advance by the command, "Thus far, and no
farther!" The elms, all grace, all refinement of form, bend before
the fierce blasts of winter, but stir not. The frozen east wind flies
shrieking through, as if to tear them limb from limb. The ground is
littered with their branches. They bow meekly before its rage, but stir
not. Really, they seem so many sentinels jealously guarding that repose
of which the vale is so eloquently the expression. The vale regards the
stormy summits around with the unconcern of perfect security. It is rest
to look at it.

[Illustration: CONWAY MEADOWS.]

Again we scan the great peaks which in clear days come boldly down and
stand at our very doors, but on hazy ones remove to a vast distance,
keeping vaguely aloof day in and day out. Sometimes they are in the
sulks, sometimes bold and forward. By turns they are graciously
condescending, or tantalizingly incomprehensible. One time they muffle
themselves in clouds from head to foot, so we cannot detect a suggestive
line or a contour; another, throwing off all disguise, they expose their
most secret beauties to the free gaze of the multitude. This is to set
the beholder's blood on fire with the passion to climb as high as those
gray shafts of everlasting rock that so proudly survey the creeping
leagues beneath them.

Nowhere is the unapproachable grandeur of Mount Washington more fully
manifested than here. This large and impressive view is at once
suggestive of that glorious pre-eminence always associated with high
mountains. There are mountains, respectable ones too, in the middle
distance; but over these the great peak lords it with undisputed sway.
The bold and firm, though gradual, lines of ascent culminating at the
apex, extend over leagues of sky. After a clear sunset, Mount Washington
takes the same dull lead-color of the clouds hovering like enormous
night-birds over its head.

North Conway permits, to the tourist, a choice of two very agreeable
excursions, either of which may be made in a day, although they could
profitably occupy a week. One is to follow the course of the Saco,
through the great Notch, to Fabyans, where you are on the westward
side of the great range, and where you take the rail to the summit
of Mount Washington. The other excursion is to diverge from the Saco
Valley three or four miles from North Conway, ascending the valley of
Ellis River--one of the lame affluents of the Saco--through the Pinkham
Notch to the Glen House, where you are exactly under the eastern foot
of Mount Washington, and may ascend it, by the carriage-road, in a
coach-and-four. We had already chosen the first route, and as soon as
the roads were a little settled we began our march.

The storm was over. The keen north wind drove the mists in utter rout
before it. Peak after peak started out of the clouds, glowered on us a
moment, and then muffled his enormous head in fleecy vapor. The clouds
seemed thronged with monstrous apparitions, struggling fiercely with
the gale, which in pure wantonness tore aside the magic drapery that
rendered them invisible, scattering its tattered rags far and wide over
the valley.

Now the sun entered upon the work begun by the wind. Quicker than
thought, a ray of liquid flame transfixed the vapors, flashed upon the
vale, and, flying from summit to summit, kindled them with newborn
splendor. One would have said a flaming javelin, hurled from high
heaven, had just cleft its dazzling way to earth. The mists slunk away
and hid themselves. The valley was inundated with golden light. Even the
dark faces of the cliffs brightened and beamed upon the vale, where the
bronzed foliage fluttered, and the river leaped for joy. In a little
time nothing was left but scattered clouds winging their way toward the
lowlands.

[Illustration: BARTLETT BOWLDER.]

Near Glen Station is one of those curiosities--a transported
boulder--which was undoubtedly left while on its travels through the
mountains, poised upon four smaller ones, in the position seen in the
engraving.

Three miles below the village of Bartlett we stopped before a
farm-house, with the gable-end toward the road, to inquire the distance
to the next tavern, where we meant to pass the night. A gruff voice from
the inside growled something by way of reply; but as its owner, whoever
he might be, did not take the trouble to open his door, the answer was
unintelligible.

"The churl!" muttered the colonel. "I have a great mind to teach him to
open when a gentleman knocks."

"And I advise you not to try it," said the voice from the inside.

The one thing a Kentuckian never shrinks from is a challenge. He only
said, "Wait a minute," while putting his broad shoulder against the
door; but now George and I interfered. Neither of us had any desire to
signalize our entry into the village by a brawl, and after some trouble
we succeeded in pacifying our fire-eater with the promise to stop at
this house on our way back.

"I shall know it again," said the colonel, looking back, and nibbling
his long mustache with suppressed wrath; "something has been spilled on
the threshold--something like blood."

We laughed heartily. The blood, we concluded, was in the colonel's eyes.

Some time after nightfall we arrived in the village, having put thirteen
miles of road behind us without fatigue. Our host received us with a
blazing fire--what fires they do have in the mountains, to be sure!--a
pitcher of cider, and the remark, "Don't be afraid of it, gentlemen."

All three hastened to reassure him on this point. The colonel began with
a loud smack, and George finished the jug with a deep sigh.

"Don't be afraid of it," repeated the landlord, returning presently with
a fresh pitcher. "There are five barrels more like it in the cellar."

"Landlord," quoth George, "let one of your boys take a mattress, two
blankets, and a pillow to the cellar. I intend to pass the night there."

"I only wish your well was full of it," said the colonel, taking a
second pull at the jug, and making a second explosion with his lips.

"Gentlemen," said I, "we have surely entered a land of milk and honey."

"You shall have as much of both as you desire," said our host, very
affably. "Supper is ready, gentlemen."

After supper a man came in for whom I felt, upon the instant, one of
those secret antipathies which are natural to me. The man was an utter
stranger. No matter: the repugnance seized me all the same.

After a tour of the tap-room, and some words with our landlord in an
undertone, the stranger went out with the look of a man who had asked
for something and had been refused.

"Where have I heard that man's voice?" said the colonel, thoughtfully.

Our landlord is one of the most genial to be found among the mountains.
While sitting over the fire during the evening, the conversation turned
upon the primitive simplicity of manners remarked among mountaineers in
general; and our host illustrated it with this incident:

"You noticed, perhaps, a man who left here a few moments ago?" he began.

We replied affirmatively. It was my antipathy.

"Well, that man killed a traveller a few years back."

We instinctively recoiled. The air seemed tainted with the murderer's
presence.

"Yes; dead as a mutton," continued the landlord, punching the logs
reflectively, and filling the chimney with sparks. "The man came to
his house one dark and stormy night, and asked to be admitted. The man
of the house flatly refused. The stranger pleaded hard, but the fellow
ordered him away with threats. Finding entreaties useless, the traveller
began to grow angry, and attempted to push open the door, which was
only fastened by a button, as the custom is. The man of the house said
nothing, but took his gun from a corner, and when the intruder crossed
the threshold he put three slugs through him. The wounded man expired on
the threshold, covering it with his blood."

"Murdered him, and for that? Come, come, you are joking!" ejaculated
George, with a half smile of incredulity.

"Blowed him right through, just as I tell you," reiterated the narrator,
without heeding the doubt George's question implied.

"That sounds a little like Old Kentuck," observed the colonel, coolly.

"Yes; but listen to the sequel, gentlemen," resumed the landlord. "The
murderer took the dead body in his arms, finding, to his horror, that
it was an acquaintance with whom he had been drinking the day before;
he took up the body, as I was saying, laid it out upon a table, and
then went quietly to bed. In the morning he very honestly exhibited the
corpse to all who passed his door, and told his story as I tell it to
you. I had it from his own lips."

"That beats Kentucky," asseverated the colonel. For my own part, I
believed the landlord was amusing himself at our expense.

"I don't know about Kentucky," observed the landlord; "I was never there
in my life; but I do know that, when the dead man was buried, the man
who killed him went to the funeral like any curious or indifferent
spectator."

This was too much. George rose from his chair, and began to be
interested in a placard on the wall. "And you say this happened near
here?" he slowly inquired; "perhaps, now, you could show us the very
house?" he finished, dryly.

"Nothing easier. It's only three miles back on the road you came. The
blood-stain is plain, or was, on the threshold."

We exchanged glances. This was the house where we halted to inquire our
way. The colonel's eyes dilated, but he said nothing.

"But was there no trial?" I asked.

"Trial? oh yes. After several days had run by, somebody thought of
that; so one morning the slayer saddled his horse and rode over to the
county-seat to inquire about it. He was tried at the next sessions, and
acquitted. The judge charged justifiable homicide; that a man's house is
his fort; the jury did not leave their benches. By-the-bye, gentlemen,
that is some of the man's cider you are drinking."

I felt decided symptoms of revolt in my stomach; George made a grimace,
and the colonel threw his unfinished glass in the fire. During the
remainder of the evening he rallied us a good deal on the subject of New
England hospitality, but said no more about going back to chastise the
man of the red house.[5]

The sun rose clear over the right shoulder of Kearsarge. After breakfast
the landlord took us out and introduced us to his neighbors, the
mountains. While he was making the presentation in due form, I jotted
down the following, which has, at least, the merit of conciseness:

_Upper Bartlett_: an ellipse of fertile land; three Lombardy poplars; a
river murmuring unseen; a wall of mountains, with Kearsarge looking up,
and Carrigain looking down the intervale. _Item_: the cider is excellent.

We had before us the range extending between Swift River and the Saco,
over which I looked from the summit of Chocorua straight to Mount
Washington. To the east this range is joined with the out-works of
Moat. Then come Table, Bear, Silver Spring (Bartlett Haystack), and
Tremont, in the order named. Then comes the valley of Sawyer's River,
with Carrigain rising between its walls; then, crossing to the north
side of the Saco, the most conspicuous object is the bold Hart's Ledge,
between which and Sawyer's Rock, on the opposite bank, the river is
crowded into a narrow channel. The mountain behind the hotel is Mount
Langdon, with Crawford more distant. Observe closely the curious
configuration of this peak. Whether we go up or down, it nods familiarly
to us from every point of approach.

But Kearsarge and Carrigain are the grand features here. One gives
his adieu, the other his welcome. One is the perfection of symmetry,
of grace; the other simply demands our homage. His snowy crown,
dazzling white against the pure blue, was the badge of an incontestable
superiority. These two mountains are the presiding genii of this
charming intervale. You look first at the massive lineaments of one,
then at the flowing lines of the other, as at celebrated men, whose
features you would strongly impress upon the memory.

From the village street we saw the sun go down behind Mount Carrigain,
and touch with his glittering sceptre the crest of Hancock. We looked up
the valley dominated by the giant of the Pemigewasset wilderness with
feelings of high respect for this illustrious hermit, who only deigns to
show himself from this single point, and whose peak long yielded only to
the most persevering and determined climbers.

Two days were formerly required for the ascent of this mountain, but
a long day will now suffice, thanks to the path constructed under the
direction of the Appalachian Club. The mountain is four thousand six
hundred and twenty-five feet above the sea, and is wooded to its summit.
The valley of Sawyer's River drains the deep basin between Carrigain and
Hancock, entering the Saco near the railroad station called Livermore.
The lumbermen have now penetrated this valley to the foot of the
mountain, with their rude logging roads, offering a way soon, it is
hoped, to be made plainer for future climbers than it was our lot to
find it.

Thoroughly imbued with the spirit of the mountains, we now regarded
distances with disdain, and fatigue with indifference. We had learned
to make our toilets in the stream, and our beds in the fragrant groves.
Truly, the bronzed faces that peered at us as we bent over some solemn,
pine-shaded pool were not those we had been accustomed to seeing at
home; but having solved the problem of man's true existence, we only
laughed at each other's tawny countenances while shouldering our packs
and tightening our belts for the day's march.

Leaving Bartlett at an early hour, we turned aside from the highway
a little beyond the bridge which spans Sawyer's River, and were soon
following a rough and stony cart-way ascending the banks of this
stream, which thundered along its rocky bed, making the woods echo with
its roar. The road grew rapidly worse, the river wilder, the forest
gloomier, until, at the end of two miles, coming suddenly out into the
sun, we entered a rude street of unpainted cabins, terminating at some
saw-mills. This hamlet, which to the artistic eye so disadvantageously
replaces the original forest, is the only settlement in the large
township of Livermore. Its mission is to ravage and lay waste the
adjacent mountains. Notwithstanding the occupation is legitimate, one
instinctively rebels at the waste around him, where the splendid natural
forest, literally hewed and hacked in pieces, exposes rudely all the
deformities of the mountains. But this lost hamlet is the first in which
a genuine emotion of any kind awaits the traveller. Ten to one it is
like nothing he ever dreamed of; his surprise is, therefore, extreme.
The men were rough, hardy-looking fellows; the women appeared contented,
but as if hard work had destroyed their good looks prematurely. Both
announced, by their looks and their manner, that the life they led was
no child's play; the men spoke only when addressed; the women stole
furtive glances at us; the half-dressed children stopped their play
to stare at the strangers. Here was neither spire nor bell. One cow
furnished all the milk for the commonalty. The mills being shut, there
was no sound except the river plashing over the rocks far down in the
gorge below; and had I encountered such a place on the sea-coast or the
frontier, I should at once have said I had stumbled upon the secret
hold of outlaws and smugglers, into which signs, grips, and passwords
were necessary to procure admission. To me, therefore, the hamlet of
Livermore was a wholly new experience.

From this hamlet to the foot of the mountain is a long and uninteresting
tramp of five miles through the woods. We found the walking good, and
strode rapidly on, coming first to a wood-cutter's camp pitched on the
banks of Carrigain Brook, and next to the clearing they had made at the
mountain's foot. Here the actual work of the ascent began in earnest.

Carrigain is solid, compact, massive. It is covered from head to foot
with forest. No incident of the way diverts the attention for a single
moment from the severe exertion required to overcome its steeply
inclined side; no breathing levels, no restful outlooks, no gorges, no
precipices, no cascades break the monotony of the escalade. We conquer,
as Napoleon's grenadiers did, by our legs. It is the most inexorable of
mountains, and the most exasperating. From base to summit you cannot
obtain a cup of water to slake your thirst.

Two hours of this brought us out upon the bare summit of the great
northern spur, beyond which the true peak rose a few hundred feet
higher. Carrigain, at once the desire and the bugbear of climbers, was
beneath our feet.

We have already examined, from the rocks of Chocorua, the situation
of this peak. We then entitled it the Hub of the White Mountains.
It reveals all the magnitude, unfolds the topography of the woody
wilderness stretching between the Saco and the Pemigewasset valleys. As
nearly as possible, it exhibits the same amazing profusion of unbroken
forest, here and there darkly streaked by hidden watercourses, as when
the daring foot of the first climber pressed the unviolated crest of the
august peak of Washington. In all its length and breadth there is not
one object that suggests, even remotely, the presence of man. We saw not
even the smoke of a hunter's camp. All was just as created; an absolute,
savage, unkempt wilderness.

Heavens, what a bristling array of dark and shaggy mountains! Now and
then, where water gleamed out of their hideous depths, a great brilliant
eye seemed watching us from afar. We knew that we had only to look up to
see a dazzling circlet of lofty peaks drawn around the horizon, chains
set with glittering stones, clusters sparkling with antique crests;
still we could not withdraw our eyes from the profound abysses sunk deep
in the bowels of the land, typical of the uncovered bed of the primeval
ocean, sad and terrible, from which that ocean seemed only to have just
receded.

But who shall describe all this solitary, this oppressive grandeur?
and what language portray the awfulness of these untrodden mountains?
Now and then, high up their bleak summits, a patch of forest had been
plucked up by the roots, or shaken from its hold in the throes of the
mountain, laid bare a long and glittering scar, red as a half-closed
wound. Such is the appearance of Mount Lowell, on the other side of the
gap dividing Carrigain from the Notch mountains. We saw where the dark
slope of Mount Willey gives birth to the infant Merrimack. We saw the
confluent waters of this stream, so light of foot, speeding through the
gloomy defiles, as if fear had given them wings. We saw the huge mass of
Mount Hancock force itself slowly upward out of the press. Unutterable
lawlessness stamped the whole region as its own.

That I have thus dwelt upon its most extraordinary feature, instead of
examining the landscape in detail, must suffice for the intelligent
reader. I have not the temerity to coolly put the dissecting-knife into
its heart. To science the things which belong to science. Besides, to
the man of feeling all this is but secondary. We are not here to make a
chart.

After a visit to the high summit, where some work was done in the
interest of future climbers, we set out at four in the afternoon, on
our return down the mountain. A second time we halted on the spur to
glance upward at the heap of summits over which Mount Washington lifts a
regular dome. The long line of peaks, ascending from Crawford's, seems
approaching it by a succession of huge steps. It was after dark when we
saw the lights of the village before us, and were again warmly welcomed
by the rousing fire and smoking viands of mine host.




VII.

_VALLEY OF THE SACO._

    With our faint heart the mountain strives;
    Its arms outstretched, the Druid wood
    Waits with its benedicte.
          _Sir Launfal._


At eight o'clock in the morning we resumed our march, with the intention
of reaching Crawford's the same evening. The day was cold, raw, and
windy, so we walked briskly--sharp air and cutting wind acting like whip
and spur.

I retain a vivid recollection of this morning. Autumn had passed her
cool hand over the fevered earth. Soft as three-piled velvet, the green
turf left no trace of our tread. The sky was of a dazzling blue, and
frescoed with light clouds, transparent as gauze, pure as the snow
glistening on the high summits. On both sides of us audacious mountains
braced their feet in the valley; while others mounted over their brawny
shoulders, as if to scale the heavens.

But what shall I say of the grand harlequinade of nature which the
valley presented to our view? I cannot employ Victor Hugo's odd simile
of a peacock's tail; that is more of a witticism than a description.
The death of the year seemed to prefigure the glorious and surprising
changes of color in a dying dolphin--putting on unparalleled beauty at
the moment of dissolution, and so going out in a blaze of glory.

From the meagre summits enfiladed by the north wind, and where a
solitary pine or cedar intensified the desolation, to the upper forests,
the mountains bristled with a scanty growth of dead or dying trees.
Those scattered birches, high up the mountain side, looked like quills
on a porcupine's back; that group, glistening in the morning sun,
like the pipes of an immense organ. From this line of death, which
vegetation crossed at its peril, the eye dropped down over a limitless
forest of dark evergreen spotted with bright yellow. The effect of the
sunlight on this foliage was magical. Myriad flambeaux illuminated the
deep gloom, doubling the intensity of the sun, emitting rays, glowing,
resplendent. This splendid light, which the heavy masses of orange
seemed to absorb, gave a velvety softness to the lower ridges and spurs,
covering their hard, angular lines with a magnificent drapery. The lower
forests, the valley, were one vast sea of color. Here the bewildering
melange of green and gold, orange and crimson, purple and russet,
produced the effect of an immense Turkish rug--the colors being soft
and rich, rather than vivid or brilliant. This quality, the blending
of a thousand tints, the dreamy grace, the sumptuous profusion, the
inexpressible tenderness, intoxicated the senses. Earth seemed no longer
earth. We had entered a garden of the gods.

From time to time a scarlet maple flamed up in the midst of the forest,
and its red foliage, scattered at our feet by the wind, glowed like
flakes of fire beaten from an anvil. A tangled maze of color changed the
road into an avenue bordered with rare and variegated plants. Autumn's
bright sceptre, the golden-rod, pointed the way. Blue and white daisies
strewed the greensward.

After passing Sawyer's River, the road turned abruptly to the north,
skirting the base of the Nancy range. We were at the door of the second
chamber in this remarkable gallery of nature.

Before crossing the threshold it is expedient to allude to the incident
which has given a name not only to the mountain, but to the torrent we
see tearing its impetuous way down from the upper forests. The story of
Nancy's Brook is as follows:

In the latter part of the last century, a maiden, whose Christian name
of Nancy is all that comes down to us, was living in the little hamlet
of Jefferson. She loved, and was betrothed to a young man of the farm.
The wedding-day was fixed, and the young couple were on the eve of
setting out for Portsmouth, where their happiness was to be consummated
at the altar. In the trustfulness of love, the young girl confided the
small sum which constituted all her marriage-portion to her lover. This
man repaid her simple faith with the basest treachery. Seizing his
opportunity, he left the hamlet without a word of explanation or of
adieu. The deserted maiden was one of those natures which cannot quietly
sit down under calamity. Urged on by the intensity of her feelings, she
resolved to pursue her recreant lover. He could not resist her prayers,
her entreaties, her tears! She was young, vigorous, intrepid. With her
to decide and to act were the same thing. In vain the family attempted
to dissuade her from her purpose. At nightfall she set out.

A hundred years ago the route taken by this brave girl was not, as
to-day, a thoroughfare which one may follow with his eyes shut. It was
only an obscure path, little travelled by day, deserted by night. For
thirty miles, from Colonel Whipple's, in Jefferson, to Bartlett, there
was not a human habitation. The forests were filled with wild beasts.
The rigor of the season--it was December--added its own perils. But
nothing could daunt the heroic spirit of Nancy; she had found man more
cruel than all besides.

[Illustration: NANCY IN THE SNOW.]

The girl's hope was to overtake her lover before dawn at the place where
she expected he would have camped for the night. She found the camp
deserted, and the embers extinguished. Spurred on by hope or despair,
she pushed on down the tremendous defile of the Notch, fording the
turbulent and frozen Saco, and toiling through deep snows and over rocks
and fallen trees, until, feeling her strength fail, she sunk exhausted
on the margin of the brook which seems perpetually bemoaning her sad
fate. Here, cold and rigid as marble, under a canopy of evergreen which
the snow tenderly drooped above, they found her. She was wrapped in her
cloak, and in the same attitude of repose as when she fell asleep on her
nuptial couch of snow-crusted moss.

The story goes that the faithless lover became a hopeless maniac on
learning the fate of his victim, dying in horrible paroxysms not long
after. Tradition adds that for many years, on every anniversary of her
death, the mountains resounded with ravings, shrieks, and agonized
cries, which the superstitious attributed to the unhappy ghost of the
maniac lover.[6]

It was not quite noon when we entered the beautiful and romantic glen
under the shadow of Mount Crawford. Upon our left, a little in advance,
a solidly-built English country-house, with gables, stood on a terrace
well above the valley. At our right, and below, was the old Mount
Crawford tavern, one of the most ancient of mountain hostelries. Upon
the opposite side of the vale rose the enormous mass of Mount Crawford;
and near where we stood, a humble mound, overgrown with bushes, enclosed
the mortal remains of the hardy pioneer whose monument is the mountain.

We had an excusable curiosity to see a man who, in the prime of life,
had forsaken the city, its pleasures, its opportunities, and had come
to pass the rest of his life among these mountains; one, too, whose
enormous possessions procured for him the title of Lord of the Valley.
We heard with astonishment that our day's journey, of which we had
completed the half only, was wholly over his tract--I ought to say his
dominions--that is, over thirteen miles of field, forest, and mountain.
This being equal to a small principality, it seemed quite natural and
proper to approach the proprietor with some degree of ceremony.

A servant took our cards at the door, and returned with an invitation to
enter. The apartment into which we were conducted was the most singular
I have ever seen; certainly it has no counterpart in this world, unless
the famous hut of Robinson Crusoe has escaped the ravages of time.
It was literally crammed with antique furniture, among which was a
high-backed chair used in dentistry; squat little bottles, containing
chemicals; and a bench, on which was a spirit-lamp; a turning-lathe, a
small portable furnace, and a variety of instruments or tools of which
we did not know the use. A few prints and oil-paintings adorned the
walls. A cheerful fire burnt on the hearth.

"Were we in the sixteenth century," said George, "I should say this was
the laboratory of some famous alchemist."

[Illustration: ABEL CRAWFORD.]

Further investigation was cut short by the entrance of our host, who was
a venerable-looking man, turned of eighty, with a silver beard falling
upon his breast, and a general expression of benignity. He stooped a
little, but seemed hale and hearty, notwithstanding the weight of his
fourscore years.

Doctor Bemis received us graciously. For an hour he entertained us with
the story of his life among the mountains, "to which," said he, "I
credit the last forty-five years--for I at first came here in pursuit of
health." After he had satisfied our curiosity concerning himself, which
he did with perfect _bonhomie_, I asked him to describe Abel Crawford,
the veteran guide of the White Hills.

"Abel," said the doctor, "was six feet four; Erastus, the eldest son,
was six feet six, or taller than Washington; and Ethan was still
taller, being nearly seven feet. In fact, not one of the sons was less
than six feet; so you may imagine what sort of family group it was
when 'his boys,' as Abel loved to call them, were all at home. Ah,
well!" continued the doctor, with a sigh, "that kind of timber does
not flourish in the mountains now. Why, the very sight of one of those
giants inspired the timid with confidence. Ethan, called in his day
the Giant of the Hills, was a man of iron frame and will. Fear and he
were strangers. He would take up an exhausted traveller in his sinewy
arms and carry him as you would a baby, until his strength or courage
returned. The first bridle-path up the mountain was opened by him
in--let me see--ah! I have it, it was in 1821. Ethan, with the help of
his father, also built the Notch House above.[7]

"Abel was long-armed, lean, and sinewy. Doctor Dwight, whose 'Travels
in New England' you have doubtless read, stopped with Crawford, on his
way down the Notch, in 1797. His nearest neighbor then, on the north,
was Captain Rosebrook, who lived on or near the site of the present
Fabyan House. Crawford's life of hardship had made little impression on
a constitution of iron. At seventy-five he rode the first horse that
reached the summit of Mount Washington. At eighty he often walked to
his son's (Thomas J. Crawford), at the entrance of the Notch, before
breakfast. I recollect him perfectly at this time, and his appearance
was peculiarly impressive. He was erect and vigorous as one of those
pines on yonder mountain. His long white hair fell down upon his
shoulders, and his fresh, ruddy face was always expressive of good-humor.

"The destructive freshet of 1826," continued the doctor, "swept
everything before it, flooding the intervale, and threatening the old
house down there with instant demolition. During that terrible night,
when the Willey family perished, Mrs. Crawford was alone with her young
children in the house. The water rose with such rapidity that she was
driven to the upper story for safety. While here, the thud of floating
trees, driven by the current against the house, awakened new terrors. At
every concussion the house trembled. Wooden walls could not long stand
that terrible pounding. The heroic woman, alive to the danger, seized a
stout pole, and, going to the nearest window, kept the side of the house
exposed to the flood free from the mass of wreck-stuff collected against
it. She held her post thus throughout the night, until the danger had
passed. When the flood subsided, Crawford found several fine trout alive
in his cellar."

"When do the great freshets usually occur?" I asked.

"In the autumn," replied our host. "It is not the melting snows, but the
sudden rainfalls that we fear."

"Yes," resumed he, reflectively, "the Crawfords were a family of
athletes. With them the race of guides became extinct. Soon after
settling here, Abel went with his wife to Bartlett on some occasion,
leaving their two boys in the care of a hired man. When they had gone,
this man took what he could find of value and decamped. When Abel
returned, which he did on the following day, he immediately set out
in pursuit of the thief, overtook him thirty miles from here, in the
Franconia forests, flogged him within an inch of his life, and let him
go."

"Sixty miles on foot, and alone, to recover a few stolen goods, and
punish a thief!" cried the astonished colonel; "that beats Daniel Boone."

"Yes; and what is more, the boys were brought up to face hunger, cold,
fatigue, with Indian stoicism, and even to encounter bears, lynxes, and
wolves with no other weapons than those provided by nature. There, now,
was Ethan, for example," said the doctor, smiling at the recollection.
"One day he took it into his head to have a tame bear for the diversion
of his guests. Well, he caught a young one, half grown, and remarkably
vicious, in a trap. But how to get him home! At length Ethan tied his
fore and hind paws together so he couldn't scratch, and put a muzzle of
withes over his nose so he couldn't bite. Then, shouldering his prize
as he would a bag of meal, the guide started for home, in great glee
at the success of his clever expedient. He had not gone far, however,
before Bruin managed to get one paw wholly and his muzzle partly free,
and began to scratch and struggle and snap at his captor savagely. Ethan
wanted to get the bear home terribly; but, after having his clothing
nearly torn off his back, he grew angry, and threw the beast upon the
ground with such force as to kill him instantly."

"Report," said I, "credits you with naming most of the mountains which
overlook the intervale."

"Yes," replied the doctor, "Resolution, over there"--indicating the
mountain allied to Crawford, and to the ridge which forms one of
the buttresses of Mount Washington--"I named in recognition of the
perseverance of Mr. Davis, who became discouraged while making a path to
Mount Washington in 1845."

"Is the route practicable?" I asked.

"Practicable, yes; but nearly obliterated, and seldom ascended. Have you
seen Frankenstein?" demanded the doctor, in his turn.

We replied in the negative.

"It will repay a visit. I named it for a young German artist who passed
some time with me, and who was fascinated by its rugged picturesqueness.
Here is some of his work," pointing to the paintings which, apparently,
formed the foundation of the collection on the walls.

Our host accompanied us to the door with a second injunction not to
forget Frankenstein.

"You have something there good for the eyes," I observed, indicating the
green carpet of the vale beneath us.

"True; but you should have seen it when the deer boldly came down the
mountain and browsed quietly among the cattle. That was a pretty sight,
and one of frequent occurrence when I first knew the place. At that
time," he continued, "the stage passed up every other day. Sometimes
there were one or two, but seldom three passengers."

Proceeding on our way, we now had a fine view of the Giant's Stairs,
which we had already seen from Mount Carrigain, but less boldly outlined
than they appear from the valley, where they really look like two
enormous steps cut on the very summit of the opposite ridge. No name
could be more appropriate, though each of the degrees of this colossal
staircase demands a giant not of our days; for they are respectively
three hundred and fifty, and four hundred and fifty feet in height. It
was over those steps that the Davis path ascended.

A mile or a mile and a half above the Crawford Glen, we emerged from
behind a projecting spur of the mountain which hid the upper valley,
when, by a common impulse, we stopped, fairly stupefied with admiration
and surprise.

Thrust out before us, athwart the pass, a black and castellated pile
of precipices shot upward to a dizzy height, and broke off abruptly
against the sky. Its bulging sides and regular outlines resembled the
clustered towers and frowning battlements of some antique fortress
built to command the pass. Gashed, splintered, defaced, it seemed to
have withstood for ages the artillery of heaven and the assaults of
time. With what solitary grandeur it lifted its mailed front above the
forest, and seemed even to regard the mountains with disdain! Silent,
gloomy, impregnable, it wanted nothing to recall those dark abodes of
the Thousand and One Nights, in which malignant genii are imprisoned for
thousands of years.

This was Frankenstein. We at once accord it a place as the most
suggestive of cliffs. From the other side of the valley the resemblance
to a mediæval castle is still more striking. It has a black gorge for a
moat, so deep that the head swims when crossing it; and to-day, as we
crept over the cat's-cradle of a bridge thrown across for the passage
of the railway, and listened to the growling of the torrent far down
beneath, the whole frail structure seemed trembling under us.

But what a contrast! what a singular freak of nature! At the foot of
this grisly precipice, clothing it with almost superhuman beauty, was a
plantation of maples and birches, all resplendent in crimson and gold.
Never have I seen such masses of color laid on such a background. Below
all was light and splendor; above, all darkness and gloom. Here the eye
fairly revelled in beauty, there it recoiled in terror. The cliff was
like a naked and swarthy Ethiopian up to his knees in roses.

We walked slowly, with our eyes fixed on these cliffs, until another
turn of the road--we were now on the railway embankment--opened a vista
deserving to be remembered as one of the marvels of this glorious
picture-gallery.

The perfection and magnificence of this truly regal picture, the
gigantic scale on which it is presented, without the least blemish to
mar its harmony or disturb the impression of one grand, unique whole, is
a revelation to the least susceptible nature in the world.

Frankenstein was now a little withdrawn, on our left. Upon the right,
fluttering its golden foliage as if to attract our attention, a
plantation of tall, satin-stemmed birches stretched for some distance
along the railway. Between the long buttress of the cliff and this
forest lay open the valley of Mount Washington River, which is driven
deep into the heart of the great range. There, through this valley,
cutting the sapphire sky with their silver silhouette, were the giant
mountains, surmounted by the splendid dome of Washington himself.

[Illustration: STORM ON MOUNT WILLEY.]

Passing beyond, we had a fine retrospect of Crawford, with his curved
horn; and upon the dizzy iron bridge thrown across the gorge beneath
Frankenstein, striking views are obtained of the mountains below. They
seemed loftier and grander, and more imposing than ever.

Turning our faces toward the north, we now beheld the immense bulk and
superb crest of Willey. On the other side of the valley was the long
battlement of Mount Webster. We were at the entrance of the great Notch.




VIII.

_THROUGH THE NOTCH._

    Around his waist are forests braced,
    The avalanche in his hand.--BYRON.


The valley, which had continually contracted since leaving Bartlett,
now appeared fast shut between these two mountains; but on turning the
tremendous support which Mount Willey flings down, we were in presence
of the amazing defile cloven through the midst, and giving entrance to
the heart of the White Hills.

These gigantic mountains divided to the right and left, like the Red
Sea before the Israelites. Through the immense trough, over which their
crests hung suspended in mid-air, the highway creeps and the river
steals away. The road is only seen at intervals through the forest; a
low murmur, like the hum of bees, announces the river.

I have no conception of the man who can approach this stupendous chasm
without a sensation of fear. The idea of imminent annihilation is
everywhere overwhelming. The mind refuses to reason, or rather to fix
itself, except on a single point. What if the same power that commanded
these awful mountains to remove should hurl them back to ever-during
fixedness? Should, do I say? The gulf seemed contracting under our very
eyes--the great mountains toppling to their fall. With an eagerness
excited by high expectation, we had pressed forward; but now we
hesitated.

This emotion, which many of my readers have doubtless partaken, was our
tribute to the dumb but eloquent expression of power too vast for our
feeble intellects to measure. It was the triumph of matter over mind; of
the finite over the infinite.

Below, it was all admiration and surprise; here, all amazement and fear.
The more the mountains exalted themselves, the more we were abased.
Trusting, nevertheless, in our insignificance, we moved on, looking with
all our eyes, absorbed, silent, and almost worshipping.

The wide split of the Notch, which we had now entered, had on one side
Mount Willey, drawn up to his full height; and on the other Mount
Webster, striped with dull red on clingy yellow, like an old tiger's
skin. Willey is the highest; Webster the most remarkable. Willey has
a conical spire; Webster a long, irregular battlement. Willey is a
mountain; Webster a huge block of granite.

For two miles the gorge winds between these mountains to where it is
apparently sealed up by a sheer mass of purple precipices lodged full
in its throat. This is Mount Willard. The vast chasm glowed with the
gorgeous colors of the foliage, even when a passing cloud obscured the
sun. These general observations made, we cast our eyes down into the
vale reposing at our feet. We had chosen for our point of view that to
which Abel Crawford conducted Sir Charles Lyell in 1845. The scientist
has made the avalanche bear witness to the glacier, precisely as one
criminal is made to convict another under our laws.

Five hundred feet below us was a little clearing, containing a hamlet
of two or three houses. From this hamlet to the storm-crushed crags
glistening on the summit of Mount Willey the track of an old avalanche
was still distinguishable, though the birches and alders rooted among
the débris threatened to obliterate it at no distant day.

We descended by this still plain path to the houses at the foot of the
mountain. One and the other are associated with the most tragic event
connected with the history of the great Notch.

We found two houses, a larger and smaller, fronting the road, neither
of which merits a description; although evidence that it was visited by
multitudes of curious pilgrims abounded on the walls of the unoccupied
building.

Since quite early in the century, this house was kept as an inn; and
for a long time it was the only stopping-place between Abel Crawford's
below and Captain Rosebrook's above--a distance of thirteen miles. Its
situation, at the entrance of the great Notch, was advantageous to the
public and to the landlord, but attended with a danger which seems not
to have been sufficiently regarded, if indeed it caused successive
inmates particular concern. This fatal security had a lamentable sequel.

[Illustration: MOUNT WILLARD FROM WILLEY BROOK.]

In 1826 this house was occupied by Samuel Willey, his wife, five
children, and two hired men. During the summer a drought of unusual
severity dried the streams, and parched the thin soil of the neighboring
mountains. On the evening of the 26th of June, the family heard a heavy,
rumbling noise, apparently proceeding from the mountain behind them. In
terror and amazement they ran out of the house. They saw the mountain
in motion. They saw an immense mass of earth and rock detach itself
and move toward the valley, at first slowly, then with gathered and
irresistible momentum. Rocks, trees, earth, were swooping down upon
them from the heights in three destroying streams. The spectators stood
rooted to the spot. Before they could recover their presence of mind the
avalanche was upon them. One torrent crossed the road only ten rods from
the house; another a little distance beyond; while the third and largest
portion took a different direction. With great labor a way was made over
the mass of rubbish for the road. The avalanche had shivered the largest
trees, and borne rocks weighing many tons almost to the door of the
lonely habitation.

This awful warning passed unheeded. On the 28th of August, at dusk,
a storm burst upon the mountains, and raged with indescribable fury
throughout the night. The rain fell in sheets. Innumerable torrents
suddenly broke forth on all sides, deluging the narrow valley, and
bearing with them forests that had covered the mountains for ages. The
swollen and turbid Saco rose over its banks, flooding the Intervales,
and spreading destruction in its course.

Two days afterward a traveller succeeded in forcing his way through the
Notch. He found the Willey House standing uninjured in the midst of
woful desolation. A second avalanche, descended from Mount Willey during
the storm, had buried the little vale beneath its ruins. The traveller,
affrighted by the scene around him, pushed open the door. As he did so,
a half-famished dog, sole inmate of the house, disputed his entrance
with a mournful howl. He entered. The interior was silent and deserted.
A candle burnt to the socket, the clothing of the inmates lying by their
bedsides, testified to the haste with which this devoted family had
fled. The death-like hush pervading the lonely cabin--these evidences
of the horrible and untimely fate of the family--the appalling scene of
wreck all around, froze the solitary intruder's blood. In terror he,
too, fled from the doomed dwelling.

On arriving at Bartlett, the traveller reported what he had seen.
Assistance was despatched to the scene of disaster. The rescuers came
too late to render aid to the living, but they found, and buried on the
spot, the bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Willey, and the two hired men. The
remaining children were never found.

It was easily conjectured that the terrified family, alive at last to
the appalling danger that menaced them, and feeling the solid earth
tremble in the throes of the mountain, sought safety in flight. They
only rushed to their doom. The discovery of the bodies showed but too
plainly the manner of their death. They had been instantly swallowed up
by the avalanche, which, in the inexplicable order of things visible in
great calamities, divided behind the house, leaving the frail structure
unharmed, while its inmates were hurried into eternity.[8]

For some time after the disaster a curse seemed to rest upon the
old Notch House. No one would occupy it. Travellers shunned it. It
remained untenanted, though open to all who might be driven to seek its
inhospitable shelter, until the deep impression of horror which the fate
of the Willey family inspired had, in a measure, effaced itself.

The effects of the cataclysm were everywhere. For twenty-one miles,
almost its entire length, the turnpike was demolished. Twenty-one of
the twenty-three bridges were swept away. In some places the meadows
were buried to the depth of several feet beneath sand, earth, and
rocks; in others, heaps of great trees, which the torrent had torn
up by the roots, barricaded the route. The mountains presented a
ghastly spectacle. One single night sufficed to obliterate the work of
centuries, to strip their summits bare of verdure, and to leave them
with shreds of forest and patches of shrubbery hanging to their stark
and naked sides. Thus their whole aspect was altered to an extent hardly
to be realized to-day, though remarked with mingled wonder and dread
long after the period of the convulsion.

From the house our eyes naturally wandered to the mountain, where
quarrymen were pecking at its side like yellow-hammers at a dead
sycamore. All at once a tremendous explosion was heard, and a stream
of loosened earth and bowlders came rattling down the mountain. So
unexpected was the sound, so startling its multiplied echo, it seemed as
if the mountain had uttered a roar of rage and pain, which was taken up
and repeated by the other mountains until the uproar became deafening.
When the reverberation died away in the distance, we again heard the
metallic click of the miners' hammers chipping away at the gaunt ribs of
Mount Willey.

How does it happen that this catastrophe is still able to awaken the
liveliest interest for the fate of the Willey family? Why is it that
the oft-repeated tale seems ever new in the ears of sympathetic
listeners? Our age is crowded with horrors, to which this seems trifling
indeed. May we not attribute it to the influence which the actual scene
exerts on the imagination? One must stand on the spot to comprehend;
must feel the mysterious terror to which all who come within the
influence of the gorge submit. Here the annihilation of a family is but
the legitimate expression of that feeling. It seems altogether natural
to the place. The ravine might well be the sepulchre of a million human
beings, instead of the grave of a single obscure family.

We reached the public-house, at the side of the Willey house, with
appetites whetted by our long walk. The mercury had only risen to
thirty-eight degrees by the thermometer nailed to the door-post. We went
in.

In general, the mountain publicans are not only very obliging, but equal
to even the most unexpected demands. The colonel, who never brags, had
boasted for the last half-hour what he was going to do at this repast.
In point of fact, we were famishing.

A man was standing with his back to the fire, his hands thrust
underneath his coat-tails, and a pipe in his mouth. Either the pipe
illuminated his nose, or his nose the pipe. He also had a nervous
contraction of the muscles of his face, causing an involuntary twitching
of the eyebrows, and at the same time of his ears, up and down. This
habit, taken in connection with the perfect immobility of the figure,
made on us the impression of a statue winking. We therefore hesitated to
address it--I mean _him_--until a moment's puzzled scrutiny satisfied us
that it--I mean the strange object--was alive. He merely turned his head
when we entered the room, wagged his ears playfully, winked furiously,
and then resumed his first attitude. In all probability he was some
stranger like ourselves.

I accosted him. "Sir," said I, "can you tell us if it is possible to
procure a dinner here?"

The man took the pipe from his mouth, shook out the ashes very
deliberately, and, without looking at me, tranquilly observed,

"You would like dinner, then?"

"Would we like dinner? We breakfasted at Bartlett, and have passed six
hours fasting."

"And eleven miles. You see, a long way between meals," interjected
George, with decision.

"It's after the regular dinner," drawled the apathetic smoker, using his
thumb for a stopper, and stooping for a brand with which to relight his
pipe.

"In that case we are willing to pay for any additional trouble," I
hastened to say.

The man seemed reflecting. We _were_ hungry; that was incontestable;
but we were also shivering, and he maintained his position astride the
hearth-stone, like the fabled Colossus of old.

"A cold day," said the colonel, threshing himself.

"I did not notice it," returned the stranger, indifferently.

"Only thirty-eight at the door," said George, stamping his feet with
unnecessary vehemence.

"Indeed!" observed our man, with more interest.

"Yes," George asserted; "and if the fireplace were only larger, or the
screen smaller."

The man hastily stepped aside, knocking over, as he did so, a blazing
brand, which he kicked viciously back into the fire.

Having carried the outworks, we approached the citadel. "Perhaps, sir,"
I ventured, "you can inform us where the landlord may be found?"

"You wanted dinner, I believe?" The tone in which this question was put
gave me goose-flesh. I could not speak, George dropped into a chair.
The colonel propped himself against the chimney-piece. I shrugged my
shoulders, and nodded expressively to my companions, who returned two
glances of eloquent dismay. Evidently nothing was to be got out of this
fellow.

"Dinner for one?" continued the eternal smoker.

"For three!" I exclaimed, out of all patience.

"For four; I shall eat double," added the colonel.

"Six!" shouted George, seizing the dinner-bell on the mantel-piece.

"Stop," said the man, betraying a little excitement; "don't ring that
bell."

"Why not?" demanded George; "we want to see the landlord; and, by Jove,"
brandishing the bell aloft, "see him we will!"

"He stands before you, gentlemen; and if you will have a little patience
I will see what can be done." So saying, he put his pipe on the
chimney-piece, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and went out,
muttering, as he did so. "The world was not made in a day."

In three-quarters of an hour we sat down to a funereal repast, the
bare recollection of which makes me ill, but which was enlivened by the
following conversation:

"How many inhabitants are in your tract?" I asked of the man who waited
on us.

"Do you mean inhabitants?"

"Certainly, I mean inhabitants."

"Well, that's not an easy one."

"How so?"

"Because the same question not only puzzled the State Legislature, but
made the attorney-general sick."

We became attentive.

"Explain that, if you please," said I.

"Why, just look at it: with only eight legal voters in the tract" (he
called it track), "we cast five hundred ballots at the State election."

"Five hundred ballots! then your voters must have sprung from the ground
or from the rocks."

"Pretty nearly so."

"Actual men?"

"Actual men."

"You are jesting."

My man looked at me as if I had offered him an affront. The supposition
was plainly inadmissible. He was completely innocent of the charge.

"You hear those men pounding away up the hill?" he demanded, jerking his
thumb in the direction indicated.

"Yes."

"Well, those are the five hundred voters. On election morning they came
to the polling-place with a ballot in one hand, and a pick, a sledge,
or a drill in the other. Our supervisor is a very honest, blunt sort of
man: he refused their ballots on the spot."

"Well?"

"Well, one of them had a can of nitro-glycerine and a coil of wire. He
deposited his can in a corner, hitched on the wire, and was going out
with his comrades, when the supervisor, feeling nervous, said,

"'The polls are open, gentlemen.'"

"Ingenious," remarked George.

The man looked astounded.

"He means dangerous," said I; "but go on."

"I will. When the votes were counted, at sundown, it was found that our
precinct had elected two representatives to the General Court. But when
the successful candidates presented their certificates at Concord, some
meddlesome city fellow questioned the validity of the election. The
upshot of it was that the two nitro-glycerites came back with a flea in
each ear."

"And the five hundred were disfranchised," said George.

"Why, as to that, half were French Canadians, half Irish, and the devil
knows what the rest were; I don't."

"Never mind the rest. You see," said George, rising, "how, with the
railway, the blessings of civilization penetrate into the dark corners
of the earth."

The colonel began his sacramental, "That beats--" when he was
interrupted by a second explosion, which shook the building. We paid our
reckoning, George saying, as he threw his money on the table, "A heavy
charge."

"No more than the regular price," said the landlord, stiffly.

"I referred, my dear sir, to the explosion," replied George, with the
sardonic grin habitual to him on certain occasions.

"Oh!" said the host, resuming his pipe and his fireplace.

We spent the remaining hours of this memorable afternoon sauntering
through the Notch, which is dripping with cascades, and noisy with
mountain torrents. The Saco, here nothing but a brook, crawls languidly
along its bed of broken rock. From dizzy summit to where they meet the
river, the old wasted mountains sit warming their scarred sides in the
sun. Looking up at the passage of the railway around Mount Willey, it
impressed us as a single fractured stone might have done on the Great
Pyramid, or a pin's scratch on the face of a giant. The locomotive,
which groped its way along its broken shell, stopped, and stealthily
moving again, seemed a mouse that the laboring mountain had brought
forth. But when its infernal clamor broke the silence, what demoniacal
yells shook the forests! Farewell to our dream of inviolable nature. The
demon of progress had forced his way into the very sanctuary. There were
no longer any White Mountains.

We passed by the beautiful brook Kedron, flung down from the utmost
heights of Willey, between banks mottled with colors. Then, high up on
our right, two airy water-falls seemed to hang suspended from the summit
of Webster. These, called respectively the Silver Cascade, and the
Flume withdrew the attention from every other object, until a sharp turn
to the right brought the overhanging precipice of Mount Willard full
upon us. This enormous mass of granite, rising seven hundred feet above
the road, stands in the very jaws of the gorge, which it commands from
end to end.

[Illustration: THE CASCADES, MOUNT WEBSTER.]

Here the railway seems fairly stopped; but with a graceful sweep it
eludes the mountain, and glides around its massive shoulder, giving, as
it does so, a hand to the high-road, which comes straggling up the sharp
ascent. The river, now shrunken to a rivulet, is finally lost to view
beneath heaped-up blocks of granite, which the infuriated old mountain
has hurled down upon it. It is heard painfully gurgling under the ruins,
like a victim crushed, and dying by inches.

Now and here we entered a close, dark defile hewn down between cliffs,
ascending on the right in regular terraces, on the left in ruptured
masses. These terraces were fringed at the top with tapering evergreens,
and displayed gaudy tufts of maple and mountain-ash on their cool gray.
Those on the right are furthermore decorated with natural sculptures,
indicated by sign-boards, which the curious investigate profitably or
unprofitably, according to their fertility of imagination.

For a few rods this narrow cleft continues; then, on a sudden, the rocks
which lift themselves on either side shut together. An enormous mass
has tumbled from its ancient location on the left side, and, taking a
position within twenty feet of the opposite precipice, forms the natural
gate of the Notch, through which a way was made for the common road
with great labor, through which the river frays a passage, but where
no one would imagine there was room for either. The railway has made a
breach for itself through the solid rock, greatly diminishing the native
grandeur of the place. All three emerge from the shadow and gloom of the
pass into the cheerful sunshine of a little prairie, at the extremity of
which are seen the white walls of a hotel.

The whole route we had traversed is full of contrasts, full of
surprises; but this sudden transition was the most picturesque, the most
startling of all. We seemed to have reached the end of the world.




IX.

_CRAWFORD'S._

    The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts
    Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.
               SHAKSPEARE.


All who have passed much time at the mountains have seen the
elephant--near the gate of the Notch.

Though it is only from Nature's chisel, the elephant is an honest one,
and readily admitted into the category of things curious or marvellous
constantly displayed for our inspection. Standing on the piazza of the
hotel, the enormous forehead and trunk seem just emerging from the
shaggy woods near the entrance to the pass. And the gray of the granite
strengthens the illusion still more. From the Elephant's Head, a title
suggestive of the near vicinity of a public-house, there is a fine view
down the Notch for those who cannot ascend Mount Willard.

The Crawford House, being built at the highest point of the pass,
nearly two thousand feet above the sea, is not merely a hotel--it is a
water-shed. The roof divides the rain falling upon it into two streams,
flowing on one side into the Saco, on the other into the Ammonoosuc.
Here the sun rises over the Willey range, and sets behind Mount Clinton.
The north side of the piazza enables you to look over the forests into
the valley of the Ammonoosuc, where the view is closed by the chain
dividing this basin from that of Israel's River. But we are not yet
ready to conduct the reader into this Promised Land.

My window overlooked a grassy plain of perhaps half a mile, the view
being closed by the Gate of the Notch, now disfigured by snow-sheds
built for the protection of the railway. The massive, full-rounded bulk
of Webster rose above, the forests of Willard tumbled down into the
ragged fissure. Half-way between the hotel and the Gate, over-borne by
the big shadow of Mount Clinton, extends the pretty lakelet which is
the fountain-head of the Saco. Beyond the lake, and at the left, is
where the old Notch House stood. This lake was once a beaver-pond, and
this plain a boggy meadow, through which a road of corduroy and sods
conducted the early traveller. The highway and railway run amicably side
by side, dividing the little vale in two.

[Illustration: ELEPHANT'S HEAD, WINTER.]

This pass, which was certainly known to the Indians, was, in 1771,
rediscovered by Timothy Nash, a hunter, who was persuaded by Benjamin
Sawyer, another hunter, to admit him to an equal share in the discovery.
In 1773 Nash and Sawyer received a grant of 2184 acres, skirting the
mountains on the west, as a reward. With the prodigality characteristic
of their class, the hunters squandered their large acquisition in a
little time after it was granted. Both the Crawford and Fabyan hotels
stand upon their tract.

Of many excursions which this secluded retreat offers, that to the
summit of Mount Washington, by the bridle-path opened in 1840 by Thomas
J. Crawford, and that to the top of Mount Willard, are the principal.
The route to the first begins opposite to the hotel, at the left; the
latter turns from the glen a quarter of a mile below, on the right.
Supposing Mount Washington a cathedral set on an eminence, you are here
on the summit of the eminence, with one foot on the immense staircase of
the cathedral.

Our resolve to ascend by the bridle-path was already formed, and we
regarded the climb up Mount Willard as indispensable. As for the
cascades, which lulled us to sleep, who shall describe them? We could
not lift our eyes to the heights above without seeing one or more
fluttering in the play of the breeze, and making rainbows in pure
diversion. President Dwight, in his "Travels," has no more eloquent
passage than that describing the Flume Cascade. How many since have
thrown down pen or pencil in sheer despair of reproducing, by words
or pigments, the aerial lightness, the joyous freedom; above all, the
exuberant, unquenchable vitality that characterize mountain water-falls!
Down the Notch is a masterpiece, hidden from the eye of the passer-by,
called Ripley Falls, which fairly revels in its charming seclusion.
Only a short walk from the hotel, by a woodland path, there is another,
Beecher's Cascade, whose capricious leaps and playful somersaults, all
the while volubly chattering to itself, like a child alone with its
playthings, fascinates us, as sky, water, and fire charm the eyes of an
infant. It is always tumbling down, and as often leaping to its feet to
resume its frolicsome gambols, with no loss of sprightliness or sign of
weariness that we can detect. Only a lover may sing the praises of these
mountain cascades falling from the skies:

"The torrent is the soul of the valley. Not only is it the Providence or
the scourge, often both at once, but it gives to it a physiognomy; it
gladdens or saddens it; it lends it a voice; it communicates life to it.
A valley without its torrent is only a hole."

They give the name of Idlewild to the romantic sylvan retreat, reached
by a winding path, diverging near the hotel, on the left. I visited
it in company with Mr. Atwater, whose taste and enthusiasm for the
work have converted the natural disorder of the mountain side into
a trysting-place fit for elves and fairies; but where one encounters
ladies in elegant toilets, enjoying a quiet stroll among the fern-draped
rocks. Some fine vistas of the valley mountains have been opened through
the woods--beautiful little bits of blue, framed in illuminated foliage.
One notes approvingly the revival of an olden taste in the cutting and
shaping of trees into rustic chairs, stairways, and arbors.

After a day like ours, the great fires and admirable order of the
hotel were grateful indeed. If it is true that the way to man's heart
lies through his stomach, the cherry-lipped waiter-girl, who whispered
her seductive tale in my too-willing ear at supper, made a veritable
conquest. My compliments to her, notwithstanding the penalty paid for
lingering too long over the griddle-cakes.

The autumn nights being cool, it was something curious to see the parlor
doors every now and then thrown wide open, to admit a man who came
trundling in on a wheelbarrow a monster log fit for the celebration of
Yule-tide. The city guest, accustomed to the economy of wood at home,
because it is dear, looks on this prodigality first with consternation,
and finally with admiration. When the big log is deposited on the
blazing hearth amid fusees of sparks, the easy-chairs again close around
the fireplace a charmed circle; and while the buzz of conversation goes
on, and the faces are illuminated by the ruddy glow, the wood snaps,
and hisses, and spits as if it had life and sense of feeling. The men
talk in drowsy undertones; the ladies, watching the chimney-soot catch
fire and redden, point out to each other the old grandame's pictures
of "folks coming home from meeting." This scene is the counterpart of
a warm summer evening on the piazza--both typical of unrestrained,
luxurious indolence. How many pictures have appeared in that old
fireplace! and what experiences its embers revived! Water shows us only
our own faces in their proper mask--nothing more, nothing less; but
fire, the element of the supernatural, is able, so at least we believe,
to unfold the future as easily as it turns our eyes into the past. If
only we could read!

When we arose in the morning, what was our astonishment to see the
surrounding mountains white with snow. Like one smitten with sudden
terror, they had grown gray in a night. Striking, indeed, was the
transformation from yesterday's pomp; beautiful the contrast between
the dark green below and the dead white of the upper zones. Thickly
incrusted with hoar-frost, the stiffened foliage of the pines and firs
gave those trees the unwonted appearance of bursting into blossom. Over
all a dull and brooding sky shed its cold, wan light upon the glen,
forbidding all thought of attacking the high summits, at least for this
day.

Dismissing this, therefore, as impracticable, we nevertheless determined
on ascending Mount Willard--an easy thing to do, considering you have
only to follow a good carriage-road for two miles and a half to reach
the precipices overlooking the Saco Valley.

Startling, indeed, by its sublimity was the spectacle that rewarded our
trouble a thousand-fold. Still, the sensations partook more of wonder
than admiration--much more. The unpractised eye is so utterly confounded
by the immensity of this awful chasm of the Notch, yawning in all its
extent and all its grandeur far down beneath, that, powerless to grasp
the fulness and the vastness thus suddenly encountered, it stupidly
stares into those far-retreating depths. The scene really seems too
tremendous for flesh and blood to comprehend. For an instant, while
standing on the brink of the sheer precipice, which here suddenly drops
seven or eight hundred feet, my head swam and my knees trembled.

[Illustration: LOOKING DOWN THE NOTCH.]

First came the idea that I was looking down into the dry bed of some
primeval cataract, whose mighty rush and roar the imagination summoned
again from the tomb of ages, and whose echo was in the cascades, hung
like two white arms on the black and hairy breast of the adjacent
mountain. This idea carries us luck to the Deluge, of which science
pretends to have found proofs in the basin of the Notch. What am I
saying? to the Deluge! it transports us to the Beginning itself, when
"_Darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved
upon the face of the waters._"

You see the immense walls of Mount Willey on one side, and of Webster
on the other, rushing downward thousands of feet, and meeting in one
magnificently imposing sweep at their bases. This vast natural inverted
archway has the heavens for a roof. The eye roves from the shaggy head
of one mountain to the shattered cornices of the other. One is terrible,
the other forbidding. The naked precipices of Willey, furrowed by
avalanches, still show where the fatal slide of 1826 crushed its way
down into the valley, traversing a mile in only a few moments. Far down
in the distance you see the Willey hamlet and its bright clearing. You
see the Saco's silver.

Such, imperfectly, are the more salient features of this immense cavity
of the Notch, three miles long, two thousand feet deep, rounded as if
by art, and as full of suggestions as a ripe melon of seeds. I recall
few natural wonders so difficult to get away from, or that haunt you so
perpetually.

Like ivy on storied and crumbling towers, so high up the cadaverous
cliffs of Willey the hardy fir-tree feels its way, insinuating its long
roots in every fissure where a little mould has crept, but mounting
always like the most intrepid of climbers. Upon the other side, the
massed and plumed forest advances boldly up the sharp declivity of
Webster; but in mid-ascent is met and ploughed in long, thin lines by
cataracts of stones, poured down upon it from the summit. Only a few
straggling bushes succeed in mounting higher; and far up, upon the very
edge of the crumbling parapet, one solitary cedar tottered. The thought
of imminent destruction prevailed over every other. Indeed, it seemed
as if one touch would precipitate the whole mass of earth, stones, and
trees into the vale beneath.

Between these high, receding walls, which draw widely apart at the
outlet of the pass, mountains rise, range upon range. Over the flattened
Nancy summits, Chocorua lifts his crested head once more into view. We
pass in review the summits massed between, which on this morning were
of a deep blue-black, and stood vigorously forth from a sad and boding
sky.

From the ledges of Mount Willard, Washington and the peaks between are
visible in a clear day. This morning they were muffled in clouds, which
a strong upper current of air began slowly to disperse. We, therefore,
secured a good position, and waited patiently for the unveiling.

Little by little the clouds shook themselves free from the mountain, and
began a slow, measured movement toward the Ammonoosuc Valley. As they
were drawn out thinner and thinner, like fleeces, by invisible hands,
we began to be conscious of some luminous object behind them, and all
at once, through a rift, there burst upon the sight the grand mass of
Washington, all resplendent in silvery whiteness. From moment to moment
the trooping clouds, as if pausing to pay homage to the illustrious
recluse, encompassed it about. Then moving on, the endless procession
again and again disclosed the snowy crest, shining out in unshrouded
effulgence. To look was to be wonder-struck--to be dumb.

As the clouds unrolled more and more their snowy billows, other and
lower summits rose above, as on that memorable morn after the Deluge,
where they appeared like islands of crystal floating in a sea of
silvery vapor. We gazed for an hour upon this unearthly display, which
derived unique splendor from fitful sun-rays shot through the folds of
surrounding clouds, then drawing off, and again darting unawares upon
the stainless white of the summits. It was a dream of the celestial
spheres to see the great dome, one moment glittering like beaten silver,
another shining with the dull lustre of a gigantic opal.

I have since made several journeys through the Notch by the railway.
The effect of the scenery, joined with some sense of peril in the minds
of the timid, is very marked. Old travellers find a new and veritable
sensation of excitement; while new ones forget fatigue, drop the novels
they have been reading, maintaining a state of breathless suspense and
admiration until the train vanishes out at the rocky portal, after an
ascent of nearly six hundred feet in two miles.

In effect, the road is a most striking expression of the maxim,
"_L'audace, et toujours de l'audace_," as applied to modern engineering
skill. From Bemis's to Crawford's its way is literally carved out of
the side of the mountain. But if the engineers have stolen a march upon
it, the thought, how easily the mountain could shake off this puny,
clinging thing, prevailing over every other, announces that the mountain
is still the master.

There are no two experiences which the traveller retains so long or so
vividly as this journey through the great Notch, and this survey from
the ledges of Mount Willard, which is so admirably placed to command it.
To my mind, the position of this mountain suggests the doubt whether
nature did not make a mistake here. Was not the splitting of the
mountains an after-thought?




X.

_THE ASCENT FROM CRAWFORD'S._

    On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds.
    With a diadem of snow.--_Manfred._


At five in the morning I was aroused by a loud rap at the door. In an
instant I had jumped out of bed, ran to the window, and peered out. It
was still dark; but the heavens were bright with stars, so bright that
there was light in the room. Now or never was our opportunity. Not a
moment was to be lost.

I began a vigorous reveille upon the window-pane. George half opened one
sleepy eye, and asked if the house was on fire. The colonel pretended
not to have heard.

"Up, sluggards!" I exclaimed; "the mountain is ours!"

"Do you know who first tempted man to go up into a high mountain?"
growled George.

"Satan!" whined a smothered voice from beneath the bedclothes.

The case evidently was one which demanded heroic treatment. In an
instant I whipped off the bedclothes; in another I received two violent
blows full in the chest, which compelled me to give ground. The pillows
were followed by the bolster, which I parried with a chair, the bolster
by a sortie of the garrison _in puris naturalibus_. For a few seconds
the mélée was furious, the air thick with flying missiles. By a common
instinct we drew apart, with the intention of renewing the combat, when
we heard quick blows upon the partition at the left, and scared voices
from the chamber at the right demanding what was the matter. George
dropped his pillow, and articulated in a broken voice, "Malediction! I
am awake."

"Come, gentlemen," I urged, "if you are sufficiently diverted, dress
yourselves, and let us be off. At the present moment you remind me of
the half-armed warriors on the pediment of the Parthenon."

"I take it you mean the frieze," said George, with chattering teeth.

The colonel was on all-fours, picking up the different articles of his
wardrobe from the four corners of the chamber. "My stocking," said he,
groping among the furniture.

"What do you call this?" inquired George, fishing the dripping article
from the water-pitcher.

"Eh! where the deuce is my watch?" redemanded the colonel, still seeking.

"Perhaps this is yours?" George again suggested, drawing it, with mock
dexterity, as he had seen Hermann do, from a boot-leg.

We quickly threw on our clothes, but at the moment of starting George
put his hand into his breast and made a frightful grimace.

"What is it?" we both asked in one breath. "What is the matter?"

"My pocket-book is gone."

After five minutes' ransacking in every hole and corner of the room,
and after shaking the bedclothes carefully, all to no purpose, it was
discovered that George and myself had exchanged coats. We then went
down-stairs into the great hall, where a solitary jet of gas burnt
blue, and a sleepy watchman dozed on a settee. The morning air was
more than chilly: it was "a nipping and an eager air." There were two
or three futile attempts at pleasantry, but hunger, darkness, and the
cold quickly silenced them. A man is never himself when roused at five
in the morning. No matter how desirable the excursion may have looked
the night before, turning out of a warm bed to hurry on your clothes by
candle-light, and to take the road fasting, strips it of all glamour.

Day broke disclosing a clear sky, up which the rosy tints of sunrise
were streaming. The last star trembled in the zone of dusky blue above
the grand old hills, like a tear-drop on the eyelids of the night. The
warm color flowed over the frosted heads of the pines, mantling their
ghastly white with the warm glow of reviving life. Then the eye fell
upon the lower forests, still wrapped in deep shadows, the tiny lake,
the boats, and, lastly, the oval plain, or vestibule of the Notch, above
which ascended the shaggy sides of Mount Willard, and the retreating
outline of Mount Webster. The little plain was white with hoar-frost;
the frozen fountain dripped slowly into its basin, like a penitent
telling its beads.

After a hasty breakfast, despatched with mountain appetites, behold us
at half-past six entering the forest in Indian file! My companions
again found their accustomed gayety, and soon the solemn old woods
echoed with mirth. Our hopes were as high as the mountain itself.

