{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_42447/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_42447","id":"gutenberg_42447","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/42447","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Adventure","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Travel Writing","White Mountains (N.H. and Me.) -- Description and travel"],"text":"Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was\nproduced from images available at The Internet Archive)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: TRAVELLERS IN A STORM, MOUNT WASHINGTON.]\n\n\n\n\nTourist's Edition\n\nTHE HEART\nOF THE\nWHITE MOUNTAINS\n\nTHEIR LEGEND AND SCENERY\n\nBY\n\nSAMUEL ADAMS DRAKE\n\nAUTHOR OF \"NOOKS AND CORNERS OF THE NEW ENGLAND COAST\"\n\"CAPTAIN NELSON\" ETC.\n\nWITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY\n\nW. HAMILTON GIBSON\n\n\"_Eyes loose: thoughts close_\"\n\nNEW YORK\nHARPER & BROTHERS. FRANKLIN SQUARE\n1882\n\n\n\n\nEntered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1881, by\n\nHARPER & BROTHERS,\n\nIn the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.\n\n_All rights reserved._\n\n\nTo JOHN G. WHITTIER:\n\n_An illustrious and venerated bard, who shares with you the love and\nhonor of his countrymen, tells us that the poets are the best travelling\ncompanions. Like Orlando in the forest of Arden, they \"hang odes on\nhawthorns and elegies on thistles.\"\n\nIn the spirit of that delightful companionship, so graciously announced,\nit is to you, who have kindled on our aged summits\n\n    \"The light that never was on sea or land,\n     The consecration and the poet's dream.\"\n\nthat this volume is affectionately dedicated by_\n\nTHE AUTHOR.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\nThe very flattering reception which the sumptuous holiday edition\nof \"The Heart of the White Mountains\" received on its _d\u00e9but_ has\ndecided the Messrs. Harper to re-issue it in a more convenient and less\nexpensive form, with the addition of a Tourist's Appendix, and an Index\nfarther adapting it for the use of actual travellers. While all the\noriginal features remain intact, these additions serve to render the\nreferences in the text intelligible to the uninstructed reader, and at\nthe same time help to make a practical working manual. One or two new\nmaps contribute to the same end.\n\nI take the opportunity thus afforded me to say that, when \"The Heart of\nthe White Mountains\" was originally prepared, I hoped it might go into\nthe hands of those who, making the journey for the first time, feel the\nneed of something different from the conventional guide-book of the day,\nand for whom it would also be, during the hours of travel or of leisure\namong the mountains, to some extent an entertaining as well as a useful\ncompanion. So far as author and publisher are concerned, that purpose is\nnow realized.\n\nFinally, I wrote the book because I could not help it.\n\nSAMUEL ADAMS DRAKE.\n\nMELROSE, _January, 1882_.\n\n\n\n\nGENERAL CONTENTS.\n\n\nFIRST JOURNEY.\n\n                               PAGE\n\nI. _MY TRAVELLING COMPANIONS_.....1\n\nII. _INCOMPARABLE WINNIPISEOGEE_: Voyage from Wolfborough to Centre\nHarbor.--The Indians.--Centre Harbor.--Legendary.--Ascent of Red\nHill.--Sunset on the Lake.....8\n\nIII. _CHOCORUA_: Stage Journey to Tamworth.--Scramble for\nPlaces.--Valley of the Bear Camp.--Legend of Chocorua.--Sandwich\nMountains.--Chocorua Lake.--Ascent of Mount Chocorua.....18\n\nIV. _LOVEWELL_: Fryeburg.--Lovewell's Fight.--Desperate Encounter with\nthe Pigwackets.--Death of Paugus.....33\n\nV. _NORTH CONWAY_: The Antechamber of the Mountains.--White\nHorse Ledge.--Fording the Saco.--Indian Custom.--Echo Lake.--The\nCathedral.--Diana's Baths.--Artists' Falls.--The Moats.--Winter Ascent\nof Mount Kearsarge.....39\n\nVI. _FROM KEARSARGE TO CARRIGAIN_: Conway Intervales.--Bartlett\nBowlder.--Singular Homicide.--Bartlett.--A Lost Village.--Ascent of\nMount Carrigain.--A Shaggy Wilderness.....55\n\nVII. _VALLEY OF THE SACO_: Autumnal Foliage.--The Story of\nNancy.--Doctor Bemis.--Abel Crawford, the Veteran Guide.--Ethan A.\nCrawford.--The Mount Crawford Glen.--Giant's Stairs.--Frankenstein\nCliff.--Superb View of Mount Washington.--Mount Willey.....66\n\nVIII. _THROUGH THE NOTCH_: Great Notch of the White Mountains.--The\nWilley House, and Slide of 1826.--\"Colonizing\" Voters.--Mount\nWillard.--Mount Webster, and its Cascades.--Gate of the Notch.--Summit\nof the Pass.....76\n\nIX. _CRAWFORD'S_: The Elephant's Head.--Crawford House, and\nGlen.--Discovery of The Notch.--Ascent of Mount Willard.--Magnificent\n_coup d'oeil_.....87\n\nX. _THE ASCENT FROM CRAWFORD'S_: The Bridle-path.--Wreck of\nthe Forest.--A Forest of Ice.--Dwarf Trees.--Summit of Mount\nClinton.--Caught in a Snow-storm.--The Colonel's Hat.--Oakes's\nGulf.--The Plateau.--Climbing the Dome.--The Summit at Last.....95\n\n\nSECOND JOURNEY.\n\nI. _LEGENDS OF THE CRYSTAL HILLS_: Indian Tradition and Legend.--Ascent\nof Mount Washington by Darby Field.--Indian Name of the White Mountains\n.....113\n\nII. _JACKSON AND THE ELLIS VALLEY_: Thorn Hill.--Jackson.--Jackson\nFalls.--Goodrich Falls.--The Ellis.--A Captive Maiden's Song.--Pretty\nIndian Legend.--Pinkham Notch, from the Ellis.--A Mountain\nHomestead.--Artist Life.....122\n\nIII. _THE CARTER NOTCH_: Valley of the Wildcat.--The Guide.--The\nWay In.--Summit of The Notch.--Awful Desolation.--The Giant's\nBarricade.--Carter Dome.--The Way Out.....132\n\nIV. _THE PINKHAM NOTCH_: The Glen House.--Thompson's Falls.--Emerald\nPool.--Crystal Cascade.--Glen Ellis and its Legend.....144\n\nV. _A SCRAMBLE IN TUCKERMAN'S_: Tuckerman's Ravine.--The Path.--Hermit\nLake.--\"No Thoroughfare.\"--Interior of the Ravine.--The Snow\nArch.....155\n\nVI. _IN AND ABOUT GORHAM_: The Peabody Valley.--Copp's Farm.--The\nImp.--Nathaniel Copp's Adventure.--Gorham and the Androscoggin.--Mount\nHayes.--Mount Madison.--Wholesale Destruction of the Forests.--Logging\nin the Mountains.--Berlin Falls.--Shelburne and Bethel.....165\n\nVII. _ASCENT BY THE CARRIAGE-ROAD_: Bruin and the Travellers.--The\nLedge.--The Great Gulf.--Fatal Accident.--Lost Travellers.--Arrival at\nthe Signal-station.--A Night on the Summit.....178\n\nVIII. _MOUNT WASHINGTON_: View from the Summit.--The Great Gale.--Life\non the Summit.--Shadow of Mount Washington.--Bigelow's Lawn.--The Hunter\nMonument.--Lake of the Clouds.--The Mountain Butterfly.....189\n\n\nTHIRD JOURNEY.\n\nI. _THE PEMIGEWASSET IN JUNE_: Plymouth.--Death of Hawthorne.--John\nStark, the Hunter.--Livermore Fall.--Trout and Salmon\nBreeding.--Franconia Mountains from West Campton.--Settlement of\nCampton.--Valley of Mad River.--Tripyramid Mountain.--Waterville and its\nSurroundings.....209\n\nII. _THE FRANCONIA PASS_: The Flume House.--The Pool.--The\nFlume.--Ascent of Mount Pemigewasset.--The Basin.--Mount\nCannon.--Profile Lake.--Old Man of the Mountain.--Summit of the\nPass.....224\n\nIII. _THE KING OF FRANCONIA_: Profile House and Glen.--Eagle\nCliff.--Echo Lake.--Ascent of Mount Lafayette.--The Lakes.--Singular\nAtmospheric Effects.....237\n\nIV. _FRANCONIA, AND THE NEIGHBORHOOD_: The Roadside Spring.--Franconia\nIron Works and Vicinity.--Sugar Hill.....248\n\nV. _THE CONNECTICUT OX-BOW_: Newbury and Haverhill.....256\n\nVI. _THE SACK OF ST. FRANCIS DE SALES_: Robert Rogers, the\nRanger.--Destruction of the Abenaqui Village.--Retreat and Pursuit of\nthe Rangers.--Legend of the Silver Image.....259\n\nVII. _MOOSEHILLOCK_: Ascent of the Mountain from Warren.--View from the\nSummit.....267\n\nVIII. _BETHLEHEM_: Bethlehem Street.--Sudden Rise of a Mountain\nResort.--The Environs.--Maplewood and the Great Range.--The Place of\nSunsets.--The \"Hermit.\"--The Soldier turned Peddler.....276\n\nIX. _JEFFERSON, AND THE VALLEY OF ISRAEL'S RIVER_: Jefferson\nHill.--Starr King and Cherry Mountains.--The Great Chain Again.--Thomas\nStarr King.--Ethan Crawford's.--Ravine of the Cascades.--Randolph Hill\nand King's Ravine.--The Cherry Mountain Road.--Fabyan's.--Captain\nRosebrook .....291\n\nX. _THE GREAT NORTHERN PEAKS_: The Mountain Railway.--An Evening\nAscension.--Moonlight on the Summit.--Sunrise.--A March to Mount\nAdams.--The Great Gulf of the Five Mountains.--The Castellated\nRidge.--Peak of Mount Adams.--Conclusion.....304\n\n\n\n\n\nIllustrations.\n\n\nThese Illustrations, excepting those marked *, were designed by W.\nHAMILTON GIBSON.\n\nSUBJECT.      ENGRAVER.      PAGE.\nTRAVELLERS IN A STORM, MOUNT WASHINGTON   _R. Hoskin_    Frontispiece\n\nWINNIPISEOGEE, FROM RED HILL              _J. Tinkey_              15\n\n*\"ALONE WITH ALL THOSE MEN!\"              _V. Bernstrom_           20\n      _Designed by W. A. Rogers._\n\nPASSACONNAWAY, FROM THE BEAR-CAMP RIVER   _Smithwick and French_   24\n\nCHOCORUA                                  _R. Hoskin_              26\n\nLOVEWELL'S POND                           _J. P. Davis_            34\n\nMOUNT WASHINGTON, FROM THE SACO           _F. S. King_             40\n\nTHE LEDGES, NORTH CONWAY                  _E. Held_                41\n\nECHO LAKE, NORTH CONWAY                   _G. J. Buechner_         45\n\nKEARSARGE IN WINTER                       _R. Hoskin_              48\n\n*SLIDING DOWN KEARSARGE                   _H. Deis_                53\n      _Designed by W. A. Rogers._\n\nCONWAY MEADOWS                            _W. H. Morse_            56\n\nBARTLETT BOWLDER                          _E. Held_                58\n\n*NANCY IN THE SNOW                        _J. P. Davis_            68\n      _Designed by Sol Eytinge._\n\n*ABEL CRAWFORD (PORTRAIT)                 _Thos. Johnson_          70\n\nSTORM ON MOUNT WILLEY                     _J. Linton_              75\n\nMOUNT WILLARD, FROM WILLEY BROOK          _G. Smith_               78\n\nTHE CASCADES, MOUNT WEBSTER               _F. S. King_             85\n\nELEPHANT'S HEAD, WINTER                   _H. Wolf_                88\n\nLOOKING DOWN THE NOTCH                    _C. Mayer_               91\n\nGIANT'S STAIRS, FROM THORN MOUNTAIN       _J. Hellawell_           124\n\nMOAT MOUNTAIN, FROM JACKSON FALLS         _F. Pettit_              126\n\nTHE CARTER NOTCH                          _Smithwick and French_   134\n\nTHE EMERALD POOL                          _W. H. Morse_            147\n\nTHE CRYSTAL CASCADE                       _H. Wolf_                149\n\nTHE PATH, TUCKERMAN'S RAVINE              _R. Hoskin_              157\n\nHERMIT LAKE                               _W. J. Dana_             160\n\nSNOW ARCH, TUCKERMAN'S RAVINE             _N. Orr_                 163\n\nTHE IMP                                   _J. Tinkey_              166\n\nTHE ANDROSCOGGIN AT SHELBURNE             _G. Smith_               176\n\nMOUNT ADAMS AND THE GREAT GULF            _W. H. Morse_            182\n\nWINTER STORM ON THE SUMMIT                _R. Schelling_           187\n\n*THE TORNADO FORCING AN ENTRANCE          _J. Tinkey_              194\n      _Designed by Thure de Thulstrup_\n\nLAKE OF THE CLOUDS                        _J. P. Davis_            200\n\nON THE PROFILE ROAD                       _Smithwick and French_   213\n\nWELCH MOUNTAIN, FROM MAD RIVER            _J. Hellawell_           217\n\nBLACK AND TRIPYRAMID MOUNTAINS            _J. S. Harley_           220\n\nFRANCONIA NOTCH, FROM THORNTON            _F. S. King_             222\n\nA GLIMPSE OF THE POOL                     _C. Mayer_               225\n\nTHE FLUME, FRANCONIA NOTCH                _J. P. Davis_            227\n\nTHE BASIN                                 _G. J. Buechner_         230\n\n*THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN              _A. Measom_              234\n      _Designed by Granville Perkins._\n\n*EAGLE CLIFF AND THE ECHO HOUSE           _P. Annin_               238\n      _Designed by Granville Perkins._\n\nECHO LAKE, FRANCONIA                      _G. J. Buechner_         240\n\nMOUNT CANNON, FROM THE BRIDLE-PATH,\nLAFAYETTE                                 _R. Schelling_           242\n\nCLOUD EFFECTS ON MOUNT LAFAYETTE          _R. Hoskin_              245\n\n*FRANCONIA IRON WORKS AND NOTCH           _C. Mayer_               248\n      _Designed by Granville Perkins._\n\n*THE ROADSIDE SPRING                                               250\n      _Designed by W. A . Rogers._\n\n*ROBERT ROGERS (PORTRAIT)                 _C. Mayer_               260\n\n*THE BUCK-BOARD WAGON                                                  274\n      _Designed by W. A. Rogers._\n\nMOUNT LAFAYETTE, FROM BETHLEHEM           _J. Tinkey_              280\n\nTHE NORTHERN PEAKS, FROM JEFFERSON        _Smithwick and French_   292\n\nMOUNT WASHINGTON, FROM FABYAN'S           _E. Held_                301\n\n*MOUNTAIN RAILWAY-STATION IN STAGING\nTIMES                                     _T. Johnson_             305\n      _Designed by Granville Perkins._\n\nASCENT BY THE RAILWAY                     _J. Hellawell_           309\n\nTHE CASTELLATED RIDGE, MOUNT JEFFERSON    _J. Tinkey_              315\n\nMAP OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS (_East Side_)                            xv\n\n  \"    \"    \" (_Central and Northern Section_)                     111\n\n  \"    \"    \" (_West Side_)                                        207\n\n\nFIRST JOURNEY.\n\n\n                                PAGE\n\nI. _MY TRAVELLING COMPANIONS_      1\n\nII. _INCOMPARABLE WINNIPISEOGEE_   8\n\nIII. _CHOCORUA_                   18\n\nIV. _LOVEWELL_                    33\n\nV. _NORTH CONWAY_                 39\n\nVI. _KEARSARGE TO CARRIGAIN_      55\n\nVII. _VALLEY OF THE SACO_         66\n\nVIII. _THROUGH THE NOTCH_         76\n\nIX. _CRAWFORD'S_                  87\n\nX. _ASCENT FROM CRAWFORD'S_       95\n\n[Illustration: [Map]]\n\n\n\n\nTHE\n\nHEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS.\n\n\n\n\nFIRST JOURNEY.\n\nI.\n\n_MY TRAVELLING COMPANIONS._\n\n    \"Si jeunesse savait! si viellesse pouvait!\"\n\n\nOne morning in September I was sauntering up and down the\nrailway-station waiting for the slow hands of the clock to reach the\nhour fixed for the departure of the train. The fact that these hands\nnever move backward did not in the least seem to restrain the impatience\nof the travellers thronging into the station, some with happy, some with\nanxious faces, some without trace of either emotion, yet all betraying\nthe same eagerness and haste of manner. All at once I heard my name\npronounced, and felt a heavy hand upon my shoulder.\n\n\"What!\" I exclaimed, in genuine surprise, \"is it you, colonel?\"\n\n\"Myself,\" affirmed the speaker, offering his cigar-case.\n\n\"And where did you drop from\"--accepting an Havana; \"the Blue Grass?\"\n\n\"I reckon.\"\n\n\"But what are you doing in New England, when you should be in Kentucky?\"\n\n\"Doing, I? oh, well,\" said my friend, with a shade of constraint; then\nwith a quizzical smile, \"You are a Yankee; guess.\"\n\n\"Take care.\"\n\n\"Guess.\"\n\n\"Running away from your creditors?\"\n\nThe colonel's chin cut the air contemptuously.\n\n\"Running after a woman, perhaps?\"\n\nMy companion quickly took the cigar from his lips, looked at me with\nmouth half opened, then stammered, \"What in blue brimstone put that into\nyour head?\"\n\n\"Evidently you are going on a journey, but are dressed for an evening\nparty,\" I replied, comprising with a glance the colonel's black suit,\nlavender gloves, and white cravat.\n\n\"Why,\" said the colonel, glancing rather complacently at himself--\"why\nwe Kentuckians always travel so at home. But it's now your turn; where\nare you going yourself?\"\n\n\"To the mountains.\"\n\n\"Good; so am I: White Mountains, Green Mountains, Rocky Mountains, or\nMountains of the Moon, I care not.\"\n\n\"What is your route?\"\n\n\"I'm not at all familiar with the topography of your mountains. What is\nyours?\"\n\n\"By the Eastern to Lake Winnipiseogee, thence to Centre Harbor, thence\nby stage and rail to North Conway and the White Mountain Notch.\"\n\nMy friend purchased his ticket by the indicated route, and the train\nwas soon rumbling over the bridges which span the Charles and Mystic.\nFarewell, Boston, city where, like thy railways, all extremes meet, but\nwhere I would still rather live on a crust moistened with east wind than\ncast my lot elsewhere.\n\nWhen we had fairly emerged into the light and sunshine of the open\ncountry, I recognized my old acquaintance George Brentwood. At a gesture\nfrom me he came and sat opposite to us.\n\nGeorge Brentwood was a blond young man of thirty-four or thirty-five,\nwith brown hair, full reddish beard, shrewdish blue eyes, a robust\nframe, and a general air of negligent repose. In a word, he was the\nantipodes of my companion, whose hair, eyebrows, and mustache were\ncoal-black, eyes dark and sparkling, manner nervous, and his attitudes\ncareless and unconstrained, though not destitute of a certain natural\ngrace. Both were men to be remarked in a crowd.\n\n\"George,\" said I, \"permit me to introduce my friend Colonel Swords.\"\n\nAfter a few civil questions and answers, George declared his\ndestination to be ours, and was cordially welcomed to join us. By way\nof breaking the ice, he observed,\n\n\"Apropos of your title, colonel, I presume you served in the Rebellion?\"\n\nThe colonel hitched a little on his seat before replying. Knowing him\nto be a very modest man, I came to his assistance. \"Yes,\" said I, \"the\ncolonel fought hard and bled freely. Let me see, where were you wounded?\"\n\n\"Through the chest.\"\n\n\"No, I mean in what battle?\"\n\n\"Spottsylvania.\"\n\n\"Left on the field for dead, and taken prisoner,\" I finished.\n\nGeorge is a fellow of very generous impulses. \"My dear sir,\" said he,\neffusively, grasping the colonel's hand, \"after what you have suffered\nfor the old flag, you can need no other passport to the gratitude and\nfriendship of a New-Englander. Count me as one of your debtors. During\nthe war it was my fortune--my misfortune, I should say--to be in a\ndistant country; otherwise we should have been found fighting shoulder\nto shoulder under Grant, or Sherman, or Sheridan, or Thomas.\n\nThe colonel's color rose. He drew himself proudly up, cleared his\nthroat, and said, laconically, \"Hardly, stranger, seeing that I had the\nhonor to fight under the Confederate flag.\"\n\nYou have seen a tortoise suddenly draw back into his shell. Well, George\nas suddenly retreated into his. For an instant he looked at the Southron\nas one might at a confessed murderer; then stammered out a few random\nand unmeaning words about mistaken sense of duty--gallant but useless\nstruggle, you know--drew a newspaper from his pocket, and hid his\nconfusion behind it.\n\nFearing my fiery Kentuckian might let fall some unlucky word that would\nact like a live coal dropped on the tortoise's back, I hastened to\ninterpose. \"But really, colonel,\" I urged, returning to the charge,\n\"with the Blue Ridge always at your back, I wager you did not come a\nthousand miles merely to see our mountains. Come, what takes you from\nLexington?\"\n\n\"A truant disposition.\"\n\n\"Nothing else?\"\n\nHis dark face grew swarthy, then pale. He looked at me doubtfully a\nmoment, and then leaned close to my ear. \"You guessed it,\" he whispered.\n\n\"A woman?\"\n\n\"Yes; you know that I was taken prisoner and sent North. Through the\ninfluence of a friend who had known my family before the war, I was\nallowed to pass my first days of convalescence in a beautiful little\nvillage in Berkshire. There I was cured of the bullet, but received a\nmore mortal wound.\"\n\n\"What a misfortune!\"\n\n\"Yes; no; confound you, let me finish.\"\n\n\"Helen, the daughter of the gentleman who procured my transfer from the\nhospital to his pleasant home\" (the proud Southerner would not say his\nbenefactor), \"was a beautiful creature. Let me describe her to you.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" I hastened to say, \"I know her.\" Like all lovers, that subject\nmight have a beginning but no ending.\n\n\"You?\"\n\n\"Of course. Listen. Yellow hair, rippling ravishingly from an alabaster\nforehead, pink cheeks, pouting lips, dimpled chin, snowy throat--\"\n\nThe colonel made a gesture of impatience. \"Pshaw, that's a type, not a\nportrait. Well, the upshot of it was that I was exchanged, and ordered\nto report at Baltimore for transportation to our lines. Imagine my\ndismay. No, you can't, for I was beginning to think she cared for me,\nand I was every day getting deeper and deeper in love. But to tell her!\nThat posed me. When alone with her, my cowardly tongue clove to the roof\nof my mouth. Once or twice I came very near bawling out, 'I love you!'\njust as I would have given an order to a squadron to charge a battery.\"\n\n\"Well; but you did propose at last?\"\n\n\"Oh yes.\"\n\n\"And was accepted.\"\n\nThe colonel lowered his head, and his face grew pinched.\n\n\"Refused gently, but positively refused.\"\n\n\"Come,\" I hazarded, thinking the story ended, \"I do not like your Helen.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because either you are mistaken, or she seems just a little of a\ncoquette.\"\n\n\"Oh, you don't know her,\" said the colonel, warmly; \"when we parted she\nbetrayed unusual agitation--for her; but I was cut to the quick by her\nrefusal, and determined not to let her see how deeply I felt it. After\nthe Deluge--you know what I mean--after the tragedy at Appomattox, I\nwent back to the old home. Couldn't stay there. I tried New Orleans,\nCuba. No use.\"\n\nSomething rose in the colonel's throat, but he gulped it down and went\non:\n\n\"The image of that girl pursues me. Did you ever try running away from\nyourself? Well, after fighting it out with myself until I could endure\nit no longer, I put pride in my pocket, came straight to Berkshire, only\nto find Helen gone.\"\n\n\"That was unlucky; where?\"\n\n\"To the mountains, of course. Everybody seems to be going there; but I\nshall find her.\"\n\n\"Don't be too sanguine. It will be like looking for a needle in a\nhay-stack. The mountains are a perfect D\u00e6dalian labyrinth,\" I could not\nhelp saying, in my vexation. Instead of an ardent lover of nature, I had\npicked up the \"baby of a girl.\" But there was George Brentwood. I went\nover and sat by George.\n\nIt was generally understood that George was deeply enamored of a young\nand beautiful widow who had long ceased to count her love affairs,\nwho all the world, except George, knew loved only herself, and who\nhad therefore nothing left worth mentioning to bestow upon another.\nBy nature a coquette, passionately fond of admiration, her self-love\nwas flattered by the attentions of such a man as George, and he, poor\nfellow, driven one day to the verge of despair, the next intoxicated\nwith the crumbs she threw him, was the victim of a species of slavery\nwhich was fast undermining his buoyant and generous disposition. The\ncolonel was in hot pursuit of his adored Helen. Two words sufficed to\nacquaint me that George was escaping from his beautiful tormentor. At\nall events, I was sure of him.\n\n\"How charming the country is! What a delightful sense of freedom!\"\nGeorge drew a deep breath, and stretched his limbs luxuriously. \"Shall\nwe have an old-fashioned tramp together?\" He continued, with assumed\nvivacity, \"The deuce take me if I go back to town for a twelve-month.\nHow we creep along! I feel exultation in putting the long miles between\nme and the accursed city,\" said George, at last.\n\n\"You experience no regret, then, at leaving the city?\"\n\nGeorge merely looked at me; but he could not have spoken more eloquently.\n\nThe train had just left Portsmouth, when the conductor entered the car\nholding aloft a yellow envelope. Every eye was instantly riveted upon\nit. Conversation ceased. For whom of the fifty or sixty occupants of\nthe car had this flash overtaken the express train? In that moment the\ncriminal realized the futility of flight, the merchant the uncertainty\nof his investments, the man of leisure all the ordinary contingencies of\nlife. The conductor put an end to the suspense by demanding,\n\n\"Is Mr. George Brentwood in this car?\"\n\nIn spite of an heroic effort at self-control, George's hand trembled as\nhe tore open the envelope; but as he read his face became radiant. Had\nhe been alone I believe he would have kissed the paper.\n\n\"Your news is not bad?\" I ventured to ask, seeing him relapse into a\nfit of musing, and noting the smile that came and went like a ripple on\nstill water.\n\n\"Thank you, quite the contrary; but it is important that I should\nimmediately return to Boston.\"\n\n\"How unfortunate!\"\n\nGeorge turned on me a fixed and questioning look, but made no reply.\n\n\"And the mountains?\" I persisted.\n\n\"Oh, sink the mountains!\"\n\nI last saw George striding impatiently up and down the platform of the\nRochester station, watch in hand. Without doubt he had received his\nrecall. However, there was still the lovelorn colonel.\n\nNever have I seen a man more thoroughly enraptured with the growing\nbeauty of the scenery. I promised myself much enjoyment in his society,\nfor his comments were both original and picturesque; so that by the time\nwe arrived at Wolfborough I had already forgotten George and his widow.\n\nThere was the usual throng of idlers lounging about the pier with\ntheir noses in the air, and their hands in their pockets; perhaps more\nthan the usual confusion, for the steamer merely touched to take and\nleave passengers. We went on board. As the bell tolled the colonel\nuttered an exclamation. He became all on a sudden transformed from a\npassive spectator into an excited and prominent actor in the scene.\nHe gesticulated wildly, swung his hat, and shouted in a frantic way,\napparently to attract the attention of some one in the crowd; failing in\nwhich he seized his luggage, took the stairs in two steps, and darting\nlike a rocket among the astonished spectators, who divided to the right\nand left before his impetuous onset, was in the act of vigorously\nshaking hands with a hale old gentleman of fifty odd when the boat swung\nclear. He waved his unoccupied hand, and I saw his face wreathed in\nsmiles. I could not fail to interpret the gesture as an adieu.\n\n\"Halloo!\" I shouted, \"what of the mountains?\"\n\n\"Burn the mountains!\" was his reply. The steamer glided swiftly down the\nlittle bay, and I was left to continue my journey alone.\n\n\n\n\nII.\n\n_INCOMPARABLE WINNIPISEOGEE._\n\n                       First a lake\n    Tinted with sunset, next the wavy lines\n    Of far receding hills.--WHITTIER.\n\n\nWhen the steamer glides out of the land-locked inlet at the bottom\nof which Wolfborough is situated, one of those pictures, forever\nineffaceable, presents itself. In effect, all the conditions of a\npicture are realized. Here is the shining expanse of the lake stretching\naway in the distance, and finally lost among tufted inlets and\nfoliage-rounded promontories. To the right are the Ossipee mountains,\ndark, vigorously outlined, and wooded to their summits. To the left,\nmore distant, rise the twin domes of the Belknap peaks. In front, and\nclosing the view, the imposing Sandwich summits dominate the scene.\n\nAll these mountains seem advancing into the lake. They possess a\nspecial character of color, outline, or physiognomy which fixes them\nin the memory, not confusedly, but in the place appropriate to this\nbeautiful picture, to its fine proportions, exquisite harmony, and\ngeneral effectiveness. Even M. Chateaubriand, who maintains that\nmountains should only be seen from a distance--even he would have found\nin Winnipiseogee the perfection of his ideal _mise en sc\u00e8ne_; for here\nthey stand well back from the lake, so as to give the best effect of\nperspective.\n\nLovely as the lake is, the eye will rove among the mountains that we\nhave come to see. They, and they alone, are the objects which have\nenticed us--entice us even now with a charm and mystery that we cannot\npretend to explain. We do not wish it explained. We know that we are\nas free, as light of heart, as the birds that skim the placid surface\nof the lake, and coquet with their own shadows. The memory of those\nmountains is like snatches of music that come unbidden and haunt you\nperpetually.\n\nHaving taken in the grander features, the eye is occupied with its\ndetails. We see the lake quivering in sunshine. From bold summit to\nbeautiful water the shores are clothed in most vivid green. The islands,\nwhich we believe to be floating gardens, are almost tropical in the\nluxuriance and richness of their vegetation. The deep shadows they fling\ndown image each islet so faithfully that it seems, like Narcissus,\ngloating over its own beauty. Here and there a glimmer of water through\nthe trees denotes secluded little havens. Boats float idly on the calm\nsurface. Water-fowl rise and beat the glossy, dark water with startled\nwings. White tents appear, and handkerchiefs flutter from jutting points\nor headlands. Over all tower the mountains.\n\nThe steamer glided swiftly and noiselessly on, attended by the echo\nof her paddles from the shores. Dimpled waves, parting from her prow,\nrolled indolently in, and broke on the foam-fretted rocks. There was a\nwarmth of color about these rocks, a pure transparency to the water, a\nbrightness to the foliage, an invigorating strength in the mountains\nthat exerted a cheerful influence upon our spirits.\n\nAs we advanced up the lake new and rare vistas rapidly succeeded.\nAfter leaving Long Island behind, the near ranges drew apart, holding\nus admiring and absorbed spectators of a moving panorama of distant\nsummits. An opening appeared, through which Mount Washington burst upon\nus blue as lapis-lazuli, a chaplet of clouds crowning his imperial\nfront. Slowly, majestically, he marches by, and now Chocorua scowls upon\nus. A murmur of admiration ran from group to group as these monumental\nfigures were successively unveiled. Men kept silence, but women could\nnot repress the exclamation, \"How beautiful!\" The two grandest types\nwhich these mountains enclose were thus displayed in the full splendor\nof noonday.\n\nI should add that those who now saw Mount Washington for the first\ntime, and whose curiosity was whetted by the knowledge that it was the\nhighest peak of the whole family of mountains, openly manifested their\ndisappointment. That Mount Washington! It was in vain to remind them\nthat the eye traversed forty miles in its flight from lake to summit.\nFault of perspective or not, the mountain was not nearly so high as\nthey imagined. Chocorua, on the contrary, with its ashen spire and\nolive-green flanks, realized more fully their idea of a high mountain.\nOne was near, the other far. Imagination fails to make a mountain higher\nthan it looks. The mind takes its measure after the eye.\n\nOur boat was now rapidly nearing Centre Harbor. On the right its\nprogress gradually unmasking the western slopes of the Ossipee range,\nmore fully opened the view of Chocorua and his dependent peaks. We\nwere looking in the direction of Tamworth. Ossipee, and Conway. Red\nHill, a detached mountain at the head of the lake, now moved into the\ngap, excluding further views of distant summits. Moosehillock, lofty\nbut unimpressive, has for some time showed its flattened heights over\nthe Sandwich Mountains, but is now sinking behind them. To the west,\nthronged with islands, is the long reach of water toward the outlet of\nthe lake at Weirs.[1]\n\nThis lake was the highway over which Indian war-parties advanced or\nretreated during their predatory incursions from Canada. Many captives\nmust have crossed it whom its mountain walls seemed forever destined to\nseparate from friends and kindred. The Indians who inhabited villages at\nWinnipiseogee (Weirs), Ossipee, and Pigwacket (Fryeburg), were hostile;\nand from time to time during the old wars troops were marched from\nthe English settlements to subdue them. These scouting-parties found\nthe woods well stocked with bear, moose, and deer, and the lake with\nsalmon-trout, some of which, according to the narrative before me, were\nthree feet long, and weighed twelve pounds each.\n\nTraces of Indian occupation remained up to the present century.\nFishing-weirs and woodland paths were frequently discovered by the\nwhites; but a greater curiosity than either is mentioned by Dr. Belknap,\nin his \"History of New Hampshire,\" who there tells of a pine-tree,\nstanding on the shore of Winnipiseogee River, on which was carved a\ncanoe with two men in it, supposed to have been a mark of direction to\nthose who were expected to follow. Another was a tree in Moultonborough,\nstanding near a carrying-place between two ponds. On this tree was a\nrepresentation of one of their expeditions. The number of killed and\nthe prisoners were shown by rude drawings of human beings, the former\nbeing distinguished by the mark of a knife across the throat. Even the\ndistinction of sex was preserved in the drawing.\n\nCentre Harbor is advantageously situated for a sojourn more or less\nprolonged. Although settled as early as 1755, it is, in common with the\nother lake towns, barren of history or tradition. Its greatest impulse\nis, beyond question, the tide of tourists which annually ebbs and flows\namong the most sequestered nooks, enriching this charming region like an\ninundation of the Nile. An anecdote will, however, serve to illustrate\nthe character of the men who first subdued this wilderness. Our anecdote\nrepresents its hero a man of resources. His career proves him a man of\ncourage. Although a veritable personage, let us call him General Hampton.\n\nThe fact that General Hampton lived in that only half-cleared atmosphere\nfollowing the age of credulity and superstition, naturally accounts\nfor the extraordinary legend concerning him which, for the rest, had\nits origin among his own friends and neighbors, who merely shared the\ngeneral belief in the practice of diabolic arts, through compacts with\nthe arch-enemy of mankind himself, universally prevailing in that\nday--yes, prevailing all over Christendom. By a mere legend, we are thus\nable to lay hold of the thread which conducts us back through the dark\nera of superstition and delusion, and which is now so amazing.\n\nThe general, says the legend, encountered a far more notable adversary\nthan Abenaki warriors or conjurers, among whom he had lived, and whom it\nwas the passion of his life to exterminate.\n\nIn an evil hour his yearning to amass wealth suddenly led him to declare\nthat he would sell his soul for the possession of unbounded riches.\nThink of the devil, and he is at your elbow. The fatal declaration was\nno sooner made--the general was sitting alone by his fireside--than\na shower of sparks came down the chimney, out of which stepped a man\ndressed from top to toe in black velvet. The astonished Hampton noticed\nthat the stranger's ruffles were not even smutted.\n\n\"Your servant, general,\" quoth the stranger, suavely, \"but let us make\nhaste, if you please, for I am expected at the governor's in a quarter\nof an hour,\" he added, picking up a live coal with his thumb and\nforefinger and consulting his watch with it.\n\nThe general's wits began to desert him. Portsmouth was five leagues,\nlong ones at that, from Hampton House, and his strange visitor talked,\nwith the utmost unconcern, of getting there in fifteen minutes. His\nastonishment caused him to stammer out,\n\n\"Then you must be the--\"\n\n\"Tush! what signifies a name?\" interrupted the stranger, with a\ndeprecating wave of the hand. \"Come, do we understand each other? is it\na bargain or not?\"\n\nAt the talismanic word \"bargain\" the general pricked up his ears. He had\noften been heard to say that neither man nor devil could get the better\nof him in a trade. He took out his jack-knife and began to whittle. The\ndevil took out his, and began to pare his nails.\n\n\"But what proof have I that you can perform what you promise?\" demanded\nHampton, pursing up his mouth, and contracting his bushy eyebrows.\n\nThe fiend ran his fingers carelessly through his peruke; a shower of\ngolden guineas fell to the floor, and rolled to the four corners of the\nroom. The general quickly stooped to pick up one; but no sooner had his\nfingers closed upon it than he uttered a yell. It was red-hot.\n\nThe devil chuckled. \"Try again,\" he said.\n\nBut Hampton shook his head, and retreated a step.\n\n\"Don't be afraid.\"\n\nHampton cautiously touched a coin. It was cool. He weighed it in his\nhand, and rung it on the table. It was full weight and true ring. Then\nhe went down on his hands and knees, and began to gather up the guineas\nwith feverish haste.\n\n\"Are you satisfied?\" demanded Satan.\n\n\"Completely, your majesty.\"\n\n\"Then to business. By-the-way, have you anything to drink in the house?\"\n\n\"There is some Old Jamaica in the cupboard.\"\n\n\"Excellent. I am as thirsty as a Puritan on election-day,\" said the\ndevil, seating himself at the table and negligently flinging his mantle\nback over his shoulder.\n\nHampton brought a decanter and a couple of glasses from the cupboard,\nfilled one and passed it to his infernal guest, who tasted it, and\nsmacked his lips with the air of a connoisseur. Hampton watched every\ngesture. \"Does your excellency not find it to his taste?\" he ventured to\nask.\n\n\"H'm, I have drunk worse; but let me show you how to make a salamander,\"\nreplied Satan, touching the lighted end of the taper to the liquor,\nwhich instantly burst into a spectral blue flame. The fiend then\nraised the tankard, glanced approvingly at the blaze--which to\nHampton's disordered intellect resembled an adder's forked and agile\ntongue--nodded, and said, patronizingly, \"To our better acquaintance.\"\nHe then quaffed the contents at a single gulp.\n\nHampton shuddered. This was not the way he had been used to seeing\nhealths drunk. He pretended, however, to drink, for fear of giving\noffence, but somehow the liquor choked him. The demon set down the\ntankard, and observed, in a matter-of-fact way that put his listener in\na cold sweat,\n\n\"Now that you are convinced I am able to make you the richest man in all\nthe province, listen. In consideration of your agreement, duly signed\nand sealed, to deliver your soul\"--here he drew a parchment from his\nbreast--\"I engage, on my part, on the first day of every month, to fill\nyour boots with golden elephants like these before you. But mark me\nwell,\" said Satan, holding up a forefinger glittering with diamonds; \"if\nyou try to play me any trick you will repent it. I know you, Jonathan\nHampton, and shall keep my eye upon you. So beware!\"\n\nHampton flinched a little at this plain speech; but a thought seemed to\nstrike him, and he brightened up. Satan opened the scroll, smoothed out\nthe creases, dipped a pen in the inkhorn at his girdle, and pointing to\na blank space said, laconically, \"Sign!\"\n\nHampton hesitated.\n\n\"If you are afraid,\" sneered Satan, \"why put me to all this trouble?\"\nAnd he began to put the gold in his pocket.\n\nHis victim seized the pen, but his hand shook so he could not write. He\ngulped down a swallow of rum, stole a look at his infernal guest, who\nnodded his head by way of encouragement, and a second time approached\nhis pen to the paper. The struggle was soon over. The unhappy Hampton\nwrote his name at the bottom of the fatal list, which he was astonished\nto see numbered some of the highest personages in the province. \"I shall\nat least be in good company,\" he muttered.\n\n\"Good!\" said Satan, rising and putting the scroll carefully within his\nbreast. \"Rely on me, general, and be sure you keep faith. Remember!\"\nSo saying, the demon waved his hand, wrapped his mantle about him, and\nvanished up the chimney.\n\nSatan performed his part of the contract to the letter. On the first day\nof every month the boots, which were hung on the crane in the fireplace\nthe night before, were found in the morning stuffed full of guineas. It\nis true that Hampton had ransacked the village for the largest pair to\nbe found, and had finally secured a brace of trooper's boots, which came\nup to the wearer's thigh; but the contract merely expressed boots, and\nthe devil does not stand upon trifles.\n\nHampton rolled in wealth. Everything prospered. His neighbors regarded\nhim first with envy, then with aversion, at last with fear. Not a few\naffirmed he had entered into a league with the Evil One. Others shook\ntheir heads, saying, \"What does it signify? that man would outwit the\ndevil himself.\"\n\nBut one morning, when the fiend came as usual to fill the boots, what\nwas his astonishment to find that he could not fill them. He poured in\nthe guineas, but it was like pouring water into a rat-hole. The more he\nput in, the more the quantity seemed to diminish. In vain he persisted:\nthe boots could not be filled.\n\nThe devil scratched his ear. \"I must look into this,\" he reflected.\nNo sooner said than he attempted to descend, but found his progress\nsuddenly arrested. The chimney was choked up with guineas. Foaming with\nrage, the demon tore the boots from the crane. The crafty general had\ncut off the soles, leaving only the legs for the devil to fill. The\nchamber was knee-deep with gold.\n\nThe devil gave a horrible grin, and disappeared. The same night Hampton\nHouse was burnt to the ground, the general only escaping in his shirt.\nHe had been dreaming he was dead and in hell. His precious guineas were\nsecreted in the wainscot, the ceiling, and other hiding-places known\nonly to himself. He blasphemed, wept, and tore his hair. Suddenly he\ngrew calm. After all, the loss was not irreparable, he reflected. Gold\nwould melt, it is true; but he would find it all, of course he would,\nat daybreak, run into a solid lump in the cellar--every guinea. That is\ntrue of ordinary gold.\n\nThe general worked with the energy of despair clearing away the rubbish.\nHe refused all offers of assistance: he dared not accept them. But the\ngold had vanished. Whether it was really consumed, or had passed again\ninto the massy entrails of the earth, will never be known. It is certain\nthat every vestige of it had disappeared.\n\nWhen the general died and was buried, strange rumors began to circulate.\nTo quiet them, the grave was opened; but when the lid was removed from\nthe coffin, it was found to be empty.\n\nHaving reached Centre Harbor at two in the afternoon, there was still\ntime to ascend Red Hill before sunset. This eminence would be called\na mountain anywhere else. Its altitude is inconsiderable, but its\nsituation at the head of the lake, on its very borders, is highly\nfavorable to a commanding prospect of the surrounding lake region.\nThere are two summits, the northern and highest being only a little\nmore than two thousand feet.\n\n[Illustration: WINNIPISEOGEE FROM RED HILL.]\n\nFor such an excursion little preparation is necessary. In fact a\ncarriage-road ascends within a mile of the superior summit; and from\nthis point the path is one of the easiest I have ever traversed. The\nvalue of a pure atmosphere is so well understood by every mountain\ntourist that he will neglect no opportunity which this thrice-fickle\nelement offers him. This was a day of days.\n\nAfter a little promenade of two hours, or two hours and a half, I\nreached the cairn on the summit, from which a tattered signal flag\nfluttered in the breeze. Without extravagance, the view is one of the\nmost engaging that the eye ever looked upon. I had before me that\nbeautiful valley extending between the Sandwich chain on the left and\nthe Ossipee range on the right, the distance filled by a background of\nmountains. It was across this valley that we saw Mount Washington, while\ncoming up the lake. But that noble peak was now hid.\n\nThe first chain trending to the west threw one gigantic arm around the\nbeautiful little Squam Lake, which like a magnificent gem sparkled at my\nfeet. The second stretched its huge rampart along the eastern shores of\nWinnipiseogee.\n\nThe surface of this valley is tumbled about in most charming disorder.\nThree villages crowned as many eminences in the foreground; three little\nlakes, half hid in the middle distance, blue as turquoise, lighted the\nfading hues of field and forest. Hamlets and farms, groves and forests\ninnumerable, were scattered broadcast over this inviting landscape. The\nharvests were gathered, and the mellowed tints of green, orange, and\ngold resembled rich old tapestry. Men and animals looked like insects\ncreeping along the roads.\n\nFrom this point of view the Sandwich Mountains took far greater interest\nand character, and I remarked that no two summits were precisely alike\nin form or outline. Higher and more distant peaks peered curiously\nover their brawny shoulders from their lairs in the valley of the\nPemigewasset; but more remarkable, more weird than all, was the gigantic\nmonolith which tops the rock-ribbed pile of Chocorua. The more I looked,\nthe more this monstrous freak of nature fascinated. As the sun glided\ndown the west, a ruddy glow tinged its pinnacle; while the shadows\nlurking in the ravines stole up the mountain side and crouched for a\nfinal spring upon the summit. Little by little, twilight flowed over the\nvalley, and a thin haze rose from its surface.\n\nI had waited for this moment, and now turned to the lakes. Winnipiseogee\nwas visible throughout its whole length, the multitude of islands\npeeping above it giving the idea of an inundation rather than an inland\nsea. On the farthest shores mere specks of white denoted houses; and\ntraced in faint relief on the southern sky, so unsubstantial, indeed,\nas to render it doubtful if it were sky or mountain, was the Grand\nMonadnock, the fixed sentinel of all this august assemblage of mountains.\n\nGlowing in sunset splendor, streaked with all the hues of the rainbow,\nthe lake was indeed magnificent.\n\nIn vain the eve roved hither and thither seeking some foil to this\npeerless beauty. Everywhere the same unrivalled picture led it captive\nover thirty miles of gleaming water, up the graceful curves of the\nmountains, to rest at last among crimson clouds floating in rosy vapor\nover their notched summits.\n\nImagination must assist the reader to reproduce this ravishing\nspectacle. To attempt to describe it is like a profanation. Paradise\nseemed to have opened wide its gates to my enraptured gaze; or had\nI surprised the secrets of the unknown world? I stood silent and\nspellbound, with a strange, exquisite feeling at the heart. I felt a\nthrill of pain when a voice from the forest broke the solemn stillness\nwhich alone befitted this almost supernatural vision. Now I understood\nthe pagan's adoration of the sun. My mind ran over the most striking or\ntouching incidents of Scripture, where the sublimity of the scene is\nalways in harmony with the grandeur of the event--the Temptation, the\nSermon on the Mount, the Transfiguration--and memory brought to my aid\nthese words, so simple, so tender, yet so expressive, \"And he went up\ninto the mountain to pray, himself, alone.\"\n\n\n\n\nIII.\n\n_CHOCORUA._\n\n    \"There I saw above me mountains,\n    And I asked of them what century\n    Met them in their youth.\"\n\n\nAfter a stay at Centre Harbor long enough to gain a knowledge of its\ncharming environs, but which seemed all too brief, I took the stage at\ntwo o'clock one sunny afternoon for Tamworth. I had resolved, if the\nfollowing morning should be clear, to ascend Chocorua, which from the\nsummit of Red Hill seemed to fling his defiance from afar.\n\nFollowing my custom, I took an outside seat with the driver. There being\nonly three or four passengers, what is frequently a bone of contention\nwas settled without that display of impudent selfishness which is seen\nwhen a dozen or more travellers are all struggling for precedence. But\nat the steamboat landing the case was different. I remained a quiet\nlooker-on of the scene that ensued. It was sufficiently ridiculous.\n\nAt the moment the steamboat touched her pier the passengers prepared to\nspring to the shore, and force had to be used to keep them back until\nshe could be secured. An instant after the crowd rushed pell-mell up\nthe wharf, surrounded the stage, and began, women as well as men, a\npromiscuous scramble for the two or three unoccupied seats at the top.\n\nTwo men and one woman succeeded in obtaining the prizes. The woman\ninterested me by the intense triumph that sparkled in her black eyes\nand glowed on her cheeks at having distanced several competitors of her\nown sex, to say nothing of the men. She beamed! As I made room for her,\nshe said, with a toss of the head, \"I guess I haven't been through Lake\nGeorge for nothing.\"\n\nCrack! We were jolting along the road, around the base of Red Hill, the\nhorses stepping briskly out at the driver's chirrup, the coach pitching\nand lurching like a gondola in a sea. What a sense of exhilaration,\nof lightness! The air so pure and elastic, the odor of the pines so\nfragrant, so invigorating, which we breathe with all the avidity of\na convalescent who for the first time crosses the threshold of his\nchamber. Each moment I felt my body growing lighter. A delicious\nsense of self-ownership breaks the chain binding us to the toiling,\nstruggling, worrying life we have left behind. We carry our world with\nus. Life begins anew, or rather it has only just begun.\n\nThe view of the ranges which on either side elevate two immense walls of\ngreen is kept for nearly the whole distance. As we climb the hill into\nSandwich, Mount Israel is the prominent object; then brawny Whiteface,\nPassaconnaway's pyramid, Chocorua's mutilated spire advance, in their\nturn, into line. Sometimes we were in a thick forest, sometimes on a\nbroad, sunny glade; now threading our way through groves of pitch-pine,\nnow winding along the banks of the Bear-Camp River.\n\nThe views of the mountains, as the afternoon wore away, grew more\nand more interesting. The ravines darkened, the summits brightened.\nCloud-shadows chased each other up and down the steeps, or, flitting\nslowly across the valley, spread thick mantles of black that seemed to\ndeaden the sound of our wheels as we passed over them. On one side all\nwas light, on the other all gloom. But the landscape is not all that may\nbe seen to advantage from the top of a stage-coach.\n\nFrom time to time, as something provoked an exclamation of surprise or\npleasure, certain of the inside occupants manifested open discontent.\nThey were losing something where they had expected to see everything.\n\nWhile the horses were being changed, one of the insides, I need not say\nit was a woman, thrust her head out of the window, and addressed the\nyoung person perched like a bird upon the highest seat. Her voice was\nsoft and persuasive:\n\n\"Miss!\"\n\n\"Madam!\"\n\n\"I'm so afraid you find it too cold up there. Sha'n't I change places\nwith you?\"\n\nThe little one gave her voice a droll inflection as she briskly replied,\n\"Oh dear no, thank you; I'm very comfortable indeed.\"\n\n\"But,\" urged the other, \"you don't look strong; indeed, dear, you don't.\nAren't you very, very tired, sitting so long without any support to your\nback?\"\n\n\"Thanks, no; my spine is the strongest part of me.\"\n\n\"But,\" still persisted the inside, changing her voice to a loud whisper,\n\"to be sitting alone with all those men!\"\n\n[Illustration: \"ALONE WITH ALL THOSE MEN!\"]\n\n\"They mind their business, and I mind mine,\" said the little one,\nreddening; \"besides,\" she quickly added, \"you proposed changing places,\nI believe!\"\n\n\"Oh!\" returned the other, with an accent impossible to convey in words,\n\"if you like it.\"\n\n\"I tell you what, ma'am,\" snapped the one in possession, \"I've been all\nover Europe alone, and was never once insulted except by persons of my\nown sex.\"\n\nThis home-thrust ended the colloquy. The first speaker quickly drew in\nher head, and I remarked a general twitching of muscles on the faces\naround me. The driver shook his head in silent glee. The little woman's\neyes emitted sparks.\n\nFrom West Ossipee I drove over to Tamworth Iron Works, where I passed\nthe night, and where I had, so to speak, Chocorua under my thumb.\n\nThis mountain being the most proper for a legend, it accordingly has\none. Here it is in all its purity:\n\nAfter the terrible battle in which the Sokokis were nearly destroyed,\na remnant of the tribe, with their chief, Chocorua, fled into the\nfastnesses of these mountains, where the foot of a white man had never\nintruded. Here they trapped the beaver, speared the salmon, and hunted\nthe moose.\n\nThe survivors of Lovewell's band brought the first news of their\ndisaster to the settlements. More like spectres than living men, their\nhaggard looks, bloodshot eyes, and shaking limbs, their clothing hanging\nabout them in shreds, announced the hardships of that long and terrible\nmarch but too plainly.\n\nAmong those who had set out with the expedition were three brothers--one\na mere stripling, the others famous hunters. The eldest of the three,\nhaving fallen lame on the second day, was left behind. His brethren\nwould have conducted him back to the nearest village, but he promptly\nrefused their proffered aid, saying,\n\n\"'Tis enough to lose one man; three are too many. Go; do my part as well\nas your own.\"\n\nThe two had gone but a few steps when the disabled ranger called the\nsecond brother back.\n\n\"Tom,\" said the elder, \"take care of our brother.\"\n\n\"Surely,\" replied the other, in some surprise. \"Surely,\" he repeated.\n\n\"I charge you,\" continued the first speaker, \"watch over the boy as I\nwould myself.\"\n\n\"Never fear, Lance; whatever befalls Hugh happens to me.\"\n\n\"Not so,\" said the other, with energy; \"you must die for him, if need\nbe.\"\n\n\"They shall chop me as fine as sausage-meat before a hair of the lad's\nhead is harmed.\"\n\n\"God bless you, Tom!\" The brothers then embraced and separated.\n\n\"What was our brother saying to you?\" demanded the younger, when Tom\nrejoined him.\n\n\"He begged me, seeing he could not go with us, to shoot two or three\nredskins for him; and I promised.\" The two then quickened their pace in\norder to overtake their comrades.\n\nAmong those who succeeded in regaining the settlements was a man who had\nbeen wounded in twenty places. He was at once a ghastly and a pitiful\nobject. Faint with hunger, fatigue, and loss of blood, he reeled, fell,\nslowly rose to his feet, and sunk lifeless at the entrance to the\nvillage. This time he did not rise again.\n\nA crowd ran up. When they had wiped the blood and dirt from the dead\nman's face, a by-stander threw himself upon the body with the cry, \"My\nGod, it is Tom!\"\n\nThe following day the surviving brother joined a strong party despatched\nby the colonial authorities to the scene of Lovewell's encounter, where\nthey arrived after a forced march. Here, among the trampled thickets,\nthey found the festering corpses of the slain. Among them was Hugh, the\nyounger brother. He was riddled with bullets and shockingly mangled.\nUp to this moment, Lance had hoped against hope; now the dread reality\nstared him in the face. The stout ranger grew white, his fingers\nconvulsively clutched the barrel of his gun, and something like a curse\nescaped through his clinched teeth; then, kneeling beside the body, he\nburied his face in his hands. Hugh's blood cried aloud for vengeance.\n\nThorough but unavailing search was made for the savages. They had\ndisappeared, after applying the torch to their village. Silently and\nsadly the rangers performed the last service for their fallen comrades,\nand then, turning their backs upon the mountains, commenced their march\nhomeward.\n\nThe next day the absence of Lance was remarked; but, as he was their\nbest hunter, the rangers made no doubt he would rejoin them at the next\nhalt.\n\nChocorua was not ignorant that the English were near. Like the vulture,\nhe scented danger from afar. From the summit of the mountain he had\nwatched the smoke of the hostile camp-fires stealing above the forest.\nThe remainder of the tribe had buried themselves still deeper in the\nwilderness. They were too few for attack, too weak for defence.\n\nOne morning the chief ascended the pinnacle, and swept the horizon\nwith his piercing eye. Far in the south a faint smoke told where the\nfoe had pitched his last encampment. Chocorua's dark eye lighted with\nexultation. The accursed pale-faces were gone.\n\nHe turned to descend the mountain, but had not taken ten steps when a\nwhite hunter, armed to the teeth, started from behind the crags and\nbarred his passage. The chief recoiled, but not with fear, as the muzzle\nof his adversary's weapon touched his naked breast. The white man's\neyes shone with deadly purpose, as he forced the chieftain, step by\nstep, back to the highest point of the mountain. Chocorua could not pass\nexcept over the hunter's dead body.\n\nGlaring into each other's eyes with mortal hate, the two men reached the\nsummit.\n\n\"Chocorua will go no farther,\" said the chief, haughtily.\n\nThe white man trembled with excitement. For a moment he could not speak.\nThen, in a voice husky with suppressed emotion, he exclaimed,\n\n\"Die, then, like a dog, thou destroyer of my family, thou incarnate\ndevil! The white man has been in Chocorua's wigwam; has counted their\nscalps--father, mother, sister, brother. He has tracked him to the\nmountain-top. Now, demon or devil, Chocorua dies by my hand.\"\n\nThe chief saw no escape. He comprehended that his last moment was come.\nAs if all the savage heroism of his race had come to his aid, he drew\nhimself up to his full height, and stood erect and motionless as a\nstatue of bronze upon the enormous pedestal of the mountain. His dark\neye blazed, his nostrils dilated, the muscles of his bronzed forehead\nstood out like whip-cord. The black eagle's feather in his scalplock\nfluttered proudly in the cool morning breeze. He stood thus for a moment\nlooking death sternly in the face, then, raising his bared arm with a\ngesture of superb disdain, he spoke with energy:\n\n\"Chocorua is unarmed; Chocorua will die. His heart is big and strong\nwith the blood of the accursed pale-face. He laughs at death. He spits\nin the white man's face. Go; tell your warriors Chocorua died like a\nchief!\"\n\nWith this defiance on his lips the chief sprung from the brink into\nthe unfathomable abyss below. An appalling crash was followed by\na death-like silence. As soon as he recovered from his stupor the\nhunter ran to the verge of the precipice and looked over. A horrible\nfascination held him an instant. Then, shouldering his gun, he retraced\nhis steps down the mountain, and the next day rejoined his comrades.\n\n[Illustration: PASSACONNAWAY FROM THE BEAR-CAMP RIVER.]\n\nThe general and front views of the Sandwich group, which may be had in\nperfection from the hill behind the Chocorua House, or from the opposite\nelevation, are very striking, embracing as they do the principal summits\nfrom Chocorua to the heavy mass of Black Mountain. There are more\ndistinct traits, perhaps, embodied in this range than in any other among\nthe White Hills, except that incomparable band of peaks constituting the\nnorthern half of the great chain itself. There seems, too, a special\nfitness in designating these mountains by their Indian titles--Chocorua,\nPaugus, Passaconnaway, Wonnalancet--a group of great sagamores, wild,\ngrand, picturesque.[2]\n\nThe highway now skirted the margin of Chocorua Lake, a lovely little\nsheet of water voluptuously reposing at the foot of its overshadowing\nmountain. I cannot call Chocorua beautiful, yet of all the White\nMountain peaks is it the most individual, the most aggressively\nsuggestive. But the lake, fast locked in the embrace of encircling\nhills, bathed in all the affluence of the blessed sunlight, its bosom\ndecorated with white lilies, its shores glassed in water which looks\nlike a sheet of satin--ah, this was beautiful indeed! Its charming\nseclusion, its rare combination of laughing water and impassive old\nmountains; above all, the striking contrast between its chaste beauty\nand the huge-ribbed thing rising above, awakens a variety of sensations.\nIt is passing strange. The mountain attracts, and at the same time\nrepels you. Two sentiments struggle here for mastery--open admiration,\nenergetic repulsion. For the first time, perhaps, in his life, the\nbeholder feels an antipathy for a creation of inanimate nature. Chocorua\nsuggests some fabled prodigy of the old mythology--a headless Centaur,\nsprung from the foul womb of earth. The lake seems another Andromeda\nexposed to a monster.\n\nA beautiful Indian legend ran to the effect that the stillness of the\nlake was sacred to the Great Spirit, and that if a human voice was heard\nupon its waters the offender's canoe would instantly sink to the bottom.\n\nChocorua, as seen from Tamworth, shows a long, undulating ridge of white\nrising over one of green, both extending toward the east, and opening\nbetween a deep ravine, through which a path ascends to the summit. But\nthis way affords no view until the summit is close at hand. Beyond the\nhump-backed ridge of Chocorua the tip of the southern peak of Moat\nMountain peers over, like a mountain standing on tiptoe.\n\nThe mountain, with its formidable outworks, is constantly in view until\nthe highway is left for a wood-road winding around its base into an\ninterval where there is a farm-house. Here the road ends and the ascent\nbegins.\n\nTaking a guide here, who was strong, nimble, and sure-footed, but who\nproved to be lamentably ignorant of the topography of the country, we\nwere in a few moments rapidly threading the path up the mountain. It\nought to be said here that, with rare exceptions, the men who serve you\nin these ascensions should be regarded rather as porters than as guides.\n\nIn about an hour we reached the summit of the first mountain; for there\nare four subordinate ridges to cross before you stand under the single\nblock of granite forming the pinnacle.\n\n[Illustration: CHOCORUA.]\n\nWhen reconnoitring this pinnacle through your glass, at a distance of\nfive miles, you will say to scale it would be difficult; when you have\nclimbed close underneath you will say it is impossible. After surveying\nit from the bare ledges of Bald Mountain, where we stood letting the\ncool breeze blow upon us, I asked my guide where we could ascend. He\npointed out a long crack, or crevice, toward the left, in which a few\nbushes were growing. It is narrow, almost perpendicular, and seemingly\nimpracticable. I could not help exclaiming, \"What, up there! nothing but\nbirds of the air can mount that sheer wall!\" It is, however, there or\nnowhere you must ascend.\n\nThe whole upper zone of the mountain seems smitten with palsy. Except\nin the ravines between the inferior summits, nothing grew, nothing\nrelieved the wide-spread desolation. Beyond us rose the enormous conical\ncrag, scarred and riven by lightning, which gives to Chocorua its highly\ndistinctive character. It is no longer ashen, but black with lichens.\nThere was little of symmetry, nothing of grace; only the grandeur of\npower. You might as well pelt it with snow-balls as batter it with the\nmightiest artillery. For ages it has brushed the tempest aside, has seen\nthe thunder-bolt shivered against its imperial battlements; for ages to\ncome it will continue to defy the utmost power that can assail it. And\nwhat enemies it has withstood, overthrown, or put to rout! Not far from\nthe base of the pinnacle evidence that the mountain was once densely\nwooded is on all sides. The rotted stumps of large trees still cling\nwith a death-grip to the ledges, the shrivelled trunks lie bleaching\nwhere they were hurled by the hurricane. Many years ago this region\nwas desolated by fire. In the night Old Chocorua, lighting his fiery\ntorch, stood in the midst of his own funeral pyre. The burning mountain\nilluminated the sky and put out the stars. A brilliant circle of light,\ntwenty miles in extent, surrounded the flaming peak like a halo; while\nunderneath an immense tongue of forked flame licked the sides of the\nsummit with devouring haste. The lakes, those bright jewels lying in the\nlap of the valleys, glowed like enormous carbuncles. Superstitious folk\nregarded the conflagration as a portent of war or pestilence. In the\nmorning a few charred trunks, standing erect, were all that remained of\nthe original forest. The rocks themselves bear witness to the intense\nheat which has either cracked them wide open, crumbled them in pieces,\nor divested them, like oysters, of their outer shell, all along the path\nof the conflagration.\n\nThe walk over the lower summits to the base of the peak occupied\nanother hour, and is a most profitable feature of the ascent. On each\nside a superb panorama of mountains and lakes, of towns, villages, and\nhamlets, is being slowly unrolled; while every forward step develops the\ninaccessible character of the high summit more and more.\n\nHaving strayed from the path to gather blueberries, my companion set me\nagain on the march by pointing out where a bear had been feeding not\nlong before. Yet, while assuring me that Bruin was perfectly harmless\nat this season, I did not fail to remark that my guide made the most\nrapid strides of the day after this discovery. While feeling our way\naround the base of the pinnacle, in order to gain the ravine by which\nit is attacked, the path suddenly stopped. At the right, projecting\nrocks, affording a hold for neither hand nor foot, rose like a wall;\nbefore us, joined to the perpendicular rock, an unbroken ledge of\nbare granite, smoothly polished by ice, swept down by a sharp incline\nhundreds of feet, and then broke off abruptly into profounder depths. To\nadvance upon this ledge, as steep as a roof, and where one false step\nwould inevitably send the climber rolling to the bottom of the ravine,\ndemands steady nerves. It invests the whole jaunt with just enough of\nthe perilous to excite the apprehensions, or provoke the enthusiasm of\nthe individual who stands there for the first time, looking askance at\nhis guide, and revolving the chances of crossing it in safety. While\ndebating with myself whether to take off my boots, or go down on my\nhands and knees and creep, the guide crossed this place with a steady\nstep; and, upon reaching the opposite side, grasped a fragment of rock\nwith one hand while extending his staff to me with the other. Rather\nthan accept his assistance, I passed over with an assurance I was far\nfrom feeling; but when we came down the mountain I walked across with\nfar more ease in my stockings.[3]\n\nWhen he saw me safely over, my conductor moved on, with the remark,\n\n\"A skittish place.\"\n\n\"Skittish,\" indeed! We proceeded to drag ourselves up the ravine by the\naid of bushes, or such protruding rocks as offered a hold. From the\nvalley below we must have looked like flies creeping up a wall. After a\nbreathless scramble, which put me in mind of the escalade of the Iron\nCastle of Porto Bello, where the English, having no scaling-ladders,\nmounted over each other's shoulders, we came to a sort of plateau, on\nwhich was a ruined hut. The view here is varied and extensive; but after\nregaining our breath we hastened to complete the ascent, in order to\nenjoy, in all its perfection, the prospect awaiting us on the summit.\n\nLike Goethe's Wilhelm Meister, it is among mountains that my knowledge\nof them has been obtained. I have little hesitation, then, in\npronouncing the view from Chocorua one of the noblest that can reward\nthe adventurous climber; for, notwithstanding it is not a high peak, and\ncannot, therefore, unfold the whole mountain system at a glance, it yet\naffords an unsurpassed view-point, from which one sees the surrounding\nmountains rising on all sides in all their majesty, and clothed in all\ntheir terrors.\n\nLet me try to explain why Chocorua is such a remarkable and eligible\npost of observation.\n\nOne comprehends perfectly that the last high building on the skirts of a\ncity embraces the largest unobstructed view of the surrounding country.\nThis mountain is placed at the extremity of a range that abuts upon\nthe lower Saco valley, and therefore overlooks all the hill-country\non the east and south-east as far as the sea-coast. The arc of this\ncircle of vision extends from the Camden Hills to Agamenticus, or from\nthe Penobscot to the Piscataqua. The day being one of a thousand, I\ndistinctly saw the ocean with the naked eye; not merely as a white\nblur on the horizon's edge, but actual blue water, over which smoke\nwas curling. This magnificent _coup-d'oeil_ embraces the scattered\nvillages of Conway, Fryeburg, Madison, Eaton, Ossipee, with their\nnumerous lakes and streams. I counted seventeen of the former flashing\nin the sun.\n\nIn the second place, Chocorua stands at the entrance to the valley\nopening between the Sandwich and Ossipee chains, and commands,\ntherefore, to the south-west, between these natural walls, the northern\nlimb of Winnipiseogee and of Squam, which are seen glittering on each\nside of Red Hill. In the foreground, at the foot of the mountain,\nChocorua Lake is beyond question the most enticing object in a landscape\nwonderfully lighted and enriched by its profusion of brilliant waters,\nwhich resemble so many highly burnished reflectors multiplying the rays\nof the sun. I was now looking back to my first station on Red Hill,\nonly the range of vision was much more extensive. It is unnecessary\nto recapitulate the names of the villages and summits seen in this\ndirection. Over the lakes, Winnipiseogee and Squam, the humid peaks of\nMount Belknap and of Mount Kearsarge, in Warner, last caught the eye.\nThese two sections of the landscape first meet the eye of the climber\nwhile advancing toward the peak, whose rugged head and brawny shoulders\nintercept the view to the north, only to be enjoyed when the mountain is\nfully conquered.\n\nUpon the cap-stone crowning the pinnacle, supporting myself by grasping\nthe signal-staff planted on the highest point of this rock, from which\nthe wind threatened to sweep us like chaff, I enjoyed the third and\nfinal act of this sublime tableau, in which the whole company of\nmountains is crowded upon the stage. Hundreds of dark and bristling\nshapes confronted us. Like a horde of barbarians, they seemed silently\nawaiting the signal to march upon the lowlands. As the wind swept\nthrough their ranks, an impatient murmur rose from the midst. Each\nmountain shook its myriad spears, and gave its voice to swell the\nsublime chorus. At first all was confusion; then I began to seek out\nthe chiefs, whose rock-helmed heads, lifted high above their grisly\nbattalions, invested each with a distinction and a sovereignty which\nyielded nothing except to that imperial peak over which attendant clouds\nhovered or floated swiftly away, as if bearing a message to those\ndistant encampments pitched on the farthest verge of the horizon.\n\nAt my left hand extended all the summits, forming at their western\nextremity the valley of Mad River, and terminating in the immovable\nmass of Black Mountain. The peaks of Tripyramid, Tecumseh, and\nOsceola stretched along the northern course of this stream, and over\nthem gleamed afar the massive plateau-ridge of Moosehillock. From my\nstand-point the great wall of the Sandwich chain, which from Tamworth\npresents an unbroken front to the south, now divided into ridges running\nnorth and south, separated by profound ravines. Paugus crouched at my\nfeet; Passaconnaway elevated his fine crest next; Whiteface, his lowered\nand brilliant front; and then Black Mountain, the giant landmark of half\na score of towns and villages.\n\nDirectly at my feet, to the north-west, the great intervale of Swift\nRiver gleamed from the depths of this valley, like sunshine from\na storm-cloud. Following the course of this little oasis, the eye\nwandered over the inaccessible and untrodden peaks of the Pemigewasset\nwilderness, resting last on the blue ridge of the Franconia Mountains.\nAbout midway of this line one sees the bristling slopes of Mounts\nCarrigain and Hancock, and the Carrigain Notch, through which a hardy\npedestrian may pass from the Pemigewasset to the Saco by following\nthe course of the streams flowing out of it. Besides its solitary,\npicturesque grandeur, Carrigain has the distinction of being the\ngeographical centre of the White Mountain group. Taking its peak for an\naxis, a radius thirty miles long will describe a circle, including in\nits sweep nearly the whole mountain system. In this sense Carrigain is,\ntherefore, the hub of the White Mountains.\n\nHaving explored the horizon thus far, I now turned more to the north,\nwhere, by a fortunate chance, Chocorua dominates a portion of the chain\nintervening between itself and the Saco Valley. I was looking straight\nup this valley through the great White Mountain Notch. There was the\ndark spire of Mount Willey, and the scarred side of Webster. There was\nthe arched rock of Mount Willard, and over it the liquid profile of\nCherry Mountain. It was superb; it was idyllic. Such was the perfect\ntransparency of the air, that I clearly distinguished the red color of\nthe slides on Mount Webster without the aid of my glass.\n\nFrom this centre, outlined with a bold, free hand against the azure, the\nundulations of the great White Mountains ascended grandly to the dome\nof Mount Washington, and then plunged into the defiles of the Pinkham\nNotch. Following this line eastward, the eye traversed the mountains of\nJackson to the half-closed aperture of the Carter Notch, finally resting\non the pinnacle of Kearsarge. Without stirring a single step, we have\ntaken a journey of three hundred miles.\n\nDown in the valley the day was one of the sultriest; up here it was so\ncold that our teeth chattered. We were forced to descend into the hollow\nlying between the northerly foot of the peak and the first of the bald\nknobs constituting the great white ridge of the mountain. Here is a fine\nspring, and here, on either side of this singular rock-gallery, is a\nlandscape of rare beauty enclosed by its walls. Here, too, the mutilated\npyramid of the peak rises before you like an antique ruin. One finds,\nwithout effort, striking resemblances to winding galleries, bastions,\nand battlements. He could pass days and weeks here without a single wish\nto return to earth. Here we ate our luncheon, and perused the landscape\nat leisure. Before us stretched the long course of the Saco, from its\nsource in the Notch to where, with one grand sweep to the east, it takes\nleave of the mountains, flows awhile demurely through the lowlands, and\nin two or three infuriated plunges reaches the sea.\n\nI do not remember when I have more fully enjoyed the serene calm of a\nSabbath evening than while wandering among the fragrant and stately\npines that skirt the shores of Lake Chocorua. Indeed, except for the\noccasional sound of hoofs along the cool and shady road, or of voices\ncoming from the bosom of the lake itself, one might say a perpetual\nSabbath reigned here. Yonder tall, athletic pines, those palms of the\nnorth, through which the glimmer of water is seen, hum their monotonous\nlullaby to the drowsy lake. The mountains seem so many statues to\nSilence. There is no use for speech here. The mute and expressive\nlanguage of two lovers, accustomed to read each others' secret thoughts,\nis the divine medium. Truant breezes ruffle the foliage in playful\nwantonness, but the trees only shake their green heads and murmur \"Hush!\nhush!\" A consecration is upon the mere, a hallowed light within the\nwood. Here is the place to linger over the pages of \"Hyperion,\" or dream\naway the idle hours with the poets; and here, stretched along the turf,\none gets closer to Nature, studying her with ever-increasing wonder and\ndelight, or musing upon the thousand forms of mysterious life swarming\nin the clod under his hand.\n\nCharming, too, are the walks by the lake-side in the effulgence of\nthe harvest-moon; and enchanting the white splendor quivering on its\ndark waters. A boat steals by; see! its oars dip up molten silver. The\nvoyagers troll a love-ditty. Dangerous ground this colonnade of woods\nand yonder sparkling water for self-conscious lovers! Love and the ocean\nhave the same subtle sympathy with moonlight. The stronger its beams the\nhigher rises the flood.\n\nVery little of the world--but that little the best part--gets in here.\nIt is out of the beaten path of mountain-travel, so that those only who\nhave in a manner served their apprenticeship are sojourners. One small\nhotel and a few boarding-houses easily accommodate all comers. For\npeople who like to refine their pleasures, as well as their society,\nor who have wearied of life at the great hotels, such a place offers\na most tempting retreat. Display makes no part of the social regime.\nMrs. P---- is not jealous of Mrs. Q----'s diamonds. Ladies stroll\nabout unattended, gather water-lilies, cardinal-flowers, and rare\nferns by brook or way-side. Gentlemen row, drive, climb the mountains,\nor make little pedestrian tours of discovery. Quiet people are\nirresistibly attracted to this kind of life, which, with a good degree\nof probability, they assert to be the true and only rational way of\nenjoying the mountains.\n\n\n\n\nIV.\n\n_LOVEWELL._\n\n    Of worthy Captain Lovewell I purpose now to sing.\n    How valiantly he served his country and his king.\n    _Old Ballad._\n\n\nLET us make a d\u00e9tour to historic Fryeburg, leaving the cars at Conway,\nwhich in former times enjoyed a happy pre-eminence as the centre upon\nwhich the old stage-routes converged, and where travellers, going or\nreturning from the mountains, always passed the night. But those old\ntravellers have mostly gone where the name of Chatigee, by which both\ndrivers and tourists liked to designate Conway, is going; only there is\nfor the name, fortunately, no resurrection. No one knows its origin;\nnone will mourn its decease.\n\nIt is here, at Conway, or Conway Corner, that first enrapturing view of\nthe White Mountains bursts upon the traveller like a splendid vision.\nBut we shall see it again on our return from Fryeburg. Moreover,\nI enjoyed this constant espionage from a distance before a nearer\napproach, this exchange of preliminary civilities before coming closer\nto the heart of the mountains.\n\nFryeburg stands on a dry and sandy plain, elevated above the Saco River.\nIt lies behind the mountain range, which, terminating in Conway, compels\nthe river to make a right angle. Turning these mountains, the river\nseems now to be in no hurry, but coils about the meadows in a manner\nthat instantly recalls the famous Connecticut Ox-Bow. Chocorua and\nKearsarge are the two prominent figures in the landscape.\n\nThe village street is most beautifully shaded by elms of great size,\nwhich, giving to each other an outstretched hand over the way, spring an\narch of green high above, through which we look up and down. At one end\njustice is dispensed at the Oxford House--an inn with a pedigree; at the\nother learning is diffused in the academy where Webster once taught and\ndisciplined the rising generation. A scroll over the inn door bears the\ndate of 1763. The first school-house and the first framed house built\nin Fryeburg are still standing, a little way out of the village. On our\nway to the remarkable rock, emerging from the plain like a walrus from\nthe sea, we linger a moment in the village graveyard to read the long\ninscription on the monument of General Joseph Frye, a veteran of the old\nwars, and founder of the town which bears his name. Ascending now the\nrock to which we just referred, called the Jockey Cap, we are lifted\nhigh above the plain, having the river meadows, the graceful loops of\nthe river itself, the fine pyramid of Kearsarge on one side, and on the\nother the dark sheet of Lovewell's Pond stretched at our feet.\n\n[Illustration: LOVEWELL'S POND]\n\nIt was here, under the shadow of Mount Kearsarge, was fought one of the\nbloodiest and most obstinately contested battles that can be found in\nthe annals of war; so terrible, indeed, that the story was repeated from\nfireside to fireside, and from generation to generation, as worthy a\nniche beside that of Leonidas and his band of heroes. Familiar as is the\ntale--and who does not know it by heart?--it can still send the blood\nthrobbing to the temples, or coursing back to the heart. Unfortunately,\nthe details are sufficiently meagre, but, in truth, they need no\nembellishment. Their very simplicity presents the tragedy in all its\ngrandeur. It is an epic.\n\nIn April, 1725, John Lovewell, a hardy and experienced ranger of\nDunstable, whose exploits had already noised his fame abroad, marched\nwith forty-six men for the Indian villages at Pigwacket, now Fryeburg,\nMaine. At Ossipee he built a small fort, designed as a refuge in case of\ndisaster. This precaution undoubtedly saved the lives of some of his\nmen. He was now within two short marches of the enemy's village. The\nscouts having found Indian tracks in the neighborhood, Lovewell resumed\nhis route, leaving one of his men who had fallen sick, his surgeon, and\neight men, to guard the fort. His command was now reduced to thirty-four\nofficers and men.\n\nThe rangers reached the shores of the beautiful lake which bears\nLovewell's name, and bivouacked for the night.\n\nThe night passed without an alarm; but the sentinels who watched the\nencampment reported hearing strange noises in the woods. Lovewell\nscented the presence of his enemy.\n\nIn fact, on the morning of the 8th of May, while his band were on their\nknees seeking Divine favor in the approaching conflict, the report of a\ngun brought every man to his feet. Upon reconnoitring, a solitary Indian\nwas discovered on a point of land about a mile from the camp.\n\nThe leader immediately called his men about him, and told them that\nthey must now quickly decide whether to fight or retreat. The men, with\none accord, replied that they had not come so far in search of the\nenemy to beat a shameful retreat the moment he was found. Seeing his\nband possessed with this spirit, Lovewell then prepared for battle.\nThe rangers threw off their knapsacks and blankets, looked to their\nprimings, and loosened their knives and axes. The order was then given,\nand they moved cautiously out of their camp. Believing the enemy was in\nhis front, Lovewell neglected to place a guard over his baggage.\n\nInstead of plunging into the woods, the Indian who had alarmed the camp\nstood where he was first seen until the scouts fired upon him, when he\nreturned the fire, wounding Lovewell and one other. Ensign Wyman then\nlevelled his musket and shot him dead. The day began thus unfortunately\nfor the English. Lovewell was mortally wounded in the abdomen, but\ncontinued to give his orders.\n\nAfter clearing the woods in their front without finding any more\nIndians, the rangers fell back toward the spot where they had deposited\ntheir packs. This was a sandy plain, thinly covered with pines, at the\nnorth-east end of the lake.\n\nDuring their absence, the Indians, led by the old chief, Paugus, whose\nname was a terror throughout the length and breadth of the English\nfrontiers, stumbled upon the deserted encampment. Paugus counted the\npacks, and, finding his warriors outnumbered the rangers, the wily\nchief placed them in ambush; he divined that the English would return\nfrom their unsuccessful scout sooner or later, and he prepared to\nrepeat the tactics used with such fatal effect at Bloody Brook, and at\nthe defeat of Wadsworth. This consisted in arranging his savages in a\nsemicircle, the two wings of which, enveloping the rangers, would expose\nthem to a murderous cross-fire at short musket-range.\n\nWithout suspecting their danger, Lovewell's men fell into the fatal\nsnare which the crafty Paugus had thus spread for them. Hardly had they\nentered it when the grove blazed with a deadly volley, and resounded\nwith the yells of the Indians. As if confident of their prey, they even\nleft their coverts, and flung themselves upon the English with a fury\nnothing could withstand.\n\nIn this onset Lovewell, who, notwithstanding his wound, bravely\nencouraged his men with voice and example, received a second wound, and\nfell. Two of his lieutenants were killed at his side; but with desperate\nvalor the rangers charged up to the muzzles of the enemy's guns, killing\nnine, and sweeping the others before them. This gallant charge cost them\neight killed, besides their captain; two more were badly wounded.\n\nTwenty-three men had now to maintain the conflict with the whole Sokokis\ntribe. Their situation was indeed desperate. Relief was impossible;\nfor they were fifty miles from the nearest English settlements. Their\npacks and provisions were in the enemy's hands, and the woods swarmed\nwith foes. To conquer or die was the only alternative. These devoted\nEnglishmen despaired of conquering, but they prepared to die bravely.\n\nEnsign Wyman, on whom the command devolved after the death of Lovewell,\nwas his worthy successor. Seeing the enemy stealing upon his flanks as\nif to surround him, he ordered his men to fall back to the shore of the\nlake, where their right was protected by a brook, and their left by a\nrocky point extending into the lake. A few large pines stood on the\nbeach between.\n\nThis manoeuvre was executed under a hot fire, which still further\nthinned the ranks of the English. The Indians closed in upon them,\nfilling the air with demoniac yells whenever a victim fell. Assailing\nthe whites with taunts, and shaking ropes in their faces, they cried\nout to them to yield. But to the repeated demands to surrender, the\nrangers replied only with bullets. They thought of the fort and its ten\ndefenders, and hoped, or rather prayed, for night. This hope, forlorn as\nit seemed, encouraged them to fight on, and they delivered their fire\nwith fatal precision whenever an Indian showed himself. The English were\nin a trap, but the Indians dared not approach within reach of the lion's\nclaws.\n\nWhile this long combat was proceeding, one of the English went to the\nlake to wash his gun, and, on emerging at the shore, descried an Indian\nin the act of cleansing his own. This Indian was Paugus.\n\nThe ranger went to work like a man who comprehends that his life depends\nupon a second. The chief followed him in every movement. Both charged\ntheir guns at the same instant. The Englishman threw his ramrod on the\nsand; the Indian dropped his.\n\n\"Me kill you,\" said Paugus, priming his weapon from his powder-horn.\n\n\"The chief lies,\" retorted the undaunted ranger, striking the breech of\nhis firelock upon the ground with such force that it primed itself. An\ninstant later Paugus fell, shot through the heart.\n\n\"I said I should kill you,\" muttered the victor, spurning the dead body\nof his enemy, and plunging into the thickest of the fight.\n\nDarkness closed the conflict, which had continued without cessation\nsince ten in the morning. Little by little the shouts of the enemy grew\nfeebler, and finally ceased. The English stood to their arms until\nmidnight, when, convinced that the savages had abandoned the sanguinary\nfield of battle, they began their retreat toward the fort. Only nine\nwere unhurt. Eleven were badly wounded, but were resolved to march with\ntheir comrades, though they died by the way. Three more were alive, but\nhad received their death-wounds. One of these was Lieutenant Robbins, of\nChelmsford. Knowing that he must be left behind, he begged his comrades\nto load his gun, in order that he might sell his life as dearly as\npossible when the savages returned to wreak their vengeance upon the\nwounded.\n\nI have said that twenty-three men continued the fight after the bloody\nrepulse in which Lovewell was killed. There were only twenty-two. The\nother, whose name the reader will excuse me from mentioning, fled from\nthe field and gained the fort, where he spread the report that Lovewell\nwas cut to pieces, himself being the sole survivor. This intelligence,\nstriking terror, decided the little garrison to abandon the fort, which\nwas immediately done, and in haste.\n\nThis was the crowning misfortune of the expedition. The rangers now\nbecame a band of panic-stricken fugitives. After incredible hardships,\nless than twenty starving, emaciated, and footsore men, half of them\nbadly wounded, straggled into the nearest English settlements.\n\nThe loss of the Indians could only be guessed; but the battle led to the\nimmediate abandonment of their village, from which so many war-parties\nhad formerly harassed the English. Paugus, the savage wolf, the\nimplacable foe of the whites, was dead. His tribe forsook the graves of\ntheir fathers, nor rested until they had put many long leagues between\nthem and their pursuers. For them the advance of the English was the\nJuggernaut under whose wheels their race was doomed to perish from the\nface of the earth.\n\n\n\n\nV.\n\n_NORTH CONWAY._\n\n    \"Tall spire from which the sound of cheerful bells\n     Just undulates upon the listening ear,\n     Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote.\"\n\n\nThe entrance to North Conway is, without doubt, the most beautiful and\nimposing introduction to the high mountains.\n\nAlthough the traveller has for fifty miles skirted the outlying ranges,\ncatching quick-shifting glimpses of the great summits, yet, when at last\nthe train swings round the foot of the Moat range into the Saco Valley,\nso complete is the transition, so charming the picture, that not even\nthe most apathetic can repress a movement of surprise and admiration.\nThis is the moment when every one feels the inadequacy of his own\nconceptions.\n\nNature has formed here a vast antechamber, into which you are ushered\nthrough a gate-way of mountains upon the numerous inner courts,\ngalleries, and cloisters of her most secluded retreats. Here the\nmountains fall back before the impetuous flood of the Saco, which comes\npouring down from the summit of the great Notch, white, and panting with\nthe haste of its flight. Here the river gives rendezvous to several of\nits larger affluents--the East Branch, the Ellis, the Swift--and, like\nan army taking the field, their united streams, sweeping grandly around\nthe foot of the last mountain range, emerge into the open country. Here\nthe valley, contracted at its extremity between the gentle slope of\nKearsarge and the abrupt declivities of Moat, encloses an ellipse of\nverdant and fertile land ravishing to behold, skirted on one side by\nthick woods, behind which precipices a thousand feet high rise black and\nthreatening, overlooked on the other by a high terrace, along which the\nvillage is built. It is the inferior summit of Kearsarge, which descends\nby a long, regular slope to the intervale at its upper end, while a\nsecondary ridge of the Moats, advancing on the opposite side, drops\ninto it by a precipice. The superb silver-gray crest of Kearsarge is\nseen rising in a regular pyramid behind the right shoulder of its lower\nsummit. Ordinarily the house perched on the top is seen as distinctly as\nthose in the village. It is the last in the village.\n\nLooking up through this verdant mountain park, at a distance of twenty\nmiles, the imposing masses of the great summits seem scaling the skies.\nThen, heavily massed on the right, comes the Carter range, divided by\nthe cup-shaped dip of the Carter Notch; then the truncated cone of\nDouble-Head; and then, with outworks firmly planted in the valley, the\nglittering pinnacle of Kearsarge. The mountain in front of you, looking\nup the village street, is Thorn Mountain, on the other side of which is\nJackson, and the way up the Ellis Valley to the Pinkham Notch, the Glen\nHouse, Gorham, and the Androscoggin.\n\nThe traveller, who is ushered upon this splendid scene with the rapidity\nof steam, perceives that he is at last among real mountains, and quickly\nyields to the indefinable charm which from this moment surrounds and\nholds him a willing captive.\n\n[Illustration: MOUNT WASHINGTON FROM THE SACO.]\n\nLooking across the meadow from the village street, the eye is stopped\nby an isolated ridge of bare, overhanging precipices. It is thrust out\ninto the valley from Moat Mountain, of which it forms a part, presenting\ntwo singular, regularly arched cliffs, seven hundred to nine hundred and\nfifty feet in height toward the village. The green forest underneath\ncontrasts vividly with the lustrous black of these precipitous walls,\nwhich glisten brightly in the sunshine, where they are wet by tiny\nstreams flowing down. On the nearest of these is a very curious\nresemblance to the head and shoulders of a horse in the act of rearing,\noccasioned by a white incrustation on the face of the cliff. This\naccident gives to it the name of White Horse Ledge. All marriageable\nladies, maiden or widow, run out to look at it, in consequence of the\nbelief current in New England that if, after seeing a white horse,\nyou count a hundred, the first gentleman you meet will be your future\nhusband! Underneath this cliff a charming little lake lies hid.\n\nNext beyond is the Cathedral Ledge, so called from the curious rock\ncavity it contains; and still farther up the valley is Humphrey's Ledge,\none of the finest rock-studies of them all when we stand underneath\nit. But the reader now has a general acquaintance with North Conway,\nand with its topography. He begins his study of mountain beauty in a\nspirit of loving enthusiasm, which leads him on and on to the ripeness\nof an education achieved by simply throwing himself upon the bosom of\nindulgent Nature, putting the world as far as possible behind him.\n\n[Illustration: THE LEDGES, NORTH CONWAY.]\n\nBut now from these masses of hard rock let us turn once more to the\nvalley, where the rich intervales spread an exhaustless feast for the\neye. If autumn be the season, the vase-like elms, the stacks of yellow\ncorn, the golden pumpkins looking like enormous oranges, the floor-cloth\nof green and gold damasked with purple gorse and coppice, give the idea\nof an immense table groaning beneath its luxurious weight of fruit and\nflowers.\n\nTurn now to the mountain presiding with such matchless grace and dignity\nover the village. Kearsarge, in the twilight, deserves, like Lorenzo di\nMedicis, to be called \"the magnificent.\" The yellow and orange foliage\nlooks, for all the world, like a golden shower fallen upon it. The\ngray ledges at the apex, which the clear, yellow light renders almost\nincandescent, are far more in harmony with the rest of the mountain than\nin the vernal season.\n\nAre we yet in sympathy with that free-masonry of art through which our\neminent landscape-painters recognized here the true picturesque point\nof view of the great mountains, the effective contrasts and harmonious\nensemble of the near scenery--the grandest allied with the humblest\nobjects of nature? One cannot turn in any direction without recognizing\na picture he has seen in the studios, or in the saloons of the clubs.\n\nThe first persons I saw on the platform of the railway-station were my\nquondam companions, the colonel and George. We met like friends who had\nparted only half an hour before. During dinner it was agreed that we\nshould pass our afternoon among the cliffs. This arrangement appeared\nvery judicious; the distance is short, and the attractions many.\n\nWe accordingly set out for the ledges at three in the afternoon.\nThe weather did not look promising, to be sure, but we decided it\nsufficiently so for this promenade of three or four hours.\n\nWhile en route, let me mention a discovery. One morning, while sitting\non the piazza of the Kearsarge House enjoying the dreamy influence\nof the warm atmosphere, which spun its soft, gossamer web about the\nmountains, I observed a peculiar shadow thrown by a jutting mass of the\nCathedral Ledge upon a smooth surface, which exactly resembled a human\nfigure standing upright. I looked away, then back again, to see if I\nwas not the victim of an illusion. No, it was still there. Now it is\nalways there. The head and upper part of the body were inclined slightly\nforward, the legs perfectly formed. At ten every forenoon, punctual\nto the hour, this phantom, emerging from the rock, stands, fixed and\nmotionless as a statue, in its niche. At every turn of the sun, this\nshade silently interrogates the feverish activity that has replaced the\nsilence of ages. One day or another I shall demand of my phantom what it\nhas witnessed.\n\nThe road we followed soon turned sharply away from the main street of\nthe village, to the left, and in a few rods more plunged into the Saco,\nleaving us standing on the bank, looking askance at a wide expanse of\nwater, choked with bowlders, around which the swift current whirled and\nfoamed with rage. We decided it too shallow to swim, but doubted if it\nwas not too deep to ford. We had reached our Rubicon.\n\n\"We must wade,\" said the colonel, with decision.\n\n\"Precisely my idea,\" assented George, beginning to unlace his shoes.\n\nI put my hand in the river. Ugh! it was as cold as ice.\n\nHaving assured ourselves no one saw us, we divested ourselves of shoes,\nstockings, pantaloons, and drawers. We put our stockings in our pockets,\ndisposed our clothing in a roll over the shoulder, as soldiers do on the\nmarch, tied our shoes together, and hung them around our necks. Then,\nplacing our hands upon each others' shoulders, as I have seen gymnasts\ndo in a circus, we entered the river, like candidates for baptism,\nfeeling our way, and catching our breath.\n\n\"_Sans-culottes_,\" suggested the colonel, who knew a little French.\n\n\"Kit-kats,\" added George, who knows something of art, as the water rose\nsteadily above our knees.\n\nThe treacherous bowlders tripped us up at every step, so that one or\nthe other was constantly floundering, like a stranded porpoise in a\nfrog-pond. But, thanks to our device, we reached the middle of the river\nwithout anything worse than a few bruises. Here we were fairly stopped.\nThe water was waist-deep, and the current every moment threatened to\nlift us from our feet. How foolish we looked!\n\nAdvance or retreat? That was the question. One pointed up stream,\nanother down; while, to aggravate the situation, rain began to patter\naround us. In two minutes the river was steaming. George, who is a great\ninfant, suggested putting our hands in our pockets, to keep them warm,\nand our clothes in the river, to keep them dry.\n\n\"By Jove!\" ejaculated the colonel, \"the river is smoking.\"\n\n\"Let us join the river,\" said George, producing his cigar-case.\n\nPutting our heads together over the colonel's last match, thus forming\nan antique tripod of our bodies, we succeeded in getting a light; and\nfor the first time, I venture to affirm, since its waters gushed from\nthe mountains, incense ascended from the bosom of the Saco.\n\n\"I'm freezing!\" stuttered George.\n\nI was pushing forward, to cut the dilemma short, when the colonel\ninterposed with,\n\n\"Stop; I want to tell you a story.\"\n\n\"A story? here--in the middle of the river?\" we shouted.\n\n\"In the middle of the river; here--a story!\" he echoed.\n\n\"I would like to sit down while I listen,\" observed George.\n\nEvidently the coldness of the water had forced the blood into our\nfriend's head. He was ill, but obstinate. We therefore resigned\nourselves to hear him.\n\n\"This river and this situation remind me of the Potawatamies,\" he began.\n\n\"Potawatamies!\" we echoed, with chattering teeth. \"Go on; go on.\"\n\n\"When I was on the Plains,\" continued the colonel, \"I passed some time\namong those Indians. During my stay, the chief invited me to accompany\nhim on a buffalo-hunt. I accepted on the spot; for of all things a\nbuffalo-hunt was the one I was most desirous of seeing. We set out at\ndaybreak the next morning. After a few hours' march, we came to a stream\nbetween deep banks, and flowing with a rapid current, like this one--\"\n\n\"Go on; go on!\" we shiveringly articulated.\n\n\"At a gesture from the chief, a young squaw dismounted from her pony,\nadvanced to the edge of the stream, and began, timidly, to wade it. When\nshe hesitated, as she did two or three times, the chief said something\nwhich encouraged her to proceed. All at once she stopped, threw up her\narms, and screamed something in the Indian dialect; at which all the\nbraves burst into a loud laugh, the squaws joining in.\n\n\"'What does she say?' I asked of the chief.\n\n\"'Up to the middle,' he replied, pushing his pony into the stream.\"\n\nThe stream grew shallower, so that we soon emerged from the water upon\nthe opposite bank. Here we poured the water from our shoes, and resumed\nour wet clothing. Everything was cooled, except our ardor.\n\nAs we approached nearer, the ledges were full of grim recesses, rude\nrock-niches, and traversed by perpendicular cracks from brow to base.\n\"Take care!\" I shouted; \"there is a huge piece of the cliff just ready\nto fall.\"\n\nIn some places the rock is sheer and smooth, in others it is broken\nregularly down, for half its whole height, to where it is joined by rude\nbuttresses of massive granite. The lithe maples climb up the steepest\nravines, but cannot pass the waste of sheer rock stretching between\nthem and the firs, which look down over the brink of the precipice.\nRusted purple is the prevailing color, blotched here and there with\nwhite, like the drip oozing from limestone. We soon emerged on the shore\nof Echo Lake.\n\nHovering under the great precipices, which lie heavily shadowed on its\nglossy surface, are gathered the waters flowing from the airy heights\nabove--the little rills, the rivulets, the cascades. The tremendous\nshadow the cliff flings down seems lying deep in the bosom of the lake,\nas if perpetually imprinted there. Slender birches, brilliant foliage,\nwere daintily etched upon the surface, like arabesques on polished\nsteel. The water is perfectly transparent, and without a ripple. Indeed,\nthe breezes playing around the summit, or humming in the tree-tops, seem\nforbidden to enter this haunt of Dryads. The lake laps the yellow strand\nwith a light, fluttering movement. The place seems dedicated to silence\nitself.\n\n[Illustration: ECHO LAKE, NORTH CONWAY.]\n\nTo destroy this illusion, a man came out of a booth and touched off a\nsmall cannon. The effect was like knocking at half a dozen doors at\nonce. And the silence which followed seemed all the deeper. Then the\naged rock was pelted with questions, and made to jeer, laugh, menace,\nor curse by turns, or all at once. How grandly it bore all these petty\ninsolences! How presumptuous in us thus to cover its hoary front with\nobloquy! We could never get the last word. We did not even come off in\ntriumph. How ironically the mountain repeated, \"Who are you?\" and \"What\nam I!\" With what energy it at last vociferated, \"Go to the devil!\" To\nthe Devil's Den we accordingly go.\n\nFollowing a woodland path skirting the base of the cliffs, we were\nvery soon before the entrance of the Devil's Den, formed by a huge\npiece of the cliff falling upon other detached fragments in such a way\nas to leave an aperture large enough to admit fifty persons at once. A\nponderous mass divides the cavern into two chambers, one of which is\nlight, airy, and spacious, the other dark, gloomy, and contracted--a\nmere hole. This might well have been the lair of the bears and panthers\nformerly roaming, unmolested, these woods.\n\nThe Cathedral is a recess higher up in the same cliff, hollowed out\nby the cleaving off of the lower rock, leaving the upper portion of\nthe precipice overhanging. The top of the roof is as high as a tall\ntree. Some maples that have grown here since the outer portion of the\nrock fell, assist, with their straight-limbed, columnar trunks, the\nresemblance to a chancel. A little way off this cavity has really the\nappearance of a gigantic shell, like those fossils seen imbedded in\nsubterranean rocks. We did not miss here the delicious glimpses of\nKearsarge, and of the mountains across the valley which, now that the\nsun came out, were all in brilliant light, while the cool afternoon\nshadows already wrapped the woods about us in twilight gloom.\n\nStill farther on we came upon a fine cascade falling down a long,\nirregular staircase of broken rock. One of these steps extends, a solid\nmass of granite, more than a hundred feet across the bed of the stream,\nand is twenty feet high. Unless the brook is full, it is not a single\nsheet we see, but twenty, fifty crystal streams gushing or spirting\nfrom the grooves they have channelled in the hard granite, and falling\ninto basins they have hollowed out. It is these curious, circular stone\ncavities, out of which the freshest and cleanest water constantly pours,\nthat give to the cascade the name of Diana's Baths. The water never\ndashes itself noisily down, but slips, like oil, from the rocks, with a\npleasant, purling sound no single word of our language will correctly\ndescribe. From here we returned to the village in the same way that we\ncame.[4]\n\nThe wild and bristling little mountain range on the east side of North\nConway embodies a good deal of picturesque character. It is there our\nway lies to Artists' Falls, which are on a brook issuing from these\nGreen Hills. I found the walk, following its windings, more remunerative\nthan the falls themselves. The brook, flowing first over a smooth\ngranite ledge, collects in a little pool below, out of which the pure\nwater filters through bowlders and among glittering pebbles to a gorge\nbetween two rocks, down which it plunges. The beauty of this cascade\nconsists in its waywardness. Now it is a thin sheet, flowing demurely\nalong; now it breaks out in uncontrollable antics; and at length, as if\ntired of this sport, darts like an arrow down the rocky fissure, and is\na mountain brook again.\n\nThe ascent of Kearsarge and of the Moats fittingly crowns the series of\nexcursions which are the most attractive feature of out-of-door life\nat North Conway. The northern peak of Moat is the one most frequently\nclimbed, but the southern affords almost equally admirable views of the\nSaco, the Ellis, and the Swift River valleys, with the mountain chains\nenclosing them. The prospect here is, however, much the same as that\nobtained from Chocorua, which is seen rising beyond the Swift River\nvalley. To that description I must, therefore, refer the reader, who is\nalready acquainted with its principal features.