A détour as far as Gibbs's Falls cost a good half-hour in recovering
the bridle-path; but we were at length _en route_, myself at the head,
George behind. The colonel carried the flask, and marched in the
middle. He was considered the most incorruptible of the three; but this
precaution was deemed an indispensable safeguard, should he, in a moment
of forgetfulness, carry the flask to his lips.

The side of Mount Clinton, which we were now climbing, is very steep.
The name of bridle-path, which they give the long gully we had entered,
is a snare for pedestrians, but a greater delusion for cavaliers. The
rains, the melting snows, have so channelled it as to leave little
besides interlaced roots of old trees and loose bowlders in its bed.
Higher up it is nothing but the bare course of a mountain torrent.

The long rain had thoroughly soaked the earth, rendering it miry and
slippery to the feet; the heavy air, compounded of a thousand odors,
hindered, rather than assisted, the free play of the lungs. Our progress
was slow, our breathing quick and labored. Every leaf trembled with
rain-drops, so that the flight of a startled bird overhead sprinkled us
with fine spray. Finches chattered in the tree-tops, squirrels scolded
us sharply from fallen logs.

Looking up was like looking through some glorious, illuminated
window--the changed foliage seemed to have fixed the gorgeous hues of
the sunset. Through its crimson and gold, violet and green, patches of
blue sky greeted us with fair promise for the day. Looking ahead, the
path zigzagged among ascending trees, plunged into the sombre depths
above our heads, and was lost. One impression that I received may be,
yet I doubt, common to others. On either side of me the forest seemed
all in motion; the dusky trunks striding silently and stealthily by,
moving when we moved, halting when we halted. The greenwood was as full
of illusions as the human heart. I can never repress a certain fear in a
forest, and to-day this seemed peopled with sprites, gnomes, and fauns.
Once or twice a crow rose lazily from the top of a dead pine, and flew
croaking away; but we thought not of omens or auguries, and pushed gayly
on up the sharp ascent.

It was a wild woodland walk, with few glimpses out of the forest.
For about a mile we steered toward the sun, climbing one of the long
braces of the mountain. Stopping near here, at a spring deliciously
pure and cold, we soon turned toward the north. As we advanced up the
mountain the sun began to gild the tree-tops, and stray beams to play
at hide-and-seek among the black trunks. We saw dells of Arcadian
loveliness, and we heard the noise of rivulets, trickling in their
depths, that we did not see.

Wh-r-r-r! rose a startled partridge, directly in our path, bringing us
to a full stop. Another and another took flight.

"Gad!" muttered the colonel, wiping his forehead, "I was dreaming of
old times; I declare I thought the mountain had got our range, and was
shelling us."

"_Salmis_ of partridge; _sauce aux champignons_," said George, licking
his lips, and looking wistfully after the birds. You see, one spoke from
the head, the other from the stomach.

Half an hour's steady tramp brought us to an abandoned camp, where
travellers formerly passed the night. A long stretch of corduroy road,
and we were in the region of resinous trees. Here it was like going up
rickety stairs, the mossed and sodden logs affording only a treacherous
foothold. Evidence that we were nearing the summit was on all sides.
Patches of snow covered the ground and were lodged among the branches.
From these little runlets made their way into the path, as the most
convenient channel. There were many dead pines, having their curiously
distorted limbs hung with the long gray lichen called "old man's beard."
Multitudes of great trees, prostrated by the wind, lay rotting along
the ground, or had lodged in falling, constituting a woful picture of
wreck and ruin. Here was not only the confusion and havoc of a primitive
forest, untouched by the axe, but the battle-ground of ages, where
frost, fire, and flood had steadily and pitilessly beaten the forest
back in every desperate effort made to scale the summit. Prone upon the
earth, stripped naked, or bursting their bark, the dead trees looked
like fallen giants despoiled of their armor, and left festering upon the
field. But we advanced to a scene still more weird.

The last mile gives occasional glimpses into the Ammonoosuc Valley, of
Fabyan's, of the hamlet at the base of Washington, and of the mountains
between Fabyan's and Jefferson. The last half-mile is a steady planting
of one foot before another up the ledges. We left the forest for a
scanty growth of firs, rooted among enormous rocks, and having their
branches pinned down to their sides by snow and ice. The whole forest
had been seized, pinioned, and cast into a death-like stupor. Each
tree seemed to keep the attitude in which it was first overtaken; each
silvered head to have dropped on its breast at the moment the spell
overcame it. Perpetual imprisonment rewarded the temerity of the forest
for thus invading the dominion of the Ice King. There it stood, all
glittering in its crystal chains!

But as we threaded our way among these trees, still as statues, the
sun came valiantly to the rescue. A warm breath fanned our cheeks and
traversed the ice-locked forest. Instantly a thrill ran along the
mountain. Quick, snapping noises filled the air. The trees burst their
fetters in a trice. Myriad crystals fluttered overhead, or fell tinkling
on the rocks at our feet. Another breath, and tree after tree lifted its
bowed head gracefully erect. The forest was free.

George, who began by asking every few rods how much farther it was, now
repeated the question for the fiftieth time; but we paid no attention.

We now entered a sort of liliputian forest, not higher than the knee,
but which must have presented an almost insuperable barrier to early
explorers of the mountain. In fact, as they could neither go through it
nor around it, they must have walked over it, the thick-matted foliage
rendering this the only alternative. No one could tell how long these
trees had been growing, when a winter of unheard-of severity destroyed
them all, leaving only their skeletons bleaching in the sun and
weather. Wrenched, twisted, and made to grow the wrong way by the wind,
the branches resembled the cast-off antlers of some extinct race of
quadrupeds which had long ago resorted to the top of the mountain. The
girdle of blasted trees below was piteous, but this was truly a strange
spectacle. Indeed, the pallid forehead of the mountain seemed wearing a
crown of thorns.

Getting clear of the dwarf-trees, or knee-wood, as it is called in the
Alps, we ran quickly up the bare summit ledge. The transition from the
gloom and desolation below into clear sunshine and free air was almost
as great as from darkness to light. We lost all sense of fatigue; we
felt only exultation and supreme content.

Here we were, we three, more than four thousand feet above the sea,
confronted by an expanse so vast that no eye but an eagle's might grasp
it, so thronged with upstarting peaks as to confound and bewilder us
out of all power of expression. One feeling was uppermost--our own
insignificance. We were like flies on the gigantic forehead of an
elephant.

However, we had climbed and were astride the ridge-pole of New England.
The rains which beat upon it descend on one side to the Atlantic, on
the other to Long Island Sound. The golden sands which are the glory of
the New England coast have been borne, atom by atom, grain by grain,
from this grand laboratory of Nature; and if you would know the source
of her great industries, her wealth, her prosperity, seek it along the
rivers which are born of these skies, cradled in these ravines, and
nourished amid the tangled mazes of these impenetrable forests. How,
like beautiful serpents, their sources lie knotted and coiled in the
heart of these mountains! How lovingly they twine about the feet of the
grand old hills! Too proud to bear its burdens, they create commerce,
building cities, scattering wealth as they run on. No barriers can stay,
no chains fetter their free course. They laugh and run on.

We stood facing the south. Far down beneath us, at our left, was the
valley of Mount Washington River. A dark, serpentine rift in the
unbroken forest indicated the course of the stream. Mechanically we
turned to follow it up the long gorge through which it flows, to where
it issues, in secret, from the side of Mount Washington itself. In front
of us arose the great Notch Mountains; beyond, mountains were piled on
mountains; higher still, like grander edifices of some imperial city,
towered the pinnacles of Lafayette, Carrigain, Chocorua, Kearsarge, and
the rest. Yes, there they were, pricking the keen air with their blunted
spears, fretting the blue vault with the everlasting menace of a power
to mount higher if it so willed, filling us with the daring aspiration
to rise as high as they pointed. Here and there something flashed
brightly upon the eye; but it was no easy thing to realize that those
little pools we saw glistening among the mountains were some of the
largest lakes in New England.

Leaving the massive Franconia group, the eye swept over the Ammonoosuc
basin, over the green heights of Bethlehem and Littleton, overtopped by
the distant Green Mountains; then along the range dividing the waters
flowing from the western slopes of the great summits into separate
streams; then Whitefield, Lancaster, Jefferson; and, lastly, rested upon
the amazing apparition of Washington, rising two thousand feet above
the crags on which we stood. Perched upon the cap-stone of this massive
pile, like a dove-cot on the cupola of St. Peter's, we distinctly saw
the Summit House. Between us and our goal rose the brown heads of
Pleasant, Franklin, and Monroe, over which our path lay. All these
peaks and their connecting ridges were freely spattered with snow.

"By Jove!" ejaculated the colonel at last; "this beats Kentucky!"

It is necessary to say two words concerning a spectacle equally novel
and startling to dwellers in more temperate regions, and which now held
us in mingled astonishment and admiration. We could hardly believe
our eyes. This bleak and desolate ridge, where only scattered tufts
of coarse grass, stinted shrubs, or spongy moss gave evidence of
life, which seemed never to have known the warmth of a sunbeam, was
transformed into a garden of exquisite beauty by the frozen north wind.

We remarked the iced branches of dwarf firs inhabiting the upper zone
of the mountain as we passed them; but here, on this summit, the
surfaces of the rocks actually bristled with spikes, spear-heads, and
lance-points, all of ice, all shooting in the direction of the north
wind. The forms were as various as beautiful, but most commonly took
that of a single spray, though sometimes they were moulded into perfect
clusters of berries, branching coral, or pendulous crystals. Common
shrubs were transformed to diamond aigrettes, coarse grasses into
bird-of-paradise plumes, by the simple adhesion of frost-dust. The iron
rocks attracted the flying particles as the loadstone attracts steel.
Cellini never fashioned anything half so marvellous as this exquisite
workmanship of a frozen mist. Yet, though it was all surpassingly
beautiful, it was strangely suggestive of death. There was no life--no,
not even the chirrup of an insect. No wonder our eyes sought the valley.

Hardly had we time to take in these unaccustomed sights, when, to our
unspeakable dismay, ominous streakings of gray appeared in the southern
and eastern horizons. The sun was already overclouded, and emitted
only a dull glare. For a moment a premonition of defeat came over me;
but another look at the summit removed all indecision, and, without
mentioning my fears to my companions, we all three plunged into the
bushy ravine that leads to Mount Pleasant.

Suddenly I felt the wind in my face, and the air was filled with
whirling snow-flakes. We had not got over half the distance to the
second mountain, before the ill-omened vapors had expanded into a
storm-cloud that boded no good to any that might be abroad on the
mountain. My idea was that we could gain the summit before it overtook
us. I accordingly lengthened my steps, and we moved on at a pace which
brought us quickly to the second mountain. But, rapidly as we had
marched, the storm was before us.

Here began our first experience of the nature of the task in hand. The
burly side of Mount Pleasant was safely turned, but beyond this snow had
obliterated the path, which was only here and there indicated by little
heaps of loose stones. It became difficult, and we frequently lost it
altogether among the deep drifts. We called a halt, passed the flask,
and attempted to derive some encouragement from the prospect.

The storm-cloud was now upon us in downright earnest. Already the flying
scud drifted in our faces, and poured, like another Niagara, over the
ridge one long, unbroken billow. The sun retreated farther and farther,
until it looked like a farthing dip shining behind a blanket. Another
furious blast, and it disappeared altogether. And now, to render our
discomfiture complete, the gigantic dome of Washington, that had lured
us on, disappeared, swallowed up in a vortex of whirling vapor; and
presently we were all at once assailed by a blinding snow-squall.
Henceforth there was neither luminary nor landmark to guide us. None of
us had any knowledge of the route, and not one had thought of a guide.
To render our situation more serious still, George now declared that he
had sprained an ankle.

If I had never before realized how the most vigorous travellers had
perished within a few paces of the summit, I understood it this day.

Bathed in perspiration, warned by the fresh snow that the path would
soon be lost beyond recovery, we held a brief council upon the situation
before and behind us. It was more than aggravating either way.

All three secretly favored a retreat. Without doubt it was not only the
safest, but the wisest course to pursue; yet to turn back was to give in
beaten, and defeat was not easy to accept. Even George, notwithstanding
his ankle, was pluckily inclined to go on. There was no time to lose,
so we emerged from the friendly shelter of a jutting ledge upon the
trackless waste before us.

From this point, at the northern foot of Pleasant, progress was
necessarily slow. We could not distinguish objects twenty paces through
the flying scud and snow, and we knew vaguely that somewhere here the
mountain ridge suddenly broke off, on both sides, into precipices
thousands of feet down. George, being lame, kept the middle, while the
colonel and I searched for stone-heaps at the right and left.

We were marching along thus, when I heard an exclamation, and saw the
colonel's hat driven past me through the air. The owner ran rapidly over
to my side.

"Take care!" I shouted, throwing myself in his path; "take care!"

"But my hat!" cried he, pushing on past me. The wind almost drowned our
voices.

"Are you mad?" I screamed, gripping his arm, and forcing him backward by
main strength.

He gave me a dazed look, but seemed to comprehend nothing of my
excitement. George halted, looking first at one, then at the other.

"Wait," said I, loosening a piece of ice with my boot. On both sides of
us rose a whirlpool of boiling clouds. I tossed the piece of ice in the
direction the hat had taken--not a sound; a second after the first--the
same silence; a third in the opposite direction. We listened intently,
painfully, but could hear nothing except the loud beating of our own
hearts. A dozen steps more would have precipitated our companion from
the top to the bottom of the mountain.

I looked at the man whose arm I still tightly grasped. He was as pale as
a corpse.

"This must be Oakes's Gulf," I ventured, in order to break the silence,
after we had all taken a pull at the flask.

"This is Oakes's Gulf--agreed; but where in perdition is my hat?"
demanded the colonel, wiping the big drops from his forehead.

After he had tied a handkerchief around his head, we crossed this
Devil's Bridge, with the caution of men fully alive to the consequences
of a false step, and with that tension of the nerves which announces the
terrible or the unknown.[9]

We had not gone far when a tremendous gust sent us reeling toward the
abyss. I dropped on my hands and knees, and my companions followed
suit. We arose, shook off the snow, and slowly mounted the long, steep,
and rocky side of Franklin. Upon gaining the summit, the walking was
better. We were also protected by the slope of the mountain. The worst
seemed over. But what fantastic objects were the big rocks, scattered,
or rather lying in wait, along our route! What grotesque appearances
continually started out of the clouds! Now it was an enormous bear
squatted on his haunches; now a dark-browed sphinx; and more than once
we could have sworn we saw human beings stealthily watching us from
a distance. How easy to imagine these weird objects lost travellers,
suddenly turned to stone for their presumptuous invasion of the domain
of terrors! It really seemed as if we had but to stamp our feet to see a
legion of demons start into life and bar our way.

Say what you will, we could not shake off the dread which these
unearthly objects inspired; nor could we forbear, were it at the risk of
being turned to stone, looking back, or peering furtively from side to
side when some new apparition thrust its hideous suggestions before us.
What would you have? Are we not all children who shrink from entering
a haunted chamber, and shudder in the presence of death? Well, the
mountain was haunted, and death seemed near. We forgot fatigue, forgot
cold, to yield to this mysterious terror, which daunted us as no peril
could do, and froze us with vague presentiment of the unknown.

Covered from head to foot with snow, bearded with icicles, tracking
this solitude, which refused the echo of a foot-fall, like spectres, we
seemed to have entered the debatable ground forever dedicated to spirits
having neither home on earth nor hope in heaven, but doomed to wander
up and down these livid crags for an eternity of woe. The mountain had
already taken possession of our physical, now it seized upon our moral
nature. Neither the one nor the other could resist the impressions which
naked rock, furious tempest, and hidden danger stamped on every foot of
the way.

In this way we reached Mount Monroe, last of the peaks in our route
to the summit, where we were forced to pick our way among the rocks,
struggling forward through drifts frequently waist deep.

It was here that, finding myself some distance in advance of the
others--for poor George was lagging painfully--I halted for them to come
up. I was choking with thirst, aggravated by eating the damp snow. As
soon as the colonel was near enough--the wind only could be heard--I
made a gesture of a man drinking. He did not seem to understand, though
I impatiently repeated the pantomime. He came to where I stood.

"The flask!" I exclaimed.

He drew it slowly from his pocket, and handed it to me with a hang-dog
look that I failed for the moment to interpret. I put it to my lips,
shook it, turned it bottom up. Not a drop!

And, nevertheless, this was the man in whom I had trusted. Cæsar only
succumbed to the dagger of Brutus; but I had not the courage to fall
with dignity under this new misfortune, and so stood staring at the
flask and the culprit alternately.

"Say that our cup is now full," suggested the incorrigible George. "The
paradox strikes me as ingenious and appropriate."

It really was too bad. Snow and sleet had wet us to the skin, and clung
to our frozen garments. Our hands and faces were swollen and inflamed;
our eyes half closed and blood-shot. Even this short minute's halt set
our teeth chattering. George could only limp along, and it was evident
could not hold out much longer. Just now my uneasiness was greater than
my sympathy. He was an accessory before the fact; for, while I was
diligently looking out the path, he had helped the colonel to finish the
flask.

We were nearing the goal: so much was certain. But the violence of the
gale, increasing with the greater altitude, warned us against delay.
We therefore pushed on across the stony terraces extending beyond, and
were at length rewarded by seeing before us the heaped-up pile of broken
granite constituting the peak of Washington, and which we knew still
rose a thousand feet above our heads. The sight of this towering mass,
which seems formed of the débris of the Creation, is well calculated
to stagger more adventurous spirits than the three weary and foot-sore
men who stood watching the cloud-billows, silently rolling up, dash
themselves unceasingly against its foundations. We looked first at the
mountain, then in each other's faces, then began the ascent.

For near an hour we toiled upward, sometimes up to the middle in snow,
always carefully feeling our way among the treacherous pitfalls it
concealed. Compelled to halt every few rods to recover breath, the
distance traversed could not be great. Still, with dogged perseverance,
we kept on, occasionally lending each other a helping hand out of a
drift, or from rock to rock; but no words were exchanged, for the stock
of gayety with which we set out was now exhausted. The gravity of the
situation began to create uneasiness in the minds of my companions. All
at once I heard my name called out. I turned. It was the colonel, whose
halloo in midst of this stony silence startled me.

"You pretend," he began, "that it's only a thousand feet from the
plateau to the top of this accursed mountain?"

"No more, no less. Professor Guyot assures us of the fact."

"Well, then, here we have been zigzagging about for a good hour, haven't
we?"

"An hour and twenty minutes," said I, consulting my watch.

"And not a sign of the houses or the railway, or any other creeping
thing. Do you want my opinion?"

"Charmed."

"We have passed the houses without seeing them in the storm, and are now
on the side of the mountain opposite from where we started."

"So that you conclude--?"

"We are lost."

This was, of course, mere guesswork; but we had no compass, and might
be travelling in the wrong direction, after all. A moment's reflection,
however, reassured me. "Is that your opinion, too, George?" I asked.

George had taken off his boot, and was chafing his swollen ankle. He
looked up.

"My opinion is that I don't know anything about it; but as you got us
into this scrape, you had better get us out of it, and be spry about it
too, for the deuce take me if I can go much farther."

"Why," croaked the colonel, "I recollect hearing of a traveller who,
like us, actually walked by the Summit House without seeing it, when he
was hailed by a man who, by mere accident, chanced to be outside, and
who imagined he saw something moving in the fog. In five minutes the
stranger would inevitably have walked over a precipice with his eyes
open."

"And I remember seeing on the wall of the tavern where we stopped, at
Bartlett, a placard offering a reward for a man who, like us, set out
from Crawford's, and was never heard of," George put in.[10]

"And I read of one who, like us, almost reached the summit, but
mistaking a lower peak for the pinnacle, losing his head, crawled,
exhausted, under a rock to die there," I finished, firing the last shot.

Without another word both my comrades grappled vigorously with the
mountain, and for ten minutes nothing was heard but our labored
breathing. On whatever side we might be, so long as we continued to
ascend I had little fear of being in the wrong road. Our affair was to
get to the top.

At the end of ten minutes we came suddenly upon a walled enclosure,
which we conjectured to be the corral at the end of the bridle-path. We
hailed it like an oasis in the midst of this desert. We entered, brushed
the snow from a stone, and sat down.

Up to this time my umbrella had afforded a good deal of merriment to my
companions, who could not understand why I encumbered myself with it on
a day which began as this one did, perfectly clear and cloudless. Since
the storm came on, the force of the wind would at any time have lifted
off his feet the man who attempted to spread it, and even if it had
not, as well might one have walked blindfolded in that treacherous road
as with an open umbrella before him. Now it was my turn, or, rather,
the turn of the abused umbrella. A few moments of rest were absolutely
necessary; but the wind cut like a cimeter, and we felt ourselves
freezing. I opened the umbrella, and, protected by it from the wind,
we crouched under its friendly shelter, and lighted our cigars. Never
before did I know the luxury of a smoke like that.

"Now," said I, complacently glancing up at our tent, "ever since I
read how an umbrella saved a man's life, I determined never to go on a
mountain without one."

"An umbrella! How do you make that out?" demanded both my auditors.

"It is very simple. He was lost on this very mountain, under conditions
similar to those we are now experiencing, except that his carrying an
umbrella was an accident, and that he was alone. He passed two nights
under it. But the story will keep."

It may well be imagined that we had not the least disposition to be
merry; yet for all that there was something irresistibly comical in
three men sitting with their feet in the snow, and putting their heads
together under a single umbrella. Various were the conjectures. We could
hear nothing but the rushing wind, see nothing but driving sleet. George
believed we were still half a mile from the summit; the colonel was not
able to precisely fix his opinion, but thought us still a long way off.
After diligent search, in which we all joined, I succeeded in finding
something like a path turning to the right, and we again resumed our
slow clambering over the rocks.

Perhaps ten minutes passed thus, when we again halted and peered
anxiously into the whirling vapor--nothing, neither monument nor
stone, to indicate where we were. A new danger confronted us; one I
had hitherto repulsed because I dared not think of it. The light was
failing, and darkness would soon be here. God help any that this night
surprised on the mountain! While we eagerly sought on all sides some
evidence that human feet had ever passed that way, a terrific blast,
that seemed to concentrate the fury of the tempest in one mighty effort,
dashed us helpless upon the rocks. For some seconds we were blinded, and
could only crouch low until its violence subsided. But as the monstrous
wave recoiled from the mountain, a piercing cry brought us quickly to
our feet.

"Look!" shouted George, waving his hat like a madman--"look there!" he
repeated.

Vaguely, through the tattered clouds, like a wreck driving miserably
before the tempest, we distinguished a building propped up by timbers
crusted with thick ice. The gale shook and beat upon it with demoniacal
glee, but never did weary eyes rest on a more welcome object. For ten
seconds, perhaps, we held it in view; then, in a twinkling, the clouds
rolled over it, shut together, and it was gone--swallowed up in the
vortex.

A moment of bewilderment succeeded, after which we made a simultaneous
rush in the direction of the building. In five minutes more we were
within the hotel, thawing our frozen clothing before a rousing fire.

It provokes a smile when I think of it. Here, in this frail structure,
perched like another Noah's Ark on its mountain, and which every gust
threatened to scatter to the winds of heaven, a grand piano was going
in the parlor, a telegraphic instrument clicked in a corner, and we sat
down to a _ménu_ that made the colonel forget the loss of his hat.

"By the bones of Daniel Boone! I can say as Napoleon did on the Great
St. Bernard, 'I have spoiled a hat among your mountains; well, I shall
find a new one on the other side,'" observed the colonel, uncorking a
second bottle of champagne.




SECOND JOURNEY.


      PAGE

I.   _LEGENDS OF THE CRYSTAL HILLS_   113

II.  _JACKSON AND THE ELLIS VALLEY_   122

III. _THE CARTER NOTCH_               132

IV.  _THE PINKHAM NOTCH_              144

V.   _A SCRAMBLE IN TUCKERMAN'S_      155

VI.  _IN AND ABOUT GORHAM_            165

VII. _ASCENT BY THE CARRIAGE-ROAD_    178

VIII._MOUNT WASHINGTON_               189

[Illustration: WHITE MOUNTAINS

(CENTRAL AND NORTHERN SECTION.)

FROM
WALLING'S MAP OF
NEW HAMPSHIRE,
With corrections by
Members of the
APPALACHIAN CLUB.
1881.
]




SECOND JOURNEY




I.

_LEGENDS OF THE CRYSTAL HILLS._

    My lord, I will hoist saile; and all the wind
    My bark can beare shall hasten me to find
    A great new world.
             --SIR W. DAVENANT.


When Cabot, in the _Mathew_, of Bristol, was sailing by the New England
coast, and the amazed savage beheld a pyramid of white sails rising,
like a cloud, out of the sea, the navigator saw from the deck of his
ship, rising out of the land, a cluster of lofty summits cut like a
cameo on the northern sky.

The Indian left his tradition of the marvellous apparition, which he at
first believed to be a mass of trees wrapped in faded foliage, drifting
slowly at the caprice of the waves; but, as he gazed, fire streamed
from the strange object, a cloud shut it from his view, and a peal like
distant thunder was wafted on the breeze to his startled ears. That peal
announced the doom of his race. He was looking at the first ship.

Succeeding navigators, Italians, Portuguese, French, English--a roll of
famous names--sailed these seas, and, in their turn, hailed the distant
summits. They became the great distinguishing landmarks of this corner
of the New World. They are found on all the maps traced by the early
geographers from the relations of the discoverers themselves. Having
thus found form and substance, they also found a name--the Mountains of
St. John.

Ships multiplied. Men of strange garb, speech, complexion, erected their
habitations along the coast, the unresisting Indian never dreaming
that the thin line which the sea had cast up would speedily rise to an
inundation destined to sweep him from the face of the earth. Then began
that steady advance, slow at first, gathering momentum with the years,
before which he recoiled step by step, and finally disappeared forever.
His destiny was accomplished. To-day only mountains and streams transmit
to us the certainty that he ever did exist. They are his monument, his
lament, his eternal accusation.

The White Mountains stood for the Indian not only as an image, but as
the actual dwelling-place of Omnipotence. His dreaded Manitou, whose
voice was the thunder, whose anger the lightning, and on whose face
no mortal could look and live, was the counterpart of the terrible
Thor, the Icelandic god, throned in a palace of ice among frozen and
inaccessible mountain peaks, over which he could be heard urging his
loud chariot amid the rage of the tempest. Frost and fire, plague and
famine were the terrific natural agents common to the Indian and to the
Norse mythology; and to his god of terrors the Indian conjurer addressed
his prayers, his incantations, and his propitiatory offerings, when
some calamity had befallen or threatened his tribe. But to cross the
boundary which separated him from the abiding-place of the Manitou!
plant his audacious foot within the region from which Nature shrunk back
affrighted! Not all the wealth he believed the mountain hoarded would
have tempted him to brave the swift and terrible vengeance of the justly
offended, all-powerful Manitou. So far, then, as he was concerned, the
mountain remained inviolate, inviolable, as a kind of hell, filled with
the despairing shrieks of those who in an evil hour transgressed the
limits sacred to immortals.[11]

As a pendant to this superstition, in which their deity is with simple
grandeur throned on the highest mountain peak, it is curious to remember
the Indian tradition of the Deluge; for, like so many peoples, they had
their tradition, coming from a remote time, and having strong family
resemblance with that of more enlightened nations. According to it, all
the inhabitants of the earth were drowned, except one Powaw and his
wife, who were preserved by climbing to the top of the White Mountains,
and who were the progenitors of the subsequent races of man. The Powaw
took with him a hare, which, upon the subsiding of the waters, he freed,
as Noah did the dove, seeing in its prolonged absence the assurance that
he and his companion might safely descend to earth. The likeness of this
tradition with the story of Deucalion, and Pyrrha, his wife, as related
by Ovid, is very striking. One does not easily consent to refer it to
accident alone.

There is one thing more. When asked by the whites to point out the
Indian's heaven, the savage stretched his arm in the direction of the
White Hills, and replied that heaven was just beyond. Such being his
religion, and such the influence of the mountain upon this highly
imaginative, poetic, natural man, one finds himself drawn legitimately
in the train of those marvels which our ancestors considered the most
credible things in the world, and which the sceptical cannot explain by
a sneer.

According to the Indians, on the highest mountain, suspended from a
crag overlooking a dismal lake, was an enormous carbuncle, which many
declared they had seen blazing in the night like a live coal. Some even
asserted that its ruddy glare lighted the livid rocks around like the
fire of a midnight encampment, while by day it emitted rays, like the
sun, dazzling to look upon. And this extraordinary sight they declared
they had not only seen, but seen again and again.

It is true that the Indians did not hesitate to declare that no mortal
hand could hope to grasp the great fire-stone. It was, said they, in the
special guardianship of the genius of the mountain, who, on the approach
of human footsteps, troubled the waters of the lake, causing a dark mist
to rise, in which the venturesome mortal became bewildered, and then
hopelessly lost. Several noted conjurers of the Pigwackets, rendered
foolhardy by their success in exorcising evil spirits, so far conquered
their fears as to ascend the mountain; but they never returned, and had,
no doubt, expiated their folly by being transformed into stone, or flung
headlong down some stark and terrible precipice.

This tale of the great carbuncle fired the imagination of the simple
settlers to the highest pitch. We believe what we wish to believe, and,
notwithstanding their religion refused to admit the existence of the
Indian demon, its guardian, they seem to have had little difficulty in
crediting the reality of the jewel itself. At any rate, the belief that
the mountain shut up precious mines has come down to our own day; we
are assured by a learned historian of fifty years ago that the story of
the great carbuncle still found full credence in his.[12] We are now
acquainted with the spirit of the time when the first attempt to scale
the mountain, known to us, was rewarded with complete success. But the
record is of exasperating brevity.

Among the earliest settlers of Exeter, New Hampshire, was a man by the
name of Darby Field. The antecedents of this obscure personage are
securely hidden behind the mists of more than two centuries.

A hundred and twenty-five years before the ascent of Mont Blanc by
Jacques Balmat, Darby Field successfully ascended to the summit of the
"White Hill," to-day known as Mount Washington; but the exploit of the
adventurous Irishman is far more remarkable in its way than that of the
brave Swiss, since he had to make his way for eighty miles through a
wilderness inhabited only by beasts of prey, or by human beings scarcely
less savage, before he reached the foot of the great range; while Balmat
lived under the very shadow of the monarch of the Alps, so that its
spectre was forever crossing his path. Furthermore, the greater part of
the ascent of Mont Blanc was already familiar ground to the guides and
chamois-hunters of the Swiss Alps. On the contrary, according to every
probability, Field was the first human being whose daring foot invaded
the hitherto inviolable seclusion of the illustrious hermit of New
England.

For such an adventure one instinctively seeks a motive. I did not long
amuse myself with the idea that this explorer climbed merely for the
sake of climbing; and I have little notion that he dreamed of posthumous
renown. It is far more probable that the reports brought by the Indians
of the fabulous treasures of the mountains led to Field's long, arduous,
and really perilous journey. It is certain that he was possessed of
rare intrepidity, as well as the true craving for adventure. That goes
without saying; still, the whole undertaking--its inception, its pursuit
to the end in the face of extraordinary obstacles, which he had no means
of measuring or anticipating--announces a very different sort of man
from the ordinary, a purpose before which all dangers disappear.

In June, 1642, that is to say, only twelve years after the Puritan
settlements in Massachusetts Bay, Field set out from the sea-coast for
the White Hills.

So far as known, he prosecuted his journey to the Indian village
of Pigwacket, the existence of which is thus established, without
noteworthy accident or adventure. Here he was joined by some Indians,
who conducted him within eight miles of the summit, when, declaring that
to go farther would expose them to the wrath of their great Evil Spirit,
they halted, and refused to proceed. The brave Irishman was equal to the
emergency. To turn back, baffled, within sight of his goal was evidently
not an admitted contingency. Leaving the Indians, therefore, squatted
upon the rocks, and no doubt regarding him as a man rushing upon a
fool's fate, Field again resolutely faced the mountain, when, seeing him
equally unmoved by their warnings as unshaken in his determination to
reach the summit, two of the boldest warriors ran after him, while the
others stoically made their preparations to await a return which they
never expected to take place. They watched the retreating figures until
lost among the rocks.

In the language of the original narration, the rest of the ascent was
effected by "a ridge between two valleys filled with snow, out of which
came two branches of the Saco River, which met at the foot of the hill,
where was an Indian town of two hundred people." ... "By-the-way, among
the rocks, there were two ponds, one a blackish water, and the other
reddish.".... "Within twelve miles of the top was neither tree nor
grass, but low savins, which they went upon the top of sometimes."

The adventurous climber pushed on. Soon he was assailed by thick clouds,
through which he and his companions resolutely toiled upward. This slow
and labored progress through entangling mists continued until within
four miles of the summit, when Field emerged above them into a region
of intense cold. Surmounting the immense pile of shattered rocks which
constitute the spire, he at last stood upon the unclouded summit,
with its vast landscape outspread beneath him, and the air so clear
that the sea seemed not more than twenty miles distant. No doubt the
daring explorer experienced all the triumph natural to his successful
achievement. It is not difficult to imagine the exultation with which he
planted his audacious foot upon the topmost crag, for, like Columbus,
Cabot, Balboa, he, too, was a real discoverer. The Indians must have
regarded him, who thus scornfully braved the vengeance of their god of
terrors, as something more than man. I have often pictured him standing
there, proudly erect, while the wonder-struck savages crouched humbly at
his feet. Both, in their way, felt the presence of their God; but the
white man would confront his as an equal, while the savage adored with
his face in the dust.

The three men, after their first emotion of ecstasy, amazement, or fear,
looked about them. For the moment the great carbuncle was forgotten.
Field had chosen the best month of the twelve for his attempt, and now
saw a vast and unknown region stretching away on the north and east to
the shores of what he took for seas, but what were really only seas of
vapor, heaped against the farthest horizons. He fancied he saw a great
water to the north, which he judged to be a hundred miles broad, for
no land was beyond it. He thought he descried the great Gulf of Canada
to the east, and in the west the great lake out of which the river of
Canada came. All these illusions are sufficiently familiar to mountain
explorers; and it must not be forgotten that in Field's day geographical
knowledge of the interior of the country was indeed limited. In fact, he
must have brought back with him the first accurate knowledge respecting
the sources of those rivers flowing from the eastern slopes of the
mountains. The great gulf on the north side of Mount Washington is
truly declared to be such a precipice that they could scarce discern to
the bottom; the great northern wilderness as "daunting terrible," and
clothed with "infinite thick woods." Such is its aspect to-day.

The day must have been so far spent that Field had but little time in
which to prosecute his search. He, however, found "store of Muscovy
glass" and some crystals, which, supposing them to be diamonds, he
carefully secured and brought away. These glittering masses, congealed,
according to popular belief, like ice on the frozen regions of the
mountains, gave them the name of the Crystal Hills--a name the most
poetic, the most suggestive, and the most fitting that has been applied
to the highest summits since the day they were first discovered by
Englishmen.

Descending the mountain, Field rejoined his Indians, who were doubtless
much astonished to see him return to them safe and sound; for, while he
had been making the ascent, a furious tempest, sent, as these savages
believed, to destroy the rash pale-face and his equally reckless
companions, burst upon the mountain. He found them drying themselves by
a fire of pine-knots; and, after a short halt, the party took their way
down the mountain to the Indian village.

Before a month elapsed, Field, with five or six companions, made a
second ascent; but the gem of inestimable value, by whose light one
might read at night, continued to elude his pursuit. The search was not,
however, abandoned. Others continued it. The marvellous story, as firmly
believed as ever by the credulous, survived, in all its purity, to our
own century, to be finally transmitted to immortality by Hawthorne's
tale of "The Great Carbuncle." It may be said here that great influence
was formerly attributed to this stone, which the learned in alchemy
believed prevailed against the dangers of infection, and was a sure
talisman to preserve its owner from peril by sea or by land.

A tradition is ten times a tradition when it has a fixed locality.
Without this it is a myth, a mere vagabond of a tradition. Knowing this,
I searched diligently for the spot where the great carbuncle, like the
eye of a Cyclop, shed its red lustre far down the valley of the Saco;
and if the little mountain tarn to-day known as Hermit Lake, over which
the gaunt crags rise in austere grandeur, be not the place, then I am
persuaded that further seeking would be unavailing. I cannot go so far
as to say that it never existed.

What seems passing strange is that the feat performed by Field,[13] the
fame of which spread throughout the colony, should have been nearly,
if not wholly, forgotten before the lapse of a century. Robert Rogers,
one of the most celebrated hunters of the White Mountains, subsequently
a renowned partisan leader in the French and Indian wars, uses the
following language concerning them:

"I cannot learn that any person was ever on the top of these mountains.
I have been told by the Indians that they have often attempted it in
vain, by reason of the change of air they met with, which I am inclined
to believe, having ascended them myself 'til the alteration of air was
very perceptible; and even then I had not advanced half way up; the
valleys below were then concealed from view by clouds."

It is not precisely known when or how these granite peaks took the name
of the White Mountains. We find them so designated in 1672 by Josselyn,
who himself performed the feat of ascending the highest summit, of
which a brief record is found in his "New England's Rarities." One
cannot help saying of this book that either the author was a liar of the
first magnitude, or else we have to regret the degeneracy of Nature,
exhausted by her long travail; for this narrator gravely tells us of
frogs which were as big as a child of a year old, and of poisonous
serpents which the Indians caught with their bare hands, and ate alive
with great gusto. These are rarities indeed.

The first mention I have met with of an Indian name for the White
Mountains is in the narrative of John Gyles's captivity, printed in
Boston in 1736, saying:

"These White Hills, at the head of Penobscot River, are by the Indians
said to be much higher than those called Agiockochook,[14] above Saco."

The similitude between the names White Mountains and Mont Blanc suggests
the same idea, that color, rather than character, makes the first and
strongest impression upon the beholder. Thus we have White Mountains and
Green Mountains, Red Mountains and Black Mountains, the world over. The
eye seizes a color before the mind fixes upon a distinctive feature,
or the imagination a resemblance. It is stated, on the authority of
Schoolcraft, that the Algonquins called these summits "White Rocks."
Mariners, approaching from the open sea, descried what seemed a
cloud-bank, rising from the landward horizon, when twenty leagues from
the nearest coast, and before any other land was visible from the
mast-head. Thirty leagues distant in a direct line, in a clear midsummer
day, the distant summits appeared of a pearly whiteness; observed
again from a church steeple on the sea-coast, with the sky partially
overcast, they were whitish-gray, showing that the change from blue to
white, or to cool tones approximating with white, is due to atmospheric
conditions. The early writers succeed only imperfectly in accounting
for this phenomenon, which for six months of the year at least has no
connection whatever with the snows that cover the highest peaks only
from the middle of October to the middle of April, a period during which
few navigators of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries visited our
shores, or, indeed, ventured to put to sea at all.[15]




II.

_JACKSON AND THE ELLIS VALLEY._

    Once more, O mountains of the North, unveil
    Your brows, and lay your cloudy mantles by!--WHITTIER.


It is Petrarch who says, "A journey on foot hath most pleasant
commodities; a man may go at his pleasure; none shall stay him, none
shall carry him beyond his wish, none shall trouble him; he hath but
one labor, the labor of nature, to go." Every true pedestrian ought to
render full faith to the poet's assertion; and should he chance to have
his Laura, he will see her somewhere, or, rather, everywhere, I promise
him. But that is his affair.

There are two ways of reaching Jackson from North Conway. One route
leaves the travelled highway a short distance beyond the East Branch of
the Saco, and ascends Thorn Hill; another diverges from it near Glen
Station, in Bartlett. The Thorn Hill way is the longer; but, as the
views are unsurpassed, I unhesitatingly chose it in preference to the
easier and shorter road.

The walk from the Intervale over Thorn Hill gives ravishing backward
glimpses, opening to a full and broad panorama of the Saco meadows and
of the surrounding mountains. Needless to call them by name. One might
forget names, but the image never. Then, advancing to the summit, full
upon the charmed eye comes that glorious vision of the great mountains,
elevated to an immense height, and seeming, in their benevolence, to
say, "Approach, mortals!" Underneath is the village.

We have left the grand vestibule of the Saco to enter an amphitheatre.
Washington, in his snowy toga, occupies the place of high honor. Adams
flaunts his dainty spire over the Pinkham Notch, at the monarch's left
hand. Then comes an embattled wall, pierced through its centre by the
immense hollow of the Carter Notch.

Jackson is the ideal mountain village. From Thorn Hill it looked a
little elysium, with its handful of white houses huddled around its
one little church spire, like a congregation sitting at the feet of
their pastor. You perceive neither entrance nor exit, so completely is
the deep vale shut in by mountains. The streams, that make two veins
of silver in the green floor, seem vainly seeking a way out. One would
think Nature had locked the door and thrown away the key. The first
stream is the Wildcat, coming from the Carter Notch; the second, the
Ellis, from the Pinkham Notch. They unite just below the village, and,
like a forlorn-hope, together cut their way out of the mountains.

Getting down into the village, the high mountains now sink out of
sight, and I saw only the nearer and less elevated ones immediately
surrounding--on the north, Eagle and Wildcat; on the east, Tin and
Thorn; on the west, Iron Mountain. The latter has fine, bold cliffs.
Over its smooth slope I again saw the two great steps of the Giant's
Stairs, mounting the long ridge which conducts to the great plateau of
Mount Washington.

The village has a bright, pleasant look, but is not otherwise remarkable
in itself. Three hotels, the church, and a score or so of houses,
constitute the central portion. But if the village is small, the
township is large; and what is the visitor's astonishment, on opening
his eyes some fine morning, to see farms and farm-houses scattered along
the very summit of Thorn Mountain, whence they appear to regard the
little world below with a lofty disdain. How came they there? is the
question one feels inclined to ask; for in this enchanted air he loses
the desire, almost the faculty, of thinking for himself. The inhabitants
of this little colony seem to prize their seclusion, and only descend to
earth at the call of necessity. Their neighbors are the eagles. Surely
this is _Ultima Thule_. Alas! no; the tax-gatherer mounts even here.

The people of Jackson are above all anxious for the development of
the mineral resources of the place. They have iron and tin, and claim
also the existence of copper and even of gold ores. Yet it is probable
that the vein most profitable for them, the one most likely to yield
satisfactory returns, is that on which the summer hotels have been
located and opened. So far, the mountains refuse to give up the wealth
they hoard.

[Illustration: GIANT'S STAIRS, FROM THORN MOUNTAIN.]

The Wildcat cuts the village in two. It is a perfect highwayman of a
stream. The very air is tremulous with its rush and roar. I halted
awhile on the little bridge that spans it, from which, looking down
the long pathway it makes, I enjoyed a fine retrospect of the Moats,
and, looking up, saw the torrent come bounding toward me. Here it makes
a swift descent over granite ledges, clean and fresh from constant
scrubbing, as the face of a country urchin, and as freckled. See how
hard every rod of its course is beset by huge hump-backed bowlders! A
river in fetters!

Just above the bridge the stream plunges, two white streaks of water,
twenty to thirty feet obliquely down. Now it is dark, now light;
sometimes tinged a pale emerald, sometimes a rich amber, where it falls
down in thin sheets. For half a mile the ledges look as if an earthquake
had ripped them up to make a channel for this tempest of water. It is
from these ledges, looking down the course of the stream, that Moat
Mountain is so incomparably fine. It stretches itself luxuriously along
the rich meadows, like a Sybarite upon his couch of velvet, lifting
its head high enough to embrace the landscape, of which itself is the
most attractive feature. And the tall pines rise above the framework of
forest, as if to look at the beautiful mountain, clothed with the light
of the morning, and reclining with such infinite grace.

Sprays of trembling foliage droop or stretch themselves out over the
stream in search of the fine dew it sends up. They seem endeavoring to
hide the broad scar made through the forest. The clear sun illuminates
their green leaves, and makes the cool rocks emit a sensible warmth. It
also illuminates the little fountains of water. Ferns and young willows
shoot from crevices, delicate mosses attach themselves to the grim
bowlders. I found the perfect print of a human foot sunk in the hardest
rock; also cavities as cleverly rounded as if pebbles had been taken
from the granite. On the banks, under the thick shade of the pines, I
gathered a handful of the showy pappoose flower, the green leaves of
which are edible. Little mauve butterflies fluttered at our knees like
violets blown about by the wind.

The crest of the fall is split, and broken up in huge fragments. The
main stream gains an outlet by a deep channel it has cut in the rock;
then turns a mill; then shoots down the face of the ledge. Above the
high ledge the bed of the river widens to about two hundred feet. Higher
up, where it is broken in long regular steps over which fifty cascades
tumble, I thought it most beautiful.

Besides Jackson Falls, so called, there is a fine cataract on the Ellis,
known as Goodrich Falls. This is a mile and a half out of the village,
where the Conway road passes the Ellis by a bridge; and, being directly
upon the high-road, is one of the best known. The river here suddenly
pours its whole volume over a precipice eighty feet high, making the
earth tremble with the shock. I made my way down the steep bank to the
bed of the river below the fall, from which I saw, first, the curling
wave, large, regular, and glassy, of the dam, then three wild and
foaming pitches of broken water, with detached cascades gushing out from
the rocks at the right--all falling heavily into the eddying pool below.
Where the water was not white, or filliped into fine spray, it was the
color of pale sherry, and opaque, gradually changing to amber gold
as the light penetrated it and the descending sheet of the fall grew
thinner. The full tide of the river showed the fall to the best possible
advantage. But spring is the season of cascades--the only season when
one is sure of seeing them at all.

One gets strongly attached to such a stream as the Ellis. If it has
been his only comrade for weeks, as it has been mine, the liking grows
stronger every day--the sense of companionship is full and complete:
the river is so voluble, so vivacious, so full of noisy chatter. If you
are dull, it rouses and lifts you out of yourself; if gay, it is as gay
as you. Besides, there is the paradox that, notwithstanding you may be
going in different directions, it never leaves you for a single moment.
One talks as it runs, one listens as he walks. A secret, an indefinable
sympathy springs up. You are no longer alone.

[Illustration: MOAT MOUNTAIN, FROM JACKSON FALLS.]

Among other stories that the river told me was the following:

Once, while on their way to Canada through these mountains, a war-party
of Indians, fresh from a successful forray on the sea-coast, halted with
their prisoners on the banks of a stream whose waters stopped their way.
For weeks these miserable captives had toiled through trackless forests,
through swollen and angry torrents, sometimes climbing mountains on
their hands and knees--they were so steep--and at night stretching their
aching limbs on the cold ground, with no other roof than the heavens.[16]

The captives were a mother, with her new-born babe, scarcely fourteen
days old, her boy of six, her two daughters of fourteen and sixteen
years, and her maid. Two of her little flock were missing. One little
prattler was playing at her knee, and another in the orchard, when
thirteen red devils burst in the door of their happy home. Two cruel
strokes of the axe stretched them lifeless in their blood before her
frenzied eyes. One was killed to intimidate, the other was despatched
because he was afraid, and cried out to his mother. There was no time
for tears--none even for a parting kiss. Think of that, mothers of the
nineteenth century! The tragedy finished, the hapless survivors were
hurried from the house into the woods. There was no resistance. The blow
fell like a stroke of lightning from a clear sky.

This mother, whose eyes never left the embroidered belt of the chief,
where the reeking scalps of her murdered babes hung; this mother,
who had tasted the agony of death from hour to hour, and whose
incomparable courage not only supported her own weak frame, but had
so far miraculously preserved the lives of her little ones, now stood
shivering on the shores of the swollen torrent with her babe in her
arms, and holding her little boy by the hand. In rags, bleeding, and
almost famished, her misery should have melted a heart of stone. But she
well knew the mercy of her masters. When fainting, they had goaded her
on with blows, or, making a gesture as if to snatch her little one from
her arms, significantly grasped their tomahawks. Hope was gone; but the
mother's instinct was not yet extinguished in that heroic breast.

But at this moment of sorrow and despair, what was her amazement to hear
the Indians accost her daughter Sarah, and command her to sing them a
song. What mysterious chord had the wild, flowing river touched in those
savage breasts? The girl prepared to obey, and the Indians to listen. In
the heart of these vast solitudes, which never before echoed to a human
voice, the heroic English maiden chanted to the plaintive refrain of the
river the sublime words of the Psalmist:

"By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we
remembered Zion.

"We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof.

"For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song; and
they that wasted us required of us mirth."

As she sung, the poor girl's voice trembled and her eyes filled, but she
never once looked toward her mother.

When the last notes of the singer's voice died away, the bloodiest
devil, he who murdered the children, took the babe gently from the
mother, without a word; another lifted her burden to his own shoulder;
another, the little boy; when the whole company entered the river.

Gentlemen, metaphysicians, explain that scene, if you please: it is no
romance.

As this tale plunged me in a train of sombre reflection, the river
recounted one of those marvellous legends which contain more poetry than
superstition, and which here seem so appropriate.

According to the legend, a family living at the foot of a lofty peak
had a daughter more beautiful than any maiden of the tribe, possessing
a mind elevated far above the common order, and as accomplished as
beautiful. When she reached a proper age, her parents looked around
them for a suitable match, but in vain. None of the young men of the
tribe were worthy of so peerless a creature. Suddenly this lovely
wildflower of the mountains disappeared. Diligent was the search, and
loud the lamentations when no trace of her light moccasin could be
found in forest or glade. The tribe mourned her as lost. But one day
some hunters, who had penetrated into the fastnesses of the mountain,
discovered the lost maiden disporting herself in the limpid waters
of a stream with a beautiful youth, whose hair, like her own, flowed
down below his waist. On the approach of the intruders, the youthful
bathers vanished from sight. The relatives of the maiden recognized her
companion as one of the kind spirits of the mountain, and henceforth
looked upon him as their son. They called upon him for moose, bear, or
whatever creature they desired, and had only to go to the water-side
and signify their desire, when, behold! the animal came swimming toward
them. This legend strongly reminded me of one of those marvellous fables
of the Hartz, in which a princess of exceeding beauty, destroyed by the
arts of a wicked fairy, was often seen bathing in the river Ilse. If she
met a traveller, she conducted him into the interior of the mountain and
loaded him with riches. Each legend dimly conveys its idea of the wealth
believed to reside in the mountain itself.

The Ellis continues to guide us farther and farther into the mountains.
If we turn in the direction of the Glen House, a mile out of the
village the Giant's Stairs come finely into view, and are held for
some distance. Then bewitching vistas of Mount Washington, with snow
decorating his huge sides, rise and sink, appear and disappear, until
we reach an open vale, where the stream is spanned by a rude bridge.
The route offers nothing more striking in its way than the view of the
Pinkham Notch, which lies open at this point.

One of my walks extending as far as the last house on this road,
permitted me to gratify a strong desire to see something of the in-door
life of the poorer class of farmers. That desire was fully satisfied.
There was nothing remarkable about the house itself; but the room in
which I rested would have furnished Meyer von Bremen a capital subject
for one of his characteristic interiors--it carried me back a century
at least. In one corner a woman upward of seventy, I should say, sat
at a spinning-wheel. She rose, got my bread-and-milk, and then resumed
her spinning. A young mother, with a babe in her lap and two tow-headed
urchins at her knee, occupied a high-backed rocking-chair. To judge
from appearances, the river which flowed by the door was completely
forgotten. Her efforts to hush the babe being interrupted by the peevish
whining of one of the brats, she dealt him a sound box on the ear, upon
which the whole pack howled in unison, while the mother, very red with
the effect of her own anger, dragged the culprit from the room. There
was still another occupant, a young girl, so silently plying her needle
that I did not at first notice her. The floor was bare. A rickety chair
or two and a cradle finished the meagre inventory of the apartment.
The general appearance of things was untidy and unthrifty, rather than
squalid; but I could not help recalling Sir William Davenant's remark,
"that those tenants never get much furniture who begin with a cradle."

In such rambles, romantic and picturesque, in such dreams, the time
runs away. The weeks are long days, the days moments. Every one asks
himself why he finds Jackson so enticing, but no one is able to answer
the question. _Cui bono?_ When I am happy, shall I make myself miserable
searching for the reason? Not if I know it.

Like bees to the sweetest flowers, the artists alight on the choicest
bits of scenery by instinct. One runs across their umbrellas almost
everywhere, spread like gigantic mushrooms; but some of them seem only
to live and have their true artistic being here. In general, they
are gentle, unobtrusive, and rather subdued in the presence of their
beloved mountains. Some among them, however, develop actual rapacity
in the search for new subjects, as, with a pencil between their teeth,
they creep in ambush to surprise and carry off some mountain beauty
which you or I are to ransom. Does a traveller contemplate some arduous
exploration in an unvisited region? the artist knocks him over by
quietly remarking, "I camped there several days last year."

In France they maintain that high mountains cannot be painted.
Consequently, the modern French landscape is almost always a dead
level; an illimitable plain, through which a placid stream quietly
meanders, with a thick wood of aged trees at the left, a snug hamlet in
the middle distance, some shrubbery on the right, and a clumsy ox-cart
with peasants, in the foreground. All these details are sufficiently
commonplace; but they appeal strongly to our human yearning for a life
of perfect peace--a sanctuary the world cannot enter. Turner knew that
he must paint a mountain with its head in the clouds, and its feet
plunged in unfathomable abysses. Imagination would do the rest, and
imagination governs the universe.

Photography cannot reproduce the true relation of distant mountains to
the landscape. The highest summits look like hills. For want of color,
too, it is always twilight. Even running water has a frozen look,
and rocks emit a dead, sepulchral glare. But for details--every leaf
of the tree, or shadow of the leaf--it is faultless; it is the thing
itself. True, under the magnifying-glass the foliage looks crisped, as
is noticed after a first frost. In short, the photograph of mountain
scenery is like that of a friend taken in his coffin. We say with a
shiver that is he, but, alas, how changed! A body without a soul. Again,
photography cannot suggest movement. Perfect immobility is a condition
indispensable to a successful picture. A successful picture! A petrified
landscape!

"In the morning to the mountain," says the proverb, as emblematic of
high hopes. For two stations embodying the best features the vicinity
of Jackson can offer, the crest of Thorn Mountain and the ledges above
Fernald's Farm are strongly commended to every sojourner. Both are
easily reached. On the first, you are a child lifted above the crowd
on the shoulders of a giant; the mountains have come to you. On the
second, you have taken the best possible position to study the form and
structure of Mount Washington. You see all the ravines, and can count
all the gigantic feelers the immense mountain throws down into the
gorge of the Ellis. In this way, step by step, we continue to master the
topography of the region visited as we take our chocolate, one sip at a
time.

I prepared to continue my journey to the Glen House by the valley of
the Wildcat and the Carter Notch, which is a sort of side entrance to
the Peabody Valley. Two passes thus lie on alternate sides of the same
mountain chain. Before doing so, however, two words are necessary.




III.

_THE CARTER NOTCH._

    Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needs
    No school of long experience, that the world
    Is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen
    Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares,
    To tire thee of it, enter this wild wood
    And view the haunts of nature.
                  --BRYANT.


What traveller can pass beyond the crest of Thorn Hill without paying
his tribute of silent admiration to the splendid pageant of mountains
visible from this charmed spot! Before him the great rampart, bristling
with its countless towers, is breached as cleanly as if a cannon-ball
had just crashed through it. It is an immense hole; it is the cavity
from which, apparently, one of those great iron teeth has just been
extracted. Only it does not disfigure the landscape. Far from it. It
really exalts the surrounding peaks. They are enormously aggrandized by
it. You look around for a mountain of proper size and shape to fill it.
That gives the true idea. It is a mountainous hole.

The little river, tumbling step by step down its broken ledges into
Jackson, comes direct from the Notch, and its stream is the thread
which conducts through the labyrinth of thick woods. I dearly love the
companionship of these mountain streams. They are the voices of the
wilderness, singing high or low, softly humming a melodious refrain to
your thoughts, or, joining innumerable cascades in one grand chorus,
they salute the ear with a gush of sound that strips the forest of its
loneliness and awe. This same madcap Wildcat runs shouting and hallooing
through the woods like a stream possessed.

By half-past seven of a bright and crisp morning I was climbing the
steep hill-side over which Jackson Falls pour down. Here was a genuine
surprise. On arriving at the top, instead of entering a difficult and
confined gorge, I found a charming and tolerably wide vale, dotted with
farms, extending far up into the midst of the mountains. You hardly
realize that the stream flowing so demurely along the bottom of the
valley is the same making its entry into the village with such noise
and tumult. Half a mile above the falls the snowy cupola of Washington
showed itself over Eagle Mountain for a few moments. Then, farther on,
Adams was seen, also white with snow. For five miles the road skirts the
western slopes of the valley, which grows continually deeper, narrower,
and higher. Spruce Mountain is now on our left, the broad flanks of
Black Mountain occupy the right side of the valley. Beyond Black
Mountain Carter Dome lifts its ponderous mass, and between them the dip
of the Perkins Notch, dividing the two ranges, gives admittance to the
Wild River Valley, and to the Androscoggin, in Shelburne. Before me the
grand, downward curves of Carter Notch opened wider and wider.

I picked up, _en route_, the guide of this locality, who lives on the
side of the mountain near where the road is left for the woods. Our
business was transacted in two words. While he was strapping on his
knapsack I had leisure to observe the manner of man he was.

The guide, whose Christian name is Jonathan, is known in all the country
round as "Jock" Davis. He was a medium-sized, muscular man, whiskered to
his eyes, with a pair of bare arms the color of unglazed earthen-ware,
and a step like a panther. As he strode silently on before, with his dog
at his heels, I was reminded of the Jibenainosay and his inseparable
Little Peter. He was steady as a clock, careful, and a capital forester,
but a trifle taciturn. From time to time, as he drew my attention to the
things noticeable or interesting by the way, his face grew animated, and
his eyes sparkled. By the same token I believed I detected that dormant
perception of beauty and grandeur which is inborn, and which travellers
are in general too much disposed to deny any existence among the natives
of these mountains. It is true, one cannot express his feelings with
the vivacity of the other; but if there is such a thing as speech in
silence, the honest guide's looks spoke volumes.

He told me that he was accustomed to get his own living in the woods,
like an old bear. He had trapped and gummed all through the region we
were in; the slopes of the great range, and the Wild River wilderness,
which he declared, with a shake of the head, to be "a horrid hole." Now
and then, without halting, he took a step to the right or left to look
into his fox and sable traps, set near the foot-path. When he spoke of
"gumming" on Wildcat Mountain, I was near making an awkward mistake; I
understood him to say "gunning." So I very innocently asked what he had
bagged. He opened his eyes widely and replied, "Gum."[17]

[Illustration: THE CARTER NOTCH.]

Seeing me ready, Davis whistled to his dog, and we entered the
logging-road in Indian file. We at once took a brisk pace, which in a
short time brought us to the edge of a clearing, now badly overgrown
with bramble and coppice, and showing how easily nature obliterates
the mark of civilization when left alone. In this clearing an old
cellar told its sad story but too plainly. Those pioneers who first
struck the axe into the noble pines here are all gone. They abandoned
in consternation the effort to wring a scanty subsistence from this
inhospitable and unfruitful region. Even the poor farms I had seen
encroaching upon the skirts of this wilderness seemed fighting in
retreat.

We quickly came to a second opening, where the axe of God had smote
the forest still more ruthlessly than that of man. The ground was
encumbered with half-burnt trees, among which the gaudy fire-weed grew
rank and tall. Divining my thought, the guide explained in his quaint,
sententious way, "Fire went through it; then the wind harricaned it
down." A comprehensive sweep of his staff indicated the area traversed
by the whirlwind of fire and the tornado. This opening disclosed at our
left the gray cliffs and yawning aperture of the Notch--by far the most
satisfactory view yet obtained, and the nearest.

Burying ourselves in deeper solitudes, broken only by the hound in full
cry after a fox or a rabbit, we descended to the banks of the Wildcat at
a point one and a half miles from the road we had left. We then crossed
the rude bridge of logs, keeping company with the gradually diminishing
river, now upon one bank, now on the other, making a gradual ascent
along with it, frequently pausing in mid-stream to glance up and down
through the beautiful vistas it has cut through the trees. Halt at the
third crossing, traveller, and take in the long course through the
avenue of black, moss-draped firs! one so sombre and austere, the other
gliding so bright and blithesome out of its shadow and gloom. Just above
this spot a succession of tiny water-falls comes like a procession of
nymphs out of an enchanted wood.

We were now in a colder region. The sparseness of the timber led me to
look right and left for the stumps of felled trees, but I saw nothing of
the kind. To the rigorous climate and extreme leanness of the soil they
attribute the scanty, undersized growth. I did not see fifty good timber
trees along the whole route. Where a large tree had been prostrated by
the wind, its upturned and matted roots showed a pitiful quantity of
earth adhering. Finding it impossible to grow downward more than a few
poor inches, they spread themselves laterally out to a great distance.
But the fir, with its flame-shaped point, is a symbol of indomitable
pluck. You see it standing erect on the top of some huge bowlder, which
its strong, thick roots clutch like a vulture's talons. How came it
there? Look at those rotting trunks, so beautifully covered with the
lycopodium and partridge-plum! The seed of a fir has taken root in the
bark. A tiny tree is already springing from the rich mould. As it grows,
its roots grasp whatever offers a support; and if the decaying tree has
fallen across a bowlder, they strike downward into the soil beneath
it, and the rock is a prisoner during the lifetime of the tree. Its
resin protects it from the icy blasts of winter, and from the alternate
freezing and thawing of early spring. It is emphatically the tree of the
mountains.

An hour and a half of pretty rapid walking brought us to the bottom of a
steep rise. We were at length come to close quarters with the formidable
outworks of Wildcat Mountain. The brook has for some distance poured a
stream of the purest water over moss of the richest green, but now it
most mysteriously vanishes from sight. From this point the singular rock
called the Pulpit is seen overhanging the upper crags of the Dome.[18]

We drank a cup of delicious water from a spring by the side of the path,
and, finding direct access forbidden by the towering and misshapen mass
before us, turned sharply to the left, and attacked the side of Wildcat
Mountain. We had now attained an altitude of nearly three thousand feet
above the sea, or two thousand two hundred and fifty above the village
of Jackson; we were more than a thousand higher than the renowned
Crawford Notch.

On every side the ground was loaded down with huge gray bowlders, so
ponderous that it seemed as if the solid earth must give way under them.
Some looked as if the merest touch would send them crashing down the
mountain. Undermined by the slow action of time, these fragments have
fallen one by one from the high cliffs, and accumulated at the base.
Among these the path serpentined for half a mile more, bringing us at
last to the summit of the spur we had been climbing, and to the broad
entrance of the Notch. We passed quickly over the level ground we were
upon, stopped by the side of a well-built cabin of bark, threw off our
loads, and then, fascinated by the exceeding strangeness of everything
around me, I advanced to the edge of the scrubby growth in front of the
camp, in order to command an unobstructed view.

Shall I live long enough to forget this sublime tragedy of nature,
enacted Heaven knows when or how? How still it was! I seemed to have
arrived at the instant a death-like silence succeeds the catastrophe.
I saw only the bare walls of a temple, of which some Samson had just
overthrown the columns--walls overgrown with a forest, ruins overspread
with one struggling for existence.

Imagine the light of a mid-day sun brightening the tops of the
mountains, while within a sepulchral gloom rendered all objects--rocks,
trees, cliffs--all the more weird and fantastic. I was between two high
mountains, whose walls enclose the pass. Overhanging it, fifteen hundred
feet at least, the sunburnt crags of the Dome towered above the highest
precipices of the mountain behind me. These stately barriers, at once
so noble and imposing, seemed absolutely indestructible. Impossible to
conceive anything more enduring than this imperishable rock. So long
as the world stands, those mountains will stand. And nothing can shake
this conviction. They look so strong, so confident in their strength, so
incapable of change.

But what, then, is this dusky gray mass, stretching huge and irregular
across the chasm from mountain to mountain, completely filling the
space between, and so effectually blockading the entrance that we were
compelled to pick our way up the steep side of the mountain in order to
turn it?