\n\nThe high ridge is an arid and desolate heap of summits stripped bare\nof vegetation by fire. When this fire occurred, twenty odd years\nago, it drove the bears and rattlesnakes from their forest homes in\ngreat numbers, so that they fell an easy prey to their destroyers. A\ndepression near its centre divides the ridge in two, constituting, in\neffect, two mountains. We crossed the range in its whole length, and,\nafter newly refreshing ourselves with the admirable views had from\nits greater elevation, descended the northern peak to Diana's Baths.\nProbably the most striking view of the Moats is from Conway. Here the\nsummits, thrown into a mass of lawless curves and blunted, prong-like\nprotuberances, rear a blackened and weird-looking cluster on high. But\nfor a wide region they divide with Chocorua the honors of the landscape,\nconstituting, at Jackson especially, a large and imposing background,\nmassively based and buttressed, and cutting through space with their\ntrenchant edge.\n\nIn the winter of 1876, finding myself at North Conway, I determined to\nmake the attempt to ascend Mount Kearsarge, notwithstanding two-thirds\nof the mountain were shrouded in snow, and the bare shaft constituting\nthe spire sheathed in glittering ice. The mountain had definitively gone\ninto winter-quarters.\n\nI was up early enough to surprise, all at once, the unwonted and\ncuriously-blended effect of moonlight, starlight, and the twilight of\ndawn. The new moon, with the old in her arms, balanced her shining\ncrescent on the curved peak of Moat Mountain. All these high,\nsurrounding peaks, carved in marble and flooded with effulgence,\nimpressed the spirit with that mingled awe and devotion felt among\nthe antique monuments of some vast cemetery. The sight thrilled and\nsolemnized by its chaste magnificence. Glittering stars, snow-draped\nsummits, black mountains casting sable draperies upon the dead white\nof the valley, constituted a scene of sepulchral pomp into which the\nsupernatural entered unchallenged. One by one the stars went out. The\nmoon grew pale. A clear emerald, overspreading the east, was reflected\nfrom lofty peak and tapering spire.\n\n[Illustration: KEARSARGE IN WINTER.]\n\nDay broke bright, clear, and crisp. There, again, was the same matchless\narray of high and noble summits, sitting on thrones of alabaster\nwhiteness. While the moon still lingered in the west, the broad red\ndisk of the sun rose over the wooded ridges in the east. So sun and\nmoon, monarch and queen, saluted each other. One gave the watchword,\nand descended behind the moated mountain; the other ascended the vacant\nthrone. Thus night and day met and exchanged majestic salutation in the\ncourts of the morning.\n\nThe mercury stood at three degrees below zero in the village, when I\nset out on foot for the mountain. A light fall of snow had renewed\nthe Christmas decorations. The trees had newly-leaved and blossomed.\nBeautiful it was to see the dark old pines thick-flaked with new snow,\nand the same feathery substance lodged on every twig and branchlet,\ntangle of vines, or tuft of tawny yellow grass. Fir-trees looked like\ngigantic azaleas; thickets like coral groves. Nothing too slender or too\nfragile for the white flight to alight upon. Talk of decorative art!\nEven the telegraph-wires hung in broad, graceful festoons of white,\nand the poor washer-woman's clothes-line was changed into the same\nimmaterial thing of beauty.\n\nThe ascent proved more toilsome than I had anticipated, as my feet\nbroke through the frozen crust at every step. But if the climb had been\ndifficult when in the woods, it certainly presented few attractions when\nI emerged from them half a mile below the summit. I found the surface of\nthe bare ledges, which now continue to the top of the mountain, sheeted\nin ice, smooth and slippery as glass.\n\nMany a time have I laughed heartily at the feverish indecision of a dog\nwhen he runs along the margin of a pond into which he has been urged\nto plunge. He turns this way and that, whines, barks, crouches for the\nleap, laps the water, but hesitates. Imagine, now, the same animal\nchasing some object upon slippery ice, his feet spread widely apart;\nhis frantic efforts to stop; the circles described in the air by his\ntail. Well, I experienced the same perplexity, and made nearly the same\nridiculous evolutions.\n\nAfter several futile attempts to advance over it, and as often finding\nmyself sliding backward with entire loss of control of my own movements,\nI tried the rugged ravine, traversing the summit, with some success,\nsteadying my steps on the iced bowlders by grasping the bushes which\ngrew there among clefts of the rock. But this way, besides being\nextremely fatiguing, was decidedly the more dangerous of the two; and\nI was glad, after a brief trial, to abandon it for the ice, in which,\nhere and there, detached stones, solidly embedded, furnished points of\nsupport, if they could be reached. By pursuing a zigzag course from\nstone to stone, sometimes--like a pious Moslem approaching the tomb of\nthe Prophet--upon my hands and knees, and shedding tears from the force\nof the wind, I succeeded in getting over the ledges after an hour's\nobstinate battle to maintain an upright position, and after several\nmishaps had taught me a degree of caution closely approaching timidity.\nBy far the most treacherous ground was where fresh snow, covering the\nsmooth ice, spread its pitfalls in the path, causing me several times\nto measure my length; but at last these obstacles were one by one\nsurmounted; I groped my way, foot by foot, up the sharp rise of the\npinnacle, finding myself at the front door of the house which is so\nconspicuous an object from the valley.\n\nNever was air more pure, more crisp, or more transparent. Besides,\nwhat air can rival that of winter? I felt myself rather floating than\nwalking. Certainly there is a lightness, a clearness, and a depth that\nbelongs to no other season. At no other season do we behold our native\nskies so blue, so firm, or so brilliant as when the limpid ether,\nwinnowed by the fierce north wind to absolute purity, presents objects\nwith such marvellous clearness, precision, and fidelity, that we hardly\npersuade ourselves they are forty, fifty, or a hundred miles distant. To\nrealize this rare condition was all the object of the ascent--an object\nattained in a measure far beyond any anticipations I had formed.\n\nAs may easily be imagined, the immediate effect was bewildering in the\nextreme. In the first place, the direct rays of the noonday sun covered\nthe mountain-top with dazzling brilliancy. The eye fairly ached with\nlooking at it. In the second, the intensity of the blue was such as to\ngive the idea that the grand expanse of sky was hard frozen. Nothing\nmore coldly brilliant than this immense azure dome can be conceived.\nThere was not the faintest trace of a cloud anywhere; nothing but this\nsplendid void. Under this high-vaulted dome, imagine now a vast expanse\nof white etched with brown--a landscape in sepia. Such was the general\neffect.\n\nBut the inexpressible delight of having all this admirable scene to\none's self! Taine asks, \"Can anything be sweeter than the certainty\nof being alone? In any widely known spot, you are in constant dread\nof an incursion of tourists; the hallooing of guides, the loud-voiced\nadmiration, the bustle, whether of unfastening horses, or of unpacking\nprovisions, or of airing opinions, all disturb the budding sensation;\ncivilization recovers its hold upon you. But here, what security and\nwhat silence! nothing that recalls man; the landscape is just what it\nhas been these six thousand years.\"\n\nThe view from this mountain is justly admired. Stripped of life and\ncolor, I found it sad, pathetic even. Dead white and steel blue rudely\nrepulsed the sensitive eye. The north wind, cold and cutting, drove me\nto take shelter under glaring rocks. The cracking of ice first on one\nside, then on the other, diverted the attention from the landscape,\nas if the mountain was continually snapping its fingers in disdain.\nI had constantly the feeling that some _one_ or some _thing_ was at\nmy elbow. What childishness! But where now was the lavish summer, the\nbarbaric splendors of autumn--its arabesques of foliage, its velvet\nshadows, its dappled skies, its glow, mantling like that of health and\nbeauty? All-pervading gloom and defoliation were rendered ten times more\nmelancholy by the splendid glare. Winter flung her white shroud over the\nland to hide the repulsiveness of death.\n\nI looked across the valley where Moat Mountain reared its magnificent\ndark wave. Passing to the north side, the eye wandered over the wooded\nsummits to the silvery heap of Washington, to which frozen, rose-colored\nmists were clinging. A great ice-cataract rolled down over the edge\nof Tuckerman's Ravine, its wave of glittering emerald. It shone with\nenchanting brilliancy, cheating the imagination with the idea that\nit moved; that the thin, spectral vapor rose from the depths of the\nice-cold gorge below. There gaped, wide open, the enormous hole of\nCarter Notch; there the pale-blue Saco wound in and out of the hills,\nwith hamlets and villages strung along its serpentine course; and, as\nthe river grows, villages increase to towns, towns to cities. There\nwas the sea sparkling like a plain of quicksilver, with ponds and\nlakes innumerable between. There, in the south-west, as far as the eye\ncould reach, was Monadnock demanding recognition; and in the west,\nMoosehillock, Lafayette, Carrigain peaks, lifted with calm superiority\nabove the chaos of mountains, like higher waves of a frozen sea.\nFinally, there were the snow-capped summits of the great range seen\nthroughout their whole extent, sunning their satin sides in indolent\nenjoyment.\n\nThis view has no peer in these mountains. Indeed, the mountain seems\nexpressly placed to command in one comprehensive sweep of the eye the\nmost impressive features of any mountain landscape. Being a peak of the\nsecond order--that is to say, one not dominating all the chains--while\nit does not unfold the topography of the region in its whole extent,\nit is sufficiently elevated to permit the spectator to enjoy that\nincreasing grandeur with which the distant ranges rise, tier upon tier,\nto their great central spires, without lessening materially their\nloftiness, or the peculiar and varied expression of their contours. The\npeak of Kearsarge peeps down over one shoulder into New Hampshire, over\nthe other into Maine. It looks straight up through the open door of the\nCarter Notch, and boldly stares Washington in the face. It sees the\nsun rise from the ocean, and set behind Mount Lafayette. It patronizes\nMoat, measures itself proudly with Chocorua, and maintains a distant\nacquaintance with Monadnock. It is a handsome mountain, and, as such,\nis a general favorite with the ladies and the artists. Like a careful\nshepherd, it every morning scans the valleys to see that none of its\nflock of villages has wandered. For these villagers it is a sun-dial, a\nweather-vane, an almanac; for the wayfarer, a sure guide; and for the\npoet, a mountain with a soul.\n\n[Illustration: SLIDING DOWN KEARSARGE.]\n\nThe cold was intense, the wind piercing. On its north side the house\nwas deeply incrusted with ice-spars--windows and all. I feel that only\nscant justice can be done to their wondrous beauty. All the scrubby\nbushes growing out of interstices of the crumbling summit--wee twig\nand slender filament--were stemmed with ice; while the rocks bristled\nwith countless frost feathers. With my pitch-cakes and a few twigs\nI lighted a fire, which might be seen from the half-dozen villages\nclustered about the foot of the mountain, and pleased myself with\nimagining the astonishment with which a smoke curling upward from\nthis peak would be greeted for fifty miles around. I then prepared to\ndescend--I say prepared to descend, for the thing at once so easy to\nsay and so difficult of performance suddenly revived the recollection\nof the hazardous scramble up the ledges, and made it seem child's play\nby comparison. For a brief hour I had forgotten all this. However, go\ndown I must. But how? The first step on the ice threatened a descent\nmore rapid than flesh and blood could calmly contemplate. I had no\nhatchet to cut steps in the ice; no rope to attach to the rocks, and\nthus lower myself, as is practised in crossing the glaciers of the\nAlps; and there was no foothold. For a moment I seriously thought of\nforcing an entrance into the house, and, making a signal of distress,\nresign myself to the possibility of help from below. But while sitting\non a rock looking blankly at the glassy declivity stretching down from\nthe summit, a bright idea came to my aid. I remembered having read in\nBourrienne's \"Memoirs\" that Bonaparte--the great Bonaparte--was forced\nto slide down the summit of the Great St. Bernard _seated_, while\nmaking his famous passage of the Alps. Yes, the great Corsican really\nadvanced to the conquest of Italy in this undignified posture. But never\ndid great example find more unworthy imitator. Seating myself, as the\nLittle Corporal had done, using my staff as a rudder, and steering for\nprotruding stones in order to check the force of the descent from time\nto time, I slid down with a celerity the very remembrance of which makes\nmy head swim, arriving safe, but breathless and much astonished, at\nthe first irregular patch of snow. The pleasure of standing erect on\nsomething the feet could grasp was one not to be translated into words.\n\nUpon reaching the hotel, I procured another pair of pantaloons of my\nhost, and some court-plaster from the village apothecary. If any of my\nreaders think my dignity compromised, I beg him to remember the example\nof the great Napoleon, and his famous expedient for circumventing the\nGreat St. Bernard.\n\n\n\n\nVI.\n\n_FROM KEARSARGE TO CARRIGAIN._\n\n    _Raleigh._--\"Fain would I climb, but that I fear to fall.\"\n    _Queen Elizabeth._--\"If thy heart fail thee, climb thou not at all.\"\n\n\nAfter the storm, we had a fine lunar bow. The corona in the centre was a\nclear silver, the outer circle composed of pale green and orange fires.\nOver the moon's disk clouds swept a continuous stormy flight. The great\nplanet resembled a splendid decoration hung high in the heavens.\n\nHaving now progressed to terms of easy familiarity with the village, it\nwas decided to pay our respects to the Intervale, which unites it with\nthe neighboring town of Bartlett.\n\nThe road up the valley first skirts a wood, and through this wood are\ndelicious glimpses of Mount Adams. During the heat of the day or cool\nof the evening this extensive and beautiful forest has always been a\nfavorite haunt. Tall, athletic pines, that bend in the breeze like\nwhalebone, lift their immense clusters of impenetrable foliage on high.\nThe sighs of lovers are softly echoed in their green tops; voices and\nlaughter issue from it. We, too, will swing our hammock here, and\nbreathe the healing fragrance that is so grateful.\n\nIn a little enclosure of rough stone, on the Bigelow place, lie the\nremains of the ill-fated Willey family, who were destroyed by the\nmemorable slide of 1826. The inscription closes with this not too lucid\nfigure:\n\n    \"We gaze around, we read their monument;\n     We sigh, and when we sigh we sink.\"\n\nWhere the high terrace, making one grand sweep to the right, again\nunveils the same superb view of the great summits, now wholly\nunobstructed by houses or groves, we halt before that picture,\nunrivalled in these mountains, not surpassed, perhaps, upon earth, and\nwhich we never tire of gazing upon. Its most salient features have\nalready been described; but here in their very midst, from their very\nheart, nature seems to have snatched a garden-spot from the haggard\nmountains arrested in their advance by the command, \"Thus far, and no\nfarther!\" The elms, all grace, all refinement of form, bend before\nthe fierce blasts of winter, but stir not. The frozen east wind flies\nshrieking through, as if to tear them limb from limb. The ground is\nlittered with their branches. They bow meekly before its rage, but stir\nnot. Really, they seem so many sentinels jealously guarding that repose\nof which the vale is so eloquently the expression. The vale regards the\nstormy summits around with the unconcern of perfect security. It is rest\nto look at it.\n\n[Illustration: CONWAY MEADOWS.]\n\nAgain we scan the great peaks which in clear days come boldly down and\nstand at our very doors, but on hazy ones remove to a vast distance,\nkeeping vaguely aloof day in and day out. Sometimes they are in the\nsulks, sometimes bold and forward. By turns they are graciously\ncondescending, or tantalizingly incomprehensible. One time they muffle\nthemselves in clouds from head to foot, so we cannot detect a suggestive\nline or a contour; another, throwing off all disguise, they expose their\nmost secret beauties to the free gaze of the multitude. This is to set\nthe beholder's blood on fire with the passion to climb as high as those\ngray shafts of everlasting rock that so proudly survey the creeping\nleagues beneath them.\n\nNowhere is the unapproachable grandeur of Mount Washington more fully\nmanifested than here. This large and impressive view is at once\nsuggestive of that glorious pre-eminence always associated with high\nmountains. There are mountains, respectable ones too, in the middle\ndistance; but over these the great peak lords it with undisputed sway.\nThe bold and firm, though gradual, lines of ascent culminating at the\napex, extend over leagues of sky. After a clear sunset, Mount Washington\ntakes the same dull lead-color of the clouds hovering like enormous\nnight-birds over its head.\n\nNorth Conway permits, to the tourist, a choice of two very agreeable\nexcursions, either of which may be made in a day, although they could\nprofitably occupy a week. One is to follow the course of the Saco,\nthrough the great Notch, to Fabyans, where you are on the westward\nside of the great range, and where you take the rail to the summit\nof Mount Washington. The other excursion is to diverge from the Saco\nValley three or four miles from North Conway, ascending the valley of\nEllis River--one of the lame affluents of the Saco--through the Pinkham\nNotch to the Glen House, where you are exactly under the eastern foot\nof Mount Washington, and may ascend it, by the carriage-road, in a\ncoach-and-four. We had already chosen the first route, and as soon as\nthe roads were a little settled we began our march.\n\nThe storm was over. The keen north wind drove the mists in utter rout\nbefore it. Peak after peak started out of the clouds, glowered on us a\nmoment, and then muffled his enormous head in fleecy vapor. The clouds\nseemed thronged with monstrous apparitions, struggling fiercely with\nthe gale, which in pure wantonness tore aside the magic drapery that\nrendered them invisible, scattering its tattered rags far and wide over\nthe valley.\n\nNow the sun entered upon the work begun by the wind. Quicker than\nthought, a ray of liquid flame transfixed the vapors, flashed upon the\nvale, and, flying from summit to summit, kindled them with newborn\nsplendor. One would have said a flaming javelin, hurled from high\nheaven, had just cleft its dazzling way to earth. The mists slunk away\nand hid themselves. The valley was inundated with golden light. Even the\ndark faces of the cliffs brightened and beamed upon the vale, where the\nbronzed foliage fluttered, and the river leaped for joy. In a little\ntime nothing was left but scattered clouds winging their way toward the\nlowlands.\n\n[Illustration: BARTLETT BOWLDER.]\n\nNear Glen Station is one of those curiosities--a transported\nboulder--which was undoubtedly left while on its travels through the\nmountains, poised upon four smaller ones, in the position seen in the\nengraving.\n\nThree miles below the village of Bartlett we stopped before a\nfarm-house, with the gable-end toward the road, to inquire the distance\nto the next tavern, where we meant to pass the night. A gruff voice from\nthe inside growled something by way of reply; but as its owner, whoever\nhe might be, did not take the trouble to open his door, the answer was\nunintelligible.\n\n\"The churl!\" muttered the colonel. \"I have a great mind to teach him to\nopen when a gentleman knocks.\"\n\n\"And I advise you not to try it,\" said the voice from the inside.\n\nThe one thing a Kentuckian never shrinks from is a challenge. He only\nsaid, \"Wait a minute,\" while putting his broad shoulder against the\ndoor; but now George and I interfered. Neither of us had any desire to\nsignalize our entry into the village by a brawl, and after some trouble\nwe succeeded in pacifying our fire-eater with the promise to stop at\nthis house on our way back.\n\n\"I shall know it again,\" said the colonel, looking back, and nibbling\nhis long mustache with suppressed wrath; \"something has been spilled on\nthe threshold--something like blood.\"\n\nWe laughed heartily. The blood, we concluded, was in the colonel's eyes.\n\nSome time after nightfall we arrived in the village, having put thirteen\nmiles of road behind us without fatigue. Our host received us with a\nblazing fire--what fires they do have in the mountains, to be sure!--a\npitcher of cider, and the remark, \"Don't be afraid of it, gentlemen.\"\n\nAll three hastened to reassure him on this point. The colonel began with\na loud smack, and George finished the jug with a deep sigh.\n\n\"Don't be afraid of it,\" repeated the landlord, returning presently with\na fresh pitcher. \"There are five barrels more like it in the cellar.\"\n\n\"Landlord,\" quoth George, \"let one of your boys take a mattress, two\nblankets, and a pillow to the cellar. I intend to pass the night there.\"\n\n\"I only wish your well was full of it,\" said the colonel, taking a\nsecond pull at the jug, and making a second explosion with his lips.\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" said I, \"we have surely entered a land of milk and honey.\"\n\n\"You shall have as much of both as you desire,\" said our host, very\naffably. \"Supper is ready, gentlemen.\"\n\nAfter supper a man came in for whom I felt, upon the instant, one of\nthose secret antipathies which are natural to me. The man was an utter\nstranger. No matter: the repugnance seized me all the same.\n\nAfter a tour of the tap-room, and some words with our landlord in an\nundertone, the stranger went out with the look of a man who had asked\nfor something and had been refused.\n\n\"Where have I heard that man's voice?\" said the colonel, thoughtfully.\n\nOur landlord is one of the most genial to be found among the mountains.\nWhile sitting over the fire during the evening, the conversation turned\nupon the primitive simplicity of manners remarked among mountaineers in\ngeneral; and our host illustrated it with this incident:\n\n\"You noticed, perhaps, a man who left here a few moments ago?\" he began.\n\nWe replied affirmatively. It was my antipathy.\n\n\"Well, that man killed a traveller a few years back.\"\n\nWe instinctively recoiled. The air seemed tainted with the murderer's\npresence.\n\n\"Yes; dead as a mutton,\" continued the landlord, punching the logs\nreflectively, and filling the chimney with sparks. \"The man came to\nhis house one dark and stormy night, and asked to be admitted. The man\nof the house flatly refused. The stranger pleaded hard, but the fellow\nordered him away with threats. Finding entreaties useless, the traveller\nbegan to grow angry, and attempted to push open the door, which was\nonly fastened by a button, as the custom is. The man of the house said\nnothing, but took his gun from a corner, and when the intruder crossed\nthe threshold he put three slugs through him. The wounded man expired on\nthe threshold, covering it with his blood.\"\n\n\"Murdered him, and for that? Come, come, you are joking!\" ejaculated\nGeorge, with a half smile of incredulity.\n\n\"Blowed him right through, just as I tell you,\" reiterated the narrator,\nwithout heeding the doubt George's question implied.\n\n\"That sounds a little like Old Kentuck,\" observed the colonel, coolly.\n\n\"Yes; but listen to the sequel, gentlemen,\" resumed the landlord. \"The\nmurderer took the dead body in his arms, finding, to his horror, that\nit was an acquaintance with whom he had been drinking the day before;\nhe took up the body, as I was saying, laid it out upon a table, and\nthen went quietly to bed. In the morning he very honestly exhibited the\ncorpse to all who passed his door, and told his story as I tell it to\nyou. I had it from his own lips.\"\n\n\"That beats Kentucky,\" asseverated the colonel. For my own part, I\nbelieved the landlord was amusing himself at our expense.\n\n\"I don't know about Kentucky,\" observed the landlord; \"I was never there\nin my life; but I do know that, when the dead man was buried, the man\nwho killed him went to the funeral like any curious or indifferent\nspectator.\"\n\nThis was too much. George rose from his chair, and began to be\ninterested in a placard on the wall. \"And you say this happened near\nhere?\" he slowly inquired; \"perhaps, now, you could show us the very\nhouse?\" he finished, dryly.\n\n\"Nothing easier. It's only three miles back on the road you came. The\nblood-stain is plain, or was, on the threshold.\"\n\nWe exchanged glances. This was the house where we halted to inquire our\nway. The colonel's eyes dilated, but he said nothing.\n\n\"But was there no trial?\" I asked.\n\n\"Trial? oh yes. After several days had run by, somebody thought of\nthat; so one morning the slayer saddled his horse and rode over to the\ncounty-seat to inquire about it. He was tried at the next sessions, and\nacquitted. The judge charged justifiable homicide; that a man's house is\nhis fort; the jury did not leave their benches. By-the-bye, gentlemen,\nthat is some of the man's cider you are drinking.\"\n\nI felt decided symptoms of revolt in my stomach; George made a grimace,\nand the colonel threw his unfinished glass in the fire. During the\nremainder of the evening he rallied us a good deal on the subject of New\nEngland hospitality, but said no more about going back to chastise the\nman of the red house.[5]\n\nThe sun rose clear over the right shoulder of Kearsarge. After breakfast\nthe landlord took us out and introduced us to his neighbors, the\nmountains. While he was making the presentation in due form, I jotted\ndown the following, which has, at least, the merit of conciseness:\n\n_Upper Bartlett_: an ellipse of fertile land; three Lombardy poplars; a\nriver murmuring unseen; a wall of mountains, with Kearsarge looking up,\nand Carrigain looking down the intervale. _Item_: the cider is excellent.\n\nWe had before us the range extending between Swift River and the Saco,\nover which I looked from the summit of Chocorua straight to Mount\nWashington. To the east this range is joined with the out-works of\nMoat. Then come Table, Bear, Silver Spring (Bartlett Haystack), and\nTremont, in the order named. Then comes the valley of Sawyer's River,\nwith Carrigain rising between its walls; then, crossing to the north\nside of the Saco, the most conspicuous object is the bold Hart's Ledge,\nbetween which and Sawyer's Rock, on the opposite bank, the river is\ncrowded into a narrow channel. The mountain behind the hotel is Mount\nLangdon, with Crawford more distant. Observe closely the curious\nconfiguration of this peak. Whether we go up or down, it nods familiarly\nto us from every point of approach.\n\nBut Kearsarge and Carrigain are the grand features here. One gives\nhis adieu, the other his welcome. One is the perfection of symmetry,\nof grace; the other simply demands our homage. His snowy crown,\ndazzling white against the pure blue, was the badge of an incontestable\nsuperiority. These two mountains are the presiding genii of this\ncharming intervale. You look first at the massive lineaments of one,\nthen at the flowing lines of the other, as at celebrated men, whose\nfeatures you would strongly impress upon the memory.\n\nFrom the village street we saw the sun go down behind Mount Carrigain,\nand touch with his glittering sceptre the crest of Hancock. We looked up\nthe valley dominated by the giant of the Pemigewasset wilderness with\nfeelings of high respect for this illustrious hermit, who only deigns to\nshow himself from this single point, and whose peak long yielded only to\nthe most persevering and determined climbers.\n\nTwo days were formerly required for the ascent of this mountain, but\na long day will now suffice, thanks to the path constructed under the\ndirection of the Appalachian Club. The mountain is four thousand six\nhundred and twenty-five feet above the sea, and is wooded to its summit.\nThe valley of Sawyer's River drains the deep basin between Carrigain and\nHancock, entering the Saco near the railroad station called Livermore.\nThe lumbermen have now penetrated this valley to the foot of the\nmountain, with their rude logging roads, offering a way soon, it is\nhoped, to be made plainer for future climbers than it was our lot to\nfind it.\n\nThoroughly imbued with the spirit of the mountains, we now regarded\ndistances with disdain, and fatigue with indifference. We had learned\nto make our toilets in the stream, and our beds in the fragrant groves.\nTruly, the bronzed faces that peered at us as we bent over some solemn,\npine-shaded pool were not those we had been accustomed to seeing at\nhome; but having solved the problem of man's true existence, we only\nlaughed at each other's tawny countenances while shouldering our packs\nand tightening our belts for the day's march.\n\nLeaving Bartlett at an early hour, we turned aside from the highway\na little beyond the bridge which spans Sawyer's River, and were soon\nfollowing a rough and stony cart-way ascending the banks of this\nstream, which thundered along its rocky bed, making the woods echo with\nits roar. The road grew rapidly worse, the river wilder, the forest\ngloomier, until, at the end of two miles, coming suddenly out into the\nsun, we entered a rude street of unpainted cabins, terminating at some\nsaw-mills. This hamlet, which to the artistic eye so disadvantageously\nreplaces the original forest, is the only settlement in the large\ntownship of Livermore. Its mission is to ravage and lay waste the\nadjacent mountains. Notwithstanding the occupation is legitimate, one\ninstinctively rebels at the waste around him, where the splendid natural\nforest, literally hewed and hacked in pieces, exposes rudely all the\ndeformities of the mountains. But this lost hamlet is the first in which\na genuine emotion of any kind awaits the traveller. Ten to one it is\nlike nothing he ever dreamed of; his surprise is, therefore, extreme.\nThe men were rough, hardy-looking fellows; the women appeared contented,\nbut as if hard work had destroyed their good looks prematurely. Both\nannounced, by their looks and their manner, that the life they led was\nno child's play; the men spoke only when addressed; the women stole\nfurtive glances at us; the half-dressed children stopped their play\nto stare at the strangers. Here was neither spire nor bell. One cow\nfurnished all the milk for the commonalty. The mills being shut, there\nwas no sound except the river plashing over the rocks far down in the\ngorge below; and had I encountered such a place on the sea-coast or the\nfrontier, I should at once have said I had stumbled upon the secret\nhold of outlaws and smugglers, into which signs, grips, and passwords\nwere necessary to procure admission. To me, therefore, the hamlet of\nLivermore was a wholly new experience.\n\nFrom this hamlet to the foot of the mountain is a long and uninteresting\ntramp of five miles through the woods. We found the walking good, and\nstrode rapidly on, coming first to a wood-cutter's camp pitched on the\nbanks of Carrigain Brook, and next to the clearing they had made at the\nmountain's foot. Here the actual work of the ascent began in earnest.\n\nCarrigain is solid, compact, massive. It is covered from head to foot\nwith forest. No incident of the way diverts the attention for a single\nmoment from the severe exertion required to overcome its steeply\ninclined side; no breathing levels, no restful outlooks, no gorges, no\nprecipices, no cascades break the monotony of the escalade. We conquer,\nas Napoleon's grenadiers did, by our legs. It is the most inexorable of\nmountains, and the most exasperating. From base to summit you cannot\nobtain a cup of water to slake your thirst.\n\nTwo hours of this brought us out upon the bare summit of the great\nnorthern spur, beyond which the true peak rose a few hundred feet\nhigher. Carrigain, at once the desire and the bugbear of climbers, was\nbeneath our feet.\n\nWe have already examined, from the rocks of Chocorua, the situation\nof this peak. We then entitled it the Hub of the White Mountains.\nIt reveals all the magnitude, unfolds the topography of the woody\nwilderness stretching between the Saco and the Pemigewasset valleys. As\nnearly as possible, it exhibits the same amazing profusion of unbroken\nforest, here and there darkly streaked by hidden watercourses, as when\nthe daring foot of the first climber pressed the unviolated crest of the\naugust peak of Washington. In all its length and breadth there is not\none object that suggests, even remotely, the presence of man. We saw not\neven the smoke of a hunter's camp. All was just as created; an absolute,\nsavage, unkempt wilderness.\n\nHeavens, what a bristling array of dark and shaggy mountains! Now and\nthen, where water gleamed out of their hideous depths, a great brilliant\neye seemed watching us from afar. We knew that we had only to look up to\nsee a dazzling circlet of lofty peaks drawn around the horizon, chains\nset with glittering stones, clusters sparkling with antique crests;\nstill we could not withdraw our eyes from the profound abysses sunk deep\nin the bowels of the land, typical of the uncovered bed of the primeval\nocean, sad and terrible, from which that ocean seemed only to have just\nreceded.\n\nBut who shall describe all this solitary, this oppressive grandeur?\nand what language portray the awfulness of these untrodden mountains?\nNow and then, high up their bleak summits, a patch of forest had been\nplucked up by the roots, or shaken from its hold in the throes of the\nmountain, laid bare a long and glittering scar, red as a half-closed\nwound. Such is the appearance of Mount Lowell, on the other side of the\ngap dividing Carrigain from the Notch mountains. We saw where the dark\nslope of Mount Willey gives birth to the infant Merrimack. We saw the\nconfluent waters of this stream, so light of foot, speeding through the\ngloomy defiles, as if fear had given them wings. We saw the huge mass of\nMount Hancock force itself slowly upward out of the press. Unutterable\nlawlessness stamped the whole region as its own.\n\nThat I have thus dwelt upon its most extraordinary feature, instead of\nexamining the landscape in detail, must suffice for the intelligent\nreader. I have not the temerity to coolly put the dissecting-knife into\nits heart. To science the things which belong to science. Besides, to\nthe man of feeling all this is but secondary. We are not here to make a\nchart.\n\nAfter a visit to the high summit, where some work was done in the\ninterest of future climbers, we set out at four in the afternoon, on\nour return down the mountain. A second time we halted on the spur to\nglance upward at the heap of summits over which Mount Washington lifts a\nregular dome. The long line of peaks, ascending from Crawford's, seems\napproaching it by a succession of huge steps. It was after dark when we\nsaw the lights of the village before us, and were again warmly welcomed\nby the rousing fire and smoking viands of mine host.\n\n\n\n\nVII.\n\n_VALLEY OF THE SACO._\n\n    With our faint heart the mountain strives;\n    Its arms outstretched, the Druid wood\n    Waits with its benedicte.\n          _Sir Launfal._\n\n\nAt eight o'clock in the morning we resumed our march, with the intention\nof reaching Crawford's the same evening. The day was cold, raw, and\nwindy, so we walked briskly--sharp air and cutting wind acting like whip\nand spur.\n\nI retain a vivid recollection of this morning. Autumn had passed her\ncool hand over the fevered earth. Soft as three-piled velvet, the green\nturf left no trace of our tread. The sky was of a dazzling blue, and\nfrescoed with light clouds, transparent as gauze, pure as the snow\nglistening on the high summits. On both sides of us audacious mountains\nbraced their feet in the valley; while others mounted over their brawny\nshoulders, as if to scale the heavens.\n\nBut what shall I say of the grand harlequinade of nature which the\nvalley presented to our view? I cannot employ Victor Hugo's odd simile\nof a peacock's tail; that is more of a witticism than a description.\nThe death of the year seemed to prefigure the glorious and surprising\nchanges of color in a dying dolphin--putting on unparalleled beauty at\nthe moment of dissolution, and so going out in a blaze of glory.\n\nFrom the meagre summits enfiladed by the north wind, and where a\nsolitary pine or cedar intensified the desolation, to the upper forests,\nthe mountains bristled with a scanty growth of dead or dying trees.\nThose scattered birches, high up the mountain side, looked like quills\non a porcupine's back; that group, glistening in the morning sun,\nlike the pipes of an immense organ. From this line of death, which\nvegetation crossed at its peril, the eye dropped down over a limitless\nforest of dark evergreen spotted with bright yellow. The effect of the\nsunlight on this foliage was magical. Myriad flambeaux illuminated the\ndeep gloom, doubling the intensity of the sun, emitting rays, glowing,\nresplendent. This splendid light, which the heavy masses of orange\nseemed to absorb, gave a velvety softness to the lower ridges and spurs,\ncovering their hard, angular lines with a magnificent drapery. The lower\nforests, the valley, were one vast sea of color. Here the bewildering\nmelange of green and gold, orange and crimson, purple and russet,\nproduced the effect of an immense Turkish rug--the colors being soft\nand rich, rather than vivid or brilliant. This quality, the blending\nof a thousand tints, the dreamy grace, the sumptuous profusion, the\ninexpressible tenderness, intoxicated the senses. Earth seemed no longer\nearth. We had entered a garden of the gods.\n\nFrom time to time a scarlet maple flamed up in the midst of the forest,\nand its red foliage, scattered at our feet by the wind, glowed like\nflakes of fire beaten from an anvil. A tangled maze of color changed the\nroad into an avenue bordered with rare and variegated plants. Autumn's\nbright sceptre, the golden-rod, pointed the way. Blue and white daisies\nstrewed the greensward.\n\nAfter passing Sawyer's River, the road turned abruptly to the north,\nskirting the base of the Nancy range. We were at the door of the second\nchamber in this remarkable gallery of nature.\n\nBefore crossing the threshold it is expedient to allude to the incident\nwhich has given a name not only to the mountain, but to the torrent we\nsee tearing its impetuous way down from the upper forests. The story of\nNancy's Brook is as follows:\n\nIn the latter part of the last century, a maiden, whose Christian name\nof Nancy is all that comes down to us, was living in the little hamlet\nof Jefferson. She loved, and was betrothed to a young man of the farm.\nThe wedding-day was fixed, and the young couple were on the eve of\nsetting out for Portsmouth, where their happiness was to be consummated\nat the altar. In the trustfulness of love, the young girl confided the\nsmall sum which constituted all her marriage-portion to her lover. This\nman repaid her simple faith with the basest treachery. Seizing his\nopportunity, he left the hamlet without a word of explanation or of\nadieu. The deserted maiden was one of those natures which cannot quietly\nsit down under calamity. Urged on by the intensity of her feelings, she\nresolved to pursue her recreant lover. He could not resist her prayers,\nher entreaties, her tears! She was young, vigorous, intrepid. With her\nto decide and to act were the same thing. In vain the family attempted\nto dissuade her from her purpose. At nightfall she set out.\n\nA hundred years ago the route taken by this brave girl was not, as\nto-day, a thoroughfare which one may follow with his eyes shut. It was\nonly an obscure path, little travelled by day, deserted by night. For\nthirty miles, from Colonel Whipple's, in Jefferson, to Bartlett, there\nwas not a human habitation. The forests were filled with wild beasts.\nThe rigor of the season--it was December--added its own perils. But\nnothing could daunt the heroic spirit of Nancy; she had found man more\ncruel than all besides.\n\n[Illustration: NANCY IN THE SNOW.]\n\nThe girl's hope was to overtake her lover before dawn at the place where\nshe expected he would have camped for the night. She found the camp\ndeserted, and the embers extinguished. Spurred on by hope or despair,\nshe pushed on down the tremendous defile of the Notch, fording the\nturbulent and frozen Saco, and toiling through deep snows and over rocks\nand fallen trees, until, feeling her strength fail, she sunk exhausted\non the margin of the brook which seems perpetually bemoaning her sad\nfate. Here, cold and rigid as marble, under a canopy of evergreen which\nthe snow tenderly drooped above, they found her. She was wrapped in her\ncloak, and in the same attitude of repose as when she fell asleep on her\nnuptial couch of snow-crusted moss.\n\nThe story goes that the faithless lover became a hopeless maniac on\nlearning the fate of his victim, dying in horrible paroxysms not long\nafter. Tradition adds that for many years, on every anniversary of her\ndeath, the mountains resounded with ravings, shrieks, and agonized\ncries, which the superstitious attributed to the unhappy ghost of the\nmaniac lover.[6]\n\nIt was not quite noon when we entered the beautiful and romantic glen\nunder the shadow of Mount Crawford. Upon our left, a little in advance,\na solidly-built English country-house, with gables, stood on a terrace\nwell above the valley. At our right, and below, was the old Mount\nCrawford tavern, one of the most ancient of mountain hostelries. Upon\nthe opposite side of the vale rose the enormous mass of Mount Crawford;\nand near where we stood, a humble mound, overgrown with bushes, enclosed\nthe mortal remains of the hardy pioneer whose monument is the mountain.\n\nWe had an excusable curiosity to see a man who, in the prime of life,\nhad forsaken the city, its pleasures, its opportunities, and had come\nto pass the rest of his life among these mountains; one, too, whose\nenormous possessions procured for him the title of Lord of the Valley.\nWe heard with astonishment that our day's journey, of which we had\ncompleted the half only, was wholly over his tract--I ought to say his\ndominions--that is, over thirteen miles of field, forest, and mountain.\nThis being equal to a small principality, it seemed quite natural and\nproper to approach the proprietor with some degree of ceremony.\n\nA servant took our cards at the door, and returned with an invitation to\nenter. The apartment into which we were conducted was the most singular\nI have ever seen; certainly it has no counterpart in this world, unless\nthe famous hut of Robinson Crusoe has escaped the ravages of time.\nIt was literally crammed with antique furniture, among which was a\nhigh-backed chair used in dentistry; squat little bottles, containing\nchemicals; and a bench, on which was a spirit-lamp; a turning-lathe, a\nsmall portable furnace, and a variety of instruments or tools of which\nwe did not know the use. A few prints and oil-paintings adorned the\nwalls. A cheerful fire burnt on the hearth.\n\n\"Were we in the sixteenth century,\" said George, \"I should say this was\nthe laboratory of some famous alchemist.\"\n\n[Illustration: ABEL CRAWFORD.]\n\nFurther investigation was cut short by the entrance of our host, who was\na venerable-looking man, turned of eighty, with a silver beard falling\nupon his breast, and a general expression of benignity. He stooped a\nlittle, but seemed hale and hearty, notwithstanding the weight of his\nfourscore years.\n\nDoctor Bemis received us graciously. For an hour he entertained us with\nthe story of his life among the mountains, \"to which,\" said he, \"I\ncredit the last forty-five years--for I at first came here in pursuit of\nhealth.\" After he had satisfied our curiosity concerning himself, which\nhe did with perfect _bonhomie_, I asked him to describe Abel Crawford,\nthe veteran guide of the White Hills.\n\n\"Abel,\" said the doctor, \"was six feet four; Erastus, the eldest son,\nwas six feet six, or taller than Washington; and Ethan was still\ntaller, being nearly seven feet. In fact, not one of the sons was less\nthan six feet; so you may imagine what sort of family group it was\nwhen 'his boys,' as Abel loved to call them, were all at home. Ah,\nwell!\" continued the doctor, with a sigh, \"that kind of timber does\nnot flourish in the mountains now. Why, the very sight of one of those\ngiants inspired the timid with confidence. Ethan, called in his day\nthe Giant of the Hills, was a man of iron frame and will. Fear and he\nwere strangers. He would take up an exhausted traveller in his sinewy\narms and carry him as you would a baby, until his strength or courage\nreturned. The first bridle-path up the mountain was opened by him\nin--let me see--ah! I have it, it was in 1821. Ethan, with the help of\nhis father, also built the Notch House above.[7]\n\n\"Abel was long-armed, lean, and sinewy. Doctor Dwight, whose 'Travels\nin New England' you have doubtless read, stopped with Crawford, on his\nway down the Notch, in 1797. His nearest neighbor then, on the north,\nwas Captain Rosebrook, who lived on or near the site of the present\nFabyan House. Crawford's life of hardship had made little impression on\na constitution of iron. At seventy-five he rode the first horse that\nreached the summit of Mount Washington. At eighty he often walked to\nhis son's (Thomas J. Crawford), at the entrance of the Notch, before\nbreakfast. I recollect him perfectly at this time, and his appearance\nwas peculiarly impressive. He was erect and vigorous as one of those\npines on yonder mountain. His long white hair fell down upon his\nshoulders, and his fresh, ruddy face was always expressive of good-humor.\n\n\"The destructive freshet of 1826,\" continued the doctor, \"swept\neverything before it, flooding the intervale, and threatening the old\nhouse down there with instant demolition. During that terrible night,\nwhen the Willey family perished, Mrs. Crawford was alone with her young\nchildren in the house. The water rose with such rapidity that she was\ndriven to the upper story for safety. While here, the thud of floating\ntrees, driven by the current against the house, awakened new terrors. At\nevery concussion the house trembled. Wooden walls could not long stand\nthat terrible pounding. The heroic woman, alive to the danger, seized a\nstout pole, and, going to the nearest window, kept the side of the house\nexposed to the flood free from the mass of wreck-stuff collected against\nit. She held her post thus throughout the night, until the danger had\npassed. When the flood subsided, Crawford found several fine trout alive\nin his cellar.\"\n\n\"When do the great freshets usually occur?\" I asked.\n\n\"In the autumn,\" replied our host. \"It is not the melting snows, but the\nsudden rainfalls that we fear.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" resumed he, reflectively, \"the Crawfords were a family of\nathletes. With them the race of guides became extinct. Soon after\nsettling here, Abel went with his wife to Bartlett on some occasion,\nleaving their two boys in the care of a hired man. When they had gone,\nthis man took what he could find of value and decamped. When Abel\nreturned, which he did on the following day, he immediately set out\nin pursuit of the thief, overtook him thirty miles from here, in the\nFranconia forests, flogged him within an inch of his life, and let him\ngo.\"\n\n\"Sixty miles on foot, and alone, to recover a few stolen goods, and\npunish a thief!\" cried the astonished colonel; \"that beats Daniel Boone.\"\n\n\"Yes; and what is more, the boys were brought up to face hunger, cold,\nfatigue, with Indian stoicism, and even to encounter bears, lynxes, and\nwolves with no other weapons than those provided by nature. There, now,\nwas Ethan, for example,\" said the doctor, smiling at the recollection.\n\"One day he took it into his head to have a tame bear for the diversion\nof his guests. Well, he caught a young one, half grown, and remarkably\nvicious, in a trap. But how to get him home! At length Ethan tied his\nfore and hind paws together so he couldn't scratch, and put a muzzle of\nwithes over his nose so he couldn't bite. Then, shouldering his prize\nas he would a bag of meal, the guide started for home, in great glee\nat the success of his clever expedient. He had not gone far, however,\nbefore Bruin managed to get one paw wholly and his muzzle partly free,\nand began to scratch and struggle and snap at his captor savagely. Ethan\nwanted to get the bear home terribly; but, after having his clothing\nnearly torn off his back, he grew angry, and threw the beast upon the\nground with such force as to kill him instantly.\"\n\n\"Report,\" said I, \"credits you with naming most of the mountains which\noverlook the intervale.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied the doctor, \"Resolution, over there\"--indicating the\nmountain allied to Crawford, and to the ridge which forms one of\nthe buttresses of Mount Washington--\"I named in recognition of the\nperseverance of Mr. Davis, who became discouraged while making a path to\nMount Washington in 1845.\"\n\n\"Is the route practicable?\" I asked.\n\n\"Practicable, yes; but nearly obliterated, and seldom ascended. Have you\nseen Frankenstein?\" demanded the doctor, in his turn.\n\nWe replied in the negative.\n\n\"It will repay a visit. I named it for a young German artist who passed\nsome time with me, and who was fascinated by its rugged picturesqueness.\nHere is some of his work,\" pointing to the paintings which, apparently,\nformed the foundation of the collection on the walls.\n\nOur host accompanied us to the door with a second injunction not to\nforget Frankenstein.\n\n\"You have something there good for the eyes,\" I observed, indicating the\ngreen carpet of the vale beneath us.\n\n\"True; but you should have seen it when the deer boldly came down the\nmountain and browsed quietly among the cattle. That was a pretty sight,\nand one of frequent occurrence when I first knew the place. At that\ntime,\" he continued, \"the stage passed up every other day. Sometimes\nthere were one or two, but seldom three passengers.\"\n\nProceeding on our way, we now had a fine view of the Giant's Stairs,\nwhich we had already seen from Mount Carrigain, but less boldly outlined\nthan they appear from the valley, where they really look like two\nenormous steps cut on the very summit of the opposite ridge. No name\ncould be more appropriate, though each of the degrees of this colossal\nstaircase demands a giant not of our days; for they are respectively\nthree hundred and fifty, and four hundred and fifty feet in height. It\nwas over those steps that the Davis path ascended.\n\nA mile or a mile and a half above the Crawford Glen, we emerged from\nbehind a projecting spur of the mountain which hid the upper valley,\nwhen, by a common impulse, we stopped, fairly stupefied with admiration\nand surprise.\n\nThrust out before us, athwart the pass, a black and castellated pile\nof precipices shot upward to a dizzy height, and broke off abruptly\nagainst the sky. Its bulging sides and regular outlines resembled the\nclustered towers and frowning battlements of some antique fortress\nbuilt to command the pass. Gashed, splintered, defaced, it seemed to\nhave withstood for ages the artillery of heaven and the assaults of\ntime. With what solitary grandeur it lifted its mailed front above the\nforest, and seemed even to regard the mountains with disdain! Silent,\ngloomy, impregnable, it wanted nothing to recall those dark abodes of\nthe Thousand and One Nights, in which malignant genii are imprisoned for\nthousands of years.\n\nThis was Frankenstein. We at once accord it a place as the most\nsuggestive of cliffs. From the other side of the valley the resemblance\nto a medi\u00e6val castle is still more striking. It has a black gorge for a\nmoat, so deep that the head swims when crossing it; and to-day, as we\ncrept over the cat's-cradle of a bridge thrown across for the passage\nof the railway, and listened to the growling of the torrent far down\nbeneath, the whole frail structure seemed trembling under us.\n\nBut what a contrast! what a singular freak of nature! At the foot of\nthis grisly precipice, clothing it with almost superhuman beauty, was a\nplantation of maples and birches, all resplendent in crimson and gold.