Picture to yourself acres upon acres of naked granite, split and
splintered in every conceivable form, of enormous size and weight, yet
pitched, piled, and tumbled about like playthings, tilted, or so poised
and balanced as to open numberless caves, which sprinkled the whole area
with a thousand shadows--figure this, I repeat, to yourself--and the
mind will then grasp but faintly the idea of this colossal barricade,
seemingly built by the giants of old to guard their last stronghold from
all intrusion. At some distance in front of me a rock of prodigious
size, very closely resembling the gable of a house, thrusting itself
half out, conveyed its horrible suggestion of an avalanche in the act of
ingulfing a hamlet. And all this one beholds in a kind of stupefaction.

Whence came this colossal débris? I had at first the idea that the
great arch, springing from peak to peak, supported on the Atlantean
shoulders of the two mountains, had fallen in ruins. I even tried to
imagine the terrific crash with which heaven and earth came together in
the fall. Easy to realize here Schiller's graphic description of the
Jungfrau:

"One walks there between life and death. Two threatening peaks shut in
the solitary way. Pass over this place of terror without noise; dread
lest you awaken the sleeping avalanche."

It is evident, however, as soon as the eye attaches itself to the side
of the Dome, that one of its loftiest precipices, originally measuring
an altitude as great as any yet remaining, has precipitated itself in a
crushed and broken mass into the abyss. Nothing is left of the primitive
edifice except these ruins. It is easily conceived that, previous to
the convulsion, the interior aspect of the Notch was quite different
from what is seen to-day. It was doubtless narrower, gloomier, and
deeper before the cliff became dislodged. The track of the convulsion is
easily traced. From top to bottom the side of the mountain is hollowed
out, exposing a shallow ravine, in which nothing but dwarf spruces will
grow, and in which the erratic rocks, arrested here and there in their
fall, seem endeavoring to regain their ancient position on the summit.
There is no trace whatever of the rubbish ordinarily accompanying a
slide--only these rocks.

Seeing that all this happened long ago, I asked the guide why the larger
growth we saw on both sides of the hollow had not succeeded in covering
the old scar, as is the case with the Willey Slide; but he was unable to
advance even a conjecture. The spruce, however, loves ruins, spreading
itself out over them with avidity.

We felt our way cautiously and slowly out over the bowlders; for the
moment one quits the usual track he risks falling headlong upon the
sharp rocks beneath. In the midst of these grisly blocks stunted firs
are born, and die for want of sustenance, making the dreary waste
bristle with hard and horny skeletons. The spruce, dwarfed and deformed,
has established itself solidly in the interstices; a few bushes spring
up in the crannies. With this exception, the entire area is denuded
of vegetation. The obstruction is heaped in two principal ridges,
traversing its greatest breadth, and opening a broad way between.
This is one of the most curious features I remarked. From a flat rock
on the summit of the first we obtained the best idea of the general
configuration of the Notch; and from this point, also, we saw the two
little lakes beneath us which are the sources of the Wildcat. Beyond,
and above the hollow they occupy, the two mountains meet in the low
ridge constituting the true summit of Carter Notch. Far down, under
the bowlders, the Wildcat gropes its way out; but, notwithstanding one
or the other was continually dropping out of sight into the caverns
with which they are filled, we could neither hear nor see anything to
indicate its route. It is buried out of sight and sound.

No incident of the whole excursion is more curiously inexplicable than
the total disappearance of the brook at the mountain's foot. Notice that
it was last seen gushing from the side we ascended, half a mile below
the camp. Whence does it come? When we were on top of the bowlders,
looking down on the water of the two little lakes, we wonderingly ask,
"Where does it go? How does it get out?" The mystery is, however, solved
by the certainty that their waters flow out underneath the barrier, so
that this mammoth pile of débris, which could destroy a city, was unable
to arrest the flow of a rivulet.

But all this wreck and ruin exerts a saddening influence; it seems
to prefigure the Death of the Mountain. So one gladly turns to the
landscape--a very noble though not extensive one--enclosing all the
mountains and valleys to the south of us lying between Kearsarge and
Moat.

After this tour of the rocks, we returned to the hut and ate our
luncheon. Here the Pulpit Rock, which is sure to catch the eye whenever
it wanders to the cliffs opposite, looks very much like the broken
handle of a jug. Davis explained that, by advancing fifteen or twenty
paces upon it, it would be possible to hang suspended over the thousand
feet of space beneath. While thus occupied, the dog received his share
of the bread and meat; nor was the little tame hawk that came and hopped
so fearlessly at our feet forgotten. This bird and a cross-bill were the
only living things I saw.[19]

Being fully rested and refreshed, we started on a second exploration of
the upper part of the Notch. Thus far our examination had been confined
to the lower portion only. Descending the spur upon which the hut is
situated, we were, in a few moments, at the bottom of the deep cavity
lying between the Giants' Barricade and the little mountain forming the
northern portal. This area is undoubtedly the original floor of the
pass. We had now reached a position between the lakes. Looking backward,
the barricade lifted a black and frowning wall a hundred and fifty feet
above our heads. Looking down, the water of the lakes seemed "an image
of the Dead Sea sleeping at the foot of Jerusalem destroyed." While I
stood looking into them, a passing cloud, pausing in astonishment at
seeing itself reflected from these shadowy depths, darkened the whole
interior. Deprived all at once of sunlight, the scene became one of
great and magnificent solemnity. The pass assumed the appearance of a
vast cavern. The ponds lay still and cold below. The air grew chill,
the water black as ink. The ruddy color faded from the cliffs. They
became livid. I saw the thousands upon thousands of fir-trees, rigid and
sombre, ranged tier on tier like spectators in an immense circus, who
are awaiting the signal for some terrible spectacle to begin. When the
cloud tranquilly resumed its journey, a load seemed lifted off. It was
Nature repeating to herself,

    "Put out the light, and then put out the light."

We had reached the camp at half-past ten. At half-past twelve we began
the ascent of the Dome. It is not so much the height as the steepness of
this mountain that wins our respect. The path goes straight up to the
first summit, deflects a little to reach the Pulpit, and then, turning
more northerly, ascends for a mile and a half more by a much easier rise
to the highest peak. There are no open ledges on the route. The path is
cut through a wood from base to summit; and, with the exception of a
few trees felled to open an outlook in the direction of the main range,
was covered on the summit itself with a dense growth of fir-trees from
twelve to fifteen feet high. To obtain a view of the whole horizon, it
was necessary, at the time of my visit, to climb one of these trees.

I will not fatigue the reader with any detailed account of the ascent.
Suffice it to say that it was a slow and toilsome lifting of one heavy
foot after another for three-quarters of an hour. Sometimes the slope
was so near the vertical that we could ascend only a few rods at a
time. I improved these halts by leaning against a tree, and panting like
a doe pursued by the hunter. Davis threw himself upon the ground and
watched me attentively, but without speaking. If he expected me to give
out, I disappointed him by giving the signal to move on. I had already
served my apprenticeship on Carrigain. It was difficult to maintain
an upright position. Once, indeed, on looking up, I perceived that
the guide had abandoned in disgust the idea of walking erect, and was
creeping on all-fours, like his dog. This breathless scramble continued
for three-quarters of an hour, at the end of which we turned into the
short by-path conducting to the Pulpit.

Near the Pulpit is a cleared space large enough to afford standing room
for fifteen or twenty persons. This Pulpit is a huge, rectangular rock,
jutting out from the face of the cliff on which we stood, and is not at
all unworthy of the name given to it by the guide. It is a fine station
from which to survey the deep rent in the side of the mountain, as well
as the mammoth stone-heap, which it overlooks. The black side of Mount
Wildcat, ploughed from top to bottom with four deep gashes,

    "The least a death to nature,"

is also seen to excellent advantage across the airy space between the
mountains. The fluttering of a handkerchief at the door of the little
cabin greatly enlivened the solitary scene, and drew from us the same
signal in return.

At first sight the ascent by the chasm seems feasible; but Davis, who
has twice performed this difficult feat, declared with a shrug that
nothing would tempt him to do it again. Those who have ever come to
close quarters with the shrubby growth of these ruins will know how to
leave it in undisputed possession of its own chosen ground. The dwarf
spruce is the Cossack of the woods.

What a beautiful landscape is that from the Pulpit! The southern horizon
is now widely opened. The mountains around Jackson have dwindled
to hills. Especially curious are the flattened top and distorted
contour-lines of Iron Mountain. Another singular feature is the way we
look through the cloven summit of Doublehead to Kearsarge's stately
pyramid. Here are strips of the Ellis and Saco Valleys, and all of the
Wildcat. The lakes in Ossipee are dazzling to look upon. Old Chocorua
lifts his brilliant spire; then Moat his iron bulwarks. Crawford,
Resolution, and the Giants' Stairs extend on the right, behind Iron.
The view is then cut off by the burly form of Wildcat. Far back in the
picture are the notched walls of the Franconia and Sandwich chains,
topped by pale blue peaks.

Continuing the ascent for about three-fourths of a mile, we came to a
point only a rod or two distant from the head of the great slide of
1869, and from the top of a tree here was the most thrilling prospect of
Washington and the great northern peaks I ever beheld. All the summits
as far south as Monroe are included in the view.

Over the right shoulder of Wildcat appeared the dazzling summit of
Washington, having at his left the noble cone of Jefferson, the
matchless shaft of Adams, and the massive pyramid of Madison. Each gray
head was profusely powdered with snow. Dark clouds, heavily charged with
frost, partially intercepted the sun's rays, and, enveloping the great
mountains in their shadows, cast over them a mantle of the deepest blue;
but enough light escaped to gild the arid slopes of the great ravines a
rich brown gold, and to pierce through, and beautifully expose, against
the dark bulk of Adams, a thin veil of slowly falling snow. Imagine an
Ethiopian wrapped from head to foot in lace!

A chapter could not give the thousand details of this grand picture.
One devours it with avidity. He sees to the greatest possible advantage
the magnificent proportions of Washington, with his massive slopes
rolling up and up, like petrified storm-clouds, to the final summit.
He sees the miles of carriage-road, from where it leaves the woods,
as far as the great northern plateau. He looks deep down into the
depths of Tuckerman's and Huntington's ravines, and between them sees
Raymond's Cataract crusting the bare cliffs with a vein of quicksilver.
The massive head-wall of Tuckerman's was freely spattered with fresh
snow; the Lion's Head rose stark and forbidding; the upper cliffs of
Huntington's,

    "With twenty trenched gashes in his head,"

the great billows of land rushing downward into the dark gulfs,
resembled the vortex of a frozen whirlpool.

But for refinement of form, delicacy of outline, and a predominant,
inexplicable grace, Adams stands forth here without a rival.
Washington is the undisputed monarch, but Adams is the highest type of
mountain beauty here. That splendid, slightly concave, antique shaft,
rising in unconscious symmetry from the shoulders of two supporting
mountain-peaks, which seem prostrating themselves at its feet, changes
the emotion of awe and respect to one of admiration and pleasure. Our
elevation presented all the great summits in an unrivalled attitude for
observation or study; and whoever has once beheld them--banded together
with bonds of adamant, their heads in the snow, and their feet in the
impenetrable shades of the Great Gulf; with every one of their thousands
of feet under his eye--every line as firm and strong, and every contour
true as the Great Architect drew it--without loss or abatement; vigorous
in old age as in youth; monuments of one race, and silent spectators
of the passing of another; victors in the battle with Time; chronicles
and retrospect of ages; types of the Everlasting and Unchangeable--will
often try to summon up the picture of the great peaks, and once more
marshal their towering battlements before the memory.

The descent occupied less than half an hour, so rapidly is it made.
We had nothing whatever to do with regulating our speed, but were
fully occupied in so placing our feet as to avoid pitching headlong,
or sitting suddenly down in a miry place. We simply tumbled down the
mountain, like two rocks detached from its peak.

After a last survey of the basin of the Notch, from the clearing above
the upper lake, we crossed the little mountain at its head, taking the
path leading to the Glen House. We descended the reverse side together,
to the point where the great slide referred to came thundering down from
the Dome into the gorge of Nineteen Mile Brook. This landslip, which
happened October 4th, 1869, was one of the results of the disastrous
autumnal storms, which deluged the mountains with rain, and set in
motion here an enormous quantity of wreck and débris. It was at this
time that Mr. Thompson, the proprietor of the Glen House, lost his life
in the Peabody River, in a desperate effort to avert the destruction of
his mill.

Here I parted from my guide; and, after threading the woods for two
hours more, following the valley of Nineteen Mile Brook, came out of
their shadowy embrace into the stony pastures above the Glen House.




IV.

_THE PINKHAM NOTCH._

    Levons les yeux vers les saintes montagnes.
            --RACINE.


The Glen House is one of the last strongholds of the old ways of travel.
Jackson is twelve, Randolph seven, and Gorham eight miles distant. These
are the nearest villages. The nearest farm-houses are Copp's, three
miles on the road to Randolph, and Emery's, six on the road to Jackson.
The nearest railway-station is eight miles off, at Gorham. The nearest
steam-whistle is there. So much for its seclusion.

Being thus isolated, the Glen House is naturally the point of direction
for the region adjacent. Situated at the base of Carter Mountain, on a
terrace rising above the Peabody River, which it overlooks, it has only
the valley of this stream--a half mile of level meadow here--between
it and the base of Mount Washington. The carriage-road to the summit,
which, in 1861, superseded the old bridle-path, is seen crossing this
meadow. This road occupied six years in building, is eight miles long,
and is as well and solidly built as any similar piece of highway in New
England.

When it is a question of this gigantic mass, which here offers such an
easy mode of ascent, the interest is assured. Respecting the appearance
of Mount Washington from the Glen House itself, it is a received
truth that neither the height nor the proportions of a high mountain
are properly appreciated when the spectator is placed exactly at the
base. The same is true here of Mount Washington, which is too much
foreshortened for a favorable estimate of its grandeur or its elevation.
The Dome looks flat, elongated, obese. But it is only a step from the
hotel to more eligible posts of observation, say the clearings on Mount
Carter, or, better still, the slopes of Wildcat, which are easily
reached over a good path.

Still, Mount Washington is surveyed with more astonishment, perhaps,
from this point, than from any other. Its lower section is covered
with a dense forest, out of which rise the successive and stupendous
undulations culminating at last in the absolutely barren summit, which
the nearer swells almost conceal. The true peak stands well to the left,
indicated by a white building when the sun is shining, and a dark one
when it is not. As seen from this spot, the peculiar formation of the
mountain gives the impression of a semi-fluid mass, first cooled to
hardness, then receiving successive additions, which, although eternally
united with its bulk, have left the point of contact forever visible.
When the first mass cooled, it received a second, a third, and a fourth.
One believes, so to speak, certain intervals to have elapsed in the
process of solidifying these masses, which seem, to me at least, not
risen above the earth, but poured down upon it.

It is related that an Englishman, seated on the balcony of his hotel at
Chamouni, after having conscientiously followed the peripatetics of a
sunset, remarked, "Very fine, very fine indeed! but it is a pity Mont
Blanc hides the view." In this sense, Mount Washington "hides the view"
to the west. No peak dares show its head in this direction.

From the vicinity of the hotel, Wildcat Mountain allows the eye to
embrace, at the left, Mount Washington as far as Tuckerman's Ravine.
Only a few miles of the valley can be traced on this side; but at the
right it is open for nearly its whole length, fully exposing that
magnificent sweep of the great northern peaks, here bending majestically
to the north-east, and exhibiting their titanic props, deep hollows,
soaring peaks, to the admiring scrutiny of every wayfarer. It is
impossible to appreciate this view all at once. No one can pretend
to analyze the sensations produced by looking at mountains. The bare
thought of them causes a flutter of enthusiasm wherever we may be. At
such moments one lays down the pen to revel in the recollection.

Among these grandees, Adams looks highest. It is indispensable that this
mountain should be seen from some higher point. It is only half seen
from the Glen, although the view here is by far the best to be had in
any valley enclosing the great chain. Ascend, therefore, even at the
risk of some toil, one of the adjacent heights, and this superb monument
will deign to show the true symmetrical relation of summit to base.

I have already said that most travellers approach this charming mountain
nook by the Pinkham defile, instead of making their début by the
Carter Notch. It will be well worth our while to retrace at least so
much of this route, through the first-named pass, as will enable us to
gain a knowledge, not so much of what it shows as of what it hides. By
referring to the chapter on Jackson, we shall then have seen all that
can be seen on the travelled highway.

The four miles back through the Pinkham forest deserve to be called the
Avenue of Cascades. Not less than four drop from the mountain tops, or
leap down the confined gorges. Let us first walk in this direction.

Two miles from the hotel we meet a sprightly and vigorous brook coming
down from Wildcat Mountain to swell the Peabody. A short walk up this
stream brings us to Thompson's Falls, which are several pretty cascades
slipping down a bed of granite. The ledges over which they glide offer
a practicable road to the top of the falls, from which is a most
interesting view into Tuckerman's Ravine, and of the summit of Mount
Washington.

Some overpowering, some unexplained fascination about these dark and
mysterious chambers of the mountain arouses in us a desire strangely
like to that intense craving for a knowledge of futurity itself. We
think of the Purgatory of the ancients into which we would willingly
descend if, like Dante holding the hand of Virgil, we might hope to
return unscathed to earth. "This is nothing but an enormous breach
in the mountain," you say, weakly attempting to throw off the spell
by ridiculing the imagination. Be it so. But it has all the terrible
suggestiveness of a descent into the world of the dead. When we walk in
the dark we say that we are afraid of falling. It is a falsehood. We are
afraid of a _Presence_.

That dark curling lip of the south wall, looking as if the eternal
adamant of the hills had been scorched and shrivelled by consuming
flame, marks the highest curve of the massive granite spur rooted deep
in the Pinkham defile. It is named Boott's Spur. The sky-line of the
ravine's head-wall is five thousand feet above the sea, on the great
plateau over which the Crawford trail passes. That enormous crag, rising
like another Tower of Famine, on the north and east divides the ravine
proper from the collateral chamber, known as Huntington's, out of which
the source of the Peabody gushes a swift torrent, and near which the
carriage-road winds its devious way up to the summit. In the depression
of this craggy ridge, between the two ravines, sufficient water is
collected to form the beautiful cataract known as Raymond's, which is
seen from all those elevations commanding the ravine itself.

[Illustration: THE EMERALD POOL.]

The ravine also furnishes a route to the summit of Mount Washington in
so far that the ascent may be continued from the head of the chasm to
the high plateau, and so up the pinnacle, by the old Crawford trail, or
over the crag on the right to the carriage-road; but it is not to be
highly recommended on that account, except to strong climbers. It should
be visited for itself, and for what is to be seen going or returning by
the different paths. I have also descended from the Summit House to the
ravine and returned by the same route; an excursion growing in favor
with those tourists having a day or two on their hands, and who approach
the mountain from the west or opposite side. In that case a return to
the summit saves a long détour.

Before we come to Thompson's Falls a well-trod path leads to the Emerald
Pool, which Bierstadt's painting has rendered famous. At first one sees
only a deep hollow, with a dark and glassy pool at the bottom, and a
cool light coming down through the high tree-tops. Two large rocks
tightly compress the stream which fills it, so that the water gushes
out with sufficient force to whiten a little, without disturbing the
placid repose of the pool. This gives the effect of milk poured upon
ink. Above these rocks we look up the stony bed of the frantic river
and meet the blue mass of a distant mountain. Rocks are picturesquely
dropped about the margin. Upon one side a birch leans far out over the
basin, whose polished surface brilliantly reflects the white light of
its bark. One sees the print of foliage on the black water, like that of
ferns and grasses upon coal; or, rather, like the most beautiful Italian
mosaics--black marble inlaid with arabesques of color. The illusion
is more perfect still when the yellow and scarlet of the maples is
reflected, as in autumn.

The contrast between the absolutely quiet pool and the feverish
excitement of the river is singular. It is that of a life: one, serene
and unmoved, receives the other in its bosom and calms its excitement.
It then runs out over the pebbles at a steadier pace, soothed,
tranquillized, and strengthened, to meet its destiny by this one moment
of peace and rest.

Doubtless many turn languidly into this charming sylvan retreat with
only a dim perception of its beauty. Few go away except to sing its
praises with heart and tongue. Solitude is here. Repose is here. Peace
is omnipresent. And, freed from the excitements of city life, "Peace
at any price" is the cry of him whom care pursues as with a knotted
scourge. If he find not rest here, 'tis his soul "is poor." For him
the smell of the earth, the fragrance of the pines, the very stones,
have healing or strength. He grows drowsy with the lullaby of the
brook. A delicious languor steals over him. A thousand dreamy fancies
float through his imagination. He is a child again; or, rather, he is
born again. The artificial man drops off. Stocks and bonds are clean
forgotten. His step is more elastic, his eye more alert, his heart
lighter. He departs believing he has read, "Let all who enter here leave
care behind." And all this comes of seeing a little shaded mountain pool
consecrated by Nature. He has only experienced her religion and received
her baptism.

Burying ourselves deeper in the pass, the trees, stirred by the breeze,
shake out their foliage like a maiden her long tresses. And the glory
of one is the glory of the other. We look up to the greater mountains,
still wrapped in shadows, saying to those whom its beams caress, "Out of
my sun!"

At the third mile a guide-board at the right announces the Crystal
Cascade. We turn aside here, and, entering the wood, soon reach the
banks of a stream. The last courtesy this white-robed maid makes on
crossing the threshold of her mountain home is called the Crystal
Cascade. It is an adieu full of grace and feeling.

[Illustration: THE CRYSTAL CASCADE.]

The Crystal Cascade divides with Glen Ellis the honor of being the most
beautiful water-fall of the White Mountains. And well may it claim this
distinction. These two charming and radiant sisters have each their
especial admirers, who come in multitudes every year, like pilgrims
to the shrine of a goddess. In fact, they are as unlike as two human
countenances. Every one is astonished at the changes effected by simple
combinations of rocks, trees, and water. One shrinks from a critical
analysis of what appeals so strangely to his human sympathies. Indeed,
he should possess the language of a Dumas or a Ruskin, the poetry of
a Longfellow or a Whittier, the pencil of a Turner or a Church, to do
justice to this pre-eminently beautiful of cascades.

Look around. On the right bank of the stream, where a tall birch leans
its forked branches out over the pool below, a jutting rock embraces
in one glance the greater part of the fall. The cliffs, rising on both
sides, make a most wild and impressive setting. The trees, which shade
or partly screen it, exclude the light. The ferns and shrubbery trace
their arabesques of foliage upon the cold, damp rocks. The sides of
the mountain, receding into black shadows, seem set with innumerable
columns, supporting a roof of dusky leafage. All this combines to
produce the effect of standing under the vault of some old dimly-lighted
cathedral--a subdued, a softened feeling. A voice seems whispering, "God
is here!"

Through these sombre shades the cascade comes like a gleam of light:
it redeems the solitude. High up, hundreds of feet up the mountain, it
boils and foams; it hardly seems to run. How it turns and tosses, and
writhes on its hard bed! The green leaves quiver at its struggles. Birds
fly silently by. Down, down, and still down over its shattered stairs
falls the doomed flood, until, lashed and broken into a mere feathery
cloud, it reaches a narrow gorge between abrupt cliffs of granite. A
little pellucid basin, half white, half black water, receives it in
full career. It then flows out by a pretty water-fall of twenty feet
more. But here, again, the sharp, wedge-shaped cliff, advancing from
the opposite bank, compresses its whole volume within a deep and narrow
trough, through which it flies with the rapidity of light, makes a
right angle, and goes down the mountain, uttering loud complaints. From
below, the jagged, sharp-edged cliff forms a kind of vestibule, behind
which the cascade conceals itself. Behind this, farther back, is a rock,
perfectly black, and smooth as polished ebony, over which the surplus
water of the fall spreads a tangled web of antique lace. Some very
curious work has been going on here since the stream first made its way
through the countless obstacles it meets in the long miles to its secret
fountains on Mount Washington. One carries away a delightful impression
of the Crystal Cascade. To the natural beauty of falling water it brings
the charm of lawless unrestraint. It scorns the straight and narrow
path; has stolen interviews with secret nooks on this side or that; is
forever coquettishly adjusting its beautiful dishabille. What power has
taken one of those dazzling clouds, floating over the great summit, and
pinned it to the mountain side, from which it strives to rise and soar
away?

We are now in the wildest depths of the Pinkham defile. The road is
gloomy enough, edging its way always through a dense wood around a
spur of Mount Washington, which it closely hugs. Upon reaching the
summit, thirteen hundred and fifty feet above the Saco, at Bartlett, a
sign-board showed where to leave the highway, but now the noise of the
fall coming clearer and clearer was an even surer guide.

The sense of seclusion is perfect. Stately pines, funereal cedars,
sombre hemlocks, throng the banks, as if come to refresh their
parched foliage with the fine spray ascending from the cataract. This
spray sparkles in the sun like diamond-dust. Through the thick-set,
clean-limbed tree-trunks jets of foam can be seen in mad riot along
the rocky gorge. They leap, toss their heads, and tumble over each
other like young lambs at play. Backward up the stream, downward beyond
the fall, we see the same tumult of waters in the midst of statuesque
immobility; we hear the roar of the fall echoing in the tops of the
pines; we feel the dull earth throb with the superabundant energy of the
wild river.

Making my way to the rocks above the cataract, I saw the torrent swiftly
descending in two long, arching billows, flecked with foam, and tossing
myriad diamonds to the sun. Two large masses of rock, loosened from the
cliffs that hang over it, have dropped into the stream, turning it a
little from its ancient course, but only to make it more picturesque and
more tumultuous. On the left of the gorge the rocks are richly striped
with black, yellow, and purple. The water is crystal clear, and cold as
ice, having come, in less time than it takes to write, from the snows of
Tuckerman's Ravine. The variegated hues of the rocks, glistening with
spray, of the water itself seizing and imprisoning, like flies in amber,
every shadow these rocks let fall, the roar of the cataract, make a deep
and abiding impression of savage force and beauty.

But I had not yet seen the fall. Descending by slippery stairs to the
pool beneath it, I saw, eighty feet above me, the whole stream force its
way through a narrow cleft, and stand in one unbroken column, superbly
erect, upon the level surface of the pool. The sheet was as white as
marble, the pool as green as malachite. As if stunned by the fall, it
turns slowly round; then, recovering, precipitates itself down the rocky
gorge with greater passion than ever.

On its upper edge the curling sheet of the fall was shot with sunlight,
and shone with enchanting brilliancy. All below was one white, feathery
mass, gliding down with the swift and noiseless movement of an avalanche
of fresh snow. No sound until the moment of contact with the submerged
rocks beneath; then it finds a voice that shakes the hoary forest to
its centre. How this exquisite white thing fascinates! One has almost
to tear himself away from the spot. Undine seems beckoning us to
descend with her into the crystal grottoes of the pool. From the tender
dalliance of a sunbeam with the glittering mists constantly ascending
was born a pale Iris. Exquisitely its evanescent hues decorated the
virgin drapery of the fall. Within these mists two airy forms sometimes
discover themselves, hand-in-hand.

The story runs that the daughter of a sagamore inhabiting the little
vale, now Jackson, was secretly wooed and won by a young brave of
another and neighboring tribe. But the haughty old chief destined her
for a renowned warrior of his own band. Mustering his friends, the
preferred lover presented himself in the village, and, according to
Indian usage, laying

        "--at her father's feet that night
    His softest furs and wampum white."

demanded his bride. The alliance was too honorable to permit an abrupt
refusal. Smothering his wrath, the father assembled his braves. The
matter was debated in solemn council. It was determined that the rivals
should settle their dispute by a trial of skill, the winner to carry off
the beautiful prize. A mark was set up, the ground carefully measured,
and the two warriors took their respective places in the midst of the
assembled tribe. The heart of the Indian maiden beat with hope when
her lover sent his arrow quivering in the edge of the target; but it
sunk when his rival, stepping scornfully to his place, shot within the
very centre. A shout of triumph rewarded the skill of the victor; but
before it died away the defeated warrior strode to the spot where his
mistress was seated and spoke a few hurried words, intended for her
ear alone. The girl sprung to her feet and grasped her lover's hand.
In another moment they were running swiftly for the woods. They were
hotly pursued. It became a matter of life and death. Perceiving escape
impossible, rendered desperate by the near approach of their pursuers,
the fugitives, still holding fast each other's hand, rushed to the verge
of the cataract and flung themselves headlong into its deadly embrace.

Over the pool the gray and gloomy wall of Wildcat Mountain seems
stretching up to an incredible height. The astonishing wildness of the
surroundings affects one very deeply. You look up. You see the firs
surmounting those tall cliffs sway to and fro, as if growing dizzy with
the sight of the abyss beneath them.

The Ellis Cascade is not so light as those mountain sylphs in the great
Notch, which a zephyr lifts from their feet, and scatters far and
wide; it is a vestal hotly pursued by impish goblins to the brink of
the precipice, transformed into a water-fall. For an instant the iron
grip of the cliff seems clutching its snowy throat, but with a mocking
courtesy the fair stream eludes the grasp, and so escapes.

While returning from Glen Ellis, I saw, not more than a quarter of
a mile from this fall, a beautiful cascade come streaming down a
long trough of granite from a great height, and disappear behind the
tree-tops that skirt the narrow gorge. I had never before seen this
cascade, it being usually dry in summer. The sight of glancing water
among the shaggy upper forests of the mountain--for you hear nothing--is
a real pleasure to the eye. The rock down which this cascade flows is
New River Cliff.

Before leaving the Ellis, which I did regretfully, it is proper to
recall an incident which gave rise to one of its affluents. In 1775,
says Sullivan, in his "History of Maine," the Saco was found to
swell suddenly, and in a singular manner. As there had not been rain
sufficient to account for this increase of volume, people were at a
loss how to explain the phenomenon, until it was finally discovered to
be occasioned by a new river having broken out of the side of the White
Mountains.

When this river issued from the mountains, in October, 1775, a mixture
of iron-ore gave the water a deep red color, and this singular, and to
them most startling, appearance led the people inhabiting the upper
banks of the Saco to declare that the river ran blood--a circumstance
which these simple-minded folk regarded as of evil omen for the success
of their arms in the struggle then going on between the Colonies and
Great Britain. Except for illustrating a marked characteristic the
incident would possess little importance. Considerable doubt exists as
to the precise course of this New River, by which it is conjectured that
the ascents of Cutler, Boott, Bigelow, and perhaps others, early in
this century, were made to the summit of Mount Washington. But this is
merely conjecture.[20]

After Glen Ellis one has had enough, for the day at least, of waterfalls
and cascade. Its excitement is strangely infectious and exhilarating. At
the same time, it casts a sweet and gentle spell over the spirits. If he
be wise, the visitor will not exhaust in a single tour of the sun the
pleasures yet in store, but, after a fall, try a ravine or a mountain
ascent, thus introducing that variety which is the spice of all our
pleasures.




V.

_A SCRAMBLE IN TUCKERMAN'S._

    The crag leaps down, and over it the flood:
     Know'st thou it, then?
                      'Tis there! 'tis there
     Our way runs.... Wilt thou go?--GOETHE.


At the mountains the first look of every one is directed to the heavens,
not in silent adoration or holy meditation, but in earnest scrutiny
of the weather. For here the weather governs with absolute sway; and
nowhere is it more capricious. Morning and evening skies are, therefore,
consulted with an interest the varied destinies of the day may be
supposed to suggest. From being a merely conventional topic, the weather
becomes one of the first importance, and such salutations as "A fine
day," or "A nice morning," are in less danger of being coupled with a
wet day or a scowling forenoon. To sum up the whole question, where life
in the open air is the common aim of all, a rainy day is a day lost, and
everybody knows that a lost day can never be recovered. Sun worship is,
therefore, universal.

The prospect being duly weighed and pronounced good, or fair, or fairly
good, _presto!_ the hotel presents a scene of active preparation.
Anglers, with rod and basket, betake themselves to the neighboring trout
brooks, artists to the woods or the open. Mountain wagons clatter up
to the door with an exhilarating spirit and dash. Amid much laughter
and cracking of jokes, these strong, yet slight-looking vehicles are
speedily filled with parties for the summit, the Crystal Cascade, or
Glen Ellis; knots of pedestrians, picturesquely dressed, move off with
elastic tread for some long-meditated climb among the hills or in the
ravines; while the regular stages for Gorham or Glen Station depart amid
hurried and hearty leave-takings, the flutter of handkerchiefs, and the
sharp crack of the driver's whip. Now they are off, and quiet settles
once more upon the long veranda.

My own plans included a trip in and out of Tuckerman's Ravine; in by
the old Thompson path, out by the Crystal Cascade. It is necessary to
depart a little from the order of time, as my first essay (during the
first week of May) was frustrated by the deep snows then effectually
blockading the way above Hermit Lake. The following July found me more
fortunate, and it is this excursion that I shall now lay before the
reader for his approval.

I chose a companion to whom I unfolded the scheme, while reconnoitring
the ravine through my glass. He eagerly embraced my proposal, declaring
his readiness to start on the instant. Upon a hint I let fall touching
his ability to make this then fatiguing march, he observed, rather
stiffly, "I went through one Wilderness with Grant; guess I can through
this."

"Pack your knapsack, then, comrade, and you shall inscribe 'Tuckerman's'
along with Spottsylvania, Cold Harbor, and Petersburg."

"Bless me! is it so very tough as all that? No matter, give me five
minutes to settle my affairs, and I'm with you."

Let us improve these minutes by again directing the glass toward the
ravine.

The upper section of this remarkable ravine--that portion lifted above
the forest line--is finely observed from the neighborhood of the
Crystal Cascade, but from the Glen House the curiously distorted rim
and vertical wall of its south and west sides, the astonishing crag
standing sentinel over its entrance, may be viewed at full leisure.
It constitutes quite too important a feature of the landscape to
escape notice. Dominated by the towering mass of the Dome, infolded by
undulating slopes descending from opposite braces of Mount Washington,
and resembling gigantic draperies, we see an enormous, funnel-shaped,
hollow sunk in the very heart of the mountain. We see, also, that access
is feasible only from the north-east, where the entrance is defended by
the high crag spoken of. Behind these barriers, graven with a thousand
lines and filled with a thousand shadows, the amphitheatre lifts its
formidable walls into view.

For two miles our plain way led up the summit-road, but at this
distance, where it suddenly changes direction to the right, we plunged
into the forest. Our course now lay onward and upward over what had at
some time been a path--now an untrodden one--encumbered at every few
rods with fallen trees, soaked with rain, and grown up with moose-wood.
Time and again we found the way barred by these exasperating windfalls,
and their thick _abatis_ of branches, forcing us alternately to go
down on all-fours and creep underneath, or to mount and dismount, like
recruits, on the wooden horse of a cavalry school.

But to any one loving the woods--and this day I loved not wisely, but
too well--this walk is something to be taken, but not repeated, for fear
of impairing the first and most abiding impressions. One cannot have
such a revelation twice.

[Illustration: THE PATH, TUCKERMAN'S RAVINE.]

I recall no mountain-path that is so richly diversified with all
the wildest forms of mountain beauty. At first our progress through
primitive groves of pine, hemlock, and birch was impeded by nothing more
remarkable than the giant trees stretching interminably, rank upon rank,
tier upon tier. But these woods, these countless gray and black and
white trunks, and outspread framework of branches, supported a canopy
of thick foliage, filled with voices innumerable. Something stirred in
the top of a lofty pine; and then, like an alguazil on a watch-tower, a
crow, apparent sentinel of all the feathered colony, rose clumsily on
his talons, flapped two sable wings, and thrice hoarsely challenged,
"Caw! caw! caw!" What clamor, what a liliputian Babel ensued! Our ears
fairly tingled with the calls, outcries, and objurgations apparently
flung down at us by the multitudinous population overhead. Hark to the
woodpecker's rat-tat-tat, the partridge's muffled drum! List to the
bugle of the wood-thrush, sweet and clear! Now sounds the cat-bird's
shrill alarm, the owl's hoot of indignant surprise. Then the squirrels,
those little monkeys of our northern woods, grated their teeth sharply
at us, and let fall nuts on our heads as we passed underneath. Never
were visitors more unwelcome.

Before long we came to a brook, then to another. Their foaming waters
shot past like a herd of wild horses. These we crossed. We now began to
thread a region where the forest was more open. The moss we trampled
underfoot, and which here replaces the grass of the valleys, was beating
the tallest trees in the race for the mountain-top. It was the old story
of the tortoise and the hare over again. But this moss: have you ever
looked at it before your heel bruised the perfumed flowers springing
from its velvet? Here are tufts exquisitely decorated with coral
lichens; here the violet and anemone nestle lovingly together; here it
creeps up the gray trunks, or hides the bare roots of old trees. Tread
softly! This is the abode of elves and fairies. Step lightly! you expect
to hear the crushed flowers cry out with pain.

These enchanting spots, where stones are couches and trees canopies,
tempted us to sit down on a cushioned bowlder, or throw ourselves
upon the thick carpet into which we sunk ankle-deep at every step.
Even the bald, gray rocks were tapestried with mosses, lichens, and
vines. All around, under the thick shade, hundreds of enormous trees
lay rotting; yet exquisitely the prostrate trunks were overspread with
robes of softest green, effectually concealing the repulsiveness, the
suggestions of decay. Now and then the dead tree rose into new life
through the sturdy roots of a young fir, or luxuriant, plumed ferns
growing in its bark. This inexpressible fecundity, in the midst of
inexpressible wastefulness, declared that for Nature there is no such
thing as death. And they tell us the day of miracles has passed! Upon
this dream of elf-land the cool morning light fell in oblique streams
through the tree-trunks, as through grated windows, filling all the wood
with a subdued twilight glimmer, leaving a portion of its own gleams
on the moss-grown rocks, while the trees stretched their black shadows
luxuriously along the thick-piled sward, like weary soldiers in a
bivouac.

We proceeded thus from chamber to chamber, and from cloister to
cloister, at times descending some spur of the mountain into a
deep-shaded dell, and again climbing a swift and miry slope to better
ground, until we crossed the stream coming from the high spur spoken of.
From here the ground rapidly rose for half a mile more, when we suddenly
came out of the low firs full upon the Lion's Head crag, rising above
Hermit Lake, and visible from the vicinity of the Glen House. To be thus
unexpectedly confronted by this wall of imperishable rock stirs one very
deeply. For the moment it dominates _us_, even as it does the little
tarn so unconsciously slumbering at its feet. It is horribly mutilated
and defaced. Its sides are thickly sowed with stunted trees, that bury
their roots in its cracks and rents with a gripe of iron. In effect it
is the barbican of the great ravine. Crouched underneath, by the shore
of the lake, is a matted forest of firs and spruces, dwindled to half
their usual size, grizzled with long lichens, and occupying, as if by
stealth, the debatable ground between life and death. It is, in fact,
more dead than alive. Deeply sunk beneath is the lake.

Hermit Lake--a little pool nestling underneath a precipice--demands a
word. Its solitary state, its waters green and profound, and the thick
shades by which it was covered, seemed strangely at variance with the
intense activity of the foaming torrents we had seen, and could still
hear rushing down the mountain. It was too small for a lake, or else it
was dwarfed by the immense mass of overshadowing rock towering above it,
whose reflected light streamed across its still and glossy surface. Here
we bid farewell to the forest.

We had now gained a commanding post of observation, though there was
yet rough work to do. We saw the whole magnificent sweep of the ravine,
to where it terminates in a semicircle of stupendous cliffs that seem
hewn perpendicularly a thousand feet down. Lying against the western
wall we distinguished patches of snow; but they appeared of trifling
extent. Great wooded mountain slopes stretched away from the depths
of the gorge on either side, making the iron lineaments of the giant
cliffs seem harder by their own softness and delicacy. Here and there
these exquisite draperies were torn in long rents by land-slips. In the
west arose the shattered peak of Monroe--a mass of splintered granite,
conspicuous at every point for its irreclaimable deformity. It seemed
as if the huge open maw of the ravine might swallow up this peak with
ease. There was a Dantesque grandeur and solemnity everywhere. With our
backs against the trees, we watched the bellying sails of a stray cloud
which intercepted in its aerial voyage our view of the great summit;
but it soon floated away, discovering the whitish-gray ledges to the
very capstone of the dome itself. Looking down and over the thick woods
beyond, we met again the burly Carter Mountains, pushed backward from
the Pinkham Notch, and kept back by an invisible yet colossal strength.

[Illustration: HERMIT LAKE.]

From Hermit Lake the only practicable way was by clambering up the bed
of the mountain brook that falls through the ravine. The whole expanse
that stretched on either side was a chaos of shattered granite, pitched
about in awful confusion. Path there was none. No matter what way we
turned, "no thoroughfare" was carved in stolid stone. We tried to force
a passage through the stunted cedars that are mistaken at a mile for
greensward, but were beaten back, torn and bleeding, to the brook. We
then turned to the great bowlders, to be equally buffeted and abused,
and finally repulsed upon the brook, which seemed all the while mocking
our efforts. Once, while forcing a route, inch by inch, through the
scrub, I was held suspended over a deep crevice, by my belt, until
extricated by my comrade. At another time he disappeared to the armpits
in a hole, from which I drew him like a blade from a scabbard. At this
moment we found ourselves unable either to advance or retreat. The dwarf
trees squeezed us like a vise. Who would have thought there was so much
life in them? At our wits' end, we looked at our bleeding hands, then at
each other. The brook was the only clew to such a labyrinth, and to it,
as from Scylla to Charybdis, we turned as soon as we recovered breath.
But to reach it was no easy matter; we had literally to cut our way out
of the jungle.

When we were there, and had rested awhile from the previous severe
exertions, my companion, alternately mopping his forehead and feeling
his bruises, looked up with a quizzical expression, and ejaculated,
"Faith, I am almost as glad to get out of this wilderness as the other!
In any case," he gayly added, "I have lost the most blood here; while in
Virginia I did not receive a scratch."

After this rude initiation into the mysteries of the ravine, we advanced
directly up the bed of the brook. But the brook is for half a mile
nothing but a succession of leaps and plunges, its course choked with
bowlders. We however toiled on, from rock to rock, first boosting, then
hoisting each other up; one moment splashing in a pool, the next halting
in dismay under a cascade, which we must either mount like a chamois or
ascend like a trout. The climber here tastes the full enjoyment of an
encounter with untamed nature, which calls every thew and sinew into
action. At length the stream grew narrower, suddenly divided, and we
stood at the mouth of the Snow Arch, confronted by the vertical upper
wall of the ravine.

We stood in an arena "more majestic than the circus of a Titus or a
Vespasian." The scene was one of awful desolation. A little way below
us the gorge was heaped with the ruins of some unrecorded convulsion,
by which the precipice had been cloven from base to summit, and the
enormous fragments heaved into the chasm with a force the imagination
is powerless to conceive. In the interstices among these blocks
rose thickets of dwarf cedars, as stiff and unyielding as the livid
rock itself. It was truly an arena which might have witnessed the
gladiatorial combats of immortals.

We did not at first look at the Snow Arch. The eye was irresistibly
fascinated by the tremendous mass of the precipice above. From top to
bottom its tawny front was covered with countless little streams, that
clung to its polished wall without once quitting their hold. They twined
and twisted in their downward course, like a brood of young serpents
escaping from their lair; nor could I banish the idea of the ghastly
head of a Gorgon clothed with tresses of serpents. A poetic imagination
has named this tangled knot of mountain rills, "The fall of a thousand
streams." At the foot of the cliff the scattered waters unite, before
entering the Snow Arch, in a single stream. Turning now to the right,
the narrowing gorge, ascending by a steep slope as high as the upper
edge of the precipice, points out the only practicable way to the summit
of Mount Washington in this direction. But we have had enough of such
climbing, for one day, at least.

Partial recovery from the stupefaction which seizes and holds one fast
is doubtless signalized in every case by an effort to account for the
overwhelming disaster of which these ruins are the mute yet speaking
evidence. We need go no farther in the search than the innocent-looking
little rills, first dripping from the Alpine mosses, then percolating
through the rocks of the high plateau, and falling over its edge in a
thousand streams. Puny as they look, before their inroads the plateau
line has doubtless receded, like the great wall of rock over which
Niagara pours the waters of four seas. With their combined forces--how
long ago cannot be guessed; and what, indeed, does it signify?--knitted
together by frost into Herculean strength, they assailed the granite
cliffs that were older than the sun, older than the moon or the stars,
mined and countermined year by year, inch by inch, drop by drop,
until--honey-combed, riddled, and pierced to its centre, and all was
ready for its final overthrow--winter gave the signal. In a twinkling,
yielding to the stroke, and shattered into a thousand fragments,
the cliffs laid their haughty heads low in the dust. Afterward the
accumulated waters tranquilly continued the process of demolition, and
of removing the soil from the deep excavation they had made, until
the floor of the ravine had sunk to its present level. In California
a man with a hose washes away mountains to get at the gold deposits.
This principle of hydraulic force is borrowed, pure and simple, from a
mountain cataract.

[Illustration: SNOW ARCH, TUCKERMAN'S RAVINE.]

Osgood, the experienced guide, who had visited the ravine oftener
than anybody else, assured me that never within his remembrance had
this forgotten forgement of winter, the Snow Arch, been seen to such
advantage. We estimated its width at above two hundred feet, where it
threw a solid bridge of ice over the stream, and not far from three
hundred in its greatest length, where it lay along the slope of the
gorge. Summer and winter met on this neutral ground. Entering the Arch
was joining January and July with a step. Flowers blossomed at the
threshold. We caught water, as it dripped ice-cold from the roof, and
pledged Old Winter in his own cellarage. The brook foamed at our feet.
Looking up, there was a pretty picture of a tiny water-fall pouring in
at the upper end and out at the ragged portal of the grotto. But I think
we were most charmed with the remarkable sculpture of the roof, which
was a groined arch fashioned as featly as was ever done by human hands.
What the stream had begun in secret the warm vapors had chiselled with
a bolder hand, but not altered. As it was formed, so it remained--a
veritable chapel of the hills, the brook droning its low, monotonous
chant, and the dripping roof tinkling its refrain unceasingly. If the
interior of the great ravine impressed us as the hidden receptacle of
all waste matter, this lustrous heap of snow, so insignificant in its
relation to the immensity of the chasm that we scarcely looked at it at
first, now chased away the feeling of mingled terror and aversion--of
having stolen unawares into the one forbidden chamber--and possessed us
with a sense of the beautiful, which remained long after its glittering
particles had melted into the stream that flowed beneath. So under a
cold exterior is nourished the principle of undying love, which the aged
mountain gives that earth may forever renew her fairest youth.

The presence of this miniature glacier is a very simple matter. The
fierce winds of winter which sweep over the plateau whirl the snows
before them, over its crest, into the ravine, where they are lodged at
the foot of the precipice, and accumulate to a great depth. As soon as
released by spring, the little streams, falling down this wall, seek
their old channels, and, being warmer, succeed in forcing a passage
through the ice. By the end of August the ice usually disappears, though
it sometimes remains even later.

After picking up some fine specimens of quartz, sparkling with mica, and
uttering a parting malediction on the black flies that tormented us, we
took our way down and out of the ravine, following the general course of
the stream along its steep valley, and, after an uneventful march of two
hours, reached the upper waters of the Crystal Cascade.




VI.

_IN AND ABOUT GORHAM._

    That lonely dwelling stood among the hills
    By a gray mountain stream.
          --SOUTHEY.


After the events described in the last chapter, I continued, like the
navigator of unknown coasts, my tour of the great range. Half a mile
below the Glen House, the Great Gulf discharges from its black throat
the little river rising on the plateau at its head. The head of this
stupendous abyss is a mountain, and mountains wall it in. Its depths
remain unexplored except by an occasional angler or trapper.

Two and a half miles farther on a road diverges to the left, crosses the
Peabody by a bridge, and stretches on over a depression of the range
to Randolph, where it intersects the great route from Lancaster and
Jefferson to Gorham. Over the river, snugly ensconced at the foot of
Mount Madison, is the old Copp place. Commanding, as it does, a noble
prospect up and down the valley, and of all the great peaks except
Washington, its situation is most inviting; more than this, the picture
of the weather-stained farm-house nestling among these sleeping giants
revives in fullest vigor our preconceived idea of life in the mountains,
already shaken by the balls, routs, and grand toilets of the hotels.
The house, as we see by Mistress Dolly Copp's register, has been known
to many generations of tourists. The Copps have lived here about half a
century.

Travellers going up or down, between the Glen House and Gorham, usually
make a détour as far as Copp's, in order to view the Imp to better
advantage than can be done from the road. Among these travellers some
have now and then knocked at the door and demanded to see the Imp. The
hired girl invariably requests them to wait until she can call the
mistress.

[Illustration: THE IMP.]

Directly opposite the farm-house the inclined ridge of Imp Mountain
is broken down perpendicularly some two hundred feet, leaving a
jagged cliff, resembling an immense step, facing up the valley. This
is a mountain of the Carter chain, sloping gradually toward the Glen
House. Upon this cliff, or this step, is the distorted human profile
which gives the mountain its name. A strong, clear light behind it
is necessary to bring out all the features, the mouth especially, in
bold relief against the sky, when the expression is certainly almost
diabolical. One imagines that some goblin, imprisoned for ages within
the mountain, and suddenly liberated by an earthquake, exhibits its
hideous countenance, still wearing the same look it wore at the moment
it was entombed in its mask of granite. The forenoon is the best time,
and the road, a few rods back from the house, the best point from which
to see it. The coal-black face is then in shadow.

The Copp farm-house has a tale of its own, illustrating in a remarkable
manner the amount of physical hardship that long training, and
familiarity with rough out-of-door life, will occasionally enable
men to endure. Seeing two men in the door-yard, I sat down on the
chopping-block, and entered into conversation with them.

By the time I had taken out my note-book I had all the members of the
household and all the inmates of the barn-yard around me. I might
add that all were talking at once. The matron stood in the door-way,
which her ample figure quite filled, trifling with the beads of a gold
necklace. A younger face stared out over her shoulder; while an old man,
whose countenance had hardened into a vacant smile, and one of forty
or thereabouts, alternately passed my glass one to the other, with an
astonishment similar to that displayed by Friday when he first looked
through Crusoe's telescope.

"Which of you is named Nathaniel Copp?" I asked, after they had
satisfied their curiosity.

"That is my name," the younger very deliberately responded. "Really,"
thought I, "there is little enough of the conventional hero in that
face;" therefore I again asked, "Are you the same Nathaniel Copp who was
lost while hunting in the mountains, let me see, about twenty-five years
ago?"

"Yes; but I wasn't lost after I got down to Wild River," he hastily
rejoined, like a man who has a reputation to defend.

"Tell me about it, will you?"

I take from my note-book the following relation of the exploit of this
mountain Nimrod, as I received it on the spot. But I had literally to
draw it out of him, a syllable at a time.

On the last day of January, 1855, Nathaniel Copp, son of Hayes D. Copp,
of Pinkham's Grant, near the Glen House, set out from home on a deer
hunt, and was out four successive days. On the fifth day he again left
to look for a deer killed the previous day, about eight miles from home.
Having found it, he dragged the carcass (weighing two hundred and thirty
pounds) home through the snow, and at one o'clock P.M. started
for another he had tracked near the place where the former was killed,
which he followed until he lost the track, at dark. He then found that
he had lost his own way, and should, in all probability, be obliged to
spend the night in the woods, with the temperature ranging from 32° to
35° below zero.

Knowing that to remain quiet was certain death, and having nothing with
which to light a fire, the hunter began walking for his life. The moon
shone out bright and clear, making the cold seem even more intense.
While revolving in his mind his unpleasant predicament he heard a deer
bleat. He gave chase, and easily overtook it. The snow was too deep for
the animal to escape from a hunter on snow-shoes. Copp leaped upon his
back, and despatched him with his hunting-knife. He then dressed him,
and, taking out the heart, put it in his pocket, not for a trophy, but,
as he told me, to keep starvation at arm's-length. The excitement of the
chase made him forget cold until he perceived himself growing benumbed.
Rousing himself, he again pushed on, whither he knew not, but spurred
by the instinct of self-preservation. Daylight found him still striding
on, with no clew to a way out of the thick woods, which imprisoned him
on every side. At length, at ten in the morning, he came out at or near
Wild River, in Gilead, forty miles from home, having walked twenty one
consecutive hours without rest or food, the greater part of the time
through a tangled growth of underbrush.

His friends at home becoming alarmed at his prolonged absence during
such freezing weather, three of them, Hayes D. Copp, his father, John
Goulding, and Thomas Culhane, started in search of him. They followed
his track until it was lost in the darkness, and, by the aid of their
dog, found the deer which young Copp had killed and dressed. They again
started on the trail, but with the faintest hope of ever finding the
lost man alive, and, after being out twenty-six hours in the extreme
cold, found the object of their search.

No words can do justice to the heroic self-denial and fortitude with
which these men continued an almost hopeless search, when every moment
expecting to find the stiffened corpse of their friend. Goulding froze
both feet; the others their ears.

When found, young Copp did not seem to realize in the least the great
danger through which he had passed, and talked with perfect unconcern
of hunts that he had planned for the next week. One of his feet was so
badly frozen, from the effect of too tightly lacing his snow-shoe, that
the toes had to be amputated.

Until reaching the bridge, within two miles of Gorham, I saw no one,
heard nothing except the strokes of an axe, borne on the still air from
some logging-camp, twittering birds, or chattering river. Ascending the
hill above the bridge, I took my last look back at Mount Washington,
over whose head rose-tinted clouds hung in graceful folds. The summit
was beautifully distinct. The bases of all the mountains were floating
in that delicious blue haze, enrapturing to the artist, exasperating
to the climber. Turning to my route, I had before me the village of
Gorham, with the long slopes of Mount Hayes meeting in a regular pyramid
behind it. Against the dusky wall of the mountain one white spire stood
out clean and sharp. At my right, along the river, was a cluster of
saw-mills, sheds, and shanties; beyond, an irregular line of forest
concealing the town--all except the steeple; beyond that the mountain.
As I entered the village, the shrill scream of a locomotive pierced the
still air, and, like the horn of Ernani, broke my dream of forgetfulness
with its fatal blast. Adieu, dreams of delusion! we are once more
manacled with the city.

I loitered along the river road, hoping, as the sky was clear, to see
the sun go down on the great summits. Nor was I disappointed. As I
walked on, Madison, the superb, gradually drew out of the Peabody Glen,
and soon Washington came into line over the ridge of Moriah, whose
highest precipices were kindled with a ruddy glow, while a wonderful
white light rested, like a halo, on the brow of the monarch. Of a
sudden, the crest of Moriah paled, then grew dark; night rose from the
black glen, twilight descended from the dusky heavens. For an instant
the humps of Clay reddened in the afterglow. Then the light went out,
and I saw only the towering forms of the giant mountains dimly traced
upon the sky. A star fell. At this signal the great dome sparkled with
myriad lights. Night had ascended her mountain throne.

Gorham is situated on the Grand Trunk Railway, between Paris and Berlin,
with Milan just beyond--names a trifle ambitious for villages with
the bark on, but conferring distinction upon half a hundred otherwise
obscure villages scattered from Maine to California.

Gorham is also situated in one of those natural parks, called
intervales, in an amphitheatre of hills, through which the Androscoggin
flows with a strong, steady tide. The left bank is appropriated by Mount
Hayes, the right by the village--a suspension bridge giving access from
one to the other. This mountain rises abruptly from the river to a broad
summit-plateau, from which a wide and brilliant prospect rewards the
climber. The central portion of Gorham is getting to be much too busy
for that rest and quietude which is so greatly desired by a large class
of travellers to the mountains, but, on the other hand, its position
with respect to the highest summits is more advantageous than that of
any other town lying on the skirts of the mountains, and accessible by
railway. In one hour the tourist can be at the Glen House, in three
on the summit of Mount Washington. Being at the very end of the great
chain, in the angle where its last elevation abuts on the Androscoggin,
the valley conducting around the northerly side of the great eminences,
through the settlements of Randolph and Jefferson, furnishes another and
a charming avenue of travel into the region watered by the Connecticut.
As the great tide of travel flows in from the west and south, Gorham
has profited little by the extension of railways furnishing more direct
communication with the heart of the mountains.

Mount Hayes is the guardian of the village, erecting its rocky rampart
over it, like the precipices of Cape Diamond over Quebec. The hill in
front is called Pine Mountain, though it is only a mountain by brevet.
The tip of the peak of Madison peers down into the village over this
hill. I plainly saw the snow up there from my window. To the left, and
over the low slope of Pine Mountain, rise the Carter summits, which here
make a remarkably imposing background to the picture, and in conjunction
with the great range form the basin of the Peabody. I saw this stream,
making its final exit from the mountains, throw itself exhausted with
its rapid course into the Androscoggin, half a mile below the hotel.
North-west of the village street, drawn up in line across the valley,
extend the Pilot peaks.

The Carter group is said to have been named after a hunter. According
to Farmer, the Pilot Mountains were so called from a dog. Willard, a
hunter, had been lost two or three days on these mountains, on the east
side of which his camp was situated. Every day he observed that Pilot,
his dog, regularly left him, as he supposed in search of game; but
toward nightfall would as regularly return to his master. This at length
excited the attention of the hunter, who, when nearly exhausted with
fatigue and hunger, decided to commit himself to the guidance of Pilot,
and in a short time was conducted by the intelligent animal in safety to
his camp.

My first morning at Gorham was a beautiful one, and I prepared to
improve it to the utmost by a walk around the northern base of Madison,
neither knowing nor caring whither it might lead me. Spring was in
her most enchanting mood. A few steps, and I was amid the marvels of
a new creation, the tasselled birches, the downy willows, the oaks in
gosling-gray. Even the gnarled and withered apple-trees gave promise of
blossoming, and the young ferns, pushing aside the dead leaves, came
forth with their tiny fists doubled for the battle of life. Why did not
Nature so order it that mankind might rest like the trees, or shall we,
like them, come forth at last strong, vigorous, beautiful, from that
long refreshing slumber?

Leaving the village, at the end of a mile and a half I took the road
turning to the left, where Moose River falls into the Androscoggin, at
the point where the latter, making a remarkable bend, turns sharply away
to the north. Moose River is a true mountain stream, clear and limpid,
foaming along a bed of sand and pebbles.

From this spot the whole extent of the Pilot range was unrolled at my
right, while at the left, majestic among the lower hills, Madison and
Adams were massed in one grand pyramid. The snows glistening on the
summits seemed trophies torn from winter.

About a mile from the turning, at Lary's, I found the best station for
viewing the statuesque proportions of Madison. The foreground a swift
mountain stream, white as the snows where it takes its rise. Beyond,
a strip of meadow land, covered with young birches and poplars, just
showing their tender, trembling foliage. Among these are scattered
large, dead trees, relics of the primeval forest; the middle ground
a young forest, showing in its dainty wicker-work of branchlets that
beady appearance which belongs to spring alone, and is so exquisitely
beautiful. Above this ascends, mile upon mile, the enormous bulk of
the mountain, ashen-gray at the summit, dusky olive-green below. Stark
precipices, hedged about with blasted pines, and seamed with snow,
capped the great pile. Over this a pale azure, deepening in intensity
toward the zenith, unrolled its magnificent drapery.

After the ascent of Mount Hayes, which Mr. King has fittingly described
as "the chair set by the Creator at the proper distance and angle to
appreciate and enjoy" the kingly prominence of Mount Washington, the
two things best worth seeing in the neighborhood are the falls of the
Androscoggin at Berlin, and the beautiful view of the loftiest of the
White Mountain peaks from what is called here the Lead Mine Bridge. To
get to the falls you must ascend the river, and to obtain the view you
must descend a few miles. I consecrated a day to this excursion.

With a head already filled with the noise of half a hundred mountain
torrents, water-falls, or cascades, I set out after breakfast for
Berlin Falls, feeling that the passage of a body of water such as the
Androscoggin is at Gorham, through a narrow gorge, must be something
different from the common.

A word about Berlin. Its situation is far more picturesque than that of
Gorham. There is the same environment of mountains, and, in addition to
the falls, a magnificent view of Madison, Adams, Jefferson, and of the
Carter range. The precipices of Mount Forist, which overhang railway and
village, are noticeable among a thousand. Here Dead River falls into the
Androscoggin, and here the Grand Trunk Railway, taking leave of this
river, turns to the north-west, crosses over to the Upper Ammonoosuc,
twists and twines along: with it among the northern mountains, and at
last emerges upon the level meadows of the Connecticut.

Berlin has another aspect. Lumber is its business; lumber its staple of
conversation; people go to bed to dream of lumber. In a word, lumber is
everywhere. The lumberman admires a tree in his way quite as much as you
or I. No eye like his to estimate its height, its girth, its thickness.
But as ships to Shylock, so trees to him are naught but boards--so many
feet. So that there is something almost ferocious in the lumberman's or
mill-owner's admiration for the forest; something almost startling in
the idea that this out-of-the-way corner is devouring the forests at the
rate of twenty car-loads a day. In plain language, this village cuts up
a good-sized grove every day, and rejoices over it with a new house or a
new barn.

At the risk of being classed with the sentimental and the unpractical,
every one who is alive to the consequences of converting our forests
into deserts, or worse than deserts, should raise a voice of warning
against this wholesale destruction. The consequences may be remote,
but they are certain. For the most part, the travelled routes have
long since been stripped of their valuable timber trees. Now the mills
are fast eating their way into the hitherto inaccessible regions,
leaving a track of desolation behind wherever they go, like that of a
destroying army. What cannot be carried away is burnt. Fires are seen
blazing by the side of every saw-mill, in which all the waste material
is carefully consumed. A trifle? Enough is consumed every year in this
way to furnish the great city of New York with its fuel. I speak with
moderation. Not a village but has its saw-mills; while at Whitefield,
Bethlehem, Livermore, Low, and Burbank's Grant, and many other
localities, the havoc is frightful. Forest fires, originating chiefly in
the logging-camps, annually desolate leagues of forest land. How long is
this to continue?

The mountain labors incessantly to re-create, but what can it do against
such fearful odds? and what shall we do when it can no longer furnish
pine to build our homes, or wood to warm them? Delve deeper and deeper
under the Alleghanies? In about two hundred and fifty years the noble
forests, which set the early discoverers wild with enthusiasm, have
been steadily driven farther and farther back into the interior, until
"the forest primeval" exists not nearer than a hundred miles inland.
Then the great northern wilderness began at the sea-coast. It is now
in the vicinity of Lake Umbagog. Still the warfare goes on. I do not
call occasional bunches of wood forests. All this means less and less
moisture; consequently, more and more drought. The tree draws the
cloud from heaven, and bestows it on the earth. The summer of 1880 was
one of almost unexampled dryness. Large rivers dwindled to pitiful
rivulets, brooks were dried up, and the beautiful cascades in many
instances wholly disappeared. The State is powerless to interfere. Not
so individuals, or combinations of individuals for the preservation of
such tracts of woodland as the noble Cathedral woods of North Conway. In
the West a man who plants a tree is a public benefactor; is he who saves
the life of one in the East less so? America, says Berthold Auerbach, is
no longer "the Promised Land for the Old World;" if she does not protect
her woods, she will become "waste and dry," like the Promised Land of
the ancients--Palestine itself. Look on this picture of Michelet:

"On the shores of the Caspian, for three or four hundred leagues,
one sees nothing, one encounters nothing, but midway an isolated and
solitary tree. It is the love and worship of every passing wayfarer.
Each one offers it something; and the very Tartar, in default of every
other gift, will snatch a hair from his beard or his horse's mane."

The season when the great movement of lumber from the northern
wilderness to the sea begins is one of great activity. The logs are
floated down the Androscoggin from Lake Umbagog with the spring
freshets, when those destined to go farther are "driven," as the
lumbermen's phrase is, over the falls and through the rapids here, to
be picked up below. It may well be believed that the passage of the
falls by a "drive" is a sight worth witnessing. Sometimes the logs
get so tightly jammed in the narrow gorge of the river that it seems
impossible to extricate them; but the dam they form causes the river
to rise behind it, when the accumulated and pent-up waters force their
way through the obstruction, tossing huge logs in the air as if they
were straws. A squad of lumbermen--tough, muscular, handy fellows they
are--accompanies each drive, just as _vaqueros_ do a Texan herd; and
the herd of logs, like the herd of cattle, is branded with the owner's
mark. After making the drive of the falls, the men move down below them,
where they find active and, so far as appearance goes, dangerous work in
disentangling the snarls of logs caught among the rocks of the rapids.
Against a current no ordinary boat could stem for a moment; they dart
hither and thither in their light bateaux, as the herdsman does on his
active little mustang. If a log grounds in the midst of the rapids, the
bateaux dashes toward it. One river-driver jumps upon it, and holds the
boat fast, while another grapples it with a powerful lever called a
cant-dog. In a moment the log rolls off the rocks with a loud splash,
and is hurried away by the rapid tide.

During the drive the lumberman is almost always wet to the skin, day
in and day out. When a raft of logs is first started in the spring the
men suffer from the exposure; but after a little time the work seems
to toughen and harden them, so that they do not in the least mind the
amphibious life they are forced to lead. Rain or shine, they get to
their work at five in the morning, leaving it only when it is too dark
to see longer. Each squad--for the whole force is divided into what may
be called skirmishers, advanced-guards, main body, and rear-guard, each
having its appointed work to perform--then repairs to its camp, which is
generally a tent pitched near the river, where the cook is waiting for
their arrival with a hot supper of fried doughnuts and baked beans--the
lumberman's diet of preference. They pass the evening playing euchre,
telling stories, or relating the experiences of the day, and are as
simple, hearty, happy-go-lucky fellows as can be found in the wide world.

To say that the Berlin Falls begin two miles below the village is no
more than the truth, since at this distance the river was sheeted in
foam from shore to shore. For these two miles its bed is so thickly sown
with rocks that it is like a river stretched on the rack. The whole
river, every drop of it, is hemmed in by enormous masses of granite,
forming a long, narrow, and rocky gorge, down which it bursts in one mad
plunge, tossing and roaring like the Maelstrom. What fury! What force!
The solid earth shakes, and the very air trembles. It is a saturnalia. A
whirlwind of passion, swift, uncontrollable, and terrible.

The best situation I could find was upon a jutting ledge below the
little foot-bridge thrown from rock to rock. Several turns in the long
course of the cataract prevent its whole extent being seen all at once;
but it starts up hither and thither among the rocks, boiling with rage
at being so continually hindered in its free course, until, at last,
madness seizes it, and, flying straight at the throat of the gorge,
it goes down in one long white wave, overwhelming everything in its
way. It reaches the foot of the rocks in fleeces, darts wildly hither
and thither, shakes off the grasp of concealed rocks, and, racing on,
stretches itself on its wide and shallow bed, uttering a tremulous wail.

From the village at the falls, and from Berlin Mills, are elevations
from which the great White Mountains are grandly conspicuous. The view
is similar to that much extolled one from Milan, the town next to
Berlin. Here the three great mountains, closed in mass, display a triple
crown of peaks, Washington being thrown back to the left, and behind
Madison, with Adams on his right. Best of all is the blended effect of
early morning, or of the afterglow, when a few light clouds sail along
the crimson sky, and their shadows play hide-and-seek on the mountain
sides.

In the afternoon, while walking down the road to Shelburne, I met an
apparently honest farmer, with whom I held some discourse. He was
curious about the great city he had known half a century before, when
it was in swaddling clothes; I about the mountains above and around us,
that had never known change since the world began. An amiable contest
ensued, in which each tried to lead the other to talk of the topic most
interesting to himself. The husbandman grew eloquent upon his native
State and its great man. "But what," I insisted, "do you think of your
greatest mountain there?" pointing to the splendid peak.

"Oh, drat the mountains! I never look at 'em. Ask the old woman."

Some enticing views may be had from the Shelburne intervales, embracing
Madison on the right, and Washington on the left. It is, therefore,
permitted to steal an occasional look back until we reach the Lead Mine
Bridge, and stand over the middle of the flashing Androscoggin.

The dimpled river, broad here, and showing tufts of foliage on its satin
surface, recedes between wooded banks to the middle distance, where it
disappears. Swaying to and fro, without noise, the lithe and slender
willows on the margin continually dipped their budding twigs in the
stream, as if to show its clear transparency, while letting fall, drop
by drop, its crystal globules. They gently nodded their green heads,
keeping time to the low music of the river.

[Illustration: THE ANDROSCOGGIN AT SHELBURNE.]

Beyond the river, over gently meeting slopes of the valley, two
magnificent shapes, Washington and Madison, rose grandly. Those truly
regal summits still wore their winter ermine. They were drawn so widely
apart as to show the familiar peaks of Mount Clay protruding between
them. It is hardly possible to imagine a more beautiful picture of
mountain scenery. Noble river, hoary summits, blanched precipices, over
whose haggard visages a little color was beginning to steal, eloquently
appealed to every perception of the beautiful and the sublime. Much as
the view from this point is extolled, it can hardly be over-praised.
True, it exhibits the same objects that we see from Berlin and Milan;
but the order of arrangement is not only reversed, but so altered as to
render any comparison impossible. In this connection it may be remarked
that a short removal usually changes the whole character of a mountain
landscape. No two are precisely alike.

The annals of Shelburne, which originally included Gorham within its
limits, are sufficiently meagre; but they furnish the same story
of struggle with hardship--often with danger--common to the early
settlements in this region. Shelburne was settled, just before the
breaking out of the Revolution, by a handful of adventurous pioneers,
who were attacked in 1781 by a prowling band of hostile Indians. This
incursion is memorable as one of the last recorded in the long series
going back into the first decade of the New England colonies. It was
one of the boldest. The histories place the number of Indians at only
six. After visiting Bethel, where they captured three white men, and
Gilead, where they killed another, they entered Shelburne. Here they
killed and scalped Peter Poor, and took a negro prisoner. Such was the
terror inspired by this audacious onset, that the inhabitants, making no
defence, fled, panic-struck, to Hark Hill, where they passed the night,
leaving the savages to plunder the village at their leisure. The next
day the refugees continued their flight, stopping only when they reached
Fryeburg, fifty-nine miles from the scene of disaster.

Before taking leave of the Androscoggin Valley, which is an opulent
picture-gallery, and where at every step one finds himself arrested
before some masterpiece of Nature, the traveller is strongly advised to
continue his journey to Bethel, the town next below Shelburne. Bethel
is one of the loveliest and dreamiest of mountain nooks. Its expanses
of rich verdure, its little steeple, emerging from groves of elm-trees,
its rustic bridge spanning the tireless river, its air of lethargy and
indolence, captivate eye and mind; and to eyes tired with the hardness
and glare of near mountains, the distant peaks become points of welcome
repose.




VII.

_ASCENT BY THE CARRIAGE-ROAD._

    Where the huge mountain rears his brow sublime,
    On which no neighboring height its shadow flings,
    Led by desire intense the steep I climb.
                 PETRARCH.


The first days of May, 1877, found me again at the Glen House, prepared
to put in immediate execution the long-deferred purpose of ascending
Mount Washington in the balmy days of spring. Before separating for the
night, my young Jehu, who drove me from Gorham in an hour, said, with a
grin,

"So you are going where they cut their butter with a chisel, and their
meat with a hand-saw?"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, you will learn to-morrow."

"Till to-morrow, then."

"Good-night."

"Good-night."

At six in the morning, while the stars were yet twinkling, I stood in
the road in front of the Glen House. Everything announced a beautiful
day. The rising sun crimsoned, first, the dun wall of Tuckerman's
Ravine, then the high summits, and then flowed down their brawny
flanks--his first salutation being to the monarch. In ten minutes I was
alone in the forest with the squirrels, the partridges, the woodpeckers,
and my own thoughts.

As bears are not unfrequently seen at this season of the year, I kept my
eyes about me. One of the old drivers related to me that one morning,
while going up this road with a heavy load of passengers, his horses
suddenly stopped, showing most unmistakable signs of terror. The place
was a dangerous one, where the road had been wholly excavated from
the steep side of the mountain, so, keeping one eye upon his fractious
team, he threw quick glances right and left with the other; while the
passengers, alarmed by the sudden stop, the driver's shouts to his
animals, and the still more alarming backward movement of the coach,
thrust their heads out of the windows, and with white faces demanded
what was the matter.

"By thunder!" ejaculated Jehu, "there was my leaders all in a lather,
an' backin' almost atop of the fill-horses, and them passengers
a-shoutin' like lunatics let out on a picnic. 'Look! darn it all,'
sez I, a-pintin' with my whip. My hosses was all in a heap, I tell
ye, rarin' and charging, when a little Harvard student, with his head
sand-papered, sung out, 'All right, Cap, I've chucked your hind wheels;'
and then he made for the leaders' heads. Them college chaps ain't such
darned fools arter all, they ain't."

"What was it?"

"A big black bear, all huddled up in a bunch, a-takin' his morning
observation on the scenery from the top of a dead sycamore. You see the
side of the hill was so slantin' steep that he wa'n't more'n tew rod
from the road."

"What did you do?"

"Dew?" echoed the driver, laughing--"dew?" he repeated, "why, them crazy
passengers, when they found the bear couldn't get at _them_, just picked
up rocks and hove them at the old cuss. When one hit him a crack, Lord,
how he'd shake his head and growl! But, you see, he couldn't get at 'em,
so they banged away, until Mr. Bruin couldn't stan' it any longer, an'
slid right down the tree as slick as grease, and as mad as Old Nick. It
tickled me most to death to see him a-makin' tooth-picks fly from that
tree."

"Was that your only encounter with bears?" I asked, willing to draw him
out.

"Waal, no, not exactly," he replied, chuckling to himself, gleefully, at
some recollection the question revived. "There used to be a tame bear
over to the Alpine House. One night the critter got loose, and we all
cal'lated he'd took to the woods. Anyhow we hunted high and low; but
no bear. Waal, you see, one forenoon our hostler Mike--his real name
was Pat, but there was another Pat came afore him, so we called t'other
Mike--went up in the barn-chamber to pitch some hay down to the hosses."
Here he stopped and began to choke.

"Well, go on; what has that to do with the bear?"

"Just you hold your hosses a minnit, stranger. Mike hadn't no sooner
jabbed his pitchfork down, so as to git a big bunch, when it struck
something soft-like, and then, before he knew what ailed him, the
hay-mow riz rite up afore him, with the almightiest growl comin' out
on't was ever heerd in any maynagery this side of Noah's Ark."

Here the driver broke down utterly, gasping, "Oho! aha! oh Lord! ah!
ha! ha! ha! ha! ho! ho! Mike!" until his breath was quite gone, and the
big tears rolled down his cheeks. Then he heaved a deep sigh, attempted
to go on, but immediately went off in a second hysterical explosion. I
waited for his recovery.

"Waal," he at length resumed, "the long and short of it was this: that
air bear had buried himself under the hay-mow, and was a-snoozin' it
comfortable and innocent as you please, when Mike prodded him in the
ribs with the pitchfork. The fust any of us knew we saw Mike come
a-flyin' out of the barn-chamber window and the bear arter him. Mike led
him a length. Maybe that Irishman didn't streak it for the house! Bless
you, he never teched the ground arter he struck it! The boys couldn't
do anything for laughing, and Mick was so scart he forgot to yell. That
bear was so hoppin' wild we had to kill him; and if you wanted to make
Mike fightin' mad any time, all you had to do was to ask him to go up in
the barn-chamber and pitch down a bear."

The first four miles are merely toilsome. It is only when emerging upon
the bare crags above the woods that the wonders of the ascent begin, and
the succession of views, dimly seen through my eyes in this chapter,
challenges the attention at every step. There is one exception. About
a mile up, the road issues upon a jutting spur of the mountain, from
which the summit, with the house on the highest point, is seen in clear
weather.

Suddenly I came out of the low firs, the scrubby growth of birches, upon
the fear-inspiring desolation of the bared and wintry summit. The high
sun poured down with dazzling brightness upon the white ledges, which,
rising like a wall above the solitary cabin before me, thrust their
jagged edges in the way, as if to forbid farther progress. Out of this
glittering precipice dead trees thrust huge antlers. This formless mass
overhanging the Half-Way House, known as The Ledge, is one of the most
terrific sights of the journey.

Until clear of the woods, my uneasiness, inspired by the recollection
of the ascent from Crawford's, was extreme; but I now stood, in the
full blaze of an unclouded sun, upon a treeless wilderness of rock, a
gratified spectator of one of the most extraordinary scenes it has ever
fallen to man's lot to witness. But what a frightful silence! Not a
murmur; not a rustling leaf; but all still as death. I was half-afraid.

At my feet yawned the measureless void of the Great Gulf, torn from the
entrails of the mountain by Titanic hands. Above my head leaped up the
endless pile of granite constituting the dome of Washington. It had now
exchanged its gray cassock for pale green. All around was unutterable
desolation. Crevassed with wide splits, encompassed round by lofty
mountain walls, the gorge was at once fascinating and forbidding, grand
yet terrible. The high-encircling steeps of Clay and Jefferson, Adams
and Madison, enclosing it with one mighty sweep, ascended out of its
depths and stretched along the sky, which seemed receding before their
daring advance. Peering down into the abyss, where the tallest pines
were shrubs and their trunks needles, the earth seemed split to its
centre, and the feet of these mountains rooted in the midst. To confront
such a spectacle unmoved one should be more, or less than human.

Looking backward over the forest through which I had come, the eye
caught a blur of white and a gleam of blue in the Peabody Glen. The
white was the hotel, the blue the river. Following the vale out to
its entrance upon the Androscoggin meadows, the same swift messenger
ascended Moriah, and, traversing the confederate peaks to the summit of
Mount Carter, stopped short at its journey's end.

As I slowly mounted the Ledge the same unnatural appearance was
everywhere--the same wreck, same desolation, same discord. The dead
cedars, bleaching all around, looked like an army of gigantic crabs
crawling up the mountain side, which universal ruin overspread, and
which even the soft sunshine rendered more ghastly and more solemn. I
looked eagerly along the road; listened. Not a human being; not a sound.
I was alone upon the mountain.

[Illustration: MOUNT ADAMS AND THE GREAT GULF.]

From here I no longer walked upon earth but on air. Respiration became
more and more difficult. Not even a zephyr stirred, while the glare
was painful to eyes already overtaxed in the endeavor to grasp the
full meaning of this most unaccustomed scene. The road, steadily
ascending, showed its zigzags far up the mountain. Now and then a rude
receptacle had been dug, or rather built up, by the road-side, in which
earth to mend the road was stored; and this soil, wholly composed of
disintegrated rock, must be scraped from underneath the ledges, from
crevices, from hollows, and husbanded with care. "As cheap as dirt,"
was a saying without significance here. As I neared the summit the
melting snows had, in many places, swept it bare, exposing the naked
ledge; and here earth must be brought up from lower down the mountain.
But the pains bestowed upon it equals the incessant demand for its
preservation, and had I not seen with my own eyes I could scarcely have
believed so excellent a specimen of road-making existed in this desert.

But how long will the mountain resist the denuding process constantly
going on, and what repair the gradual but certain disintegration of the
peak? It is a monument of human inability to act upon it in any way.
Be it so. The snows, the frosts, the rains, pursue their work none the
less surely. You see in the deep gullies, the avalanches of stones, the
sands of the sea-shore--so many evidences of the forces which, sooner or
later, will accomplish the miracle and remove the mountain.

From my next halting-place I perceived that I had been traversing a
promontory of the mountain jutting boldly out into the Great Gulf, above
the Half-Way House; and, looking down over the parapet-wall, a mile or
more of the road uncoiled its huge folds, turning hither and thither,
doubling upon itself like a bewildered serpent, and, like the serpent,
always gaining a little on the mountain. This is one of the strangest
sights of this strange journey; but, in order to appreciate it at its
full value, one should be descending by the stage-coach, when the
danger, more apparent than real, is intensified by the swift descent of
the mountain into the gulf below, over which the traveller sees himself
suspended with feelings more poignant than agreeable. The fact that
there has never been a fatal accident upon the carriage-road speaks
volumes for the caution and skill of the drivers; but, as one of the
oldest and most experienced said to me, "There should be no fooling, no
chaffing, and no drinking on that road."[21]

Continuing to ascend, the road once more took a different direction,
curving around that side of the mountain rising above the Pinkham
forest. This détour brought the Carter chain upon my left, instead of on
my right.

Thus far I had encountered little snow, though the rocks were everywhere
crusted with ice; but now a sudden turning brought me full upon an
enormous bank, completely blocking the road, which here skirted the
edge of a high precipice. Had a sentinel suddenly barred my way with
his bayonet, I could not have been more astonished. I was brought to a
dead stand. I looked over the parapet, then at the snow-bank, then at
the mountain. The first look made me shudder, the second thoughtful, the
third gave me a headache.

At this spot the side of the mountain was only a continuation of the
precipice, bent slightly backward from the perpendicular, and ascending
several hundred feet higher. The snow, extending a hundred feet or more
above, and conforming nearly with the slope of the mountain, filled the
road for thrice that distance. I saw that it was only prevented from
sliding into the valley by the low wall of loose stones at the edge of
the road; but how long would that resist the great pressure upon it? The
snow-bank had already melted at its edges, so that I could crawl some
distance underneath, and hear the drip of water above and below, showing
that it was being steadily undermined. In fact, the whole mass seemed on
the point of precipitating itself over the precipice. I could neither go
around it nor under it; so much was certain.

What to do? I had only a strong umbrella, the inseparable companion
of my mountain jaunts, and the glacier was as steep as a roof. What
assurance was there that if I ventured upon it the whole sheet,
dislodged by my weight, might not be shot off the mountain side,
carrying me with it to the bottom of the abyss? But while I felt no
desire to add mine to the catalogue of victims already claimed by the
mountain, the idea of being turned back was inadmissible. Native
caution put the question, "Will you?" and native persistency answered,
"I will."

When a thing is to be done, the best way is to do it. I therefore tried
the snow, and, finding a solid foothold, resolved to venture; had it
been soft, I should not have dared. Using my umbrella as an alpenstock,
I crossed on the parapet, where the declivity was the least, and without
accident, but slowly and breathlessly, until near the opposite side,
when I passed the intervening space in two bounds, alighting in the road
with the blood tingling to my fingers' ends.

A sharp turn around a ledge, and the south-east wall of Tuckerman's
Ravine rose up, like a wraith, out of the forest. Nearer at hand was the
head of Huntington's, while to the right the cone of Washington loomed
grandly more than a thousand feet higher. A little to the left you look
down into the gloomy depths of the Pinkham defile, the valley of Ellis
River, the Saco Valley to North Conway, where the familiar figure of
Kearsarge is the presiding genius. The blue course of the Ellis, which
is nothing but a long cascade, the rich green of the Conway intervales,
the blanched peak of Chocorua, the sapphire summits of the Ossipee
Mountains, were presented in conjunction with the black and humid walls
of the ravine, and the iron-gray mass of the great dome. The crag on
which I stood leans out over the mountain like a bastion, from which
the spectator sees the deep-intrenched valleys, the rivers which wash
the feet of the monarch, and the long line of summits which partake his
grandeur while making it all the more impressive.[22]

Turning now my back upon the Glen, the way led in the opposite
direction, and began to look over the depression between Clay and
Jefferson into the world of blue peaks beyond. From here the striking
spectacle of the four great northern peaks, their naked summits, their
sides seamed with old and new slides, and flecked with snow, constantly
enlarged. There were some terrible rents in the side of Clay, red as
half-closed wounds; in one place the mountain seemed cloven to its
centre. It was of this gulf that the first climber said it was such
a precipice he could scarce discern to the bottom. The rifts in the
walls of the ravine, the blasted fir-trees leaning over the abyss,
and clutching the rocks with a death-gripe, the rocks themselves,
tormented, formidable, impending, astound by their vivid portrayal of
the formless, their suggestions of the agony in which these mountains
were brought forth.

I was now fairly upon the broad, grass-grown terrace at the base of the
pinnacle, sometimes called the Cow Pasture. The low peak rising upon its
limits is a monument to the fatal temerity of a traveller who, having
climbed, as he supposed, to the top of the mountain, died from hunger
or exposure, or from both, at this inhospitable spot.[23] A skeleton in
rags was found, at the end of a year, huddled under some rocks. Farther
down the mountain a heap of stones indicates the place where Doctor
Ball, of Boston, was found by the party sent in search of him, famished,
exhausted, and almost delirious. When rescued, he had passed two nights
upon the mountain, without food, fire, or shelter, after as many days
of fruitless wandering up and down, always led astray by his want of
knowledge, and mocked by occasional glimpses of snowy peaks above, or
the distant Glen below. More dead than alive, he was supported down the
mountain as far as the camp at The Ledge, whence he was able to ride to
the Glen House. His reappearance had the effect of one risen from the
dead. In reality, the rescuing party took up with them materials for a
rude bier, expecting to find a dead body stiffening in the snow.[24]

Besides this almost unheard of resistance to hunger, cold, and
exhaustion combined, and notwithstanding the fortitude which enabled the
lost man to continue his desperate struggle for life until rescued, all
would doubtless have been to no purpose without the aid of an umbrella,
which, by a lucky chance, he took at setting out. This umbrella was
his only protection during the two terrible vigils he made upon the
mountain. How, is related in the chapter on the ascent from Crawford's.

Crossing the terrace, where even the road seems glad to rest after its
laborious climb of seven miles, and where the traveller may also relax
his efforts, preparatory to his arduous advance up the pinnacle, I came
upon the railway, still solidly embedded in snow and ice.

[Illustration: WINTER STORM ON THE SUMMIT.]

Still making a route for itself among massy blocks, tilted at every
conceivable angle, but forming, nevertheless, a symmetrical cone, the
carriage-road winds up the steep ascent, to which the railway is nailed.
While traversing the plateau, with the Summit House now in full view,
my eye caught, far above me, the figure of a man pacing up and down
before the building, like a sentinel on his post. I swung my hat in the
air; again; but he did not see me. Nevertheless, I experienced a thrill
of pleasure at seeing him, so acutely had the sense of loneliness come
over me in these awful solitudes. It put such vigor into my steps that
in half an hour I crossed the last rise, when the solitary pedestrian,
making an about-face at the end of his beat, suddenly discovered
a strange form and figure emerging from the rocks before him. He
stopped short, took the pipe from his teeth, looking with open-mouthed
astonishment, then, as I continued to approach, he hastened toward me,
met me half-way, and, between rapid questions and answers, led the way
into the signal station.

Behold me installed in the cupola of New England! While I was resting,
my host, a tall, bronzed, bearded man, bustled about the two or three
apartments constituting this swallow's nest. He put the kettle on the
stove, gave the fire a stir, spread a cloth upon the table, and took
some plates, cups, and saucers from a locker, some canned meats and
fruit from a cupboard, I, meanwhile, following all these movements with
an interest easily imagined. His preparations completed, my host first
ran his eye over them approvingly, then, presenting a pen, requested me
to inscribe my name in the visitors' book. I did so, noticing that the
last entry was in October--that is, five months had elapsed since the
last climber wended his solitary way down the mountain. My hospitable
entertainer then, with perfect politeness, begged me to draw my chair to
the table and fall to. I did not refuse. While he poured out the tea, I
asked,

"Whom have I the pleasure of addressing?" and he modestly replied,

"Private Doyle, sir, of the United States Signal Service. Have another
bit of devilled ham? No? Try these peaches."

"Thank you. At least Uncle Sam renders your exile tolerable. Is this
your ordinary fare?"

"Oh, as to that, you should see us in the dead of winter, chopping our
frozen meat with a hatchet, and our lard with a chisel."

This, then, was what my young Jehu had meant. Where was I? I glanced
out of the window. Nothing but sky, nothing but rocks; immensity and
desolation. I disposed my ideas to hear my companion ask, "What is the
news from the other world?"




VIII.

_MOUNT WASHINGTON._

     The soldiers from the mountain Theches ran from rear to front,
     breaking their ranks, crowding tumultuously upon each other,
     laughing and shouting, "The sea! the sea!"--XENOPHON'S
     _Anabasis_.


After the repast we walked out, Private Doyle and I, upon the narrow
platform behind the house. According to every appearance I had reached
_Ultima Thule_.

For some moments--moments not to be forgotten--we stood there silent.
Neither stirred. The scene was too tremendous to be grasped in an
instant. A moment was needed to recover one's moral equipoise, as well
as for the unpractised eye to adjust itself to the vastness of the
landscape, and to the multitude of objects, strange objects, everywhere
confronting it. My own sensations were at first too vague for analysis,
too tumultuous for expression. The flood choked itself.

All seemed chaos. On every side the great mountains fell away like
mists of the morning, dispersing, receding to an endless distance,
diminishing, growing more and more vague, and finally vanishing on
a limitless horizon neither earth nor sky. Never before had such a
spectacle offered itself to my gaze. The first idea was of standing on
the threshold of another planet, and of looking down upon this world of
ours outspread beneath; the second, of being face to face with eternity
itself. No one ever felt exhilaration at first. The scene is too
solemnizing.

But by degrees order came out of this chaos. The bewildering throng of
mountains arranged itself in chains, clusters, or families. Hills drew
apart, valleys opened, streams twinkled in the sun, towns and villages
clung to the skirts of the mountains or dotted the rich meadows; but all
was mysterious, all as yet unreal.

Comprehending at last that all New England was under my feet, I began
to search out certain landmarks. But this investigation is fatiguing:
besides, it conducts to nothing--absolutely nothing. Pointing to
a scrap of blue haze in the west, my companion observed, "That is
Mount Mansfield;" and I, mechanically, repeated, "Ah! that is Mount
Mansfield." It was nothing. Distance and Infinity have no more relation
than Time and Eternity. It sufficed for me, God knows, to be admitted
near the person of the great autocrat of New England, while under skies
so fair and radiant he gave audience to his imposing and splendid
retinue of mountains.

But still, independent of the will, the eye flitted from peak to
peak, from summit to summit, making the slow circuit of this immense
horizon, hovering at last over a band of white gleaming far away in the
south-east like a luminous cloud, on whose surface objects like birds
reposed. It was the sea, and the specks ships sailing on the main.
With the aid of a telescope we could even tell what sails the vessels
carried. In these few seconds the eye had put a girdle of six hundred
miles about.[25]

I consider this first introduction to what the peak of Mount Washington
looks down upon an epoch in any man's life. I saw the whole noble
company of mountains from highest to lowest. I saw the deep depressions
through which the Connecticut, the Merrimac, the Saco, the Androscoggin,
wind toward the lowlands. I saw the lakes which nurse the infant
tributaries of those streams. I saw the great northern forests, the
notched wall of the Green Mountains, the wide expanse of level land,
flat and heavy like the ocean, and finally the ocean itself. And all
this was mingled in one mighty scene.

The utmost that I can say of this view is that it is a marvel. You
receive an impression of the illimitable such as no other natural
spectacle--no, not even the sea--can give. Astonishment can go no
farther. Nevertheless, the truth is that you are on too high a
view-point for the most effective grasp of mountain scenery. This
immense height renders near objects indistinct, obscures the more
distant. Seldom, indeed, is the land seen, even under favoring
conditions, except through a soft haze, which, you are surprised to
notice, becomes more and more transparent as you descend. The eye
explores this _clair-obscur_, and gradually discerns this or that
object. It is true that you see to a great distance, but you do not
distinguish anything clearly. This is the rule, derived from many
observations, to which the crystal air of autumn and winter makes the
rare and fortunate exception.

There is a more cogent reason why the view from Mount Washington is
inferior to that from other and lower summits. Everything is below
you, and, naturally, therefore, any picture of these mountains not
showing the cloud-capped dome of the monarch, attended by his cortége
of grand peaks--the central, dominating, perfecting group--must be
essentially incomplete. Imagine Rome without St. Peter's, or, to come
nearer home, Boston without her State House! One word more: from this
lofty height you lose the symmetrical relation of the lesser summits to
the grand whole. Even these signal embodiments of heroic strength--the
peaks of Jefferson, Adams, and Madison--so vigorously self-asserting
that what they lose in stature they gain by a powerful individuality,
even these suffer a partial eclipse; but the summits stretching to
the southward are so dwarfed as to be divested of any character as
typical mountain structures. What fascinates us is the "sublime chaos
of trenchant crests, of peaks shooting upward;" and the charm of the
view--such at least is the writer's conviction--resides rather in the
immediate surroundings than in the extent of the panorama, great as that
unquestionably is.

One thing struck me with great force--the enormous mass of the mountain.
The more you realize that the dependent peaks, stretching eight miles
north, and as many south, are nothing but buttresses, the more this
prodigious weight amazes. Two long spurs, divided by the valley of the
Rocky Branch, also descend into the Saco Valley as far as Bartlett; and
another, shorter, but of the same indestructible masonry, is traced
between the valleys of the Ammonoosuc and of Israel's River. In a word,
as the valleys lie and the roads run, we must travel sixty or seventy
miles around in order to make the circuit of Mount Washington at its
base.

Even here one is not satisfied if he sees a stone ever so little above
him.[26] The best posts for an outlook, after the signal station, are
upon a point of rocks behind the old Tip-Top House, and from the end
of the hotel platform, where the railway begins its terrifying descent.
From all these situations the view was large and satisfying. From the
first station one overlooks the southern summits; from the second, the
northern. A movement of the head discloses, in turn, the ocean, the
lakes and lowlands of Maine and New Hampshire, the broad highlands
of Massachusetts, the fading forms of Monadnock and Wachusett, the
highest peaks of Vermont and New York, and, finally, the great Canadian
wilderness.

After all this, the eye dwells upon the hideous waste of rock
blackened by ages of exposure, corroded with a green incrustation,
like _verd-antique_, constituting the dome. It is at once mournful and
appalling. Time has dealt the mountain some crushing blows, as we see by
these ghastly ruins, bearing silent testimony to their own great age. It
is necessary to step with care, for the rocks are sharp-edged. The green
appearance is due to lichens which bespatter them. Greedy little spiders
inhabit them. Truly this is a spot disinherited by Nature.

Noticing many boards scattered helter-skelter about the top and sides of
the mountain, I drew my companion's attention to them, and he explained
that what I saw was the result of the great January gale, which had
blown down the shed used as an engine-house, demolished every vestige of
the walk leading from the hotel to the signal station, and distributed
the fragments as if they had been straws far and wide, as I saw them.

The same gale had swept the coast from Hatteras to Canso with
destructive fury. I begged Private Doyle to give me his recollections of
it. We returned to the station, and he began as follows:

"At the time of the tornado I was sick, and my comrade, Sergeant M----,
who is now absent on leave, had to do my turn as well as his own. 'Uncle
Sam,' you know, keeps two of us here, for fear of accidents."[27]

"It surprised me to find you here alone," I assented.

"This is the third day." Then, resuming his narrative, "During the
forenoon preceding the gale we observed nothing very unusual; but the
clouds kept sinking and sinking, until, in the afternoon, the summit
alone was above them. For miles around nothing could be seen but one
vast ocean of frozen vapor, with peaks sticking out here and there,
like icebergs floating in this ocean--all being cased in snow and ice.
I cannot tell you how curious this was. Later in the day the density of
the clouds became such that they reflected the colors of the spectrum:
and that too was beautiful beyond description. It was about this time
Sergeant M---- came to where I was lying, and said, 'There is going to
be the devil to pay; so I guess I'll make everything snug.'

"By nine in the evening the wind had increased to one hundred miles an
hour, with heavy sleet, so that no observation could be safely made
from without. At midnight the velocity of the storm was one hundred and
twenty miles, and the exposed thermometer recorded 24° below zero. We
could hardly get it above freezing inside the house. With the stove red,
water froze within three feet of the fire; in fact, where you are now
sitting.

"At this time the uproar outside was deafening. About one o'clock
the wind rose to one hundred and fifty miles. It was now blowing a
hurricane. That carpet (indicating the one in the room where we were)
stood up a foot from the floor, like a sail. The wind, gathering up all
the loose ice on top of the mountain, dashed it against the house in
one continuous volley. I lay wondering how long we should stand this
terrific pounding, when all at once there came a crash. M---- shouted to
me to get up; but I had tumbled out in a hurry on hearing the glass go.
You see I was ready-dressed, to keep myself warm in bed.

"Our united efforts were hardly equal to closing the storm-shutters from
the inside; but we succeeded, finally, though the lights were out, and
we worked in the dark." He rose in order to show me how the shutters,
made of thick oak planks, were secured by a bar, and by strong wooden
buttons screwed in the window-frame.

"We had scarcely done this," resumed Doyle, "and were shivering over the
fire, when a heavy gust of wind again burst open the shutters as easy
as if they had never been fastened at all. We sprang to our feet. After
a hard tussle we again secured the windows by nailing a cleat to the
floor, against which we fixed one end of a board, using the other end as
a lever. You understand?" I nodded. "Well, even then it was all we could
do to force the shutters back into place. But we did it. We _had_ to do
it.

"The rest of the night was passed in momentary expectation that the
building would be blown over into Tuckerman's Ravine, and we with it.
At four in the morning the wind registered one hundred and eighty-six
miles. It had shifted then from east to north-east. From this time it
steadily fell to ten miles at nine o'clock--as calm as a daisy. This was
the heaviest blow ever experienced on the mountain."

"Suppose this house had gone, and the hotel stood fast, could you have
effected an entrance into the hotel?" I asked.

"No, indeed. We could not have faced the wind."

"Not for a hundred feet, and in a matter of life and death?"

"In that gale? We should have been lifted clean off our feet and smashed
upon the rocks like this bottle," flinging one out at the door.

"So then for all those hours you expected from one moment to another to
be swept into eternity?"

[Illustration: THE TORNADO FORCING AN ENTRANCE.]

"We did what we could. Each of us wrapped himself up in blankets and
quilts, tying these tightly around him with ropes, to which were
attached bars of iron, so that if the house went by the board we might
stand a chance--a slim one--of anchoring, somehow, somewhere."

I tried to make him admit that he was afraid; but he would not. Only he
forgot, he said, in the excitement of that terrible night, that he was
ill, until the danger was over.

"We are going to have a blow," observed Doyle, glancing at the
barometer--"barometer falling, wind rising. Besides, that blue haze,
creeping over the valley, is a pretty sure sign of a change of weather."
His prognostic was completely verified in the course of a few hours.

"Now," said Doyle, rising, "I must go and feed my chick."

We retraced our steps to the point of rocks overhanging the southern
slope, where he stopped and began to scatter crumbs, I watching him
curiously meanwhile. Pretty soon he went down on his hands and knees and
peered underneath the rocks. "Ah!" he exclaimed, with vivacity, "there
you are!"

"What is it?" I asked; "what is there?"

"My mouse. He is rather shy, and knows I am not alone," he replied,
chirruping to the animal with affectionate concern.

Brought to the mountain top in some barrel or box, the little stowaway
had become domesticated, and would come at the call of his human
playmate. The incident was trifling enough of itself, yet there was
something touching in this companionship, something that sharply
recalled the sense of loneliness I had myself experienced. In reality,
the disparity between the man and the mouse seemed not greater than that
between the mountain and the man.

While we were standing among the rocks the sun touched the western
horizon. The heavens became obscured. All at once I saw an immense
shadow striding across the valley below us. Slowly and majestically it
ascended the Carter chain until it reached the highest summit. I could
not repress an exclamation of surprise; but what was my astonishment
to see this immense phantom, without pausing in its advance, lift
itself into the upper air to an incredible height, and stand fixed and
motionless high above all the surrounding mountains. It was the shadow
of Mount Washington projected upon the dusky curtain of the sky. All the
other peaks seemed to bow their heads by a sentiment of respect, while
the actual and the spectre mountain exchanged majestic salutations. Then
the vast gray pyramid retreated step by step into the thick shades.
Night fell.

The expected storm which the observer had predicted did not fail to put
in an appearance. By the time we reached the house the wind had risen to
forty miles an hour, driving the clouds in an unbroken flight against
the summit, from which they rebounded with rage equal to that displayed
in their vindictive onset. The Great Gulf was like the crater of some
mighty volcano on the eve of an eruption, vomiting forth volumes of
thickening cloud and mist. It seemed the mustering-place of all the
storm-legions of the Atlantic, steadily pouring forth from its black
jaws, unfurling their ghostly standards as they advanced to storm
the battlements of the mountain. Occasionally a break in the column
disclosed the opposite peaks looming vast and black as midnight. Then
the effect was indescribable. At one moment everything seemed resolving
into its original elements; the next I was reminded of a gigantic
mould, not from mortal hands, in which all these vast forms were slowly
cooling. The moon shed a pale, wan light over this unearthly scene,
in which creation and annihilation seemed confusedly struggling. The
sublime drama of the Fourth Day, when light was striving with darkness
for its allotted place in the universe, seemed enacting under my eyes.

The evening passed in comparative quiet, although the gale was now
moving from east to west at the rate of sixty miles an hour. Rain
rattled on the roof like shot. Now and then the building shuddered
and creaked, like a good ship breasting the fury of the gale. Vivid
flashes of lightning made the well-lighted room momentarily dark,
and checked conversation as suddenly as if we had felt the electric
shock. Under such novel conditions, with strange noises all about him,
one does not feel quite at ease. Nevertheless the kettle sung on the
stove, the telegraph instrument ticked on the table. We had Fabyan's,
Littleton, and White River Junction within call. We had plenty of
books, the station being well furnished from voluntary gifts of the
considerate-benevolent. At nine Doyle went out, but immediately returned
and said he had something to show me. I followed him out to the platform
behind the house. A forest fire had been seen all day in the direction
of Fabyan's, but at night it looked like a burning lake sunk in depths
of infernal blackness. I had never seen anything so nearly realizing my
idea of hell. No other object was visible--only this red glare as of
a sun in partial eclipse shining at the bottom of an immense hole. We
watched it a few minutes and then went in. I attempted to be cheerful,
but how was one to rise above such surroundings? Alternately the storm
roared and whined for admittance. Worn out with the tension, physical
and moral, of this day, I crept into bed and tried to shut the storm
out. The poor exile in the next room murmured to himself, "Ah, this
horrible solitude!"

The next morning, while looking down from this eagle's nest upon the
southern peaks to where the bridle path could be distinctly traced
across the plateau, and still winding on around the peaked crest of
Monroe, I was seized with a longing to explore the route which on a
former occasion proved so difficult, but to-day presenting apparently
nothing more serious than a fatiguing scramble up and down the cone.
Accordingly, taking leave of my companion, I began to feel my way down
that cataract of granite, fallen, it would seem, from the skies.[28]

In proportion as I descended, the mountain ridge below regained, little
by little, its actual character. Except where patches of snow mottled
it with white, it displayed one uniform and universal tinge of faded
orange where the soft sunshine fell full upon it, toned into rusty brown
when overshadowed, gradually deepening to an intense blue-black in the
ravines. But so insignificant did the summits look, when far below,
that I hardly recognized them for the same I had seen from Fabyan's and
had traversed from Crawford's. Monroe, the nearest, has, however, a
most striking resemblance to an enormous petrified wave on the eve of
dashing itself down into the valley. The lower you descend the stronger
this impression becomes; but from the summit of Mount Washington this
peak is so belittled that the mountains seemed saying to each other,
"Good-morning, Mole-hill!" "Good-morning, Big Bully!"

When I reached the stone-corral, the ground, if ground it can be
called, descended less abruptly, over successive stony terraces, to a
comparative level, haired over with a coarse, wiry, and tangled grass,
strewed with bowlders, and inundated along its upper margin by torrents
of stones. Upon closer inspection these stones arranged themselves
in irregular semicircular ridges. In the eyes of the botanist and
entomologist this seemingly arid region is more attractive than the most
beautiful gardens of the valley. Among these grasses and these stones
lie hid the beautiful Alpine flowers of which no species exist in the
lowlands. Only the arbutus, which puts forth its pink-and-white flowers
earliest of all, and is warmed into life by the snows, at all resembles
them in its habits. Over this grassy plain the wind swept continually
and roughly; but on putting the grass aside with the hand, the tiny
blossoms greet you with a smile of bewitching sweetness.

These areas, extending between and sometimes surrounding the high peaks,
or even approaching their summits, are the "lawns" of the botanist, and
his most interesting field of research. Within its scope about fifty
species of strictly Alpine plants vegetate. As we ascend the mountain,
after the dwarf trees come the Lapland rhododendron, Labrador tea, dwarf
birch, and Alpine willows, which, in turn, give place to the Greenland
sandwort, diapensia, cassiope, and other plants, with arctic rushes,
sedges, and lichens, which flourish on the very summit.

To the left, this plain, on which the grass mournfully rustled, sloped
gently for, I should guess, half a mile, and then rolled heavily off,
over a grass-grown rim, into Tuckerman's Ravine. In this direction the
Carter Mountains appeared. Beyond, stretching away out of the plain,
extended the long Boott's Spur, over which the Davis path formerly
ascended from the valley of the Saco, but which is now, from long
disuse, traced with difficulty. Between this headland and Monroe opened
the valley of Mount Washington River, the old Dry River of the carbuncle
hunters, which the eye followed to its junction with the Saco, beyond
which the precipices of Frankenstein glistened in the sun, like a
corselet of steel. Oakes's Gulf cuts deeply into the head of the gorge.
The plain, the ravine, the spur, and the gulf transmit the names of
those indefatigable botanists, Bigelow, Tuckerman, Boott, and Oakes.

On the other side of the ridge--for of course this plain has its
ridge--the ground was more broken in its rapid descent toward the
Ammonoosuc Valley, into which I looked over the right shoulder of Monroe.

But what a sight for the rock-wearied eye was the little Lake of the
Clouds, cuddled close to the hairy breast of this mountain! On the
instant the prevailing gloom was lighted as if by magic by this dainty
nursling of the clouds, which seemed innocently smiling in the face of
the hideous mountain. And the stooping monster seemed to regard the
little waif, lying there in its rocky cradle, with astonishment, and to
forego his first impulse to strangle it where it lay. Lion and lamb were
lying down together.

Casting an eye upward, and finding the houses on the summit were hidden
by the retreating curvature of the cone, I saw, with chagrin, light
mists scudding over my head. It was a notice to hasten my movements idle
to disregard here. Crossing as rapidly as possible Bigelow's Lawn--the
half-mile of grass ground referred to, where I sunk ankle-deep in moss,
or stumbled twenty times in as many rods over concealed stones--I
skirted the head of the chasm for some distance. But from above the
ravine does not make a startling impression. I, however, discovered,
lodged underneath its walls, a bank of snow. All around I heard water
gurgling under my feet in rock-worn channels while making its way
tranquilly to the brow of the ravine. These little underground runlets
are the same that glide over the head-wall, and are the head tributaries
of the Ellis.[29]

Retracing my way to the ridge and to the path, which I followed for some
distance, startling the silence with an occasional halloo, I descended
into the hollow, where the Lake of the Clouds seems to have checked
itself, white and still, on the very edge of the tremendous gully, cut
deep into the western slopes. The lake is the fountain-head of the
Ammonoosuc. Its waters are too cold to nourish any species of fishes;
they are too elevated for any of the feathered tribe to pay it a visit.

[Illustration: LAKE OF THE CLOUDS.]

Strange spectacle! A fairy haunt, rock-rimmed and fringed about with
Alpine shrubs, half-disclosing, half-concealing its bare bosom, coyly
reposed on this wind-swept ridge, like "a good deed in a naughty
world." From its crystal basin a tiny rill trickled through soft moss
to the dizzy verge beyond, where, like some airy sprite, clothed with
the rainbow and tossing its white tresses to the sport of the breeze,
it tripped gayly over the grisly precipice and fell in a silvery
shower from height to height. Where it passed, flowers, ferns, and
rich herbage sprung forth upon the hard face of the granite. Tapering
fir-trees exhaled a dewy freshness; aspens quivered with the delight
of its coming, and aged trees, tottering, decrepit, piteous to see,
stretched their withered limbs toward heaven. On it went, and still on,
leaving its white robe clinging to the mountain side. All the forest
seemed crowding forward to catch it; but, now reverently kissing the
feet of the old trees, now saucily flinging a handful of crystal in the
faces of scowling cliffs, it eluded the embrace of the forest, which
thrilled with its musical laughter from lowest deeps to the summit of
high-rocking pines. When it was no longer visible a sonorous murmur
heralded its triumphal progress. No wonder the bewildered eye roved from
bleak summit to voluptuous vale; from the handful of drops above to the
brimming river below. The miracle of Horeb was being repeated hour by
hour, like an affair of every-day life.

This hand-mirror of Venus has two tiny companion pools close by. The
weary explorer may sip a draught of sweetest savor while admiring
their exceeding beauty--a beauty heightened by its unexpectedness, and
teaching that not all is barren even here. A benison on those little
lakes!

Stone houses of refuge are much needed on the mountains over which
the Crawford trail reaches the summit. They should always be provided
with fagots for a fire, clean straw or boughs for a bed, and printed
directions for the inexperienced traveller to follow. A fireplace,
furnished with a crane and a kettle for heating water, would be absolute
luxuries. Being done, this glorious promenade--the equal of which does
not exist in New England--would be taken with confidence by numbers,
instead of, as now, by the few. It is the appropriate pendant of the
ascent from the Glen by the carriage-road, or from Fabyan's by the
railway. One can hardly pretend to have seen the mountains in their
grandest aspects until he has threaded this wondrous picture-gallery,
this marvellous hall of statues.[30]

While recrossing the plateau, from which Washington has the appearance
of one mountain piled upon another, I suddenly came upon a dead sparrow
in my path. Poor little fellow! he was too adventurous, and sunk on
stiffening pinions beneath the frozen wind. Ten steps farther on a large
brown butterfly flew up and fluttered cheerily along the path. Why,
then, did the bird die and the butterfly live?

This mountain butterfly, which endured cold that the bird could not, has
excited the attention of naturalists, it is said. The mountain is 6293
feet high, and the butterflies never descend below an elevation of about
5600 feet. Here they "disport during the month of July of every year,"
thriving upon the scanty deposits of honey found in the flowers of the
few species of hardy plants that grow in the crevices of the rocks at
this great altitude, and upon other available liquid substances. The
insect measures, from tip to tip of the expanded fore-wings, about
one and eight-tenths inches. It is colored in shades of brown, with
various bands and marblings diversifying the surface of the wings. The
butterfly is known to naturalists as the _OEneis semidea_, and was
first described, in 1828, by Thomas Say. An allied species occurs on
Long's Peak and other elevated heights in Colorado; and another is found
at Hopedale, Labrador; but they are confined to these widely separated
localities. It is surmised that the butterfly, like the Alpine flora,
beautifully illustrates the presence, or rather the advance and retreat,
of the glacier.

I took up the little winged chorister of the vale who was not able to
make spring come to the mountain for all his warbling. Truly, was not
the little bird's fate typical of those ambitious climbers for fame
who, chilled to death by neglect or indifference, die singing on the
heights? So the sparrow's fall gave me food for reflection, during which
I reached the little circular enclosure at the foot of the cone.

Once more I climbed the rambling and rocky stairs leading to the summit;
but long before reaching it clouds were drifting above and below me.
The day was to end like so many others. The crabbed old mountain had
exhausted his store of benevolence. I hurried on down the Glen road.
After descending a mile I heard a rumbling sound, deep and prolonged,
like distant thunder. The thought of being overtaken on the mountain by
a thunder-storm made me quicken my pace almost to a run. On turning the
corner where the snow-bank had lain, like a lion in the path, devoutly
wishing myself well and safely over, I felt something rise in my throat.
The bank was no longer there. Every vestige of it had disappeared, and,
in all probability, its sudden plunge down the mountain was what I had
taken for thunder. Ten minutes sooner and I should have been upon its
treacherous bridge.

I passed the Half-Way House, entered the dusk forest, where the
tree-tops were swaying wildly to and fro, the birds flitting silently,
and the tall pines discordantly humming, as if getting the pitch of the
storm. Suddenly it grew dark. A stream of fire blinded me with its
glare. Then a deafening peal shook the solid earth. Another and another
succeeded: Olympian salvos greeted the arrival of the storm king.

The rain was pattering among the leaves when I emerged into the open
vale, guided by the lights of the Glen House shining through the
darkness. My heavy feet almost refused to carry me farther, and I walked
like the statue in "Don Juan."




THIRD JOURNEY.


                                                      PAGE
I.   _THE PEMIGEWASSET IN JUNE_                        209

II.  _THE FRANCONIA PASS_                              224

III. _THE KING OF FRANCONIA_                           237

IV.  _FRANCONIA, AND THE NEIGHBORHOOD_                 248

V.   _THE CONNECTICUT OX-BOW_                          256

VI.  _THE SACK OF ST. FRANCIS DE SALES_                259

VII. _MOOSEHILLOCK_                                    267

VIII._BETHLEHEM_                                       276

IX.  _JEFFERSON, AND THE VALLEY OF ISRAEL'S RIVER_     291

X.   _THE GREAT NORTHERN PEAKS_                        304

[Illustration: WHITE MOUNTAINS

(WEST SIDE)

1881.]




THIRD JOURNEY.




I.

_THE PEMIGEWASSET IN JUNE._

    O child of that white-crested mountain whose springs
    Gush forth in the shade of the cliff-eagle's wings,
    Down whose slopes to the lowlands thy wild waters shine,
    Leaping gray walls of rock, flashing through the dwarf-pine!
                       WHITTIER.


Plymouth lies at the entrance to the Pemigewasset Valley, like an
encampment pitched to dispute its passage. At present its design is to
facilitate the ingress of tourists.

I am sitting at the window this morning looking down the Pemigewasset
Valley. It is a gray, sad morning. Wet clouds hang and droop heavily
over. In the distance the frayed and tattered edges are rolled up,
half-disclosing the humid outlines of the hills on the other side of
the valley. The trees are budded with rain-drops. Through a lattice
of bordering foliage I look down upon the river, shrunken by drought
to half its usual breadth, and exposing its parched bed of sand and
pebbles. It gives an expiring gurgle in its stony throat. It is one of
those mornings that, in spite of our philosophy, strangely affect the
spirits, and are like a presentiment of evil. The clouds are funereal
draperies; the river chants a dirge.

In this world of ours, where events push each other aside with such
appalling rapidity, perhaps it is scarcely remembered that Hawthorne
breathed his last in this house on the night of May 18th, 1864. He who
was born in sight of these mountains had come among them to die.

In company with his old college mate and loving friend, General Pierce,
he came from Centre Harbor to Plymouth the day previous to the sad
event. Devoted friends--and few men have known more devoted--had for
some time seen that his days were numbered. The fire had all but gone
out from his eye, which seemed interrogating the world of which he was
already more than half an inhabitant. A presentiment of his approaching
end seemed foreshadowed in the changed look and faltering step of
Hawthorne himself: he walked like a man consciously going to his grave.
Still, much was hoped--it could hardly be that much was expected--from
this journey, and from the companionship of two men grown gray with
care, each standing on the pinnacle of his ambition, each disappointed,
but united, one to the other, by the ties of life-long friendship;
turning their backs upon the gay world, and walking hand-in-hand among
the sweet groves and pleasant streams like boys again. It was like a
dream of their lost youth: the reality was no more.

On this journey General Pierce was the watchful, tender, and sympathetic
nurse. Without doubt either of these men would have died for the other.

But these hopes, these cares, alas! proved delusive. The angel of death
came unbidden into the sacred companionship; the shadow of his wings
hovered over them unseen. In the night, without a sigh or a struggle, as
he himself wished it might be, the hand of death was gently and kindly
laid on the fevered brain and fluttering heart. In the morning his
friend entered the chamber to find only the lifeless form of Nathaniel
Hawthorne plunged in the slumber that knows no awakening. Great heart
and mighty brain were stilled forever.

While the weather gives such inhospitable welcome let us employ the
time by turning over a leaf from history. According to Farmer, the
intervales here were formerly resorted to by the Indians for hunting
and fishing. At the mouth of Baker's River, which here joins the
Pemigewasset, they had a settlement. Graves, bones, gun-barrels, besides
many implements of their rude husbandry, have been discovered. Here, it
is said, the Indians were attacked by a party of English from Haverhill,
Massachusetts, led by Captain Baker, who defeated them, killed many, and
destroyed a large quantity of fur. From him Baker's River receives its
name.

Before the French and Indian war broke out this region was debatable
ground, into which only the most celebrated and intrepid white hunters
ventured. Among these was a young man of twenty-three, named Stark, who
lived near the Amoskeag Falls, in what is now Manchester. In April,
1752, Stark was hunting here with three companions, one of whom was
his brother William. They had pitched their camp on Baker's River,
in the present limits of Rumney, and were prosecuting their hunt with
good success, when they suddenly discovered the presence of Indians in
their vicinity. Though it was a time of peace, they were not the less
apprehensive on that account, and determined to change their position.
But the Indians had also discovered the white hunters, and prepared to
entrap them. When Stark went out very early the next morning to collect
the traps he was intercepted and made prisoner. The Indians then took a
position on the bank of the river to ambush his companions as they came
down. Eastman, who was on the shore, next fell into their hands; but
the two others were in a canoe floating quietly down the stream out of
reach. Stark was ordered to hail and decoy them to the shore. He obeyed;
but, instead of lending himself to the treachery, shouted to his friends
that he was taken, and to save themselves. They instantly steered for
the opposite shore, receiving a volley as they did so. Stinson, one of
those in the boat, was shot dead; but William Stark escaped through the
heroism of his brother, who knocked up the guns of the savages as they
covered him with fatal aim.

Stark and his fellow-prisoner were taken to St. Francis by Actæon and
his prowling band, with whom they had had the misfortune to fall in. At
St. Francis the Indians set Stark hoeing their corn. At first he cut up
the corn and spared the weeds; but this expedient not serving to relieve
him of the drudgery, he threw his hoe into the river, telling his
captors that hoeing corn was the business of squaws, not of warriors.
This answer procured him recognition among them as a spirit worthy of
themselves. He was adopted into the tribe, and called the "Young Chief."
The promise of youth was fulfilled. The young hunter of the White
Mountains and the conqueror of Bennington are the same.

The choice is open to leave the railway here and enter the mountains by
the Pemigewasset Valley, or to continue by it the route which conducts
to the summit of Mount Washington, by Bethlehem and Fabyan's. To journey
on by rail to the Profile House is seventy-five miles, while by the
common road, following the Pemigewasset, the distance is only thirty
miles. A daily stage passes over this route, which I risk nothing in
saying is always one of the delightful reminiscences of the whole
journey. Deciding in favor of the last excursion, my first care was to
procure a conveyance.

At three in the afternoon I set out for Campton, seven miles up the
valley, which the carriage-road soon enters upon, and which by a few
unregarded turnings is presently as fast shut up as if its mountain
gates had in reality swung noiselessly together behind you. Hardly had I
recovered from the effect of the deception produced by seeing the same
mountain first in front, next on my right hand, and then shifted over to
the other side of the valley, when I saw, spanned by a high bridge, the
river in violent commotion far down below me.

The Pemigewasset, confined here between narrow banks, has cut for
itself two deep channels through its craggy and cavernous bed; but
one of these being dammed for the purpose of deepening the other, the
general picturesqueness of the fall is greatly diminished. Still, it is
a pretty and engaging sight, this cataract, especially if the river be
full, although you think of a mettled Arabian harnessed in a tread-mill
when you look at it. Livermore Fall, as it is called, is but two miles
from Plymouth, the white houses of which look hot in the same brilliant
sunlight that falls so gently upon the luxuriant green of the valley.
The feature of this fall is the deep water-worn chasm through which it
plunges.

By crossing the bridge here the left bank of the stream may be followed,
the valley towns of Campton, Thornton, and Woodstock being divided by it
into numerous villages or hamlets, frequently puzzling the uninitiated
traveller, who has set out in all confidence, but who is seized by
the most cruel perplexity, upon hearing that there are four villages
in Campton, each several miles distant from the other. One would have
pleased him far better.

[Illustration: ON THE PROFILE ROAD.]

Crossing this bridge, and descending to the level meadow below the
falls, I made a brief inspection of the establishment for breeding and
stocking with trout and salmon the depleted mountain streams of New
Hampshire. The breeding-house and basins are situated just below the
falls, on the banks of the river. This is a work undertaken by the
State, with the expectation of repeopling its rivers, brooks, and ponds
with their finny inhabitants. All those streams immediately accessible
from the villages are so persistently fished by the inhabitants as to
afford little sport to the angler from a distance, who is compelled
to go farther and fare worse; but the State is certainly entitled to
much credit for its endeavor to make two trout grow where only one grew
before. It is feared, however, that the experiment of stocking the
Pemigewasset with salmon will not prove successful. The farmers who live
along the banks say that one of these fish is rarely seen, although the
fishery is protected by the most rigid regulations. No one who has not
visited the mountains between May 1st--the earliest date when fishing
is permitted--and the middle of June, can have an idea of the number
of sportsmen every year resorting to the trout streams, or of the
unheard-of drain upon those streams. Not the least of many ludicrous
sights I have witnessed was that of a man, weighing two hundred pounds,
excitedly swinging aloft a trout weighing less than two ounces, and this
trophy he exhibited to me with unfeigned triumph--the butcher! This is
mere slaughter, and ought not to be tolerated. A pretty sight is to see
the breeding-trout follow you in your walk around the margin of their
little basin to be fed from your hand. They are tame as pigeons and
ravenous as sharks.

Mount Prospect, in Holderness, is the first landmark of note. It is
seen, soon after leaving Plymouth, rising from the opposite side of the
valley, its green crest commanding a superb view of the lake region
below, and of the lofty Franconia Mountains above. It is worth ascending
this mountain were it only to see again the beautiful islet-spotted
Squam Lake and far-reaching Winnipiseogee quivering in noonday splendor.

The beautiful valley is now open throughout its whole extent. Of
course I refer only to that portion lying above Plymouth. But it is an
anomaly of mountain valleys. Its length is about twenty-five miles, and
its greatest width, I should judge, not more than three or four. For
twenty miles it is almost as straight as an arrow. There is nothing to
hinder a perfectly free and open view up or down. Contrast this with
the wilful and tortuous windings of the Ammonoosuc, or the Saco, which
seem to grope and feel their way foot by foot along their cramped and
crooked channels. The angle of ascent, too, is here so gradual as to be
scarcely noticed until the foot of the mountain wall, at its head, is
reached. True, this valley is not clothed with a feeling of overpowering
grandeur, but it is beautiful. It is not terrible, but bewitching.

The vista of mountains on the east side of the valley becomes every
moment more and more extended, and more and more interesting. A long
array of summits trending away to the north, with detached mountains
heaved above the lower clusters, like great whales sporting in a frozen
sea, is gradually uncovered. Green as a carpet, level as a floor, the
valley, adorned with clumps of elms, groves of maples, and strips of
tilled land of a rich chocolate brown, makes altogether a picture which
sets the eye fairly dancing. Even the daisies, the clover, and the
buttercups which so plentifully spangle the meadows seem far brighter
and sweeter in this atmosphere, nodding a playful welcome as you pass
them by. We are in the country of flowers.

Since passing Blair's and the bridge over the river to Campton Hollow I
was on the alert for that first and most engaging view of the Franconia
Mountains which has been so highly extolled. Perhaps I should say
that one poetic nature has revealed it to a thousand others. Without
doubt this landscape is the more striking because it is the first, and
consequently deepest, impression of grand mountain scenery obtained
by those upon whom at a turn of the road, and without premonition, it
flashes like the realization of some ecstatic vision.

Half a mile below the little hamlet of West Campton the road crosses
the point of a hill pushed well out into the valley. It is here that
the circlet of mountains is seen enclosing the valley on all sides
like a gigantic palisade. In one place, far away in the north, this
wall is shattered to its centre, like the famous Breach of Roland;
and through this enormous loop-hole we see golden mists rising above
the undiscovered country beyond. We are looking through the far-famed
Franconia Notch. On one side the clustered peaks of Lafayette lift
themselves serenely into the sky. On the left a silvery light is
playing on the ledges of Mount Cannon, softening all the asperities of
this stern-visaged mountain. The two great groups now stand fully and
finely exposed; though the lower and nearer summits are blended with
the higher by distance. Remark the difference of outline. A series of
humps marks the crest-line of the group, which culminates in the oblique
wall of Mount Cannon. On the contrary, that on the right, culminating
in Lafayette, presents two beautiful and regular pyramids, older than
Cheops, which sometimes in early morning exactly resemble two stately
monuments, springing alert and vigorous as the day which gilds them. At
a distance of twenty miles it demands good eyes and a clear atmosphere
to detect the supporting lines of these pyramidal structures, which in
reality are two separate mountains, Liberty and Flume. This exquisite
landscape seldom fails of producing a rapturous outburst from those who
are making the journey for the first time.

There are many points of resemblance between this view and that of the
White Mountains from Conway Corner. Both unfold at once, and in a single
glance, the principal systems about which all the subordinate chains
seem manoeuvring under the commanding gaze of Washington or Lafayette.

Soon after starting it was evident that my driver's loquaciousness was
due to his having "crooked his elbow" too often while loitering about
Plymouth. The frequent plunge of the wheels into the ditches by the
roadside, accompanied with a shower of mud, was little conducive to the
calm and free enjoyment of the beauties of the landscape. The driver
alone was unconcerned, and as often as good fortune enabled him to steer
clear of upsetting his passengers would articulate, thickly, "Don't be
alarmed, Cap': no one was ever hurt on this road."

Silently committing myself to that Providence which is said to watch
over the destinies of tipplers, I breathed freely only when we drew up
at the hospitable door of the village inn, bespattered with mud, but
with no broken bones.

Sanborn's, at West Campton, is the old road-side inn that long ago swung
the stag-and-hounds as its distinctive emblem. A row of superb maples
shades the road. Here we have fairly entered the renowned intervales,
that gleam among the darker forests or groves like patches of blue in
a storm-clouded sky. Looking southward, across the level meadows, the
hills of Rumney flinging up smooth, firm curves, and the more distant,
downward-plunging outline of Mount Prospect, in Holderness, close the
valley. Upon the left, where the clearings extend quite to the summits
of the near hills, the maple groves interspersed among them resemble
soldiers advancing up the green slopes in columns of attack. Following
this line a little, the valley of Mad River is distinguished by the deep
trough through which it descends from the mountains of Waterville. And
here, peering over the nearer elevations, the huge blue-black mass of
Black Mountain flings two splendid peaks aloft.

For a more intimate acquaintance with these surroundings the hillside
pasture above the school-house gives a perspective of greater breadth;
while that from the Ellsworth road is in some respects finer still.
About two miles up this road the valley of the East Branch, showing the
massive Mount Hancock, cicatriced with one long, narrow scar, is lifted
into view. The other features of the landscape remain the same, except
that Mount Cannon is now cut off by the hill rising to the north of us.
As often as one of these hidden valleys is thus revealed we are seized
with a longing to explore it.

[Illustration: WELCH MOUNTAIN, FROM MAD RIVER.]

One need not push inquiry into the antecedents of Campton or the
neighboring villages very far. The township was originally granted to
General Jabez Spencer, of East Haddam, Connecticut, in 1761. In 1768 a
few families had come into Campton, Plymouth, Hebron, Sandwich, Rumney,
Holderness, and Bridgewater. No opening had been made for civilized men
on this side of Canada except for three families, who had gone fifty
miles into the wilderness to begin a settlement where Lancaster now
is. The name is derived simply from the circumstance that the first
proprietors built a camp when they visited their grant. The different
villages are much frequented by artists, who have spread the fame of
Campton from one end of the Union to the other. But a serpent has
entered even this Eden--the villagers are sighing for the advent of the
railway.

Having dedicated one day to an exploration of the Mad River Valley, I
can pronounce it well worth any tourist's while to tarry long enough
in the vicinity for the purpose. It is certainly one of the finest
exhibitions of mountain scenery far or near. Here is a valley twelve
miles long, at the bottom of which a rapid river bruises itself on a bed
of broken rock, while above it are heaped mountains to be picked out
of a thousand for peculiarity of form or structure. The Pemigewasset
is passed by a ford just deep enough at times to invest the journey
with a little healthy excitement at the very beginning. The ford has,
however, been carefully marked by large stones placed at the edge of the
submerged road.

Fording the river and climbing the hill which lies across the entrance
to this land-locked valley, I was at once ushered upon a scene of
great and varied charm. Right before me, sunning his three peaks four
thousand feet above, was the prodigious mass of Black Mountain. Far up
the valley it stretched, forming an unbroken wall nearly ten miles long,
and apparently sealing all access from the Sandwich side. A nipple,
a pyramid, and a flattened mound protruding from the summit ridge
constitute these eminences, easily recognized from the Franconia highway
among a host of lesser peaks. At the southern end of this mountain
the range is broken through, giving passage to a rough and straggling
road--fourteen hundred feet above the sea-level--to Sandwich Centre, and
to the lake towns south of it. This pass is known as Sandwich Notch.