\nNever have I seen such masses of color laid on such a background. Below\nall was light and splendor; above, all darkness and gloom. Here the eye\nfairly revelled in beauty, there it recoiled in terror. The cliff was\nlike a naked and swarthy Ethiopian up to his knees in roses.\n\nWe walked slowly, with our eyes fixed on these cliffs, until another\nturn of the road--we were now on the railway embankment--opened a vista\ndeserving to be remembered as one of the marvels of this glorious\npicture-gallery.\n\nThe perfection and magnificence of this truly regal picture, the\ngigantic scale on which it is presented, without the least blemish to\nmar its harmony or disturb the impression of one grand, unique whole, is\na revelation to the least susceptible nature in the world.\n\nFrankenstein was now a little withdrawn, on our left. Upon the right,\nfluttering its golden foliage as if to attract our attention, a\nplantation of tall, satin-stemmed birches stretched for some distance\nalong the railway. Between the long buttress of the cliff and this\nforest lay open the valley of Mount Washington River, which is driven\ndeep into the heart of the great range. There, through this valley,\ncutting the sapphire sky with their silver silhouette, were the giant\nmountains, surmounted by the splendid dome of Washington himself.\n\n[Illustration: STORM ON MOUNT WILLEY.]\n\nPassing beyond, we had a fine retrospect of Crawford, with his curved\nhorn; and upon the dizzy iron bridge thrown across the gorge beneath\nFrankenstein, striking views are obtained of the mountains below. They\nseemed loftier and grander, and more imposing than ever.\n\nTurning our faces toward the north, we now beheld the immense bulk and\nsuperb crest of Willey. On the other side of the valley was the long\nbattlement of Mount Webster. We were at the entrance of the great Notch.\n\n\n\n\nVIII.\n\n_THROUGH THE NOTCH._\n\n    Around his waist are forests braced,\n    The avalanche in his hand.--BYRON.\n\n\nThe valley, which had continually contracted since leaving Bartlett,\nnow appeared fast shut between these two mountains; but on turning the\ntremendous support which Mount Willey flings down, we were in presence\nof the amazing defile cloven through the midst, and giving entrance to\nthe heart of the White Hills.\n\nThese gigantic mountains divided to the right and left, like the Red\nSea before the Israelites. Through the immense trough, over which their\ncrests hung suspended in mid-air, the highway creeps and the river\nsteals away. The road is only seen at intervals through the forest; a\nlow murmur, like the hum of bees, announces the river.\n\nI have no conception of the man who can approach this stupendous chasm\nwithout a sensation of fear. The idea of imminent annihilation is\neverywhere overwhelming. The mind refuses to reason, or rather to fix\nitself, except on a single point. What if the same power that commanded\nthese awful mountains to remove should hurl them back to ever-during\nfixedness? Should, do I say? The gulf seemed contracting under our very\neyes--the great mountains toppling to their fall. With an eagerness\nexcited by high expectation, we had pressed forward; but now we\nhesitated.\n\nThis emotion, which many of my readers have doubtless partaken, was our\ntribute to the dumb but eloquent expression of power too vast for our\nfeeble intellects to measure. It was the triumph of matter over mind; of\nthe finite over the infinite.\n\nBelow, it was all admiration and surprise; here, all amazement and fear.\nThe more the mountains exalted themselves, the more we were abased.\nTrusting, nevertheless, in our insignificance, we moved on, looking with\nall our eyes, absorbed, silent, and almost worshipping.\n\nThe wide split of the Notch, which we had now entered, had on one side\nMount Willey, drawn up to his full height; and on the other Mount\nWebster, striped with dull red on clingy yellow, like an old tiger's\nskin. Willey is the highest; Webster the most remarkable. Willey has\na conical spire; Webster a long, irregular battlement. Willey is a\nmountain; Webster a huge block of granite.\n\nFor two miles the gorge winds between these mountains to where it is\napparently sealed up by a sheer mass of purple precipices lodged full\nin its throat. This is Mount Willard. The vast chasm glowed with the\ngorgeous colors of the foliage, even when a passing cloud obscured the\nsun. These general observations made, we cast our eyes down into the\nvale reposing at our feet. We had chosen for our point of view that to\nwhich Abel Crawford conducted Sir Charles Lyell in 1845. The scientist\nhas made the avalanche bear witness to the glacier, precisely as one\ncriminal is made to convict another under our laws.\n\nFive hundred feet below us was a little clearing, containing a hamlet\nof two or three houses. From this hamlet to the storm-crushed crags\nglistening on the summit of Mount Willey the track of an old avalanche\nwas still distinguishable, though the birches and alders rooted among\nthe d\u00e9bris threatened to obliterate it at no distant day.\n\nWe descended by this still plain path to the houses at the foot of the\nmountain. One and the other are associated with the most tragic event\nconnected with the history of the great Notch.\n\nWe found two houses, a larger and smaller, fronting the road, neither\nof which merits a description; although evidence that it was visited by\nmultitudes of curious pilgrims abounded on the walls of the unoccupied\nbuilding.\n\nSince quite early in the century, this house was kept as an inn; and\nfor a long time it was the only stopping-place between Abel Crawford's\nbelow and Captain Rosebrook's above--a distance of thirteen miles. Its\nsituation, at the entrance of the great Notch, was advantageous to the\npublic and to the landlord, but attended with a danger which seems not\nto have been sufficiently regarded, if indeed it caused successive\ninmates particular concern. This fatal security had a lamentable sequel.\n\n[Illustration: MOUNT WILLARD FROM WILLEY BROOK.]\n\nIn 1826 this house was occupied by Samuel Willey, his wife, five\nchildren, and two hired men. During the summer a drought of unusual\nseverity dried the streams, and parched the thin soil of the neighboring\nmountains. On the evening of the 26th of June, the family heard a heavy,\nrumbling noise, apparently proceeding from the mountain behind them. In\nterror and amazement they ran out of the house. They saw the mountain\nin motion. They saw an immense mass of earth and rock detach itself\nand move toward the valley, at first slowly, then with gathered and\nirresistible momentum. Rocks, trees, earth, were swooping down upon\nthem from the heights in three destroying streams. The spectators stood\nrooted to the spot. Before they could recover their presence of mind the\navalanche was upon them. One torrent crossed the road only ten rods from\nthe house; another a little distance beyond; while the third and largest\nportion took a different direction. With great labor a way was made over\nthe mass of rubbish for the road. The avalanche had shivered the largest\ntrees, and borne rocks weighing many tons almost to the door of the\nlonely habitation.\n\nThis awful warning passed unheeded. On the 28th of August, at dusk,\na storm burst upon the mountains, and raged with indescribable fury\nthroughout the night. The rain fell in sheets. Innumerable torrents\nsuddenly broke forth on all sides, deluging the narrow valley, and\nbearing with them forests that had covered the mountains for ages. The\nswollen and turbid Saco rose over its banks, flooding the Intervales,\nand spreading destruction in its course.\n\nTwo days afterward a traveller succeeded in forcing his way through the\nNotch. He found the Willey House standing uninjured in the midst of\nwoful desolation. A second avalanche, descended from Mount Willey during\nthe storm, had buried the little vale beneath its ruins. The traveller,\naffrighted by the scene around him, pushed open the door. As he did so,\na half-famished dog, sole inmate of the house, disputed his entrance\nwith a mournful howl. He entered. The interior was silent and deserted.\nA candle burnt to the socket, the clothing of the inmates lying by their\nbedsides, testified to the haste with which this devoted family had\nfled. The death-like hush pervading the lonely cabin--these evidences\nof the horrible and untimely fate of the family--the appalling scene of\nwreck all around, froze the solitary intruder's blood. In terror he,\ntoo, fled from the doomed dwelling.\n\nOn arriving at Bartlett, the traveller reported what he had seen.\nAssistance was despatched to the scene of disaster. The rescuers came\ntoo late to render aid to the living, but they found, and buried on the\nspot, the bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Willey, and the two hired men. The\nremaining children were never found.\n\nIt was easily conjectured that the terrified family, alive at last to\nthe appalling danger that menaced them, and feeling the solid earth\ntremble in the throes of the mountain, sought safety in flight. They\nonly rushed to their doom. The discovery of the bodies showed but too\nplainly the manner of their death. They had been instantly swallowed up\nby the avalanche, which, in the inexplicable order of things visible in\ngreat calamities, divided behind the house, leaving the frail structure\nunharmed, while its inmates were hurried into eternity.[8]\n\nFor some time after the disaster a curse seemed to rest upon the\nold Notch House. No one would occupy it. Travellers shunned it. It\nremained untenanted, though open to all who might be driven to seek its\ninhospitable shelter, until the deep impression of horror which the fate\nof the Willey family inspired had, in a measure, effaced itself.\n\nThe effects of the cataclysm were everywhere. For twenty-one miles,\nalmost its entire length, the turnpike was demolished. Twenty-one of\nthe twenty-three bridges were swept away. In some places the meadows\nwere buried to the depth of several feet beneath sand, earth, and\nrocks; in others, heaps of great trees, which the torrent had torn\nup by the roots, barricaded the route. The mountains presented a\nghastly spectacle. One single night sufficed to obliterate the work of\ncenturies, to strip their summits bare of verdure, and to leave them\nwith shreds of forest and patches of shrubbery hanging to their stark\nand naked sides. Thus their whole aspect was altered to an extent hardly\nto be realized to-day, though remarked with mingled wonder and dread\nlong after the period of the convulsion.\n\nFrom the house our eyes naturally wandered to the mountain, where\nquarrymen were pecking at its side like yellow-hammers at a dead\nsycamore. All at once a tremendous explosion was heard, and a stream\nof loosened earth and bowlders came rattling down the mountain. So\nunexpected was the sound, so startling its multiplied echo, it seemed as\nif the mountain had uttered a roar of rage and pain, which was taken up\nand repeated by the other mountains until the uproar became deafening.\nWhen the reverberation died away in the distance, we again heard the\nmetallic click of the miners' hammers chipping away at the gaunt ribs of\nMount Willey.\n\nHow does it happen that this catastrophe is still able to awaken the\nliveliest interest for the fate of the Willey family? Why is it that\nthe oft-repeated tale seems ever new in the ears of sympathetic\nlisteners? Our age is crowded with horrors, to which this seems trifling\nindeed. May we not attribute it to the influence which the actual scene\nexerts on the imagination? One must stand on the spot to comprehend;\nmust feel the mysterious terror to which all who come within the\ninfluence of the gorge submit. Here the annihilation of a family is but\nthe legitimate expression of that feeling. It seems altogether natural\nto the place. The ravine might well be the sepulchre of a million human\nbeings, instead of the grave of a single obscure family.\n\nWe reached the public-house, at the side of the Willey house, with\nappetites whetted by our long walk. The mercury had only risen to\nthirty-eight degrees by the thermometer nailed to the door-post. We went\nin.\n\nIn general, the mountain publicans are not only very obliging, but equal\nto even the most unexpected demands. The colonel, who never brags, had\nboasted for the last half-hour what he was going to do at this repast.\nIn point of fact, we were famishing.\n\nA man was standing with his back to the fire, his hands thrust\nunderneath his coat-tails, and a pipe in his mouth. Either the pipe\nilluminated his nose, or his nose the pipe. He also had a nervous\ncontraction of the muscles of his face, causing an involuntary twitching\nof the eyebrows, and at the same time of his ears, up and down. This\nhabit, taken in connection with the perfect immobility of the figure,\nmade on us the impression of a statue winking. We therefore hesitated to\naddress it--I mean _him_--until a moment's puzzled scrutiny satisfied us\nthat it--I mean the strange object--was alive. He merely turned his head\nwhen we entered the room, wagged his ears playfully, winked furiously,\nand then resumed his first attitude. In all probability he was some\nstranger like ourselves.\n\nI accosted him. \"Sir,\" said I, \"can you tell us if it is possible to\nprocure a dinner here?\"\n\nThe man took the pipe from his mouth, shook out the ashes very\ndeliberately, and, without looking at me, tranquilly observed,\n\n\"You would like dinner, then?\"\n\n\"Would we like dinner? We breakfasted at Bartlett, and have passed six\nhours fasting.\"\n\n\"And eleven miles. You see, a long way between meals,\" interjected\nGeorge, with decision.\n\n\"It's after the regular dinner,\" drawled the apathetic smoker, using his\nthumb for a stopper, and stooping for a brand with which to relight his\npipe.\n\n\"In that case we are willing to pay for any additional trouble,\" I\nhastened to say.\n\nThe man seemed reflecting. We _were_ hungry; that was incontestable;\nbut we were also shivering, and he maintained his position astride the\nhearth-stone, like the fabled Colossus of old.\n\n\"A cold day,\" said the colonel, threshing himself.\n\n\"I did not notice it,\" returned the stranger, indifferently.\n\n\"Only thirty-eight at the door,\" said George, stamping his feet with\nunnecessary vehemence.\n\n\"Indeed!\" observed our man, with more interest.\n\n\"Yes,\" George asserted; \"and if the fireplace were only larger, or the\nscreen smaller.\"\n\nThe man hastily stepped aside, knocking over, as he did so, a blazing\nbrand, which he kicked viciously back into the fire.\n\nHaving carried the outworks, we approached the citadel. \"Perhaps, sir,\"\nI ventured, \"you can inform us where the landlord may be found?\"\n\n\"You wanted dinner, I believe?\" The tone in which this question was put\ngave me goose-flesh. I could not speak, George dropped into a chair.\nThe colonel propped himself against the chimney-piece. I shrugged my\nshoulders, and nodded expressively to my companions, who returned two\nglances of eloquent dismay. Evidently nothing was to be got out of this\nfellow.\n\n\"Dinner for one?\" continued the eternal smoker.\n\n\"For three!\" I exclaimed, out of all patience.\n\n\"For four; I shall eat double,\" added the colonel.\n\n\"Six!\" shouted George, seizing the dinner-bell on the mantel-piece.\n\n\"Stop,\" said the man, betraying a little excitement; \"don't ring that\nbell.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" demanded George; \"we want to see the landlord; and, by Jove,\"\nbrandishing the bell aloft, \"see him we will!\"\n\n\"He stands before you, gentlemen; and if you will have a little patience\nI will see what can be done.\" So saying, he put his pipe on the\nchimney-piece, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and went out,\nmuttering, as he did so. \"The world was not made in a day.\"\n\nIn three-quarters of an hour we sat down to a funereal repast, the\nbare recollection of which makes me ill, but which was enlivened by the\nfollowing conversation:\n\n\"How many inhabitants are in your tract?\" I asked of the man who waited\non us.\n\n\"Do you mean inhabitants?\"\n\n\"Certainly, I mean inhabitants.\"\n\n\"Well, that's not an easy one.\"\n\n\"How so?\"\n\n\"Because the same question not only puzzled the State Legislature, but\nmade the attorney-general sick.\"\n\nWe became attentive.\n\n\"Explain that, if you please,\" said I.\n\n\"Why, just look at it: with only eight legal voters in the tract\" (he\ncalled it track), \"we cast five hundred ballots at the State election.\"\n\n\"Five hundred ballots! then your voters must have sprung from the ground\nor from the rocks.\"\n\n\"Pretty nearly so.\"\n\n\"Actual men?\"\n\n\"Actual men.\"\n\n\"You are jesting.\"\n\nMy man looked at me as if I had offered him an affront. The supposition\nwas plainly inadmissible. He was completely innocent of the charge.\n\n\"You hear those men pounding away up the hill?\" he demanded, jerking his\nthumb in the direction indicated.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Well, those are the five hundred voters. On election morning they came\nto the polling-place with a ballot in one hand, and a pick, a sledge,\nor a drill in the other. Our supervisor is a very honest, blunt sort of\nman: he refused their ballots on the spot.\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"Well, one of them had a can of nitro-glycerine and a coil of wire. He\ndeposited his can in a corner, hitched on the wire, and was going out\nwith his comrades, when the supervisor, feeling nervous, said,\n\n\"'The polls are open, gentlemen.'\"\n\n\"Ingenious,\" remarked George.\n\nThe man looked astounded.\n\n\"He means dangerous,\" said I; \"but go on.\"\n\n\"I will. When the votes were counted, at sundown, it was found that our\nprecinct had elected two representatives to the General Court. But when\nthe successful candidates presented their certificates at Concord, some\nmeddlesome city fellow questioned the validity of the election. The\nupshot of it was that the two nitro-glycerites came back with a flea in\neach ear.\"\n\n\"And the five hundred were disfranchised,\" said George.\n\n\"Why, as to that, half were French Canadians, half Irish, and the devil\nknows what the rest were; I don't.\"\n\n\"Never mind the rest. You see,\" said George, rising, \"how, with the\nrailway, the blessings of civilization penetrate into the dark corners\nof the earth.\"\n\nThe colonel began his sacramental, \"That beats--\" when he was\ninterrupted by a second explosion, which shook the building. We paid our\nreckoning, George saying, as he threw his money on the table, \"A heavy\ncharge.\"\n\n\"No more than the regular price,\" said the landlord, stiffly.\n\n\"I referred, my dear sir, to the explosion,\" replied George, with the\nsardonic grin habitual to him on certain occasions.\n\n\"Oh!\" said the host, resuming his pipe and his fireplace.\n\nWe spent the remaining hours of this memorable afternoon sauntering\nthrough the Notch, which is dripping with cascades, and noisy with\nmountain torrents. The Saco, here nothing but a brook, crawls languidly\nalong its bed of broken rock. From dizzy summit to where they meet the\nriver, the old wasted mountains sit warming their scarred sides in the\nsun. Looking up at the passage of the railway around Mount Willey, it\nimpressed us as a single fractured stone might have done on the Great\nPyramid, or a pin's scratch on the face of a giant. The locomotive,\nwhich groped its way along its broken shell, stopped, and stealthily\nmoving again, seemed a mouse that the laboring mountain had brought\nforth. But when its infernal clamor broke the silence, what demoniacal\nyells shook the forests! Farewell to our dream of inviolable nature. The\ndemon of progress had forced his way into the very sanctuary. There were\nno longer any White Mountains.\n\nWe passed by the beautiful brook Kedron, flung down from the utmost\nheights of Willey, between banks mottled with colors. Then, high up on\nour right, two airy water-falls seemed to hang suspended from the summit\nof Webster. These, called respectively the Silver Cascade, and the\nFlume withdrew the attention from every other object, until a sharp turn\nto the right brought the overhanging precipice of Mount Willard full\nupon us. This enormous mass of granite, rising seven hundred feet above\nthe road, stands in the very jaws of the gorge, which it commands from\nend to end.\n\n[Illustration: THE CASCADES, MOUNT WEBSTER.]\n\nHere the railway seems fairly stopped; but with a graceful sweep it\neludes the mountain, and glides around its massive shoulder, giving, as\nit does so, a hand to the high-road, which comes straggling up the sharp\nascent. The river, now shrunken to a rivulet, is finally lost to view\nbeneath heaped-up blocks of granite, which the infuriated old mountain\nhas hurled down upon it. It is heard painfully gurgling under the ruins,\nlike a victim crushed, and dying by inches.\n\nNow and here we entered a close, dark defile hewn down between cliffs,\nascending on the right in regular terraces, on the left in ruptured\nmasses. These terraces were fringed at the top with tapering evergreens,\nand displayed gaudy tufts of maple and mountain-ash on their cool gray.\nThose on the right are furthermore decorated with natural sculptures,\nindicated by sign-boards, which the curious investigate profitably or\nunprofitably, according to their fertility of imagination.\n\nFor a few rods this narrow cleft continues; then, on a sudden, the rocks\nwhich lift themselves on either side shut together. An enormous mass\nhas tumbled from its ancient location on the left side, and, taking a\nposition within twenty feet of the opposite precipice, forms the natural\ngate of the Notch, through which a way was made for the common road\nwith great labor, through which the river frays a passage, but where\nno one would imagine there was room for either. The railway has made a\nbreach for itself through the solid rock, greatly diminishing the native\ngrandeur of the place. All three emerge from the shadow and gloom of the\npass into the cheerful sunshine of a little prairie, at the extremity of\nwhich are seen the white walls of a hotel.\n\nThe whole route we had traversed is full of contrasts, full of\nsurprises; but this sudden transition was the most picturesque, the most\nstartling of all. We seemed to have reached the end of the world.\n\n\n\n\nIX.\n\n_CRAWFORD'S._\n\n    The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts\n    Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.\n               SHAKSPEARE.\n\n\nAll who have passed much time at the mountains have seen the\nelephant--near the gate of the Notch.\n\nThough it is only from Nature's chisel, the elephant is an honest one,\nand readily admitted into the category of things curious or marvellous\nconstantly displayed for our inspection. Standing on the piazza of the\nhotel, the enormous forehead and trunk seem just emerging from the\nshaggy woods near the entrance to the pass. And the gray of the granite\nstrengthens the illusion still more. From the Elephant's Head, a title\nsuggestive of the near vicinity of a public-house, there is a fine view\ndown the Notch for those who cannot ascend Mount Willard.\n\nThe Crawford House, being built at the highest point of the pass,\nnearly two thousand feet above the sea, is not merely a hotel--it is a\nwater-shed. The roof divides the rain falling upon it into two streams,\nflowing on one side into the Saco, on the other into the Ammonoosuc.\nHere the sun rises over the Willey range, and sets behind Mount Clinton.\nThe north side of the piazza enables you to look over the forests into\nthe valley of the Ammonoosuc, where the view is closed by the chain\ndividing this basin from that of Israel's River. But we are not yet\nready to conduct the reader into this Promised Land.\n\nMy window overlooked a grassy plain of perhaps half a mile, the view\nbeing closed by the Gate of the Notch, now disfigured by snow-sheds\nbuilt for the protection of the railway. The massive, full-rounded bulk\nof Webster rose above, the forests of Willard tumbled down into the\nragged fissure. Half-way between the hotel and the Gate, over-borne by\nthe big shadow of Mount Clinton, extends the pretty lakelet which is\nthe fountain-head of the Saco. Beyond the lake, and at the left, is\nwhere the old Notch House stood. This lake was once a beaver-pond, and\nthis plain a boggy meadow, through which a road of corduroy and sods\nconducted the early traveller. The highway and railway run amicably side\nby side, dividing the little vale in two.\n\n[Illustration: ELEPHANT'S HEAD, WINTER.]\n\nThis pass, which was certainly known to the Indians, was, in 1771,\nrediscovered by Timothy Nash, a hunter, who was persuaded by Benjamin\nSawyer, another hunter, to admit him to an equal share in the discovery.\nIn 1773 Nash and Sawyer received a grant of 2184 acres, skirting the\nmountains on the west, as a reward. With the prodigality characteristic\nof their class, the hunters squandered their large acquisition in a\nlittle time after it was granted. Both the Crawford and Fabyan hotels\nstand upon their tract.\n\nOf many excursions which this secluded retreat offers, that to the\nsummit of Mount Washington, by the bridle-path opened in 1840 by Thomas\nJ. Crawford, and that to the top of Mount Willard, are the principal.\nThe route to the first begins opposite to the hotel, at the left; the\nlatter turns from the glen a quarter of a mile below, on the right.\nSupposing Mount Washington a cathedral set on an eminence, you are here\non the summit of the eminence, with one foot on the immense staircase of\nthe cathedral.\n\nOur resolve to ascend by the bridle-path was already formed, and we\nregarded the climb up Mount Willard as indispensable. As for the\ncascades, which lulled us to sleep, who shall describe them? We could\nnot lift our eyes to the heights above without seeing one or more\nfluttering in the play of the breeze, and making rainbows in pure\ndiversion. President Dwight, in his \"Travels,\" has no more eloquent\npassage than that describing the Flume Cascade. How many since have\nthrown down pen or pencil in sheer despair of reproducing, by words\nor pigments, the aerial lightness, the joyous freedom; above all, the\nexuberant, unquenchable vitality that characterize mountain water-falls!\nDown the Notch is a masterpiece, hidden from the eye of the passer-by,\ncalled Ripley Falls, which fairly revels in its charming seclusion.\nOnly a short walk from the hotel, by a woodland path, there is another,\nBeecher's Cascade, whose capricious leaps and playful somersaults, all\nthe while volubly chattering to itself, like a child alone with its\nplaythings, fascinates us, as sky, water, and fire charm the eyes of an\ninfant. It is always tumbling down, and as often leaping to its feet to\nresume its frolicsome gambols, with no loss of sprightliness or sign of\nweariness that we can detect. Only a lover may sing the praises of these\nmountain cascades falling from the skies:\n\n\"The torrent is the soul of the valley. Not only is it the Providence or\nthe scourge, often both at once, but it gives to it a physiognomy; it\ngladdens or saddens it; it lends it a voice; it communicates life to it.\nA valley without its torrent is only a hole.\"\n\nThey give the name of Idlewild to the romantic sylvan retreat, reached\nby a winding path, diverging near the hotel, on the left. I visited\nit in company with Mr. Atwater, whose taste and enthusiasm for the\nwork have converted the natural disorder of the mountain side into\na trysting-place fit for elves and fairies; but where one encounters\nladies in elegant toilets, enjoying a quiet stroll among the fern-draped\nrocks. Some fine vistas of the valley mountains have been opened through\nthe woods--beautiful little bits of blue, framed in illuminated foliage.\nOne notes approvingly the revival of an olden taste in the cutting and\nshaping of trees into rustic chairs, stairways, and arbors.\n\nAfter a day like ours, the great fires and admirable order of the\nhotel were grateful indeed. If it is true that the way to man's heart\nlies through his stomach, the cherry-lipped waiter-girl, who whispered\nher seductive tale in my too-willing ear at supper, made a veritable\nconquest. My compliments to her, notwithstanding the penalty paid for\nlingering too long over the griddle-cakes.\n\nThe autumn nights being cool, it was something curious to see the parlor\ndoors every now and then thrown wide open, to admit a man who came\ntrundling in on a wheelbarrow a monster log fit for the celebration of\nYule-tide. The city guest, accustomed to the economy of wood at home,\nbecause it is dear, looks on this prodigality first with consternation,\nand finally with admiration. When the big log is deposited on the\nblazing hearth amid fusees of sparks, the easy-chairs again close around\nthe fireplace a charmed circle; and while the buzz of conversation goes\non, and the faces are illuminated by the ruddy glow, the wood snaps,\nand hisses, and spits as if it had life and sense of feeling. The men\ntalk in drowsy undertones; the ladies, watching the chimney-soot catch\nfire and redden, point out to each other the old grandame's pictures\nof \"folks coming home from meeting.\" This scene is the counterpart of\na warm summer evening on the piazza--both typical of unrestrained,\nluxurious indolence. How many pictures have appeared in that old\nfireplace! and what experiences its embers revived! Water shows us only\nour own faces in their proper mask--nothing more, nothing less; but\nfire, the element of the supernatural, is able, so at least we believe,\nto unfold the future as easily as it turns our eyes into the past. If\nonly we could read!\n\nWhen we arose in the morning, what was our astonishment to see the\nsurrounding mountains white with snow. Like one smitten with sudden\nterror, they had grown gray in a night. Striking, indeed, was the\ntransformation from yesterday's pomp; beautiful the contrast between\nthe dark green below and the dead white of the upper zones. Thickly\nincrusted with hoar-frost, the stiffened foliage of the pines and firs\ngave those trees the unwonted appearance of bursting into blossom. Over\nall a dull and brooding sky shed its cold, wan light upon the glen,\nforbidding all thought of attacking the high summits, at least for this\nday.\n\nDismissing this, therefore, as impracticable, we nevertheless determined\non ascending Mount Willard--an easy thing to do, considering you have\nonly to follow a good carriage-road for two miles and a half to reach\nthe precipices overlooking the Saco Valley.\n\nStartling, indeed, by its sublimity was the spectacle that rewarded our\ntrouble a thousand-fold. Still, the sensations partook more of wonder\nthan admiration--much more. The unpractised eye is so utterly confounded\nby the immensity of this awful chasm of the Notch, yawning in all its\nextent and all its grandeur far down beneath, that, powerless to grasp\nthe fulness and the vastness thus suddenly encountered, it stupidly\nstares into those far-retreating depths. The scene really seems too\ntremendous for flesh and blood to comprehend. For an instant, while\nstanding on the brink of the sheer precipice, which here suddenly drops\nseven or eight hundred feet, my head swam and my knees trembled.\n\n[Illustration: LOOKING DOWN THE NOTCH.]\n\nFirst came the idea that I was looking down into the dry bed of some\nprimeval cataract, whose mighty rush and roar the imagination summoned\nagain from the tomb of ages, and whose echo was in the cascades, hung\nlike two white arms on the black and hairy breast of the adjacent\nmountain. This idea carries us luck to the Deluge, of which science\npretends to have found proofs in the basin of the Notch. What am I\nsaying? to the Deluge! it transports us to the Beginning itself, when\n\"_Darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved\nupon the face of the waters._\"\n\nYou see the immense walls of Mount Willey on one side, and of Webster\non the other, rushing downward thousands of feet, and meeting in one\nmagnificently imposing sweep at their bases. This vast natural inverted\narchway has the heavens for a roof. The eye roves from the shaggy head\nof one mountain to the shattered cornices of the other. One is terrible,\nthe other forbidding. The naked precipices of Willey, furrowed by\navalanches, still show where the fatal slide of 1826 crushed its way\ndown into the valley, traversing a mile in only a few moments. Far down\nin the distance you see the Willey hamlet and its bright clearing. You\nsee the Saco's silver.\n\nSuch, imperfectly, are the more salient features of this immense cavity\nof the Notch, three miles long, two thousand feet deep, rounded as if\nby art, and as full of suggestions as a ripe melon of seeds. I recall\nfew natural wonders so difficult to get away from, or that haunt you so\nperpetually.\n\nLike ivy on storied and crumbling towers, so high up the cadaverous\ncliffs of Willey the hardy fir-tree feels its way, insinuating its long\nroots in every fissure where a little mould has crept, but mounting\nalways like the most intrepid of climbers. Upon the other side, the\nmassed and plumed forest advances boldly up the sharp declivity of\nWebster; but in mid-ascent is met and ploughed in long, thin lines by\ncataracts of stones, poured down upon it from the summit. Only a few\nstraggling bushes succeed in mounting higher; and far up, upon the very\nedge of the crumbling parapet, one solitary cedar tottered. The thought\nof imminent destruction prevailed over every other. Indeed, it seemed\nas if one touch would precipitate the whole mass of earth, stones, and\ntrees into the vale beneath.\n\nBetween these high, receding walls, which draw widely apart at the\noutlet of the pass, mountains rise, range upon range. Over the flattened\nNancy summits, Chocorua lifts his crested head once more into view. We\npass in review the summits massed between, which on this morning were\nof a deep blue-black, and stood vigorously forth from a sad and boding\nsky.\n\nFrom the ledges of Mount Willard, Washington and the peaks between are\nvisible in a clear day. This morning they were muffled in clouds, which\na strong upper current of air began slowly to disperse. We, therefore,\nsecured a good position, and waited patiently for the unveiling.\n\nLittle by little the clouds shook themselves free from the mountain, and\nbegan a slow, measured movement toward the Ammonoosuc Valley. As they\nwere drawn out thinner and thinner, like fleeces, by invisible hands,\nwe began to be conscious of some luminous object behind them, and all\nat once, through a rift, there burst upon the sight the grand mass of\nWashington, all resplendent in silvery whiteness. From moment to moment\nthe trooping clouds, as if pausing to pay homage to the illustrious\nrecluse, encompassed it about. Then moving on, the endless procession\nagain and again disclosed the snowy crest, shining out in unshrouded\neffulgence. To look was to be wonder-struck--to be dumb.\n\nAs the clouds unrolled more and more their snowy billows, other and\nlower summits rose above, as on that memorable morn after the Deluge,\nwhere they appeared like islands of crystal floating in a sea of\nsilvery vapor. We gazed for an hour upon this unearthly display, which\nderived unique splendor from fitful sun-rays shot through the folds of\nsurrounding clouds, then drawing off, and again darting unawares upon\nthe stainless white of the summits. It was a dream of the celestial\nspheres to see the great dome, one moment glittering like beaten silver,\nanother shining with the dull lustre of a gigantic opal.\n\nI have since made several journeys through the Notch by the railway.\nThe effect of the scenery, joined with some sense of peril in the minds\nof the timid, is very marked. Old travellers find a new and veritable\nsensation of excitement; while new ones forget fatigue, drop the novels\nthey have been reading, maintaining a state of breathless suspense and\nadmiration until the train vanishes out at the rocky portal, after an\nascent of nearly six hundred feet in two miles.\n\nIn effect, the road is a most striking expression of the maxim,\n\"_L'audace, et toujours de l'audace_,\" as applied to modern engineering\nskill. From Bemis's to Crawford's its way is literally carved out of\nthe side of the mountain. But if the engineers have stolen a march upon\nit, the thought, how easily the mountain could shake off this puny,\nclinging thing, prevailing over every other, announces that the mountain\nis still the master.\n\nThere are no two experiences which the traveller retains so long or so\nvividly as this journey through the great Notch, and this survey from\nthe ledges of Mount Willard, which is so admirably placed to command it.\nTo my mind, the position of this mountain suggests the doubt whether\nnature did not make a mistake here. Was not the splitting of the\nmountains an after-thought?\n\n\n\n\nX.\n\n_THE ASCENT FROM CRAWFORD'S._\n\n    On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds.\n    With a diadem of snow.--_Manfred._\n\n\nAt five in the morning I was aroused by a loud rap at the door. In an\ninstant I had jumped out of bed, ran to the window, and peered out. It\nwas still dark; but the heavens were bright with stars, so bright that\nthere was light in the room. Now or never was our opportunity. Not a\nmoment was to be lost.\n\nI began a vigorous reveille upon the window-pane. George half opened one\nsleepy eye, and asked if the house was on fire. The colonel pretended\nnot to have heard.\n\n\"Up, sluggards!\" I exclaimed; \"the mountain is ours!\"\n\n\"Do you know who first tempted man to go up into a high mountain?\"\ngrowled George.\n\n\"Satan!\" whined a smothered voice from beneath the bedclothes.\n\nThe case evidently was one which demanded heroic treatment. In an\ninstant I whipped off the bedclothes; in another I received two violent\nblows full in the chest, which compelled me to give ground. The pillows\nwere followed by the bolster, which I parried with a chair, the bolster\nby a sortie of the garrison _in puris naturalibus_. For a few seconds\nthe m\u00e9l\u00e9e was furious, the air thick with flying missiles. By a common\ninstinct we drew apart, with the intention of renewing the combat, when\nwe heard quick blows upon the partition at the left, and scared voices\nfrom the chamber at the right demanding what was the matter. George\ndropped his pillow, and articulated in a broken voice, \"Malediction! I\nam awake.\"\n\n\"Come, gentlemen,\" I urged, \"if you are sufficiently diverted, dress\nyourselves, and let us be off. At the present moment you remind me of\nthe half-armed warriors on the pediment of the Parthenon.\"\n\n\"I take it you mean the frieze,\" said George, with chattering teeth.\n\nThe colonel was on all-fours, picking up the different articles of his\nwardrobe from the four corners of the chamber. \"My stocking,\" said he,\ngroping among the furniture.\n\n\"What do you call this?\" inquired George, fishing the dripping article\nfrom the water-pitcher.\n\n\"Eh! where the deuce is my watch?\" redemanded the colonel, still seeking.\n\n\"Perhaps this is yours?\" George again suggested, drawing it, with mock\ndexterity, as he had seen Hermann do, from a boot-leg.\n\nWe quickly threw on our clothes, but at the moment of starting George\nput his hand into his breast and made a frightful grimace.\n\n\"What is it?\" we both asked in one breath. \"What is the matter?\"\n\n\"My pocket-book is gone.\"\n\nAfter five minutes' ransacking in every hole and corner of the room,\nand after shaking the bedclothes carefully, all to no purpose, it was\ndiscovered that George and myself had exchanged coats. We then went\ndown-stairs into the great hall, where a solitary jet of gas burnt\nblue, and a sleepy watchman dozed on a settee. The morning air was\nmore than chilly: it was \"a nipping and an eager air.\" There were two\nor three futile attempts at pleasantry, but hunger, darkness, and the\ncold quickly silenced them. A man is never himself when roused at five\nin the morning. No matter how desirable the excursion may have looked\nthe night before, turning out of a warm bed to hurry on your clothes by\ncandle-light, and to take the road fasting, strips it of all glamour.\n\nDay broke disclosing a clear sky, up which the rosy tints of sunrise\nwere streaming. The last star trembled in the zone of dusky blue above\nthe grand old hills, like a tear-drop on the eyelids of the night. The\nwarm color flowed over the frosted heads of the pines, mantling their\nghastly white with the warm glow of reviving life. Then the eye fell\nupon the lower forests, still wrapped in deep shadows, the tiny lake,\nthe boats, and, lastly, the oval plain, or vestibule of the Notch, above\nwhich ascended the shaggy sides of Mount Willard, and the retreating\noutline of Mount Webster. The little plain was white with hoar-frost;\nthe frozen fountain dripped slowly into its basin, like a penitent\ntelling its beads.\n\nAfter a hasty breakfast, despatched with mountain appetites, behold us\nat half-past six entering the forest in Indian file! My companions\nagain found their accustomed gayety, and soon the solemn old woods\nechoed with mirth. Our hopes were as high as the mountain itself.\n\nA d\u00e9tour as far as Gibbs's Falls cost a good half-hour in recovering\nthe bridle-path; but we were at length _en route_, myself at the head,\nGeorge behind. The colonel carried the flask, and marched in the\nmiddle. He was considered the most incorruptible of the three; but this\nprecaution was deemed an indispensable safeguard, should he, in a moment\nof forgetfulness, carry the flask to his lips.\n\nThe side of Mount Clinton, which we were now climbing, is very steep.\nThe name of bridle-path, which they give the long gully we had entered,\nis a snare for pedestrians, but a greater delusion for cavaliers. The\nrains, the melting snows, have so channelled it as to leave little\nbesides interlaced roots of old trees and loose bowlders in its bed.\nHigher up it is nothing but the bare course of a mountain torrent.\n\nThe long rain had thoroughly soaked the earth, rendering it miry and\nslippery to the feet; the heavy air, compounded of a thousand odors,\nhindered, rather than assisted, the free play of the lungs. Our progress\nwas slow, our breathing quick and labored. Every leaf trembled with\nrain-drops, so that the flight of a startled bird overhead sprinkled us\nwith fine spray. Finches chattered in the tree-tops, squirrels scolded\nus sharply from fallen logs.\n\nLooking up was like looking through some glorious, illuminated\nwindow--the changed foliage seemed to have fixed the gorgeous hues of\nthe sunset. Through its crimson and gold, violet and green, patches of\nblue sky greeted us with fair promise for the day. Looking ahead, the\npath zigzagged among ascending trees, plunged into the sombre depths\nabove our heads, and was lost. One impression that I received may be,\nyet I doubt, common to others. On either side of me the forest seemed\nall in motion; the dusky trunks striding silently and stealthily by,\nmoving when we moved, halting when we halted. The greenwood was as full\nof illusions as the human heart. I can never repress a certain fear in a\nforest, and to-day this seemed peopled with sprites, gnomes, and fauns.\nOnce or twice a crow rose lazily from the top of a dead pine, and flew\ncroaking away; but we thought not of omens or auguries, and pushed gayly\non up the sharp ascent.\n\nIt was a wild woodland walk, with few glimpses out of the forest.\nFor about a mile we steered toward the sun, climbing one of the long\nbraces of the mountain. Stopping near here, at a spring deliciously\npure and cold, we soon turned toward the north. As we advanced up the\nmountain the sun began to gild the tree-tops, and stray beams to play\nat hide-and-seek among the black trunks. We saw dells of Arcadian\nloveliness, and we heard the noise of rivulets, trickling in their\ndepths, that we did not see.\n\nWh-r-r-r! rose a startled partridge, directly in our path, bringing us\nto a full stop. Another and another took flight.\n\n\"Gad!\" muttered the colonel, wiping his forehead, \"I was dreaming of\nold times; I declare I thought the mountain had got our range, and was\nshelling us.\"\n\n\"_Salmis_ of partridge; _sauce aux champignons_,\" said George, licking\nhis lips, and looking wistfully after the birds. You see, one spoke from\nthe head, the other from the stomach.\n\nHalf an hour's steady tramp brought us to an abandoned camp, where\ntravellers formerly passed the night. A long stretch of corduroy road,\nand we were in the region of resinous trees. Here it was like going up\nrickety stairs, the mossed and sodden logs affording only a treacherous\nfoothold. Evidence that we were nearing the summit was on all sides.\nPatches of snow covered the ground and were lodged among the branches.\nFrom these little runlets made their way into the path, as the most\nconvenient channel. There were many dead pines, having their curiously\ndistorted limbs hung with the long gray lichen called \"old man's beard.\"\nMultitudes of great trees, prostrated by the wind, lay rotting along\nthe ground, or had lodged in falling, constituting a woful picture of\nwreck and ruin. Here was not only the confusion and havoc of a primitive\nforest, untouched by the axe, but the battle-ground of ages, where\nfrost, fire, and flood had steadily and pitilessly beaten the forest\nback in every desperate effort made to scale the summit. Prone upon the\nearth, stripped naked, or bursting their bark, the dead trees looked\nlike fallen giants despoiled of their armor, and left festering upon the\nfield. But we advanced to a scene still more weird.\n\nThe last mile gives occasional glimpses into the Ammonoosuc Valley, of\nFabyan's, of the hamlet at the base of Washington, and of the mountains\nbetween Fabyan's and Jefferson. The last half-mile is a steady planting\nof one foot before another up the ledges. We left the forest for a\nscanty growth of firs, rooted among enormous rocks, and having their\nbranches pinned down to their sides by snow and ice. The whole forest\nhad been seized, pinioned, and cast into a death-like stupor. Each\ntree seemed to keep the attitude in which it was first overtaken; each\nsilvered head to have dropped on its breast at the moment the spell\novercame it. Perpetual imprisonment rewarded the temerity of the forest\nfor thus invading the dominion of the Ice King. There it stood, all\nglittering in its crystal chains!\n\nBut as we threaded our way among these trees, still as statues, the\nsun came valiantly to the rescue. A warm breath fanned our cheeks and\ntraversed the ice-locked forest. Instantly a thrill ran along the\nmountain. Quick, snapping noises filled the air. The trees burst their\nfetters in a trice. Myriad crystals fluttered overhead, or fell tinkling\non the rocks at our feet. Another breath, and tree after tree lifted its\nbowed head gracefully erect. The forest was free.\n\nGeorge, who began by asking every few rods how much farther it was, now\nrepeated the question for the fiftieth time; but we paid no attention.\n\nWe now entered a sort of liliputian forest, not higher than the knee,\nbut which must have presented an almost insuperable barrier to early\nexplorers of the mountain. In fact, as they could neither go through it\nnor around it, they must have walked over it, the thick-matted foliage\nrendering this the only alternative. No one could tell how long these\ntrees had been growing, when a winter of unheard-of severity destroyed\nthem all, leaving only their skeletons bleaching in the sun and\nweather. Wrenched, twisted, and made to grow the wrong way by the wind,\nthe branches resembled the cast-off antlers of some extinct race of\nquadrupeds which had long ago resorted to the top of the mountain. The\ngirdle of blasted trees below was piteous, but this was truly a strange\nspectacle. Indeed, the pallid forehead of the mountain seemed wearing a\ncrown of thorns.\n\nGetting clear of the dwarf-trees, or knee-wood, as it is called in the\nAlps, we ran quickly up the bare summit ledge. The transition from the\ngloom and desolation below into clear sunshine and free air was almost\nas great as from darkness to light. We lost all sense of fatigue; we\nfelt only exultation and supreme content.\n\nHere we were, we three, more than four thousand feet above the sea,\nconfronted by an expanse so vast that no eye but an eagle's might grasp\nit, so thronged with upstarting peaks as to confound and bewilder us\nout of all power of expression. One feeling was uppermost--our own\ninsignificance. We were like flies on the gigantic forehead of an\nelephant.\n\nHowever, we had climbed and were astride the ridge-pole of New England.\nThe rains which beat upon it descend on one side to the Atlantic, on\nthe other to Long Island Sound. The golden sands which are the glory of\nthe New England coast have been borne, atom by atom, grain by grain,\nfrom this grand laboratory of Nature; and if you would know the source\nof her great industries, her wealth, her prosperity, seek it along the\nrivers which are born of these skies, cradled in these ravines, and\nnourished amid the tangled mazes of these impenetrable forests. How,\nlike beautiful serpents, their sources lie knotted and coiled in the\nheart of these mountains! How lovingly they twine about the feet of the\ngrand old hills! Too proud to bear its burdens, they create commerce,\nbuilding cities, scattering wealth as they run on. No barriers can stay,\nno chains fetter their free course. They laugh and run on.\n\nWe stood facing the south. Far down beneath us, at our left, was the\nvalley of Mount Washington River. A dark, serpentine rift in the\nunbroken forest indicated the course of the stream. Mechanically we\nturned to follow it up the long gorge through which it flows, to where\nit issues, in secret, from the side of Mount Washington itself. In front\nof us arose the great Notch Mountains; beyond, mountains were piled on\nmountains; higher still, like grander edifices of some imperial city,\ntowered the pinnacles of Lafayette, Carrigain, Chocorua, Kearsarge, and\nthe rest. Yes, there they were, pricking the keen air with their blunted\nspears, fretting the blue vault with the everlasting menace of a power\nto mount higher if it so willed, filling us with the daring aspiration\nto rise as high as they pointed. Here and there something flashed\nbrightly upon the eye; but it was no easy thing to realize that those\nlittle pools we saw glistening among the mountains were some of the\nlargest lakes in New England.\n\nLeaving the massive Franconia group, the eye swept over the Ammonoosuc\nbasin, over the green heights of Bethlehem and Littleton, overtopped by\nthe distant Green Mountains; then along the range dividing the waters\nflowing from the western slopes of the great summits into separate\nstreams; then Whitefield, Lancaster, Jefferson; and, lastly, rested upon\nthe amazing apparition of Washington, rising two thousand feet above\nthe crags on which we stood. Perched upon the cap-stone of this massive\npile, like a dove-cot on the cupola of St. Peter's, we distinctly saw\nthe Summit House. Between us and our goal rose the brown heads of\nPleasant, Franklin, and Monroe, over which our path lay. All these\npeaks and their connecting ridges were freely spattered with snow.\n\n\"By Jove!\" ejaculated the colonel at last; \"this beats Kentucky!\"\n\nIt is necessary to say two words concerning a spectacle equally novel\nand startling to dwellers in more temperate regions, and which now held\nus in mingled astonishment and admiration. We could hardly believe\nour eyes. This bleak and desolate ridge, where only scattered tufts\nof coarse grass, stinted shrubs, or spongy moss gave evidence of\nlife, which seemed never to have known the warmth of a sunbeam, was\ntransformed into a garden of exquisite beauty by the frozen north wind.\n\nWe remarked the iced branches of dwarf firs inhabiting the upper zone\nof the mountain as we passed them; but here, on this summit, the\nsurfaces of the rocks actually bristled with spikes, spear-heads, and\nlance-points, all of ice, all shooting in the direction of the north\nwind. The forms were as various as beautiful, but most commonly took\nthat of a single spray, though sometimes they were moulded into perfect\nclusters of berries, branching coral, or pendulous crystals. Common\nshrubs were transformed to diamond aigrettes, coarse grasses into\nbird-of-paradise plumes, by the simple adhesion of frost-dust. The iron\nrocks attracted the flying particles as the loadstone attracts steel.\nCellini never fashioned anything half so marvellous as this exquisite\nworkmanship of a frozen mist. Yet, though it was all surpassingly\nbeautiful, it was strangely suggestive of death. There was no life--no,\nnot even the chirrup of an insect. No wonder our eyes sought the valley.\n\nHardly had we time to take in these unaccustomed sights, when, to our\nunspeakable dismay, ominous streakings of gray appeared in the southern\nand eastern horizons. The sun was already overclouded, and emitted\nonly a dull glare. For a moment a premonition of defeat came over me;\nbut another look at the summit removed all indecision, and, without\nmentioning my fears to my companions, we all three plunged into the\nbushy ravine that leads to Mount Pleasant.\n\nSuddenly I felt the wind in my face, and the air was filled with\nwhirling snow-flakes. We had not got over half the distance to the\nsecond mountain, before the ill-omened vapors had expanded into a\nstorm-cloud that boded no good to any that might be abroad on the\nmountain. My idea was that we could gain the summit before it overtook\nus. I accordingly lengthened my steps, and we moved on at a pace which\nbrought us quickly to the second mountain. But, rapidly as we had\nmarched, the storm was before us.\n\nHere began our first experience of the nature of the task in hand. The\nburly side of Mount Pleasant was safely turned, but beyond this snow had\nobliterated the path, which was only here and there indicated by little\nheaps of loose stones. It became difficult, and we frequently lost it\naltogether among the deep drifts. We called a halt, passed the flask,\nand attempted to derive some encouragement from the prospect.\n\nThe storm-cloud was now upon us in downright earnest. Already the flying\nscud drifted in our faces, and poured, like another Niagara, over the\nridge one long, unbroken billow. The sun retreated farther and farther,\nuntil it looked like a farthing dip shining behind a blanket. Another\nfurious blast, and it disappeared altogether. And now, to render our\ndiscomfiture complete, the gigantic dome of Washington, that had lured\nus on, disappeared, swallowed up in a vortex of whirling vapor; and\npresently we were all at once assailed by a blinding snow-squall.\nHenceforth there was neither luminary nor landmark to guide us. None of\nus had any knowledge of the route, and not one had thought of a guide.\nTo render our situation more serious still, George now declared that he\nhad sprained an ankle.\n\nIf I had never before realized how the most vigorous travellers had\nperished within a few paces of the summit, I understood it this day.\n\nBathed in perspiration, warned by the fresh snow that the path would\nsoon be lost beyond recovery, we held a brief council upon the situation\nbefore and behind us. It was more than aggravating either way.\n\nAll three secretly favored a retreat. Without doubt it was not only the\nsafest, but the wisest course to pursue; yet to turn back was to give in\nbeaten, and defeat was not easy to accept. Even George, notwithstanding\nhis ankle, was pluckily inclined to go on. There was no time to lose,\nso we emerged from the friendly shelter of a jutting ledge upon the\ntrackless waste before us.\n\nFrom this point, at the northern foot of Pleasant, progress was\nnecessarily slow. We could not distinguish objects twenty paces through\nthe flying scud and snow, and we knew vaguely that somewhere here the\nmountain ridge suddenly broke off, on both sides, into precipices\nthousands of feet down. George, being lame, kept the middle, while the\ncolonel and I searched for stone-heaps at the right and left.\n\nWe were marching along thus, when I heard an exclamation, and saw the\ncolonel's hat driven past me through the air. The owner ran rapidly over\nto my side.\n\n\"Take care!\" I shouted, throwing myself in his path; \"take care!\"\n\n\"But my hat!\" cried he, pushing on past me. The wind almost drowned our\nvoices.\n\n\"Are you mad?\" I screamed, gripping his arm, and forcing him backward by\nmain strength.\n\nHe gave me a dazed look, but seemed to comprehend nothing of my\nexcitement. George halted, looking first at one, then at the other.\n\n\"Wait,\" said I, loosening a piece of ice with my boot. On both sides of\nus rose a whirlpool of boiling clouds. I tossed the piece of ice in the\ndirection the hat had taken--not a sound; a second after the first--the\nsame silence; a third in the opposite direction. We listened intently,\npainfully, but could hear nothing except the loud beating of our own\nhearts. A dozen steps more would have precipitated our companion from\nthe top to the bottom of the mountain.\n\nI looked at the man whose arm I still tightly grasped. He was as pale as\na corpse.\n\n\"This must be Oakes's Gulf,\" I ventured, in order to break the silence,\nafter we had all taken a pull at the flask.\n\n\"This is Oakes's Gulf--agreed; but where in perdition is my hat?\"\ndemanded the colonel, wiping the big drops from his forehead.\n\nAfter he had tied a handkerchief around his head, we crossed this\nDevil's Bridge, with the caution of men fully alive to the consequences\nof a false step, and with that tension of the nerves which announces the\nterrible or the unknown.[9]\n\nWe had not gone far when a tremendous gust sent us reeling toward the\nabyss. I dropped on my hands and knees, and my companions followed\nsuit. We arose, shook off the snow, and slowly mounted the long, steep,\nand rocky side of Franklin. Upon gaining the summit, the walking was\nbetter. We were also protected by the slope of the mountain. The worst\nseemed over. But what fantastic objects were the big rocks, scattered,\nor rather lying in wait, along our route! What grotesque appearances\ncontinually started out of the clouds! Now it was an enormous bear\nsquatted on his haunches; now a dark-browed sphinx; and more than once\nwe could have sworn we saw human beings stealthily watching us from\na distance. How easy to imagine these weird objects lost travellers,\nsuddenly turned to stone for their presumptuous invasion of the domain\nof terrors! It really seemed as if we had but to stamp our feet to see a\nlegion of demons start into life and bar our way.\n\nSay what you will, we could not shake off the dread which these\nunearthly objects inspired; nor could we forbear, were it at the risk of\nbeing turned to stone, looking back, or peering furtively from side to\nside when some new apparition thrust its hideous suggestions before us.\nWhat would you have? Are we not all children who shrink from entering\na haunted chamber, and shudder in the presence of death? Well, the\nmountain was haunted, and death seemed near. We forgot fatigue, forgot\ncold, to yield to this mysterious terror, which daunted us as no peril\ncould do, and froze us with vague presentiment of the unknown.\n\nCovered from head to foot with snow, bearded with icicles, tracking\nthis solitude, which refused the echo of a foot-fall, like spectres, we\nseemed to have entered the debatable ground forever dedicated to spirits\nhaving neither home on earth nor hope in heaven, but doomed to wander\nup and down these livid crags for an eternity of woe. The mountain had\nalready taken possession of our physical, now it seized upon our moral\nnature. Neither the one nor the other could resist the impressions which\nnaked rock, furious tempest, and hidden danger stamped on every foot of\nthe way.\n\nIn this way we reached Mount Monroe, last of the peaks in our route\nto the summit, where we were forced to pick our way among the rocks,\nstruggling forward through drifts frequently waist deep.\n\nIt was here that, finding myself some distance in advance of the\nothers--for poor George was lagging painfully--I halted for them to come\nup. I was choking with thirst, aggravated by eating the damp snow. As\nsoon as the colonel was near enough--the wind only could be heard--I\nmade a gesture of a man drinking. He did not seem to understand, though\nI impatiently repeated the pantomime. He came to where I stood.\n\n\"The flask!\" I exclaimed.\n\nHe drew it slowly from his pocket, and handed it to me with a hang-dog\nlook that I failed for the moment to interpret. I put it to my lips,\nshook it, turned it bottom up. Not a drop!\n\nAnd, nevertheless, this was the man in whom I had trusted. C\u00e6sar only\nsuccumbed to the dagger of Brutus; but I had not the courage to fall\nwith dignity under this new misfortune, and so stood staring at the\nflask and the culprit alternately.\n\n\"Say that our cup is now full,\" suggested the incorrigible George. \"The\nparadox strikes me as ingenious and appropriate.\"\n\nIt really was too bad. Snow and sleet had wet us to the skin, and clung\nto our frozen garments. Our hands and faces were swollen and inflamed;\nour eyes half closed and blood-shot. Even this short minute's halt set\nour teeth chattering. George could only limp along, and it was evident\ncould not hold out much longer. Just now my uneasiness was greater than\nmy sympathy. He was an accessory before the fact; for, while I was\ndiligently looking out the path, he had helped the colonel to finish the\nflask.\n\nWe were nearing the goal: so much was certain. But the violence of the\ngale, increasing with the greater altitude, warned us against delay.\nWe therefore pushed on across the stony terraces extending beyond, and\nwere at length rewarded by seeing before us the heaped-up pile of broken\ngranite constituting the peak of Washington, and which we knew still\nrose a thousand feet above our heads. The sight of this towering mass,\nwhich seems formed of the d\u00e9bris of the Creation, is well calculated\nto stagger more adventurous spirits than the three weary and foot-sore\nmen who stood watching the cloud-billows, silently rolling up, dash\nthemselves unceasingly against its foundations. We looked first at the\nmountain, then in each other's faces, then began the ascent.\n\nFor near an hour we toiled upward, sometimes up to the middle in snow,\nalways carefully feeling our way among the treacherous pitfalls it\nconcealed. Compelled to halt every few rods to recover breath, the\ndistance traversed could not be great. Still, with dogged perseverance,\nwe kept on, occasionally lending each other a helping hand out of a\ndrift, or from rock to rock; but no words were exchanged, for the stock\nof gayety with which we set out was now exhausted. The gravity of the\nsituation began to create uneasiness in the minds of my companions. All\nat once I heard my name called out. I turned. It was the colonel, whose\nhalloo in midst of this stony silence startled me.\n\n\"You pretend,\" he began, \"that it's only a thousand feet from the\nplateau to the top of this accursed mountain?\"\n\n\"No more, no less. Professor Guyot assures us of the fact.\"\n\n\"Well, then, here we have been zigzagging about for a good hour, haven't\nwe?\"\n\n\"An hour and twenty minutes,\" said I, consulting my watch.\n\n\"And not a sign of the houses or the railway, or any other creeping\nthing. Do you want my opinion?\"\n\n\"Charmed.\"\n\n\"We have passed the houses without seeing them in the storm, and are now\non the side of the mountain opposite from where we started.\"\n\n\"So that you conclude--?\"\n\n\"We are lost.\"\n\nThis was, of course, mere guesswork; but we had no compass, and might\nbe travelling in the wrong direction, after all. A moment's reflection,\nhowever, reassured me. \"Is that your opinion, too, George?\" I asked.\n\nGeorge had taken off his boot, and was chafing his swollen ankle. He\nlooked up.\n\n\"My opinion is that I don't know anything about it; but as you got us\ninto this scrape, you had better get us out of it, and be spry about it\ntoo, for the deuce take me if I can go much farther.\"\n\n\"Why,\" croaked the colonel, \"I recollect hearing of a traveller who,\nlike us, actually walked by the Summit House without seeing it, when he\nwas hailed by a man who, by mere accident, chanced to be outside, and\nwho imagined he saw something moving in the fog. In five minutes the\nstranger would inevitably have walked over a precipice with his eyes\nopen.\"\n\n\"And I remember seeing on the wall of the tavern where we stopped, at\nBartlett, a placard offering a reward for a man who, like us, set out\nfrom Crawford's, and was never heard of,\" George put in.[10]\n\n\"And I read of one who, like us, almost reached the summit, but\nmistaking a lower peak for the pinnacle, losing his head, crawled,\nexhausted, under a rock to die there,\" I finished, firing the last shot.\n\nWithout another word both my comrades grappled vigorously with the\nmountain, and for ten minutes nothing was heard but our labored\nbreathing. On whatever side we might be, so long as we continued to\nascend I had little fear of being in the wrong road. Our affair was to\nget to the top.\n\nAt the end of ten minutes we came suddenly upon a walled enclosure,\nwhich we conjectured to be the corral at the end of the bridle-path. We\nhailed it like an oasis in the midst of this desert. We entered, brushed\nthe snow from a stone, and sat down.\n\nUp to this time my umbrella had afforded a good deal of merriment to my\ncompanions, who could not understand why I encumbered myself with it on\na day which began as this one did, perfectly clear and cloudless. Since\nthe storm came on, the force of the wind would at any time have lifted\noff his feet the man who attempted to spread it, and even if it had\nnot, as well might one have walked blindfolded in that treacherous road\nas with an open umbrella before him. Now it was my turn, or, rather,\nthe turn of the abused umbrella. A few moments of rest were absolutely\nnecessary; but the wind cut like a cimeter, and we felt ourselves\nfreezing. I opened the umbrella, and, protected by it from the wind,\nwe crouched under its friendly shelter, and lighted our cigars. Never\nbefore did I know the luxury of a smoke like that.\n\n\"Now,\" said I, complacently glancing up at our tent, \"ever since I\nread how an umbrella saved a man's life, I determined never to go on a\nmountain without one.\"\n\n\"An umbrella! How do you make that out?\" demanded both my auditors.\n\n\"It is very simple. He was lost on this very mountain, under conditions\nsimilar to those we are now experiencing, except that his carrying an\numbrella was an accident, and that he was alone. He passed two nights\nunder it. But the story will keep.\"\n\nIt may well be imagined that we had not the least disposition to be\nmerry; yet for all that there was something irresistibly comical in\nthree men sitting with their feet in the snow, and putting their heads\ntogether under a single umbrella. Various were the conjectures. We could\nhear nothing but the rushing wind, see nothing but driving sleet. George\nbelieved we were still half a mile from the summit; the colonel was not\nable to precisely fix his opinion, but thought us still a long way off.\nAfter diligent search, in which we all joined, I succeeded in finding\nsomething like a path turning to the right, and we again resumed our\nslow clambering over the rocks.\n\nPerhaps ten minutes passed thus, when we again halted and peered\nanxiously into the whirling vapor--nothing, neither monument nor\nstone, to indicate where we were. A new danger confronted us; one I\nhad hitherto repulsed because I dared not think of it. The light was\nfailing, and darkness would soon be here. God help any that this night\nsurprised on the mountain! While we eagerly sought on all sides some\nevidence that human feet had ever passed that way, a terrific blast,\nthat seemed to concentrate the fury of the tempest in one mighty effort,\ndashed us helpless upon the rocks. For some seconds we were blinded, and\ncould only crouch low until its violence subsided. But as the monstrous\nwave recoiled from the mountain, a piercing cry brought us quickly to\nour feet.\n\n\"Look!\" shouted George, waving his hat like a madman--\"look there!\" he\nrepeated.\n\nVaguely, through the tattered clouds, like a wreck driving miserably\nbefore the tempest, we distinguished a building propped up by timbers\ncrusted with thick ice. The gale shook and beat upon it with demoniacal\nglee, but never did weary eyes rest on a more welcome object. For ten\nseconds, perhaps, we held it in view; then, in a twinkling, the clouds\nrolled over it, shut together, and it was gone--swallowed up in the\nvortex.\n\nA moment of bewilderment succeeded, after which we made a simultaneous\nrush in the direction of the building. In five minutes more we were\nwithin the hotel, thawing our frozen clothing before a rousing fire.\n\nIt provokes a smile when I think of it. Here, in this frail structure,\nperched like another Noah's Ark on its mountain, and which every gust\nthreatened to scatter to the winds of heaven, a grand piano was going\nin the parlor, a telegraphic instrument clicked in a corner, and we sat\ndown to a _m\u00e9nu_ that made the colonel forget the loss of his hat.\n\n\"By the bones of Daniel Boone! I can say as Napoleon did on the Great\nSt. Bernard, 'I have spoiled a hat among your mountains; well, I shall\nfind a new one on the other side,'\" observed the colonel, uncorking a\nsecond bottle of champagne.\n\n\n\n\nSECOND JOURNEY.\n\n\n      PAGE\n\nI.   _LEGENDS OF THE CRYSTAL HILLS_   113\n\nII.  _JACKSON AND THE ELLIS VALLEY_   122\n\nIII. _THE CARTER NOTCH_               132\n\nIV.  _THE PINKHAM NOTCH_              144\n\nV.   _A SCRAMBLE IN TUCKERMAN'S_      155\n\nVI.  _IN AND ABOUT GORHAM_            165\n\nVII. _ASCENT BY THE CARRIAGE-ROAD_    178\n\nVIII._MOUNT WASHINGTON_               189\n\n[Illustration: WHITE MOUNTAINS\n\n(CENTRAL AND NORTHERN SECTION.)\n\nFROM\nWALLING'S MAP OF\nNEW HAMPSHIRE,\nWith corrections by\nMembers of the\nAPPALACHIAN CLUB.\n1881.\n]\n\n\n\n\nSECOND JOURNEY\n\n\n\n\nI.\n\n_LEGENDS OF THE CRYSTAL HILLS._\n\n    My lord, I will hoist saile; and all the wind\n    My bark can beare shall hasten me to find\n    A great new world.\n             --SIR W. DAVENANT.\n\n\nWhen Cabot, in the _Mathew_, of Bristol, was sailing by the New England\ncoast, and the amazed savage beheld a pyramid of white sails rising,\nlike a cloud, out of the sea, the navigator saw from the deck of his\nship, rising out of the land, a cluster of lofty summits cut like a\ncameo on the northern sky.\n\nThe Indian left his tradition of the marvellous apparition, which he at\nfirst believed to be a mass of trees wrapped in faded foliage, drifting\nslowly at the caprice of the waves; but, as he gazed, fire streamed\nfrom the strange object, a cloud shut it from his view, and a peal like\ndistant thunder was wafted on the breeze to his startled ears. That peal\nannounced the doom of his race. He was looking at the first ship.\n\nSucceeding navigators, Italians, Portuguese, French, English--a roll of\nfamous names--sailed these seas, and, in their turn, hailed the distant\nsummits. They became the great distinguishing landmarks of this corner\nof the New World. They are found on all the maps traced by the early\ngeographers from the relations of the discoverers themselves. Having\nthus found form and substance, they also found a name--the Mountains of\nSt. John.\n\nShips multiplied. Men of strange garb, speech, complexion, erected their\nhabitations along the coast, the unresisting Indian never dreaming\nthat the thin line which the sea had cast up would speedily rise to an\ninundation destined to sweep him from the face of the earth. Then began\nthat steady advance, slow at first, gathering momentum with the years,\nbefore which he recoiled step by step, and finally disappeared forever.\nHis destiny was accomplished. To-day only mountains and streams transmit\nto us the certainty that he ever did exist. They are his monument, his\nlament, his eternal accusation.\n\nThe White Mountains stood for the Indian not only as an image, but as\nthe actual dwelling-place of Omnipotence. His dreaded Manitou, whose\nvoice was the thunder, whose anger the lightning, and on whose face\nno mortal could look and live, was the counterpart of the terrible\nThor, the Icelandic god, throned in a palace of ice among frozen and\ninaccessible mountain peaks, over which he could be heard urging his\nloud chariot amid the rage of the tempest. Frost and fire, plague and\nfamine were the terrific natural agents common to the Indian and to the\nNorse mythology; and to his god of terrors the Indian conjurer addressed\nhis prayers, his incantations, and his propitiatory offerings, when\nsome calamity had befallen or threatened his tribe. But to cross the\nboundary which separated him from the abiding-place of the Manitou!\nplant his audacious foot within the region from which Nature shrunk back\naffrighted! Not all the wealth he believed the mountain hoarded would\nhave tempted him to brave the swift and terrible vengeance of the justly\noffended, all-powerful Manitou. So far, then, as he was concerned, the\nmountain remained inviolate, inviolable, as a kind of hell, filled with\nthe despairing shrieks of those who in an evil hour transgressed the\nlimits sacred to immortals.[11]\n\nAs a pendant to this superstition, in which their deity is with simple\ngrandeur throned on the highest mountain peak, it is curious to remember\nthe Indian tradition of the Deluge; for, like so many peoples, they had\ntheir tradition, coming from a remote time, and having strong family\nresemblance with that of more enlightened nations. According to it, all\nthe inhabitants of the earth were drowned, except one Powaw and his\nwife, who were preserved by climbing to the top of the White Mountains,\nand who were the progenitors of the subsequent races of man. The Powaw\ntook with him a hare, which, upon the subsiding of the waters, he freed,\nas Noah did the dove, seeing in its prolonged absence the assurance that\nhe and his companion might safely descend to earth. The likeness of this\ntradition with the story of Deucalion, and Pyrrha, his wife, as related\nby Ovid, is very striking. One does not easily consent to refer it to\naccident alone.\n\nThere is one thing more. When asked by the whites to point out the\nIndian's heaven, the savage stretched his arm in the direction of the\nWhite Hills, and replied that heaven was just beyond. Such being his\nreligion, and such the influence of the mountain upon this highly\nimaginative, poetic, natural man, one finds himself drawn legitimately\nin the train of those marvels which our ancestors considered the most\ncredible things in the world, and which the sceptical cannot explain by\na sneer.\n\nAccording to the Indians, on the highest mountain, suspended from a\ncrag overlooking a dismal lake, was an enormous carbuncle, which many\ndeclared they had seen blazing in the night like a live coal. Some even\nasserted that its ruddy glare lighted the livid rocks around like the\nfire of a midnight encampment, while by day it emitted rays, like the\nsun, dazzling to look upon. And this extraordinary sight they declared\nthey had not only seen, but seen again and again.\n\nIt is true that the Indians did not hesitate to declare that no mortal\nhand could hope to grasp the great fire-stone. It was, said they, in the\nspecial guardianship of the genius of the mountain, who, on the approach\nof human footsteps, troubled the waters of the lake, causing a dark mist\nto rise, in which the venturesome mortal became bewildered, and then\nhopelessly lost. Several noted conjurers of the Pigwackets, rendered\nfoolhardy by their success in exorcising evil spirits, so far conquered\ntheir fears as to ascend the mountain; but they never returned, and had,\nno doubt, expiated their folly by being transformed into stone, or flung\nheadlong down some stark and terrible precipice.\n\nThis tale of the great carbuncle fired the imagination of the simple\nsettlers to the highest pitch. We believe what we wish to believe, and,\nnotwithstanding their religion refused to admit the existence of the\nIndian demon, its guardian, they seem to have had little difficulty in\ncrediting the reality of the jewel itself. At any rate, the belief that\nthe mountain shut up precious mines has come down to our own day; we\nare assured by a learned historian of fifty years ago that the story of\nthe great carbuncle still found full credence in his.[12] We are now\nacquainted with the spirit of the time when the first attempt to scale\nthe mountain, known to us, was rewarded with complete success. But the\nrecord is of exasperating brevity.\n\nAmong the earliest settlers of Exeter, New Hampshire, was a man by the\nname of Darby Field. The antecedents of this obscure personage are\nsecurely hidden behind the mists of more than two centuries.\n\nA hundred and twenty-five years before the ascent of Mont Blanc by\nJacques Balmat, Darby Field successfully ascended to the summit of the\n\"White Hill,\" to-day known as Mount Washington; but the exploit of the\nadventurous Irishman is far more remarkable in its way than that of the\nbrave Swiss, since he had to make his way for eighty miles through a\nwilderness inhabited only by beasts of prey, or by human beings scarcely\nless savage, before he reached the foot of the great range; while Balmat\nlived under the very shadow of the monarch of the Alps, so that its\nspectre was forever crossing his path. Furthermore, the greater part of\nthe ascent of Mont Blanc was already familiar ground to the guides and\nchamois-hunters of the Swiss Alps. On the contrary, according to every\nprobability, Field was the first human being whose daring foot invaded\nthe hitherto inviolable seclusion of the illustrious hermit of New\nEngland.\n\nFor such an adventure one instinctively seeks a motive. I did not long\namuse myself with the idea that this explorer climbed merely for the\nsake of climbing; and I have little notion that he dreamed of posthumous\nrenown. It is far more probable that the reports brought by the Indians\nof the fabulous treasures of the mountains led to Field's long, arduous,\nand really perilous journey. It is certain that he was possessed of\nrare intrepidity, as well as the true craving for adventure. That goes\nwithout saying; still, the whole undertaking--its inception, its pursuit\nto the end in the face of extraordinary obstacles, which he had no means\nof measuring or anticipating--announces a very different sort of man\nfrom the ordinary, a purpose before which all dangers disappear.\n\nIn June, 1642, that is to say, only twelve years after the Puritan\nsettlements in Massachusetts Bay, Field set out from the sea-coast for\nthe White Hills.\n\nSo far as known, he prosecuted his journey to the Indian village\nof Pigwacket, the existence of which is thus established, without\nnoteworthy accident or adventure. Here he was joined by some Indians,\nwho conducted him within eight miles of the summit, when, declaring that\nto go farther would expose them to the wrath of their great Evil Spirit,\nthey halted, and refused to proceed. The brave Irishman was equal to the\nemergency. To turn back, baffled, within sight of his goal was evidently\nnot an admitted contingency. Leaving the Indians, therefore, squatted\nupon the rocks, and no doubt regarding him as a man rushing upon a\nfool's fate, Field again resolutely faced the mountain, when, seeing him\nequally unmoved by their warnings as unshaken in his determination to\nreach the summit, two of the boldest warriors ran after him, while the\nothers stoically made their preparations to await a return which they\nnever expected to take place. They watched the retreating figures until\nlost among the rocks.\n\nIn the language of the original narration, the rest of the ascent was\neffected by \"a ridge between two valleys filled with snow, out of which\ncame two branches of the Saco River, which met at the foot of the hill,\nwhere was an Indian town of two hundred people.\" ... \"By-the-way, among\nthe rocks, there were two ponds, one a blackish water, and the other\nreddish.\".... \"Within twelve miles of the top was neither tree nor\ngrass, but low savins, which they went upon the top of sometimes.\"\n\nThe adventurous climber pushed on. Soon he was assailed by thick clouds,\nthrough which he and his companions resolutely toiled upward. This slow\nand labored progress through entangling mists continued until within\nfour miles of the summit, when Field emerged above them into a region\nof intense cold. Surmounting the immense pile of shattered rocks which\nconstitute the spire, he at last stood upon the unclouded summit,\nwith its vast landscape outspread beneath him, and the air so clear\nthat the sea seemed not more than twenty miles distant. No doubt the\ndaring explorer experienced all the triumph natural to his successful\nachievement. It is not difficult to imagine the exultation with which he\nplanted his audacious foot upon the topmost crag, for, like Columbus,\nCabot, Balboa, he, too, was a real discoverer. The Indians must have\nregarded him, who thus scornfully braved the vengeance of their god of\nterrors, as something more than man. I have often pictured him standing\nthere, proudly erect, while the wonder-struck savages crouched humbly at\nhis feet. Both, in their way, felt the presence of their God; but the\nwhite man would confront his as an equal, while the savage adored with\nhis face in the dust.\n\nThe three men, after their first emotion of ecstasy, amazement, or fear,\nlooked about them. For the moment the great carbuncle was forgotten.\nField had chosen the best month of the twelve for his attempt, and now\nsaw a vast and unknown region stretching away on the north and east to\nthe shores of what he took for seas, but what were really only seas of\nvapor, heaped against the farthest horizons. He fancied he saw a great\nwater to the north, which he judged to be a hundred miles broad, for\nno land was beyond it. He thought he descried the great Gulf of Canada\nto the east, and in the west the great lake out of which the river of\nCanada came. All these illusions are sufficiently familiar to mountain\nexplorers; and it must not be forgotten that in Field's day geographical\nknowledge of the interior of the country was indeed limited. In fact, he\nmust have brought back with him the first accurate knowledge respecting\nthe sources of those rivers flowing from the eastern slopes of the\nmountains. The great gulf on the north side of Mount Washington is\ntruly declared to be such a precipice that they could scarce discern to\nthe bottom; the great northern wilderness as \"daunting terrible,\" and\nclothed with \"infinite thick woods.\" Such is its aspect to-day.\n\nThe day must have been so far spent that Field had but little time in\nwhich to prosecute his search. He, however, found \"store of Muscovy\nglass\" and some crystals, which, supposing them to be diamonds, he\ncarefully secured and brought away. These glittering masses, congealed,\naccording to popular belief, like ice on the frozen regions of the\nmountains, gave them the name of the Crystal Hills--a name the most\npoetic, the most suggestive, and the most fitting that has been applied\nto the highest summits since the day they were first discovered by\nEnglishmen.\n\nDescending the mountain, Field rejoined his Indians, who were doubtless\nmuch astonished to see him return to them safe and sound; for, while he\nhad been making the ascent, a furious tempest, sent, as these savages\nbelieved, to destroy the rash pale-face and his equally reckless\ncompanions, burst upon the mountain. He found them drying themselves by\na fire of pine-knots; and, after a short halt, the party took their way\ndown the mountain to the Indian village.\n\nBefore a month elapsed, Field, with five or six companions, made a\nsecond ascent; but the gem of inestimable value, by whose light one\nmight read at night, continued to elude his pursuit. The search was not,\nhowever, abandoned. Others continued it. The marvellous story, as firmly\nbelieved as ever by the credulous, survived, in all its purity, to our\nown century, to be finally transmitted to immortality by Hawthorne's\ntale of \"The Great Carbuncle.\" It may be said here that great influence\nwas formerly attributed to this stone, which the learned in alchemy\nbelieved prevailed against the dangers of infection, and was a sure\ntalisman to preserve its owner from peril by sea or by land.\n\nA tradition is ten times a tradition when it has a fixed locality.\nWithout this it is a myth, a mere vagabond of a tradition. Knowing this,\nI searched diligently for the spot where the great carbuncle, like the\neye of a Cyclop, shed its red lustre far down the valley of the Saco;\nand if the little mountain tarn to-day known as Hermit Lake, over which\nthe gaunt crags rise in austere grandeur, be not the place, then I am\npersuaded that further seeking would be unavailing. I cannot go so far\nas to say that it never existed.\n\nWhat seems passing strange is that the feat performed by Field,[13] the\nfame of which spread throughout the colony, should have been nearly,\nif not wholly, forgotten before the lapse of a century. Robert Rogers,\none of the most celebrated hunters of the White Mountains, subsequently\na renowned partisan leader in the French and Indian wars, uses the\nfollowing language concerning them:\n\n\"I cannot learn that any person was ever on the top of these mountains.\nI have been told by the Indians that they have often attempted it in\nvain, by reason of the change of air they met with, which I am inclined\nto believe, having ascended them myself 'til the alteration of air was\nvery perceptible; and even then I had not advanced half way up; the\nvalleys below were then concealed from view by clouds.\"\n\nIt is not precisely known when or how these granite peaks took the name\nof the White Mountains. We find them so designated in 1672 by Josselyn,\nwho himself performed the feat of ascending the highest summit, of\nwhich a brief record is found in his \"New England's Rarities.\" One\ncannot help saying of this book that either the author was a liar of the\nfirst magnitude, or else we have to regret the degeneracy of Nature,\nexhausted by her long travail; for this narrator gravely tells us of\nfrogs which were as big as a child of a year old, and of poisonous\nserpents which the Indians caught with their bare hands, and ate alive\nwith great gusto. These are rarities indeed.\n\nThe first mention I have met with of an Indian name for the White\nMountains is in the narrative of John Gyles's captivity, printed in\nBoston in 1736, saying:\n\n\"These White Hills, at the head of Penobscot River, are by the Indians\nsaid to be much higher than those called Agiockochook,[14] above Saco.\"\n\nThe similitude between the names White Mountains and Mont Blanc suggests\nthe same idea, that color, rather than character, makes the first and\nstrongest impression upon the beholder. Thus we have White Mountains and\nGreen Mountains, Red Mountains and Black Mountains, the world over. The\neye seizes a color before the mind fixes upon a distinctive feature,\nor the imagination a resemblance. It is stated, on the authority of\nSchoolcraft, that the Algonquins called these summits \"White Rocks.\"\nMariners, approaching from the open sea, descried what seemed a\ncloud-bank, rising from the landward horizon, when twenty leagues from\nthe nearest coast, and before any other land was visible from the\nmast-head. Thirty leagues distant in a direct line, in a clear midsummer\nday, the distant summits appeared of a pearly whiteness; observed\nagain from a church steeple on the sea-coast, with the sky partially\novercast, they were whitish-gray, showing that the change from blue to\nwhite, or to cool tones approximating with white, is due to atmospheric\nconditions. The early writers succeed only imperfectly in accounting\nfor this phenomenon, which for six months of the year at least has no\nconnection whatever with the snows that cover the highest peaks only\nfrom the middle of October to the middle of April, a period during which\nfew navigators of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries visited our\nshores, or, indeed, ventured to put to sea at all.[15]\n\n\n\n\nII.\n\n_JACKSON AND THE ELLIS VALLEY._\n\n    Once more, O mountains of the North, unveil\n    Your brows, and lay your cloudy mantles by!--WHITTIER.\n\n\nIt is Petrarch who says, \"A journey on foot hath most pleasant\ncommodities; a man may go at his pleasure; none shall stay him, none\nshall carry him beyond his wish, none shall trouble him; he hath but\none labor, the labor of nature, to go.\" Every true pedestrian ought to\nrender full faith to the poet's assertion; and should he chance to have\nhis Laura, he will see her somewhere, or, rather, everywhere, I promise\nhim. But that is his affair.\n\nThere are two ways of reaching Jackson from North Conway. One route\nleaves the travelled highway a short distance beyond the East Branch of\nthe Saco, and ascends Thorn Hill; another diverges from it near Glen\nStation, in Bartlett. The Thorn Hill way is the longer; but, as the\nviews are unsurpassed, I unhesitatingly chose it in preference to the\neasier and shorter road.\n\nThe walk from the Intervale over Thorn Hill gives ravishing backward\nglimpses, opening to a full and broad panorama of the Saco meadows and\nof the surrounding mountains. Needless to call them by name. One might\nforget names, but the image never. Then, advancing to the summit, full\nupon the charmed eye comes that glorious vision of the great mountains,\nelevated to an immense height, and seeming, in their benevolence, to\nsay, \"Approach, mortals!\" Underneath is the village.\n\nWe have left the grand vestibule of the Saco to enter an amphitheatre.\nWashington, in his snowy toga, occupies the place of high honor. Adams\nflaunts his dainty spire over the Pinkham Notch, at the monarch's left\nhand. Then comes an embattled wall, pierced through its centre by the\nimmense hollow of the Carter Notch.\n\nJackson is the ideal mountain village. From Thorn Hill it looked a\nlittle elysium, with its handful of white houses huddled around its\none little church spire, like a congregation sitting at the feet of\ntheir pastor. You perceive neither entrance nor exit, so completely is\nthe deep vale shut in by mountains. The streams, that make two veins\nof silver in the green floor, seem vainly seeking a way out. One would\nthink Nature had locked the door and thrown away the key. The first\nstream is the Wildcat, coming from the Carter Notch; the second, the\nEllis, from the Pinkham Notch. They unite just below the village, and,\nlike a forlorn-hope, together cut their way out of the mountains.\n\nGetting down into the village, the high mountains now sink out of\nsight, and I saw only the nearer and less elevated ones immediately\nsurrounding--on the north, Eagle and Wildcat; on the east, Tin and\nThorn; on the west, Iron Mountain. The latter has fine, bold cliffs.\nOver its smooth slope I again saw the two great steps of the Giant's\nStairs, mounting the long ridge which conducts to the great plateau of\nMount Washington.\n\nThe village has a bright, pleasant look, but is not otherwise remarkable\nin itself. Three hotels, the church, and a score or so of houses,\nconstitute the central portion. But if the village is small, the\ntownship is large; and what is the visitor's astonishment, on opening\nhis eyes some fine morning, to see farms and farm-houses scattered along\nthe very summit of Thorn Mountain, whence they appear to regard the\nlittle world below with a lofty disdain. How came they there? is the\nquestion one feels inclined to ask; for in this enchanted air he loses\nthe desire, almost the faculty, of thinking for himself. The inhabitants\nof this little colony seem to prize their seclusion, and only descend to\nearth at the call of necessity. Their neighbors are the eagles. Surely\nthis is _Ultima Thule_. Alas! no; the tax-gatherer mounts even here.\n\nThe people of Jackson are above all anxious for the development of\nthe mineral resources of the place. They have iron and tin, and claim\nalso the existence of copper and even of gold ores. Yet it is probable\nthat the vein most profitable for them, the one most likely to yield\nsatisfactory returns, is that on which the summer hotels have been\nlocated and opened. So far, the mountains refuse to give up the wealth\nthey hoard.\n\n[Illustration: GIANT'S STAIRS, FROM THORN MOUNTAIN.]\n\nThe Wildcat cuts the village in two. It is a perfect highwayman of a\nstream. The very air is tremulous with its rush and roar. I halted\nawhile on the little bridge that spans it, from which, looking down\nthe long pathway it makes, I enjoyed a fine retrospect of the Moats,\nand, looking up, saw the torrent come bounding toward me. Here it makes\na swift descent over granite ledges, clean and fresh from constant\nscrubbing, as the face of a country urchin, and as freckled. See how\nhard every rod of its course is beset by huge hump-backed bowlders! A\nriver in fetters!\n\nJust above the bridge the stream plunges, two white streaks of water,\ntwenty to thirty feet obliquely down. Now it is dark, now light;\nsometimes tinged a pale emerald, sometimes a rich amber, where it falls\ndown in thin sheets. For half a mile the ledges look as if an earthquake\nhad ripped them up to make a channel for this tempest of water. It is\nfrom these ledges, looking down the course of the stream, that Moat\nMountain is so incomparably fine. It stretches itself luxuriously along\nthe rich meadows, like a Sybarite upon his couch of velvet, lifting\nits head high enough to embrace the landscape, of which itself is the\nmost attractive feature. And the tall pines rise above the framework of\nforest, as if to look at the beautiful mountain, clothed with the light\nof the morning, and reclining with such infinite grace.\n\nSprays of trembling foliage droop or stretch themselves out over the\nstream in search of the fine dew it sends up. They seem endeavoring to\nhide the broad scar made through the forest. The clear sun illuminates\ntheir green leaves, and makes the cool rocks emit a sensible warmth. It\nalso illuminates the little fountains of water. Ferns and young willows\nshoot from crevices, delicate mosses attach themselves to the grim\nbowlders. I found the perfect print of a human foot sunk in the hardest\nrock; also cavities as cleverly rounded as if pebbles had been taken\nfrom the granite. On the banks, under the thick shade of the pines, I\ngathered a handful of the showy pappoose flower, the green leaves of\nwhich are edible. Little mauve butterflies fluttered at our knees like\nviolets blown about by the wind.\n\nThe crest of the fall is split, and broken up in huge fragments. The\nmain stream gains an outlet by a deep channel it has cut in the rock;\nthen turns a mill; then shoots down the face of the ledge. Above the\nhigh ledge the bed of the river widens to about two hundred feet. Higher\nup, where it is broken in long regular steps over which fifty cascades\ntumble, I thought it most beautiful.\n\nBesides Jackson Falls, so called, there is a fine cataract on the Ellis,\nknown as Goodrich Falls. This is a mile and a half out of the village,\nwhere the Conway road passes the Ellis by a bridge; and, being directly\nupon the high-road, is one of the best known. The river here suddenly\npours its whole volume over a precipice eighty feet high, making the\nearth tremble with the shock. I made my way down the steep bank to the\nbed of the river below the fall, from which I saw, first, the curling\nwave, large, regular, and glassy, of the dam, then three wild and\nfoaming pitches of broken water, with detached cascades gushing out from\nthe rocks at the right--all falling heavily into the eddying pool below.\nWhere the water was not white, or filliped into fine spray, it was the\ncolor of pale sherry, and opaque, gradually changing to amber gold\nas the light penetrated it and the descending sheet of the fall grew\nthinner. The full tide of the river showed the fall to the best possible\nadvantage. But spring is the season of cascades--the only season when\none is sure of seeing them at all.\n\nOne gets strongly attached to such a stream as the Ellis. If it has\nbeen his only comrade for weeks, as it has been mine, the liking grows\nstronger every day--the sense of companionship is full and complete:\nthe river is so voluble, so vivacious, so full of noisy chatter. If you\nare dull, it rouses and lifts you out of yourself; if gay, it is as gay\nas you. Besides, there is the paradox that, notwithstanding you may be\ngoing in different directions, it never leaves you for a single moment.\nOne talks as it runs, one listens as he walks. A secret, an indefinable\nsympathy springs up. You are no longer alone.\n\n[Illustration: MOAT MOUNTAIN, FROM JACKSON FALLS.]\n\nAmong other stories that the river told me was the following:\n\nOnce, while on their way to Canada through these mountains, a war-party\nof Indians, fresh from a successful forray on the sea-coast, halted with\ntheir prisoners on the banks of a stream whose waters stopped their way.\nFor weeks these miserable captives had toiled through trackless forests,\nthrough swollen and angry torrents, sometimes climbing mountains on\ntheir hands and knees--they were so steep--and at night stretching their\naching limbs on the cold ground, with no other roof than the heavens.[16]\n\nThe captives were a mother, with her new-born babe, scarcely fourteen\ndays old, her boy of six, her two daughters of fourteen and sixteen\nyears, and her maid. Two of her little flock were missing. One little\nprattler was playing at her knee, and another in the orchard, when\nthirteen red devils burst in the door of their happy home. Two cruel\nstrokes of the axe stretched them lifeless in their blood before her\nfrenzied eyes. One was killed to intimidate, the other was despatched\nbecause he was afraid, and cried out to his mother. There was no time\nfor tears--none even for a parting kiss. Think of that, mothers of the\nnineteenth century! The tragedy finished, the hapless survivors were\nhurried from the house into the woods. There was no resistance. The blow\nfell like a stroke of lightning from a clear sky.\n\nThis mother, whose eyes never left the embroidered belt of the chief,\nwhere the reeking scalps of her murdered babes hung; this mother,\nwho had tasted the agony of death from hour to hour, and whose\nincomparable courage not only supported her own weak frame, but had\nso far miraculously preserved the lives of her little ones, now stood\nshivering on the shores of the swollen torrent with her babe in her\narms, and holding her little boy by the hand. In rags, bleeding, and\nalmost famished, her misery should have melted a heart of stone. But she\nwell knew the mercy of her masters. When fainting, they had goaded her\non with blows, or, making a gesture as if to snatch her little one from\nher arms, significantly grasped their tomahawks. Hope was gone; but the\nmother's instinct was not yet extinguished in that heroic breast.\n\nBut at this moment of sorrow and despair, what was her amazement to hear\nthe Indians accost her daughter Sarah, and command her to sing them a\nsong. What mysterious chord had the wild, flowing river touched in those\nsavage breasts? The girl prepared to obey, and the Indians to listen. In\nthe heart of these vast solitudes, which never before echoed to a human\nvoice, the heroic English maiden chanted to the plaintive refrain of the\nriver the sublime words of the Psalmist:\n\n\"By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we\nremembered Zion.\n\n\"We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof.\n\n\"For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song; and\nthey that wasted us required of us mirth.\"\n\nAs she sung, the poor girl's voice trembled and her eyes filled, but she\nnever once looked toward her mother.\n\nWhen the last notes of the singer's voice died away, the bloodiest\ndevil, he who murdered the children, took the babe gently from the\nmother, without a word; another lifted her burden to his own shoulder;\nanother, the little boy; when the whole company entered the river.\n\nGentlemen, metaphysicians, explain that scene, if you please: it is no\nromance.\n\nAs this tale plunged me in a train of sombre reflection, the river\nrecounted one of those marvellous legends which contain more poetry than\nsuperstition, and which here seem so appropriate.\n\nAccording to the legend, a family living at the foot of a lofty peak\nhad a daughter more beautiful than any maiden of the tribe, possessing\na mind elevated far above the common order, and as accomplished as\nbeautiful. When she reached a proper age, her parents looked around\nthem for a suitable match, but in vain. None of the young men of the\ntribe were worthy of so peerless a creature. Suddenly this lovely\nwildflower of the mountains disappeared. Diligent was the search, and\nloud the lamentations when no trace of her light moccasin could be\nfound in forest or glade. The tribe mourned her as lost. But one day\nsome hunters, who had penetrated into the fastnesses of the mountain,\ndiscovered the lost maiden disporting herself in the limpid waters\nof a stream with a beautiful youth, whose hair, like her own, flowed\ndown below his waist. On the approach of the intruders, the youthful\nbathers vanished from sight. The relatives of the maiden recognized her\ncompanion as one of the kind spirits of the mountain, and henceforth\nlooked upon him as their son. They called upon him for moose, bear, or\nwhatever creature they desired, and had only to go to the water-side\nand signify their desire, when, behold! the animal came swimming toward\nthem. This legend strongly reminded me of one of those marvellous fables\nof the Hartz, in which a princess of exceeding beauty, destroyed by the\narts of a wicked fairy, was often seen bathing in the river Ilse. If she\nmet a traveller, she conducted him into the interior of the mountain and\nloaded him with riches. Each legend dimly conveys its idea of the wealth\nbelieved to reside in the mountain itself.\n\nThe Ellis continues to guide us farther and farther into the mountains.\nIf we turn in the direction of the Glen House, a mile out of the\nvillage the Giant's Stairs come finely into view, and are held for\nsome distance. Then bewitching vistas of Mount Washington, with snow\ndecorating his huge sides, rise and sink, appear and disappear, until\nwe reach an open vale, where the stream is spanned by a rude bridge.\nThe route offers nothing more striking in its way than the view of the\nPinkham Notch, which lies open at this point.\n\nOne of my walks extending as far as the last house on this road,\npermitted me to gratify a strong desire to see something of the in-door\nlife of the poorer class of farmers. That desire was fully satisfied.\nThere was nothing remarkable about the house itself; but the room in\nwhich I rested would have furnished Meyer von Bremen a capital subject\nfor one of his characteristic interiors--it carried me back a century\nat least. In one corner a woman upward of seventy, I should say, sat\nat a spinning-wheel. She rose, got my bread-and-milk, and then resumed\nher spinning. A young mother, with a babe in her lap and two tow-headed\nurchins at her knee, occupied a high-backed rocking-chair. To judge\nfrom appearances, the river which flowed by the door was completely\nforgotten. Her efforts to hush the babe being interrupted by the peevish\nwhining of one of the brats, she dealt him a sound box on the ear, upon\nwhich the whole pack howled in unison, while the mother, very red with\nthe effect of her own anger, dragged the culprit from the room. There\nwas still another occupant, a young girl, so silently plying her needle\nthat I did not at first notice her. The floor was bare. A rickety chair\nor two and a cradle finished the meagre inventory of the apartment.\nThe general appearance of things was untidy and unthrifty, rather than\nsqualid; but I could not help recalling Sir William Davenant's remark,\n\"that those tenants never get much furniture who begin with a cradle.\"\n\nIn such rambles, romantic and picturesque, in such dreams, the time\nruns away. The weeks are long days, the days moments. Every one asks\nhimself why he finds Jackson so enticing, but no one is able to answer\nthe question. _Cui bono?_ When I am happy, shall I make myself miserable\nsearching for the reason? Not if I know it.\n\nLike bees to the sweetest flowers, the artists alight on the choicest\nbits of scenery by instinct. One runs across their umbrellas almost\neverywhere, spread like gigantic mushrooms; but some of them seem only\nto live and have their true artistic being here. In general, they\nare gentle, unobtrusive, and rather subdued in the presence of their\nbeloved mountains. Some among them, however, develop actual rapacity\nin the search for new subjects, as, with a pencil between their teeth,\nthey creep in ambush to surprise and carry off some mountain beauty\nwhich you or I are to ransom. Does a traveller contemplate some arduous\nexploration in an unvisited region? the artist knocks him over by\nquietly remarking, \"I camped there several days last year.\"\n\nIn France they maintain that high mountains cannot be painted.\nConsequently, the modern French landscape is almost always a dead\nlevel; an illimitable plain, through which a placid stream quietly\nmeanders, with a thick wood of aged trees at the left, a snug hamlet in\nthe middle distance, some shrubbery on the right, and a clumsy ox-cart\nwith peasants, in the foreground. All these details are sufficiently\ncommonplace; but they appeal strongly to our human yearning for a life\nof perfect peace--a sanctuary the world cannot enter. Turner knew that\nhe must paint a mountain with its head in the clouds, and its feet\nplunged in unfathomable abysses. Imagination would do the rest, and\nimagination governs the universe.