Campton Village lies along the hill-slope opposite to Black Mountain.
Completely does it fill the artistic sense. Its situation leaves nothing
to be desired in an ideal mountain village. So completely is it secluded
from the rest of the world by its environment of mountains, that you
might pass and repass the Pemigewasset Valley a hundred times without
once surprising the secret of its existence. All those houses, half hid
beneath groves of maples, bespeak luxurious repose. Opposite to Black
Mountain, whose dark forest drapery hides the mass of the mountain, is
the immense whitish-yellow rock called Welch Mountain. Only a scanty
vegetation is suffered to creep among the crevices. It is really
nothing but a big excrescent rock, having a principal summit shaped
somewhat like a Martello tower; and, indeed, resembling one in ruins.
The bright ledges brilliantly reflect the sun, causing the eye to turn
gratefully to the sombre gloom of the evergreens crowding the sides of
the neighboring mountains. Welch Mountain reminded me, I hardly know
why, of Chocorua; but the resemblance can scarcely extend farther than
to the meagreness, mutually characteristic, and to the blistered, almost
calcined ledges, which in each case catch the earliest and latest beams
of day. In fact, I could think only of a leper sunning his scars, and in
rags.

At the head of the vale, alternately coming into and retreating from
view--for we are still progressing--is the mysterious triple-crowned
mountain known on the maps as Tripyramid. When first seen it seems
standing solitary and alone, and to have wrapped itself in a veil of
thinnest gauze. As we advance it displays the white streak of an immense
slide, which occurred in 1869. This mountain is visible from the shore
of the lake at Laconia. It is one of the first to greet us from the
elevated summits, though from no point is its singularly admirable and
well-proportioned architecture so advantageously exhibited as when
approaching by this valley. Its northern peak stands farthest from the
others, yet not so far as to mar the general grace and harmony of form.
Hail to thee, mountain of the high, heroic crest, for thy fortunate name
and the gracious, kingly mien with which thou wearest thy triple crown!
Prince thou art and potentate. None approach thy forest courts but do
thee homage.

The end of the valley was reached in two hours of very leisurely
driving. The road abruptly terminated among a handful of houses
scattered about the bottom of a deep and narrow vale. This is, beyond
question, the most remarkable mountain glen into which civilization has
thus far penetrated. On looking up at the big mountains one experiences
a half-stifled feeling; and, on looking around the scattered hamlet, its
dozen houses seem undergoing perpetual banishment.

This diminutive settlement, in which signs of progress and decay stand
side by side--progress evidenced by new and showy cottages; decay by
abandoned and dilapidated ones--is at the edge of a region as shaggy and
wild as any in the famed Adirondack wilderness. It fairly jostles the
wilderness. It braves it. It is really insolent. Yet are its natural
resources so slender that the struggle to keep the breath in it must
have been long and obstinate. A wheezy saw-mill indicates at once its
origin and its means of livelihood; but it is evident that it might
have remained obscure and unknown until doomsday, had not a few anglers
stumbled upon it while in pursuit of brooks and waters new.

[Illustration: BLACK AND TRIPYRAMID MOUNTAINS.]

The glen is surrounded by peaks that for boldness, savage freedom,
and power challenge any that we can remember. They threaten while
maintaining an attitude of lofty scorn for the saucy intruder. The
curious Noon Peak--we have at length got to the end of the almost
endless Black Mountain--nods familiarly from the south. It long stood
for a sun-dial for the settlement; hence its name. Tecumseh, a noble
mountain, and Osceola, its worthy companion, rise to the north. A
short walk in this direction brings Kancamagus[31] and the gap between
this mountain and Osceola into view. All these mountains stand in the
magnificent order in which they were first placed by Nature; but never
does the idea of inertia, of helpless immobility, cross the mind of the
beholder for a single moment.

The unvisited region between Greeley's, in Waterville, and the Saco is
destined to be one of the favorite haunts of the sportsman, the angler,
and the lover of the grand old woods. It is crossed and recrossed by
swift streams, sown with lakes, glades, and glens, and thickly set
with mountains, among which the timid deer browses, and the bear and
wildcat roam unmolested. Fish and game, untamed and untrodden mountains
and woods, welcome the sportsman here. With Greeley's for a base,
encampments may be pitched in the forest, and exploration carried into
the most out-of-the-way corners. The full zest of such a life can
only be understood by those to whom its freedom and unrestraint, its
healthful and vigorous existence, have already proved their charm. The
time may come when the mountains shall be covered with a thousand tents,
and the summer-dwellers will resemble the tribes of Israel encamped by
the sweet waters of Sion.

Waterville maintains unfrequent communication with Livermore and the
Saco by a path twelve miles long--constructed by the Appalachian
Mountain Club--over which a few pedestrians pass every year. I have
explored this path for several miles beyond Beckytown while visiting
the great slide which sloughed off from the side of Tripyramid, and
the cascades on the way to it. Osceola, Hancock, and Carrigain, three
remarkably fine mountains, offer inviting excursions to expert climbers.
I was reluctantly compelled to renounce the intention of passing over
the whole route, which should occupy, at least, two days or parts of
days, one night being spent in camp.

The Mad River drive is a delightful episode. In the way of mountain
valley there is nothing like it. Bold crag, furious torrent, lonely
cabin, blue peak, deep hollow, choked up with the densest foliage,
constitute its varied and ever-changing features. The overhanging
woods looked as if it had been raining sunshine; the road like an
endless grotto of illuminated leaves, musical with birds, and exhaling a
thousand perfumes.

[Illustration: FRANCONIA NOTCH, FROM THORNTON.]

The remainder of the route up the Pemigewasset is more and more a
revelation of the august summits that have so constantly met us
since entering this lovely valley. Boldly emerging from the mass of
mountains, they present themselves at every mile in new combinations.
Through Thornton and Woodstock the spectacle continues almost without
intermission. Gradually, the finely-pointed peaks of the Lafayette group
deploy and advance toward us. Now they pitch sharply down into the
valley of the East Branch. Now the great shafts of stone are crusted
with silvery light, or sprayed with the cataract. Now the sun gilds the
slides that furrow, but do not deface them. Stay a moment at this rapid
brook that comes hastening from the west! It is an envoy from yonder
great, billowy mountain that lords it so proudly over

        "many a nameless slide-scarred crest
    And pine-dark gorge between."

That is Moosehillock. Facing again the north, the road is soon swallowed
up by the forest, and the forest by the mountains. A few poor cottages
skirt the route. Still ascending, the miles grow longer and less
interesting, until the white house, first seen from far below, suddenly
stands uncovered at the left. We are at the Flume House, and before the
gates of the Franconia Notch.




II.

THE FRANCONIA PASS.

    Beyond them, like a sun-rimmed cloud,
      The great Notch Mountains shone,
    Watched over by the solemn-browed
      And awful face of stone!--WHITTIER.


When Boswell exclaimed in ecstasy, "An immense mountain!" Dr. Johnson
sneered, "An immense protuberance!" but he, the sublime cynic, became
respectful before leaving the Hebrides. Charles Lamb, too, at one time
pretended something approaching contempt for mountains; but, after a
visit to Coleridge, he made the _amende honorable_ in these terms:

"I feel I shall remember your mountains to the last day of my life.
They haunt me perpetually. I am like a man who has been falling in love
unknown to himself; which he finds out when he leaves the lady."

Notwithstanding their prepossessions against nature, and their
undisguised preference for the smoke and dirt of London, the mountains
awoke something in these two men which was apparently a revelation of
themselves unto themselves. I have felt a higher respect for both since
I knew that they loved mountains, as I pity those who have only seen
heaven through the smoke of the city. It is not easy to explain two
ideas so essentially opposite as are presented in the earlier and later
declarations of these widely famous authors, unless we agree, keeping
"Elia's" odd simile in mind, that in the first case they should, like
woman, be taken, not at what she says, but what she means.

The Flume House is the proper tarrying-place for an investigation of the
mountain gorge from which it derives both its custom and its name. It
is also placed opposite to the Pool, another of those natural wonders
with which the pass is crowded, and which tempt us at every step to turn
aside from the travelled road.

Fronting the hotel is a belt of woods, with two massive mountains
rising behind. In the concealment of these woods the Pemigewasset,
contracted to a modest stream, runs along the foot of the mountains.
A rough, zigzag path leads through the woods to the river and to the
Pool. Now raise the eyes to the summit-ridge of yonder mountain. The
peak finely reproduces the features of a gigantic human face, while
the undulations of the ridge fairly suggest a recumbent human figure
wrapped in a shroud. The outlines of the forehead and nose are curiously
like the profile of Washington; hence the colossal figure is called
Washington Lying in State. This immortal sculpture gave rise to the idea
that the tomb of Washington, like that of Desaix, on the St. Bernard,
should be on the great summit that bears his name.

[Illustration: A GLIMPSE OF THE POOL.]

From the Flume House I looked up through the deep cleft of the Notch--an
impressive vista. To the left is Cannon, or Profile Mountain; to the
right the beetling crags of Eagle Cliff; then the pointed, shapely peaks
of Lafayette; and so the range continues breaking off and off, bending
away into lesser mountains that finally melt into pale-blue shadows.
Now a stray cloud atop a peak gives it a volcanic character. Now a puff
scatters it like thistle-down. It is a sultry summer's morning, and
banks of film hang like huge spider's-webs in the tree-tops. Soon they
detach themselves, and, floating lazily upward, are seized by a truant
breeze, spun mischievously round, and then settle quietly down on the
highest peaks like young eaglets on their nest.

Let us first walk down to the Pool. This Pool is a caprice of the river.
Imagine a cistern, deeply sunk in granite, receiving at one end a weary
cascade, which seems to crave a moment's rest before hurrying on down
the rocky pass. In the mystery and seclusion of ages, and with only the
rude implements picked up by the way, the river has hollowed a basin
a hundred feet wide and forty deep out of the stubborn rock. Without
doubt Nature thus first taught us to cut the hardest marble with sand
and water. Cliffs traversed by cracks rise a hundred feet higher.
The water is a glossy and lustrous sea-green, and of such marvellous
transparency that you see the brilliant pebbles sparkling at the bottom,
shifting with the waves of light like bits of glass in a kaleidoscope.
Overtopping trees lean timidly over and peer down into the Pool, which
coldly repulses their shadows. Only the colorless hue of the rocks
is reflected; and the stranger, seeing an old man with a gray beard
standing erect in a boat, has no other idea than that he has arrived on
the borders and is to be accosted by the ferryman of Hades.

The Flume is reached by going down the road a short distance, and then
diverging to the left and crossing the river to the Flume Brook. A
carriage-way conducts almost to the entrance of the gorge. Then begins
an easy and interesting promenade up the bed of the brook.

This is a remarkable rock-gallery, driven several hundred feet into
the heart of the mountain, through which an ice-cold brook rushes. The
miracle of Moses seems repeated here sublimely. Some unknown power smote
the rock, and the prisoned stream gushed forth free and lightsome as
air. You approach it over broad ledges of freckled granite, polished
by the constant flow of a thin, pellucid sheet of water to slippery
smoothness. Proceeding a short distance up this natural esplanade, you
enter a damp and gloomy fissure between perpendicular walls, rising
seventy feet above the stream, and, on lifting your eyes suddenly,
espy an enormous bowlder tightly wedged between the cliffs. Now try to
imagine a force capable of grasping the solid rock and dividing it in
halves as easily as you would an apple with your two hands.

[Illustration: THE FLUME, FRANCONIA NOTCH.]

At sight of the suspended bowlder, which seems, like Paul Pry, to have
"just dropped in," I believe every visitor has his moment of hesitation,
which he usually ends by passing underneath, paying as he goes with a
tremor of the nerves, more or less, for his temerity. But there is no
danger. It is seen that the deep crevice, into which the rock seems
jammed with the especial purpose of holding it asunder, also hugs the
intruder like a vise; so closely, indeed, that, according to every
appearance, it must stay where it is until doomsday, unless released by
some passing earthquake from its imprisonment. Sentimental tourists do
not omit to find a moral in this curiosity, which really looks to be on
the eve of dropping, with a loud splash, into the torrent beneath. On
top of the cliffs I picked up a visiting-card, on which some one with
a poetic turn had written, "Does not this bowlder remind you of the
sword of Damocles?" To a civil question, civil reply: No; to me it looks
like a nut in a cracker.

Over the gorge bends an arcade of interlaced foliage shot through and
through with sunshine; and wherever cleft or cranny can be found young
birches, sword-ferns, trailing vines, insinuating their long roots in
the damp mould, garland the cold granite with tenderest green. The
exquisite white anemone blooms in the mossy wall wet with tiny streams
that do not run but glide unperceived down. What could be more cunning
than the persistency with which these hardy waifs, clinging or drooping
along the craggy way, draw their sustenance from the rock, which seems
to nourish them in spite of itself? Underneath your feet the swollen
torrent storms along the gorge, dashing itself recklessly against
intruding bowlders, or else passing them with a curl of disdain. How
gallantly it surmounts every obstacle in its way! How crystal-clear are
its waters! On it speeds, scattering pearls and diamonds right and left,
like the prodigal it is; unpolluted, as yet, by the filth of cities, or
turned into a languid, broken-spirited drudge by dams or mill-wheels.
"Stop me?" it seems exclaiming. "Why, I am offspring of the clouds,
their messenger to the parched earth, the mountain maid-of-all-work!
Stay; step aside here in the sun and I will show you my rainbow-signet!
When I rest, do you not behold the mother imaged in the features of the
child? Stop me! Put your hand in my bosom and see how strong and full
of life are my pulse-beats. To-morrow I shall be vapor. Thought is not
freer. I do not belong to earth any more than the eagle sailing above
yonder mountain-top."

Overhead a fallen tree-trunk makes a crazy bridge from cliff to cliff.
The sight of the gorge, with the flood foaming far below, the glitter
of falling waters through the trees, the splendid light in the midst of
deepest gloom, the solemn pines--the odorous forest, the wildness and
the coolness--impart an indescribable charm to the spot that makes us
reluctant to leave it. Many ladies ascend to the head of the gorge and,
crossing on the rude bridge, leave their visiting-cards on the other
side; one had left her pocket-handkerchief, with the scent fresh upon
it. I picked it up, and out hopped a toad.

After the Pool and the Flume, an ascent of the mountain behind the hotel
will be found conducive to enjoyment of another kind. This mountain
commands delicious views of the valley of the Pemigewasset. A short hour
is usually sufficient for the climb. It was a very raw, windy morning
on which I climbed it, but the uncommon purity of the air and the
exceeding beauty of the landscape were most rarely combined with cloud
effects seen only in conjunction with a brisk north-west wind. I had
taken a station similar to that occupied by Mount Willard with respect
to the Saco Valley, now opening a vista essentially different from
that most memorable one in my mountain experience. The valley is not
the same. You see the undulating course of the river for many leagues,
and but for an intercepting hill, which hides them, might distinguish
the houses of Plymouth. The vales of Woodstock, Thornton, and Campton,
spotted with white houses, lie outspread in the sun, between enclosing
mountains; and the windings of the Pemigewasset are now seen dark and
glossy, now white with foam, appearing, disappearing, and finally lost
to view in the blended distance. The sky was packed with clouds. Over
the vivid green of the intervales their black shadows drifted swiftly
and noiselessly, first turning the light on, then off again, with
magical effect. To look up and see these clouds all in motion, and then,
looking down, see those weird draperies darkly trailing over the land,
was a reminiscence of

    "The dim and shadowy armies of our unquiet dreams--
     Their footsteps brush the dewy fern and paint the shaded streams."

The mountain ridges flowed southward with marvellous smoothness to the
vanishing-point, on one side of the valley bright green, on the other
indigo blue. This picture was not startling, like that from the Crawford
Notch, but, in its own way, was incomparable. The sunsets are said to be
beautiful beyond description.

One looks up the Notch upon the great central peaks composing
the water-shed--Cannon, Lafayette, Lincoln, and the rest--to see
crags, ridges, black forests, rising before him in all their gloomy
magnificence.

[Illustration: THE BASIN.]

On one side all is beauty, harmony, and grace; on the other, a packed
mass of bristling, steep-sided mountains seem storming the sky with
their gray turrets. Could we but look over the brawny shoulders of the
mountains opposite to us, the eye would take in the vast, untrodden
solitudes of the Pemigewasset forests cut by the East Branch and
presided over by Mount Carrigain--a region as yet reserved for those
restless and adventurous spirits whom the beaten paths of travel have
ceased to charm or attract. But an excursion into this "forest primeval"
is to be no holiday promenade. It is an arduous and difficult march
over slippery rocks, through tangled thickets, or up the beds of
mountain torrents. Hard fare and a harder bed of boughs finish the day,
every hour of which has been a continued combat with fresh obstacles.
At this price one may venture to encounter the virgin wilderness or, as
the cant phrase is, "try roughing it." It is a curious feeling to turn
your back upon the last cart-path, then upon the last foot-path; to hear
the distant baying of a hound grow fainter and fainter--in a word, to
exchange at a single step the sights and sounds of civilized life, the
movement, the bustle, for a silence broken only by the hum of bees and
the murmur of invisible waters.

I left the Flume House in company with a young-old man, whom I met
there, and in whom I hoped to find another and a surer pair of eyes,
for, were he to have as many as Argus, the sight-seer would find
employment for them all.

While gayly threading the green-wood, we came upon a miniature edition
of the Pool, situated close to the highway, called the Basin. A basin
in fact it is, and a bath fit for the gods. It is plain to see that
the stream once poured over the smooth ledges here, instead of making
its exit by the present channel. A cascade falls into it with hollow
roar. This cistern has been worn by the rotary motion of large pebbles
which the little cascade, pouring down into it from above, set and
kept actively whirling and grinding at its own mad caprice. But this
was not the work of a day. Long and constant attrition only could have
scooped this cavity out of the granite, which is here so clean, smooth,
and white, and filled to the brim with a grayish-emerald water, light,
limpid, and incessantly replenished by the effervescent cascade. In the
beginning this was doubtless an insignificant crevice, into which a few
pebbles and a handful of sand were dropped by the stream, but which,
having no way of escape, were kept in a perpetual tread-mill, until what
was at first a mere hole became as we now see it. The really curious
feature of the stone basin is a strip of granite projecting into it
which closely resembles a human leg and foot, luxuriously cooling itself
in the stream. Such queer freaks of nature are not merely curious,
but they while away the hours so agreeably that time and distance are
forgotten.

As we walked on, the hills were constantly hemming us in closer and
closer. Suddenly we entered a sort of crater, with high mountains all
around. One impulse caused us to halt and look about us. In full view
at our left the inaccessible precipices of Mount Cannon rose above a
mountain of shattered stones, which ages upon ages of battering have
torn piecemeal from it. Its base was heaped high with these ruins.
Seldom has it fallen to my lot to see anything so grandly typical
of the indomitable as this sorely battered and disfigured mountain
citadel, which nevertheless lifts and will still lift its unconquerable
battlements so long as one stone remains upon another. Hewed and
hacked, riven and torn, gashed and defaced in countless battles, one
can hardly repress an emotion of pity as well as of admiration. I do
not recollect, in all these mountains, another such striking example
of the denuding forces with which they are perpetually at war. When we
see mountains crumbling before our very eyes, may we not begin to doubt
the stability of things that we are pleased to call eternal? Still,
although it seems erected solely for the pastime of all the powers of
destruction, this one, so glorious in its unconquerable resolve to die
at its post--this one, exposing its naked breast to the fury of its
deadliest foes--so stern and terrific of aspect, so high and haughty,
so dauntlessly throwing down the gauntlet to Fate itself--assures us
that the combat will be long and obstinate, and that the mountain will
fall at last, if fall it must, with the grace and heroism of a gladiator
in the Roman arena. The gale flies at it with a shriek of impotent
rage. Winter strips off its broidered tunic and flings white dust in
its aged face. Rust corrodes, rains drench, fires scorch it; lightning
and frost are forever searching out the weak spots in its harness; but,
still uplifting its adamantine crest, it receives unshaken the stroke
or the blast, spurns the lightning, mocks the thunder, and stands fast.
Underneath is a little lake, which at sunset resembles a pool of blood
that has trickled drop by drop from the deep wounds in the side of the
mountain.

We are still advancing in this region of wonders. In our front soars an
insuperable mass of forest-shagged rock. Behind it rises the absolutely
regal Lafayette. Our footsteps are stayed by the glimmer of water
through trees by the road-side. We have reached the summit of the pass.

Six miles of continued ascent from the Flume House have brought us to
Profile Lake, which the road skirts. Although a pretty enough piece of
water, it is not for itself this lake is resorted to by its thousands,
or for being the source of the Pemigewasset, or for its trout--which
you take for the reflection of birds on its burnished surface--but for
the mountain rising high above, whose wooded slopes it so faithfully
mirrors. Now lift the eyes to the bare summit! It is difficult to
believe the evidence of the senses! Upon the high cliffs of this
mountain is the remarkable and celebrated natural rock sculpture of a
human head, which, from a height twelve hundred feet above the lake,
has for uncounted ages looked with the same stony stare down the pass
upon the windings of the river through its incomparable valley. The
profile itself measures about forty feet from the tip of the chin to
the flattened crown which imparts to it such a peculiarly antique
appearance. All is perfect, except that the forehead is concealed by
something like the visor of a helmet. And all this illusion is produced
by several projecting crags. It might be said to have been begotten by a
thunder-bolt.

Taking a seat within a rustic arbor on the high shore of the lake,
one is at liberty to peruse at leisure what, I dare say, is the most
extraordinary sight of a lifetime. A change of position varies more or
less the character of the expression, which is, after all, the marked
peculiarity of this monstrous _alto relievo_; for let the spectator
turn his gaze vacantly upon the more familiar objects at hand--as he
inevitably will, to assure himself that he is not the victim of some
strange hallucination--a fascination born neither of admiration nor
horror, but strongly partaking of both emotions, draws him irresistibly
back to the Dantesque head stuck, like a felon's, on the highest
battlements of the pass. The more you may have seen, the more your
feelings are disciplined, the greater the confusion of ideas. The moment
is come to acknowledge yourself vanquished. This is not merely a face,
it is a portrait. That is not the work of some cunning chisel, but a
cast from a living head. You feel and will always maintain that those
features have had a living and breathing counterpart. Nothing more,
nothing less.

But where and what was the original prototype? Not man; since, ages
before he was created, the chisel of the Almighty wrought this sculpture
upon the rock above us. No, not man; the face is too majestic, too
nobly grand, for anything of mortal mould. One of the antique gods may,
perhaps, have sat for this archetype of the coming man. And yet not man,
we think, for the head will surely hold the same strange converse with
futurity when man shall have vanished from the face of the earth.

This gigantic silhouette, which has been dubbed the Old Man of the
Mountain, is unquestionably the greatest curiosity of this or any other
mountain region. It is unique. But it is not merely curious; nor is
it more marvellous for the wonderful accuracy of outline than for the
almost superhuman expression of frozen terror it eternally fixes on the
vague and shadowy distance--a far-away look; an intense and speechless
amazement, such as sometimes settles on the faces of the dying at the
moment the soul leaves the body forever--untranslatable into words, but
seeming to declare the presence of some unutterable vision, too bright
and dazzling for mortal eyes to behold. The face puts the whole world
behind it. It does everything but speak--nay, you are ready to swear
that it is going to speak! And so this chance jumbling together of a few
stones has produced a sculpture before which Art hangs her head.

I renounce in dismay the idea of reproducing the effect on the reader's
mind which this prodigy produced on my own. Impressions more pronounced,
yet at the same time more inexplicable, have never so effectually
overcome that habitual self-command derived from many experiences of
travel among strange and unaccustomed scenes. From the moment the
startled eye catches it one is aware of a _Presence_ which dominates the
spirit, first with strange fear, then by that natural revulsion which
at such moments makes the imagination supreme, conducts straight to
the supernatural, there to leave it helplessly struggling in a maze of
impotent conjecture. But, even upon this debatable ground, between two
worlds, one is not able to surprise the secret of those lips of marble.
The Sphinx overcomes us by his stony, his disdainful silence. Let the
visitor be ever so unimpassioned, surely he must be more than mortal to
resist the impression of mingled awe, wonder, and admiration which a
first sight of this weird object forces upon him. He is, indeed, less
than human if the feeling does not continually grow and deepen while
he looks. The face is so amazing, that I have often tried to imagine
the sensations of him who first discovered it peering from the top of
the mountain with such absorbed, open-mouthed wonder. Again I see the
tired Indian hunter, pausing to slake his thirst by the lake-side,
start as his gaze suddenly encounters this terrific apparition. I
fancy the half-uttered exclamation sticking in his throat. I behold
him standing there with bated breath, not daring to stir hand or foot,
his white lips parted, his scared eyes dilated, until his own swarthy
features exactly reflect that unearthly, that intense amazement stamped
large and vivid upon the livid rock. There he remains, rooted to the
spot, unable to reason, trembling in every limb. For him there are no
accidents of nature; for him everything has its design. His moment of
terrible suspense is hardly difficult to understand, seeing how careless
thousands that come and go are thrilled, and awed, and silenced,
notwithstanding you tell them the face is nothing but rocks.

[Illustration: THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN.]

If the effect upon minds of the common order be so pronounced, a first
sight of the Great Stone Face may easily be supposed to act powerfully
upon the imaginative and impressible. The novelist, Hawthorne, makes
it the interpreter of a noble life. For him the Titanic countenance is
radiant with majestic benignity. He endows it with a soul, surrounds the
colossal brow with the halo of a spiritual grandeur, and, marshalling
his train of phantoms, proceeds to pass inexorable judgment upon them.
Another legend--like its predecessor, too long for our pages--runs to
the effect that a painter who had resolved to paint Christ sitting in
judgment, and who was filled with the grandeur of his subject, wandered
up and down the great art palaces, the cathedrals of the Old World,
seeking in vain a model which should in all things be the embodiment of
his ideal. In despair at the futility of his search he hears a strange
report, brought by some pious missionaries from the New World, of a
wonderful image of the human face which the Indians looked upon with
sacred veneration. The painter immediately crossed the sea, and caused
himself to be guided to the spot, where he beheld, in the profile of the
great White Mountains, the object of his search and fulfilment of his
dream. The legend is entitled _Christus Judex._

Had Byron visited this place of awe and mystery, his "Manfred," the
scene of which is laid among the mountains of the Bernese Alps, would
doubtless have had a deeper and perhaps gloomier impulse; but even among
the eternal realms of ice the poet never beheld an object that could
so arouse the gloomy exaltation he has breathed into that tragedy. His
line--

     "Bound to earth, he lifts his eye to heaven"--

becomes descriptive here.

Again and again we turn to the face. We go away to wonder if it is still
there. We come back to wonder still more. An emotion of pity mingles
with the rest. Time seems to have passed it by. It seems undergoing some
terrible sentence. It is a greater riddle than the gigantic stone face
on the banks of the Nile.

All effects of light and shadow are so many changes of countenance or of
expression. I have seen the face cut sharp and clear as an antique cameo
upon the morning sky. I have seen it suffused, nay, almost transfigured,
in the sunset glow. Often and often does a cloud rest upon its brow. I
have seen it start fitfully out of the flying scud to be the next moment
smothered in clouds. I have heard the thunder roll from its lips of
stone. I recall the sunken cheeks, wet with the damps of its night-long
vigil, glistening in the morning sunshine--smiling through tears. I
remember its emaciated visage streaked and crossed with wrinkles that
the snow had put there in a night; but never have I seen it insipid or
commonplace. On the contrary, the overhanging brow, the antique nose,
the protruding under-lip, the massive chin, might belong to another
Prometheus chained to the rock, but whom no punishment could make lower
his haughty head.

I lingered by the margin of the lake watching the play of the clouds
upon the water, until a loud and resonant peal, followed by large, warm
drops, admonished me to seek the nearest shelter. And what thunder!
The hills rocked. What echoes! The mountains seemed knocking their
stony heads together. What lightning! The very heavens cracked with the
flashes.

                                 "Far along
    From peak to peak the rattling crags among
    Leaps the live thunder! not from one lone cloud,
    But every mountain now hath found a tongue,
    And Jura answers, through her misty shroud,
    Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!"




III.

_THE KING OF FRANCONIA._

                           Hills draw like heaven
    And stronger, sometimes, holding out their hands
    To pull you from the vile flats up to them.
                                    E. B. BROWNING.


At noon we reached the spacious and inviting Profile House, which is
hid away in a deep and narrow glen, nearly two thousand feet above
the sea. No situation could be more sequestered or more charming. The
place seems stolen from the unkempt wilderness that shuts it in. An
oval, grassy plain, not extensive, but bright and smiling, spreads its
green between a grisly precipice and a shaggy mountain. And there, if
you-will believe me, in front of the long, white-columned hotel, like a
Turkish rug on a carpet, was a pretty flower-garden. Like those flowers
on the lawn were beauties sauntering up and down in exquisite morning
toilets, coquetting with their bright-colored parasols, and now and then
glancing up at the grim old mountains with that air of elegant disdain
which is so redoubtable a weapon--even in the mountains. Little children
fluttered about the grass like beautiful butterflies, and as unmindful
of the terrors that hovered over them so threateningly. Nurses in their
stiff grenadier caps and white aprons, lackeys in livery, cadets in
uniform, elegant equipages, blooded horses, dainty shapes on horseback,
cavaliers, and last, but not least, the resolute pedestrian, or the
gentlemen strollers up and down the shaded avenues, made up a scene as
animated as attractive. There is tonic in the air: there is healing in
the balm of these groves. Even the horses step out more briskly. Peals
of laughter startle the solemn old woods. You hear them high up the
mountain side. There go a pair of lovers, the gentleman with his book,
whose most telling passages he has carefully conned, the lady with her
embroidery, over which she bends lower as he reads on. Ah, happy days!
What is this youth, which, having it, we are so eager to escape, and,
when it is gone, we look back upon with such longing?

[Illustration: EAGLE CLIFF AND THE ECHO HOUSE.]

The lofty crag opposite the hotel is Eagle Cliff, a name at once
legitimate and satisfying, although it is now untenanted by the eagles
which formerly made their home in the security of its precipitous
rocks. The cliff is also seen to great advantage from Echo Lake, half a
mile farther on, of which it constitutes a striking feature. In simple
parlance it is an advanced spur of Mount Lafayette. The high and curving
wall of this cliff encloses on one side the Profile Glen, while Mount
Cannon forms the other. The precipices tower so far above the glen that
large trees look like shrubs. Behind Eagle Cliff, almost isolating it
from the mountain, of which it is the barbacan, a hideous ravine yawns
upon the pass. Here and there, among the thick-set evergreen trees,
beech and birch and maple, spread masses of rich green, and mottle it
with softness. The purple rock bulges daringly out, forming a parapet of
adamant.

The turf underneath the cliff was most beautifully and profusely
spangled with the delicate pink anemone, the _fleur des fées_, that
pale darling of our New England woods, to which the arbutus resigns the
sceptre of spring. It is a moving sight to see these little drooping
flowers, so shy and modest, yet so meek and trustful, growing at the
foot of a bare and sterile rock. The face hardened looking up; grew
soft looking down. "Don't tread on us!" "May not a flower look up at a
mountain?" they seem to plead. Lightly fall the dews upon your upturned
faces, dear little flowers! Soft be the sunshine and gentle the winds
that kiss those sky-tinted cheeks! In thy sweet purity and innocence
I see faces that are beneath the sod, flowers that have blossomed in
Paradise.

We see also, from the hotel, the singular rock that occasioned the
change of name from Profile to Cannon Mountain. It nearly resembles a
piece of heavy ordnance protruding, threateningly, from the parapet of a
fortress.

Taking one of the well-worn paths conducting to the water-side, a few
minutes' walk brings us to the shore of Echo Lake, with Eagle Cliff now
rising grandly on our right. Nowhere among the White Hills is there a
fuller realization of a mountain lake than this. Light flaws frost it
with silver. Sharp keels cut it as diamonds cut glass. The water is so
transparent that you see fishes swimming or floating indolently about.

[Illustration: ECHO LAKE.]

Echo Lake is somewhat larger than Profile Lake, and is only a step
from the road. Its sources are in the hundred streams that descend the
surrounding mountains, and its waters are discharged by the valley,
lying between us and the heights of Bethlehem, into the Ammonoosuc.
Therefore, in coming from one lake to the other we have crossed the
summit of the pass. On one side the waters flow to the Merrimac, on the
other to the Connecticut. An idle fancy tempted me to bring a cup of
water from Profile and cast it into Echo Lake, forgetting that, although
divided in their lives, the twin lakes had yet a common destiny in the
abyss of the ocean. I found the outlook from the boat-house on the whole
the most satisfying, because one looks back directly through the deep
chasm of the Notch.

In this beautiful little mountain-tarn the true artist finds his ideal.
The snowy peak of Lafayette looked down into it with a freezing stare.
Cannon Mountain now showed his retreating wall on the right. The huge,
castellated rampart of Eagle Cliff lifted on its borders precipices
dripping with moisture, and glistening in the sun like casements.
Except for the lake, the whole aspect would be irredeemably savage
and forbidding--a blind landscape; but when the sun sinks behind the
long ridge of Mount Cannon, purpling all these grisly crags, and the
cloaked shadows, groping their way foot by foot up the ravines, seem
spectres risen from the depths of the lake, you see, underneath the
cliffs, long and slender spears of golden light thrust deep into its
black and glossy tide, crimsoning it as with its own life-blood. Then,
too, is the proper moment for surprising these vain old mountains
viewing themselves in their mountain mirror, in which the bald, the
wrinkled, and the decrepit appear young, vigorous, and gloriously fair;
to see them gloating over their swarthy features like the bandit in
"Fra Diavolo." Their ragged mantles are changed to gaudy cashmeres,
picturesquely twisted about their brawny shoulders, their snows to
laces. Oh the pomp, the majesty of these sunsets, which so glorify
the upturned faces of the haggard cliffs; which transmute, as in the
miracle, water into wine; which instantly transform these rugged
mountain walls into gates of jasper, and ruby, and onyx--glowing,
effulgent, enrapturing! And then, after the sun drops wearily down the
west, that gauze-like vapor, spun from the breath of evening, rising
like incense from the surface of the lake, which the mountains put on
for the masque of night; and, finally, the inquisitive stars piercing
the lake with ice-cold gleams, or the full-moon breaking in one great
burst of splendor on its level surface!

The echo adds its feats of ventriloquism. The marvel of the phonograph
is but a mimicry of Nature, the universal teacher. Now the man blows
a strong, clear blast upon a long Alpine horn, and, like a bugle-call
flying from camp to camp, the martial signal is repeated, not once, but
again and again, in waves of bewitching sweetness and with the exquisite
modulations of the wood-thrush's note. From covert to covert, now here,
now there, it chants its rapturous melody. Once again it glides upon
the entranced ear, and still we lean in breathless eagerness to catch
the last faint cadence sighing itself away upon the palpitating air. A
cannon was then fired. The report and echo came with the flash. In a
moment more a deep and hollow rumbling sound, as if the mountains were
splitting their huge sides with suppressed laughter, startled us.

The ascent of Mount Lafayette fittingly crowns the series of excursions
through which we have passed since leaving Plymouth. This mountain
dominates the valleys north and south with undisputed sway. It is the
King of Franconia.

At seven in the morning I crossed the little clearing, and, turning into
the path leading to the summit, found myself at the beginning of a steep
ascent. It was one of the last and fairest days of that bright season
which made the poet exclaim,

    "And what is so fair as a day in June?"

The thunder-storm of the previous afternoon, which continued its furious
cannonade at intervals throughout the night, had purified the air and
given promise of a day favorable for the ascension. No clouds were upon
the mountains. Everything betokened a pacific disposition.

[Illustration: MOUNT CANNON, FROM THE BRIDLE-PATH, LAFAYETTE.]

The path at once attacks the south side of Eagle Cliff. A short way up,
openings afford fine views of Mount Cannon and its weird profile, of the
valley below, and of the glen we have just left. The stupendous mass of
Eagle Cliff, suspended a thousand feet over your head, accelerates the
pace.

After an hour of steady, but not rapid, climbing, the path turned
abruptly under the shattered, but still formidable, precipices of the
cliff, which rose some distance higher, skirted it awhile, and then
began to zigzag among huge rocks along the narrow ridge uniting the
cliff with the mass of the mountain. Two deep ravines fall away on
either side. For two or three hundred yards, from the time the shoulder
of the cliff is turned until the mountain itself is reached, the walk
is as romantic an episode of mountain climbing as any I can recall,
except the narrow gully of Chocorua. But this passage presents no such
difficulties as must be overcome there. Although heaped with rocks, the
way is easy, and is quite level. In one place, where it glides between
two prodigious masses of rock dislodged from the cliff, it is so narrow
as to admit only a single person at a time. When I turned to look back
down the black ravine, cutting into the south side of the mountain, my
eye met nothing but immense rocks stopped in their descent on the very
edge of the gulf. It is among these that a way has been found for the
path, which was to me a reminiscence of the high defiles of the Isthmus
of Darien; to complete the illusion, nothing was now wanting except the
tinkling bells of the mules and the song of the muleteer. I climbed upon
one of the high rocks, and gazed to my full content upon the granite
parapet of Mount Cannon.

In a few rods more the path encountered the great ravine opening into
the valley of Gale River. Through its wide trough brilliant strips of
this valley gleamed out far below. The village of Franconia and the
heights of Lisbon and Bethlehem now appeared on this side.

I think that the perception of a distance climbed is greater to one who
is looking down from a great height than to one looking up. Doubtless
the imagination, which associates the plunging lines of a deep gorge
with the horror of a fall, has much to do with this impression. Upon
crossing a bridge of logs, the peak of Lafayette leaped up; yet so
distant as to promise no easy conquest. Somewhere down the gorge I heard
the roar of a brook; then the report of the cannon at Echo Lake; but up
here there was no echo.

The usual indications now assured me that I was nearing the top. In
three-quarters of an hour from the time of leaving the natural bridge,
joining Eagle Cliff with the mountain, I stood upon the first of the
great billows which, rolling in to a common centre, appear to have
forced the true summit a thousand feet higher.

The first, perhaps the most curious, thing that I noticed--for one
hardly suspects the existence of considerable bodies of water in these
high regions, and, therefore, never comes upon them except unawares--was
two little lakelets, nestling in the hollow between me and the main
peak. Reposing amid the sterility of the high peaks, these lakes
surround themselves with such plants as have survived the ascent from
below, or, nourished by the snows of the summit, those that never do
descend into temperate climates. Thus an appearance of fertility--one
of those deceptions that we welcome, knowing it to be such--greets us
unexpectedly. But its appearance is weird and forbidding. Here the
extremes of arctic and temperate vegetation meet and embrace; here the
flowers of the valley annually visit their pale sisters, banished by
Nature to these Siberian solitudes; and here the rough, strong Alpine
grass, striking its roots deep among the atoms of sand, granite, or
flint, lives almost in defiance of Nature herself; and when the snows
come and the freezing north winds blow, and it can no longer stand
erect, throws itself upon the tender plants, like a brave soldier
expiring on the body of his helpless comrade, saved by his own devotion.

But these Alpine lakes always provoke a smile. When some distance
beyond the Eagle Lakes, as they are called, and higher, I caught,
underneath a wooded ridge of Cannon, the sparkle of one hidden among
the summits on the opposite side of the Notch. The immense, solitary
Kinsman Mountain overtops Cannon as easily as Cannon does Eagle Cliff.
In its dark setting of the thickest and blackest forests this lake
blazed like one of the enormous diamonds which our forefathers so firmly
believed existed among these mountains. They call this water--only to
be discovered by getting above it--Lonesome Lake, and in summer it is
the chosen retreat of one well known to American literature, whom the
mountains know, and who knows them.

I descended the slope to the plateau on which the lakes lie, soon
gaining the rush-grown shore of the nearest. Its water was hardly
drinkable, but your thirsty climber is not apt to be too fastidious.
These lakes are prettier from a distance; the spongy and yielding moss,
the sickly yellow sedge surrounding them, and the rusty brown of the
brackish water, do not invite us to tarry long.

[Illustration: CLOUD EFFECTS ON MOUNT LAFAYETTE.]

The ascent of the pinnacle now began. It is too much a repetition,
though by no means as toilsome, of the Mount Washington climb to merit
particular description. This peak, too, seems disinherited by Nature.
The last trees encountered are the stunted firs with distorted little
trunks, which it may have required half a century to grow as thick as
the wrist. I left the region of Alpine trees to enter that of gray
rocks, constantly increasing in size toward the summit, where they were
confusedly piled in ragged ridges, one upon another, looming large and
threateningly in the distance. But as often as I stopped to breathe
I scanned "the landscape o'er" with all the delight of a wholly new
experience. The fascination of being on a mountain-top has yet to be
explained. Perhaps, after all, it is not susceptible of analysis.

After gaining the highest visible point, to find the real summit
still beyond, I stopped to drink at a delicious spring trickling from
underneath a large rock, around which the track wound. I was now among
the ruin and demolition of the summit, standing in the midst of a vast
atmospheric ocean.

Had I staked all my hopes upon the distant view, no choice but
disappointment was mine to accept. Steeped in the softest, dreamiest
azure that ever dull earth borrowed from bright heaven, a hundred peaks
lifted their airy turrets on high. These castles of the air--for I will
maintain that they were nothing else--loomed with enchanting grace,
the nearest like battlements of turquoise and amethyst, or, receding
through infinite gradations to the merest shadows, seemed but the dusky
reflection of those less remote. The air was full of illusions. There
was bright sunshine, yet only a deluge of semi-opaque golden vapor.
There were forms without substance. See those iron-ribbed, deep-chested
mountains! I declare it seemed as if a swallow might fly through them
with ease! Over the great Twin chain were traced, apparently on the air
itself, some humid outlines of surpassing grace which I recognized for
the great White Mountains. It was a dream of the great poetic past: of
the golden age of Milton and of Dante. The mountains seemed dissolving
and floating away before my eyes.

Stretched beneath the huge land-billows, the valleys--north, south, or
west--reflected the fervid sunshine with softened brilliance, and all
those white farms and hamlets spotting them looked like flakes of foam
in the hollows of an immense ocean.

Heaven forbid that I should profane such a scene with the dry recital
of this view or that! I did not even think of it. A study of one of
Nature's most capricious moods interested me far more than a study of
topography. How should I know that what I saw were mountains, when the
earth itself was not clearly distinguishable? Alone, surrounded by all
these delusions, I had, indeed, a support for my feet, but none whatever
for the bewildered senses.

I found the mountain-top untenanted except by horse-flies, black gnats,
and active little black spiders. These swarmed upon the rocks. I also
found buttercups, the mountain-cranberry, and a heath, bearing a little
white flower, blossoming near the summit. There were the four walls of a
ruined building, a cairn, and a signal-staff to show that some one had
been before me. This staff is 5259 feet above the ocean, or 3245 feet
above the summit of the Franconia Pass.

The ascent required about three, and the descent about two hours. The
distance is not much less than four miles; but, these miles being a
nearly uninterrupted climb from the base to the summit of the mountain,
haste is out of the question, if going up, and imprudent, if coming
down. There are no breakneck or dangerous places on the route; nor any
where the traveller is liable to lose his way, even in a fog, except
on the first summit, where the new and old paths meet, and where a
guide-board should be erected.




IV.

_FRANCONIA, AND THE NEIGHBORHOOD._

     Believe if thou wilt that mountains change their places, but
     believe not that men change their dispositions.--_Oriental Proverb_.


Although one may make the journey from the Profile House to Bethlehem
with greater ease and rapidity by the railway recently constructed along
the side of the Franconia range, preference will unquestionably be given
to the old way by all who would not lose some of the most striking views
the neighborhood affords. Beginning near the hotel, the railway skirts
the shore of Echo Lake, and then plunges into a forest it was the first
to invade. By a descent of one hundred feet to the mile, for nine and
a half miles, it reaches the Ammonoosuc at Bethlehem station. I have
nothing to say against the locomotive, but then I should not like to go
through the gallery of the Louvre behind one.

[Illustration: FRANCONIA IRON WORKS AND NOTCH.]

From Echo Lake the high-road to Franconia, Littleton, and Bethlehem
winds down the steep mountain side into the valley of Gale River. To
the left, in the middle distance, appear the little church-tower and
white buildings constituting the village of Franconia Iron Works. This
village is charmingly placed for effectively commanding a survey of the
amphitheatre of mountains which isolates it from the neighboring towns
and settlements.

As we come down the three-mile descent, from the summit of the pass
to the level of the deep valley, and to the northern base of the
notch-mountains, an eminence rises to the left. Half-way up, occupying
a well-chosen site, there is a hotel, and on the high ridge another
commands not only this valley, but also those lying to the west of it.
On the opposite side to us rise the green heights of Bethlehem, Mount
Agassiz being conspicuous by the observatory on its summit. Those
farm-houses dotting the hill-side show how the road crooks and turns to
get to the top. Following these heights westward, a deep rift indicates
the course of the stream dividing the valley, and of the highway to
Littleton. Between these walls the long ellipse of fertile land beckons
us to descend.

I am always most partial to those grassy lanes and by-ways going no one
knows where, especially if they have well-sweeps and elm-trees in them;
but here also is the old red farm-house, with its antiquated sweep,
its colony of arching elms, its wild-rose clustering above the porch,
its embodiment of those magical words, "Home, sweet home." It fits the
rugged landscape as no other habitation can. It fits it to a T, as
we say in New England. More than this, it unites us with another and
different generation. What a story of toil, privation, endurance these
old walls could tell! How genuine the surprise with which they look down
upon the more modern houses of the village! Here, too, is the Virginia
fence, on which the king of the barn-yard defiantly perches. There is
the field behind it, and the men scattering seed in the fallow earth.
Yonder, in the mowing-ground, a laborer is sharpening his scythe, the
steel ringing musically under the quick strokes of his "rifle."

Over there, to the left, is the rustic bridge, and hard by a clump of
peeled birches throw their grateful shade over the hot road. Many stop
here, for the white-columned trunks are carved with initials, some
freshly cut, some mere scars. But why mutilate the tree? What signify
those letters, that every idler should gratify his little vanity by
giving it a stab? Do you know that the birch does not renew its bark,
and that the tree thus stripped of its natural protection is doomed?
Cease, then, I pray you, this senseless mutilation; nor call down the
just malediction of the future traveller for destroying his shade.
Unable to escape its fate, the poor tree, like a victim at the stake,
stoically receives your barbarous strokes and gashes. Refrain, then,
traveller, for pity's sake! Have a little mercy! Know that the ancients
believed the tree possessed of a soul. Remember the touching story
of Adonis, barbarously wounded, surviving in a pine, where he weeps
eternally. Consider how often is the figure of "The Tree" used in the
Scriptures as emblematic of the life eternal! Who would wish to inhabit
a treeless heaven?

The stream--which does not allow us to forget that it is here--is a
vociferous mountain brook. Hardly less forward is the roadside fountain
gushing into a water-trough its refreshing abundance for the tired and
dusty wayfarer. It makes no difference in the world whether he goes
on two legs or on four. "Drink and be filled" is the invitation thus
generously held out to all alike. With what a sigh of pleasure your
steaming beast lifts his reluctant and dripping muzzle from the cool
wave, and after satisfying again and again his thirst, luxuriously
immersing his nose for the third and fourth time, still pretends to
drink! How deliciously light and limpid and sparkling is the water, and
how sweet! How it cools the hot blood! You quaff nectar. You sip it as
you would champagne. It tastes far better, you think, pouring from this
half-decayed, moss-crusted spout than from iron, or bronze, or marble.
Come, fellow-traveller, a bumper! Fill high! God bless the man who
first invented the roadside fountain! He was a true benefactor of his
fellow-man.

[Illustration: THE ROADSIDE SPRING.]

Turn once more to the house. A little girl tosses corn, kernel by
kernel, to her pet chickens. There go a flight of pigeons: they curvet
and wheel, and settle on the ridge-pole, where they begin to flirt, and
strut, and coo. The men in the field look up at the top of the mountain,
to see if it is not yet noon. And now a woman, with plump bare arms,
coming briskly to the open door, puts the dinner-horn to her lips with
one hand while placing the other lightly upon her hip. She does not know
that act and attitude are alike inviting. How should she?

Let us follow the pretty stream that is our guide. Franconia has the
reputation of being the hottest in summer and in winter the coldest of
the mountain villages. It _is_ hot. The houses are strung along the road
for a mile. People may or may not live in them: you see nobody. One
modest church-tower catches the eye for a moment, and then, as we enter
the heart of the village, a square barrack of a building, just across
the stream, is pointed out as the old furnace, which in times past gave
importance to this out-of-the-way corner. But the old furnace is now
deserted except by cows from the neighboring pastures, who come and go
through its open doors in search of shade. At present the river, which
brings its music and its freshness to the very doors of the villagers,
is the only busy thing in the place.

During the Rebellion the furnace was kept busy night and day, turning
out iron to be cast into cannon. The very hills were melted down for
the defence of the imperilled Union. In the adjoining town of Lisbon
the discovery of gold-bearing quartz turned the heads of the usually
steady-going population. The precious deposits were first found on the
Bailey farm, in 1865, and similar specimens were soon detected on the
farms adjoining. It is said the old people could scarcely be made to
credit these reports until they had seen and handled the precious metal;
for the country had been settled nearly a century, and the presence of
any but the baser ores was wholly unsuspected and disbelieved.

There is one peculiarity, common to all these mountain villages,
to which I must allude. A stranger is not known by any personal
peculiarity, but by his horse. If you ask for such or such a person,
the chances are ten to one you will immediately be asked in return if
he drove a bay horse, or a black colt, or a brown mare with one white
ear; so quick are these lazy-looking men, that loll on the door-steps or
spread themselves out over the shop-counters, to observe what interests
them most. The girls here know the points of a horse better than most
men, and are far more reckless drivers than men. To a man who, like
myself, has lived in a horse-stealing country, it does look queerly to
see the barn-doors standing open at night. But then every country has
its own customs.

One seeks in vain for any scraps of history or tradition that might
shed even a momentary lustre upon this village out of the past. Yet its
situation invites the belief that it is full of both. Disappointed in
this, we at least have an inexhaustible theme in the dark and tranquil
mountains bending over us.

Mount Lafayette presents toward Franconia two enormous green billows,
rolled apart, the deep hollow between being the great ravine dividing
the mountain from base to summit. Over this deep incision, which,
from the irregularity of one of its ridges, looks widest at the top,
presides, with matchless dignity, the bared and craggy peak whose dusky
brown gradually mingles with the scant verdure checked hundreds of feet
down. With what hauteur it seems to regard this effort of Nature to
place a garland on its bronzed and knotted forehead! One can never get
over his admiration for the savage grace with which the mountain, which
at first sight seems literally thrown together, develops a beauty, a
harmony, and an intelligence giving such absolute superiority to works
of Nature over those of man.

The side of Mount Cannon turned toward the village now elevates two
almost regular triangular masses, one rising behind the other, and
both surmounted by the rounded summit, which, except in its mass, has
little resemblance to a mountain. It is seen that on two-thirds of these
elevations a new forest has replaced the original growth. Twenty-five
years ago a destructive fire raged on this mountain, destroying all the
vegetation, as well as the thin soil down to the hard rock. Even that
was cracked and peeled like old parchment. This burning mountain was a
scene of startling magnificence during several nights, when the village
was as light as day, the sky overspread an angry glow, and the river
ran blood-red. The hump-backed ridges, connecting Cannon with Kinsman,
present nearly the same appearance from this as from the other side of
the Notch--or as remarked when approaching from Campton.

The superb picture seen from the upper end of the valley, combining, as
it does, the two great chains in a single glance of the eye, is extended
and improved by going a mile out of the village to the school-house on
the Sugar Hill road. It is a peerless landscape. I have gazed at it for
hours with that ineffable delight which baffles all power of expression.
It will have no partakers. One must go there alone and see the setting
sun paint those vast shapes with colors the heavens alone are capable of
producing.

Distinguished by the beautiful groves of maple that adorn its crest,
Sugar Hill is destined to grow more and more in the popular esteem. No
traveller should pass it by. It is so admirably placed as to command
in one magnificent sweep of the eye all the highest mountains; it is
also lifted into sun and air by an elevation sufficiently high to
reach the cooler upper currents. The days are not so breathless or
so stifling as they are down in the valley. You look deep into the
Franconia Notch, and watch the evening shadows creep up the great east
wall. Extending beyond these nearer mountains, the scarcely inferior
Twin summits pose themselves like gigantic athletes. Passing to the
other side of the valley, we see as far as the pale peaks of Vermont,
and those rising above the valley of Israel's River. But better than
all, grander than all, is that kingly coronet of great mountains set on
the lustrous green cushion of the valley. Nowhere, I venture to affirm,
will the felicity of the title, "Crown of New England,"[32] receive
more unanimous acceptance than from this favored spot. Especially when
a canopy of clouds overspreading permits the pointed peaks to reflect
the illuminated fires of sunset does the crown seem blazing with jewels
and precious stones. All the great summits are visible here, and all the
ravines, except those in Madison, are as clearly distinguished as if not
more than ten instead of twenty miles separated us.

The high crest of Sugar Hill unfolds an unrivalled panorama. This is but
faint praise. Yet I find myself instinctively preferring the landscape
from Goodenow's; for those great horizons, uncovered all at once, like
a magnificent banquet, are too much for one pair of eyes, however good,
or however unwearied with continued sight-seeing. As we cannot look
at all the pictures of a gallery at once, we naturally single out the
masterpieces. The effort to digest too much natural scenery is a species
of intellectual gluttony the overtaxed brain will be quick to revenge,
by an attack of indigestion or a loss of appetite.

I was very fond of walking, in the cool of the evening, either in this
direction or to the upper end of the village, on the Bethlehem road.
There is one point on this road, before it begins in earnest its ascent
of the heights, that became a favorite haunt of mine. Emerging from the
concealment of thick woods upon a sandy plain, covered here with a thick
carpet of verdure, and skirted by a regiment of pines seemingly awaiting
only the word of command to advance into the valley, a landscape second
to none that I have seen is before you. At the same time he would be
an audacious mortal who attempted to transfer it to page or canvas.
Nothing disturbs the exquisite harmony of the scene. To the left of
you are all the White Mountains, from Adams to Pleasant; in front, the
Franconia range, from Kinsman to the Great Haystack. Here is the deep
rent of the Notch from which we have but lately descended. Here, too,
overtopped and subjugated by the superb spire of Lafayette, the long
and curiously-distorted outline of Eagle Cliff pitches headlong down
into the half-open aperture of the pass. Nothing but an earthquake could
have made such a breach. How that tremendous, earth-swooping ridge seems
battered down by the blows of a huge mace! Unspeakably wild and stern,
the fractured mountains are to the valley what a raging tempest is to
the serenest of skies: one part of the heavens convulsed by the storm,
another all peace and calm. Thus from behind his impregnable outworks
Lafayette, stern and defiant, keeps eternal watch and ward over the
valley cowering at his feet.

From this spot, too, sacred as yet from all intrusion, the profound
ravine, descending nearly from the summit of Lafayette, is fully
exposed. It is a thing of cracks, crevices, and rents; of upward
curves in brilliant light; of black, mysterious hollows, which the eye
investigates inch by inch, to where the gorge is swallowed up by the
thick forests underneath. The whole side of the principal peak seems
torn away. Up there, among the snows, is the source of a flashing stream
which comes roaring down through the gorge. Storms swell it into an
ungovernable and raging torrent. Thus under the folds of his mantle the
lordly peak carries peace or war for the vale.

After the half-stifled feeling experienced among the great mountains,
it is indeed a rare pleasure to once more come forth into full
breathing-space, and to inspect at leisure from some friendly shade
the grandeur magnified by distance, yet divested of excitements that
set the brain whirling by the rapidity of their succession. If the
wayfarer chances to see, as I did, the whole noble array of high
summits presenting a long, snowy line of unsullied brilliance against
a background of pale azure, he will account it one of the crowning
enjoyments of his journey.

The Bridal Veil Falls, lying on the northern slope of Mount Kinsman,
will, when a good path shall enable tourists to visit them, prove one
of the most attractive features of Franconia. Truth compels me to say
that I did not once hear them spoken of during the fortnight passed in
the village, although fishermen were continually bringing in trout from
the Copper-mine Brook, on which these falls are situated. The height of
the fall is given at seventy-six feet, and its surroundings are said
to be of the most romantic and picturesque character. Its marvellous
transparency, which permits the ledges to be seen through the gauze-like
sheet falling over them, has given to it its name.

From Franconia I took the daily stage to Littleton, which lies on both
banks of the Ammonoosuc, and, turning my back upon the high mountains,
ran down the rail to Wells River, having the intention of cultivating a
more intimate acquaintance with that most noble and interesting entrance
formed by the meeting of the Ammonoosuc with the Connecticut.




V.

_THE CONNECTICUT OX-BOW._

    Say, have the solid rocks
    Into streams of silver been melted,
    Flowing over the plains,
    Spreading to lakes in the fields?
               LONGFELLOW.


The Connecticut is justly named "the beautiful river," and its valley
"the garden of New England." Issuing from the heart of the northern
wilderness, it spreads boundless fertility throughout its stately march
to the sea. It is not a rapid river, but flows with an even and majestic
tide through its long avenue of mountains. Radiant envoy of the skies,
its mission is peace on earth and good-will toward men. As it advances
the confluent streams flock to it from their mountain homes. On one side
the Green Mountains of Vermont send their hundred tributaries to swell
its flood; on the other side the White Hills of New Hampshire pour their
impetuous torrents into its broad and placid bosom. Two States thus vie
with each other in contributing the wealth it lavishes with absolutely
impartial hand along the shores of each.

Unlike the storied Rhine, no crumbling ruins crown the lofty heights
of this beautiful river. Its verdant hill-sides everywhere display the
evidences of thrift and happiness; its only fortresses are the watchful
and everlasting peaks that catch the earliest beams of the New England
sun and flash the welcome signal from tower to tower. From time to time
the mountains, which seem crowding its banks to see it pass, draw back,
as if to give the noble river room. It rewards this benevolence with
a garden-spot. Sometimes the mountains press too closely upon it, and
the offended stream repays this temerity with a barrenness equal to the
beneficence it has just bestowed. Where it is permitted to expand the
amphitheatres thus created are the highest types of decorative nature.
Graciously touching first one shore and then the other, making the
loveliest windings imaginable, the river actually seems on the point of
retracing its steps; but, yielding to destiny, it again resumes its
slow march, loitering meanwhile in the cool shadows of the mountains, or
indolently stretching itself at full length upon the green carpet of the
level meadows. Every traveller who has passed here has seen the Happy
Valley of Rasselas.[33]

Such is the renowned Ox-Bow of Lower Coös. Tell me, you who have seen
it, if the sight has not caused a ripple of pleasurable excitement?

Here the Connecticut receives the waters of the Ammonoosuc, flowing from
the very summit of the White Hills, and, in its turn, made to guide
the railway to its own birthplace among the snows of Mount Washington.
Here the valley, graven in long lines by the ploughshare, heaped with
fruitful orchards and groves, extends for many miles up and down its
checkered and variegated floor. But it is most beautiful between the
villages of Newbury and Haverhill, or at the Great and Little Ox-Bow,
where the fat and fecund meadows, extending for two miles from side
to side of the valley, resemble an Eden upon earth, and the villages,
prettily arranged on terraces above them, half-hid in a thick fringe of
foliage, the mantel-ornaments of their own best rooms. Only moderate
elevations rise on the Vermont side; but the New Hampshire shore is
upheaved into the finely accentuated Benton peaks, behind which,
like a citadel within its outworks, is uplifted the gigantic bulk of
Moosehillock--the greatest mountain of all this valley, and its natural
landmark--keeping strict watch over it as far as the Canadian frontiers.

The traveller approaching by the Connecticut Valley holds this exquisite
landscape in view from the Vermont side of the river. The tourist
who approaches by the valley of the Merrimac enjoys it from the New
Hampshire shore.

The large village of Newbury, usually known as the "Street," is built
along a plateau, rising well above the intervale, and joined to the
foothills of the Green Mountains. The Passumpsic Railway coasts the
intervale, just touching the northern skirt of the village. The
village of Haverhill is similarly situated with respect to the skirt
of the White Mountains; but its surface is much more uneven, and it
is elevated higher above the valley than its opposite neighbor. The
Boston, Concord, and Montreal Railway, having crossed the divide between
the waters of the Merrimac and the Connecticut, now follows the high
level, after a swift descent from Warren Summit. These plateaus, or
terraces, forming broken shelves, first upon one side of the valley,
then upon the other, strongly resemble the remains of the ancient bed of
a river of tenfold the magnitude of the stream as we see it to-day. They
give rise at once to all those interesting conjectures, or theories,
which are considered the special field of the geologist, but are also
equally attractive to every intelligent observer of Nature and her
wondrous works.

Of these two villages, which are really subdivided into half a dozen,
and which so beautifully decorate the mountain walls of this valley,
it is no treason to the Granite State to say that Newbury enjoys a
preference few will be found to dispute. It has the grandest mountain
landscape. Moosehillock is lifted high above the Benton range, which
occupies the foreground. The whole background is filled with high
summits--Lafayette feeling his way up among the clouds, Moosehillock
roughly pushing his out of the throng. Meadows of emerald, river
of burnished steel, hill-sides in green and buff, and etched with
glittering hamlets, gray mountains, bending darkly over, cloud-detaining
peaks, vanishing in the far east--surely fairer landscape never brought
a glow of pleasure to the cheek, or kindled the eye of a traveller,
already sated with a panorama reaching from these mountains to the Sound.

We are now, I imagine, sufficiently instructed in the general
characteristics of the famed Ox-Bow to pass from its picturesque and
topographical features into the domain of history, and to summon from
the past the details of a tragedy in war, which, had it occurred in
the days of Homer, would have been embalmed in an epic. Our history
begins at a period before any white settlement existed in the region
immediately about us. No wonder the red man relinquished it only at the
point of the bayonet. It was a country worth fighting for to the bitter
end.




VI.

_THE SACK OF ST. FRANCIS DE SALES._

    "L'histoire à sa vérité; la legende a la sienne."


In the month of September, 1759, the army of Sir Jeffrey Amherst
was in cantonments at Crown Point. A picked corps of American
rangers, commanded by Robert Rogers, was attached to this army. One
day an aide-de-camp brought Rogers an order to repair forthwith to
head-quarters, and in a few moments the ranger entered the general's
marquee.

"At your orders, general," said the ranger, making his salute.

"About that accursed hornet's-nest of St. Francis?" said the general,
frowning.

"When I was a lad, your excellency, we used to burn a hornet's-nest, if
it became troublesome," observed Rogers, significantly.

"And how many do you imagine, major, this one has stung to death in the
last six years?" inquired General Amherst, fumbling among his papers.

"I don't know; a great many, your excellency."

"Six hundred men, women, and children."

The two men looked at each other a moment without speaking.

"At this rate," continued the general, "his Majesty's New England
provinces will soon be depopulated."

"For God's sake, general, put a stop to this butchery!" ejaculated the
exasperated ranger.

"That's exactly what I have sent for you to do. Here are your orders.
You are commanded, and I expect you to destroy that nest of vipers,
root and branch. Remember the atrocities committed by these Indian
scoundrels, and take your revenge; but remember, also, that I forbid the
killing of women and children. Exterminate the fighting-men, but spare
the non-combatants. That is war. Now make an end of St. Francis once and
for all."

[Illustration: ROBERT ROGERS.]

Nearly a hundred leagues separated the Abenaqui village from the
English; and we should add that once there, in the heart of the enemy's
country, all idea of help from the army must be abandoned, and the
rangers, depending wholly upon themselves, be deprived of every resource
except to cut their way through all obstacles. But this was exactly the
kind of service for which this distinctive body of American soldiers was
formed.

Sir Jeffrey Amherst had said to Rogers, "Go and wipe out St. Francis for
me," precisely as he would have said to his orderly, "Go and saddle my
horse."

But this illustrates the high degree of confidence which the army
reposed in the chief of the rangers. The general knew that this
expedition demanded, at every stage, the highest qualities in a leader.
Rogers had already proved himself possessed of these qualities in a
hundred perilous encounters.