\n\nPhotography cannot reproduce the true relation of distant mountains to\nthe landscape. The highest summits look like hills. For want of color,\ntoo, it is always twilight. Even running water has a frozen look,\nand rocks emit a dead, sepulchral glare. But for details--every leaf\nof the tree, or shadow of the leaf--it is faultless; it is the thing\nitself. True, under the magnifying-glass the foliage looks crisped, as\nis noticed after a first frost. In short, the photograph of mountain\nscenery is like that of a friend taken in his coffin. We say with a\nshiver that is he, but, alas, how changed! A body without a soul. Again,\nphotography cannot suggest movement. Perfect immobility is a condition\nindispensable to a successful picture. A successful picture! A petrified\nlandscape!\n\n\"In the morning to the mountain,\" says the proverb, as emblematic of\nhigh hopes. For two stations embodying the best features the vicinity\nof Jackson can offer, the crest of Thorn Mountain and the ledges above\nFernald's Farm are strongly commended to every sojourner. Both are\neasily reached. On the first, you are a child lifted above the crowd\non the shoulders of a giant; the mountains have come to you. On the\nsecond, you have taken the best possible position to study the form and\nstructure of Mount Washington. You see all the ravines, and can count\nall the gigantic feelers the immense mountain throws down into the\ngorge of the Ellis. In this way, step by step, we continue to master the\ntopography of the region visited as we take our chocolate, one sip at a\ntime.\n\nI prepared to continue my journey to the Glen House by the valley of\nthe Wildcat and the Carter Notch, which is a sort of side entrance to\nthe Peabody Valley. Two passes thus lie on alternate sides of the same\nmountain chain. Before doing so, however, two words are necessary.\n\n\n\n\nIII.\n\n_THE CARTER NOTCH._\n\n    Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needs\n    No school of long experience, that the world\n    Is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen\n    Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares,\n    To tire thee of it, enter this wild wood\n    And view the haunts of nature.\n                  --BRYANT.\n\n\nWhat traveller can pass beyond the crest of Thorn Hill without paying\nhis tribute of silent admiration to the splendid pageant of mountains\nvisible from this charmed spot! Before him the great rampart, bristling\nwith its countless towers, is breached as cleanly as if a cannon-ball\nhad just crashed through it. It is an immense hole; it is the cavity\nfrom which, apparently, one of those great iron teeth has just been\nextracted. Only it does not disfigure the landscape. Far from it. It\nreally exalts the surrounding peaks. They are enormously aggrandized by\nit. You look around for a mountain of proper size and shape to fill it.\nThat gives the true idea. It is a mountainous hole.\n\nThe little river, tumbling step by step down its broken ledges into\nJackson, comes direct from the Notch, and its stream is the thread\nwhich conducts through the labyrinth of thick woods. I dearly love the\ncompanionship of these mountain streams. They are the voices of the\nwilderness, singing high or low, softly humming a melodious refrain to\nyour thoughts, or, joining innumerable cascades in one grand chorus,\nthey salute the ear with a gush of sound that strips the forest of its\nloneliness and awe. This same madcap Wildcat runs shouting and hallooing\nthrough the woods like a stream possessed.\n\nBy half-past seven of a bright and crisp morning I was climbing the\nsteep hill-side over which Jackson Falls pour down. Here was a genuine\nsurprise. On arriving at the top, instead of entering a difficult and\nconfined gorge, I found a charming and tolerably wide vale, dotted with\nfarms, extending far up into the midst of the mountains. You hardly\nrealize that the stream flowing so demurely along the bottom of the\nvalley is the same making its entry into the village with such noise\nand tumult. Half a mile above the falls the snowy cupola of Washington\nshowed itself over Eagle Mountain for a few moments. Then, farther on,\nAdams was seen, also white with snow. For five miles the road skirts the\nwestern slopes of the valley, which grows continually deeper, narrower,\nand higher. Spruce Mountain is now on our left, the broad flanks of\nBlack Mountain occupy the right side of the valley. Beyond Black\nMountain Carter Dome lifts its ponderous mass, and between them the dip\nof the Perkins Notch, dividing the two ranges, gives admittance to the\nWild River Valley, and to the Androscoggin, in Shelburne. Before me the\ngrand, downward curves of Carter Notch opened wider and wider.\n\nI picked up, _en route_, the guide of this locality, who lives on the\nside of the mountain near where the road is left for the woods. Our\nbusiness was transacted in two words. While he was strapping on his\nknapsack I had leisure to observe the manner of man he was.\n\nThe guide, whose Christian name is Jonathan, is known in all the country\nround as \"Jock\" Davis. He was a medium-sized, muscular man, whiskered to\nhis eyes, with a pair of bare arms the color of unglazed earthen-ware,\nand a step like a panther. As he strode silently on before, with his dog\nat his heels, I was reminded of the Jibenainosay and his inseparable\nLittle Peter. He was steady as a clock, careful, and a capital forester,\nbut a trifle taciturn. From time to time, as he drew my attention to the\nthings noticeable or interesting by the way, his face grew animated, and\nhis eyes sparkled. By the same token I believed I detected that dormant\nperception of beauty and grandeur which is inborn, and which travellers\nare in general too much disposed to deny any existence among the natives\nof these mountains. It is true, one cannot express his feelings with\nthe vivacity of the other; but if there is such a thing as speech in\nsilence, the honest guide's looks spoke volumes.\n\nHe told me that he was accustomed to get his own living in the woods,\nlike an old bear. He had trapped and gummed all through the region we\nwere in; the slopes of the great range, and the Wild River wilderness,\nwhich he declared, with a shake of the head, to be \"a horrid hole.\" Now\nand then, without halting, he took a step to the right or left to look\ninto his fox and sable traps, set near the foot-path. When he spoke of\n\"gumming\" on Wildcat Mountain, I was near making an awkward mistake; I\nunderstood him to say \"gunning.\" So I very innocently asked what he had\nbagged. He opened his eyes widely and replied, \"Gum.\"[17]\n\n[Illustration: THE CARTER NOTCH.]\n\nSeeing me ready, Davis whistled to his dog, and we entered the\nlogging-road in Indian file. We at once took a brisk pace, which in a\nshort time brought us to the edge of a clearing, now badly overgrown\nwith bramble and coppice, and showing how easily nature obliterates\nthe mark of civilization when left alone. In this clearing an old\ncellar told its sad story but too plainly. Those pioneers who first\nstruck the axe into the noble pines here are all gone. They abandoned\nin consternation the effort to wring a scanty subsistence from this\ninhospitable and unfruitful region. Even the poor farms I had seen\nencroaching upon the skirts of this wilderness seemed fighting in\nretreat.\n\nWe quickly came to a second opening, where the axe of God had smote\nthe forest still more ruthlessly than that of man. The ground was\nencumbered with half-burnt trees, among which the gaudy fire-weed grew\nrank and tall. Divining my thought, the guide explained in his quaint,\nsententious way, \"Fire went through it; then the wind harricaned it\ndown.\" A comprehensive sweep of his staff indicated the area traversed\nby the whirlwind of fire and the tornado. This opening disclosed at our\nleft the gray cliffs and yawning aperture of the Notch--by far the most\nsatisfactory view yet obtained, and the nearest.\n\nBurying ourselves in deeper solitudes, broken only by the hound in full\ncry after a fox or a rabbit, we descended to the banks of the Wildcat at\na point one and a half miles from the road we had left. We then crossed\nthe rude bridge of logs, keeping company with the gradually diminishing\nriver, now upon one bank, now on the other, making a gradual ascent\nalong with it, frequently pausing in mid-stream to glance up and down\nthrough the beautiful vistas it has cut through the trees. Halt at the\nthird crossing, traveller, and take in the long course through the\navenue of black, moss-draped firs! one so sombre and austere, the other\ngliding so bright and blithesome out of its shadow and gloom. Just above\nthis spot a succession of tiny water-falls comes like a procession of\nnymphs out of an enchanted wood.\n\nWe were now in a colder region. The sparseness of the timber led me to\nlook right and left for the stumps of felled trees, but I saw nothing of\nthe kind. To the rigorous climate and extreme leanness of the soil they\nattribute the scanty, undersized growth. I did not see fifty good timber\ntrees along the whole route. Where a large tree had been prostrated by\nthe wind, its upturned and matted roots showed a pitiful quantity of\nearth adhering. Finding it impossible to grow downward more than a few\npoor inches, they spread themselves laterally out to a great distance.\nBut the fir, with its flame-shaped point, is a symbol of indomitable\npluck. You see it standing erect on the top of some huge bowlder, which\nits strong, thick roots clutch like a vulture's talons. How came it\nthere? Look at those rotting trunks, so beautifully covered with the\nlycopodium and partridge-plum! The seed of a fir has taken root in the\nbark. A tiny tree is already springing from the rich mould. As it grows,\nits roots grasp whatever offers a support; and if the decaying tree has\nfallen across a bowlder, they strike downward into the soil beneath\nit, and the rock is a prisoner during the lifetime of the tree. Its\nresin protects it from the icy blasts of winter, and from the alternate\nfreezing and thawing of early spring. It is emphatically the tree of the\nmountains.\n\nAn hour and a half of pretty rapid walking brought us to the bottom of a\nsteep rise. We were at length come to close quarters with the formidable\noutworks of Wildcat Mountain. The brook has for some distance poured a\nstream of the purest water over moss of the richest green, but now it\nmost mysteriously vanishes from sight. From this point the singular rock\ncalled the Pulpit is seen overhanging the upper crags of the Dome.[18]\n\nWe drank a cup of delicious water from a spring by the side of the path,\nand, finding direct access forbidden by the towering and misshapen mass\nbefore us, turned sharply to the left, and attacked the side of Wildcat\nMountain. We had now attained an altitude of nearly three thousand feet\nabove the sea, or two thousand two hundred and fifty above the village\nof Jackson; we were more than a thousand higher than the renowned\nCrawford Notch.\n\nOn every side the ground was loaded down with huge gray bowlders, so\nponderous that it seemed as if the solid earth must give way under them.\nSome looked as if the merest touch would send them crashing down the\nmountain. Undermined by the slow action of time, these fragments have\nfallen one by one from the high cliffs, and accumulated at the base.\nAmong these the path serpentined for half a mile more, bringing us at\nlast to the summit of the spur we had been climbing, and to the broad\nentrance of the Notch. We passed quickly over the level ground we were\nupon, stopped by the side of a well-built cabin of bark, threw off our\nloads, and then, fascinated by the exceeding strangeness of everything\naround me, I advanced to the edge of the scrubby growth in front of the\ncamp, in order to command an unobstructed view.\n\nShall I live long enough to forget this sublime tragedy of nature,\nenacted Heaven knows when or how? How still it was! I seemed to have\narrived at the instant a death-like silence succeeds the catastrophe.\nI saw only the bare walls of a temple, of which some Samson had just\noverthrown the columns--walls overgrown with a forest, ruins overspread\nwith one struggling for existence.\n\nImagine the light of a mid-day sun brightening the tops of the\nmountains, while within a sepulchral gloom rendered all objects--rocks,\ntrees, cliffs--all the more weird and fantastic. I was between two high\nmountains, whose walls enclose the pass. Overhanging it, fifteen hundred\nfeet at least, the sunburnt crags of the Dome towered above the highest\nprecipices of the mountain behind me. These stately barriers, at once\nso noble and imposing, seemed absolutely indestructible. Impossible to\nconceive anything more enduring than this imperishable rock. So long\nas the world stands, those mountains will stand. And nothing can shake\nthis conviction. They look so strong, so confident in their strength, so\nincapable of change.\n\nBut what, then, is this dusky gray mass, stretching huge and irregular\nacross the chasm from mountain to mountain, completely filling the\nspace between, and so effectually blockading the entrance that we were\ncompelled to pick our way up the steep side of the mountain in order to\nturn it?\n\nPicture to yourself acres upon acres of naked granite, split and\nsplintered in every conceivable form, of enormous size and weight, yet\npitched, piled, and tumbled about like playthings, tilted, or so poised\nand balanced as to open numberless caves, which sprinkled the whole area\nwith a thousand shadows--figure this, I repeat, to yourself--and the\nmind will then grasp but faintly the idea of this colossal barricade,\nseemingly built by the giants of old to guard their last stronghold from\nall intrusion. At some distance in front of me a rock of prodigious\nsize, very closely resembling the gable of a house, thrusting itself\nhalf out, conveyed its horrible suggestion of an avalanche in the act of\ningulfing a hamlet. And all this one beholds in a kind of stupefaction.\n\nWhence came this colossal d\u00e9bris? I had at first the idea that the\ngreat arch, springing from peak to peak, supported on the Atlantean\nshoulders of the two mountains, had fallen in ruins. I even tried to\nimagine the terrific crash with which heaven and earth came together in\nthe fall. Easy to realize here Schiller's graphic description of the\nJungfrau:\n\n\"One walks there between life and death. Two threatening peaks shut in\nthe solitary way. Pass over this place of terror without noise; dread\nlest you awaken the sleeping avalanche.\"\n\nIt is evident, however, as soon as the eye attaches itself to the side\nof the Dome, that one of its loftiest precipices, originally measuring\nan altitude as great as any yet remaining, has precipitated itself in a\ncrushed and broken mass into the abyss. Nothing is left of the primitive\nedifice except these ruins. It is easily conceived that, previous to\nthe convulsion, the interior aspect of the Notch was quite different\nfrom what is seen to-day. It was doubtless narrower, gloomier, and\ndeeper before the cliff became dislodged. The track of the convulsion is\neasily traced. From top to bottom the side of the mountain is hollowed\nout, exposing a shallow ravine, in which nothing but dwarf spruces will\ngrow, and in which the erratic rocks, arrested here and there in their\nfall, seem endeavoring to regain their ancient position on the summit.\nThere is no trace whatever of the rubbish ordinarily accompanying a\nslide--only these rocks.\n\nSeeing that all this happened long ago, I asked the guide why the larger\ngrowth we saw on both sides of the hollow had not succeeded in covering\nthe old scar, as is the case with the Willey Slide; but he was unable to\nadvance even a conjecture. The spruce, however, loves ruins, spreading\nitself out over them with avidity.\n\nWe felt our way cautiously and slowly out over the bowlders; for the\nmoment one quits the usual track he risks falling headlong upon the\nsharp rocks beneath. In the midst of these grisly blocks stunted firs\nare born, and die for want of sustenance, making the dreary waste\nbristle with hard and horny skeletons. The spruce, dwarfed and deformed,\nhas established itself solidly in the interstices; a few bushes spring\nup in the crannies. With this exception, the entire area is denuded\nof vegetation. The obstruction is heaped in two principal ridges,\ntraversing its greatest breadth, and opening a broad way between.\nThis is one of the most curious features I remarked. From a flat rock\non the summit of the first we obtained the best idea of the general\nconfiguration of the Notch; and from this point, also, we saw the two\nlittle lakes beneath us which are the sources of the Wildcat. Beyond,\nand above the hollow they occupy, the two mountains meet in the low\nridge constituting the true summit of Carter Notch. Far down, under\nthe bowlders, the Wildcat gropes its way out; but, notwithstanding one\nor the other was continually dropping out of sight into the caverns\nwith which they are filled, we could neither hear nor see anything to\nindicate its route. It is buried out of sight and sound.\n\nNo incident of the whole excursion is more curiously inexplicable than\nthe total disappearance of the brook at the mountain's foot. Notice that\nit was last seen gushing from the side we ascended, half a mile below\nthe camp. Whence does it come? When we were on top of the bowlders,\nlooking down on the water of the two little lakes, we wonderingly ask,\n\"Where does it go? How does it get out?\" The mystery is, however, solved\nby the certainty that their waters flow out underneath the barrier, so\nthat this mammoth pile of d\u00e9bris, which could destroy a city, was unable\nto arrest the flow of a rivulet.\n\nBut all this wreck and ruin exerts a saddening influence; it seems\nto prefigure the Death of the Mountain. So one gladly turns to the\nlandscape--a very noble though not extensive one--enclosing all the\nmountains and valleys to the south of us lying between Kearsarge and\nMoat.\n\nAfter this tour of the rocks, we returned to the hut and ate our\nluncheon. Here the Pulpit Rock, which is sure to catch the eye whenever\nit wanders to the cliffs opposite, looks very much like the broken\nhandle of a jug. Davis explained that, by advancing fifteen or twenty\npaces upon it, it would be possible to hang suspended over the thousand\nfeet of space beneath. While thus occupied, the dog received his share\nof the bread and meat; nor was the little tame hawk that came and hopped\nso fearlessly at our feet forgotten. This bird and a cross-bill were the\nonly living things I saw.[19]\n\nBeing fully rested and refreshed, we started on a second exploration of\nthe upper part of the Notch. Thus far our examination had been confined\nto the lower portion only. Descending the spur upon which the hut is\nsituated, we were, in a few moments, at the bottom of the deep cavity\nlying between the Giants' Barricade and the little mountain forming the\nnorthern portal. This area is undoubtedly the original floor of the\npass. We had now reached a position between the lakes. Looking backward,\nthe barricade lifted a black and frowning wall a hundred and fifty feet\nabove our heads. Looking down, the water of the lakes seemed \"an image\nof the Dead Sea sleeping at the foot of Jerusalem destroyed.\" While I\nstood looking into them, a passing cloud, pausing in astonishment at\nseeing itself reflected from these shadowy depths, darkened the whole\ninterior. Deprived all at once of sunlight, the scene became one of\ngreat and magnificent solemnity. The pass assumed the appearance of a\nvast cavern. The ponds lay still and cold below. The air grew chill,\nthe water black as ink. The ruddy color faded from the cliffs. They\nbecame livid. I saw the thousands upon thousands of fir-trees, rigid and\nsombre, ranged tier on tier like spectators in an immense circus, who\nare awaiting the signal for some terrible spectacle to begin. When the\ncloud tranquilly resumed its journey, a load seemed lifted off. It was\nNature repeating to herself,\n\n    \"Put out the light, and then put out the light.\"\n\nWe had reached the camp at half-past ten. At half-past twelve we began\nthe ascent of the Dome. It is not so much the height as the steepness of\nthis mountain that wins our respect. The path goes straight up to the\nfirst summit, deflects a little to reach the Pulpit, and then, turning\nmore northerly, ascends for a mile and a half more by a much easier rise\nto the highest peak. There are no open ledges on the route. The path is\ncut through a wood from base to summit; and, with the exception of a\nfew trees felled to open an outlook in the direction of the main range,\nwas covered on the summit itself with a dense growth of fir-trees from\ntwelve to fifteen feet high. To obtain a view of the whole horizon, it\nwas necessary, at the time of my visit, to climb one of these trees.\n\nI will not fatigue the reader with any detailed account of the ascent.\nSuffice it to say that it was a slow and toilsome lifting of one heavy\nfoot after another for three-quarters of an hour. Sometimes the slope\nwas so near the vertical that we could ascend only a few rods at a\ntime. I improved these halts by leaning against a tree, and panting like\na doe pursued by the hunter. Davis threw himself upon the ground and\nwatched me attentively, but without speaking. If he expected me to give\nout, I disappointed him by giving the signal to move on. I had already\nserved my apprenticeship on Carrigain. It was difficult to maintain\nan upright position. Once, indeed, on looking up, I perceived that\nthe guide had abandoned in disgust the idea of walking erect, and was\ncreeping on all-fours, like his dog. This breathless scramble continued\nfor three-quarters of an hour, at the end of which we turned into the\nshort by-path conducting to the Pulpit.\n\nNear the Pulpit is a cleared space large enough to afford standing room\nfor fifteen or twenty persons. This Pulpit is a huge, rectangular rock,\njutting out from the face of the cliff on which we stood, and is not at\nall unworthy of the name given to it by the guide. It is a fine station\nfrom which to survey the deep rent in the side of the mountain, as well\nas the mammoth stone-heap, which it overlooks. The black side of Mount\nWildcat, ploughed from top to bottom with four deep gashes,\n\n    \"The least a death to nature,\"\n\nis also seen to excellent advantage across the airy space between the\nmountains. The fluttering of a handkerchief at the door of the little\ncabin greatly enlivened the solitary scene, and drew from us the same\nsignal in return.\n\nAt first sight the ascent by the chasm seems feasible; but Davis, who\nhas twice performed this difficult feat, declared with a shrug that\nnothing would tempt him to do it again. Those who have ever come to\nclose quarters with the shrubby growth of these ruins will know how to\nleave it in undisputed possession of its own chosen ground. The dwarf\nspruce is the Cossack of the woods.\n\nWhat a beautiful landscape is that from the Pulpit! The southern horizon\nis now widely opened. The mountains around Jackson have dwindled\nto hills. Especially curious are the flattened top and distorted\ncontour-lines of Iron Mountain. Another singular feature is the way we\nlook through the cloven summit of Doublehead to Kearsarge's stately\npyramid. Here are strips of the Ellis and Saco Valleys, and all of the\nWildcat. The lakes in Ossipee are dazzling to look upon. Old Chocorua\nlifts his brilliant spire; then Moat his iron bulwarks. Crawford,\nResolution, and the Giants' Stairs extend on the right, behind Iron.\nThe view is then cut off by the burly form of Wildcat. Far back in the\npicture are the notched walls of the Franconia and Sandwich chains,\ntopped by pale blue peaks.\n\nContinuing the ascent for about three-fourths of a mile, we came to a\npoint only a rod or two distant from the head of the great slide of\n1869, and from the top of a tree here was the most thrilling prospect of\nWashington and the great northern peaks I ever beheld. All the summits\nas far south as Monroe are included in the view.\n\nOver the right shoulder of Wildcat appeared the dazzling summit of\nWashington, having at his left the noble cone of Jefferson, the\nmatchless shaft of Adams, and the massive pyramid of Madison. Each gray\nhead was profusely powdered with snow. Dark clouds, heavily charged with\nfrost, partially intercepted the sun's rays, and, enveloping the great\nmountains in their shadows, cast over them a mantle of the deepest blue;\nbut enough light escaped to gild the arid slopes of the great ravines a\nrich brown gold, and to pierce through, and beautifully expose, against\nthe dark bulk of Adams, a thin veil of slowly falling snow. Imagine an\nEthiopian wrapped from head to foot in lace!\n\nA chapter could not give the thousand details of this grand picture.\nOne devours it with avidity. He sees to the greatest possible advantage\nthe magnificent proportions of Washington, with his massive slopes\nrolling up and up, like petrified storm-clouds, to the final summit.\nHe sees the miles of carriage-road, from where it leaves the woods,\nas far as the great northern plateau. He looks deep down into the\ndepths of Tuckerman's and Huntington's ravines, and between them sees\nRaymond's Cataract crusting the bare cliffs with a vein of quicksilver.\nThe massive head-wall of Tuckerman's was freely spattered with fresh\nsnow; the Lion's Head rose stark and forbidding; the upper cliffs of\nHuntington's,\n\n    \"With twenty trenched gashes in his head,\"\n\nthe great billows of land rushing downward into the dark gulfs,\nresembled the vortex of a frozen whirlpool.\n\nBut for refinement of form, delicacy of outline, and a predominant,\ninexplicable grace, Adams stands forth here without a rival.\nWashington is the undisputed monarch, but Adams is the highest type of\nmountain beauty here. That splendid, slightly concave, antique shaft,\nrising in unconscious symmetry from the shoulders of two supporting\nmountain-peaks, which seem prostrating themselves at its feet, changes\nthe emotion of awe and respect to one of admiration and pleasure. Our\nelevation presented all the great summits in an unrivalled attitude for\nobservation or study; and whoever has once beheld them--banded together\nwith bonds of adamant, their heads in the snow, and their feet in the\nimpenetrable shades of the Great Gulf; with every one of their thousands\nof feet under his eye--every line as firm and strong, and every contour\ntrue as the Great Architect drew it--without loss or abatement; vigorous\nin old age as in youth; monuments of one race, and silent spectators\nof the passing of another; victors in the battle with Time; chronicles\nand retrospect of ages; types of the Everlasting and Unchangeable--will\noften try to summon up the picture of the great peaks, and once more\nmarshal their towering battlements before the memory.\n\nThe descent occupied less than half an hour, so rapidly is it made.\nWe had nothing whatever to do with regulating our speed, but were\nfully occupied in so placing our feet as to avoid pitching headlong,\nor sitting suddenly down in a miry place. We simply tumbled down the\nmountain, like two rocks detached from its peak.\n\nAfter a last survey of the basin of the Notch, from the clearing above\nthe upper lake, we crossed the little mountain at its head, taking the\npath leading to the Glen House. We descended the reverse side together,\nto the point where the great slide referred to came thundering down from\nthe Dome into the gorge of Nineteen Mile Brook. This landslip, which\nhappened October 4th, 1869, was one of the results of the disastrous\nautumnal storms, which deluged the mountains with rain, and set in\nmotion here an enormous quantity of wreck and d\u00e9bris. It was at this\ntime that Mr. Thompson, the proprietor of the Glen House, lost his life\nin the Peabody River, in a desperate effort to avert the destruction of\nhis mill.\n\nHere I parted from my guide; and, after threading the woods for two\nhours more, following the valley of Nineteen Mile Brook, came out of\ntheir shadowy embrace into the stony pastures above the Glen House.\n\n\n\n\nIV.\n\n_THE PINKHAM NOTCH._\n\n    Levons les yeux vers les saintes montagnes.\n            --RACINE.\n\n\nThe Glen House is one of the last strongholds of the old ways of travel.\nJackson is twelve, Randolph seven, and Gorham eight miles distant. These\nare the nearest villages. The nearest farm-houses are Copp's, three\nmiles on the road to Randolph, and Emery's, six on the road to Jackson.\nThe nearest railway-station is eight miles off, at Gorham. The nearest\nsteam-whistle is there. So much for its seclusion.\n\nBeing thus isolated, the Glen House is naturally the point of direction\nfor the region adjacent. Situated at the base of Carter Mountain, on a\nterrace rising above the Peabody River, which it overlooks, it has only\nthe valley of this stream--a half mile of level meadow here--between\nit and the base of Mount Washington. The carriage-road to the summit,\nwhich, in 1861, superseded the old bridle-path, is seen crossing this\nmeadow. This road occupied six years in building, is eight miles long,\nand is as well and solidly built as any similar piece of highway in New\nEngland.\n\nWhen it is a question of this gigantic mass, which here offers such an\neasy mode of ascent, the interest is assured. Respecting the appearance\nof Mount Washington from the Glen House itself, it is a received\ntruth that neither the height nor the proportions of a high mountain\nare properly appreciated when the spectator is placed exactly at the\nbase. The same is true here of Mount Washington, which is too much\nforeshortened for a favorable estimate of its grandeur or its elevation.\nThe Dome looks flat, elongated, obese. But it is only a step from the\nhotel to more eligible posts of observation, say the clearings on Mount\nCarter, or, better still, the slopes of Wildcat, which are easily\nreached over a good path.\n\nStill, Mount Washington is surveyed with more astonishment, perhaps,\nfrom this point, than from any other. Its lower section is covered\nwith a dense forest, out of which rise the successive and stupendous\nundulations culminating at last in the absolutely barren summit, which\nthe nearer swells almost conceal. The true peak stands well to the left,\nindicated by a white building when the sun is shining, and a dark one\nwhen it is not. As seen from this spot, the peculiar formation of the\nmountain gives the impression of a semi-fluid mass, first cooled to\nhardness, then receiving successive additions, which, although eternally\nunited with its bulk, have left the point of contact forever visible.\nWhen the first mass cooled, it received a second, a third, and a fourth.\nOne believes, so to speak, certain intervals to have elapsed in the\nprocess of solidifying these masses, which seem, to me at least, not\nrisen above the earth, but poured down upon it.\n\nIt is related that an Englishman, seated on the balcony of his hotel at\nChamouni, after having conscientiously followed the peripatetics of a\nsunset, remarked, \"Very fine, very fine indeed! but it is a pity Mont\nBlanc hides the view.\" In this sense, Mount Washington \"hides the view\"\nto the west. No peak dares show its head in this direction.\n\nFrom the vicinity of the hotel, Wildcat Mountain allows the eye to\nembrace, at the left, Mount Washington as far as Tuckerman's Ravine.\nOnly a few miles of the valley can be traced on this side; but at the\nright it is open for nearly its whole length, fully exposing that\nmagnificent sweep of the great northern peaks, here bending majestically\nto the north-east, and exhibiting their titanic props, deep hollows,\nsoaring peaks, to the admiring scrutiny of every wayfarer. It is\nimpossible to appreciate this view all at once. No one can pretend\nto analyze the sensations produced by looking at mountains. The bare\nthought of them causes a flutter of enthusiasm wherever we may be. At\nsuch moments one lays down the pen to revel in the recollection.\n\nAmong these grandees, Adams looks highest. It is indispensable that this\nmountain should be seen from some higher point. It is only half seen\nfrom the Glen, although the view here is by far the best to be had in\nany valley enclosing the great chain. Ascend, therefore, even at the\nrisk of some toil, one of the adjacent heights, and this superb monument\nwill deign to show the true symmetrical relation of summit to base.\n\nI have already said that most travellers approach this charming mountain\nnook by the Pinkham defile, instead of making their d\u00e9but by the\nCarter Notch. It will be well worth our while to retrace at least so\nmuch of this route, through the first-named pass, as will enable us to\ngain a knowledge, not so much of what it shows as of what it hides. By\nreferring to the chapter on Jackson, we shall then have seen all that\ncan be seen on the travelled highway.\n\nThe four miles back through the Pinkham forest deserve to be called the\nAvenue of Cascades. Not less than four drop from the mountain tops, or\nleap down the confined gorges. Let us first walk in this direction.\n\nTwo miles from the hotel we meet a sprightly and vigorous brook coming\ndown from Wildcat Mountain to swell the Peabody. A short walk up this\nstream brings us to Thompson's Falls, which are several pretty cascades\nslipping down a bed of granite. The ledges over which they glide offer\na practicable road to the top of the falls, from which is a most\ninteresting view into Tuckerman's Ravine, and of the summit of Mount\nWashington.\n\nSome overpowering, some unexplained fascination about these dark and\nmysterious chambers of the mountain arouses in us a desire strangely\nlike to that intense craving for a knowledge of futurity itself. We\nthink of the Purgatory of the ancients into which we would willingly\ndescend if, like Dante holding the hand of Virgil, we might hope to\nreturn unscathed to earth. \"This is nothing but an enormous breach\nin the mountain,\" you say, weakly attempting to throw off the spell\nby ridiculing the imagination. Be it so. But it has all the terrible\nsuggestiveness of a descent into the world of the dead. When we walk in\nthe dark we say that we are afraid of falling. It is a falsehood. We are\nafraid of a _Presence_.\n\nThat dark curling lip of the south wall, looking as if the eternal\nadamant of the hills had been scorched and shrivelled by consuming\nflame, marks the highest curve of the massive granite spur rooted deep\nin the Pinkham defile. It is named Boott's Spur. The sky-line of the\nravine's head-wall is five thousand feet above the sea, on the great\nplateau over which the Crawford trail passes. That enormous crag, rising\nlike another Tower of Famine, on the north and east divides the ravine\nproper from the collateral chamber, known as Huntington's, out of which\nthe source of the Peabody gushes a swift torrent, and near which the\ncarriage-road winds its devious way up to the summit. In the depression\nof this craggy ridge, between the two ravines, sufficient water is\ncollected to form the beautiful cataract known as Raymond's, which is\nseen from all those elevations commanding the ravine itself.\n\n[Illustration: THE EMERALD POOL.]\n\nThe ravine also furnishes a route to the summit of Mount Washington in\nso far that the ascent may be continued from the head of the chasm to\nthe high plateau, and so up the pinnacle, by the old Crawford trail, or\nover the crag on the right to the carriage-road; but it is not to be\nhighly recommended on that account, except to strong climbers. It should\nbe visited for itself, and for what is to be seen going or returning by\nthe different paths. I have also descended from the Summit House to the\nravine and returned by the same route; an excursion growing in favor\nwith those tourists having a day or two on their hands, and who approach\nthe mountain from the west or opposite side. In that case a return to\nthe summit saves a long d\u00e9tour.\n\nBefore we come to Thompson's Falls a well-trod path leads to the Emerald\nPool, which Bierstadt's painting has rendered famous. At first one sees\nonly a deep hollow, with a dark and glassy pool at the bottom, and a\ncool light coming down through the high tree-tops. Two large rocks\ntightly compress the stream which fills it, so that the water gushes\nout with sufficient force to whiten a little, without disturbing the\nplacid repose of the pool. This gives the effect of milk poured upon\nink. Above these rocks we look up the stony bed of the frantic river\nand meet the blue mass of a distant mountain. Rocks are picturesquely\ndropped about the margin. Upon one side a birch leans far out over the\nbasin, whose polished surface brilliantly reflects the white light of\nits bark. One sees the print of foliage on the black water, like that of\nferns and grasses upon coal; or, rather, like the most beautiful Italian\nmosaics--black marble inlaid with arabesques of color. The illusion\nis more perfect still when the yellow and scarlet of the maples is\nreflected, as in autumn.\n\nThe contrast between the absolutely quiet pool and the feverish\nexcitement of the river is singular. It is that of a life: one, serene\nand unmoved, receives the other in its bosom and calms its excitement.\nIt then runs out over the pebbles at a steadier pace, soothed,\ntranquillized, and strengthened, to meet its destiny by this one moment\nof peace and rest.\n\nDoubtless many turn languidly into this charming sylvan retreat with\nonly a dim perception of its beauty. Few go away except to sing its\npraises with heart and tongue. Solitude is here. Repose is here. Peace\nis omnipresent. And, freed from the excitements of city life, \"Peace\nat any price\" is the cry of him whom care pursues as with a knotted\nscourge. If he find not rest here, 'tis his soul \"is poor.\" For him\nthe smell of the earth, the fragrance of the pines, the very stones,\nhave healing or strength. He grows drowsy with the lullaby of the\nbrook. A delicious languor steals over him. A thousand dreamy fancies\nfloat through his imagination. He is a child again; or, rather, he is\nborn again. The artificial man drops off. Stocks and bonds are clean\nforgotten. His step is more elastic, his eye more alert, his heart\nlighter. He departs believing he has read, \"Let all who enter here leave\ncare behind.\" And all this comes of seeing a little shaded mountain pool\nconsecrated by Nature. He has only experienced her religion and received\nher baptism.\n\nBurying ourselves deeper in the pass, the trees, stirred by the breeze,\nshake out their foliage like a maiden her long tresses. And the glory\nof one is the glory of the other. We look up to the greater mountains,\nstill wrapped in shadows, saying to those whom its beams caress, \"Out of\nmy sun!\"\n\nAt the third mile a guide-board at the right announces the Crystal\nCascade. We turn aside here, and, entering the wood, soon reach the\nbanks of a stream. The last courtesy this white-robed maid makes on\ncrossing the threshold of her mountain home is called the Crystal\nCascade. It is an adieu full of grace and feeling.\n\n[Illustration: THE CRYSTAL CASCADE.]\n\nThe Crystal Cascade divides with Glen Ellis the honor of being the most\nbeautiful water-fall of the White Mountains. And well may it claim this\ndistinction. These two charming and radiant sisters have each their\nespecial admirers, who come in multitudes every year, like pilgrims\nto the shrine of a goddess. In fact, they are as unlike as two human\ncountenances. Every one is astonished at the changes effected by simple\ncombinations of rocks, trees, and water. One shrinks from a critical\nanalysis of what appeals so strangely to his human sympathies. Indeed,\nhe should possess the language of a Dumas or a Ruskin, the poetry of\na Longfellow or a Whittier, the pencil of a Turner or a Church, to do\njustice to this pre-eminently beautiful of cascades.\n\nLook around. On the right bank of the stream, where a tall birch leans\nits forked branches out over the pool below, a jutting rock embraces\nin one glance the greater part of the fall. The cliffs, rising on both\nsides, make a most wild and impressive setting. The trees, which shade\nor partly screen it, exclude the light. The ferns and shrubbery trace\ntheir arabesques of foliage upon the cold, damp rocks. The sides of\nthe mountain, receding into black shadows, seem set with innumerable\ncolumns, supporting a roof of dusky leafage. All this combines to\nproduce the effect of standing under the vault of some old dimly-lighted\ncathedral--a subdued, a softened feeling. A voice seems whispering, \"God\nis here!\"\n\nThrough these sombre shades the cascade comes like a gleam of light:\nit redeems the solitude. High up, hundreds of feet up the mountain, it\nboils and foams; it hardly seems to run. How it turns and tosses, and\nwrithes on its hard bed! The green leaves quiver at its struggles. Birds\nfly silently by. Down, down, and still down over its shattered stairs\nfalls the doomed flood, until, lashed and broken into a mere feathery\ncloud, it reaches a narrow gorge between abrupt cliffs of granite. A\nlittle pellucid basin, half white, half black water, receives it in\nfull career. It then flows out by a pretty water-fall of twenty feet\nmore. But here, again, the sharp, wedge-shaped cliff, advancing from\nthe opposite bank, compresses its whole volume within a deep and narrow\ntrough, through which it flies with the rapidity of light, makes a\nright angle, and goes down the mountain, uttering loud complaints. From\nbelow, the jagged, sharp-edged cliff forms a kind of vestibule, behind\nwhich the cascade conceals itself. Behind this, farther back, is a rock,\nperfectly black, and smooth as polished ebony, over which the surplus\nwater of the fall spreads a tangled web of antique lace. Some very\ncurious work has been going on here since the stream first made its way\nthrough the countless obstacles it meets in the long miles to its secret\nfountains on Mount Washington. One carries away a delightful impression\nof the Crystal Cascade. To the natural beauty of falling water it brings\nthe charm of lawless unrestraint. It scorns the straight and narrow\npath; has stolen interviews with secret nooks on this side or that; is\nforever coquettishly adjusting its beautiful dishabille. What power has\ntaken one of those dazzling clouds, floating over the great summit, and\npinned it to the mountain side, from which it strives to rise and soar\naway?\n\nWe are now in the wildest depths of the Pinkham defile. The road is\ngloomy enough, edging its way always through a dense wood around a\nspur of Mount Washington, which it closely hugs. Upon reaching the\nsummit, thirteen hundred and fifty feet above the Saco, at Bartlett, a\nsign-board showed where to leave the highway, but now the noise of the\nfall coming clearer and clearer was an even surer guide.\n\nThe sense of seclusion is perfect. Stately pines, funereal cedars,\nsombre hemlocks, throng the banks, as if come to refresh their\nparched foliage with the fine spray ascending from the cataract. This\nspray sparkles in the sun like diamond-dust. Through the thick-set,\nclean-limbed tree-trunks jets of foam can be seen in mad riot along\nthe rocky gorge. They leap, toss their heads, and tumble over each\nother like young lambs at play. Backward up the stream, downward beyond\nthe fall, we see the same tumult of waters in the midst of statuesque\nimmobility; we hear the roar of the fall echoing in the tops of the\npines; we feel the dull earth throb with the superabundant energy of the\nwild river.\n\nMaking my way to the rocks above the cataract, I saw the torrent swiftly\ndescending in two long, arching billows, flecked with foam, and tossing\nmyriad diamonds to the sun. Two large masses of rock, loosened from the\ncliffs that hang over it, have dropped into the stream, turning it a\nlittle from its ancient course, but only to make it more picturesque and\nmore tumultuous. On the left of the gorge the rocks are richly striped\nwith black, yellow, and purple. The water is crystal clear, and cold as\nice, having come, in less time than it takes to write, from the snows of\nTuckerman's Ravine. The variegated hues of the rocks, glistening with\nspray, of the water itself seizing and imprisoning, like flies in amber,\nevery shadow these rocks let fall, the roar of the cataract, make a deep\nand abiding impression of savage force and beauty.\n\nBut I had not yet seen the fall. Descending by slippery stairs to the\npool beneath it, I saw, eighty feet above me, the whole stream force its\nway through a narrow cleft, and stand in one unbroken column, superbly\nerect, upon the level surface of the pool. The sheet was as white as\nmarble, the pool as green as malachite. As if stunned by the fall, it\nturns slowly round; then, recovering, precipitates itself down the rocky\ngorge with greater passion than ever.\n\nOn its upper edge the curling sheet of the fall was shot with sunlight,\nand shone with enchanting brilliancy. All below was one white, feathery\nmass, gliding down with the swift and noiseless movement of an avalanche\nof fresh snow. No sound until the moment of contact with the submerged\nrocks beneath; then it finds a voice that shakes the hoary forest to\nits centre. How this exquisite white thing fascinates! One has almost\nto tear himself away from the spot. Undine seems beckoning us to\ndescend with her into the crystal grottoes of the pool. From the tender\ndalliance of a sunbeam with the glittering mists constantly ascending\nwas born a pale Iris. Exquisitely its evanescent hues decorated the\nvirgin drapery of the fall. Within these mists two airy forms sometimes\ndiscover themselves, hand-in-hand.\n\nThe story runs that the daughter of a sagamore inhabiting the little\nvale, now Jackson, was secretly wooed and won by a young brave of\nanother and neighboring tribe. But the haughty old chief destined her\nfor a renowned warrior of his own band. Mustering his friends, the\npreferred lover presented himself in the village, and, according to\nIndian usage, laying\n\n        \"--at her father's feet that night\n    His softest furs and wampum white.\"\n\ndemanded his bride. The alliance was too honorable to permit an abrupt\nrefusal. Smothering his wrath, the father assembled his braves. The\nmatter was debated in solemn council. It was determined that the rivals\nshould settle their dispute by a trial of skill, the winner to carry off\nthe beautiful prize. A mark was set up, the ground carefully measured,\nand the two warriors took their respective places in the midst of the\nassembled tribe. The heart of the Indian maiden beat with hope when\nher lover sent his arrow quivering in the edge of the target; but it\nsunk when his rival, stepping scornfully to his place, shot within the\nvery centre. A shout of triumph rewarded the skill of the victor; but\nbefore it died away the defeated warrior strode to the spot where his\nmistress was seated and spoke a few hurried words, intended for her\near alone. The girl sprung to her feet and grasped her lover's hand.\nIn another moment they were running swiftly for the woods. They were\nhotly pursued. It became a matter of life and death. Perceiving escape\nimpossible, rendered desperate by the near approach of their pursuers,\nthe fugitives, still holding fast each other's hand, rushed to the verge\nof the cataract and flung themselves headlong into its deadly embrace.\n\nOver the pool the gray and gloomy wall of Wildcat Mountain seems\nstretching up to an incredible height. The astonishing wildness of the\nsurroundings affects one very deeply. You look up. You see the firs\nsurmounting those tall cliffs sway to and fro, as if growing dizzy with\nthe sight of the abyss beneath them.\n\nThe Ellis Cascade is not so light as those mountain sylphs in the great\nNotch, which a zephyr lifts from their feet, and scatters far and\nwide; it is a vestal hotly pursued by impish goblins to the brink of\nthe precipice, transformed into a water-fall. For an instant the iron\ngrip of the cliff seems clutching its snowy throat, but with a mocking\ncourtesy the fair stream eludes the grasp, and so escapes.\n\nWhile returning from Glen Ellis, I saw, not more than a quarter of\na mile from this fall, a beautiful cascade come streaming down a\nlong trough of granite from a great height, and disappear behind the\ntree-tops that skirt the narrow gorge. I had never before seen this\ncascade, it being usually dry in summer. The sight of glancing water\namong the shaggy upper forests of the mountain--for you hear nothing--is\na real pleasure to the eye. The rock down which this cascade flows is\nNew River Cliff.\n\nBefore leaving the Ellis, which I did regretfully, it is proper to\nrecall an incident which gave rise to one of its affluents. In 1775,\nsays Sullivan, in his \"History of Maine,\" the Saco was found to\nswell suddenly, and in a singular manner. As there had not been rain\nsufficient to account for this increase of volume, people were at a\nloss how to explain the phenomenon, until it was finally discovered to\nbe occasioned by a new river having broken out of the side of the White\nMountains.\n\nWhen this river issued from the mountains, in October, 1775, a mixture\nof iron-ore gave the water a deep red color, and this singular, and to\nthem most startling, appearance led the people inhabiting the upper\nbanks of the Saco to declare that the river ran blood--a circumstance\nwhich these simple-minded folk regarded as of evil omen for the success\nof their arms in the struggle then going on between the Colonies and\nGreat Britain. Except for illustrating a marked characteristic the\nincident would possess little importance. Considerable doubt exists as\nto the precise course of this New River, by which it is conjectured that\nthe ascents of Cutler, Boott, Bigelow, and perhaps others, early in\nthis century, were made to the summit of Mount Washington. But this is\nmerely conjecture.[20]\n\nAfter Glen Ellis one has had enough, for the day at least, of waterfalls\nand cascade. Its excitement is strangely infectious and exhilarating. At\nthe same time, it casts a sweet and gentle spell over the spirits. If he\nbe wise, the visitor will not exhaust in a single tour of the sun the\npleasures yet in store, but, after a fall, try a ravine or a mountain\nascent, thus introducing that variety which is the spice of all our\npleasures.\n\n\n\n\nV.\n\n_A SCRAMBLE IN TUCKERMAN'S._\n\n    The crag leaps down, and over it the flood:\n     Know'st thou it, then?\n                      'Tis there! 'tis there\n     Our way runs.... Wilt thou go?--GOETHE.\n\n\nAt the mountains the first look of every one is directed to the heavens,\nnot in silent adoration or holy meditation, but in earnest scrutiny\nof the weather. For here the weather governs with absolute sway; and\nnowhere is it more capricious. Morning and evening skies are, therefore,\nconsulted with an interest the varied destinies of the day may be\nsupposed to suggest. From being a merely conventional topic, the weather\nbecomes one of the first importance, and such salutations as \"A fine\nday,\" or \"A nice morning,\" are in less danger of being coupled with a\nwet day or a scowling forenoon. To sum up the whole question, where life\nin the open air is the common aim of all, a rainy day is a day lost, and\neverybody knows that a lost day can never be recovered. Sun worship is,\ntherefore, universal.\n\nThe prospect being duly weighed and pronounced good, or fair, or fairly\ngood, _presto!_ the hotel presents a scene of active preparation.\nAnglers, with rod and basket, betake themselves to the neighboring trout\nbrooks, artists to the woods or the open. Mountain wagons clatter up\nto the door with an exhilarating spirit and dash. Amid much laughter\nand cracking of jokes, these strong, yet slight-looking vehicles are\nspeedily filled with parties for the summit, the Crystal Cascade, or\nGlen Ellis; knots of pedestrians, picturesquely dressed, move off with\nelastic tread for some long-meditated climb among the hills or in the\nravines; while the regular stages for Gorham or Glen Station depart amid\nhurried and hearty leave-takings, the flutter of handkerchiefs, and the\nsharp crack of the driver's whip. Now they are off, and quiet settles\nonce more upon the long veranda.\n\nMy own plans included a trip in and out of Tuckerman's Ravine; in by\nthe old Thompson path, out by the Crystal Cascade. It is necessary to\ndepart a little from the order of time, as my first essay (during the\nfirst week of May) was frustrated by the deep snows then effectually\nblockading the way above Hermit Lake. The following July found me more\nfortunate, and it is this excursion that I shall now lay before the\nreader for his approval.\n\nI chose a companion to whom I unfolded the scheme, while reconnoitring\nthe ravine through my glass. He eagerly embraced my proposal, declaring\nhis readiness to start on the instant. Upon a hint I let fall touching\nhis ability to make this then fatiguing march, he observed, rather\nstiffly, \"I went through one Wilderness with Grant; guess I can through\nthis.\"\n\n\"Pack your knapsack, then, comrade, and you shall inscribe 'Tuckerman's'\nalong with Spottsylvania, Cold Harbor, and Petersburg.\"\n\n\"Bless me! is it so very tough as all that? No matter, give me five\nminutes to settle my affairs, and I'm with you.\"\n\nLet us improve these minutes by again directing the glass toward the\nravine.