That night, without noise or display, the two hundred men detailed for
the expedition left their encampment, which was habitually in the van of
the army. On the evening of the twenty-second day since leaving Crown
Point a halt was ordered. The rangers were near their destination. From
the top of a tree the doomed village was discovered three miles distant.
Not the least sign that the presence of an enemy was suspected could
be seen or heard. The village wore its ordinary aspect of profound
security. Rogers therefore commanded his men to rest, and prepare
themselves for the work in hand.

At eight in the evening, having first disguised himself, Rogers took
Lieutenant Turner and Ensign Avery, and with them reconnoitred the
Indian town. He found it the scene of high festivity, and for an
hour watched unseen the unsuspecting inhabitants celebrating with
dancing and barbaric music the nuptials of one of the tribe. All this
marvellously favored his plans. Not dreaming of an enemy, the savages
abandoned themselves to unrestrained enjoyment and hilarity. The fête
was protracted until a late hour under the very eyes of the spies, who,
finding themselves unnoticed, crept boldly into the village, where they
examined the ground and concerted the plan of attack.

At length all was hushed. The last notes of revelry faded on the still
night air. One by one the drowsy merry-makers retired to their lodges,
and soon the village was wrapped in profound slumber--the slumber of
death. This was the moment so anxiously awaited by Rogers. Time was
precious. He quickly made his way back to the spot where the rangers
were lying on their arms. One by one the men were aroused and fell into
their places. It was two in the morning when he left the village. At
three the whole body moved stealthily up to within five hundred yards
of the village, where the men halted, threw off their packs, and were
formed for the assault in three divisions. The village continued silent
as the grave.

St. Francis was a village of about forty or fifty wigwams, thrown
together in a disorderly clump. In the midst was a chapel, to which the
inhabitants were daily summoned by matin and vesper bell to hear the
holy father, whose spiritual charge they were, celebrate the mass. The
place was enriched with the spoil torn from the English and the ransom
of many miserable captives. We have said that these Indians had slain
and taken, in six years, six hundred English: that is equivalent to one
hundred every year.

The knowledge of numberless atrocities nerved the arms and steeled the
hearts of the avengers. When the sun began to brighten the east the
three bands of rangers, waiting eagerly for the signal, rushed upon the
village.

A deplorable and sickening scene of carnage ensued. The surprise was
complete. The first and only warning the amazed savages had were the
volleys that mowed them down by scores and fifties. Eyes heavy with the
carousal of the previous night opened to encounter an appalling carnival
of butchery and horror. Two of the stoutest of the rangers--Farrington
and Bradley--led one of the attacking columns to the door where the
wedding had taken place. Finding it barred, they threw themselves so
violently against it that the fastenings gave way, precipitating Bradley
headlong among the Indians who were asleep on their mats. All these were
slain before they could make the least resistance.

On all sides the axe and the rifle were soon reaping their deadly
harvest. Those panic-stricken, half-dazed wretches who rushed pell-mell
into the streets either ran stupidly upon the uplifted weapons of the
rangers or were shot down by squads advantageously posted to receive
them. A few who ran this terrible gauntlet plunged into the river
flowing before the village, and struck boldly out for the opposite
shore; but the avengers had closed every avenue of escape, and the
fugitives were picked off from the banks. The same fate overtook those
who tumbled into their canoes and pushed out into the stream. The frail
barks were riddled with shot, leaving their occupants an easy target for
a score of rifles. The incessant flashes, the explosions of musketry,
the shouts of the assailants, and the yells of their victims were all
mingled in one horrible uproar. For two hours this massacre continued.
Combat it cannot be called. Rendered furious by the sight of hundreds of
scalps waving mournfully in the night-wind in front of the lodges, the
pitiless assailants hunted the doomed savages down like blood-hounds.
Every shot was followed by a death-whoop, every stroke by a howl of
agony. For two horrible hours the village shook with explosions and
echoed with frantic outcries. It was then given up to pillage, and then
to the torch, and all those who from fear had hid themselves perished
miserably in the flames. At seven o'clock in the morning all was over.
Silence once more enveloped the hideous scene of conflagration and
slaughter. The village of St. Francis was the funeral pyre of two
hundred warriors. Rogers had indeed taken the fullest revenge enjoined
by Sir Jeffrey Amherst's orders.

From this point our true history passes into the legendary.

While the sack of St. Francis was going on a number of the Abenaquis
took refuge in the little chapel. Their retreat was discovered. A few
of their assailants having collected in the neighborhood precipitated
themselves toward it, with loud cries. Others ran up. Two or three blows
with the butt of a musket forced open the door, when the building was
instantly filled with armed men.

An unforeseen reception awaited them. Lighted candles burnt on the high
altar, shedding a mild radiance throughout the interior, and casting
a dull glow upon the holy vessels of gold and silver upon the altar.
At the altar's foot, clad in the sacred vestments of his office, stood
the missionary, a middle-aged, vigorous-looking man, his arms crossed
upon his breast, his face lighted up with the exaltation of a martyr.
Face and figure denoted the high resolve to meet fate half-way. Behind
him crouched the knot of half-crazed savages, who had fled to the
sanctuary for its protection, and who, on seeing their mortal enemies,
instinctively took a posture of defence. The priest, at two or three
paces in advance of them, seemed to offer his body as their rampart. The
scene was worthy the pencil of a Rembrandt.

At this sight the intruders halted, the foremost even falling back a
step, but the vessels of gold and silver inflamed their cupidity to
the highest pitch; while the hostile attitude of the warriors was a
menace men already steeped in bloodshed regarded a moment in still more
threatening silence, and then by a common impulse recognized by covering
the forlorn group with their rifles.

Believing the critical moment come, the priest threw up his hands in
an attitude of supplication, arresting the fatal volley as much by
the dignity of the gesture itself, as by the resonant voice which
exclaimed, in French, "Madmen, for pity's sake, for the sake of Him on
the Cross, stay your hands! This violence! What is your will? What seek
ye in the house of God?"

A gunshot outside, followed by a mournful howl, was his sole response.

The priest shuddered, and his crisped lips murmured an _ave_. He
comprehended that another soul had been sent, unshriven, to its final
account.

"Hear him!" said a ranger, in a mocking undertone; "his gabble minds me
of a flock of wild geese."

A burst of derisive laughter followed this coarse sally.

In fact, they had not too much respect for the Church of Rome, these
wild woodsmen, but were filled with ineradicable hatred for its
missionaries, domesticated among their enemies, in whom they believed
they saw the real heads of the tribes, and the legitimate objects,
therefore, of their vengeance.

"Yield, Papist! Come, you shall have good quarter; on the word of a
ranger you shall," cried an authoritative voice, the speaker at the same
time advancing a step, and dropping his rifle the length of his sinewy
arms.

"Never!" answered the ecclesiastic, crossing himself.

A suppressed voice from behind hurriedly murmured in his ear, "_Écoutez:
rendez-vous, mon père: je vous en supplie!_"

"_Jamais! mieux vaut la mort que la miséricorde de brigands et
meurtriers!_" ejaculated the missionary, rejecting the counsel also,
with a vehement shake of the head.

"_Grand Dieu! tout, donc, est fini_," sighed the voice, despairingly.

The rangers understood the gesture better than the words. An officer,
the same who had just spoken, again impatiently demanded, this time in a
higher and more threatening key,

"A last time! Do you yield or no? Answer, friar!"

The priest turned quickly, took the consecrated Host from the altar,
elevated it above his head, and, in a voice that was long remembered by
those who heard it, exclaimed,

"To your knees, monsters! to your knees!"

What the ranger understood of this pantomime and this command was that
they conveyed a scornful and a final refusal. Muttering under his
breath, "Your blood be upon your own head, then," he levelled his
gun and pulled the trigger. A general discharge from both sides shook
the building, filling it with thick and stifling smoke, and instantly
extinguishing the lights. The few dim rays penetrating the windows, and
which seemed recoiling from the frightful spectacle within, enabled the
combatants vaguely to distinguish each other in the obscurity. Not a cry
was heard; nothing but quick reports or blows signaled the progress of
this lugubrious combat.

This butchery continued ten minutes, at the end of which the rangers,
with the exception of one of their number killed outright, issued from
the chapel, after having first stripped the altar, despoiled the shrine
of its silver image of the Virgin, and flung the Host upon the ground.
While this profanation was enacting a voice rose from the heap of dead
at the altar's foot, which made the boldest heart among the rangers stop
beating. It said,

"The Great Spirit of the Abenaquis will scatter darkness in the path of
the accursed Pale-faces! Hunger walks before and Death strikes their
trail! Their wives weep for the warriors that do not return! Manitou is
angry when the dead speak. The dead have spoken!"

The torch was then applied to the chapel, and, like the rest of the
village, it was fast being reduced to a heap of cinders. But now
something singular transpired. As the rangers filed out from the
shambles the bell of the little chapel began to toll. In wonder and
dread they listened to its slow and measured strokes until, the flames
having mounted to the belfry, it fell with a loud clang among the ruins.
The rangers hastened onward. This unexpected sound already filled them
with gloomy forebodings.

After the stern necessities of their situation rendered a separation
the sole hope of successful retreat, the party which carried along
with it the silver image was so hard pressed by the Indians, and by a
still more relentless enemy, famine, that it reached the banks of the
Connecticut reduced to four half-starved, emaciated men. More than once
had they been on the point of flinging their burden into some one of the
torrents every hour obstructing their way; but as one after another fell
exhausted or lifeless, the unlucky image passed from hand to hand, and
was thus preserved up to the moment so eagerly and so confidently looked
for, during that long and dreadful march, to end all their privations.

But the chastisement of heaven, prefigured in the words of the expiring
Abenaqui, had already overtaken them. Half-crazed by their sufferings,
they mistook the place of rendezvous appointed by their chief, and,
having no tidings of their comrades, believed themselves to be the sole
survivors of all that gallant but ill-fated band. In this conviction, to
which a mournful destiny conducted, they took the fatal determination
to cross the mountains under the guidance of one of their number who
had, or professed, a knowledge of the way through the Great Notch of the
White Hills.

For four days they dragged themselves onward through thickets, through
deep snows and swollen streams, without sustenance of any kind, when
three of them, in consequence of their complicated miseries, aggravated
by finding no way through the wall of mountains, lost their senses.
What leather covered their cartouch-boxes they had already scorched
to a cinder and greedily devoured. At length, on the last days of
October, as they were crossing a small river dammed by logs, they
discovered some human bodies, not only scalped, but horribly mangled,
which were supposed to be some of their own band. But this was no
time for distinctions. On them they accordingly fell like cannibals,
their impatience being too great to await the kindling of a fire to
dress their horrid food by. When they had thus abated somewhat the
excruciating pangs they before endured, the fragments were carefully
collected for a future store.

My pen refuses to record the dreadful extremities to which starvation
reduced these miserable wretches. At length, after some days of
fruitless wandering up and down, finding the mountains inexorably
closing in upon them, even this last dreadful resource failed, and,
crawling under some rocks, they perished miserably in the delirium
produced by hunger and despair, blaspheming, and hurling horrible
imprecations at the silver image, to which, in their insanity, they
attributed all their sufferings. One of them, seizing the statue,
tottered to the edge of a precipice, and, exerting all his remaining
strength, dashed it down into the gulf at his feet.

Tradition affirms that the first settlers who ascended Israel's River
found relics of the lost detachment near the foot of the mountains; but,
notwithstanding the most diligent search, the silver image has thus far
eluded every effort made for its recovery.




VII.

MOOSEHILLOCK.

    And so, when restless and adrift, I keep
      Great comfort in a quietness like this,
    An awful strength that lies in fearless sleep,
      On this great shoulder lay my head, nor miss
    The things I longed for but an hour ago.
        SARAH O. JEWETT.


Moosehillock, or Moosilauke,[34] is one of four or five summits from
which the best idea of the whole area of the White Mountains may be
obtained. It is not so remarkable for its form as for its mass. It is an
immense mountain.

Lifted in solitary grandeur upon the extreme borders of the army of
peaks to which it belongs, and which it seems defending, haughtily
over-bearing those lesser summits of the Green Mountains confronting
it from the opposite shores of the Connecticut, which here separates
the two grand systems, like two hostile armies, the one from the other,
Moosehillock resembles a crouching lion, magnificent in repose, but
terrible in its awakening.

This immense strength, paralyzed and helpless though it seems, is
nevertheless capable of arousing in us a sentiment of respectful
fear--respect for the creative power, fear for the suspended life we
believe is there. The mountain really seems lying extended under the sky
listening for the awful command, "Arise and walk!"

This mountain received a name before Mount Washington, and is in
some respects, as I hope to point out, the most interesting of the
whole group. In the first place, it commands a hundred miles of the
Connecticut Valley, including, of course, all the great peaks of the
Green Mountain and Adirondack chains. Again, its position confers
decided advantages for studying the configuration of the Franconia
group, to which, in a certain sense, it is allied, and of the ranges
enclosing the Pemigewasset Valley, which it overlooks. Moosehillock
stands in the broad angle formed by the meeting waters of the
Connecticut and the Ammonoosuc. In a word, it is an advanced bastion
of the whole cluster of castellated summits, constituting the White
Mountains in a larger meaning.

Therefore no summit better repays a visit than Moosehillock; yet it is
astonishing, considering the ease of access, how few make the ascent.
The traveller can hardly do better than begin here his experiences of
mountain adventure, should chance conduct him this way; or, if making
his exit from the mountain region by the Connecticut Valley, he may,
taking it in his way out, make this the appropriate pendant of his
tours, romantic and picturesque.

Having been so long known to and frequented by the Indian as well as
white hunters, the mountain is naturally the subject of considerable
legend,[35] which the historian of Warren has scrupulously gathered
together. One of these tales, founded on the disaster of Rogers,
recounts the sufferings of two of his men, hopelessly snared in the
great Jobildunk ravine. But that tale of horror needs no embellishment
from romance. This enormous rent, equally hideous in fact as in name,
cut into the vitals of the mountain so deeply that a dark stream gushes
from the gaping wound, conceals within its mazes several fine cascades.
Owing to long-continued drought, the streams were so puny and so languid
when I visited the mountain that I explored only the upper portion of
the gorge, which bristles with an untamed forest, levelling its myriad
spears at the breast of the climber.

The greater part of the mountain lies in the town of Benton, or,
perhaps, it would be nearer the truth to say that fully half the
township is appropriated by its prodigious earthwork. But, to reach it
without undergoing the fatigues of a long march through the woods,
it is necessary to proceed to the village of Warren, which is twenty
miles north of Plymouth, and about fourteen south of Haverhill. Behind
the village rises Mount Carr. Still farther to the north the summits
of Mounts Kineo, Cushman, and Waternomee, continuing this range now
separating us from the Pemigewasset Valley, form also the eastern wall
of the valley of Baker's River, which has its principal source in the
ravines of Moosehillock. There is a bridle-path opening communication
with the mountain from the Benton side, on the north; and so with Lisbon
and Franconia. A carriage-road is also contemplated on that side, which
will render access still more feasible for a large summer population;
while a bridle-path, lately opened between two peaks of the Carr range,
facilitates ingress from the Pemigewasset side.

I set out from the village of Warren on one of the hottest afternoons
of an intensely hot and dry summer. The five miles between the village
and the base of the mountain need not detain the sight-seer. At the
crossing of Baker's River I remarked again the granite-bed honey-combed
with those curious pot-holes sunk by whirling stones, first set in
motion and then spun around by the stream, which here, breaking up into
several wild pitches, pours through a rocky gorge. But how gratefully
cool and refreshing was even the sound of rushing water in that still,
stifling atmosphere, coming, one would think, from a furnace! Then for
two miles more the horse crept along the road, constantly ascending the
side of the valley, until the last house was reached. Here we passed a
turnpike-gate, rolled over the crisped turf of a stony pasture through a
second gate, and were at the foot of Moosehillock.

In a trice we exchanged the sultriness, the dryness, the dust, parching
or suffocating us, of a shadeless road, for the cool, moist air of the
mountain-forest and the delectable sound of running water. A brook shot
past; then another; then the horse, who stopped when he liked, and as
often as he liked, like a man forced to undertake a task which he is
determined shall cost his task-masters dearly, began a languid progress
up the increasing declivity before us. His sighs and groans, as he
plodded wearily along, were enough to melt a heart of stone. I therefore
dismounted and walked on, leaving the driver to follow as he could. The
question was, not how the horse should get us up the mountain, but how
we should get the horse up.

They call it four and a half miles from the bottom to the top. The
distances indicated by the sign-boards, nailed to trees, did not appear
to me exact. They are not exact; and the reason why they are not is
sufficiently original to merit a word of explanation. Having long
observed the effect of imagination, especially in computing distances,
the builder of the road, as he himself informed me, adopted a truly
ingenious method of his own. He lengthened or shortened his miles
according as the travelling was good or bad. For example: the first
mile, being an easy one, was stretched to a mile and a quarter. The
last mile is also very good travelling. That, too, he lengthened to a
mile and a half. In this way he reduced the intervening two and a half
miles of the worst road to one and three-fourth miles. This absolutely
harmless piece of deception, he averred, considerably shortened the most
difficult part of the journey. No one complained that the good miles
were too long, while the bad ones were now passed over with far less
grumbling than before they were abbreviated by this simple expedient,
which very few, I am convinced, would have thought of. In fact, the sum
of the whole distance being scrupulously adhered to, it is the most
civil piece of engineering of which I have any knowledge.

The road up is rough, tedious, and, until the ridge at the foot of the
south peak is reached, uninteresting. It crooks and turns with absolute
lawlessness while climbing the flanks of the southern peak, skirting
also the side of the profound ravine eating its way into the mountain
from the south. Nearing this summit we obtained through an opening a
glimpse of Mount Washington, veiled in the clouds. The trees now visibly
dwindled. Just before reaching the ridge, where it joins this peak, a
fine spring, deliciously cold, gushed from the mountain side. A few
rods more of ascent brought us quite out upon the long, narrow, curving
backbone of the mountain, uplifting its sharp edge between two profound
gorges, connecting the peaks set at its two extremes, between which
Nature has decreed a perpetual divorce. The sun was just setting as we
emerged upon this natural way conducting from peak to peak along the
airy crest of the mountain.

Although this, it will be remembered, is one of the longest miles,
according to the scale of computation in vogue here, the unexpected
speed which the horse now put forth, the sight of the squat, little
Tip-Top House, clinging to the summit beyond, the upper and nether
worlds floating or fading in splendor, while the night-breezes sweeping
over cooled our foreheads, and rudely jostled the withered trees, drawn
a little apart to the right and left to let us pass, quickly replaced
that weariness of mind and body which the mountain exacts of all who
pass over it on a sultry midsummer's day.

At the extremity of the ridge, which is only wide enough for the road,
a gradual ascent led to the high summit and to a level plateau of a
few acres at its top. This was treeless, but covered with something
like soil, smooth, and, being singularly free from the large stones
found everywhere else, affords good walking in any direction. The
house is built of rough stone, and, though of primitive construction,
is comfortable, and even inviting. Furthermore, its materials being
collected on the spot, one accepts it as still constituting a part of
the mountain, which, indeed, at a little distance it really seems to
be. In the evening I went out, to find the mountain blindfolded with
clouds. Soon rain began to drive against the window-panes in volleys.
At a late hour we heard wheels grinding on the rocks outside, and then
a party of tourists drove up to the door, dripping and crestfallen at
having undertaken the ascent with a storm staring them in the face. But
they had only this one day, they said, and were "bound" to go up the
mountain. So up they toiled through pitch darkness, through rain and
cloud, passed the night in a building said to be on the summit, and
returned down the mountain in the morning, to catch their train, through
as dense a fog as ever exasperated a hurried tourist. But they had been
to the top! Are there anywhere else in the world people who travel two
hundred miles for a single day's recreation?

It is very curious, this being domesticated on the top of a mountain. We
go to bed wondering if the scene will not all vanish in our dreams. It
was very odd, too, to see the tourists silently mount their buck-board
in the morning, and disappear, within a stone's throw, in clouds.
Detaching themselves to all intents from earth, they began a flight in
air. Walking a short distance, perhaps a gunshot, from the house, I
groped my way back with difficulty. The case seemed desperate.

But grandest scene of all was the breaking up of the storm. Shortly
after noon the high sun began to exert a sensible influence upon the
clouds. A perceptible warmth, replacing the chill and clammy mists,
began to pervade the mountain-top. Presently a dim sun-ray shot through.
Then, as if a noiseless explosion had suddenly rent them, the whole
mass of clouds was torn in ten thousand tatters flying through space.
All nature seemed seized with sudden frenzy. Here a summit and there a
peak was seen, struggling fiercely in the grasp of the storm. Coming up
with rushing noise, the west wind charged home the routed storm-clouds
with fresh squadrons. What indescribable yet noiseless tumult raged in
the heavens! Even the mountains seemed scarcely able to stem the tide
of fugitives. A panic seized them. Fear gave them wings. They rushed
pell-mell into the ravines and clung to the tree-tops; they dashed
themselves blindly against the adamant of Lafayette, only to fall
back broken into the deep fosse beneath. Bolts of dazzling sunshine
continually tore through them. The gorges themselves seemed heaped with
the wounded and the dying. But the rushing wind, trampling the fugitives
down, dispersed and cut them mercilessly to pieces. One was irresistibly
carried away by this rage of battle. In ten minutes I looked around upon
a clear sky. One cloud, impaled on the gleaming spear of Lafayette,
hung limp and lifeless; another floated like a scarf from the polished
casque of Chocorua; a third, taken prisoner _en route_, humbly held the
train of Washington. All the rest of the phantom host, using its power
to render itself invisible, vanished from sight as if the mountains had
swallowed it up.

The landscape being now fully uncovered, I enjoyed all its rare
perfection. It is a superb and fascinating one, invested with a
powerful individuality, surrounded by a charm of its own. You wish to
see the two great chains? There they are, the greater rising over the
lesser, in the order fixed by Nature. That sunny space in the softened
coloring of old tapestry, more to the right, is the Pemigewasset Valley,
and the spot from where not long ago we looked up at this mountain
looming large in the distance. We raise our eyes to glance up the East
Branch upon Mount Hancock and the peaks of Carrigain peeping over.
We touch with magic wand the faint cone of Kearsarge, so dim that it
seems as if it must rise and float away; then, continuing to call the
roll of mountains, Moat, Tripyramid, Chocorua, and all our earlier
acquaintances rise or nod among the Sandwich peaks. Some draw their
cloud-draperies over their bare shoulders, some sun their naked and
hairy breasts in savage luxury. We alight like a bird upon the glassy
bosom of Winnepiseogee the incomparable, and, like the bird, again rise,
refreshed, for flights still more remote. We sweep over the Uncanoonucs
into Massachusetts, steadying the eye upon far Wachusett as we pass from
the Merrimac Valley. Now come thronging in upon us the mountains of the
Connecticut Valley. We rest awhile upon the transcendently beautiful
expanse of the Ox-Bow, and its playthings of villages, strung along
the glittering necklace of the river. Across this valley, lifting our
eyes, we wander among the loftiest peaks of the Green Mountains--those
colossal _verd-antiques_--exchanging frozen glances across the placid
expanse of Champlain with the haughtiest summits of the Adirondacks.
We grow tired of this. One last look, this time up the valley, reveals
to us the wide and curious gap between two distant mountains, and far
beyond Memphremagog, where these mountains rise, we scan all the route
travelled by Rogers, the perils of which are fresh in our memory. We
pass on unchallenged into the dominions of Victoria.

Is not this a landscape worth coming ten miles out of one's way to see?
And yet the half is not told. I have merely indicated its dimensions.
Now let the reader, drawing an imaginary line from peak to peak, go
over at leisure all that lies between. I merely prick the chart for
him. Moosehillock, not quite five thousand feet high, overlooks all
New Hampshire, pushes investigation into Maine and Massachusetts, is
familiar with Vermont, distant with New York, and has an eye upon
Canada. It is said the ocean has been seen, but I did not see it.

Circumstances compelled me to drive the old horse, who has made more
ascensions of the mountain than any living thing, back to Warren. No
other was to be had for love or money. Had there been time I would have
preferred walking, but there was not. This horse measured sixteen hands.
His thin body and long legs resembled a horse upon stilts. He looked
dejected, but resigned. I argued that he would be able to get down the
mountain somehow; and, once out of the woods, I could count on his
eagerness to get home, to some extent, perhaps. I was not deceived in
either expectation.

The road, as I have said, is for most of the way a rough, steep, and
stony one. In order to check the havoc made by sudden showers, and
to hold the thin soil in place, hemlock-boughs were spread over it,
artfully concealing those protruding stones which the scanty soil
refused to cover. He who intrusted himself to it did not find it a
bed of roses. The buck-board was the longest, clumsiest, and most
ill-favored it has ever been my lot to see. This vehicle, being peculiar
to the mountains, demands, at least, a word. It is a very primitive and
ingenious affair, and cheaply constructed. Naturally, therefore, it
originated where the farmers were poor and the roads bad. But what is
the buck-board? Every one has seen the spring-board of a gymnasium or of
a circus. A smooth plank, ten feet long, resting upon trestles placed
at either end, assists the acrobat to vault high in the air. Each time
he falls the rebound sends him up again. This is the principle of the
buck-board. Remove the trestles, put a pair of wheels in the place of
each, and you have the vehicle itself, _minus_ shafts or pole, according
as one or two horses are to draw it. Increased weight bends the board or
the spring more and more until it is in danger of touching the ground.
The passengers sit in the hollow of this spring, the natural tendency of
which is to shoot them into the air.

[Illustration: THE BUCK-BOARD WAGON.]

I am justified in speaking thus of the road and the vehicle. But
who shall describe the horse? That animal was possessed of a devil,
and, like the swine of the miracle, ran violently all the way down
the mountain, without stopping for water or breath. Fortunate indeed
for me was it that the sea was not at the bottom. In three-quarters
of an hour, half of which was spent in the air, I was at the foot
of the mountain which had required two tedious hours to ascend. How
the quadruped managed to avoid falling headlong fifty times over
the concealed stones I have no idea. How I contrived to alight,
when a wheel, coming violently against one of these stones, put the
spring-board in play--how I contrived to alight, I remark, during this
game of battledoor and shuttlecock, never twice in the same place, is to
this day an enigma.

The houses of ancient Rome frequently bore the inscription for the
benefit of strangers, "_Cave canem._" This could be advantageously
replaced here, upon the first turnpike-gate, at the mountain's foot,
with the warning, "Beware of the horse!"




VIII.

_BETHLEHEM._

    _Ros._ O Jupiter! how weary are my spirits!
    _Touch._ I care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary.
                            _As You Like It._


Having finished with the western approach to the White Mountains, I
was now at liberty to retrace my route up the Ammonoosuc Valley, which
so abounds in picturesque details--farms, hamlets, herds, groups of
pines, maples, torrents, roads feeling their way up the heights--to
that anomaly of mountain towns, Bethlehem. Thanks to the locomotive,
the journey is short. The villages of Bath, Lisbon, Littleton, are
successively entered; the same flurry gives a momentary activity to each
station, the same faces crowd the platforms, and the same curiosity is
exhibited by the passengers, whose excitement receives an increase with
every halt of the laboring train.

Bethlehem is ranged high up, along the side of a mountain, like the
best china in a cupboard. The crest of Mount Agassiz[36] rises behind
it. Beneath the village the ground descends, rather abruptly, to the
Ammonoosuc, which winds, through matted woods, its way out of the
mountains. There are none of those eye-catching gleams of water which so
agreeably diversify these interminable miles of forest and mountain land.

It is only by ascending the slopes of Mount Agassiz that we can secure
a stand-point fairly showing the commanding position of Bethlehem, or
where its immediate surroundings may be viewed all at once. It is so
situated, with respect to the curvature of this mountain, that at one
end of the village they do not know what is going on at the other.
One end revels in the wide panorama of the west, the other holds the
unsurpassed view of the great peaks to the east.

Bethlehem has risen, almost by magic, at the point where the old highway
up the Ammonoosuc is intersected by that coming from Plymouth, the
Pemigewasset Valley, and the Profile House. In time a small roadside
hamlet naturally clustered about this spot. Dr. Timothy Dwight, the
pioneer traveller for health and pleasure among these mountains,
passed through here in 1803. Speaking of the appearance of Bethlehem,
he says: "There is nothing which merits notice, except the patience,
enterprise, and hardihood of the settlers which have induced them to
stay upon so forbidding a spot; a magnificent prospect of the White
Mountains; and a splendid collection of other mountains in their
neighborhood, particularly on the south-west." It was then reached by
only one wretched road, which passed the Ammonoosuc by a dangerous ford.
The few scattered habitations were mere log-cabins, rough and rude.
The few planting-fields were still covered with dead trees, stark and
forbidding, which the settlers, unable to fell with the axe, killed by
girdling, as the Indians did.

From this historical picture of Bethlehem in the past, we turn to
the Bethlehem of to-day. It is turning from the post-rider to the
locomotive. Not a single feature is recognizable except the splendid
prospect of the White Mountains, and the magnificent collection of
other mountains, which call forth the same admiration to-day. Fortunate
geographical position, salubrity, fine scenery--these, and these alone,
are the legitimate cause of what may be termed the rise and progress
of Bethlehem. All that the original settlers seem to have accomplished
is to clear away the forests which intercepted, and to make the road
conducting to the view.

It is the position of Bethlehem with respect to the recognized points
or objects of interest that gives to it a certain strategic advantage.
For example, it is admirably situated for excursions north, south,
east, or west. It is ten miles to the Profile, twelve to the Fabyan,
seventeen to the Crawford, fifteen to the Waumbek, and eighteen to the
base of Mount Washington. One can breakfast at Bethlehem, dine on Mount
Washington, and be back for tea; and he can repeat the experience with
respect to the other points named as often as inclination may prompt.
Moreover, the great elevation exempts Bethlehem from the malaria and
heat of the valleys. The air is dry, pure, and invigorating, rendering
it the paradise of those invalids who suffer from periodical attacks of
hay-fever. Lastly, it is new, or comparatively new, and possesses the
charm of novelty--not the least consideration to the thousands who are
in pursuit of that and that only.

Bethlehem Street is the legitimate successor of the old road. This is
a name _sui generis_ which seems hardly appropriate here, although it
is so commonly applied to the principal thoroughfares of our inland New
England villages. It has a spick-and-span look, as if sprung up like
a bed of mushrooms in a night. And so, in fact, it has; for Bethlehem
as a summer resort dates only a few years back its sudden rise from
comparative obscurity into the full blaze of popular fame and favor.
The guide-book of fifteen years ago speaks of the _one_ small but
comfortable hotel, kept by the Hon. J. G. Sinclair. In fact, very little
account was made of it by travellers, except to remark the magnificent
view of the White Mountains on the east, or of the Franconia Mountains
on the south, as they passed over the then prescribed tour from North
Conway to Plymouth, or _vice versa_.

But this newness, which you at first resent, besides introducing here
and there some few attempts at architectural adornment, contrasts
very agreeably with the ill-built, rambling, and slip-shod appearance
of the older village-centres. They are invariably most picturesque
from a distance. But here there is an evident effort to render the
place itself attractive by making it beautiful. Good taste generally
prevails. I suspect, however, that the era of good taste, beginning with
the incoming of a more refined and intelligent class of travellers,
communicated its spirit to two or three enterprising and sagacious
men,[37] who saw in what Nature had done an incentive for their own
efforts. We walk here in a broad, well-built thoroughfare, skirted on
both sides with hotels, boarding-houses, and modern cottages, in which
three or four thousand sojourners annually take refuge. All this has
grown from the "one small hotel" of a dozen years ago. Shade-trees and
grass-plots beautify the way-side. An immense horizon is visible from
these houses, and even the hottest summer days are rendered endurable
by the light airs produced and set in motion by the oppressive heats of
the valley. The sultriest season is, therefore, no bar to out-of-door
exercise for persons of average health, rendering walks, rambles, or
drives subject only to the will or caprice of the pleasure-seeker.
But in the evening all these houses are emptied of their occupants.
The whole village is out-of-doors, enjoying the coolness or the
panorama with all the zest unconstrained gratification always brings.
The multitudes of well-dressed promenaders surprise every new-comer,
who immediately thinks of Saratoga or Newport, and their social
characteristics. Bethlehem, he thinks, must be the ideal of those who
would carry city or, at least, suburban life among the mountains; who do
not care a fig for solitude, but prefer to find their pleasures still
connected with their home life. They are seeing life and seeing nature
at the same time.

Sauntering along the street from the Sinclair House, a strikingly large
and beautiful prospect opens as we come to the Belleview. Here the
road, making its exit from the village, descends to the Ammonoosuc. The
valley broadens and deepens, exposing to view all the town of Littleton,
picturesquely scattered about the distant hill-sides. Its white houses
resemble a bank of daisies. The hills take an easy attitude of rest.
Six hundred feet below us the bottom of the valley exhibits its rich
savannas, interspersed with cottages and groves. Above its deep hollow
the Green Mountains glimmer in the far west. "Ah!" you say, "we will
stop here."

Let us now again, leaving the Sinclair House behind, ascend the
road to the Profile. It is not so much travelled as it was before
the locomotive, in his coat-of-mail, sounded his loud trumpet at
the gates of Franconia. A mile takes us to the brow of the hill. We
hardly know which way to look first. Two noble and comprehensive views
present themselves. To the left Mount Agassiz rears his commanding
peak. In front of us, across a valley, is the great, deeply-cloven
Franconia Notch. Lafayette is superb here. Now the large, compact
mass of Moosehillock looms on the extreme right, together with all
those striking objects lately studied or observed from the village of
Franconia, which so quietly reposes beneath us. But this landscape
properly belongs to the environs of Bethlehem, and never is it so
incomparably grand as when the summits are fitfully revealed, battling
fiercely with storm-clouds. Every phase of the conflict is watched with
eager attention. Seeing all this passion above, it calls up a smile to
look down at the unbroken and unconscious tranquillity of the valley.

[Illustration: MOUNT LAFAYETTE, FROM BETHLEHEM.]

Facing now in the direction of Bethlehem, the eye roves over the
broad basin of the Ammonoosuc for many miles up and down. The hills of
Littleton, Whitefield, Dalton, Carroll, and Jefferson bend away from
the opposite side; and over the last the toothed Percy Peaks[38] rise
blue and clear at the point where the waters of the Connecticut and the
Androscoggin, approaching each other, conduct the Grand Trunk Railway
out of the mountains. The west is packed with the high summits of the
Green Mountain chain. The great White Mountains are concealed, as yet,
by the swell of the mountain down whose side the road conducts to the
village. "This," you exclaim, "this is the spot where we will pitch
our tents!" But there is no public-house here, and we are reluctantly
forced to descend. In proportion as we go down, this seemingly limitless
panorama suffers a partial eclipse. The landscape changes from the
high-wrought epic to the grand pastoral, if such a distinction may
be applied to differing forms of mountain scenery. This approach is,
without doubt, the most striking introduction to Bethlehem. It is
curiously instructive, too, as regards the relative merits of successive
elevations, each higher than the other, as proper view-points.

A third ramble is altogether indispensable before we can say that we
know Bethlehem of the Hills. The direction is now to the east, by the
road to the Crawford House, or Fabyan's, or the Twin. We continue along
the high plateau, in the shade of sugar-maples or Lombardy poplars,
to the eastern skirt of the village, the houses getting more and more
unfrequent, until we come upon the edge of the slope to the Ammonoosuc,
where the road to Whitefield, Lancaster, and Jefferson, leaving the main
thoroughfare, drops quietly down into Bethlehem Hollow. No envious hill
now obstructs the truly "magnificent view." Through the open valley the
lordly mountains again inthrall us with the might of an overpowering
majesty.

This locality has taken the name of the great hotel erected here
by Isaac Cruft, whose hand is visible everywhere in Bethlehem. The
Maplewood, as it is called, easily maintains at its own end the prestige
of Bethlehem for rapid growth. When I first visited the place, in
1875, I found a modest roadside hostelry accommodating sixty guests;
five years later a mammoth structure, in which six hundred could be
accommodated, had risen, like Aladdin's palace, on the same spot.
Instead of our little musical entertainment, our mock-trial, our quiet
rubber of whist, of an evening, there were readings, lectures, balls,
masquerades, theatricals, _musicales_, for every day of the week.

But Bethlehem is emphatically the place of sunsets. In this respect no
other mountain resort can pretend to equal it. From no other village
are so many mountains visible at once; at no other has the landscape
such length and breadth for giving full effect to these truly wonderful
displays. More because the sublimity of the scene deserves a permanent
chronicle than from any confidence in my own ability to reproduce it, I
attempt in black and white to describe one of unparalleled intensity of
color, one that may never be repeated, certainly never excelled, while
the sun, the heavens, and the mountains shall last.

A cold drizzle having set in on the day of my arrival, the mountains
were invisible when I rose in the morning. I looked, but they were no
longer there. I was much vexed at the prospect of being storm-bound,
or of making under compulsion a sojourn I had beforehand resolved
to make at my own good will and pleasure. So strongly is the spirit
of resistance developed in us. After a critical investigation of
the weather, it crossed my mind like an intuition that something
extraordinary was preparing behind the enormous masses of clouds
clinging like wet draperies to the skirts of the mountains, forming
an impenetrable curtain, now and then slowly lifted by the fresh
north wind, now suddenly distended or collapsing like huge sails, but
noiselessly and mysteriously as the ghostly canvas of the _Flying
Dutchman._

Toward the middle of the afternoon, the wind having freshened, the
lower clouds broke apart here and there--just enough to reveal to us
that ever-new picture of the White Mountains, beautifully robed in
fresh snow, above the darker line of forest; but so thoroughly were
the high summits blended with the dull silver-gray of upper sky that
the true line of separation defied the keenest scrutiny to detect it.
This produced a curious optical illusion. Extended sumptuously along
the crest-line, rivalling the snow itself, a bank of white clouds
rendered the deception perfect, since just above them began that heavy
and dull expanse which overspread and darkened the whole heavens,
thus imperfectly delineating a second line of summits mounting to a
prodigious height. They seemed miles upon miles high.

Up stretched this gigantic and shadowy phantasm of towers, domes,
and peaks, illimitably, as if mountains and heavens were indeed come
together in eternal alliance. At the same time the finger dipped in
water could trace a more conclusive outline on glass than the eye could
find here. The summits, a little luminous, emitted a cold, spectral
glare. It gave you a chill to look at them. No sky, no earth, no deep
gorges, no stark precipices--no anything except that dead wall, so
sepulchral in its gray gloom that equally mind and imagination failed to
find one familiar outline or contour. The true peaks seemed clouds, and
the clouds peaks. But this phantasm was only the prologue.

At the hour of sunset all the lower clouds had disappeared. The
upper heavens now wore that deep grape-purple impervious to light
or warmth, and producing the effect of a vast dome hung with black.
The storm replaced the azure tint of the sky with the most sombre
color in its laboratory. The light visibly waned. The icy peaks still
reflected a boreal glitter. But in the west these funereal draperies
fell a little short of touching the edge of the horizon--a bare
hand's-breadth--leaving a crevice filled with golden light, pure and
limpid as water, clear and vivid as winnowed sunshine. The sun's eye
would soon be applied to this peep-hole. A feverish impatience seized
us. We could see the people at their doors and in the street standing
silent and expectant, with their faces turned to the heavens. From a
station near Cruft's Ledge we watched intently for the moment when this
splendid light, concentrated in one level sheet, should fall upon the
great mountains.

In a few seconds a yellow spot of piercing brilliancy appeared in this
narrow band of light. One look at it was blinding; a second would have
paralyzed the optic nerve. Mechanically we put up our hands to shut
it out. Imagine a stream of molten iron--hissing-hot and throwing off
fiery spray--gushing from the side of a furnace! Even that can give
but a feeble idea of the unspeakable intensity of this last sun-ray.
It blazed. It flooded us with a suffocating effulgence. Suppose now
this cataract of liquid flame suddenly illuminating the pitchy darkness
of a cavern in the bowels of the earth. The effect was electrifying.
Confined between the upper and nether expanse--dull earth and brooding
sky--rendered tenfold more dazzling by the blackness above, beneath, the
sun poured upon the great mountains one magnificent torrent of radiance.
In an instant the broad land was deluged with the supreme glories of
that morning when the awful voice of God uttered the sublime command,

    "Let there be light, and there was light."

An electric shock awoke the torpid earth, transfigured the mountains. On
swept the mighty wave, shedding light, and warmth, and splendor where a
moment before all was dark, cold, and spiritless. Like Ajax before Troy,
the giant hills braced on their dazzling armor. Like Achilles's shield,
they threw back the brightness of the sun. Every tree stood sharply out.
Every cavern disclosed its inmost secrets. Twigs glittered diamonds,
leaves emitted golden rays. All was ravishingly beautiful.

This superb exhibition continued while one might count a hundred. Then
all the lower mountains took on that ineffable purple that baffles
description. Starr King, Cherry Mountain, were resplendent. As if the
livid and thick-clustered clouds above had been trodden by invisible
feet, these peaks seemed drenched with the juice of the wine-press.
The high summits, buried in snow and cloud, were yet coldly impassive,
but presently, little by little, the light crept up and up. Now it
seized the topmost pinnacles. Heavens, what a sight! Ineffable glory
seemed quenched in the sublime terrors of that moment. On our right the
Twin and Franconia mountains glowed, from base to summit, like coals
of fire. The lower forests were wrapped in flame. Then all the snowy
line of peaks, from Adams to Clinton, turned blood-red. No pale rose
or carnation tints, as in those enrapturing summer sunsets so often
witnessed here. The stupendous and flaming mountains of hell seemed
risen before us, clothed with immortal terrors. We stood rooted to
the spot, like men who saw the judgment-day dawning, the solid earth
consuming, before their doubting eyes. Everlasting, unquenchable fires
seemed encompassing us about. Nothing more weird, more unearthly,
or more infernal was ever seen. Even the country-people, stolid and
indifferent as they usually are, regarded it with mingled stupefaction
and dismay.

The drama approached its climax. Before we were aware, the valley grew
dark. But still, the granite peaks of Lafayette, and of that admirable
pyramid, Mount Garfield, which even the greater mountain cannot reduce
to impotence, glowed like iron drawn from the fire. Their incandescent
points, thrust upward into the black gulf of the heavens, towered
above the blacker gulfs below unspeakably. By degrees the scorching
heat cooled. The great Franconia spires successively paled. But long
after they seemed reduced to ashes, the red flame still lingered upon
the snows of Mount Washington. At last that, too, faded out. Life was
extinct. The great summit took on a wan and livid hue. Night kindly
spread her mantle over the lifeless form of the mountain, which still
disclosed its larger outlines rigid, majestic, even in death.

Twilight succeeded--twilight steeped in silence and coolness, in the
thousand odors exhaled by the teeming earth. One by one the birds hushed
their noisy twitter. Overcome by their own perfumes, flowers shut their
dewy petals and drooped their tender little heads. The river seemed a
drowsy voice rising from the depths of the forest, complaining that
it alone should toil on while all else reposed. With night comes the
feeling of immensity. With sleep the conviction that we are nothing,
and that the order of nature disturbs itself in nothing for us. If we
awake, well; if not, well again. What if we should never wake? One such
splendid pageant as I have attempted to describe instinctively quenches
human pride. It is true, a sunset is in itself nothing, but it compels
you to admit that the world moves for itself, not for you. Believe it
not a gorgeous display in which you, the critical spectator, assist, but
the signal that the day ends and the night cometh. A spectacle that can
arouse the emotions of joy, fear, hope, suspense--nothing? Perhaps. God
knows.

There are very pleasant walks, affording fine views of all the highest
mountains, around the eastern slope or to the summit of the mountain
rising at the back of the hotel. The bare but grassy crest of this
mountain, one of my favorite haunts, enabled me to reconnoitre my route
in advance up the valley, and to look over into the yet unvisited
region of Jefferson, or back again, at the environs of Franconia. The
glory that pours down upon these hills, the vales they infold, the wild
streams, the craggy mountain spurs, the soft, velvety clearings that
turn their dimpled cheeks to be kissed by the sunshine, may all be seen
and fully enjoyed from this spot.

The heights behind us are well-wooded on the summits, but below this
belt of woodland extends a broad band of sunny clearings checkered with
fields of waving grain. These fields are among the highest cultivated
lands in New England. Long tillage was necessary to reduce this
refractory soil to subjection. Farther down, toward the railway-station,
the pastures are so encumbered with stones that a sheep would turn from
them in dismay. To mow among these stones a man would have to go down on
his knees.

There is a beautiful orchard of sugar-maples down the road to the
Hollow; but it always makes me sad to see these trees standing with
their naked sides pierced and bleeding from gaping wounds.

At the corner of this road my attention was arrested by a sign-board
planted in front of an unpainted cottage, behind which rose a clump
of magnificent birches. I walked over to see what it could mean. The
sign-board bore the name "Sir Isaac Newton Gay," in large black letters.
Here was a spur to curiosity! A knight, or at least a baronet, living
in humble seclusion, yet parading his quality thus in the face of the
world! Going to the gate, my perplexity increased upon seeing the
grass-plot in front of the dwelling literally covered with broken glass,
lamp-chimneys, bits of colored china, bottles of every imaginable shape
and size stuck upright upon sticks, interspersed with lumps of white
quartz. Some cabalistic meaning, doubtless, attached to the display.
This brilliant rubbish sparkled in the sun, filling the enclosure with
the cheap glitter of a pawnbroker's shop-window. The thing so far
announced a little eccentricity, at least, so I made bold to push my
investigation still farther, and was rewarded by finding, piled against
the trunk of a tree, at the back of the house, a heap of skulls of
animals as high as my head. The recluse's intent was now plain. Here
was a lesson that he who ran might read. The rubbish in the front yard
illustrated the pomp, glitter, and emptiness of life; the monument of
skulls its true estate, divested of all false show or pretence. Without
doubt this was a philosopher worthy of his name.

I was admitted by a singular-looking being, with dry, straight, lank
hair, weak features, watery eyes, and a shuffling gait. Some accident
having partially closed one eye, gave him a look of preternatural
wisdom. He was ready to give an opinion on any subject under the sun,
no matter how difficult or abstruse, as soon as broached, and stroked
his scanty beard while doing so with evident self-complacency. I had a
moment to see that the walls were papered with old handbills of county
fairs, travelling shows, and the like, the floor covered with patches of
carpet as various as Joseph's coat, when my man began a formula similar
to what the Bearded Lady drawls out or the Tattooed Man recites through
his nose to gaping rustics at a country muster, at ten cents a head.
He told where he was born, how old he was, and how long he had lived
in Bethlehem. At the proper moment I put my hand in my pocket and took
out a dime, which he thankfully accepted, and dropped inside a broken
coffee-pot.

"Sir," I observed, "seeing you are American-born, I infer your title
must have been conferred by some foreign potentate?"

"No; that is my name."

"But," I pursued, "has it not an unrepublican sound in a country where
titles are regarded with distrust, not to say aversion?"

"I tell you it is my name," with some heat; "I was named for the great
_Sir_ Isaac Newton."

"Your pardon, Sir Isaac. May I ask if you inherit the genius of your
distinguished namesake?"

"Well, yes, to some extent I do; I philoserphize a good deal. I read a
good many books folks leaves here, besides what newspapers I can pick
up; but you see it costs a lifetime to get knowledge."

Jaques, the misanthrope, wandering in the Forest of Arden, was not more
astonished at Touchstone's philosophy than I at this answer. "Very
true," I assented. "What is your philosophy of life?"

He tapped his forehead with his forefinger, but it was only too evident
the apartment was untenanted. He remained a moment or two as if in deep
thought, and then began,

"Well, I'm eighty-six years of age, come next July."

My flesh began to creep: he was beginning, for the third time, his
eternal formula. The hermit, fumbling a red handkerchief, resumed,

"I can say I've never wanted for necessaries, and don't propose to give
myself any trouble about it." And then he expatiated on the folly of
fretfulness.

The Hermit of Bethlehem, as he is called, but who opens his door wide
for the world to enter, is a very ordinary sort of hermit indeed.
Still, his very feebleness of intellect, his vanity even, should be a
shield instead of a target for those who, like myself, are lured by the
unmeaning trumpery at his door, which has no other significance in the
world than a childish passion for objects that glitter in the sun.

The constituents of hotel life do not belong to any locality: they
are universal. It is curious to see here people who have spent half
their lives in India, or China, or Australia moving about among the
untravelled with the well-bred ease and adaptation to circumstances that
newly-fledged tourists can neither understand nor imitate. It is very
droll, too, that people who have lived ten years in the same street, at
home, without knowing each other, meet here for the first time.

I beg to introduce another acquaintance picked up by the roadside while
walking from the Twin Mountain House to Bethlehem. Had I been driving,
the incident would still have waited for a narrator.

Climbing the hill-side at a snail's pace was a peddler's cart, drawn by
a scrubby little white horse, and bearing a new broom for an ensign,
which seemed to symbolize that this petty trader meant to sweep the road
clean of its loose cash. The sides of the cart were gayly decorated
with pans, basins, dippers by the dozen, and bristled with knickknacks
for barter or ready money, from a gridiron to a door-mat. The movement
of the vehicle over the stony road kept up a lively clatter, which
announced its coming from afar. There being for the moment, no house in
sight, the proprietor was engaged in picking raspberries by the roadside.

The peddler--well, he was little, and stubby too, like his horse,
for whom he had dismounted to lighten the pull up-hill. The animal
seemed to know his business, for he stopped short as often as he came
to a water-bar, blew a cloud from his nostrils, champed his bit, and
distended his sides so alarmingly with a long, deep respiration, that
the patched-up harness seemed in danger of bursting. He then glanced
over his shoulder toward his master, shook his head deprecatingly, and,
with a deep sigh, moved on.

The little merchant of small wares and great had on a rusty felt hat,
rakishly set on one side of his bullet head, and a faded olive-green
coat, rather short in the skirts, to conceal two patches in his
trousers. The latter were tucked into a pair of dusty boots very much
turned up at the toes. His face was a good deal sunburnt, and his
hair, eyebrows, and mustache were the color of the road--sandy. Except
a pair of scissors, the points of which protruded from his left-hand
vest-pocket, I perceived no weapon offensive or defensive about him. He
was a very innocent-looking peddler indeed.

As I was passing him he held out a handful of ripe fruit. The hand was
disfigured with an ugly cicatrice: it was rather dirty. He accompanied
the offer with an invitation to "hop on" his cart and ride. This double
civility emanated from a gentleman and a peddler.

The walk from Crawford's to Bethlehem _is_ rather fatiguing; but I said,
as in duty bound, "No" (I said it because the thought of riding through
Bethlehem Street on the top of a peddler's cart appeared ridiculous in
my eyes--with shame I confess it), "thank you; your horse already has
all he can pull, and I have only a mile or two farther to go."

The peddler then fell into step with me, taking a long, even stride that
brought back old recollections. I said,

"You have been a soldier."

"How know you dat?"

"By your gait--you do not walk, you march: by that sabre-cut on your
right hand."

"Ha! you goot eyes haf; but it a payonet vas."

Believing I saw a veteran of our great civil war, I asked, with
undisguised interest,

"Where did you serve? Where were you wounded?"

"Von year und half in war mit Danemark, von year und half mit Oustria,
und two mit Vrance."

I looked at him again. What! That undersized, insignificant appearing
little chap, whom I could easily have pitched into the ditch, he a
soldier of Sadowa, of Metz, of Paris. Bah!

"So, the wars over, you emigrated to America?"

"Right avay. Ven I get home from Baris I tell Linda, my vife, 'Look
here, Linda: I been soldier six year. Now I plenty fighting got. Dere's
two hunder thaler in the knapsack. Shut your mouth tight, open your eye
close, and we get out of dis double-quig.' She say 'Where I go?' und I
tell her the _U_-nited States, by hell, befor anoder var come. She begin
to cry, I begin to schwear, und we settle it right avay."

I asked if he minded telling how he came by the wound in his hand. This
is what he told me in his broken English:

When Marshal Bazaine made his last desperate effort to shake off the
deadly gripe the Prussians had fastened upon Metz, a battalion of
_tirailleurs_ suddenly surrounded an advanced post established by
the Germans in the suburbs. The morning was foggy, and the surprise
complete. The picket had hardly the time to run to their arms before
they were driven back pell-mell on the reserve, amid a shower of balls.
The reserve took refuge in a stone building surrounded by a thick hedge,
maintaining an irregular fire from the windows. One of the last to cross
the court-yard, with the French at his heels, was our German. Before
he could gain the friendly shelter of the house he stumbled and fell
headlong, his gun flying through the air as he came to the ground, so
that he was not only prostrate but disarmed.

Half-stunned, he scrambled to his knees just as his nearest pursuer
made a savage lunge with his sabre-bayonet. The Prussian instinctively
grasped it. While trying thus to parry the deadly thrust, the keen
weapon pierced his hand, and he was a second time borne to the earth,
or, rather, pinned to it by his adversary's bayonet.

"_Rendez-vous Allemand, cochon!_" screamed the Frenchman, bestriding the
little Prussian with a look of mortal hatred.

"_Je ne fous combrends,_" replied the wounded man, drawing a revolver
with his free hand and shooting his enemy dead. "I couldn't helb it,
I vas so mad," finished the ex-soldier, running to serve two of his
customers, who stood waiting for him at a gate by the roadside. I left
him exhibiting ribbons, edgings, confectionery--heaven knows what!--with
all the volubility of an experienced shopman.




IX.

_JEFFERSON, AND THE VALLEY OF ISRAEL'S RIVER._

    Through the valley runs a river, bright and rocky, cool and swift,
    Where the wave with many a quiver plays around the pine-tree's drift.
                                  _Good Words._


It remains to introduce the reader into the valley watered by Israel's
River, and for this purpose we take the rail from Bethlehem to
Whitefield, and from Whitefield to Jefferson.

Like Bethlehem, Jefferson lies reposing in mid-ascent of a mountain.
Here the resemblance ends. The mountain above it is higher, the valley
beneath more open, permitting an unimpeded view up and down. The
hill-side upon which the clump of hotels is situated makes no steep
plunge into the valley, but inclines gently down to the banks of the
river. Instead of crowding upon and jostling each other, the mountains
forming opposite sides of this valley remain tranquilly in the alignment
they were commanded not to overstep. The confusion there is reduced to
admirable order here; the smooth slopes, the clean lines, the ample
views, the roominess, so to speak, of the landscape, indicate that
everything has been done without haste, with precision, and without
deviation from the original plan, which contemplated a paradise upon
earth.

Issuing from the wasted sides of Mount Jefferson and Mount Adams,
Israel's River runs a short north-westerly course of fifteen miles into
the Connecticut at Lancaster. This beautiful stream received its name
from Israel Glines, a hunter, who frequented these regions long before
the settlement of the country. The road from Lancaster to Gorham follows
the northern highlands of its valley to its head, then crossing the
dividing ridge which separates its waters from those of Moose River,
descends this stream to the Androscoggin at Gorham.

On the north side Starr King Mountain rises 2400 feet above the valley
and 3800 feet above the sea. On the south side Cherry Mountain lifts
itself 3670 feet higher than the tide-level. These two mountains form
the broad basin through which Israel's River flows for more than half
its course. The village of Jefferson Hill lies on the southern slope
of Starr King, and, of course, on the north side of the valley. Cherry
Mountain, the most prominent object in the foreground, is itself a
fine mountain study. It looks down through the great Notch, greeting
Chocorua. It is conspicuous from any elevated point north of the
Franconia group--from Fabyan's, Bethlehem, Whitefield, Lancaster, etc.
Owl's Head is a conspicuous protuberance of this mountain. Over the
right shoulder of Cherry Mountain stand the great Franconia Peaks, and
to the right of these, its buildings visible, is Bethlehem. Now look up
the valley.

[Illustration: THE NORTHERN PEAKS FROM JEFFERSON.]

We see that we have taken one step nearer the northern wing of the
great central edifice whose snowy dome dominates New England. We are
advancing as if to turn this magnificent battle-line of Titans, on
whose right Madison stands in an attitude to repel assault. Adams next
erects his sharp lance, Jefferson his shining crescent, Washington his
broad buckler, and Monroe his twin crags against the sky. Jefferson,
as the nearest, stands boldly forward, showing its tremendous ravines,
and long, supporting ridges, with great distinctness. Washington loses
something of its grandeur here; at least it is not the most striking
object; that must be sought for among the sable-sided giants standing at
his right hand. The southern peaks, being foreshortened, show only an
irregular and flattened outline which we do not look at a second time.
From Madison to Lafayette, our two rallying points, the distance can
hardly be less than forty miles as the eye travels: the entire circuit
it is able to trace cannot fall short of seventy or eighty miles. As
at Bethlehem, the view out of the valley is chiefly remarkable for its
contrast with every other feature.

I took a peculiar satisfaction in these views, they were so ample,
so extensive, so impressive. Here you really feel as if the whole
noble company of mountains were marshalled solely for your delighted
inspection. At no other point is there such unmeasured gratification
in seeing, because the eye roves without hinderance over the grandest
summits, placed like the Capitol at the head of its magnificent avenue.
It alights first on one pinnacle, then flits to another. It interrogates
these immortal structures with a calm scrutiny. It dives into the cool
ravines; it seeks to penetrate, like the birds, the profound silence
of the forests. It toils slowly up the broken crags, or loiters by
the cascades, hanging like athletes from dizzy brinks. It shrinks, it
admires, it questions; it is grave, gay, or thoughtful by turns. I do
not believe the man lives who, looking up to those mountains as in the
face of the Deity, can deliberately utter a falsehood: the lie would
choke him.

Furthermore, you get the best idea of height here, because the long
amphitheatre of mountains is seen steadily growing in stature toward
the great central group; and comparison is, by all odds, the best of
teachers for the eye.

If for no other reason than the respect due to age, Jefferson deserves a
moment to itself. It was granted, October 3d, 1765, to John Goffe, under
the name of Dartmouth. The road diverging here, and crossing Cherry
Mountain to Fabyan's, is the oldest, as it long was the only highway
through the White Mountains. In those early times the travelled way
was by the Connecticut River and Lancaster through this valley to the
White Mountain Notch. The divergent road is the old turnpike between
Vermont and Portland. Gradually, as settlements were pushed farther and
farther up the Ammonoosuc, a way was made by Bath, Lisbon, Littleton,
and Dalton, to Lancaster; but to pass beyond it was still necessary to
follow the old route; nor was it until after the settlement of Bethlehem
cleared the way that an execrable horse-path was made over the present
great highway up the Ammonoosuc. In 1803 President Dwight passed over
this new road on his second excursion to the great Notch. Few travellers
would now be willing to undergo what he did to see the mountains.
There were then only three or four houses in the sixteen miles between
Bethlehem and the Notch.

One of the first settlers of Jefferson was Colonel Joseph Whipple,
mentioned in the narrative of Nancy, the ill-starred mountain-maid, who
died while following her faithless lover in his flight from Jefferson
out of the mountains. Colonel Whipple lived on the road to Cherry
Mountain, near the mill. In 1797 his was the only house on the road.
During the Revolution a party of Indians, led by a white man, surrounded
the house, and made Whipple their prisoner. Inventing some pretext, the
colonel obtained leave to go into another room, from which he made his
escape by a window and fled to the woods, where he successfully eluded
pursuit.

Finding myself already well advanced toward the summit of Starr King,
I finished the ascent of this mountain during an afternoon's stroll.
Nothing worthy of remark, except the exquisite view from the summit,
presented itself. Here I met again a throng of old acquaintances, and
encountered a crowd of new ones. Here I saw something like a shadow
darken the side of Mount Washington, and watched it creep steadily up
and up to the summit. The shadow was the smoke of the locomotive making
its last ascent for the day, under the eyes of thousands of spectators,
who look at it to turn away with a smile, a shrug, or a shake of the
head.

The name of Starr King has become a household word with all travellers
in the White Mountains. It was most fitting that he who interpreted
Nature so well and so truly should receive his monument at her hands. To
him the mountains were emblematic of her highest perfection. He loved
them. His tone when speaking of them is always tender and caressing.
They appealed to his rare and exquisite perception of the beautiful,
to his fine and sensitive nature, capable of detecting intuitively
what was hid from common eyes. He felt their presence to be ennobling
and uplifting. He opened for us the charmed portal. We accompanied him
through an earthly paradise then first revealed to us by the fervor
and wealth of his description. He led us to the shadiest retreats, the
coolest groves, the most secluded glens. He guided our footsteps up the
steep mountain-side to the bleak summit. Thrice fitting was it that a
mountain should perpetuate the name of Thomas Starr King. As was said at
the grave of Gautier, he too dated "from the creation of the beautiful."

       *       *       *       *       *

I have now rested four days at Ethan Crawford's, who lives on the side
of Boy Mountain, five miles east of Jefferson Hill, on the road to
Gorham. This Ethan is a son of the celebrated guide and host so well
known to former travellers by the _sobriquet_ of Keeper of the Mountains.

I go to the window, and facing toward the setting sun look down the
broadening valley of Israel's River, over the glistening house-tops
of Whitefield, into and beyond the Connecticut Valley. I have Mitten
Mountain and Cherry Mountain, both heavily wooded, just over the way,
although the view of these elevations is in part intercepted by a nearer
mountain, also covered with a vigorous forest. At this moment I hear the
rush of the stream far down in the Hollow; and, following the serpentine
line its dark course makes among the press of hills, am confronted by
the massive slopes of Madison and Adams, the sombre ravine and castled
crags of Jefferson, and the hoary crest of Washington. I am really in
the heart of the mountains.

Swiftly from these mountains descend, with exquisite grace, enormous
billows of deep sea-green, which do not subside but lift themselves
proudly at the foot of those great overhanging walls of olive and
malachite. Here rolling together, their foliage, bright or dark, repeats
the effect of flaws sweeping over a sunny sea. Their deep hollows,
arching sides, and limpid crests perfect the resemblance to the moment
when, having exerted its utmost energy, the panting ocean stands
exhausted and motionless in the grasp of the north wind.

These lower mountains, interposing a barrier between the two valleys
of the Ammonoosuc and of Israel's River, seem, you think, pushed up
from the yielding earth simply by the enormous weight of the higher
and neighboring mountains whose keen summit-lines cut New England in
halves. At this hour these lines are edged with dull gold. All along
the wavering heights I can detect with the naked eye isolated black
crags, and can plainly see the deep dents in the broken cornices and
capitals of the grand old mountains--those vestiges of their primordial
architecture. Here the inclined ridge of the plateau, connecting the
pinnacle of Washington with the peaks of Monroe, is traced along its
whole extent. At this distance its craggy outline breaks in light
ripples, announcing nothing of that wilderness of stones assailing the
climber. All the asperities are softened into capricious harmonies.
Below yawn the ravines.

The tracks of old slides and torrents in the side of Monroe remind
you of the branches of a gigantic fossil tree, exposed by a fracture
dividing the mountain in two. Such is, in fact, the impression received
by looking at this mountain; but the object which most excites my
attention is the broad and deep rent in the side of Jefferson, over
which hang on one side the crumbling counterfeits of towers and
battlements, while on the other cataracts, like necklaces, are suspended
over its unfathomed abysses. Cloud-shadows drift noiselessly along the
warm steeps. Cataracts glisten brightly in the sun. The grave peaks look
down unmoved on the play of the one and the sport of the other.

The picture of life in East Jefferson would not be complete without the
old hound dozing in the sun, the turkey-cocks strutting consequentially
up and down, the barn-swallows darting swiftly in and out, the ring of
young Ethan's anvil, and the bleating of sheep far up the mountain-side.
I see them nibbling the fresh herbage, and watch the gambols of the
lambs like a child--only the child laughs aloud, and I do not laugh.
Voices come down the hillside, and I see the slow movement of a hammock
and the flutter of a dress in the maple-grove. Poetry and perfume mingle
with the scent of wild-flowers and songs of golden-mouthed birds.

Evening does not drive us within doors, the nights are so enchanting.
Day fades imperceptibly out. Even the stars seem disconcerted. One by
one they peep, and then flit from view. We watch the slow mustering of
the celestial host in silence. A meteor leaps from heaven to earth.
The fire-flies resemble a shower of sparks, or, as darkness deepens,
a phosphorescent sea. Dorbeetles hurtle the still air, and frogs sing
barcarolles in the misty fens. Now the mountains put on their sable
armor that is to render them invisible. Here the poet must assist us:

    "It is the hush of night; and all between
       Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,
     Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen--
       Save darkened Jura, whose capped heights appear
             Precipitously steep."