\n\nThe upper section of this remarkable ravine--that portion lifted above\nthe forest line--is finely observed from the neighborhood of the\nCrystal Cascade, but from the Glen House the curiously distorted rim\nand vertical wall of its south and west sides, the astonishing crag\nstanding sentinel over its entrance, may be viewed at full leisure.\nIt constitutes quite too important a feature of the landscape to\nescape notice. Dominated by the towering mass of the Dome, infolded by\nundulating slopes descending from opposite braces of Mount Washington,\nand resembling gigantic draperies, we see an enormous, funnel-shaped,\nhollow sunk in the very heart of the mountain. We see, also, that access\nis feasible only from the north-east, where the entrance is defended by\nthe high crag spoken of. Behind these barriers, graven with a thousand\nlines and filled with a thousand shadows, the amphitheatre lifts its\nformidable walls into view.\n\nFor two miles our plain way led up the summit-road, but at this\ndistance, where it suddenly changes direction to the right, we plunged\ninto the forest. Our course now lay onward and upward over what had at\nsome time been a path--now an untrodden one--encumbered at every few\nrods with fallen trees, soaked with rain, and grown up with moose-wood.\nTime and again we found the way barred by these exasperating windfalls,\nand their thick _abatis_ of branches, forcing us alternately to go\ndown on all-fours and creep underneath, or to mount and dismount, like\nrecruits, on the wooden horse of a cavalry school.\n\nBut to any one loving the woods--and this day I loved not wisely, but\ntoo well--this walk is something to be taken, but not repeated, for fear\nof impairing the first and most abiding impressions. One cannot have\nsuch a revelation twice.\n\n[Illustration: THE PATH, TUCKERMAN'S RAVINE.]\n\nI recall no mountain-path that is so richly diversified with all\nthe wildest forms of mountain beauty. At first our progress through\nprimitive groves of pine, hemlock, and birch was impeded by nothing more\nremarkable than the giant trees stretching interminably, rank upon rank,\ntier upon tier. But these woods, these countless gray and black and\nwhite trunks, and outspread framework of branches, supported a canopy\nof thick foliage, filled with voices innumerable. Something stirred in\nthe top of a lofty pine; and then, like an alguazil on a watch-tower, a\ncrow, apparent sentinel of all the feathered colony, rose clumsily on\nhis talons, flapped two sable wings, and thrice hoarsely challenged,\n\"Caw! caw! caw!\" What clamor, what a liliputian Babel ensued! Our ears\nfairly tingled with the calls, outcries, and objurgations apparently\nflung down at us by the multitudinous population overhead. Hark to the\nwoodpecker's rat-tat-tat, the partridge's muffled drum! List to the\nbugle of the wood-thrush, sweet and clear! Now sounds the cat-bird's\nshrill alarm, the owl's hoot of indignant surprise. Then the squirrels,\nthose little monkeys of our northern woods, grated their teeth sharply\nat us, and let fall nuts on our heads as we passed underneath. Never\nwere visitors more unwelcome.\n\nBefore long we came to a brook, then to another. Their foaming waters\nshot past like a herd of wild horses. These we crossed. We now began to\nthread a region where the forest was more open. The moss we trampled\nunderfoot, and which here replaces the grass of the valleys, was beating\nthe tallest trees in the race for the mountain-top. It was the old story\nof the tortoise and the hare over again. But this moss: have you ever\nlooked at it before your heel bruised the perfumed flowers springing\nfrom its velvet? Here are tufts exquisitely decorated with coral\nlichens; here the violet and anemone nestle lovingly together; here it\ncreeps up the gray trunks, or hides the bare roots of old trees. Tread\nsoftly! This is the abode of elves and fairies. Step lightly! you expect\nto hear the crushed flowers cry out with pain.\n\nThese enchanting spots, where stones are couches and trees canopies,\ntempted us to sit down on a cushioned bowlder, or throw ourselves\nupon the thick carpet into which we sunk ankle-deep at every step.\nEven the bald, gray rocks were tapestried with mosses, lichens, and\nvines. All around, under the thick shade, hundreds of enormous trees\nlay rotting; yet exquisitely the prostrate trunks were overspread with\nrobes of softest green, effectually concealing the repulsiveness, the\nsuggestions of decay. Now and then the dead tree rose into new life\nthrough the sturdy roots of a young fir, or luxuriant, plumed ferns\ngrowing in its bark. This inexpressible fecundity, in the midst of\ninexpressible wastefulness, declared that for Nature there is no such\nthing as death. And they tell us the day of miracles has passed! Upon\nthis dream of elf-land the cool morning light fell in oblique streams\nthrough the tree-trunks, as through grated windows, filling all the wood\nwith a subdued twilight glimmer, leaving a portion of its own gleams\non the moss-grown rocks, while the trees stretched their black shadows\nluxuriously along the thick-piled sward, like weary soldiers in a\nbivouac.\n\nWe proceeded thus from chamber to chamber, and from cloister to\ncloister, at times descending some spur of the mountain into a\ndeep-shaded dell, and again climbing a swift and miry slope to better\nground, until we crossed the stream coming from the high spur spoken of.\nFrom here the ground rapidly rose for half a mile more, when we suddenly\ncame out of the low firs full upon the Lion's Head crag, rising above\nHermit Lake, and visible from the vicinity of the Glen House. To be thus\nunexpectedly confronted by this wall of imperishable rock stirs one very\ndeeply. For the moment it dominates _us_, even as it does the little\ntarn so unconsciously slumbering at its feet. It is horribly mutilated\nand defaced. Its sides are thickly sowed with stunted trees, that bury\ntheir roots in its cracks and rents with a gripe of iron. In effect it\nis the barbican of the great ravine. Crouched underneath, by the shore\nof the lake, is a matted forest of firs and spruces, dwindled to half\ntheir usual size, grizzled with long lichens, and occupying, as if by\nstealth, the debatable ground between life and death. It is, in fact,\nmore dead than alive. Deeply sunk beneath is the lake.\n\nHermit Lake--a little pool nestling underneath a precipice--demands a\nword. Its solitary state, its waters green and profound, and the thick\nshades by which it was covered, seemed strangely at variance with the\nintense activity of the foaming torrents we had seen, and could still\nhear rushing down the mountain. It was too small for a lake, or else it\nwas dwarfed by the immense mass of overshadowing rock towering above it,\nwhose reflected light streamed across its still and glossy surface. Here\nwe bid farewell to the forest.\n\nWe had now gained a commanding post of observation, though there was\nyet rough work to do. We saw the whole magnificent sweep of the ravine,\nto where it terminates in a semicircle of stupendous cliffs that seem\nhewn perpendicularly a thousand feet down. Lying against the western\nwall we distinguished patches of snow; but they appeared of trifling\nextent. Great wooded mountain slopes stretched away from the depths\nof the gorge on either side, making the iron lineaments of the giant\ncliffs seem harder by their own softness and delicacy. Here and there\nthese exquisite draperies were torn in long rents by land-slips. In the\nwest arose the shattered peak of Monroe--a mass of splintered granite,\nconspicuous at every point for its irreclaimable deformity. It seemed\nas if the huge open maw of the ravine might swallow up this peak with\nease. There was a Dantesque grandeur and solemnity everywhere. With our\nbacks against the trees, we watched the bellying sails of a stray cloud\nwhich intercepted in its aerial voyage our view of the great summit;\nbut it soon floated away, discovering the whitish-gray ledges to the\nvery capstone of the dome itself. Looking down and over the thick woods\nbeyond, we met again the burly Carter Mountains, pushed backward from\nthe Pinkham Notch, and kept back by an invisible yet colossal strength.\n\n[Illustration: HERMIT LAKE.]\n\nFrom Hermit Lake the only practicable way was by clambering up the bed\nof the mountain brook that falls through the ravine. The whole expanse\nthat stretched on either side was a chaos of shattered granite, pitched\nabout in awful confusion. Path there was none. No matter what way we\nturned, \"no thoroughfare\" was carved in stolid stone. We tried to force\na passage through the stunted cedars that are mistaken at a mile for\ngreensward, but were beaten back, torn and bleeding, to the brook. We\nthen turned to the great bowlders, to be equally buffeted and abused,\nand finally repulsed upon the brook, which seemed all the while mocking\nour efforts. Once, while forcing a route, inch by inch, through the\nscrub, I was held suspended over a deep crevice, by my belt, until\nextricated by my comrade. At another time he disappeared to the armpits\nin a hole, from which I drew him like a blade from a scabbard. At this\nmoment we found ourselves unable either to advance or retreat. The dwarf\ntrees squeezed us like a vise. Who would have thought there was so much\nlife in them? At our wits' end, we looked at our bleeding hands, then at\neach other. The brook was the only clew to such a labyrinth, and to it,\nas from Scylla to Charybdis, we turned as soon as we recovered breath.\nBut to reach it was no easy matter; we had literally to cut our way out\nof the jungle.\n\nWhen we were there, and had rested awhile from the previous severe\nexertions, my companion, alternately mopping his forehead and feeling\nhis bruises, looked up with a quizzical expression, and ejaculated,\n\"Faith, I am almost as glad to get out of this wilderness as the other!\nIn any case,\" he gayly added, \"I have lost the most blood here; while in\nVirginia I did not receive a scratch.\"\n\nAfter this rude initiation into the mysteries of the ravine, we advanced\ndirectly up the bed of the brook. But the brook is for half a mile\nnothing but a succession of leaps and plunges, its course choked with\nbowlders. We however toiled on, from rock to rock, first boosting, then\nhoisting each other up; one moment splashing in a pool, the next halting\nin dismay under a cascade, which we must either mount like a chamois or\nascend like a trout. The climber here tastes the full enjoyment of an\nencounter with untamed nature, which calls every thew and sinew into\naction. At length the stream grew narrower, suddenly divided, and we\nstood at the mouth of the Snow Arch, confronted by the vertical upper\nwall of the ravine.\n\nWe stood in an arena \"more majestic than the circus of a Titus or a\nVespasian.\" The scene was one of awful desolation. A little way below\nus the gorge was heaped with the ruins of some unrecorded convulsion,\nby which the precipice had been cloven from base to summit, and the\nenormous fragments heaved into the chasm with a force the imagination\nis powerless to conceive. In the interstices among these blocks\nrose thickets of dwarf cedars, as stiff and unyielding as the livid\nrock itself. It was truly an arena which might have witnessed the\ngladiatorial combats of immortals.\n\nWe did not at first look at the Snow Arch. The eye was irresistibly\nfascinated by the tremendous mass of the precipice above. From top to\nbottom its tawny front was covered with countless little streams, that\nclung to its polished wall without once quitting their hold. They twined\nand twisted in their downward course, like a brood of young serpents\nescaping from their lair; nor could I banish the idea of the ghastly\nhead of a Gorgon clothed with tresses of serpents. A poetic imagination\nhas named this tangled knot of mountain rills, \"The fall of a thousand\nstreams.\" At the foot of the cliff the scattered waters unite, before\nentering the Snow Arch, in a single stream. Turning now to the right,\nthe narrowing gorge, ascending by a steep slope as high as the upper\nedge of the precipice, points out the only practicable way to the summit\nof Mount Washington in this direction. But we have had enough of such\nclimbing, for one day, at least.\n\nPartial recovery from the stupefaction which seizes and holds one fast\nis doubtless signalized in every case by an effort to account for the\noverwhelming disaster of which these ruins are the mute yet speaking\nevidence. We need go no farther in the search than the innocent-looking\nlittle rills, first dripping from the Alpine mosses, then percolating\nthrough the rocks of the high plateau, and falling over its edge in a\nthousand streams. Puny as they look, before their inroads the plateau\nline has doubtless receded, like the great wall of rock over which\nNiagara pours the waters of four seas. With their combined forces--how\nlong ago cannot be guessed; and what, indeed, does it signify?--knitted\ntogether by frost into Herculean strength, they assailed the granite\ncliffs that were older than the sun, older than the moon or the stars,\nmined and countermined year by year, inch by inch, drop by drop,\nuntil--honey-combed, riddled, and pierced to its centre, and all was\nready for its final overthrow--winter gave the signal. In a twinkling,\nyielding to the stroke, and shattered into a thousand fragments,\nthe cliffs laid their haughty heads low in the dust. Afterward the\naccumulated waters tranquilly continued the process of demolition, and\nof removing the soil from the deep excavation they had made, until\nthe floor of the ravine had sunk to its present level. In California\na man with a hose washes away mountains to get at the gold deposits.\nThis principle of hydraulic force is borrowed, pure and simple, from a\nmountain cataract.\n\n[Illustration: SNOW ARCH, TUCKERMAN'S RAVINE.]\n\nOsgood, the experienced guide, who had visited the ravine oftener\nthan anybody else, assured me that never within his remembrance had\nthis forgotten forgement of winter, the Snow Arch, been seen to such\nadvantage. We estimated its width at above two hundred feet, where it\nthrew a solid bridge of ice over the stream, and not far from three\nhundred in its greatest length, where it lay along the slope of the\ngorge. Summer and winter met on this neutral ground. Entering the Arch\nwas joining January and July with a step. Flowers blossomed at the\nthreshold. We caught water, as it dripped ice-cold from the roof, and\npledged Old Winter in his own cellarage. The brook foamed at our feet.\nLooking up, there was a pretty picture of a tiny water-fall pouring in\nat the upper end and out at the ragged portal of the grotto. But I think\nwe were most charmed with the remarkable sculpture of the roof, which\nwas a groined arch fashioned as featly as was ever done by human hands.\nWhat the stream had begun in secret the warm vapors had chiselled with\na bolder hand, but not altered. As it was formed, so it remained--a\nveritable chapel of the hills, the brook droning its low, monotonous\nchant, and the dripping roof tinkling its refrain unceasingly. If the\ninterior of the great ravine impressed us as the hidden receptacle of\nall waste matter, this lustrous heap of snow, so insignificant in its\nrelation to the immensity of the chasm that we scarcely looked at it at\nfirst, now chased away the feeling of mingled terror and aversion--of\nhaving stolen unawares into the one forbidden chamber--and possessed us\nwith a sense of the beautiful, which remained long after its glittering\nparticles had melted into the stream that flowed beneath. So under a\ncold exterior is nourished the principle of undying love, which the aged\nmountain gives that earth may forever renew her fairest youth.\n\nThe presence of this miniature glacier is a very simple matter. The\nfierce winds of winter which sweep over the plateau whirl the snows\nbefore them, over its crest, into the ravine, where they are lodged at\nthe foot of the precipice, and accumulate to a great depth. As soon as\nreleased by spring, the little streams, falling down this wall, seek\ntheir old channels, and, being warmer, succeed in forcing a passage\nthrough the ice. By the end of August the ice usually disappears, though\nit sometimes remains even later.\n\nAfter picking up some fine specimens of quartz, sparkling with mica, and\nuttering a parting malediction on the black flies that tormented us, we\ntook our way down and out of the ravine, following the general course of\nthe stream along its steep valley, and, after an uneventful march of two\nhours, reached the upper waters of the Crystal Cascade.\n\n\n\n\nVI.\n\n_IN AND ABOUT GORHAM._\n\n    That lonely dwelling stood among the hills\n    By a gray mountain stream.\n          --SOUTHEY.\n\n\nAfter the events described in the last chapter, I continued, like the\nnavigator of unknown coasts, my tour of the great range. Half a mile\nbelow the Glen House, the Great Gulf discharges from its black throat\nthe little river rising on the plateau at its head. The head of this\nstupendous abyss is a mountain, and mountains wall it in. Its depths\nremain unexplored except by an occasional angler or trapper.\n\nTwo and a half miles farther on a road diverges to the left, crosses the\nPeabody by a bridge, and stretches on over a depression of the range\nto Randolph, where it intersects the great route from Lancaster and\nJefferson to Gorham. Over the river, snugly ensconced at the foot of\nMount Madison, is the old Copp place. Commanding, as it does, a noble\nprospect up and down the valley, and of all the great peaks except\nWashington, its situation is most inviting; more than this, the picture\nof the weather-stained farm-house nestling among these sleeping giants\nrevives in fullest vigor our preconceived idea of life in the mountains,\nalready shaken by the balls, routs, and grand toilets of the hotels.\nThe house, as we see by Mistress Dolly Copp's register, has been known\nto many generations of tourists. The Copps have lived here about half a\ncentury.\n\nTravellers going up or down, between the Glen House and Gorham, usually\nmake a d\u00e9tour as far as Copp's, in order to view the Imp to better\nadvantage than can be done from the road. Among these travellers some\nhave now and then knocked at the door and demanded to see the Imp. The\nhired girl invariably requests them to wait until she can call the\nmistress.\n\n[Illustration: THE IMP.]\n\nDirectly opposite the farm-house the inclined ridge of Imp Mountain\nis broken down perpendicularly some two hundred feet, leaving a\njagged cliff, resembling an immense step, facing up the valley. This\nis a mountain of the Carter chain, sloping gradually toward the Glen\nHouse. Upon this cliff, or this step, is the distorted human profile\nwhich gives the mountain its name. A strong, clear light behind it\nis necessary to bring out all the features, the mouth especially, in\nbold relief against the sky, when the expression is certainly almost\ndiabolical. One imagines that some goblin, imprisoned for ages within\nthe mountain, and suddenly liberated by an earthquake, exhibits its\nhideous countenance, still wearing the same look it wore at the moment\nit was entombed in its mask of granite. The forenoon is the best time,\nand the road, a few rods back from the house, the best point from which\nto see it. The coal-black face is then in shadow.\n\nThe Copp farm-house has a tale of its own, illustrating in a remarkable\nmanner the amount of physical hardship that long training, and\nfamiliarity with rough out-of-door life, will occasionally enable\nmen to endure. Seeing two men in the door-yard, I sat down on the\nchopping-block, and entered into conversation with them.\n\nBy the time I had taken out my note-book I had all the members of the\nhousehold and all the inmates of the barn-yard around me. I might\nadd that all were talking at once. The matron stood in the door-way,\nwhich her ample figure quite filled, trifling with the beads of a gold\nnecklace. A younger face stared out over her shoulder; while an old man,\nwhose countenance had hardened into a vacant smile, and one of forty\nor thereabouts, alternately passed my glass one to the other, with an\nastonishment similar to that displayed by Friday when he first looked\nthrough Crusoe's telescope.\n\n\"Which of you is named Nathaniel Copp?\" I asked, after they had\nsatisfied their curiosity.\n\n\"That is my name,\" the younger very deliberately responded. \"Really,\"\nthought I, \"there is little enough of the conventional hero in that\nface;\" therefore I again asked, \"Are you the same Nathaniel Copp who was\nlost while hunting in the mountains, let me see, about twenty-five years\nago?\"\n\n\"Yes; but I wasn't lost after I got down to Wild River,\" he hastily\nrejoined, like a man who has a reputation to defend.\n\n\"Tell me about it, will you?\"\n\nI take from my note-book the following relation of the exploit of this\nmountain Nimrod, as I received it on the spot. But I had literally to\ndraw it out of him, a syllable at a time.\n\nOn the last day of January, 1855, Nathaniel Copp, son of Hayes D. Copp,\nof Pinkham's Grant, near the Glen House, set out from home on a deer\nhunt, and was out four successive days. On the fifth day he again left\nto look for a deer killed the previous day, about eight miles from home.\nHaving found it, he dragged the carcass (weighing two hundred and thirty\npounds) home through the snow, and at one o'clock P.M. started\nfor another he had tracked near the place where the former was killed,\nwhich he followed until he lost the track, at dark. He then found that\nhe had lost his own way, and should, in all probability, be obliged to\nspend the night in the woods, with the temperature ranging from 32\u00b0 to\n35\u00b0 below zero.\n\nKnowing that to remain quiet was certain death, and having nothing with\nwhich to light a fire, the hunter began walking for his life. The moon\nshone out bright and clear, making the cold seem even more intense.\nWhile revolving in his mind his unpleasant predicament he heard a deer\nbleat. He gave chase, and easily overtook it. The snow was too deep for\nthe animal to escape from a hunter on snow-shoes. Copp leaped upon his\nback, and despatched him with his hunting-knife. He then dressed him,\nand, taking out the heart, put it in his pocket, not for a trophy, but,\nas he told me, to keep starvation at arm's-length. The excitement of the\nchase made him forget cold until he perceived himself growing benumbed.\nRousing himself, he again pushed on, whither he knew not, but spurred\nby the instinct of self-preservation. Daylight found him still striding\non, with no clew to a way out of the thick woods, which imprisoned him\non every side. At length, at ten in the morning, he came out at or near\nWild River, in Gilead, forty miles from home, having walked twenty one\nconsecutive hours without rest or food, the greater part of the time\nthrough a tangled growth of underbrush.\n\nHis friends at home becoming alarmed at his prolonged absence during\nsuch freezing weather, three of them, Hayes D. Copp, his father, John\nGoulding, and Thomas Culhane, started in search of him. They followed\nhis track until it was lost in the darkness, and, by the aid of their\ndog, found the deer which young Copp had killed and dressed. They again\nstarted on the trail, but with the faintest hope of ever finding the\nlost man alive, and, after being out twenty-six hours in the extreme\ncold, found the object of their search.\n\nNo words can do justice to the heroic self-denial and fortitude with\nwhich these men continued an almost hopeless search, when every moment\nexpecting to find the stiffened corpse of their friend. Goulding froze\nboth feet; the others their ears.\n\nWhen found, young Copp did not seem to realize in the least the great\ndanger through which he had passed, and talked with perfect unconcern\nof hunts that he had planned for the next week. One of his feet was so\nbadly frozen, from the effect of too tightly lacing his snow-shoe, that\nthe toes had to be amputated.\n\nUntil reaching the bridge, within two miles of Gorham, I saw no one,\nheard nothing except the strokes of an axe, borne on the still air from\nsome logging-camp, twittering birds, or chattering river. Ascending the\nhill above the bridge, I took my last look back at Mount Washington,\nover whose head rose-tinted clouds hung in graceful folds. The summit\nwas beautifully distinct. The bases of all the mountains were floating\nin that delicious blue haze, enrapturing to the artist, exasperating\nto the climber. Turning to my route, I had before me the village of\nGorham, with the long slopes of Mount Hayes meeting in a regular pyramid\nbehind it. Against the dusky wall of the mountain one white spire stood\nout clean and sharp. At my right, along the river, was a cluster of\nsaw-mills, sheds, and shanties; beyond, an irregular line of forest\nconcealing the town--all except the steeple; beyond that the mountain.\nAs I entered the village, the shrill scream of a locomotive pierced the\nstill air, and, like the horn of Ernani, broke my dream of forgetfulness\nwith its fatal blast. Adieu, dreams of delusion! we are once more\nmanacled with the city.\n\nI loitered along the river road, hoping, as the sky was clear, to see\nthe sun go down on the great summits. Nor was I disappointed. As I\nwalked on, Madison, the superb, gradually drew out of the Peabody Glen,\nand soon Washington came into line over the ridge of Moriah, whose\nhighest precipices were kindled with a ruddy glow, while a wonderful\nwhite light rested, like a halo, on the brow of the monarch. Of a\nsudden, the crest of Moriah paled, then grew dark; night rose from the\nblack glen, twilight descended from the dusky heavens. For an instant\nthe humps of Clay reddened in the afterglow. Then the light went out,\nand I saw only the towering forms of the giant mountains dimly traced\nupon the sky. A star fell. At this signal the great dome sparkled with\nmyriad lights. Night had ascended her mountain throne.\n\nGorham is situated on the Grand Trunk Railway, between Paris and Berlin,\nwith Milan just beyond--names a trifle ambitious for villages with\nthe bark on, but conferring distinction upon half a hundred otherwise\nobscure villages scattered from Maine to California.\n\nGorham is also situated in one of those natural parks, called\nintervales, in an amphitheatre of hills, through which the Androscoggin\nflows with a strong, steady tide. The left bank is appropriated by Mount\nHayes, the right by the village--a suspension bridge giving access from\none to the other. This mountain rises abruptly from the river to a broad\nsummit-plateau, from which a wide and brilliant prospect rewards the\nclimber. The central portion of Gorham is getting to be much too busy\nfor that rest and quietude which is so greatly desired by a large class\nof travellers to the mountains, but, on the other hand, its position\nwith respect to the highest summits is more advantageous than that of\nany other town lying on the skirts of the mountains, and accessible by\nrailway. In one hour the tourist can be at the Glen House, in three\non the summit of Mount Washington. Being at the very end of the great\nchain, in the angle where its last elevation abuts on the Androscoggin,\nthe valley conducting around the northerly side of the great eminences,\nthrough the settlements of Randolph and Jefferson, furnishes another and\na charming avenue of travel into the region watered by the Connecticut.\nAs the great tide of travel flows in from the west and south, Gorham\nhas profited little by the extension of railways furnishing more direct\ncommunication with the heart of the mountains.\n\nMount Hayes is the guardian of the village, erecting its rocky rampart\nover it, like the precipices of Cape Diamond over Quebec. The hill in\nfront is called Pine Mountain, though it is only a mountain by brevet.\nThe tip of the peak of Madison peers down into the village over this\nhill. I plainly saw the snow up there from my window. To the left, and\nover the low slope of Pine Mountain, rise the Carter summits, which here\nmake a remarkably imposing background to the picture, and in conjunction\nwith the great range form the basin of the Peabody. I saw this stream,\nmaking its final exit from the mountains, throw itself exhausted with\nits rapid course into the Androscoggin, half a mile below the hotel.\nNorth-west of the village street, drawn up in line across the valley,\nextend the Pilot peaks.\n\nThe Carter group is said to have been named after a hunter. According\nto Farmer, the Pilot Mountains were so called from a dog. Willard, a\nhunter, had been lost two or three days on these mountains, on the east\nside of which his camp was situated. Every day he observed that Pilot,\nhis dog, regularly left him, as he supposed in search of game; but\ntoward nightfall would as regularly return to his master. This at length\nexcited the attention of the hunter, who, when nearly exhausted with\nfatigue and hunger, decided to commit himself to the guidance of Pilot,\nand in a short time was conducted by the intelligent animal in safety to\nhis camp.\n\nMy first morning at Gorham was a beautiful one, and I prepared to\nimprove it to the utmost by a walk around the northern base of Madison,\nneither knowing nor caring whither it might lead me. Spring was in\nher most enchanting mood. A few steps, and I was amid the marvels of\na new creation, the tasselled birches, the downy willows, the oaks in\ngosling-gray. Even the gnarled and withered apple-trees gave promise of\nblossoming, and the young ferns, pushing aside the dead leaves, came\nforth with their tiny fists doubled for the battle of life. Why did not\nNature so order it that mankind might rest like the trees, or shall we,\nlike them, come forth at last strong, vigorous, beautiful, from that\nlong refreshing slumber?\n\nLeaving the village, at the end of a mile and a half I took the road\nturning to the left, where Moose River falls into the Androscoggin, at\nthe point where the latter, making a remarkable bend, turns sharply away\nto the north. Moose River is a true mountain stream, clear and limpid,\nfoaming along a bed of sand and pebbles.\n\nFrom this spot the whole extent of the Pilot range was unrolled at my\nright, while at the left, majestic among the lower hills, Madison and\nAdams were massed in one grand pyramid. The snows glistening on the\nsummits seemed trophies torn from winter.\n\nAbout a mile from the turning, at Lary's, I found the best station for\nviewing the statuesque proportions of Madison. The foreground a swift\nmountain stream, white as the snows where it takes its rise. Beyond,\na strip of meadow land, covered with young birches and poplars, just\nshowing their tender, trembling foliage. Among these are scattered\nlarge, dead trees, relics of the primeval forest; the middle ground\na young forest, showing in its dainty wicker-work of branchlets that\nbeady appearance which belongs to spring alone, and is so exquisitely\nbeautiful. Above this ascends, mile upon mile, the enormous bulk of\nthe mountain, ashen-gray at the summit, dusky olive-green below. Stark\nprecipices, hedged about with blasted pines, and seamed with snow,\ncapped the great pile. Over this a pale azure, deepening in intensity\ntoward the zenith, unrolled its magnificent drapery.\n\nAfter the ascent of Mount Hayes, which Mr. King has fittingly described\nas \"the chair set by the Creator at the proper distance and angle to\nappreciate and enjoy\" the kingly prominence of Mount Washington, the\ntwo things best worth seeing in the neighborhood are the falls of the\nAndroscoggin at Berlin, and the beautiful view of the loftiest of the\nWhite Mountain peaks from what is called here the Lead Mine Bridge. To\nget to the falls you must ascend the river, and to obtain the view you\nmust descend a few miles. I consecrated a day to this excursion.\n\nWith a head already filled with the noise of half a hundred mountain\ntorrents, water-falls, or cascades, I set out after breakfast for\nBerlin Falls, feeling that the passage of a body of water such as the\nAndroscoggin is at Gorham, through a narrow gorge, must be something\ndifferent from the common.\n\nA word about Berlin. Its situation is far more picturesque than that of\nGorham. There is the same environment of mountains, and, in addition to\nthe falls, a magnificent view of Madison, Adams, Jefferson, and of the\nCarter range. The precipices of Mount Forist, which overhang railway and\nvillage, are noticeable among a thousand. Here Dead River falls into the\nAndroscoggin, and here the Grand Trunk Railway, taking leave of this\nriver, turns to the north-west, crosses over to the Upper Ammonoosuc,\ntwists and twines along: with it among the northern mountains, and at\nlast emerges upon the level meadows of the Connecticut.\n\nBerlin has another aspect. Lumber is its business; lumber its staple of\nconversation; people go to bed to dream of lumber. In a word, lumber is\neverywhere. The lumberman admires a tree in his way quite as much as you\nor I. No eye like his to estimate its height, its girth, its thickness.\nBut as ships to Shylock, so trees to him are naught but boards--so many\nfeet. So that there is something almost ferocious in the lumberman's or\nmill-owner's admiration for the forest; something almost startling in\nthe idea that this out-of-the-way corner is devouring the forests at the\nrate of twenty car-loads a day. In plain language, this village cuts up\na good-sized grove every day, and rejoices over it with a new house or a\nnew barn.\n\nAt the risk of being classed with the sentimental and the unpractical,\nevery one who is alive to the consequences of converting our forests\ninto deserts, or worse than deserts, should raise a voice of warning\nagainst this wholesale destruction. The consequences may be remote,\nbut they are certain. For the most part, the travelled routes have\nlong since been stripped of their valuable timber trees. Now the mills\nare fast eating their way into the hitherto inaccessible regions,\nleaving a track of desolation behind wherever they go, like that of a\ndestroying army. What cannot be carried away is burnt. Fires are seen\nblazing by the side of every saw-mill, in which all the waste material\nis carefully consumed. A trifle? Enough is consumed every year in this\nway to furnish the great city of New York with its fuel. I speak with\nmoderation. Not a village but has its saw-mills; while at Whitefield,\nBethlehem, Livermore, Low, and Burbank's Grant, and many other\nlocalities, the havoc is frightful. Forest fires, originating chiefly in\nthe logging-camps, annually desolate leagues of forest land. How long is\nthis to continue?\n\nThe mountain labors incessantly to re-create, but what can it do against\nsuch fearful odds? and what shall we do when it can no longer furnish\npine to build our homes, or wood to warm them? Delve deeper and deeper\nunder the Alleghanies? In about two hundred and fifty years the noble\nforests, which set the early discoverers wild with enthusiasm, have\nbeen steadily driven farther and farther back into the interior, until\n\"the forest primeval\" exists not nearer than a hundred miles inland.\nThen the great northern wilderness began at the sea-coast. It is now\nin the vicinity of Lake Umbagog. Still the warfare goes on. I do not\ncall occasional bunches of wood forests. All this means less and less\nmoisture; consequently, more and more drought. The tree draws the\ncloud from heaven, and bestows it on the earth. The summer of 1880 was\none of almost unexampled dryness. Large rivers dwindled to pitiful\nrivulets, brooks were dried up, and the beautiful cascades in many\ninstances wholly disappeared. The State is powerless to interfere. Not\nso individuals, or combinations of individuals for the preservation of\nsuch tracts of woodland as the noble Cathedral woods of North Conway. In\nthe West a man who plants a tree is a public benefactor; is he who saves\nthe life of one in the East less so? America, says Berthold Auerbach, is\nno longer \"the Promised Land for the Old World;\" if she does not protect\nher woods, she will become \"waste and dry,\" like the Promised Land of\nthe ancients--Palestine itself. Look on this picture of Michelet:\n\n\"On the shores of the Caspian, for three or four hundred leagues,\none sees nothing, one encounters nothing, but midway an isolated and\nsolitary tree. It is the love and worship of every passing wayfarer.\nEach one offers it something; and the very Tartar, in default of every\nother gift, will snatch a hair from his beard or his horse's mane.\"\n\nThe season when the great movement of lumber from the northern\nwilderness to the sea begins is one of great activity. The logs are\nfloated down the Androscoggin from Lake Umbagog with the spring\nfreshets, when those destined to go farther are \"driven,\" as the\nlumbermen's phrase is, over the falls and through the rapids here, to\nbe picked up below. It may well be believed that the passage of the\nfalls by a \"drive\" is a sight worth witnessing. Sometimes the logs\nget so tightly jammed in the narrow gorge of the river that it seems\nimpossible to extricate them; but the dam they form causes the river\nto rise behind it, when the accumulated and pent-up waters force their\nway through the obstruction, tossing huge logs in the air as if they\nwere straws. A squad of lumbermen--tough, muscular, handy fellows they\nare--accompanies each drive, just as _vaqueros_ do a Texan herd; and\nthe herd of logs, like the herd of cattle, is branded with the owner's\nmark. After making the drive of the falls, the men move down below them,\nwhere they find active and, so far as appearance goes, dangerous work in\ndisentangling the snarls of logs caught among the rocks of the rapids.\nAgainst a current no ordinary boat could stem for a moment; they dart\nhither and thither in their light bateaux, as the herdsman does on his\nactive little mustang. If a log grounds in the midst of the rapids, the\nbateaux dashes toward it. One river-driver jumps upon it, and holds the\nboat fast, while another grapples it with a powerful lever called a\ncant-dog. In a moment the log rolls off the rocks with a loud splash,\nand is hurried away by the rapid tide.\n\nDuring the drive the lumberman is almost always wet to the skin, day\nin and day out. When a raft of logs is first started in the spring the\nmen suffer from the exposure; but after a little time the work seems\nto toughen and harden them, so that they do not in the least mind the\namphibious life they are forced to lead. Rain or shine, they get to\ntheir work at five in the morning, leaving it only when it is too dark\nto see longer. Each squad--for the whole force is divided into what may\nbe called skirmishers, advanced-guards, main body, and rear-guard, each\nhaving its appointed work to perform--then repairs to its camp, which is\ngenerally a tent pitched near the river, where the cook is waiting for\ntheir arrival with a hot supper of fried doughnuts and baked beans--the\nlumberman's diet of preference. They pass the evening playing euchre,\ntelling stories, or relating the experiences of the day, and are as\nsimple, hearty, happy-go-lucky fellows as can be found in the wide world.\n\nTo say that the Berlin Falls begin two miles below the village is no\nmore than the truth, since at this distance the river was sheeted in\nfoam from shore to shore. For these two miles its bed is so thickly sown\nwith rocks that it is like a river stretched on the rack. The whole\nriver, every drop of it, is hemmed in by enormous masses of granite,\nforming a long, narrow, and rocky gorge, down which it bursts in one mad\nplunge, tossing and roaring like the Maelstrom. What fury! What force!\nThe solid earth shakes, and the very air trembles. It is a saturnalia. A\nwhirlwind of passion, swift, uncontrollable, and terrible.\n\nThe best situation I could find was upon a jutting ledge below the\nlittle foot-bridge thrown from rock to rock. Several turns in the long\ncourse of the cataract prevent its whole extent being seen all at once;\nbut it starts up hither and thither among the rocks, boiling with rage\nat being so continually hindered in its free course, until, at last,\nmadness seizes it, and, flying straight at the throat of the gorge,\nit goes down in one long white wave, overwhelming everything in its\nway. It reaches the foot of the rocks in fleeces, darts wildly hither\nand thither, shakes off the grasp of concealed rocks, and, racing on,\nstretches itself on its wide and shallow bed, uttering a tremulous wail.\n\nFrom the village at the falls, and from Berlin Mills, are elevations\nfrom which the great White Mountains are grandly conspicuous. The view\nis similar to that much extolled one from Milan, the town next to\nBerlin. Here the three great mountains, closed in mass, display a triple\ncrown of peaks, Washington being thrown back to the left, and behind\nMadison, with Adams on his right. Best of all is the blended effect of\nearly morning, or of the afterglow, when a few light clouds sail along\nthe crimson sky, and their shadows play hide-and-seek on the mountain\nsides.\n\nIn the afternoon, while walking down the road to Shelburne, I met an\napparently honest farmer, with whom I held some discourse. He was\ncurious about the great city he had known half a century before, when\nit was in swaddling clothes; I about the mountains above and around us,\nthat had never known change since the world began. An amiable contest\nensued, in which each tried to lead the other to talk of the topic most\ninteresting to himself. The husbandman grew eloquent upon his native\nState and its great man. \"But what,\" I insisted, \"do you think of your\ngreatest mountain there?\" pointing to the splendid peak.\n\n\"Oh, drat the mountains! I never look at 'em. Ask the old woman.\"\n\nSome enticing views may be had from the Shelburne intervales, embracing\nMadison on the right, and Washington on the left. It is, therefore,\npermitted to steal an occasional look back until we reach the Lead Mine\nBridge, and stand over the middle of the flashing Androscoggin.\n\nThe dimpled river, broad here, and showing tufts of foliage on its satin\nsurface, recedes between wooded banks to the middle distance, where it\ndisappears. Swaying to and fro, without noise, the lithe and slender\nwillows on the margin continually dipped their budding twigs in the\nstream, as if to show its clear transparency, while letting fall, drop\nby drop, its crystal globules. They gently nodded their green heads,\nkeeping time to the low music of the river.\n\n[Illustration: THE ANDROSCOGGIN AT SHELBURNE.]\n\nBeyond the river, over gently meeting slopes of the valley, two\nmagnificent shapes, Washington and Madison, rose grandly. Those truly\nregal summits still wore their winter ermine. They were drawn so widely\napart as to show the familiar peaks of Mount Clay protruding between\nthem. It is hardly possible to imagine a more beautiful picture of\nmountain scenery. Noble river, hoary summits, blanched precipices, over\nwhose haggard visages a little color was beginning to steal, eloquently\nappealed to every perception of the beautiful and the sublime. Much as\nthe view from this point is extolled, it can hardly be over-praised.\nTrue, it exhibits the same objects that we see from Berlin and Milan;\nbut the order of arrangement is not only reversed, but so altered as to\nrender any comparison impossible. In this connection it may be remarked\nthat a short removal usually changes the whole character of a mountain\nlandscape. No two are precisely alike.\n\nThe annals of Shelburne, which originally included Gorham within its\nlimits, are sufficiently meagre; but they furnish the same story\nof struggle with hardship--often with danger--common to the early\nsettlements in this region. Shelburne was settled, just before the\nbreaking out of the Revolution, by a handful of adventurous pioneers,\nwho were attacked in 1781 by a prowling band of hostile Indians. This\nincursion is memorable as one of the last recorded in the long series\ngoing back into the first decade of the New England colonies. It was\none of the boldest. The histories place the number of Indians at only\nsix. After visiting Bethel, where they captured three white men, and\nGilead, where they killed another, they entered Shelburne. Here they\nkilled and scalped Peter Poor, and took a negro prisoner. Such was the\nterror inspired by this audacious onset, that the inhabitants, making no\ndefence, fled, panic-struck, to Hark Hill, where they passed the night,\nleaving the savages to plunder the village at their leisure. The next\nday the refugees continued their flight, stopping only when they reached\nFryeburg, fifty-nine miles from the scene of disaster.\n\nBefore taking leave of the Androscoggin Valley, which is an opulent\npicture-gallery, and where at every step one finds himself arrested\nbefore some masterpiece of Nature, the traveller is strongly advised to\ncontinue his journey to Bethel, the town next below Shelburne. Bethel\nis one of the loveliest and dreamiest of mountain nooks. Its expanses\nof rich verdure, its little steeple, emerging from groves of elm-trees,\nits rustic bridge spanning the tireless river, its air of lethargy and\nindolence, captivate eye and mind; and to eyes tired with the hardness\nand glare of near mountains, the distant peaks become points of welcome\nrepose.\n\n\n\n\nVII.\n\n_ASCENT BY THE CARRIAGE-ROAD._\n\n    Where the huge mountain rears his brow sublime,\n    On which no neighboring height its shadow flings,\n    Led by desire intense the steep I climb.\n                 PETRARCH.\n\n\nThe first days of May, 1877, found me again at the Glen House, prepared\nto put in immediate execution the long-deferred purpose of ascending\nMount Washington in the balmy days of spring. Before separating for the\nnight, my young Jehu, who drove me from Gorham in an hour, said, with a\ngrin,\n\n\"So you are going where they cut their butter with a chisel, and their\nmeat with a hand-saw?\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Oh, you will learn to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Till to-morrow, then.\"\n\n\"Good-night.\"\n\n\"Good-night.\"\n\nAt six in the morning, while the stars were yet twinkling, I stood in\nthe road in front of the Glen House. Everything announced a beautiful\nday. The rising sun crimsoned, first, the dun wall of Tuckerman's\nRavine, then the high summits, and then flowed down their brawny\nflanks--his first salutation being to the monarch. In ten minutes I was\nalone in the forest with the squirrels, the partridges, the woodpeckers,\nand my own thoughts.\n\nAs bears are not unfrequently seen at this season of the year, I kept my\neyes about me. One of the old drivers related to me that one morning,\nwhile going up this road with a heavy load of passengers, his horses\nsuddenly stopped, showing most unmistakable signs of terror. The place\nwas a dangerous one, where the road had been wholly excavated from\nthe steep side of the mountain, so, keeping one eye upon his fractious\nteam, he threw quick glances right and left with the other; while the\npassengers, alarmed by the sudden stop, the driver's shouts to his\nanimals, and the still more alarming backward movement of the coach,\nthrust their heads out of the windows, and with white faces demanded\nwhat was the matter.\n\n\"By thunder!\" ejaculated Jehu, \"there was my leaders all in a lather,\nan' backin' almost atop of the fill-horses, and them passengers\na-shoutin' like lunatics let out on a picnic. 'Look! darn it all,'\nsez I, a-pintin' with my whip. My hosses was all in a heap, I tell\nye, rarin' and charging, when a little Harvard student, with his head\nsand-papered, sung out, 'All right, Cap, I've chucked your hind wheels;'\nand then he made for the leaders' heads. Them college chaps ain't such\ndarned fools arter all, they ain't.\"\n\n\"What was it?\"\n\n\"A big black bear, all huddled up in a bunch, a-takin' his morning\nobservation on the scenery from the top of a dead sycamore. You see the\nside of the hill was so slantin' steep that he wa'n't more'n tew rod\nfrom the road.\"\n\n\"What did you do?\"\n\n\"Dew?\" echoed the driver, laughing--\"dew?\" he repeated, \"why, them crazy\npassengers, when they found the bear couldn't get at _them_, just picked\nup rocks and hove them at the old cuss. When one hit him a crack, Lord,\nhow he'd shake his head and growl! But, you see, he couldn't get at 'em,\nso they banged away, until Mr. Bruin couldn't stan' it any longer, an'\nslid right down the tree as slick as grease, and as mad as Old Nick. It\ntickled me most to death to see him a-makin' tooth-picks fly from that\ntree.\"\n\n\"Was that your only encounter with bears?\" I asked, willing to draw him\nout.\n\n\"Waal, no, not exactly,\" he replied, chuckling to himself, gleefully, at\nsome recollection the question revived. \"There used to be a tame bear\nover to the Alpine House. One night the critter got loose, and we all\ncal'lated he'd took to the woods. Anyhow we hunted high and low; but\nno bear. Waal, you see, one forenoon our hostler Mike--his real name\nwas Pat, but there was another Pat came afore him, so we called t'other\nMike--went up in the barn-chamber to pitch some hay down to the hosses.\"\nHere he stopped and began to choke.\n\n\"Well, go on; what has that to do with the bear?\"\n\n\"Just you hold your hosses a minnit, stranger. Mike hadn't no sooner\njabbed his pitchfork down, so as to git a big bunch, when it struck\nsomething soft-like, and then, before he knew what ailed him, the\nhay-mow riz rite up afore him, with the almightiest growl comin' out\non't was ever heerd in any maynagery this side of Noah's Ark.\"\n\nHere the driver broke down utterly, gasping, \"Oho! aha! oh Lord! ah!\nha! ha! ha! ha! ho! ho! Mike!\" until his breath was quite gone, and the\nbig tears rolled down his cheeks. Then he heaved a deep sigh, attempted\nto go on, but immediately went off in a second hysterical explosion. I\nwaited for his recovery.\n\n\"Waal,\" he at length resumed, \"the long and short of it was this: that\nair bear had buried himself under the hay-mow, and was a-snoozin' it\ncomfortable and innocent as you please, when Mike prodded him in the\nribs with the pitchfork. The fust any of us knew we saw Mike come\na-flyin' out of the barn-chamber window and the bear arter him. Mike led\nhim a length. Maybe that Irishman didn't streak it for the house! Bless\nyou, he never teched the ground arter he struck it! The boys couldn't\ndo anything for laughing, and Mick was so scart he forgot to yell. That\nbear was so hoppin' wild we had to kill him; and if you wanted to make\nMike fightin' mad any time, all you had to do was to ask him to go up in\nthe barn-chamber and pitch down a bear.\"\n\nThe first four miles are merely toilsome. It is only when emerging upon\nthe bare crags above the woods that the wonders of the ascent begin, and\nthe succession of views, dimly seen through my eyes in this chapter,\nchallenges the attention at every step. There is one exception. About\na mile up, the road issues upon a jutting spur of the mountain, from\nwhich the summit, with the house on the highest point, is seen in clear\nweather.\n\nSuddenly I came out of the low firs, the scrubby growth of birches, upon\nthe fear-inspiring desolation of the bared and wintry summit. The high\nsun poured down with dazzling brightness upon the white ledges, which,\nrising like a wall above the solitary cabin before me, thrust their\njagged edges in the way, as if to forbid farther progress. Out of this\nglittering precipice dead trees thrust huge antlers. This formless mass\noverhanging the Half-Way House, known as The Ledge, is one of the most\nterrific sights of the journey.\n\nUntil clear of the woods, my uneasiness, inspired by the recollection\nof the ascent from Crawford's, was extreme; but I now stood, in the\nfull blaze of an unclouded sun, upon a treeless wilderness of rock, a\ngratified spectator of one of the most extraordinary scenes it has ever\nfallen to man's lot to witness. But what a frightful silence! Not a\nmurmur; not a rustling leaf; but all still as death. I was half-afraid.\n\nAt my feet yawned the measureless void of the Great Gulf, torn from the\nentrails of the mountain by Titanic hands. Above my head leaped up the\nendless pile of granite constituting the dome of Washington. It had now\nexchanged its gray cassock for pale green. All around was unutterable\ndesolation. Crevassed with wide splits, encompassed round by lofty\nmountain walls, the gorge was at once fascinating and forbidding, grand\nyet terrible. The high-encircling steeps of Clay and Jefferson, Adams\nand Madison, enclosing it with one mighty sweep, ascended out of its\ndepths and stretched along the sky, which seemed receding before their\ndaring advance. Peering down into the abyss, where the tallest pines\nwere shrubs and their trunks needles, the earth seemed split to its\ncentre, and the feet of these mountains rooted in the midst. To confront\nsuch a spectacle unmoved one should be more, or less than human.