Light seems reluctant to leave the summits. It does not wholly fade
out of the west until a late hour. In a clear and starry night all the
surrounding mountains can be distinguished long after the valley is
steeped in darkness. At half-past nine I could easily tell the time by
my watch; and even at this hour a pale, nebulous light still lingered
where the sun had gone down. So at near two thousand feet above the full
sea one peers over into that deeper horizon where twilight and dawn meet
and embrace on the dusky threshold of midnight.

While in the neighborhood, I devoted a day to an exploration of the
Ravine of the Cascades. This ravine is entered from a point on the
Gorham road about three miles distant from the Mount Adams House. A
cart-way crosses the meadow here to an abandoned mill which is on the
stream coming from the ravine, and by which you must ascend. A more
beautiful example of a mountain brook it has never been my lot to see.
The ascent is, however, tedious and toilsome in the extreme over the
smooth and slippery rocks in its bed. Four hours of this brought me to
the region of low trees, and to the foot of the first fall, which, I
judged, descended about thirty feet. This way to the summit is open only
to the most vigorous climbers. Even then it is better to descend into
the ravine from the gap between Adams and Jefferson in order to visit
these cascades.

The two most profitable excursions to be made here are undoubtedly the
ascent of Mount Adams and the drive to the top of Randolph Hill. I have
found on the first summit irrefragable evidence that, next to Washington
and Lafayette, Adams is the peak which summer tourists are most desirous
of ascending. A good path, on which there is a camp, leads to the
summit. Having other views in regard to this mountain, which I had so
often admired from a distance, I made a third reconnoisance of its
outworks and its remarkable ravine, while _en route_ for Randolph Hill.

Unquestionably fine as the views are along this road, on which you are
at one time rolling smoothly over meadow or upland, with the great
northern peak rising to its full height, or again toiling up a stony
hill-side to obtain a much better idea of its real character and
prodigious dimensions, the climax is reserved until, turning from the
highway, you begin a slow advance up the long hill-side that makes an
almost uninterrupted descent for five miles to the Androscoggin. Here
I saw from a balcony what I had before seen from the ground-floor.
The view is large and expansive. You look down the surging land into
the Androscoggin. You look over among the mountains circling its
head, huddled together like a frightened herd. You look down into the
valley of the Moose, and through the gap in the great chain you again
see the valley of the Peabody and the Carter Notch. Now you hold the
great northern peaks admiringly at arm's-length, as you would an old
friend. Putting an imaginary hand on each broad shoulder, you scan them
from head to foot. They submit calmly and with condescension to your
lengthened scrutiny. Presently the low sun floods them with royal purple
and gilds the topmost crags with refined gold. You glance up the valley.
The little river comes like a stream of fire which the huge mountains
seem crowding forward to trample out. Now look down. The same mountains
seem spurning the glittering serpent away from their feet.

King's Ravine is as well seen from this point, perhaps, as any. It
is a huge natural niche excavated high up the mountain. You see
everything--grizzled spruces, blackened shafts of stone, rifted walls,
tawny crags--all in one glance. It is formidable and forbidding, though
a way has been made through it by which to ascend Mount Adams. Now that
there is a good path skirting the ravine and avoiding it, that look will
usually suffice to deter sensible people from attempting to reach the
summit by it. It is far better to descend into it and grope one's way
down through and underneath the bowlders. The same, and even greater,
obstacles are encountered as in Tuckerman's. In early spring the walls
of the ravine are streaked with slowly-melting snows. These gulches, all
converging toward the bottom, send a torrent roaring down with noise
equal to surf on a hard sea-beach. This torrent is the principal source
of the Moose.

Well do I remember my first venture here. I had walked from Gorham.
Seeing a man chopping wood by the side of the road, I entered into
conversation with him; but at the first suggestion I let fall of an
intention to climb to the ravine he gaped open-mouthed. To ascend
the brook to the ravine, the escarpment of the ravine to the high
precipices, the precipices to the gate-way, was an exploit in those
days. But this was long ago. A good climber now puts King's Ravine down
in his list of excursions with the same nonchalance that a belle of the
ball-room enters an additional waltz on her card of engagements.[39]

One day I had fished along the Moose without success. Nothing could
give a better idea of a mountain stream than this one, fed by snows and
gushing from the breached side of Mount Adams. But either the water was
too cold or the trout too wary. They persistently refused my fly. I
tried red and brown hackle, then a white moth-miller; all to no purpose.
Feeling downright hungry, I determined to seek a dinner elsewhere.
Unjointing my rod, I returned, rather crestfallen, down the mountain
into the road.

I knocked at the first house. Pretty soon the curtain of the first
window at my left hand was partly drawn aside. I felt that I was under
the fire of a pair of very black eyes. An instant after the door was
half-opened by a woman past middle life, who examined me with a scared
look while wiping her hands on a corner of her apron. Two or three white
heads peeped out from the folds of her dress like young chickens from
the old hen's wing, and as many pairs of widely-opened eyes surveyed me
with innocent surprise.

Perceiving her confusion, I was on the point of asking some indifferent
question, about the distance, the road--I knew not what--but my stomach
gave me a twinge of disdain, and I stood my ground. Hunger has no
conscience: honor was at stake. In two words I made known my wants, I
confess with confidence oozing away at my fingers' ends.

Her confusion became still greater--so evident, indeed, that I took a
backward step and stammered, quite humbly, "A hunch of bread-and-cheese
or a cup of milk--" when the good-wife nailed me to the threshold.

Quoth she, "The men folks have all _et_ their dinners, and there hain't
no more meat; but if you could put up with a few trout?"

Put up with trout! Did I hear aright? The word made my mouth water.
I softly repeated it to myself--"Trout!"--would I put up with trout?
Not to lower myself in this woman's estimation, I replied that, seeing
there was nothing else in the house, I would put up with trout. Let it
suffice that I made a repast fit for a prince, and, like a prince, being
served by a bashful maiden with cheeks like the arbutus, which everybody
knows shows its most delicate pink only in the seclusion of its native
woods.

My hours of leisure in Jefferson being numbered, having now made the
circuit of the great range by all the avenues penetrating or environing
it, the reader's further indulgence is craved while his faithful guide
points his well-worn alpenstock to the last stage of our mountain
journeys.

Behold us at last, after many capricious wanderings, after calculated
avoidance, approaching the inevitable end. We are _en route_ for
Fabyan's by the road over Cherry Mountain. This road is twelve miles
long. As we mount with it the side of Cherry Mountain the beautiful
vistas continually detain us. We are now climbing the eastern wall of
the valley, so long the prominent figure from the heights of Jefferson.
We now look back upon the finely-traced slopes of Starr King, with the
village luxuriously extended in the sun. For some time we are like two
travellers going in opposite directions, but who turn again and again
for a last adieu. Now the forest closes over us and we see each other no
more.

Noonday found me descending that side of the mountain overlooking the
Ammonoosuc Valley. Where the Cherry Mountain road joins the valley
highway the White Mountain House, an old-time tavern, stands. The
railway passes close to its door. A mile more over the level brings us
to Fabyan's, so called from one of the old mountain landlords, whose
immortality is thus assured. Now that mammoth caravansary, which seems
all eyes, is reached just as the doors opening upon the great hall
disclose a long array of tables, while permitting a delicious odor to
assail our nostrils.

To speak to the purpose, the Fabyan House really commands a superb front
view of Mount Washington, from which it is not six miles in a bee-line.
All the southern peaks, among which Mount Pleasant is undoubtedly the
most conspicuous for its form and its mass, and for being thrown so
boldly out from the rest, are before the admiring spectator; but the
northern peaks, with the exception of Clay and Jefferson, are cut off
partly by the slopes of Mount Deception, which rises directly before the
hotel, partly by the trend of the great range itself to the north-east.
The view is superior from the neighborhood of the Mount Pleasant House,
half a mile beyond Fabyan's, where Mount Jefferson is fully and finely
brought into the picture.

[Illustration: MOUNT WASHINGTON, FROM FABYAN'S.]

The railway is seen mounting a foot-hill, crossing a second and
higher elevation, then dimly carved upon the massive flanks of Mount
Washington itself, as far as the long ridge which ascends from the
north in one unbroken slope. It is then lost. We see the houses upon
the summit, and from the Mount Pleasant House the little cluster of
roofs at the base. A long and well-defined gully, exactly dividing the
mountain, is frequently taken to be the railway, which is really much
farther to the left. The smoke of a train ascending or descending still
further indicates the line of iron, which we admit to the category of
established facts only under protest.

Sylvester Marsh, of Littleton, New Hampshire, was the man who dreamed
of setting aside the laws of gravitation with a puff of steam. Like
all really great inventions, his had to run the gauntlet of ridicule.
When the charter for a railway to the summit of Mount Washington was
before the Legislature a member moved that Mr. Marsh also have leave
to build one to the moon. Had the motion prevailed, I am persuaded Mr.
Marsh would have built it. Really, the project seemed only a little
more audacious. But in three years from the time work was begun (April,
1866) the track was laid and the mountain in irons.[40] The summit which
the superstitious Indian dared not approach, nor the most intrepid
white hunter ascend, is now annually visited by thousands, without more
fatigue than would follow any other excursion occupying the same time.
The excitement of a first passage, the strain upon the nerves, is quite
another thing.

In a little grass-grown enclosure, on the other side of the Ammonoosuc,
is a headstone bearing the following inscription:

                              IN MEMORY OF
                          CAP ELIEZER ROSBROOK
                            WHO DIED SEP. 25
                                  1817
                             In the 70 Year
                              Of His Age.

    When I lie buried deep in dust,
      My flesh shall be thy care
    These withering limbs to thee I trust
      To raise them strong and fair.

                                 WIDOW
                            HANNAH ROSEBROOK
                            Died May 4, 1829
                                Aged 84

Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord. For they rest from their labors
                    And their works do follow them.

So far as is known Rosebrook was the first white settler on this spot.
One account[41] says he came here in 1788, another fixes his settlement
in 1792.[42] His military title appears to have been derived from
services rendered on the Canadian frontier during the Revolutionary
War. Rosebrook was a true pioneer, restless, adventurous, and fearless.
He was a man of large and athletic frame. From his home in Massachusetts
he had first removed to what is now Colebrook, then to Guildhall, Vt.,
and lastly here, to Nash and Sawyer's Location, exchanging the comforts
which years of toil had surrounded him with, abandoning the rich and
fertile meadow-lands of the Connecticut, for a log-cabin far from any
human habitation, and with no other neighbors than the bears and wolves
that prowled unharmed the shaggy wilderness at his door. With his axe
this sturdy yeoman attacked the forest closely investing his lonely
cabin. Year by year, foot by foot, he wrested from it a little land
for tillage. With his gun he kept the beast of prey from his little
enclosure, or provided venison or bear's meat for the wife and little
ones who anxiously awaited his return from the hunt. Hunger and they
were no strangers. For years the strokes of Rosebrook's axe, or the
crack of his rifle, were the only sounds that disturbed the silences
of ages. Little by little the circle was enlarged. One after another
the giants of the forest fell beneath his blows. But years of resolute
conflict with nature and with privation found him at last in the
enjoyment of a dearly-earned prosperity. Travellers began to pass his
doors. The Great White Mountain Notch soon became a thoroughfare, which
could never have been safely travelled but for Rosebrook's intrepidity
and Rosebrook's hospitality. In this way began the feeble tide of travel
through these wilds. In this way the splendidly equipped hotel, with its
thousands of guests the locomotive every hour brings to its door, traces
its descent from the rude and humble cabin of Eleazer Rosebrook.




X.

_THE GREAT NORTHERN PEAKS._

    Cradled and rocked by wind and cloud,
    Safe pillowed on the summit proud,
    Steadied by that encircling arm
    Which holds the Universe from harm,
    I knew the Lord my soul would keep,
    Upon His mountain-tops asleep!
             LUCY LARCOM.


Thus I found myself again at the base of Mount Washington, but on the
reverse, opposed to the Glen. Before the completion of the railway from
Fabyan's to the foot of the mountain I had passed over the intervening
six miles by stage--a delightful experience; but one now steps on
board an open car, which in less than half the time formerly occupied
leaves him at the point where the mountain car and engine wait for him.
The route lies along the foaming Ammonoosuc, and its justly admired
falls, cut deep through solid granite, into the uncouth and bristling
wilderness which surrounds the base of the mountain. The peculiarity
of these falls does not consist in long, abrupt descents of perturbed
water, but in the neatly excavated caves, rock-niches, and smoothly
rounded cliffs and basins through which for some distance the impatient
stream rears and plunges like a courser feeling the curb. Imperfect
glimpses hardly give an idea of the curious and interesting processes
of rock-cutting to one who merely looks down from the high banks above
while the train is in rapid motion. It is better, therefore, to visit
these falls by way of the old turnpike.

The advance up the valley which has first given us an outlook through
the great Notch, on our right, presents for some time the huge green
hemisphere of Mount Pleasant as the conspicuous object. The track then
swerves to the left, bringing Mount Washington into view, and in a few
minutes more we are at the ill-favored clump of houses and sheds at its
base.

[Illustration: MOUNTAIN RAILWAY-STATION IN STAGING TIMES.]

The mechanism of the road-way is very simple. The track is formed of
three iron rails, firmly clamped to stout timbers, laid lengthwise upon
transverse pieces, or sleepers. These are securely embedded, where the
surface will allow, or raised upon trestles, where its inequalities
would compel a serious deflection from a smooth or regular inclination.
One of these, about half-way up the mountain, is called Jacob's Ladder.
Here the train achieves the most difficult part of the ascent. After
traversing the whole line on foot, and inspecting it minutely and
thoroughly, I can candidly pronounce it not only a marvel of mechanical
skill, but bear witness to the scrupulous care taken to keep every
timber and every bolt in its place. In two words, the structure is
nothing but a ladder of wood and iron laid upon the side of the
mountain.[43]

The propelling force employed is equally simple. The engine and car
merely rest upon and are kept in place by the two outer rails, while
the power is applied to the middle one, which we have just called a
rail, but is, more properly speaking, a little ladder of steel cogs,
into which the corresponding teeth of the locomotive's driving-wheel
play--a firm hold being thus secured. The question now merely is, how
much power is necessary to overcome gravity and lift the weight of the
machine into the air? This cogged-rail is the fulcrum, and steam the
lever. Mr. Sylvester Marsh has not precisely lifted the mountain, but he
has, nevertheless, with the aid of Mr. Walter Aiken, reduced it, to all
intents, to a level.

The boiler of the locomotive, inclined forward so as to preserve a
horizontal position when the engine is ascending, the smoke-stack
also pitched forward, give the idea of a machine that has been in a
collision. Everything seems knocked out of place. But this queer-looking
thing, that with bull-dog tenacity literally hangs on to the mountain
with its teeth, is capable of performing a feat such as Watt never
dreamed of, or Stephenson imagined. It goes up the mountain as easily as
a bear climbs a tree, and like a bear.

I had often watched the last ascension of the train, which usually
reaches the summit at sunset, and I had as often pleased myself with
considering whether it then most resembled a big, shining beetle
crawling up the mountain side, or some fiery dragon of the fabulous
times, dragging his prey after him to his den, after ravaging the
valley. My own turn was now come to make the trial. It was a cold
afternoon in September when I entered the little carriage, not much
larger than a street-car, and felt the premonitory jerk with which the
ascent begins. The first hill is so steep that you look up to see the
track always mounting high above your head; but one soon gets used to
the novelty, and to the clatter which accompanies the incessant dropping
of a pawl into the indentures of the cogged-rail, and in which he
recognizes an element of safety. The train did not move faster than one
could walk, but it moved steadily, except when it now and then stopped
at a water-tank, standing solitary and alone upon the waste of rocks.

By the time we emerged above the forest into the chill and wind-swept
desolation above it--a first sight of which is so amazing--the sun
had set behind the Green Mountain summits, showing a long, serrated
line of crimson peaks, above which clouds of lake floated in a sea
of amber. It grew very cold. Great-coats and shawls were quickly
put on. Thick darkness enveloped the mountain as we approached the
head of the profound gulf separating us from Mount Clay, which is the
most remarkable object seen at any time either during the ascent or
descent. Into this pitchy ravine, into its midnight blackness, a long
and brilliant train of sparks trailed downward from the locomotive, so
that we seemed being transported heavenward in a chariot of fire. This
flaming torch, lighting us on, now disclosed snow and ice on all sides.
We had successfully attained the last slope which conceals the railway
from the valley. Up this the locomotive toiled and panted, while we
watched the stars come out and emit cold gleams around, above, beneath.
The light of the Summit House twinkled small, then grew large, as,
surmounting the last and steepest pitch of the pinnacle, we were pushed
before a long row of lighted windows crusted thick with hoar-frost.
Stiffened with cold, the passengers rushed for the open door without
ceremony. In an instant the car was empty; while the locomotive,
dripping with its unheard-of efforts, seemed to regard this desertion
with reproachful glances.

Reader, have you ever sat beside Mrs. Dodge's fire after such a passive
ascension as that just described? After a two hours' combat with the
instinct of self-preservation, did you dream of such comforts, luxuries
even, awaiting you on the bleak mountain-top, where nothing grows, and
where water even congeals and refuses to run? Could you, in the highest
flights of fancy, imagine that you would one day sit in the courts of
heaven, or feast sumptuously amid the stars? All this you either have
done or may do. And now, while the smartly-dressed waiter-girl, who
seems to have donned her white apron as a personal favor, brings you the
best the larder affords, pinch yourself to see if you are awake.

In several ascensions by the railway I have always remarked the same
symptoms of uneasiness among the passengers, betrayed by pale faces,
compressed lips, hands tightening their grasp of the chairs, or subdued
and startled exclamations, quickly repressed. To escape the influence of
such weird surroundings one should be absolutely stolid--a stock or a
stone. So for all it is an experience more or less acute, according to
his sensibility, strength of nerve, and power of self-control. However
well it may be disguised, the strong equally with the weak, and more
deeply than the weak, feel the strain which ninety minutes' combat with
gravitation, attraction, ponderosity, engenders. The mind does not for a
single instant quit its hold of this defiance of Nature's laws. As long
as iron and steel hold fast, there is no danger; but you think iron and
steel are iron and steel, and no more. An anecdote will illustrate this
feeling.

After pointing out to a lady-passenger the skilful devices for stopping
the engine--the pawl, the steam, and the atmospheric brakes--and after
patiently explaining their mechanism and uses, the listener asked the
conductor, with much interest,

"Then, if the pawl breaks while we are going up?"

"The engine will be stopped by means of these powerful brakes, applied
directly to the axles, which will, of course, render the train
motionless. As the locomotive has two driving-wheels, the engineer can
bring a double power to bear, as you see. Each is independent of the
other, so that if one gives way the other is still more than sufficient
to keep the engine stationary."

"Thank you; but the car?"

"Oh, the car is not attached to the engine at all; and should the
engineer lose the control of his machine, which is not at all likely,
the car can be brought to a stand-still by independent brakes of its
own. You see the engine goes up behind, and in front, down; and the car
is simply pushed forward, or follows it."

"So that you consider it--."

"Perfectly safe, madam, perfectly safe."

"Thank you. One question more. Suppose all these things break at once.
What then? Where would we go?"

"That, madam, would depend on what sort of a life you had led."

I have still a consolation for the timid. Ten years' trial has confirmed
the declaration of its projectors, that they would make the road as safe
or safer than the ordinary railway. No life has been lost by an injury
to a passenger during that time. Besides, what is the difference? After
its day, the railway will pass like the stage-coach--that is, unless you
believe, as you do not, that the world and all progress are to stop with
ourselves.

[Illustration: ASCENT BY THE RAILWAY.]

The affable lady hostess told me that she paid an annual rental of ten
thousand dollars for her palace of ice; nominally for a year, but really
for a term of only seventy-six days, this being the limit of the season
upon the summit. During the remaining two hundred and eighty-nine
days the house is closed. During four or five months it is buried, or
half-buried, in a snow-drift. Of this large sum, three thousand dollars
go to the Pingree heirs. These facts may tend to modify the views of
those who think the charges exorbitant, if such there are.

Raising my eyes to look out of the window, the light from within
fell upon a bank of snow. A man was stooping over it as if in search
of something. Going out, I found him feeling it with his hands, and
examining it with childish wonder and curiosity. I approached this
eccentric person very softly; but he, seeing my shadow on the snow
beside him, looked up.

"Can I assist you in recovering what you have lost?" I inquired.

"Thank you; no. I have lost nothing. Ah! I see," he continued, laughing
quietly, "you think I have lost my wits. But it is not so. I am a native
of the East Indies, and I assure you this is the first time in my life I
have ever seen snow near enough to handle it. Imagine what an experience
the ascent of Mount Washington is for me!"

We took a turn down the hard-frozen Glen road together in order to see
the moon come up. The telegraph-poles, fantastically crusted with ice to
the thickness of a foot, stretched a line of white-hooded phantoms down
the dark side of the mountain. From successive coatings of frozen mist
the wires were as thick as cables. Couches of snow lay along the rocks,
and fresh snow had apparently been rubbed into all the inequalties of
the cliffs rising out of the Great Gulf. The scene was supremely weird,
supremely desolate.

From here we crossed over to the railway, and, ascending by it, shortly
came upon the heap of stones, surmounted by its tablet, erected on
the spot where Miss Bourne perished while ascending the mountain, in
September, 1855. The party, of which she was one, setting out in high
spirits in the afternoon from the Glen House, was overtaken near the
summit by clouds, which hid the house from view, and among which they
became bewildered. It was here Miss Bourne declared she could go no
farther. Overcome by her exertions, she sunk exhausted and fainting
upon the rocks. Her friends were scarcely awakened to her true
condition when, amid the surrounding darkness and gloom, this young
and lovely maiden of only twenty expired in the arms of her uncle. The
mourners wrapped the body in their own cloaks, and, ignorant that a
few rods only separated them from the summit, kept a vigil throughout
the long and weary night. We hasten over this night of dread. In the
morning, discovering their destination a few rods above them, they bore
the lifeless form of their companion to it with feelings not to be
described. A rude bier was made, and she who had started up the mountain
full of life now descended it a corpse.

The evening treated us to a magnificent spectacle. The moon, in
full-orbed splendor, moved majestically up the heavens, attended by her
glittering retinue of stars. Frozen peaks, reflecting the mild radiance,
shone like beaten silver. But the immense hollows between, the deep
valleys that had been open to view, were now inundated with a white and
luminous vapor, from which the multitude of icy summits emerged like a
vast archipelago--a sea of islands. This spectral ocean seemed on the
point of ingulfing the mountains. This motionless sea, these austere
peaks, uprising, were inconceivably weird and solemnizing. An awful hush
pervaded the inanimate but threatening host of cloud-girt mountains.
Upon them, upon the sea of frozen vapor, absorbing its light, the clear
moon poured its radiance. The stars seemed nearer and brighter than
ever before. The planets shone with piercing brilliancy; they emitted
a sensible light. The Milky Way, erecting its glittering nebula to the
zenith, to which it was pinned by a dazzling star, floated, a glorious,
star-spangled veil, amid this vast sea of gems. One could vaguely catch
the idea of an unpeopled desolation rising from the fathomless void of
a primeval ocean. The peaks, incased in snow and ice, seemed stamped
with the traces of its subsidence. Pale and haggard, they lifted their
antique heads in silent adoration.

Going to my room and extinguishing the light, I stood for some time
at the window, unable to reconcile the unwonted appearance of the
stars shining far below, with the fixed idea that they ought not to be
there. Yet there they were. To tell the truth, my head was filled with
the surpassing pomp I had just witnessed, of which I had not before
the faintest conception. I felt as if I was silently conversing with
all those stars, looking at me and my petty aspirations with such
inflexible, disdainful immobility. When one feels that he is nothing,
self-assurance is no great thing. The conceit is taken out of him. On a
mountain the man stands naked before his Maker. He is nothing. That is
why I leave him there.

That night I did not sleep a wink. Twenty times I jumped out of bed and
ran to the window to convince myself that it was not all a dream. No;
moon and stars were still bright. Over the Great Gulf, all ghastly in
the moonlight, stood Mount Jefferson in his winding-sheet. I dressed
myself, and from the embrasure of my window kept a vigil.

Sunrise did not produce the startling effect I had anticipated. The
morning was fine and cloudless. A gong summoned the inmates of the
hotel to the spectacle. Without dressing themselves, they ran to their
windows, where, wrapped in bed-blankets, they stood eagerly watching the
east. To the pale emerald of early dawn a ruddy glow succeeded. Before
we were aware, the rocky waste around us grew dusky red. The crimsoned
air glided swiftly over the neighboring summits. Now the brightness
was upon Adams and Jefferson and Clay, and now it rolled its purpled
flood into the Great Gulf, to mingle with the intense blackness at the
bottom. For some moments the mountain-tops held the color, then it was
transfused into the clear sunshine of open day; while the vapors, heavy
and compact, stretched along the valleys, still smothering the land,
retained their leaden hue.

It was still early when I descended the carriage-road on my way to Mount
Adams. The usual way is to keep the railway as far as the old Gulf Tank,
near which is a house of refuge, provided with a cooking-stove, fuel,
and beds. I continued, however, to coast the upper crags of the Great
Gulf, until compelled to make directly for the southern peak of Mount
Clay. The view from this _col_ is imposing, embracing at once, and
without turning the head, all the southern summits of the chain. Here I
was joined by two travellers fresh from Mont Blanc and the Matterhorn.

Each choosing a route for himself, we pushed on to the high summit of
Clay, from which we looked down into the deep gap dividing this mountain
from Jefferson. Arrived there, we resolutely attacked the eastern slopes
of this fine peak, whose notched summit rose more than seven hundred and
fifty feet above our heads. Patches of Alpine grasses, of reindeer-moss,
interspersed with irregular ridges of stones, extended quite up to the
summit, which was a mere elongated stone-heap crowning the apex of its
cone. Those undulating masses encircling its bulk, half hid among the
grass, were like an immense python crushing the mountain in its deadly
folds. We picked our way carefully among this chaotic débris, which the
Swiss aptly call "cemeteries of the devil," tripping now and then in the
long, wiry grass, or burying our feet among the hummocks of dry moss,
which were so many impediments to rapid progress. This appearance and
this experience were common to the whole route.

At each summit we threw ourselves upon the ground, to feast upon the
landscape while regaining breath. Each halt developed more and more
the grand and stupendous mass of Washington receding from the depths
of the Great Gulf, along whose edge the carriage-road serpentined
and finally disappeared. We saw, a little softened by distance, the
horribly mutilated crags of the head wall stripped bare of all verdure,
presenting on its knobbed agglomerates of tempest-gnawed granite a
thousand eye-catching points and detaining as many shadows. Nothing--not
even the glittering leagues of mountains and valleys shooting or
slumbering above, beneath--so riveted the attention as this apparently
bottomless pit of the five mountains. It was a continued wonder. It drew
us by a strange magnetism to its dizzy brink, chained us there, and
then abandoned us to a physical and moral vertigo, in which the power
of critical investigation was lost. An invisible force seemed always
dragging us toward it. Whence comes this horrible, this uncontrollable
desire to throw ourselves in?

Out of the death-like torpor which eternally shrouds the ravine
the smiling valley seems escaping. The crystal air of the heights
grows thick in its depths. Beasts and birds of prey haunt its gloomy
solitudes. An immense grave seems yawning to receive the mountains. The
aged mountains seem standing with one foot in the grave.

This gulf makes an impression altogether different from the others.
It is an immense ravine. Each of the five mountains pushes down into
it massive buttresses of granite, forming lesser ravines between of
considerable extent. Through these streams trickle down from invisible
sources. But these buttresses, which fall lightly and gracefully as
folds of velvet from summit to base of the highest mountains, these
ravines, are hardly noticed. The insatiable maw of the gulf swallows
them as easily as an anaconda a rabbit. In immensity, which you do not
easily grasp, in grandeur, which you do not know how to measure, this
has no partakers here. Even the great Carter Mountain, rising from the
Peabody Valley, seems no more than a stone rolled away from the entrance
of this enormous sepulchre.

Our first difficulties were encountered upon the reverse of Mount
Jefferson, from whose side rocky spurs detached themselves, and, jutting
out from the side of the mountain, formed an irregular line of cliffs
of varying height, in the way we had selected for the descent. But
these were no great affair. We now had the Ravine of the Castles upon
our left, the stately pyramid of Adams in front, and, beneath, the deep
hollow between this mountain and the one we were descending. We had the
little hamlet of East Jefferson at the mouth of the ravine, and that
crowd of peaks, tightly wedged between the waters of the Connecticut and
the Androscoggin, looming above it.

A deviation to the left enabled us to approach the Castellated Ridge,
which is, beyond dispute, the most extraordinary rock-formation the
whole extent of the range can show. As it is then fully before you, it
is seen to much better advantage when approached from Mount Adams. I
do not know who gave it this name, but none could be more felicitous
or expressive. It is a sloping ridge of red-brown granite, broken at
its summit into a long line of picturesque towers and battlements,
rising threateningly over an escarpment of débris. Such an illusion is
too rarely encountered to be easily forgotten. It is hardly possible
to doubt you are really looking at an antique ruin. One would like to
wander among these pre-Adamite fortifications, which curiously remind
him of the old Spanish fortresses among the Pyrenees. From the opposite
side of the ravine--for I had not the time requisite for a closer
examination--the rock composing the most elevated portion of the ridge
appears to have been split perpendicularly down, probably by frost,
allowing these broken columns and shafts to stand erect upon the verge
of the abyss. In the warm afternoon light, when the shadows fall, it is
hardly possible to conceive a finer picture of a crumbling but still
formidable mountain fortress. Bastions and turrets stand boldly out.
Each broken shaft sends a long shadow streaming down into the ravine,
whose high and deeply-furrowed sides are thus beautifully striped with
dusk-purple, while the sunlit parts retain a greenish-gray.

At the foot of Jefferson we found, concealed among rushes, a spring,
which refreshed us like wells of the desert the parched and fainting
Arab. From here two routes offered themselves. One was by keeping the
curved ridge, rising gradually to a subordinate peak (Samuel Adams),[44]
and to the foot of the summit itself; a second was by crossing the
ground sloping downward from this ridge into the Great Gulf. We chose
the latter, notwithstanding the dwarf-spruce, advancing well up to the
foot of the ridge, promised a warm reception.

[Illustration: THE CASTELLATED RIDGE.]

At last, after sustaining a vigorous tussle with the scrub-firs, and
stopping to unearth a brook whose waters purred underneath stones,
I stood at the foot of the pointed shaft I had so often seen wedged
into the sky. Five hundred feet or more of the apex of this pyramid
is apparently formed of broken rocks, dropped one by one into place.
Nothing like a ledge or a cliff is to be seen: only these ponderous,
sharp-edged masses of cold gray stone, lifted one above another to the
tapering point. Up this mutilated pyramid we began a slow advance. It
was necessary to carefully choose one step before taking another, in
order to avoid plunging into the deep crevasses traversing the peak in
every direction. At last I placed my foot upon the topmost crag.

No one can help regarding this peak with the open admiration which is
its due. You conceive that every mountain ought to have a pinnacle.
Well, here it is. We could easily have stood astride the culminating
point. But how came these rocks here? and what was the primitive
structure, if these fragments we see are its relics? One hardly believes
that an ice-raft could have first transported and then deposited such
misshapen masses in their present symmetrical form. Still less does
he admit that the original shaft, crushed in a thousand pieces by
the glacier itself, fell with such grace as to rise again, as he now
sees it, from its own ruins. If, again, it proceeds from the eternal
hammering of King Frost, what was the antique edifice that first rose so
proudly above the frozen seas of the great primeval void? But to science
the things which belong to science. We have a book describing heaven,
but not one that resolves the problems of earth. The "_Veni, vidi,
vici,_" of the Book of Genesis leaves us at the beginning. We are still
staring, still questioning, still vacillating between this theory and
that hypothesis.[45]

We had from the summit an inspiring though not an extensive view. A
bank of dun-colored smoke smirched the fair western sky as high as the
summits of the Green Mountains. At fifty miles mountains and valleys
melted confusedly into each other. Water emitted only a dull glimmer.
Here a peak and there a summit surveyed us from afar. All else was
intangible; almost imaginary. At twenty-five miles the land, resuming
its ordinary appearance, was bathed in the soft brilliance caused by the
sun shining through an atmosphere only half transparent.

Upon this obscure mass we traced once more the well-known objects
environing the great mountain. To the south Mount Washington divided
the landscape in two. For some time we stood admiring its magnificent
_torso_, its amplitude of rock-land, its easy preponderance over every
other summit. Again we followed the road down the great north-east
spur. Once more we caught the white specks which denote the line of
the railway. We plunged our eyes down into the Great Gulf, and lifted
them to the shattered protuberances of Clay, which seemed to mark the
route where the glacier crushed and ground its way through the very
centre of the chain. A second time we descended Jefferson to the deep
dip, opening like a trough between two enormous sea-waves, where we
first saw the little Storm Lake glistening. Following now the long,
rocky ridge, rolling downward toward the hamlets of Jefferson and
Randolph, the mountains yawned wide at our feet. We were looking over
into King's Ravine--to its very bottom. We peered curiously into its
remotest depths, traced the difficult and breathless ascent through
the remarkable natural gateway at its head out upon a second ridge,
on which a little pond (Star Lake) lies hid. We then crossed the gap
communicating with Mount Madison, whose summit, last and lowest of the
great northern peaks, dominates the Androscoggin Valley with undisputed
sway. To-day it made on us scarcely an impression. Its peak, which from
the valley holds a rough similitude with that of Adams, is dwarfed here.
You look down upon it.

More applicable to Adams than to any other, for our eyes grow dazzled
with the glitter and sparkle of countless mica-flakes incrusting the
hard granite with clear brilliancy as from the facets of a diamond; more
applicable, again, from the stern, unconquerable attitude of the great
gray shaft itself, lifted in such conscious pride beyond the confines
of the vast ethereal vault of blue--a tower of darkness invading the
bright realms of light; a defiance flung by earth in the face of high
heaven--is the magnificent description of the Matterhorn from the pen of
Ruskin:

"If one of these little flakes of mica-sand, hurried in tremulous
spangling along the bottom of the ancient river, too light to sink,
too faint to float, almost too small for sight, could have had a mind
given to it as it was at last borne down with its kindred dust into
the abysses of the stream, and laid (would it not have thought?) for a
hopeless eternity in the dark ooze, the most despised, forgotten, and
feeble of all earth's atoms; incapable of any use or change; not fit,
down there in the diluvial darkness, so much as to help an earth-wasp
to build its nest, or feed the first fibre of a lichen--what would it
have thought had it been told that one day, knitted into a strength as
of imperishable iron, rustless by the air, infusible by the flame, out
of the substance of it, with its fellows, the axe of God should hew that
Alpine tower;--that against _it_--poor, helpless mica-flake!--the snowy
hills should lie bowed like flocks of sheep, and the kingdoms of the
earth fade away in unregarded blue; and around it--weak, wave-drifted
mica-flake!--the great war of the firmament should burst in thunder, and
yet stir it not; and the fiery arrows and angry meteors of the night
fall blunted back from it into the air; and all the stars in the clear
heaven should light, one by one, as they rose, new cressets upon the
points of snow that fringed its abiding-place on the imperishable spire!"

Myself and my companions set out on our return to the Summit House early
in the afternoon, choosing this time the ridge in preference to the
scrubby slope. From this we turned away, at the end of half an hour,
by an obscure path leading to a boggy pool, sunk in a mossy hollow
underneath it, crossed the area of scattered bowlders, strewn all around
like the relics of a petrified tempest, and, filling our cups at the
spring, drank to Mount Adams, the paragon of mountain peaks.

As we again approached the brow of Mount Washington the sun resembled
a red-hot globe of iron flying through the west and spreading a
conflagration through the heavens. Again the colossal shadow of the
mountain began its stately ascension in the east. One moment the burning
eye of the great luminary interrogated this phantom, sprung from the
loins of the hoary peak. Then it dropped heavily down behind the Green
Mountains, as it has done for thousands of years, the landscape fading,
fading into one vast, shadowy abyss, out of which arose the star-lit
dome of the august summit.




TOURIST'S APPENDIX.

PREPARED FOR "THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS."


GEOGRAPHY.--The White Mountains are in the northern central part of the
State of New Hampshire. They occupy the whole area of the State between
Maine and Vermont, and between Lake Winnipiseogee and the head-streams
of the Connecticut and Androscoggin rivers.

Two principal chains, having a general direction from south-west to
north-east, constitute this great water-shed of New England. These are
the Franconia and the White Mountains proper, sometimes called the
"Presidential Range."

Grouped on all sides of the higher summits are a great number of
inferior ridges, among which, as in the Sandwich Range, rise some very
fine peaks, widely extending the mountainous area, and diversifying it
with numerous valleys, lakes, and streams.

Two principal rivers, the Saco and Merrimack, flowing from these two
chief clusters, form the two great valleys of the White Mountain system;
and by these valleys the railways enter the mountains from the seaboard.
Lake Winnipiseogee, which washes the southern foot of the mountains,
is also a thoroughfare, as are the valleys of the Connecticut and
Androscoggin rivers.

DISTANCES.--It is 430 miles from Philadelphia to Fabyan's; 340 from New
York, _via_ Springfield; 190 from Montreal, _via_ Newport; 208 _via_
Groveton; 169 from Boston, _via_ North Conway (Eastern R.R.); 208 _via_
Concord (B., C., & M. R.R.); 91 from Portland, _via_ North Conway (P.
& O. R.R.); 91 from Portland to Gorham (G. T. R.); 199 from Boston to
Gorham, _via_ Eastern and Grand Trunk roads; and 206 _via_ Boston and
Maine and Grand Trunk roads.

ROUTES.--Procure, before starting, the official time-tables of the
railroads running to the mountains or making direct connection with
them, by application to local agents, by writing to the ticket-agents of
the roads, or by consulting a railway guide-book. The roads reaching the
mountains are--

From Washington: The Pennsylvania, and New York & New England.

From Philadelphia: The Pennsylvania, and New York & New England.

From Montreal: The Grand Trunk, and The South-eastern.

From Quebec: The Grand Trunk Railway.

From Saratoga: The Delaware & Hudson Canal Co.

From New York: New York, New Haven, & Hartford (all rail _via_
Springfield, White River Junction, and Wells River to Fabyan's; or all
rail _via_ Springfield, Worcester, Nashua, and Concord, N. H.; or all
rail _via_ "Shore Line," Boston & Albany, or New York & New England
roads to Boston); or by Fall River, Norwich, or Stonington "Sound Lines"
to Boston; thence by either of the following railroads:

[Illustration: JACOBS LADDER, MOUNT WASHINGTON RAILWAY.]

From Boston: Eastern R.R., _via_ Beverly (18 miles, branch to Cape Ann);
Hampton (46 miles, Boar's Head and Rye Beaches); Portsmouth (56 miles,
Newcastle and Isles of Shoals and York Beach); Kittery (57 miles);
Wolfborough Junction (98 miles, branch to Lake Winnipiseogee); North
Conway (138 miles; connects with Portland and Ogdensburg); Intervale
(139 miles); Glen Station (144 miles, for Jackson and Glen House);
Crawford's (165 miles); Fabyan's (169 miles; connects with B., C., & M.
for Summit of Mount Washington, Bethlehem, Profile House, and Jefferson;
or by same route to Portland, thence by P. & O. R.R. to North Conway, or
Grand Trunk Railway to Gorham).

Boston, Lowell & Concord, and Boston, Concord & Montreal Railroads,
_via_ Lowell (26 miles); Nashua, Manchester, Concord (75 miles);
Plymouth (123 miles); Woodsville (166 miles, Wells River); Littleton
(185 miles, for Sugar Hill); Wing Road (192 miles, branch to Jefferson);
Bethlehem (196 miles, branch road to Profile House, also to "Maplewood,"
and Bethlehem Street); Twin Mountain House, Fabyan's (208 miles, branch
to Summit of Mount Washington, 217 miles); connects at Fabyan's with P.
& O. and Eastern roads for North Conway, Portland, and Boston.

Boston & Maine R.R. _via_ Lawrence (26 miles); Haverhill, Exeter (50
miles); Dover (68 miles); Rochester (78 miles); Alton Bay (96 miles),
connecting with steamer for Wolfborough and Centre Harbor, on Lake
Winnipiseogee; or by the same road to Portland, thence by P. & O. to
North Conway and Fabyan's, or Grand Trunk to Gorham and Glen House.

From Portland: Portland & Ogdensburg R.R. via Sebago Lake (17 miles);
Fryeburg (49 miles); Conway Centre, North Conway (60 miles); Glen
Station (66 miles, Jackson and Glen House); Bartlett (72 miles);
Crawford's (87 miles); Fabyan's (91 miles; connects with B., C., & M.
R.R. for Summit of Mount Washington, Bethlehem, Profile House, Sugar
Hill, Jefferson, etc.).

Grand Trunk Railway: Danville Junction (27 miles); Bethel (70 miles);
Shelburne (86 miles); Gorham (91 miles, for Glen House).

A good way to do the mountains by rail is to buy an excursion-ticket
over the route entering on the west, and, passing through, leave them
by the roads on the east side via Boston or Portland, or _vice versa_.
At Fabyan's, where the two great routes meet, the traveller coming from
either direction may pursue his journey without delay. From _Boston to
Boston_, _Portland to Portland_, there is continuous rail without going
twice over the same line.

_Lake Winnipiseogee._--At Alton Bay, Wolfborough, and Weirs steamer is
taken for Centre Harbor, at the head of the lake. Here the traveller may
either take the daily stages for West Ossipee (E. R.R.) or steamer to
Weirs (B., C., & M.), and thus be again on the direct rail routes.

HOW TO CHOOSE A LOCATION.--Do you wish a quiet retreat, off the
travelled routes, where you may have rest and seclusion, or do you
desire to fix yourself in a position favorable to exploring the whole
mountain region?

In either case consult (1) some friend who has visited the mountains;
(2), consult the maps in this volume; (3), consult the landlord in any
place you may fancy for a limited or a lengthened residence; (4), apply
to the agents of the Eastern, Portland, & Ogdensburg, Boston, Concord, &
Montreal, Boston & Maine, or Grand Trunk Railways, for books or folders
containing a list of the mountain hotels reached by their lines, and the
charge for board by the day and week. (The Eastern, and B., C., & M.
print revised lists every year, for gratuitous distribution.)

Wolfborough, Weirs, Centre Harbor, and Sandwich (all on or near
Lake Winnipiseogee); Blair's, Sanborn's, Campton Village, Thornton,
and Woodstock, in the Pemigewasset Valley; Tamworth, Conway Corner,
Fryeburg, the Intervale (North Conway), Jackson, the Glen House, Bethel
(Me.), Shelburne, Randolph, East Jefferson, Jefferson Hill, Lancaster,
Littleton, Franconia, Sugar Hill, Haverhill, and Newbury (Vt.)--all come
within the category first named; while the second want will be supplied
at such points as North Conway, Crawford's, Fabyan's, Twin Mountain
House, Bethlehem, and the Profile House. North Conway and Bethlehem are
the keys to the whole mountain region. Fabyan's and the Glen House are
the proper points from which to ascend Mount Washington.

To aid in locating these places on the map, refer constantly to the
Index at the end of the volume.

Leaving Boston or Portland in the morning, any of the points named may
be reached in from four to eight hours.

HINTS FOR TOURISTS.--Select your destination, if possible, in advance;
and if you require apartments, telegraph to the hotel where you mean
to stop, giving the number of persons in your party, thus avoiding
the disappointment of arriving, at the end of a long journey, at an
over-crowded hotel.

[Illustration: U. S. METEOROLOGICAL STATION, MOUNT WASHINGTON, IN
SUMMER.]

Should you fix upon a particular locality for a long or short stay,
write to one (or more) of the landlords for terms, etc.; and if his
house is off the line of railway, inform him of the day and train you
mean to take, so that he may meet you with a carriage at the nearest
station. But if you do not go upon the day named, remember to notify the
landlord.

Always take some warm woollen clothing (inside and outside) for mountain
ascensions. It is unsafe to be without it in any season, as the nights
are usually cool even in midsummer.

From the middle of June to the middle of October is the season of
mountain travel. The best views are obtained in June, September, and
October. From the middle of September to the middle of October the air
is pure and invigorating, the mountain forests are then in a blaze of
autumnal splendor, the cascades are finer, and out-of-door jaunts are
less fatiguing than in July and August.

Should you wish merely to make a rapid tour of the mountain region, it
will be best so to arrange your route before starting that the first day
will bring you where there is something to be seen, to a comfortable
hotel, and from which your journey may be continued with an economy of
time and money.

The three journeys described in this volume will enable you to see all
that is most desirable to be seen; but the excellent facilities for
traversing the mountains render it immaterial whether these routes
are precisely followed, taken in their reverse order, or adopted as
a general plan, with such modifications as the tourist's time or
inclination may suggest.

Upon arriving at his destination the traveller naturally desires to
use his time to the best advantage possible. But he is ignorant how to
do this. "What shall I do?" "Where shall I go?" are the two questions
that confront him. Let us suppose him arrived, first, at NORTH
CONWAY.

As he stands gazing up the Saco Valley, Moat Mountain is on his left,
Kearsarge at his right, and Mount Washington in front. (Refer to the
Chapter and Index articles on North Conway.) The high cliffs on the side
of Moat are called the Ledges. This glorious view may be improved by
going a mile up the railroad, or highway, to the Intervale. The Ledges
contain the local celebrities. Taking a carriage, or walking, one may
visit them in an afternoon, seeing in turn Echo Lake, the Devil's Den,
the Cathedral, and Diana's Baths. The picturesque bits of river, meadow,
and mountain seen going and returning will make the way seem short, and
are certain to detain the artistic traveller. Artists' Falls, on the
opposite side of the valley, will repay a visit, if the stream is in
good condition. Artists' Brook, on which these falls are, runs from the
hills east of the village. A carriage-road leads to the Artists' Falls
House, from which a short walk brings one to the falls. This excursion
will require not more than two hours. Then there are the drives to
Kearsarge village, under the mountain, and back by the Intervale; to
Jackson, over Thorn Hill, and back by Goodrich Falls (three to four
hours each); to Bartlett Bowlder, by the west, and back by the east side
of the valley; to Fryeburg and Mount Chocorua--the last two requiring
each half a day at least. The ascent of Kearsarge (from Kearsarge
village) or of the Moats (from Diana's Baths) each demands a day to
itself. But by starting early in the morning a good climber may ascend
and descend Kearsarge, getting back to the village by two o'clock in the
afternoon.

_At the Intervale_ he can easily repeat all these experiences, as this
is a suburb of North Conway. Let him take his first stroll over the
meadows to the river, or among the grand old pines in the forest near
the railway station, while preparing for more extended excursions.

_At Glen Station._--While waiting for the luggage to be put on, if the
day is perfectly clear, the traveller, by going up the track a few
rods, to the bridge over the Ellis, may get a glimpse of the summit of
Mount Washington, with the hotel upon the apex; also of Carter Notch.
On the way to Jackson he will pass over Goodrich Falls by a bridge. He
should not fail to remark the fine cliffs of Iron Mountain, at his left
hand, before entering the village. Should he be _en route_ for the Glen
House, let him be on the lookout for the Giant's Stairs, on the left,
after leaving Jackson, and then for the grand view of Pinkham Notch,
with Mount Washington at the left, about four miles beyond Jackson. The
summit of Spruce Hill--the scene of the highway robbery in 1881--is the
top of the long rise beyond the bridge over Ellis River.

_At Jackson_ we have moved eight miles nearer Mount Washington, in
the direction of the Glen House (12 miles) and Gorham (20 miles), and
also toward the Carter Notch, distant from the village 9 miles. The
excursions back to North Conway are similar to those described from
that place. The first thing to do here is to stroll up the Wildcat, and
pass an hour or two among the falls on this stream, which begin at the
village. A walk or drive up this valley to Fernald's Farm, and back
by the opposite side, or over Thorn Hill, are two tempting half-day
excursions. In an hour one may walk to Goodrich Falls (road to Glen
Station) and back to the village. He may start after breakfast, and
drive to Glen Ellis Falls (road to Glen House), eight miles, returning
to the hotel for dinner; or, lunching at Glen Ellis, go on one mile
farther to the Crystal Cascade; then, dining at the Glen House (3
miles), return at leisure. But it is a mistake to take two such pieces
of water in one day. The pedestrian whose base is Jackson, and who
makes this trip, should pass the night at the Glen House and return by
the Carter Notch, the distance being about the same as by the highway.
But he should never try this alone, for fear of a disabling accident.
Or he may take the Glen House stage at Jackson early in the afternoon,
and, letting it drop him at Glen Ellis, make his own way to the hotel
(4 miles) on foot, after a visit to the falls. Apply to Mr. Osgood, the
veteran guide, at the Glen House, for services, or directions how to
enter the Carter Notch from the Glen House side; and to Jock Davis, who
lives at the head of the Wildcat Valley, if going in from the Jackson
side.

Ladies who are accustomed to walking can reach Carter Notch with a
little help now and then from the gentlemen. But the fatigue of going
and returning on the same day would be too great. A party could enter
the Notch in the afternoon, pass the night in Davis's comfortable cabin,
and return the next morning. The path in is much easier and plainer from
the Jackson than from the Glen House side; but there is no difficulty
about keeping either. Davis will take up everything necessary for
camping out, except food, which may be procured at your hotel before
starting. There is plenty of water in the Notch.

_At the Glen House_ one may finish the afternoon by walking back a mile
on the Jackson road to the Emerald Pool; or, if he is in the vein, go
one mile farther on to Thompson's Falls, and, ascending to the top, look
over the forest into Tuckerman's Ravine. The Crystal Cascade (3 miles)
and Glen Ellis (4 miles) from the hotel, ought to occupy half a day, but
three hours (driving) will suffice, if one is in a hurry. The drive to
Jackson, or march into the Notch, are just noted under Jackson. To go
into Tuckerman's Ravine by the Crystal Cascade, or by Thompson's Path
(Mount Washington carriage-road), will take a whole day. Ladies have
been into Tuckerman's; but the trial cannot be recommended except for
the most vigorous and courageous. The Appalachian Club has a camp near
Hermit Lake, where a party going into the ravine in the afternoon may
pass a comfortable night, ascend to the Snow Arch in the morning, and
return to the hotel for dinner.

A three-mile walk on the Gorham road, crossing the Peabody River to the
Copp Farmhouse, gives a view of the celebrated "Imp" profile, on the
top of the opposite mountain. This walk is an affair of two hours and
a half. (See art. "Imp" in Index.) The Garnet Pool (one mile from the
hotel) may be taken on the way. Or, for a short and interesting stroll,
go down this road a half-mile to where the Great Gulf opens wide before
you its immense wall of mountains. The carriage-road to the summit
requires four hours for the ascent by stage; a good climber can do it
on foot in about the same time. Should a storm overtake him above the
woods, he can find shelter in the Half-way House, just at the edge of
the forest.

[Illustration: INTERIOR OF THE METEOROLOGICAL STATION, MOUNT WASHINGTON.]

_At Crawford's_ one can saunter into the woods at the left of the
hotel, and enjoy himself in the sylvan retreat, "Idlewild;" or, going
down the road, ascend the Elephant's Head by a path turning in at the
left (sign-board), obtaining the view down the Notch; or, continuing
on a short distance, enter and examine the Gate of the Notch. All
these objects are in full view from the hotel. Other rambles of an
hour are to Gibbs' Falls, entering the woods at the left of the hotel
(guide-board), or, crossing the bridge over the railroad track on the
right, to Beecher's Cascades. The ascent of Mount Willard (3 miles)
should on no account be omitted. Good carriage-road all the way, and
vehicles from the hotel. The celebrated Crawford Trail to the Summit
of Mount Washington, the scene of many exploits, begins in the grove
at the left of this hotel. The distance is fully nine miles, and six
or seven hours will be none too many for the jaunt. Four intervening
mountains, Clinton, Pleasant, Franklin, and Monroe, are crossed. There
is a shelter-hut in the woods near the summit of Clinton.

[Illustration: METEOROLOGICAL STATION, MOUNT WASHINGTON, IN WINTER.]

_At Fabyan's._--Three or four hours may be profitably spent on Mount
Deception, opposite the hotel. The first summit is as much as one would
care to undertake in an afternoon, to get the extended and magnificent
view of the great range at sunset. Opposite the hotel is a cosy little
cottage, kept open by the railroads for the use of travellers, and to
give them information respecting routes, hotels, distances, fares, etc.
The Upper Ammonoosuc Falls (3-1/2 miles) are well worth a visit. They
are on the Old Turnpike to the base of Mount Washington. The traveller
has now at command all the important points in the mountains.

He is 9 miles from the Summit, 4 from Crawford's, 29 from North Conway,
13 from Bethlehem, 22 from the Profile, and 18 from Jefferson--all
reached by rail in one or two hours.

_At Bethlehem._--If the tourist locates himself at the "Maplewood," the
walk up the mountain to the Observatory, or to Cruft's Ledge, at sunset,
or to the village (1-1/2 miles), or down the Whitefield road to The
Hollow, is a good introduction. At "The Street" he will find the busiest
thoroughfare in the mountains, leading him on to a beautiful panorama
of the Ammonoosuc Valley, with Littleton in its lap; or, ascending the
old Profile House road above the Sinclair House for a mile, will see the
great Franconia mountains from the best view-point. Bethlehem is 9 miles
from the Profile House, 13 from Fabyan's, 17 from Crawford's, 42 from
North Conway, 15 from Jefferson, and 22 from the Summit.

_At Profile House._--If you arrive by rail via Bethlehem, you have
crossed the broad flank and great ravine of Mount Lafayette to the
shores of Echo Lake, a mile from the hotel. But the opposite side
of this lake is a more eligible site for views of the surrounding
mountains; and the summit of Bald Mountain, at its north end, is still
better. From the long piazza of the Profile House the great Notch
mountains close in toward the south. Cannon Mountain is on your right,
with the peculiar rocks giving it this name thrust out from the highest
ridge in full view. The woods at the foot of this mountain, filling
the pass in front of you, conceal the beautiful Profile Lake, the
twin-sister of Echo Lake. The enormous rock at your left is Eagle Cliff,
a spur of Mount Lafayette, the mountain being ascended on the south side
of this cliff. Improve the first hour of leisure by walking directly
down the road to Profile Lake. In a few minutes you will reach the shore
near a rustic arbor (guide-board), furnished with seats, and here you
command the best view of the renowned "Old Man of the Mountain." Boats
may be had here for a sail upon the lake. Return to the hotel by the
path through the woods. Walk next up the pass one mile to Echo Lake
(boats and fishing-gear at the boat-house); or, extending your jaunt
as far as Bald Mountain, obtain, by following the old path through the
woods at the right, the best observation of the pass from the north. The
trip to the Flume House (including the Basin, Pool, and Flume) is next
in order, and will occupy a half day, although the distance is only six
miles, and the road excellent. If the forenoon is taken, a party can
either return to the hotel for dinner or dine well at the Flume House.
The Pool is reached by a path half a mile long, entering the woods
opposite the Flume House. It will take an hour to drive to the Flume;
and an hour to go into the chasm itself and return is little enough;
allowing another hour for the Pool makes four hours for the excursion.

The ascent of Mount Lafayette (3-3/4 miles) demands three to four hours.
Saddle-horses can be procured at the hotel. Those unwilling to undertake
the whole climb may, by ascending Eagle Cliff (1 mile on same path),
secure a grand view of the Notch and lakes, the Profile, the ravines,
and the Pemigewasset Valley. A stage leaves the Profile House every
morning for Plymouth, connecting with trains for Boston and New York,
and permitting the tourist to enjoy the beauties of the Pemigewasset
Valley. But it is better to ascend this valley.

_At the Flume House_ (refer to the preceding article).--It is a
comparatively easy climb of an hour and a half to the top of Mount
Pemigewasset, behind the hotel. See, from the hotel, the outline of the
mountain ridge opposite, called Washington Lying in State.

_At Jefferson._--The branch railway from Whitefield (B., C., & M. R.R.)
leaves its passengers about three miles from the cluster of hotels and
boarding-houses called Jefferson Hill, or five from East Jefferson
(E. A. Crawford's, Highland, or Mount Adams House); but carriages
are usually in waiting for all these houses. The walks and drives up
and down this valley are numerous and interesting, especially so in
the direction of Mount Adams and Randolph Hill, Cherry Mountain and
Lancaster. The trip over Cherry Mountain, reaching Fabyan's (13 miles)
by sunset, or from Fabyan's, reaching Jefferson at this hour, is a
memorable experience of mountain beauty. Excursions to Mount Washington,
Profile House, Glen House, or Gorham, demand a day. The ascent of Starr
King, Owl's Head, Ravine of the Cascades, King's Ravine, or Mount Adams
are the _pièces de résistance_ for this locality.

ITINERARY OF A WALKING TOUR.--Two weeks of fine weather will enable
a good pedestrian to traverse the mountains from Plymouth to North
Conway, or _vice versa_, following the great highways throughout the
whole journey, and giving time to see what is on the route. Good hotel
accommodation will be found at the end of each day. Should bad weather
unsettle his plans, he will nearly always be able to avail himself of
regular stage or railway conveyance for a less or greater distance.
Thus: First day, Plymouth to Woodstock (dine at Sanborn's, West
Campton), 16 miles; second day, Flume House (visiting Flume and Pool),
8 miles; third day, Profile House (visiting Basin and "Old Man"), 5-1/2
miles; fourth day, Bethlehem (_via_ Echo Lake and Franconia), 9 miles;
fifth day, Whitefield, 8 miles; sixth day, East Jefferson, 13 miles;
seventh day, Glen House, 14 miles; eighth day, for vicinity of Glen
House; ninth day, Summit of Mount Washington by carriage-road, 8 miles;
tenth day, descent by mountain railway to Crawford's, 13 miles; eleventh
day, through the Notch to Bartlett, 13 miles; twelfth day, Jackson and
vicinity, 9 miles; thirteenth day, North Conway, 8 miles. Total, 124
miles.

_Advice for Climbers._--Don't hurry when on a level road--keep your
strength for the ascent. Always take the long route up a mountain, if it
be the easier one. Be careful where you plant the foot in gullied trails
or on icy ledges--a sprain is a serious matter if you are alone. Carry
in your pocket a flask, fitted with a tumbler or cup; matches that will
ignite in the wind, half a dozen cakes of pitch-kindling, a good glass,
and a luncheon; in your hand a stout walking-stick; and upon your feet
shoes that can be trusted--none of your gimcracks--but broad-soled ones,
shod with steel nails. On a long march a rubber overcoat, a haversack,
and an umbrella will be needed. Cold tea slakes thirst more effectually
than water; but when you are exposed to wet and cold something stronger
will be found useful. Should you have a palpitation of the heart, or an
inclination to vertigo, do not climb at all. Take quiet rambles instead.
My word for it, they are better for you than scaling breathless ascents
or looking down over dizzy precipices. If you feel nausea, stop at once
until you recover from it. If caught on the Crawford trail between
Mounts Clinton and Washington, go back to the hut on the first-named
mountain.

_Newspapers for Tourists_, at Bethlehem (_The Echo_) and on the Summit
(_Among the Clouds_) are published during the season of travel,
giving hotel arrivals, information concerning rail and stage routes,
excursions, and whatever may be of interest to the summer population in
general.

Telegraphic and telephone communication may be had at all the principal
hotels and railway-stations.

The Appalachian Mountain Club prints every year a periodical made up of
scientific and literary contributions from its members. Address the club
at Boston.

_Trout_, _pickerel_, and _black bass_ are found in all the mountain
waters. The State stocks the ponds and streams with trout, bass, and
salmon from its breeding-houses at Plymouth. Fishing legally begins May
1. There is good trout-fishing on Swift River (Albany), with Conway for
head-quarters. From Jackson, or Glen House, the Wildcat and Ellis are
both good trout streams; so are Nineteen-Mile Brook and the West Branch
of Peabody; but the Wild River region (from Shelburne, Glen House, or
Jackson) affords better sport, because less visited. To go in from
Jackson or Glen House a guide will be necessary, and Davis, of Jackson,
is a good one. From Jefferson and Randolph the upper waters of the
Moose, and Israel's River (especially in the Mount Jefferson ravine),
are fished with good success. E. A. Crawford, of East Jefferson, knows
the best spots. From Bartlett there should be good fishing on Sawyer's
River, above the Livermore mills. Consult Frank George, the veteran
landlord of the Bartlett House. From Crawford's the best fishing-ground
is Ethan's Pond, behind Mount Willey. At Franconia the writer has
seen some fine strings brought from the Copper-mine Brook (back of
Mount Kinsman). Fair fishing may also be had on Lafayette Brook--ask
Charles Edson, of the Edson House. Profile Lake is stocked with trout
for the benefit of guests of the hotel. The upper streams of the
Pemigewasset are all good fishing-ground. Apply to Mr. D. P. Pollard,
North Woodstock, or Merrill Greeley, Waterville. The houses of both are
resorted to by experienced fishermen who track the East Branch or Mad
River tributaries. Pickerel and bass are caught in Lakes Winnipiseogee,
Squam, Chocorua, Ossipee, and Silver, besides scores of ponds lying
chiefly in the lake region.

N.B.--Those going exclusively to fish should go early in the season for
the best sport.

_Guides._--The landlords will either accompany you or procure a suitable
person.

_Camping Out._--A wall tent is preferable, but two persons get along
comfortably in one of the "A" pattern. Get one with the fly, which
can be spread behind the tent, thus giving an additional room, in
which the cooking and eating may be done under cover. Set up your tent
where there is natural drainage--where the surface water will run off
during wet weather. Dig a shallow trench around it, on the outside,
for this purpose, and if you can obtain them, lay boards for a floor.
A kerosene-oil stove, with its utensils, folding cot-bed, camp-chairs,
and mess-chest, containing dishes (tin is best), constitute a complete
outfit, to be reduced according to convenience or pleasure. To make a
woods-man's camp, first set up two crotched posts five feet high, and
six or eight apart (according to number). On these lay a pole. From this
pole three or four others extend to the ground. Then cut brush or bark
for the roof and sides, and build your fire in front. For a camp of this
sort a hatchet and packet of matches only are necessary. But always
pitch your encampment in the vicinity of wood and water.

_Mount Washington Railway._--Length, from base to summit, 3 miles. Rise
in the three miles, 3,625 feet. Steepest grade, 13-1/2 inches in three
feet, or 1980 feet to the mile. Begun in 1866; completed in 1869.

_Mount Washington Carriage-road._--Length, 8 miles. Average grade, one
foot in eight. Steepest grade, one foot in six. Begun in 1855; finished
in 1861.

_Mount Washington Signal Station._--The Summit was first occupied for
scientific purposes in the winter of 1870-'71. Since then it has been
attached to the Weather Bureau at Washington, and occupied by men
detailed from the United States Signal Corps, the men volunteering for
the service.

ALTITUDES.--The following list of altitudes of the more important
and well-known points has been compiled from the publications of the
Geological Survey of New Hampshire and of the Appalachian Mountain Club.
The figures in =heavy-face= type are the results either of actual
levelling or of trigonometrical survey, while the remainder depend upon
barometrical measurement. Where the mean of two not widely-differing
authorities is given, the fact is denoted by the letter "_m_" preceding
the figures:

    MOUNTAIN SUMMITS.

  Adams-----_m_ 5785
  Ascutney (Vermont)-----3186
  Black (Sandwich Dome)-----=3999=
  Boott's Spur-----5524
  Cannon-----3850
  Carrigain-----_m_ 4651
  Carter Dome-----_m_ 4827
  Chocorua-----3540
  Clay-----5553
  Clinton-----_m_ 4315
  Crawford-----3134
  Giant's Stairs-----3500
  Gunstock-----=2394=
  Iron-----_about_ 2000
  Jefferson-----5714
  Kearsarge, S. (Merrimack County)-----=2943=
  Kearsarge, N. (Carroll County)-----=3251=
  Lafayette-----=5259=
  Madison-----_m_ 5350
  Moat (North peak)-----3200
  Monadnock-----_m_ 3177
  Monroe-----_m_ 5375
  Moosilauke-----=4811=
  Moriah-----4653
  Osceola-----_m_ 4408
  Passaconnaway-----4200
  Percy (North peak)-----3336
  Pleasant (Great range)-----_m_ 4768
  Pleasant (Maine)-----=2021=
  Starr King-----_m_ 3872
  Twin-----_about_ 5000
  Washington-----=6293=
  Webster-----4000
  Whiteface-----=4007=
  Willey-----4300

  VILLAGES AND HOTELS.

  Bartlett (Upper)-----=660=
  Bethlehem (Sinclair House)-----_m_ 1454
  Franconia-----921
  Crawford House-----=1899=
  Fabyan "-----1571
  Flume "-----1431
  Glen "-----=1632=
  Gorham-----=812=
  Jackson-----759
  Jefferson Hill-----1440
  Jefferson Highlands (Mt. Adams House)-----1648
  Lancaster-----=870=
  North Conway-----=521=
  Plymouth-----=473=
  Profile House-----1974
  Sugar Hill (Post Office)-----1351
  Waterville (Greeley's Hotel)-----_m_ 1544
  Willey House-----=1323=

  NOTCHES.

  Carter Notch-----3240
  Cherry Mt. Road (summit)-----_m_ 2180
  Crawford or White Mt. Notch-----=1914=
  Dixville Notch-----1831
  Franconia Notch-----_m_ 2015
  Pinkham Notch (south of Glen House)-----2018
  Carrigain Notch-----2465

  MISCELLANEOUS.

  Ammonoosuc Sta. (base of Mt. Washington)-----=2668=
  Camp of Appalachian Mountain Club, on the
  -----Mt. Adams path-----3307
  Echo Lake (Franconia)-----_m_ 1928
  Lake of the Clouds-----5053
  Lake Winnipiseogee-----=500=

_Distant Points Visible from Mount Washington_ (taken from
"Appalachia").--Mount Megantic (Canada), 86 miles, seen between
Jefferson and Adams; Mount Carmel, 65 miles, just over Mount Adams;
Saddleback, 60 miles, head of Rangely Lakes; Mount Abraham, 68
miles, N., 47° E.; Ebene Mountain, 135 miles, vicinity of Moosehead
Lake (rarely seen, even with a telescope); Mount Blue, 57 miles,
near Farmington, Me.; Sebago Lake, 43 miles, over Mount Doublehead;
Portland, 67 miles, over Lake Sebago; Mount Agamenticus, 79 miles,
between Kearsarge and Moat Mountains; Isles of Shoals, 96 miles, to
the right of Agamenticus (rarely seen); Mount Monadnock, 104 miles,
between Carrigain and Sandwich Dome; Mount Ascutney (Vt.), 81 miles,
S., 45° W.; Killington Peaks (near Rutland, Vt.), 88 miles, on the
horizon between Moosilauk and Lincoln; Camel's Hump (Vt), 78 miles, over
Bethlehem Street; Mount Whiteface (Adirondack chain, N.Y.), 130 miles,
over the right slope of Camel's Hump; Mount Mansfield (highest of Green
Mountains), 77 miles, between Twin Mountain House and Mount Deception;
Mount Wachusett (Mass.), 126 miles, is also visible under favorable
conditions, just to the right of Whiteface (N. H.).

MOUNTAIN PATHS. [Those with an asterisk (*) were built by the
Appalachian Mountain Club.] _Chocorua._--There are three or four paths.
The best leads from the Hammond Farm, 2-1/2 miles from the Chocorua Lake
House, and 14 miles from North Conway. The ascent, as far as the foot of
the final peak, is feasible for ladies. From this point the easiest way
is to flank the peak to the left until an old watercourse is reached,
which may be followed nearly to the summit.

*_Moat._--An old path leads from the Swift River road to the summit of
the South Peak. Another, from the clearings on an old road which extends
along the base of the South Peak, leads to the top of the middle ridge;
but the best path for tourists is the one from Diana's Baths, on Cedar
Brook, following the stream to the foot of the ridge, thence over the
ridge to the summit of the North Peak. Path well made, and plainly
marked with signs and cairns; about 3-1/2 miles in length.

*_Middle Mountain, North Conway._--Beginning at the ice-ponds near
Artists' Falls House, the path extends around the base of Peaked
Mountain, thence to the bare ledges which reach to the summit. Distance,
1-5/8 miles. Path well marked, and the view very beautiful.

_Kearsarge, North Conway._--A bridle-path starts from a farm-house near
Kearsarge Village, and extends to the summit. Distance, nearly 3 miles.
Route plain, and not difficult.

*_Mount Bartlett._--The path starts near the Pequawket House, Lower
Bartlett, follows old logging roads for some distance, runs thence
directly to the summit. From the summit the path extends along the ridge
until it joins the bridle-path to Kearsarge.

*_Carrigain._--The route leads from the mills at Livermore, which are
reached by a road leaving the P. & O. R.R. at Livermore Station. From
the mills, logging roads are followed--crossing Duck Pond and Carrigain
Brooks--to the base; thence by a plain path through a fine forest to
"Burnt Hat Ridge," from which it is only a short distance to the summit.

From mills to summit is about 5 miles. Station to mills, 2 miles.

*_Livermore-Waterville Path._--This is intended for a bridle-path.
Starting from the mills at Livermore, a logging-road is followed nearly
two miles on the southerly side of Sawyer's River. Here the path begins
and runs along the north-west base of Green's Cliff, crosses Swift River
at a beautiful fall, thence through the Notch south of Mount Kancamagus
to Greeley's, in Waterville. The path is well marked by painted signs.
Distance from Livermore to Swift River, 5 miles; to Greeley's, 12 miles.

*_Mount Willey._--Path leaves the P. & O. R.R. a little south of Willey
Station. The rise is rapid until the Brook Kedron is reached; this
brook is then followed to its source, thence the path leads direct to
the summit. Distance, 1-1/2 miles. The climb is steep; but the view
unsurpassed.

_Crawford Bridle-path_ leads from the Crawford House to the summit of
Washington. Path is plain, and the travelling along the ridge is easy;
but it is not in condition for horses. See pp. 325, 326.

*_Carter Notch._--Path begins near the end of the Wildcat Valley road,
about 5-1/2 miles from Jackson; thence it follows the valley of the
brook to the ponds in the Notch. From the ponds it follows Nineteen Mile
Brook to the clearing back of the Glen House. The travelling is easy;
the view in the Notch grand.

Distance from the road to the ponds, about 4 miles; from the ponds to
the Glen House, about the same.

*_Carter Dome._--The path starts from the larger pond in the Notch, and
is well marked to the summit. It is very steep, and about 1-1/2 miles in
length.

_Great Gulf._--A path beginning near the Glen House goes through this
gorge. From the end of the path the carriage-road or railroad on Mount
Washington may be reached by a severe climb up the side of the ravine.

_Tuckerman's Ravine._--The Glen House path leaves the Mount Washington
carriage-road about 2 miles up, then crosses through the forest to
Hermit Lake.

*_Via Crystal Cascade._--The Mountain Club path begins about 3 miles
from the Glen House, on the Jackson road, ascending the stream until it
joins the Glen House path near Hermit Lake. Here the Club has a good
camp for the use of travellers. Beyond, a single path extends to the
Snow-field; and a feasible route has been marked with white paint on the
rocks--up the head wall of the ravine, and thence to the summit.

*_Mount Adams._--This path starts opposite the residence of Charles
E. Lowe, on the road from Jefferson Hill to Gorham, about 8-1/2 miles
from either town, and climbs the steep spur forming one wall of King's
Ravine, following over the ledges to the westerly peak, thence to the
summit. Distance, about 4 miles. Nearly half way up the spur a good
camp has been built for the use of climbers. The way over the ledges is
marked by cairns. Mount Jefferson may be reached by turning to the right
before reaching the summit of the westerly peak; Madison by turning to
the left.

*_King's Ravine._--The path branches from the Mount Adams path about
1-1/2 miles from Lowe's. The bowlders in the Ravine are reached without
great difficulty. From the bowlders up the head-wall, and through the
gate-way, the climb is arduous; and the way is not very distinctly
marked. From the gate-way, Madison and the several peaks of Adams may be
reached.

_Mount Madison._--There are several routes up Madison, but the best
is probably that leading up the ridge from "Dolly" Copp's, on the Old
Pinkham Road. The climb is tedious, and the path somewhat overgrown. The
Mountain Club will probably clear and keep this path in good condition.

*_Bridal Veil Falls._--Path starts from Horace Brooks's, on the road
from Franconia to Easton--2 to 3 miles from Sugar Hill and Franconia
Village. It follows an old road across the clearings to Copper-mine
Brook, thence by the brook to the foot of the Falls. Distance, 2-1/2
miles from Brooks's. Walking easy.

The path to the Flume on Mount Kinsman leads from the same highway about
a mile beyond Brooks's.

_Mount Lafayette._--The bridle-path begins near the Profile House,
turning Eagle Cliff, and crossing over to the main ridge. It leads
nearly to the summit of the ridge, thence across the col by the lakes,
and up the main peak. Distance, 3-1/2 to 3-3/4 miles.

_Mount Cannon._--The path enters the forest near the cottages in front
of the Profile House. The summit is reached by a steep climb of 1-1/2
miles. The Cannon Rock is a short distance down the mountain-side, to
the left of the path as it emerges from the forest; the forehead rock of
the Profile can be reached by bearing down the mountain diagonally to
the right from Cannon Rock until the edge of the cliff is reached. It is
a hard scramble to the latter.

_Black Mountain, Waterville._--The new path leaves the highway 2 miles
below Greeley's, near Drake's Brook. It runs near the edge of the ravine
of Drake's Brook, crosses the ridge between Noon and Jennings' Peaks--to
each of which a branch path leads--thence up the northerly slope of the
main summit. Distance from the road to the summit is 3-1/4 miles. The
views are very fine, and the climb easy for ordinary walkers.

_Osceola._--Path leaves the Greeley-pond path beyond the saw-mill above
Greeley's, bearing to the left. Ascent easy. Distance, about 4 miles.

_Tecumseh._--Path branches from the Osceola path at the crossing of
the west branch of Mad River, 7/8 of a mile from Greeley's. The grade
is easy, except for a short distance near the summit. Distance from
Greeley's, 3 miles.

_Tri-Pyramid._--The great slide on Tri-Pyramid may be reached from
Greeley's by a path across the pasture to the right from the rear of the
house, thence about 1-1/2 miles through fine old woods to a deserted
clearing known as Beckytown. From here the stream may be followed by
clambering over the _débris_ of the slide nearly 2 miles to the base of
the South Peak. The summit is reached by climbing to the apex of the
slide, thence bearing up to the right a short distance through low woods.

*_Thornton-Warren Path._--This path was built to enable visitors in the
Upper Pemigewasset Valley or in Warren to cross from one locality to
the other, avoiding the long détour _via_ Plymouth. It starts from the
Profile House stage-road at the junction of the Tannery road, in West
Thornton, crosses Hubbard Brook at this point, and passes over a long
stretch of pasture until the woods are reached. At this point, and at
all doubtful points, signs have been placed. For much of the distance
the path follows Hubbard Brook, and passes out through the Notch between
Mounts Kineo and Cushman to an old road-way leading to clearings on
Baker's River, near the mountain-houses at the foot of Mount Moosilauke.

Distance from the stage-road to the road-way in Warren, 8 miles. A
permanent camp has been built half-way on Hubbard Brook.

A trail has been spotted from a point in the path about 1 mile north of
the camp to the summit of Kineo.




INDEX.

     Refer to a mountain, lake, or river, under its proper name,
     thus: Washington (Mount); Squam (Lake); Saco (River).

     The abbreviations in parentheses show that the town or village
     is on the line of a railway: (E. R.R.) stands for Eastern; (P. &
     O.), Portland and Ogdensburg; (B., C., & M.), Boston, Concord, and
     Montreal; (G. T. R.), Grand Trunk; (Pass.), Passumpsic.


ADAMS, Mount, from North Conway, 55;
  from Thorn Hill, 122;
  from Wildcat Valley, 133;
  from Carter Dome, 142;
  from the Glen House, 145;
  from Mount Washington carriage-road, 181;
  ascent by King's Ravine, 298;
  ascent from Mount Washington, 312-315;
  the apex, 315;
  view from, 316.

Adirondacks, from Moosehillock, 273.

Agassiz, Mount, from Profile House Road, 249, 276.

Agiochook, or Agiockochook (Indian name for the White Mountains), 120.

Amherst, Sir Jeffrey (Gen.), in the French War, 259.

Ammonoosuc, Falls of, 304.

Ammonoosuc River, source of, 179.

Ammonoosuc Valley, from Mount Clinton, 98;
  at Bethlehem, 277;
  at Fabyan's, 300.

Androscoggin River, at Gorham, 170;
  at Berlin, 174;
  at Shelburne, 176;
  at Bethel, 177.

Appalachian Mountain Club, 62, 221.

Artists' Falls (North Conway), 46, 47.

Autumn foliage, 66, 67.


BAKER'S RIVER (branch of Pemigewasset, branch of the Merrimack), 210;
  falls on, 269.

Bald Mountain, an inferior summit of Chocorua, 26.

Ball, B. L., lost on Mount Washington, 186.

Bartlett Bowlder, 58.

Bartlett (P. & O. R.R.), mountains surrounding, 61, 62;
  ascent of Mount Carrigain from, 62-65.

Basin (Franconia Pass), 231.

Beecher's Cascade (near Crawford House), 89.

Belknap, Jeremy, D.D. (historian of New Hampshire), quoted, 69.

Belknap, Mount (Lake Winnipiseogee), 8.

Bemis, Dr. Samuel A., home of, 69, 70.

Berlin (G. T. R.), 172;
  the Falls, 174, 175.

Bethel, Maine (G. T. R.), 177.

Bethlehem (B., C., & M. R.R.), 276;
  admirable position of as a centre, 277;
  Bethlehem Street, 278, 279;
  fine views from, 280, 281;
  a sunset from the "Maplewood," 282-284;
  White Mountains from, 284;
  the Hermit, 286;
  the peddler, 288.

Bigelow's Lawn (Mount Washington), 198.

Black Mountain (Sandwich Dome), from West Campton, 216;
  Noon Peak, 220;
  from Waterville (Greeley's), 221.

Boott's Spur (Mount Washington), 146;
  from the plateau, 198.

Bourne, Lizzie, death of, on Mount Washington, 310.

Bridal Veil Falls (Mount Kinsman), 255.

Brown, George L. (painter), referred to, 253.

Buck-board wagon described, 273.


CAMPTON, 211;
  Campton Hollow, 214;
  West Campton, and view from, 215;
  Sanborn's, 216;
  annals of Campton, 216.

Campton Village (Pemigewasset Valley), 218.

Cannon (or Profile) Mountain, from West Campton, 215;
  from the clearing below the Profile, 231;
  remarkable profile on, 232;
  from Franconia, 252.

Carrigain, Mount, from Chocorua, 30;
  from Bartlett, 62;
  ascent from Bartlett, 62-64;
  view from summit, 64, 65.

Carrigain Notch, from Mount Chocorua, 30;
  from Mount Carrigain, 64.

Carter Dome, 133;
  the Pulpit, 136;
  ascent of, and view from, 140, 141.

Carter Mountains, from Gorham, 170.

Carter Notch, from Chocorua, 31;
  from North Conway, 40;
  from Thorn Hill, 122, 132;
  way into, from Jackson, 132;
  impressive desolation of the interior, 137;
  the Giants' Barricade, 137, 138;
  the lakes, 139;
  way out to Glen House, 143.

Castellated Ridge (Mount Jefferson), 314.

Cathedral (North Conway), 46.

Cathedral Ledge (North Conway), 41, 42.

Cathedral Woods (North Conway), 55.

Centre Harbor, approach to, by Lake Winnipiseogee, 8-10;
   settled, 10;
   route by stage to West Ossipee _via_ Sandwich and Tamworth, 18-21.

Chandler, Benjamin, lost on Mount Washington, 186.

Cherry Mountain (Valley of Israel's River), 291;
   Owl's Head, 292;
   road to Fabyan's, 300.

Chocorua, Lake, from the mountain, 29, 31, 32.

Chocorua (Sho'kor'ua), Mount, from Lake Winnipiseogee, 9;
   from Red Hill, 16;
   legend of, 21;
   ascent from Tamworth, 25-28;
   landscapes from, 29-31;
   from Mount Willard, 92.

Clay, Mount (next north of Washington), 169;
   ascent of, 312.

Clinton, Mount (near Crawford House), 97;
   view from summit, 100. (First mountain ascended by Crawford Path.)

Connecticut Ox-Bow, 256-258.

Conway, or Conway Corner (E. R.R.), superb view of the great chain from, 33.

Copp Farm (view-point for seeing "The Imp"), 165.

Copp, Nathaniel, his adventurous deer-hunt, 167.

Copper-mine Brook (branch of Gale River), 255.

Crawford, Abel, described, 70-72.

Crawford, Ethan Allen, 71, 72;
   his burial-place, 302.

Crawford bridle-path, opened, 89;
   march to the summit (_see_ Chapter X.);
   Mount Clinton first, 117;
   the crystal forests, 98;
   Liliputian wood, 99;
   fine view from summit, 100;
   frost-work, 100;
   Mount Pleasant next, 102;
   in a snow-storm, 102;
   crossing the ridge, 103;
   Oakes's Gulf, 103;
   Mount Franklin next, 103;
   (_water here_) weird objects by the way, 104;
   Mount Monroe next (two peaks, with shallow ponds near the path);
   the plateau, 105;
   base of the cone reached, 105;
   ascent of the cone, 107;
   the stone corral, 107;
   the summit, 108.

Crawford Glen (Saco Valley), 69.

Crawford House (summit of Crawford Notch), its surroundings, 87-94.

Crawford, Mount (Saco Valley, east side), 69;
   Davis Path to Mount Washington, 73;
   view of from Frankenstein Bridge, 74.

Crawford Notch (_see_ Great Notch of the White Mountains).

Crawford, T. J., opens a bridle-path to the summit, 89.

Crystal Cascade (Pinkham Notch), 149, 150.


DARTMOUTH, _see_ Jefferson.

Davis Path (to Mount Washington), 73;
   junction with Crawford Path, 198.

Deception, Mount (near Fabyan's), 300.

Destruction of mountain forests, 172.

Devil's Den (North Conway), 45, 46.

Diana's Baths (North Conway ), 46.

Douglass, William, M.D., quoted, on the origin
      of the name White Mountains, 121, _note_.

Dwight, Timothy, L.L.D., 71 (_see_ his "Travels in New England,"
      and journeys through the mountains).


EAGLE CLIFF (Franconia Pass), from Flume House, 225;
   from Profile House, 238, 239;
   ascent by the bridle-path, 243;
   from Franconia, 254.

Eagle Lakes (Mount Lafayette), 244. (Also called Cloud Lakes.)

Eagle Mountain (Eagle Mountain House), Wildcat Valley, Jackson, 133.

Early settlements by white people, 216, 217, 293.

Echo Lake (Franconia Pass), 239.

Echo Lake (North Conway), 45.

Elephant's Head (Crawford Notch), 87.

Ellis River (branch of the Saco; rises in Pinkham Notch),
      _see_ Goodrich Falls, 125;
   Glen Ellis Falls, 151;
   incident connected with, 153.

Emerald Pool (near Glen House, Pinkham Notch), 147, 148.

Endicott Rock, a surveyor's monument at the outlet of Lake Winnipiseogee, 10.


FABYAN'S (B., C., & M. and P. & O. R.R.), view at, 300;
   Mount Washington Railway, 301;
   Eleazer Rosebrook and E. A. Crawford, 302, 303.

Fall of a Thousand Streams, 162.

Farmer, John (historian), quoted, 210.

Field, Darby, makes the first ascent of Mount Washington, 116-119;
   second ascent, 119, _see note_.

Flume (Franconia Pass), way to and description of, 226-228.

Flume Cascade, _see_ description by Dr. T. Dwight, in his
      "Travels in New England."

Flume House (Franconia Pass), 224.

Franconia Mountains, from West Campton, 215;
   from Bethlehem, 280;
   from Jefferson, 292.

Franconia Pass (Chapters II. and III., Third Journey), Flume House, 224;
   the Pool, 225;
   the Flume, 226;
   the Basin, 231;
   Mounts Cannon and Lafayette, 231, 232;
   the "Old Man," 232;
   Profile Lake, 232;
   Profile House, 237;
   Eagle Cliff, 238;
   Echo Lake, 239;
   sunset in the pass, 240;
   from Bethlehem heights, 279.

Franconia village (Iron Works), from Mount Lafayette, 243;
   general view of, 251;
   fine views in, 253, 254.

Frankenstein Cliff (Saco Valley), named, 73;
   appearance of, from the valley, 73, 74;
   the bridge, 74.

Fryeburg, Maine (P. & O. R.R.), 33-38.


GALE RIVER (branch of the Ammonoosuc, branch of the Connecticut), 243.

Garfield, Mount (_see_ Haystack), 284.

Giant's Stairs (Saco Valley, east side), 73;
   from Jackson, 123, 129.

Gibbs's Falls (near Crawford House), 97.

Glen Ellis Falls, 151, 152; legend of, 152.

Glen House, way to, by Jackson and Carter Notch, 131;
  its surroundings, 144;
  carriage-road to the summit, 144;
  Mount Washington from, 144, 145;
  Emerald Pool, 147, 148;
  Thompson's Falls, 146;
  Crystal Cascade, 149;
  Glen Ellis Falls, 151;
  Tuckerman's Ravine, 155;
  The Imp, 165;
  to or from Gorham, 165, 170;
  from Mount Washington carriage-road, 181.

Goodenow's, _see_ Sugar Hill.

Goodrich Falls (Ellis River), 125.

Gorham (G. T. R.), its situation, 169.

Grand Monadnock, from Red Hill, 17;
  from Mount Washington, 192.

Great Gulf, from Glen House, 165;
  from Mount Washington carriage-road, 181, 185;
  from Mount Clay, 313.

Great Notch of the White Mountains (Crawford Notch), from Mount Chocorua, 31;
  from Mount Carrigain, 64, 65;
  approach to, by the Saco Valley, 76;
  the mountains forming it, 77;
  Willey, or Notch House, 77;
  landslip of 1826, 79, 80;
  the Cascades, 84, 85, 89, 97;
  Gate of the Notch, 86;
  summit of the Notch (Crawford House), 86;
  Elephant's Head, 87;
  discovery of the Pass, 88, 89;
  the Notch from Mount Willard, 91;
  from Mount Clinton, 100.

Greeley's, _see_ Waterville.

Green Mountains, from Mount Washington, 190;
  from Moosehillock, 273.

Gyles, John (Capt.), quoted on the Indian name for the White Mountains, 120.


Hancock, Mount, from the Ellsworth road (Campton), 216;
  from Moosehillock, 272.

Hart's Ledge (Saco Valley, east side, near Bartlett), 62.

Haverhill (B., C., & M. R.R.), 257.

Hawthorne, Nathaniel, origin of his story of "The Great Carbuncle," 119;
  death of, 209;
  legend of "The Great Stone Face," 235.

Hayes, Mount (Gorham, New Hampshire), 169-171.

Haystack, Mount (now Mount Garfield), 254.

Hermit Lake (Tuckerman's Ravine, Mount Washington), 159.

Hitchcock, C. H. (geologist), 197.

Humphrey's Ledge (near Glen Station), 41.

Hunter, Harry W., lost on Mount Washington, 199, _note_.

Huntington's Ravine, from Carter Dome, 142.


Idlewild (near Crawford House), 89.

Imp, The (rock profile near Glen House), 166.

Indians, customs of mountain tribes, 10;
  Sokokis, or Pigwackets, or _Pequawkets_, destruction of
      by Love-well, 34-38;
  Indian names, 24, 25, _note_;
  superstitions regarding the high summits, traditions, etc.
      (_see_ Chapter I., Second Journey);
  attack Shelburne, 177;
  at Plymouth, 210;
  attack Dartmouth (Jefferson), 294.

Intervale (North Conway, E. R.R. and P. & O. R.R.), superb
      panorama from, 55-57;
  _see_ art. North Conway.

Israel's River (branch of the Connecticut), 291.


Jackson (_see_ Chapters II. and III., Second Journey), 122-143;
  how to get there from North Conway, 122;
  its topography, 123;
  Jackson Falls (on Wildcat River), 124;
  Fernald's Farm, 130;
  Wildcat Valley, 133;
  to Carter Notch, 133-140.

Jackson, C. T. (geologist), quoted, 197, _note_.

Jackson Falls (Wildcat River), 124.

Jefferson, Mount, from Jefferson Hill, 293;
  Ravine of the Cascades, 297;
  ascent from Mount Washington, 312;
  Ravine of the Castles, 313;
  Castellated Ridge, 314.

Jefferson (branch R.R. from Whitefield), 291;
  Jefferson Hill, 292;
  antecedents of, 293;
  Indian attack on, 294;
  East Jefferson, 295;
  to Randolph Hill, 297;
  to Fabyan's, 300.

Jockey Cap (Fryeburg, Maine), 34.

Josselyn, John (author of "New England's Rarities"),
      ascends Mount Washington, 119.


Kearsarge, Mount, from North Conway, 39, 40, 41;
  winter ascent of, 47-54;
  view from summit, 51, 52;
  from Bartlett, 62;
  from Carter Dome, 141.

King, Thomas Starr, tribute to, 294, 295.

King's Ravine (Mount Adams), from Randolph Hill, 298;
  from Mount Adams, 317.

Kinsman, Mount (next south of Cannon, Franconia group), 244, 252.


Lafayette, Mount, from West Campton, 215;
  _see_ Chapter III., Third Journey;
  Eagle Cliff, 238, 239;
  from Echo Lake, 240;
  ascent from the Profile House, 243-247;
  the Notch, 243;
  the ravines, 243-254;
  Eagle Lakes, 244;
  summit and view, 246, 247;
  from Franconia Iron Works, 252;
  from Newbury, Vermont, 258;
  from Bethlehem heights, 279.

Lake of the Clouds (Mount Washington), 198.

Lary's (Gorham, New Hampshire), 171.

Lead Mine Bridge (Shelburne, G. T. R.), grand view from, 175, 176.

Legends of General Hampton and the Devil, 11-14;
  of Mount Chocorua, 21-24;
  of Passaconnaway, 24, 25, _note_;
  Indian tradition of the Deluge, 114;
  the Indian's heaven, 115;
  the Great Carbuncle, 115;
  the war party and its prisoners, 127, 128;
  the youthful lovers, 128;
  of Glen Ellis Falls, 152;
  of the Silver Image, 263.

Lion's Head (Tuckerman's Ravine), 142, 146, 159.

Lisbon (B., C., & M. R.R.), discovery of gold ores in, 251.

Littleton (B., C., & M. R.R.), from Bethlehem, 279.

Livermore (P. & O. R.R.), Saco Valley, logging hamlet of, 63;
   way to the Pemigewasset, 221.

Livermore Falls (Pemigewasset River), 212.

Logging on the Androscoggin, 173, 174.

Lonesome Lake (Mount Kinsman), 244.

Long Island, Lake Winnipiseogee, east shore, 9.

Lovewell, John (captain of colonial rangers), battle with the Sokokis, 34-38.

Lovewell's Pond (scene of Lovewell's fight), 34.

Lowell, Mount (Saco Valley), slide on, 64.


MAD RIVER and Valley (branch of Pemigewasset), 218.

Madison, Mount (next north of Adams), 165.

Marsh, Sylvester, projector of Mount Washington railway, 301.

Merrimack River, source of, 65.

Moat Range, position of, 39;
   cliffs of, 40, 41, 44;
   the ascent, 47;
   from Jackson Falls, 124.

Monroe, Mount, from Tuckerman's Ravine, 160.

Moose River (branch of Androscoggin), 171.

Moosehillock, or Moosilauke, from Lake Winnipiseogee, 10;
   from Chocorua, 30;
   from Pemigewasset Valley, 223;
   from Newbury, Vermont, 258;
   _see_ Chapter VII., Third Journey, 269-275;
   how to reach the mountain, 269;
   the mountain's top, 271;
   view from, 273;
   from Bethlehem, 279.

Moriah, Mount (Carter Chain, near Gorham), 169.

Mountain Butterfly, 202.


NANCY'S BROOK (Saco Valley), story of, 67-69.

Newbury, Vermont (Pass. R.R.), 257.

Nineteen Mile Brook (branch of the Peabody River, a branch
      of the Androscoggin; rises in Carter Notch), 143.

North Conway (E. R.R. and P. & O. R.R.), topographical features of, 39-41;
   excursions from, 57;
   _see_ Intervale, White Horse Ledge, Cathedral Ledge, Humphrey's
      Ledge, Echo Lake, Diana's Baths, Artists' Falls,
      Kearsarge and Moat Mountains, etc.


OAKE'S GULF (in great range), 103.

Old Man of the Mountain (Franconia Pass), 231-236;
   legends of, 235.

Ossipee Mountains, from Lake Winnipiseogee, 8.

Owl's Head (Lake Memphremagog), from Moosehillock, 273;
   Cherry Mountain, 292.


PEABODY RIVER (branch of the Androscoggin; rises in Pinkham
      Notch), 144, 154, _note_.

Pemigewasset River, branch of Merrimack, 210;
   Livermore Falls, 211;
   East Branch, 223.

Pemigewasset, Mount (near Flume House), ascent and view, 229.

Pemigewasset Valley (Chapter I., Third Journey), 210-223;
   villages of, 212.

Pemigewasset Wilderness, way through, 221, 229.

Percy Peaks, 280, note.

Perkins Notch, position of, 133.

Pilot Mountains from Gorham, 170;
   origin of name, 170, 171.

Pine Mountain (Gorham, New Hampshire), 170.

Pinkham Notch from Thorn Hill, 122;
   from the road between Jackson and Glen House, 129;
   from Glen House, 144;
   _see_ Thompson's Falls, Emerald Pool, Crystal Cascade,
      Tuckerman's Ravine, Glen Ellis Falls, etc., 144-164.

Pleasant, Mount, from Fabyan's, 300.

Plymouth (B., C., & M. R.R.), 209;
   routes through the mountains, 211.

Pool, The (Franconia Pass), 225.

Portland and Ogdensburg Railroad, passage of the White Mountains Notch, 93.

Prime, W. C., referred to, 244.

Profile House (Franconia Pass), its attractions, 237-240;
   _see_ Old Man, Profile Lake, Mounts Cannon and Lafayette,
      Eagle Cliff, Echo Lake, etc.;
   to Bethlehem by the old highway via Franconia, 248;
   by rail, 248.

Profile Lake (Franconia Pass), 232.

Prospect, Mount (Holderness), 214.


RANDOLPH HILL, drive to, and view from, 297, 298.

Ravine of the Castles (Mount Jefferson), 313.

Raymond's Cataract, from Carter Dome, 142;
   from Pinkham Notch, 147;
   see Tuckerman's Ravine.

Red Hill from Lake Winnipiseogee, 10;
   ascent of, from Centre Harbor, and view from summit, 14-17.

Ripley Falls (on Cow Brook, Saco Valley), 89.

Rogers's, Robert (Major), account of the White Mountains, 119, 121, note;
   destroys St. Francis, 259;
   _see_ Chapter VI., Third Journey.

Rosebrook, Eleazer, sketch of, 302, 303.


SACO VALLEY (Chapters IV. to IX., inclusive), from Mount Chocorua, 31;
   at Fryeburg (Maine), 33;
   at North Conway, 39;
   at Bartlett, 61-65;
   from Mount Carrigain, 64, 65;
   source of the Saco, 88;
   historical incident, 153.

Sandwich Mountains from Lake Winnipiseogee, 8;
   from Sandwich Centre, 19;
   from Tamworth (Nickerson's), 24.

Sandwich (town of), mountains near, 19.

Sandwich Notch, position of, 218.

Sawyer's River (branch of the Saco), valley of, 62, 63.

Sawyer's Rock (Saco Valley, west side, near Bartlett), 62.

Schoolcraft, Henry Rowe, quoted on the Indian name for the
      White Mountains, 120.

Silver Cascade (Crawford Notch), 85.

Snow Arch (Tuckerman's Ravine), 161, 162.

Spencer, Jabez (General), settles Campton, 216.

Squam Lake from Red Hill, 16.

St. Francis de Sales, sacked by Rogers, 259;
  _see_ Chapter VI., Third Journey.

Star Lake (Mount Adams), 317.

Stark, John (General), captured by Indians, 210, 211.

Stark, William, 210, 211.

Starr King Mountain, 291.

Storm Lake (between Madison and Adams), 317.

Sugar Hill, from Profile House road, 249;
  view from, 252, 253.

Sullivan, James (Governor of Massachusetts), his authority for
      the story of "The Great Carbuncle," 116;
  quoted, 153.

Swift River (branch of the Saco), from Mount Chocorua, 30.


TAMWORTH IRON WORKS (point from which Chocorua is usually ascended), 21, 25.

Thompson's Falls (near Glen House), 146.

Thorn Mountain, from North Conway, 40;
  walk over Thorn Hill (lower spur of Thorn Mountain) to Jackson, 122, 132.

Tripyramid Mountain, from Mad River Valley, 219;
  slide on, 221.

Trout-breeding, State establishment at Plymouth, 212.

Trout-fishing begins in New Hampshire May 1, 213.

Trumbull, J. Hammond, LL.D., quoted on the Indian names
      for the White Mountains, 120, _note_.

Tuckerman's Ravine from Mount Kearsarge, 51;
  from Carter Dome, 142;
  from Thompson's Falls, 146;
  way into from Glen House, 156;
  appearance from Glen House, 156;
  Hermit Lake and Lion's Head Crag, 159;
  Snow Arch, 161;
  head wall, 162;
  out by the path to Crystal Cascade, 164.


VIEWS, from Red Hill, 14-17;
  from Chocorua, 29-31;
  from Jockey Cap, 34;
  from Conway Corner, 33;
  from North Conway, 40;
  from Mount Kearsarge, 51;
  from the Intervale (North Conway), 55-57;
  from Mount Carrigain, 64, 65;
  from above Bemis's, 74;
  from Mount Willard, 91;
  from Mount Clinton, 100;
  from Carter Dome, 141;
  from Glen House, 145;
  from Gorham, 169;
  from Berlin, 172, 175;
  from Shelburne (Lead Mine Bridge), 176;
  from Mount Washington carriage-road, 181, 185;
  from the summit, 189-192;
  from West Campton, 215;
  from the Ellsworth road (Pemigewasset valley), 216;
  from Mount Pemigewasset (Flume House), 229;
  from Mount Lafayette, 246;
  from Sugar Hill, 252;
  from the foot of Bethlehem heights (Gale River valley), 254;
  from Moosehillock, 272;
  from Bethlehem, 280, 281;
  from Jefferson Hill, 292;
  from East Jefferson, 295;
  from Randolph Hill, 297;
  from Mount Adams, 316.


WARREN (B., C., & M. R.R.), point from which to ascend Moosehillock, 269.

Washington, Mount, River (formerly Dry River), grand
      view of the high summits up this valley from P. & O. R.R., 74;
  the valley from Mount Clinton, 100.

Washington, Mount, carriage-road, 178;
  Half-way House and the Ledge, 180;
  Great Gulf, 181;
  accident on, 183;
  Willis's Seat, and the view 185;
  Cow Pasture, 186;
  Dr. Ball's adventure, 186;
  fate of a climber, 186;
  up the pinnacle, 186;
  United States Meteorological Station, 187;
  the summit, 188.

Washington, Mount, from Lake Winnipiseogee, 9;
  from Mount Chocorua, 31;
  from Conway, 33;
  from North Conway, 40;
  from Mount Kearsarge, 51;
  from Mount Carrigain, 65;
  first path to, 71;
  Davis path, 73;
  view near Bemis's (P. & O. R.R.), 74;
  Crawford bridle-path opened, 89;
  from Mount Willard, 93;
  from Mount Clinton, 100;
  first ascension, 116-119;
  Indian traditions of, _see_ Chapter I., Second Journey;
  from Thorn Hill, 122;
  from the Wildcat Valley, 133;
  from Carter Dome, 142;
  from Glen House, 144;
  from the Glen House and Gorham road, 168;
  carriage-road, _see_ Chapter VII., Second Journey;
  the Signal Station, 187, 196;
  a winter tornado on the summit, 192-194;
  shadow of the mountain, 195;
  the plateau--its floral and entomological treasures, 197, 198;
  transported bowlders on, 197;
  Lake of the Clouds, 198;
  from Mount Lafayette, 246;
  travellers lost on, 186, 199, 310;
  from Moosehillock, 270;
  from Bethlehem, 281, 282;
  from Fabyan's, 300;
  railway to summit, 301-306;
  moonlight on the summit, 311;
  sunrise, 312;
  sunset, 318.

Washington, Mount, Railway, from Fabyan's, 301;
  to the base, 304;
  its mechanism, 305;
  Jacob's Ladder, 305;
  up the mountain, 306, 307;
  the Summit Hotel, 307.

Waterville (Mad River valley), the neighborhood, 219;
  path to Livermore, 221.

Webster, Daniel, at Fryeburg, Maine, 33.

Webster, Mount, approach to, 75;
  from Mount Willard, 92.

Weirs (B., C., & M. R.R.), Lake Winnipiseogee, west shore, 10, _see note_.

Welch Mountain (Pemigewasset valley), 218.

Whipple, Joseph (Colonel), settles at Jefferson, 294.

White Horse Ledge (North Conway), 41.

White Mountains, general view of, from Conway, 33;
  from North Conway, 40;
  from Mount Carrigain (in mass), 65;
  legends of, _see_ Chapter 1., Second Journey;
  first ascensions, 116-119;
  how named, 119, 120;
  appearance from the coast, 120, 121;
  from Mount Lafayette, 246;
  from Bethlehem, 281;
  from Fabyan's, 300.

Wildcat River (branch of the Ellis, a branch of the Saco;
      rises in Carter Notch), Jackson Falls on, 124;
  disappearance of, 136.

Wildcat Mountain (one of Carter Notch and Pinkham
      Notch Mountains), position of, 123;
  avalanche of bowlders, 136;
  appearance from Carter Notch, 141;
  from Glen House, 145.

Wildcat Valley (Jackson to Carter Notch), 133-140.

Willard, Mount, 77;
  ascent of, from Crawford House, 91.

Willey family, burial-place of, 55;
  destruction of, by a landslip, 77-80.

Willey, Mount, from Carrigain, 65;
  approach to by the valley, 75;
  from Mount Willard, 92.

Winnipiseogee, Lake, sail up, from Wolfborough to Centre Harbor, 8-10;
  Indian occupation and customs, 10;
  sunset view of, from Red Hill. 16, 17.

Winnipiseogee River (outlet of the lake), Indian remains on, 10;
  Endicott Rock in, 10, _note_.

Wolfborough ( E. R.R. branch ), Lake Winnipiseogee, 8.


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HARPER'S CYCLOPEDIA

OF

BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY.

EDITED BY

EPES SARGENT.

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DRAKE'S NEW ENGLAND COAST.

     NOOKS AND CORNERS OF THE NEW ENGLAND COAST. By SAMUEL
     ADAMS DRAKE. With numerous Illustrations. Square 8vo, Cloth,
     $3 50; Half Calf, $5 75.

     MY DEAR SIR,--I laid out your new and beautiful
     book to take with me to-day to my summer home, but before I go I
     wish to thank you for preparing a volume which is every way so
     delightful. All summer I shall have it at hand, and many a pleasant
     hour I anticipate in the enjoyment of it. I have _read_ far enough
     in it already to feel how admirably you have done your part of it,
     and I have _seen_, in turning over the delectable pages, what a
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     for the pleasure of your readers. May they be a good many thousand
     this year, and continue to increase time onward. If I am not
     greatly out in my judgment, edition after edition will be called
     for. Truly yours,

JAMES T. FIELDS.

Thy "Nooks and Corners of the New England Coast" is a delightful book,
and one of most frequent reference in my library. Thy friend,

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

I take this opportunity of acknowledging the pleasure I have received
from your interesting book on our New England coast. It was my companion
last summer on the coast of Maine. Yours truly,

F. PARKMAN.

Mr. Samuel Adams Drake does for the New England coast such service as
Mr. Nordhoff has done for the Pacific. His "Nooks and Corners of the
New England Coast"--a volume of 459 pages--is an admirable guide both
to the lover of the picturesque and the searcher for historic lore, as
well as to stay-at-home travellers. The "Preface" tells the story of the
book; it is a sketch-map of the coast, with the motto, "On this line, if
it takes all summer." "Summer" began with Mr. Drake one Christmas-day
at Mount Desert, whence he went South, touching at Castine, Pemaquid,
and Monhegan; Wells and "Agamenticus, the ancient city" of York;
Kittery Point; "The Shoals;" Newcastle; Salem and Marblehead; Plymouth
and Duxbury; Nantucket; Newport; Mount Hope; New London, Norwich, and
Saybrook. What nature has to show and history to tell at each of these
places, who were the heroes and worthies--all this Mr. Drake gives in
pleasant talk--_N.Y Tribune._

MY DEAR MR. DRAKE,--I have given your beautiful book, "Nooks
and Corners of the New England Coast," a pretty general perusal. It is
one "after my own heart," and I thank you very much for it. Your Preface
is an admirable "hit" in more ways than one. Like Grant, whom you have
quoted, it took you, I imagine, _all winter_ as well as _all summer_
to accomplish your victory, for you speak of experiences with snow and
sleet.

You have gathered into your volume, in the most attractive form, a vast
amount of historical and descriptive matter that is exceedingly useful.
I hope your pen will not be stayed. Your friend and brother of the pen,

BENSON J. LOSSING.

To-morrow I leave home for a week or two in Maine, and shall take your
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HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

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HARRIET P. SPOFFORD.

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one of the liveliest of essayists and historians. The legitimate charm
of variety--characteristic of a work of this kind--makes the book more
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the _Brooklyn Argus_.

Mr. Drake's "Nooks and Corners of the New England Coast" ought to be in
the hands of every one who visits our sea-side resorts. The artistic
features serve to embellish a very interesting description of our New
England watering-places, enlivened with anecdotes, bits of history
connected with the various places, and pleasant gossip about people and
things in general.--_Saturday Evening Gazette_, Boston.

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GLOWING TRIBUTES TO AMERICAN ART.

WHAT LEADING ENGLISH PAPERS

SAY OF

"PASTORAL DAYS;

OR,

MEMORIES OF A NEW ENGLAND YEAR."

BY W. HAMILTON GIBSON.

4to, Illuminated Cloth, Gilt Edges, $7 50.

FROM "THE TIMES," LONDON.

     The title of this very beautifully illustrated book conveys
     but a very faint idea of its merits, which lie, not in the
     descriptions of the varied beauties of the fields and fens of New
     England, but in the admirable wood-engravings, which on every
     page picture far more than could be given in words. The author
     has the rare gift of feeling for the exquisitely graceful forms
     of plant life and the fine touch of an expert draughtsman, which
     enables him both to select and to draw with a refinement which few
     artists in this direction have ever shown. Besides these essential
     qualities in a painter from nature, Mr. Gibson has a fine sense
     of the poetic and picturesque in landscape, of which there are
     many charming pieces in this volume, interesting in themselves as
     pictures, and singularly so in their resemblance to the scenery
     of Old England. Most of the little vignette-like views might be
     mistaken for Birket Foster's thoroughly English pictures, and some
     are like Old Crome's vigorous idyls. One of the most striking--a
     wild forest scene with a storm passing, called "The Line Storm"--is
     quite remarkable in the excellent drawing of the trees swept by the
     gale and in the general composition of the picture, which is full
     of the true poetic conception of grandeur in landscape beauty. But
     all Mr. Gibsons's good drawing would have been nothing unless he
     had been so ably aided by the artist engravers, who have throughout
     worked with such sympathy with his taste, and so much regard for
     the native grace of wild flowers, grasses, ferns, insects, and
     all the infinite beauties of the fields, down to the mysterious
     spider and his silky net spread over the brambles. These cuts are
     exceptional examples of beautiful work. Nothing in the whole round
     of wood-engraving can surpass, if it has even equalled, these
     in delicacy as well as breadth of effect. Much as our English
     cutters pride themselves on belonging to the school which Bewick
     and Jackson founded, they must certainly come to these American
     artists to learn the something more which is to be found in their
     works. In point of printing, too, there is much to be learned in
     the extremely fine ink and paper, which, although subjected to
     "hot-pressing," are evidently adapted in some special condition for
     wood-printing. The printing is obviously by hand-press,[46] and in
     the arrangement of the type with the cuts on each page the greatest
     ingenuity and invention are displayed. This, too, has been designed
     with a sort of a Japanesque fancy; here is a tangled mass of
     grasses and weeds, with a party of ants stealing out of the shade,
     and there the dragon-flies flit across among the blossoms of the
     reeds, or the feathery seeds of the dandelion float on the page.
     Each section of the seasons has its suggestive picture: Springtime,
     with a flight of birds under a may-flower branch that hangs across
     the brook: Summer, a host of butterflies sporting round the wild
     rose: Autumn, with the swallows flying south and falling leaves
     that strew the page; while for Winter the chrysalis hangs in the
     leafless bough, and the snow-clad graves in the village church-yard
     tell the same story of sleep and awakening. As many as thirty
     different artists, besides the author and designer, have assisted
     in producing this very tastefully illustrated volume, which
     commends itself by its genuine artistic merits to all lovers of the
     picturesque and the natural.

FROM "THE SATURDAY REVIEW," LONDON.

     This pleasant American book has brought to our remembrance,
     though without any sense of imitation, two old-fashioned favorites.
     In the first place, its descriptions of rural humanity, its rustic
     sweetness and humor, have a certain analogy with the delicately
     pencilled studies of life in Miss Mitford's "Our Village;" but the
     relation it bears to the second book is much closer. It is more
     than forty years since Mr. P. H. Gosse published the first of those
     delightful sketches of animal life at home which have led so many
     of us with a wholesome purpose into the woods and lanes. It was in
     the _Canadian Naturalist_ that he broke this new ground; and though
     we do not think this has ever been one of his best-known books, we
     cannot but believe that there are still many readers who will be
     reminded of it as they glance down Mr. Gibson's pages.

     People must be strangely constituted who do not enjoy such
     pages as Mr. Gibson has presented to us here. It is not merely that
     he writes well, but the subject itself is irresistibly fascinating.
     We plunge with him into the silence of a New England village in a
     clearing of the woods. The spring is awakening in a flush of tender
     green, in a fever of warm days and shivering nights, and we hasten
     with our companion through all the bustle and stir of the few busy
     hours of light so swiftly that the darkness is on us before we are
     aware. Then falls on the ear a pathetic, an intolerable silence;
     a deep mist covers the ground, a few lights twinkle in scattered
     farms and cottages, and all seems brooding, melting, in the deep
     and throbbing hush of the darkness. * * * The wailing of the great
     owl upon the maple-tree takes our author back in memory to the
     scenes of his youth, where the owl was looked upon as a creature of
     most sinister omen, and his own partiality to it, as a proof that
     there was something uncanny or even "fey" about him. All this is
     described with great sympathy and delicacy; but perhaps Mr. Gibson
     is most felicitous in his little touches of floral painting. He
     has a few words about the earthy, spicy fragrance of the arbutus
     that might have been said in verse by the late Mr. Bryant; his
     description of the effect of biting the bulbs of the Indian turnip,
     or "Jack-in-the-pulpit," is inimitable in its quiet way; while the
     phrase about the fading dandelions--"the golden stars upon the
     lawn are nearly all burned out; we see their downy ashes in the
     grass"--is perhaps the best thing ever said about a humble flower,
     whose vulgarity, in the literal sense, blinds us to the beauty of
     its evolution and decay.

     In his studies of life and country manners Mr. Gibson is a
     very agreeable and amusing, if not quite so novel, a companion.
     Not seldom he reminds us not merely of Miss Mitford, but sometimes
     of Thoreau and of Hawthorne. The story of Aunt Huldy, the village
     crone who sustained herself upon simples to the age of a hundred
     and three, is one of those little vignettes, half humorous, half
     pathetic, and altogether picturesque, in which the Americans excel.
     Aunt Huldy was an old witch in a scarlet hood, whose long white
     hair flowing behind her was wont to frighten the village children
     who came upon her in the woods; but she was absolutely harmless, a
     crazy old valetudinarian, who was always searching for the elixir
     of life in strange herbs and decoctions. At last she thought
     she had found it in sweet-fern, and she spent her last years in
     grubbing up every specimen she could find, smoking it, chewing it,
     drinking it, and sleeping with a little bag of it tied round her
     neck.

     But although Mr. Gibson writes so well, he modestly disclaims
     all pretension as a writer, and lets us know that he is an artist
     by profession. His book is illustrated by more than seventy designs
     from his pencil, engraved in that beautiful American manner to
     which we have often called attention. The scenes designed are
     closely analogous to those described in the text. We have an
     apple-orchard in full blossom, with a group of idlers lounging
     underneath the boughs; scenes in the fields so full of mystery and
     stillness that we are reminded of Millet, or of our own Mason;
     clusters of flowers drawn with all the knowledge of a botanist and
     the sympathy of a poet. It is hard to define the peculiar pleasure
     that such illustrations give to the eye. It is something that
     includes and yet transcends the mere enjoyment of whatever artistic
     excellence the designs may possess. We are directly reminded by
     them of such similar scenes as have been either the rule or the
     still more fascinating exception of every childish life, and at
     their suggestion the past comes back; in the familiar Wordsworthian
     phrase, "a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside."

     We know so little over here of the best American art that
     it may chance that Mr. Gibson is very well known in New York.
     We confess, however, that we never heard of him before; but his
     drawings are so full of delicate fancy and feeling, and his writing
     so skilful and graceful, that, in calling attention to his book, we
     cannot but express the hope that we soon may hear of him again, in
     either function, or in both.

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[Illustration: Map of White Mountains, New Hampshire]

[Illustration: Map of Vermont and New Hampshire]

       *       *       *       *       *

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

griping his arm=> gripping his arm {pg 103}

more and more drouth=> more and more drought {pg 173}

turned to looked back=> turned to look back {pg 243}

Moosilauk 4881=> Moosilauke 4881 {pg 330}


FOOTNOTES:

[1] So called from the fishing-weirs of the Indians. The Indian name was
Aquedahtan. Here is the Endicott Rock, with an inscription made by
Massachusetts surveyors in 1652.

[2] No tradition attaches to the last three peaks. Passaconnaway was a
great chieftain and conjurer of the Pennacooks. It is of him the poet
Whittier writes:

    Burned for him the drifted snow,
    Bade through ice fresh lilies blow,
    And the leaves of summer glow
       Over winter's wood.

This noted patriarch and necromancer, in whose arts not only the Indians
but the English seemed to have put entire faith, after living to a great
age, was, according to the tradition, translated to heaven from the
summit of Mount Washington, after the manner of Elias, in a chariot of
fire, surrounded by a tempest of flame. Wonnalancet was the son and
successor of Passaconnaway. Paugus, an under chief of the Pigwackets, or
Sokokis, killed in the battle with Lovewell, related in the next
chapter.

[3] Something has since been done by the Appalachian Club to render this
part of the ascent less hazardous than it formerly was.

[4] The Saco has since been bridged, and is traversed with all ease.

[5] The sequel to this strange but true story is in keeping with the
rest of its horrible details. Perpetually haunted by the ghost of his
victim, the murderer became a prey to remorse. Life became
insupportable. He felt that he was both shunned and abhorred. Gradually
he fell into a decline, and within a few years from the time the deed
was committed he died.

[6] Dr. Jeremy Belknap relates that, on his journey through this region
in 1784, he was besought by the superstitious villagers to lay the
spirits which were still believed to haunt the fastnesses of the
mountains.

[7] This house stood just within the entrance to the Notch, from the
north, or Fabyan side. It was for some time kept by Thomas J., one of
the famous Crawfords. Travellers who are a good deal puzzled by the
frequent recurrence of the name "Crawford's" will recollect that the
present hotel is now the only one in this valley bearing the name.

[8] A portion of the slide touching the house, even moved it a little
from its foundations before being stopped by the resistance it opposed
to the progress of the débris.

[9] I have since passed over the same route without finding those
sensations to which our inexperience, and the tempest which surrounded
us, rendered us peculiarly liable. In reality, the ridge connecting
Mount Pleasant with Mount Franklin is passed without hesitation, in good
weather, by the most timid; but when a rod of the way cannot be seen the
case is different, and caution necessary. The view of this natural
bridge from the summit of Mount Franklin is one of the imposing sights
of the day's march.

[10] The remains of this ill-fated climber have since been found at the
foot of the pinnacle. See chapter on Mount Washington.

[11] This analogy of belief may be carried farther still, to the
populations of Asia, which surround the great "Abode of Snow"--the
Himalayas. It would be interesting to see in this similarity of
religious worship a link between the Asiatic, the primitive man, and the
American--the most recent, and the most unfortunate. Our province is
simply to recount a fact to which the brothers Schlaginweit
("Exploration de la Haute Asie") bear witness:

"It is in spite of himself, under the enticement of a great reward, that
the superstitious Hindoo decides to accompany the traveller into the
mountains, which he dreads less for the unknown dangers of the ascent
than for the sacrilege he believes he is committing in approaching the
holy asylum, the inviolable sanctuary of the gods he reveres; his
trouble becomes extreme when he sees in the peak to be climbed not the
mountain, but the god whose name it bears. Henceforth it is by sacrifice
and prayer alone that he may appease the profoundly offended deity."

[12] Sullivan: "History of Maine."

[13] Field's second ascension (July, 1642) was followed in the same year
by that of Vines and Gorges, two magistrates of Sir F. Gorges's province
of Maine, within which the mountains were believed to lie. Their visit
contributed little to the knowledge of the region, as they erroneously
reported the high plateau of the great chain to be the source of the
Kennebec, as well as of the Androscoggin and Connecticut rivers.

[14] It also occurs, reduced to Agiochook, in the ballad, of unknown
origin, on the death of Captain Lovewell. One of these was, doubtless,
the authority of Belknap. Touching the signification of Agiochook, it is
the opinion of Dr. J. Hammond Trumbull that the word which Captain Gyles
imperfectly translated from sound into English syllables is Algonquin
for "at the mountains on that side," or "over yonder." "As to the
generally received interpretations of Agiockochook, such as 'the abode
of the Great Spirit,' 'the place of the Spirit of the Great Forest,' or,
as one writer prefers, 'the place of the Storm Spirit,'" says Dr.
Trumbull, "it is enough to say that no element of any Algonkin word
meaning 'great,' 'spirit,' 'forest,' 'storm,' or 'abode,' or combining
the meaning of any two of these words, occurs in 'Agiockochook.' The
only Indian name for the White Hills that bears internal evidence of
genuineness is one given on the authority of President Alden, as used
'by one of the eastern tribes,' that is, Waumbekketmethna, which easily
resolves itself into the Kennebec-Abnaki waubeghiket-amadinar, 'white
greatest mountain.' It is very probable, however, that this synthesis is
a mere translation, by an Indian, of the English 'White Mountains.' I
have never, myself, succeeded in obtaining this name from the modern
Abnakis."

[15] Here is what Douglass says in his "Summary" (1748-'53): "The White
Hills, or rather mountains, inland about seventy miles north from the
mouth of Piscataqua Harbor, about seven miles west by north from the
head of the Pigwoket branch of Saco River; they are called white not
from their being continually covered with snow, but because they are
bald atop, producing no trees or brush, and covered with a whitish stone
or shingle: these hills may be observed at a great distance, and are a
considerable guide or direction to the Indians in travelling that
country."

And Robert Rogers ("Account of America," London, 1765) remarks that the
White Mountains were "so called from that appearance which is like snow,
consisting, as is generally supposed, of a white flint, from which the
reflection is very brilliant and dazzling."

[16] Captivity of Elizabeth Hanson, taken at Dover, New Hampshire, 1724.

[17] No Yankee girl need be told for what purpose spruce gum is
procured; but it will doubtless be news to many that the best quality is
worth a dollar the pound. Davis told me he had gathered enough in a
single season to fetch ninety dollars.

[18] I use the name, as usually applied, to the whole mountain. In point
of fact, the Dome is not visible from the Notch.

[19] The guide knew no other name for the larger bird than meat-hawk;
but its size, plumage, and utter fearlessness are characteristic of the
Canada jay, occasionally encountered in these high latitudes. I cannot
refrain from reminding the reader that the cross-bill is the subject of
a beautiful German legend, translated by Longfellow. The dying and
forsaken Saviour sees a little bird striving to draw the nail from his
bleeding palm with his beak:

    "And the Saviour spoke in mildness:
       'Blest be thou of all the good!
     Bear, as token of this moment,
       Marks of blood and holy rood!"

    "And the bird is called the cross-bill;
       Covered all with blood so clear.
     In the groves of pine it singeth
       Songs like legends, strange to hear."

[20] Peabody River is said to have originated in the same manner, and in
a single night. It is probable, however, that as long as there has been
a valley there has also been a stream.

[21] Since the above was written, a deplorable accident has given
melancholy emphasis to these words of warning. I leave them as they are,
because they were employed by the very person to whom the disaster was
due: "The first accident by which any passengers were ever injured on
the carriage-road, from the Glen House to the summit of Mount
Washington, occurred July 3d, 1880, about a mile below the Half-Way
House. One of the six-horse mountain wagons, containing a party of nine
persons--the last load of the excursionists from Michigan to make the
descent of the mountain--was tipped over, and one lady was killed and
five others injured. Soon after starting from the summit the passengers
discovered that the driver had been drinking while waiting for the party
to descend. They left this wagon a short distance from the summit and
walked to the Half-Way House, four miles below, where one of the
employés of the Carriage-road Company assured them that there was no bad
place below that, and that he thought it would be safe for them to
resume their seats with the driver, who was with them. Soon after
passing the Half-Way House, in driving around a curve too rapidly, the
carriage was overset, throwing the occupants into the woods and on the
rocks. Mrs. Ira Chichester, of Allegan, Michigan, was instantly killed,
her husband, who was sitting at her side, being only slightly bruised.
Of the other occupants, several were more or less injured. The injured
were brought at once to the Glen House, and received every possible care
and attention. Lindsey, the driver, was taken up insensible. He had been
on the road ten years, and was considered one of the safest and most
reliable drivers in the mountains."

[22] A stone bench, known as Willis's Seat, has been fixed in the
parapet wall at the extreme southern angle of the road, between the
sixth and seventh miles. It is a fine lookout, but will need to be
carefully searched for.

[23] Benjamin Chandler, of Delaware, in August, 1856.

[24] Dr. B. L. Ball's "Three Days on the White Mountains," in October,
1855.

[25] Considering the pinnacle of Mount Washington as the centre of a
circle of vision, the greatest distance I have been able to see with the
naked eye, in nine ascensions, did not probably much exceed one hundred
miles. This being half the diameter, the circumference would surpass six
hundred miles. It is now considered settled that Katahdin, one hundred
and sixty miles distant, is not visible from Mount Washington.

[26] The highest point, formerly indicated by a cairn and a beacon, is
now occupied by an observatory, built of planks, and, of course,
commanding the whole horizon. It is desirable to examine this vast
landscape in detail, or so much of it as the eye embraces at once, and
no more.

[27] One poor fellow (Private Stevens) did die here in 1872. His comrade
remained one day and two nights alone with the dead body before help
could be summoned from below.

[28] It was for a long time believed that the summit of Mount Washington
bore no marks of the great Glacial Period, which the lamented Agassiz
was the first to present in his great work on the glaciers of the Alps.
Such was the opinion of Dr. C. T. Jackson, State Geologist of New
Hampshire. It is now announced that Professor C. H. Hitchcock has
detected the presence of transported bowlders not identical with the
rocks in place.

[29] In going to and returning from the ravine, I must have walked over
the very spot which has since derived a tragical interest from the
discovery, in July, 1880, of a human skeleton among the rocks. Three
students, who had climbed up through the ravine on the way to the
summit, stumbled upon the remains. Some fragments of clothing remained,
and in a pocket were articles identifying the lost man as Harry W.
Hunter, of Pittsburg, Pennsylvania. This was the same person whom I had
seen placarded as missing, in 1875, and who is referred to in the
chapter on the ascent from Crawford's. A cairn and tablet, similar to
those erected on the spot where Miss Bourne perished, had already been
placed here when I last visited the locality, where the remains had so
long lain undiscovered in their solitary tomb. An inscription upon the
tablet gives the following details: "Henry W. Hunter, aged twenty-two
years, perished in a storm, September 3d, 1874, while walking from the
Willey House to the summit. Remains found July 14th, 1880, by a party of
Amherst students." The place is conspicuous from the plain, and is
between the Crawford Path and Tuckerman's. By going a few rods to the
left, the Summit House, one mile distant, is in full view. This makes
the third person known to have perished on or near the summit of Mount
Washington. Young Hunter died without a witness to the agony of his last
moments. No search was made until nearly a year had elapsed. It proved
ineffectual, and was abandoned. Thus, strangely and by chance, was
brought to light the fact that he sunk exhausted and lifeless at the
foot of the cone itself. I can fully appreciate the nature of the
situation in which this too adventurous but truly unfortunate climber
was placed.

[30] A log-hut has been built near the summit of Mount Clinton since
this was written. It is a good deed. But the long miles over the summits
remain as yet neglected. Had one existed at the base of Monroe, it is
probable that one life, at least, might have been saved. It is on the
plain that danger and difficulties thicken.

[31] Kancamagus, the Pennacook sachem, led the Indian assault on Dover,
in 1689.

[32] This name was given to his picture of the great range, in
possession of the Prince of Wales, by Mr. George L. Brown, the eminent
landscape-painter. The canvas represents the summits in the sumptuous
garb of autumn.

[33] The true source of the Connecticut remained so long in doubt that
it passed into a by-word. Cotton Mather, speaking of an ecclesiastical
quarrel in Hartford, says that it was almost as obscure as the rise of
the Connecticut River.

[34] This orthography is of recent adoption. By recent I mean within
thirty years. Before that time it was always Moosehillock. Nothing is
easier than to unsettle a name. So far as known, I believe there is not
a single summit of the White Mountain group having a name given to it by
the Indians. On the contrary, the Indian names have all come from the
white people. That these are sometimes far-fetched is seen in Osceola
and Tecumseh; that they are often puerile, it is needless to point out.
Moosehillock is probably no exception. It is not unlikely to be an
English nickname. The result of these changes is that the people
inhabiting the region contiguous to the mountain do not know how to
spell the name on their guide-boards.

[35] Speaking of legends, that of Rubenzal, of the Silesian mountains,
is not unlike Irving's legend of Rip Van Winkle and the Catskills. Both
were Dutch legends. The Indian legends of Moosehillock are very like to
those of high mountains, everywhere.

[36] In the valley of the Aar, at the head of the Aar glacier, in
Switzerland, is a peak named for Agassiz, who thus has two enduring
monuments, one in his native, the other in his adopted land. The eminent
Swiss scientist spent much time among the White Mountains.

[37] Such, for example, as the Hon. J. G. Sinclair, Isaac Cruft, Esq.,
and ex-Governor Howard of Rhode Island.

[38] The twin Percy Peaks, which we saw in the north, rise in the
south-east corner of Stratford. Their name was probably derived from the
township now called Stark, and formerly Percy. The township was named by
Governor Wentworth in honor of Hugh, Earl of Northumberland, who figured
in the early days of the American Revolution. The adjoining township of
Northumberland is also commemorative of the same princely house.

[39] The greater part of the ascent so nearly coincides, in its main
features, with that into Tuckerman's, that a description would be, in
effect, a repetition. To my mind Tuckerman's is the grander of the two;
it is only when the upper section of King's is reached that it begins to
be either grand or interesting by comparison.

[40] The road up the Rigi, in Switzerland, was modelled upon the plans
of Mr. Marsh.

[41] Dr. Timothy Dwight.

[42] Rev. Benjamin G. Willey.

[43] The greatest angle of inclination is twelve feet in one hundred.

[44] Samuel Adams at the feet of John Adams is not the exact order that
we have been accustomed to seeing these men. Better leave Samuel Adams
where he stands in history--alone.

[45] It is only forty years since Agassiz advanced his now generally
adopted theory of the Glacial Period. The Indians believed that the
world was originally covered with water, and that their god created the
dry land from a grain of sand.

[46] The English reviewer is in error here. The letterpress and
illustrations were printed together on an Adams press.