\n\nLooking backward over the forest through which I had come, the eye\ncaught a blur of white and a gleam of blue in the Peabody Glen. The\nwhite was the hotel, the blue the river. Following the vale out to\nits entrance upon the Androscoggin meadows, the same swift messenger\nascended Moriah, and, traversing the confederate peaks to the summit of\nMount Carter, stopped short at its journey's end.\n\nAs I slowly mounted the Ledge the same unnatural appearance was\neverywhere--the same wreck, same desolation, same discord. The dead\ncedars, bleaching all around, looked like an army of gigantic crabs\ncrawling up the mountain side, which universal ruin overspread, and\nwhich even the soft sunshine rendered more ghastly and more solemn. I\nlooked eagerly along the road; listened. Not a human being; not a sound.\nI was alone upon the mountain.\n\n[Illustration: MOUNT ADAMS AND THE GREAT GULF.]\n\nFrom here I no longer walked upon earth but on air. Respiration became\nmore and more difficult. Not even a zephyr stirred, while the glare\nwas painful to eyes already overtaxed in the endeavor to grasp the\nfull meaning of this most unaccustomed scene. The road, steadily\nascending, showed its zigzags far up the mountain. Now and then a rude\nreceptacle had been dug, or rather built up, by the road-side, in which\nearth to mend the road was stored; and this soil, wholly composed of\ndisintegrated rock, must be scraped from underneath the ledges, from\ncrevices, from hollows, and husbanded with care. \"As cheap as dirt,\"\nwas a saying without significance here. As I neared the summit the\nmelting snows had, in many places, swept it bare, exposing the naked\nledge; and here earth must be brought up from lower down the mountain.\nBut the pains bestowed upon it equals the incessant demand for its\npreservation, and had I not seen with my own eyes I could scarcely have\nbelieved so excellent a specimen of road-making existed in this desert.\n\nBut how long will the mountain resist the denuding process constantly\ngoing on, and what repair the gradual but certain disintegration of the\npeak? It is a monument of human inability to act upon it in any way.\nBe it so. The snows, the frosts, the rains, pursue their work none the\nless surely. You see in the deep gullies, the avalanches of stones, the\nsands of the sea-shore--so many evidences of the forces which, sooner or\nlater, will accomplish the miracle and remove the mountain.\n\nFrom my next halting-place I perceived that I had been traversing a\npromontory of the mountain jutting boldly out into the Great Gulf, above\nthe Half-Way House; and, looking down over the parapet-wall, a mile or\nmore of the road uncoiled its huge folds, turning hither and thither,\ndoubling upon itself like a bewildered serpent, and, like the serpent,\nalways gaining a little on the mountain. This is one of the strangest\nsights of this strange journey; but, in order to appreciate it at its\nfull value, one should be descending by the stage-coach, when the\ndanger, more apparent than real, is intensified by the swift descent of\nthe mountain into the gulf below, over which the traveller sees himself\nsuspended with feelings more poignant than agreeable. The fact that\nthere has never been a fatal accident upon the carriage-road speaks\nvolumes for the caution and skill of the drivers; but, as one of the\noldest and most experienced said to me, \"There should be no fooling, no\nchaffing, and no drinking on that road.\"[21]\n\nContinuing to ascend, the road once more took a different direction,\ncurving around that side of the mountain rising above the Pinkham\nforest. This d\u00e9tour brought the Carter chain upon my left, instead of on\nmy right.\n\nThus far I had encountered little snow, though the rocks were everywhere\ncrusted with ice; but now a sudden turning brought me full upon an\nenormous bank, completely blocking the road, which here skirted the\nedge of a high precipice. Had a sentinel suddenly barred my way with\nhis bayonet, I could not have been more astonished. I was brought to a\ndead stand. I looked over the parapet, then at the snow-bank, then at\nthe mountain. The first look made me shudder, the second thoughtful, the\nthird gave me a headache.\n\nAt this spot the side of the mountain was only a continuation of the\nprecipice, bent slightly backward from the perpendicular, and ascending\nseveral hundred feet higher. The snow, extending a hundred feet or more\nabove, and conforming nearly with the slope of the mountain, filled the\nroad for thrice that distance. I saw that it was only prevented from\nsliding into the valley by the low wall of loose stones at the edge of\nthe road; but how long would that resist the great pressure upon it? The\nsnow-bank had already melted at its edges, so that I could crawl some\ndistance underneath, and hear the drip of water above and below, showing\nthat it was being steadily undermined. In fact, the whole mass seemed on\nthe point of precipitating itself over the precipice. I could neither go\naround it nor under it; so much was certain.\n\nWhat to do? I had only a strong umbrella, the inseparable companion\nof my mountain jaunts, and the glacier was as steep as a roof. What\nassurance was there that if I ventured upon it the whole sheet,\ndislodged by my weight, might not be shot off the mountain side,\ncarrying me with it to the bottom of the abyss? But while I felt no\ndesire to add mine to the catalogue of victims already claimed by the\nmountain, the idea of being turned back was inadmissible. Native\ncaution put the question, \"Will you?\" and native persistency answered,\n\"I will.\"\n\nWhen a thing is to be done, the best way is to do it. I therefore tried\nthe snow, and, finding a solid foothold, resolved to venture; had it\nbeen soft, I should not have dared. Using my umbrella as an alpenstock,\nI crossed on the parapet, where the declivity was the least, and without\naccident, but slowly and breathlessly, until near the opposite side,\nwhen I passed the intervening space in two bounds, alighting in the road\nwith the blood tingling to my fingers' ends.\n\nA sharp turn around a ledge, and the south-east wall of Tuckerman's\nRavine rose up, like a wraith, out of the forest. Nearer at hand was the\nhead of Huntington's, while to the right the cone of Washington loomed\ngrandly more than a thousand feet higher. A little to the left you look\ndown into the gloomy depths of the Pinkham defile, the valley of Ellis\nRiver, the Saco Valley to North Conway, where the familiar figure of\nKearsarge is the presiding genius. The blue course of the Ellis, which\nis nothing but a long cascade, the rich green of the Conway intervales,\nthe blanched peak of Chocorua, the sapphire summits of the Ossipee\nMountains, were presented in conjunction with the black and humid walls\nof the ravine, and the iron-gray mass of the great dome. The crag on\nwhich I stood leans out over the mountain like a bastion, from which\nthe spectator sees the deep-intrenched valleys, the rivers which wash\nthe feet of the monarch, and the long line of summits which partake his\ngrandeur while making it all the more impressive.[22]\n\nTurning now my back upon the Glen, the way led in the opposite\ndirection, and began to look over the depression between Clay and\nJefferson into the world of blue peaks beyond. From here the striking\nspectacle of the four great northern peaks, their naked summits, their\nsides seamed with old and new slides, and flecked with snow, constantly\nenlarged. There were some terrible rents in the side of Clay, red as\nhalf-closed wounds; in one place the mountain seemed cloven to its\ncentre. It was of this gulf that the first climber said it was such\na precipice he could scarce discern to the bottom. The rifts in the\nwalls of the ravine, the blasted fir-trees leaning over the abyss,\nand clutching the rocks with a death-gripe, the rocks themselves,\ntormented, formidable, impending, astound by their vivid portrayal of\nthe formless, their suggestions of the agony in which these mountains\nwere brought forth.\n\nI was now fairly upon the broad, grass-grown terrace at the base of the\npinnacle, sometimes called the Cow Pasture. The low peak rising upon its\nlimits is a monument to the fatal temerity of a traveller who, having\nclimbed, as he supposed, to the top of the mountain, died from hunger\nor exposure, or from both, at this inhospitable spot.[23] A skeleton in\nrags was found, at the end of a year, huddled under some rocks. Farther\ndown the mountain a heap of stones indicates the place where Doctor\nBall, of Boston, was found by the party sent in search of him, famished,\nexhausted, and almost delirious. When rescued, he had passed two nights\nupon the mountain, without food, fire, or shelter, after as many days\nof fruitless wandering up and down, always led astray by his want of\nknowledge, and mocked by occasional glimpses of snowy peaks above, or\nthe distant Glen below. More dead than alive, he was supported down the\nmountain as far as the camp at The Ledge, whence he was able to ride to\nthe Glen House. His reappearance had the effect of one risen from the\ndead. In reality, the rescuing party took up with them materials for a\nrude bier, expecting to find a dead body stiffening in the snow.[24]\n\nBesides this almost unheard of resistance to hunger, cold, and\nexhaustion combined, and notwithstanding the fortitude which enabled the\nlost man to continue his desperate struggle for life until rescued, all\nwould doubtless have been to no purpose without the aid of an umbrella,\nwhich, by a lucky chance, he took at setting out. This umbrella was\nhis only protection during the two terrible vigils he made upon the\nmountain. How, is related in the chapter on the ascent from Crawford's.\n\nCrossing the terrace, where even the road seems glad to rest after its\nlaborious climb of seven miles, and where the traveller may also relax\nhis efforts, preparatory to his arduous advance up the pinnacle, I came\nupon the railway, still solidly embedded in snow and ice.\n\n[Illustration: WINTER STORM ON THE SUMMIT.]\n\nStill making a route for itself among massy blocks, tilted at every\nconceivable angle, but forming, nevertheless, a symmetrical cone, the\ncarriage-road winds up the steep ascent, to which the railway is nailed.\nWhile traversing the plateau, with the Summit House now in full view,\nmy eye caught, far above me, the figure of a man pacing up and down\nbefore the building, like a sentinel on his post. I swung my hat in the\nair; again; but he did not see me. Nevertheless, I experienced a thrill\nof pleasure at seeing him, so acutely had the sense of loneliness come\nover me in these awful solitudes. It put such vigor into my steps that\nin half an hour I crossed the last rise, when the solitary pedestrian,\nmaking an about-face at the end of his beat, suddenly discovered\na strange form and figure emerging from the rocks before him. He\nstopped short, took the pipe from his teeth, looking with open-mouthed\nastonishment, then, as I continued to approach, he hastened toward me,\nmet me half-way, and, between rapid questions and answers, led the way\ninto the signal station.\n\nBehold me installed in the cupola of New England! While I was resting,\nmy host, a tall, bronzed, bearded man, bustled about the two or three\napartments constituting this swallow's nest. He put the kettle on the\nstove, gave the fire a stir, spread a cloth upon the table, and took\nsome plates, cups, and saucers from a locker, some canned meats and\nfruit from a cupboard, I, meanwhile, following all these movements with\nan interest easily imagined. His preparations completed, my host first\nran his eye over them approvingly, then, presenting a pen, requested me\nto inscribe my name in the visitors' book. I did so, noticing that the\nlast entry was in October--that is, five months had elapsed since the\nlast climber wended his solitary way down the mountain. My hospitable\nentertainer then, with perfect politeness, begged me to draw my chair to\nthe table and fall to. I did not refuse. While he poured out the tea, I\nasked,\n\n\"Whom have I the pleasure of addressing?\" and he modestly replied,\n\n\"Private Doyle, sir, of the United States Signal Service. Have another\nbit of devilled ham? No? Try these peaches.\"\n\n\"Thank you. At least Uncle Sam renders your exile tolerable. Is this\nyour ordinary fare?\"\n\n\"Oh, as to that, you should see us in the dead of winter, chopping our\nfrozen meat with a hatchet, and our lard with a chisel.\"\n\nThis, then, was what my young Jehu had meant. Where was I? I glanced\nout of the window. Nothing but sky, nothing but rocks; immensity and\ndesolation. I disposed my ideas to hear my companion ask, \"What is the\nnews from the other world?\"\n\n\n\n\nVIII.\n\n_MOUNT WASHINGTON._\n\n     The soldiers from the mountain Theches ran from rear to front,\n     breaking their ranks, crowding tumultuously upon each other,\n     laughing and shouting, \"The sea! the sea!\"--XENOPHON'S\n     _Anabasis_.\n\n\nAfter the repast we walked out, Private Doyle and I, upon the narrow\nplatform behind the house. According to every appearance I had reached\n_Ultima Thule_.\n\nFor some moments--moments not to be forgotten--we stood there silent.\nNeither stirred. The scene was too tremendous to be grasped in an\ninstant. A moment was needed to recover one's moral equipoise, as well\nas for the unpractised eye to adjust itself to the vastness of the\nlandscape, and to the multitude of objects, strange objects, everywhere\nconfronting it. My own sensations were at first too vague for analysis,\ntoo tumultuous for expression. The flood choked itself.\n\nAll seemed chaos. On every side the great mountains fell away like\nmists of the morning, dispersing, receding to an endless distance,\ndiminishing, growing more and more vague, and finally vanishing on\na limitless horizon neither earth nor sky. Never before had such a\nspectacle offered itself to my gaze. The first idea was of standing on\nthe threshold of another planet, and of looking down upon this world of\nours outspread beneath; the second, of being face to face with eternity\nitself. No one ever felt exhilaration at first. The scene is too\nsolemnizing.\n\nBut by degrees order came out of this chaos. The bewildering throng of\nmountains arranged itself in chains, clusters, or families. Hills drew\napart, valleys opened, streams twinkled in the sun, towns and villages\nclung to the skirts of the mountains or dotted the rich meadows; but all\nwas mysterious, all as yet unreal.\n\nComprehending at last that all New England was under my feet, I began\nto search out certain landmarks. But this investigation is fatiguing:\nbesides, it conducts to nothing--absolutely nothing. Pointing to\na scrap of blue haze in the west, my companion observed, \"That is\nMount Mansfield;\" and I, mechanically, repeated, \"Ah! that is Mount\nMansfield.\" It was nothing. Distance and Infinity have no more relation\nthan Time and Eternity. It sufficed for me, God knows, to be admitted\nnear the person of the great autocrat of New England, while under skies\nso fair and radiant he gave audience to his imposing and splendid\nretinue of mountains.\n\nBut still, independent of the will, the eye flitted from peak to\npeak, from summit to summit, making the slow circuit of this immense\nhorizon, hovering at last over a band of white gleaming far away in the\nsouth-east like a luminous cloud, on whose surface objects like birds\nreposed. It was the sea, and the specks ships sailing on the main.\nWith the aid of a telescope we could even tell what sails the vessels\ncarried. In these few seconds the eye had put a girdle of six hundred\nmiles about.[25]\n\nI consider this first introduction to what the peak of Mount Washington\nlooks down upon an epoch in any man's life. I saw the whole noble\ncompany of mountains from highest to lowest. I saw the deep depressions\nthrough which the Connecticut, the Merrimac, the Saco, the Androscoggin,\nwind toward the lowlands. I saw the lakes which nurse the infant\ntributaries of those streams. I saw the great northern forests, the\nnotched wall of the Green Mountains, the wide expanse of level land,\nflat and heavy like the ocean, and finally the ocean itself. And all\nthis was mingled in one mighty scene.\n\nThe utmost that I can say of this view is that it is a marvel. You\nreceive an impression of the illimitable such as no other natural\nspectacle--no, not even the sea--can give. Astonishment can go no\nfarther. Nevertheless, the truth is that you are on too high a\nview-point for the most effective grasp of mountain scenery. This\nimmense height renders near objects indistinct, obscures the more\ndistant. Seldom, indeed, is the land seen, even under favoring\nconditions, except through a soft haze, which, you are surprised to\nnotice, becomes more and more transparent as you descend. The eye\nexplores this _clair-obscur_, and gradually discerns this or that\nobject. It is true that you see to a great distance, but you do not\ndistinguish anything clearly. This is the rule, derived from many\nobservations, to which the crystal air of autumn and winter makes the\nrare and fortunate exception.\n\nThere is a more cogent reason why the view from Mount Washington is\ninferior to that from other and lower summits. Everything is below\nyou, and, naturally, therefore, any picture of these mountains not\nshowing the cloud-capped dome of the monarch, attended by his cort\u00e9ge\nof grand peaks--the central, dominating, perfecting group--must be\nessentially incomplete. Imagine Rome without St. Peter's, or, to come\nnearer home, Boston without her State House! One word more: from this\nlofty height you lose the symmetrical relation of the lesser summits to\nthe grand whole. Even these signal embodiments of heroic strength--the\npeaks of Jefferson, Adams, and Madison--so vigorously self-asserting\nthat what they lose in stature they gain by a powerful individuality,\neven these suffer a partial eclipse; but the summits stretching to\nthe southward are so dwarfed as to be divested of any character as\ntypical mountain structures. What fascinates us is the \"sublime chaos\nof trenchant crests, of peaks shooting upward;\" and the charm of the\nview--such at least is the writer's conviction--resides rather in the\nimmediate surroundings than in the extent of the panorama, great as that\nunquestionably is.\n\nOne thing struck me with great force--the enormous mass of the mountain.\nThe more you realize that the dependent peaks, stretching eight miles\nnorth, and as many south, are nothing but buttresses, the more this\nprodigious weight amazes. Two long spurs, divided by the valley of the\nRocky Branch, also descend into the Saco Valley as far as Bartlett; and\nanother, shorter, but of the same indestructible masonry, is traced\nbetween the valleys of the Ammonoosuc and of Israel's River. In a word,\nas the valleys lie and the roads run, we must travel sixty or seventy\nmiles around in order to make the circuit of Mount Washington at its\nbase.\n\nEven here one is not satisfied if he sees a stone ever so little above\nhim.[26] The best posts for an outlook, after the signal station, are\nupon a point of rocks behind the old Tip-Top House, and from the end\nof the hotel platform, where the railway begins its terrifying descent.\nFrom all these situations the view was large and satisfying. From the\nfirst station one overlooks the southern summits; from the second, the\nnorthern. A movement of the head discloses, in turn, the ocean, the\nlakes and lowlands of Maine and New Hampshire, the broad highlands\nof Massachusetts, the fading forms of Monadnock and Wachusett, the\nhighest peaks of Vermont and New York, and, finally, the great Canadian\nwilderness.\n\nAfter all this, the eye dwells upon the hideous waste of rock\nblackened by ages of exposure, corroded with a green incrustation,\nlike _verd-antique_, constituting the dome. It is at once mournful and\nappalling. Time has dealt the mountain some crushing blows, as we see by\nthese ghastly ruins, bearing silent testimony to their own great age. It\nis necessary to step with care, for the rocks are sharp-edged. The green\nappearance is due to lichens which bespatter them. Greedy little spiders\ninhabit them. Truly this is a spot disinherited by Nature.\n\nNoticing many boards scattered helter-skelter about the top and sides of\nthe mountain, I drew my companion's attention to them, and he explained\nthat what I saw was the result of the great January gale, which had\nblown down the shed used as an engine-house, demolished every vestige of\nthe walk leading from the hotel to the signal station, and distributed\nthe fragments as if they had been straws far and wide, as I saw them.\n\nThe same gale had swept the coast from Hatteras to Canso with\ndestructive fury. I begged Private Doyle to give me his recollections of\nit. We returned to the station, and he began as follows:\n\n\"At the time of the tornado I was sick, and my comrade, Sergeant M----,\nwho is now absent on leave, had to do my turn as well as his own. 'Uncle\nSam,' you know, keeps two of us here, for fear of accidents.\"[27]\n\n\"It surprised me to find you here alone,\" I assented.\n\n\"This is the third day.\" Then, resuming his narrative, \"During the\nforenoon preceding the gale we observed nothing very unusual; but the\nclouds kept sinking and sinking, until, in the afternoon, the summit\nalone was above them. For miles around nothing could be seen but one\nvast ocean of frozen vapor, with peaks sticking out here and there,\nlike icebergs floating in this ocean--all being cased in snow and ice.\nI cannot tell you how curious this was. Later in the day the density of\nthe clouds became such that they reflected the colors of the spectrum:\nand that too was beautiful beyond description. It was about this time\nSergeant M---- came to where I was lying, and said, 'There is going to\nbe the devil to pay; so I guess I'll make everything snug.'\n\n\"By nine in the evening the wind had increased to one hundred miles an\nhour, with heavy sleet, so that no observation could be safely made\nfrom without. At midnight the velocity of the storm was one hundred and\ntwenty miles, and the exposed thermometer recorded 24\u00b0 below zero. We\ncould hardly get it above freezing inside the house. With the stove red,\nwater froze within three feet of the fire; in fact, where you are now\nsitting.\n\n\"At this time the uproar outside was deafening. About one o'clock\nthe wind rose to one hundred and fifty miles. It was now blowing a\nhurricane. That carpet (indicating the one in the room where we were)\nstood up a foot from the floor, like a sail. The wind, gathering up all\nthe loose ice on top of the mountain, dashed it against the house in\none continuous volley. I lay wondering how long we should stand this\nterrific pounding, when all at once there came a crash. M---- shouted to\nme to get up; but I had tumbled out in a hurry on hearing the glass go.\nYou see I was ready-dressed, to keep myself warm in bed.\n\n\"Our united efforts were hardly equal to closing the storm-shutters from\nthe inside; but we succeeded, finally, though the lights were out, and\nwe worked in the dark.\" He rose in order to show me how the shutters,\nmade of thick oak planks, were secured by a bar, and by strong wooden\nbuttons screwed in the window-frame.\n\n\"We had scarcely done this,\" resumed Doyle, \"and were shivering over the\nfire, when a heavy gust of wind again burst open the shutters as easy\nas if they had never been fastened at all. We sprang to our feet. After\na hard tussle we again secured the windows by nailing a cleat to the\nfloor, against which we fixed one end of a board, using the other end as\na lever. You understand?\" I nodded. \"Well, even then it was all we could\ndo to force the shutters back into place. But we did it. We _had_ to do\nit.\n\n\"The rest of the night was passed in momentary expectation that the\nbuilding would be blown over into Tuckerman's Ravine, and we with it.\nAt four in the morning the wind registered one hundred and eighty-six\nmiles. It had shifted then from east to north-east. From this time it\nsteadily fell to ten miles at nine o'clock--as calm as a daisy. This was\nthe heaviest blow ever experienced on the mountain.\"\n\n\"Suppose this house had gone, and the hotel stood fast, could you have\neffected an entrance into the hotel?\" I asked.\n\n\"No, indeed. We could not have faced the wind.\"\n\n\"Not for a hundred feet, and in a matter of life and death?\"\n\n\"In that gale? We should have been lifted clean off our feet and smashed\nupon the rocks like this bottle,\" flinging one out at the door.\n\n\"So then for all those hours you expected from one moment to another to\nbe swept into eternity?\"\n\n[Illustration: THE TORNADO FORCING AN ENTRANCE.]\n\n\"We did what we could. Each of us wrapped himself up in blankets and\nquilts, tying these tightly around him with ropes, to which were\nattached bars of iron, so that if the house went by the board we might\nstand a chance--a slim one--of anchoring, somehow, somewhere.\"\n\nI tried to make him admit that he was afraid; but he would not. Only he\nforgot, he said, in the excitement of that terrible night, that he was\nill, until the danger was over.\n\n\"We are going to have a blow,\" observed Doyle, glancing at the\nbarometer--\"barometer falling, wind rising. Besides, that blue haze,\ncreeping over the valley, is a pretty sure sign of a change of weather.\"\nHis prognostic was completely verified in the course of a few hours.\n\n\"Now,\" said Doyle, rising, \"I must go and feed my chick.\"\n\nWe retraced our steps to the point of rocks overhanging the southern\nslope, where he stopped and began to scatter crumbs, I watching him\ncuriously meanwhile. Pretty soon he went down on his hands and knees and\npeered underneath the rocks. \"Ah!\" he exclaimed, with vivacity, \"there\nyou are!\"\n\n\"What is it?\" I asked; \"what is there?\"\n\n\"My mouse. He is rather shy, and knows I am not alone,\" he replied,\nchirruping to the animal with affectionate concern.\n\nBrought to the mountain top in some barrel or box, the little stowaway\nhad become domesticated, and would come at the call of his human\nplaymate. The incident was trifling enough of itself, yet there was\nsomething touching in this companionship, something that sharply\nrecalled the sense of loneliness I had myself experienced. In reality,\nthe disparity between the man and the mouse seemed not greater than that\nbetween the mountain and the man.\n\nWhile we were standing among the rocks the sun touched the western\nhorizon. The heavens became obscured. All at once I saw an immense\nshadow striding across the valley below us. Slowly and majestically it\nascended the Carter chain until it reached the highest summit. I could\nnot repress an exclamation of surprise; but what was my astonishment\nto see this immense phantom, without pausing in its advance, lift\nitself into the upper air to an incredible height, and stand fixed and\nmotionless high above all the surrounding mountains. It was the shadow\nof Mount Washington projected upon the dusky curtain of the sky. All the\nother peaks seemed to bow their heads by a sentiment of respect, while\nthe actual and the spectre mountain exchanged majestic salutations. Then\nthe vast gray pyramid retreated step by step into the thick shades.\nNight fell.\n\nThe expected storm which the observer had predicted did not fail to put\nin an appearance. By the time we reached the house the wind had risen to\nforty miles an hour, driving the clouds in an unbroken flight against\nthe summit, from which they rebounded with rage equal to that displayed\nin their vindictive onset. The Great Gulf was like the crater of some\nmighty volcano on the eve of an eruption, vomiting forth volumes of\nthickening cloud and mist. It seemed the mustering-place of all the\nstorm-legions of the Atlantic, steadily pouring forth from its black\njaws, unfurling their ghostly standards as they advanced to storm\nthe battlements of the mountain. Occasionally a break in the column\ndisclosed the opposite peaks looming vast and black as midnight. Then\nthe effect was indescribable. At one moment everything seemed resolving\ninto its original elements; the next I was reminded of a gigantic\nmould, not from mortal hands, in which all these vast forms were slowly\ncooling. The moon shed a pale, wan light over this unearthly scene,\nin which creation and annihilation seemed confusedly struggling. The\nsublime drama of the Fourth Day, when light was striving with darkness\nfor its allotted place in the universe, seemed enacting under my eyes.\n\nThe evening passed in comparative quiet, although the gale was now\nmoving from east to west at the rate of sixty miles an hour. Rain\nrattled on the roof like shot. Now and then the building shuddered\nand creaked, like a good ship breasting the fury of the gale. Vivid\nflashes of lightning made the well-lighted room momentarily dark,\nand checked conversation as suddenly as if we had felt the electric\nshock. Under such novel conditions, with strange noises all about him,\none does not feel quite at ease. Nevertheless the kettle sung on the\nstove, the telegraph instrument ticked on the table. We had Fabyan's,\nLittleton, and White River Junction within call. We had plenty of\nbooks, the station being well furnished from voluntary gifts of the\nconsiderate-benevolent. At nine Doyle went out, but immediately returned\nand said he had something to show me. I followed him out to the platform\nbehind the house. A forest fire had been seen all day in the direction\nof Fabyan's, but at night it looked like a burning lake sunk in depths\nof infernal blackness. I had never seen anything so nearly realizing my\nidea of hell. No other object was visible--only this red glare as of\na sun in partial eclipse shining at the bottom of an immense hole. We\nwatched it a few minutes and then went in. I attempted to be cheerful,\nbut how was one to rise above such surroundings? Alternately the storm\nroared and whined for admittance. Worn out with the tension, physical\nand moral, of this day, I crept into bed and tried to shut the storm\nout. The poor exile in the next room murmured to himself, \"Ah, this\nhorrible solitude!\"\n\nThe next morning, while looking down from this eagle's nest upon the\nsouthern peaks to where the bridle path could be distinctly traced\nacross the plateau, and still winding on around the peaked crest of\nMonroe, I was seized with a longing to explore the route which on a\nformer occasion proved so difficult, but to-day presenting apparently\nnothing more serious than a fatiguing scramble up and down the cone.\nAccordingly, taking leave of my companion, I began to feel my way down\nthat cataract of granite, fallen, it would seem, from the skies.[28]\n\nIn proportion as I descended, the mountain ridge below regained, little\nby little, its actual character. Except where patches of snow mottled\nit with white, it displayed one uniform and universal tinge of faded\norange where the soft sunshine fell full upon it, toned into rusty brown\nwhen overshadowed, gradually deepening to an intense blue-black in the\nravines. But so insignificant did the summits look, when far below,\nthat I hardly recognized them for the same I had seen from Fabyan's and\nhad traversed from Crawford's. Monroe, the nearest, has, however, a\nmost striking resemblance to an enormous petrified wave on the eve of\ndashing itself down into the valley. The lower you descend the stronger\nthis impression becomes; but from the summit of Mount Washington this\npeak is so belittled that the mountains seemed saying to each other,\n\"Good-morning, Mole-hill!\" \"Good-morning, Big Bully!\"\n\nWhen I reached the stone-corral, the ground, if ground it can be\ncalled, descended less abruptly, over successive stony terraces, to a\ncomparative level, haired over with a coarse, wiry, and tangled grass,\nstrewed with bowlders, and inundated along its upper margin by torrents\nof stones. Upon closer inspection these stones arranged themselves\nin irregular semicircular ridges. In the eyes of the botanist and\nentomologist this seemingly arid region is more attractive than the most\nbeautiful gardens of the valley. Among these grasses and these stones\nlie hid the beautiful Alpine flowers of which no species exist in the\nlowlands. Only the arbutus, which puts forth its pink-and-white flowers\nearliest of all, and is warmed into life by the snows, at all resembles\nthem in its habits. Over this grassy plain the wind swept continually\nand roughly; but on putting the grass aside with the hand, the tiny\nblossoms greet you with a smile of bewitching sweetness.\n\nThese areas, extending between and sometimes surrounding the high peaks,\nor even approaching their summits, are the \"lawns\" of the botanist, and\nhis most interesting field of research. Within its scope about fifty\nspecies of strictly Alpine plants vegetate. As we ascend the mountain,\nafter the dwarf trees come the Lapland rhododendron, Labrador tea, dwarf\nbirch, and Alpine willows, which, in turn, give place to the Greenland\nsandwort, diapensia, cassiope, and other plants, with arctic rushes,\nsedges, and lichens, which flourish on the very summit.\n\nTo the left, this plain, on which the grass mournfully rustled, sloped\ngently for, I should guess, half a mile, and then rolled heavily off,\nover a grass-grown rim, into Tuckerman's Ravine. In this direction the\nCarter Mountains appeared. Beyond, stretching away out of the plain,\nextended the long Boott's Spur, over which the Davis path formerly\nascended from the valley of the Saco, but which is now, from long\ndisuse, traced with difficulty. Between this headland and Monroe opened\nthe valley of Mount Washington River, the old Dry River of the carbuncle\nhunters, which the eye followed to its junction with the Saco, beyond\nwhich the precipices of Frankenstein glistened in the sun, like a\ncorselet of steel. Oakes's Gulf cuts deeply into the head of the gorge.\nThe plain, the ravine, the spur, and the gulf transmit the names of\nthose indefatigable botanists, Bigelow, Tuckerman, Boott, and Oakes.\n\nOn the other side of the ridge--for of course this plain has its\nridge--the ground was more broken in its rapid descent toward the\nAmmonoosuc Valley, into which I looked over the right shoulder of Monroe.\n\nBut what a sight for the rock-wearied eye was the little Lake of the\nClouds, cuddled close to the hairy breast of this mountain! On the\ninstant the prevailing gloom was lighted as if by magic by this dainty\nnursling of the clouds, which seemed innocently smiling in the face of\nthe hideous mountain. And the stooping monster seemed to regard the\nlittle waif, lying there in its rocky cradle, with astonishment, and to\nforego his first impulse to strangle it where it lay. Lion and lamb were\nlying down together.\n\nCasting an eye upward, and finding the houses on the summit were hidden\nby the retreating curvature of the cone, I saw, with chagrin, light\nmists scudding over my head. It was a notice to hasten my movements idle\nto disregard here. Crossing as rapidly as possible Bigelow's Lawn--the\nhalf-mile of grass ground referred to, where I sunk ankle-deep in moss,\nor stumbled twenty times in as many rods over concealed stones--I\nskirted the head of the chasm for some distance. But from above the\nravine does not make a startling impression. I, however, discovered,\nlodged underneath its walls, a bank of snow. All around I heard water\ngurgling under my feet in rock-worn channels while making its way\ntranquilly to the brow of the ravine. These little underground runlets\nare the same that glide over the head-wall, and are the head tributaries\nof the Ellis.[29]\n\nRetracing my way to the ridge and to the path, which I followed for some\ndistance, startling the silence with an occasional halloo, I descended\ninto the hollow, where the Lake of the Clouds seems to have checked\nitself, white and still, on the very edge of the tremendous gully, cut\ndeep into the western slopes. The lake is the fountain-head of the\nAmmonoosuc. Its waters are too cold to nourish any species of fishes;\nthey are too elevated for any of the feathered tribe to pay it a visit.\n\n[Illustration: LAKE OF THE CLOUDS.]\n\nStrange spectacle! A fairy haunt, rock-rimmed and fringed about with\nAlpine shrubs, half-disclosing, half-concealing its bare bosom, coyly\nreposed on this wind-swept ridge, like \"a good deed in a naughty\nworld.\" From its crystal basin a tiny rill trickled through soft moss\nto the dizzy verge beyond, where, like some airy sprite, clothed with\nthe rainbow and tossing its white tresses to the sport of the breeze,\nit tripped gayly over the grisly precipice and fell in a silvery\nshower from height to height. Where it passed, flowers, ferns, and\nrich herbage sprung forth upon the hard face of the granite. Tapering\nfir-trees exhaled a dewy freshness; aspens quivered with the delight\nof its coming, and aged trees, tottering, decrepit, piteous to see,\nstretched their withered limbs toward heaven. On it went, and still on,\nleaving its white robe clinging to the mountain side. All the forest\nseemed crowding forward to catch it; but, now reverently kissing the\nfeet of the old trees, now saucily flinging a handful of crystal in the\nfaces of scowling cliffs, it eluded the embrace of the forest, which\nthrilled with its musical laughter from lowest deeps to the summit of\nhigh-rocking pines. When it was no longer visible a sonorous murmur\nheralded its triumphal progress. No wonder the bewildered eye roved from\nbleak summit to voluptuous vale; from the handful of drops above to the\nbrimming river below. The miracle of Horeb was being repeated hour by\nhour, like an affair of every-day life.\n\nThis hand-mirror of Venus has two tiny companion pools close by. The\nweary explorer may sip a draught of sweetest savor while admiring\ntheir exceeding beauty--a beauty heightened by its unexpectedness, and\nteaching that not all is barren even here. A benison on those little\nlakes!\n\nStone houses of refuge are much needed on the mountains over which\nthe Crawford trail reaches the summit. They should always be provided\nwith fagots for a fire, clean straw or boughs for a bed, and printed\ndirections for the inexperienced traveller to follow. A fireplace,\nfurnished with a crane and a kettle for heating water, would be absolute\nluxuries. Being done, this glorious promenade--the equal of which does\nnot exist in New England--would be taken with confidence by numbers,\ninstead of, as now, by the few. It is the appropriate pendant of the\nascent from the Glen by the carriage-road, or from Fabyan's by the\nrailway. One can hardly pretend to have seen the mountains in their\ngrandest aspects until he has threaded this wondrous picture-gallery,\nthis marvellous hall of statues.[30]\n\nWhile recrossing the plateau, from which Washington has the appearance\nof one mountain piled upon another, I suddenly came upon a dead sparrow\nin my path. Poor little fellow! he was too adventurous, and sunk on\nstiffening pinions beneath the frozen wind. Ten steps farther on a large\nbrown butterfly flew up and fluttered cheerily along the path. Why,\nthen, did the bird die and the butterfly live?\n\nThis mountain butterfly, which endured cold that the bird could not, has\nexcited the attention of naturalists, it is said. The mountain is 6293\nfeet high, and the butterflies never descend below an elevation of about\n5600 feet. Here they \"disport during the month of July of every year,\"\nthriving upon the scanty deposits of honey found in the flowers of the\nfew species of hardy plants that grow in the crevices of the rocks at\nthis great altitude, and upon other available liquid substances. The\ninsect measures, from tip to tip of the expanded fore-wings, about\none and eight-tenths inches. It is colored in shades of brown, with\nvarious bands and marblings diversifying the surface of the wings. The\nbutterfly is known to naturalists as the _OEneis semidea_, and was\nfirst described, in 1828, by Thomas Say. An allied species occurs on\nLong's Peak and other elevated heights in Colorado; and another is found\nat Hopedale, Labrador; but they are confined to these widely separated\nlocalities. It is surmised that the butterfly, like the Alpine flora,\nbeautifully illustrates the presence, or rather the advance and retreat,\nof the glacier.\n\nI took up the little winged chorister of the vale who was not able to\nmake spring come to the mountain for all his warbling. Truly, was not\nthe little bird's fate typical of those ambitious climbers for fame\nwho, chilled to death by neglect or indifference, die singing on the\nheights? So the sparrow's fall gave me food for reflection, during which\nI reached the little circular enclosure at the foot of the cone.\n\nOnce more I climbed the rambling and rocky stairs leading to the summit;\nbut long before reaching it clouds were drifting above and below me.\nThe day was to end like so many others. The crabbed old mountain had\nexhausted his store of benevolence. I hurried on down the Glen road.\nAfter descending a mile I heard a rumbling sound, deep and prolonged,\nlike distant thunder. The thought of being overtaken on the mountain by\na thunder-storm made me quicken my pace almost to a run. On turning the\ncorner where the snow-bank had lain, like a lion in the path, devoutly\nwishing myself well and safely over, I felt something rise in my throat.\nThe bank was no longer there. Every vestige of it had disappeared, and,\nin all probability, its sudden plunge down the mountain was what I had\ntaken for thunder. Ten minutes sooner and I should have been upon its\ntreacherous bridge.\n\nI passed the Half-Way House, entered the dusk forest, where the\ntree-tops were swaying wildly to and fro, the birds flitting silently,\nand the tall pines discordantly humming, as if getting the pitch of the\nstorm. Suddenly it grew dark. A stream of fire blinded me with its\nglare. Then a deafening peal shook the solid earth. Another and another\nsucceeded: Olympian salvos greeted the arrival of the storm king.\n\nThe rain was pattering among the leaves when I emerged into the open\nvale, guided by the lights of the Glen House shining through the\ndarkness. My heavy feet almost refused to carry me farther, and I walked\nlike the statue in \"Don Juan.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHIRD JOURNEY.\n\n\n                                                      PAGE\nI.   _THE PEMIGEWASSET IN JUNE_                        209\n\nII.  _THE FRANCONIA PASS_                              224\n\nIII. _THE KING OF FRANCONIA_                           237\n\nIV.  _FRANCONIA, AND THE NEIGHBORHOOD_                 248\n\nV.   _THE CONNECTICUT OX-BOW_                          256\n\nVI.  _THE SACK OF ST. FRANCIS DE SALES_                259\n\nVII. _MOOSEHILLOCK_                                    267\n\nVIII._BETHLEHEM_                                       276\n\nIX.  _JEFFERSON, AND THE VALLEY OF ISRAEL'S RIVER_     291\n\nX.   _THE GREAT NORTHERN PEAKS_                        304\n\n[Illustration: WHITE MOUNTAINS\n\n(WEST SIDE)\n\n1881.]\n\n\n\n\nTHIRD JOURNEY.\n\n\n\n\nI.\n\n_THE PEMIGEWASSET IN JUNE._\n\n    O child of that white-crested mountain whose springs\n    Gush forth in the shade of the cliff-eagle's wings,\n    Down whose slopes to the lowlands thy wild waters shine,\n    Leaping gray walls of rock, flashing through the dwarf-pine!\n                       WHITTIER.\n\n\nPlymouth lies at the entrance to the Pemigewasset Valley, like an\nencampment pitched to dispute its passage. At present its design is to\nfacilitate the ingress of tourists.\n\nI am sitting at the window this morning looking down the Pemigewasset\nValley. It is a gray, sad morning. Wet clouds hang and droop heavily\nover. In the distance the frayed and tattered edges are rolled up,\nhalf-disclosing the humid outlines of the hills on the other side of\nthe valley. The trees are budded with rain-drops. Through a lattice\nof bordering foliage I look down upon the river, shrunken by drought\nto half its usual breadth, and exposing its parched bed of sand and\npebbles. It gives an expiring gurgle in its stony throat. It is one of\nthose mornings that, in spite of our philosophy, strangely affect the\nspirits, and are like a presentiment of evil. The clouds are funereal\ndraperies; the river chants a dirge.\n\nIn this world of ours, where events push each other aside with such\nappalling rapidity, perhaps it is scarcely remembered that Hawthorne\nbreathed his last in this house on the night of May 18th, 1864. He who\nwas born in sight of these mountains had come among them to die.\n\nIn company with his old college mate and loving friend, General Pierce,\nhe came from Centre Harbor to Plymouth the day previous to the sad\nevent. Devoted friends--and few men have known more devoted--had for\nsome time seen that his days were numbered. The fire had all but gone\nout from his eye, which seemed interrogating the world of which he was\nalready more than half an inhabitant. A presentiment of his approaching\nend seemed foreshadowed in the changed look and faltering step of\nHawthorne himself: he walked like a man consciously going to his grave.\nStill, much was hoped--it could hardly be that much was expected--from\nthis journey, and from the companionship of two men grown gray with\ncare, each standing on the pinnacle of his ambition, each disappointed,\nbut united, one to the other, by the ties of life-long friendship;\nturning their backs upon the gay world, and walking hand-in-hand among\nthe sweet groves and pleasant streams like boys again. It was like a\ndream of their lost youth: the reality was no more.\n\nOn this journey General Pierce was the watchful, tender, and sympathetic\nnurse. Without doubt either of these men would have died for the other.\n\nBut these hopes, these cares, alas! proved delusive. The angel of death\ncame unbidden into the sacred companionship; the shadow of his wings\nhovered over them unseen. In the night, without a sigh or a struggle, as\nhe himself wished it might be, the hand of death was gently and kindly\nlaid on the fevered brain and fluttering heart. In the morning his\nfriend entered the chamber to find only the lifeless form of Nathaniel\nHawthorne plunged in the slumber that knows no awakening. Great heart\nand mighty brain were stilled forever.\n\nWhile the weather gives such inhospitable welcome let us employ the\ntime by turning over a leaf from history. According to Farmer, the\nintervales here were formerly resorted to by the Indians for hunting\nand fishing. At the mouth of Baker's River, which here joins the\nPemigewasset, they had a settlement. Graves, bones, gun-barrels, besides\nmany implements of their rude husbandry, have been discovered. Here, it\nis said, the Indians were attacked by a party of English from Haverhill,\nMassachusetts, led by Captain Baker, who defeated them, killed many, and\ndestroyed a large quantity of fur. From him Baker's River receives its\nname.\n\nBefore the French and Indian war broke out this region was debatable\nground, into which only the most celebrated and intrepid white hunters\nventured. Among these was a young man of twenty-three, named Stark, who\nlived near the Amoskeag Falls, in what is now Manchester. In April,\n1752, Stark was hunting here with three companions, one of whom was\nhis brother William. They had pitched their camp on Baker's River,\nin the present limits of Rumney, and were prosecuting their hunt with\ngood success, when they suddenly discovered the presence of Indians in\ntheir vicinity. Though it was a time of peace, they were not the less\napprehensive on that account, and determined to change their position.\nBut the Indians had also discovered the white hunters, and prepared to\nentrap them. When Stark went out very early the next morning to collect\nthe traps he was intercepted and made prisoner. The Indians then took a\nposition on the bank of the river to ambush his companions as they came\ndown. Eastman, who was on the shore, next fell into their hands; but\nthe two others were in a canoe floating quietly down the stream out of\nreach. Stark was ordered to hail and decoy them to the shore. He obeyed;\nbut, instead of lending himself to the treachery, shouted to his friends\nthat he was taken, and to save themselves. They instantly steered for\nthe opposite shore, receiving a volley as they did so. Stinson, one of\nthose in the boat, was shot dead; but William Stark escaped through the\nheroism of his brother, who knocked up the guns of the savages as they\ncovered him with fatal aim.\n\nStark and his fellow-prisoner were taken to St. Francis by Act\u00e6on and\nhis prowling band, with whom they had had the misfortune to fall in. At\nSt. Francis the Indians set Stark hoeing their corn. At first he cut up\nthe corn and spared the weeds; but this expedient not serving to relieve\nhim of the drudgery, he threw his hoe into the river, telling his\ncaptors that hoeing corn was the business of squaws, not of warriors.\nThis answer procured him recognition among them as a spirit worthy of\nthemselves. He was adopted into the tribe, and called the \"Young Chief.\"\nThe promise of youth was fulfilled. The young hunter of the White\nMountains and the conqueror of Bennington are the same.\n\nThe choice is open to leave the railway here and enter the mountains by\nthe Pemigewasset Valley, or to continue by it the route which conducts\nto the summit of Mount Washington, by Bethlehem and Fabyan's. To journey\non by rail to the Profile House is seventy-five miles, while by the\ncommon road, following the Pemigewasset, the distance is only thirty\nmiles. A daily stage passes over this route, which I risk nothing in\nsaying is always one of the delightful reminiscences of the whole\njourney. Deciding in favor of the last excursion, my first care was to\nprocure a conveyance.\n\nAt three in the afternoon I set out for Campton, seven miles up the\nvalley, which the carriage-road soon enters upon, and which by a few\nunregarded turnings is presently as fast shut up as if its mountain\ngates had in reality swung noiselessly together behind you. Hardly had I\nrecovered from the effect of the deception produced by seeing the same\nmountain first in front, next on my right hand, and then shifted over to\nthe other side of the valley, when I saw, spanned by a high bridge, the\nriver in violent commotion far down below me.\n\nThe Pemigewasset, confined here between narrow banks, has cut for\nitself two deep channels through its craggy and cavernous bed; but\none of these being dammed for the purpose of deepening the other, the\ngeneral picturesqueness of the fall is greatly diminished. Still, it is\na pretty and engaging sight, this cataract, especially if the river be\nfull, although you think of a mettled Arabian harnessed in a tread-mill\nwhen you look at it. Livermore Fall, as it is called, is but two miles\nfrom Plymouth, the white houses of which look hot in the same brilliant\nsunlight that falls so gently upon the luxuriant green of the valley.\nThe feature of this fall is the deep water-worn chasm through which it\nplunges.\n\nBy crossing the bridge here the left bank of the stream may be followed,\nthe valley towns of Campton, Thornton, and Woodstock being divided by it\ninto numerous villages or hamlets, frequently puzzling the uninitiated\ntraveller, who has set out in all confidence, but who is seized by\nthe most cruel perplexity, upon hearing that there are four villages\nin Campton, each several miles distant from the other. One would have\npleased him far better.\n\n[Illustration: ON THE PROFILE ROAD.]\n\nCrossing this bridge, and descending to the level meadow below the\nfalls, I made a brief inspection of the establishment for breeding and\nstocking with trout and salmon the depleted mountain streams of New\nHampshire. The breeding-house and basins are situated just below the\nfalls, on the banks of the river. This is a work undertaken by the\nState, with the expectation of repeopling its rivers, brooks, and ponds\nwith their finny inhabitants. All those streams immediately accessible\nfrom the villages are so persistently fished by the inhabitants as to\nafford little sport to the angler from a distance, who is compelled\nto go farther and fare worse; but the State is certainly entitled to\nmuch credit for its endeavor to make two trout grow where only one grew\nbefore. It is feared, however, that the experiment of stocking the\nPemigewasset with salmon will not prove successful. The farmers who live\nalong the banks say that one of these fish is rarely seen, although the\nfishery is protected by the most rigid regulations. No one who has not\nvisited the mountains between May 1st--the earliest date when fishing\nis permitted--and the middle of June, can have an idea of the number\nof sportsmen every year resorting to the trout streams, or of the\nunheard-of drain upon those streams. Not the least of many ludicrous\nsights I have witnessed was that of a man, weighing two hundred pounds,\nexcitedly swinging aloft a trout weighing less than two ounces, and this\ntrophy he exhibited to me with unfeigned triumph--the butcher! This is\nmere slaughter, and ought not to be tolerated. A pretty sight is to see\nthe breeding-trout follow you in your walk around the margin of their\nlittle basin to be fed from your hand. They are tame as pigeons and\nravenous as sharks.\n\nMount Prospect, in Holderness, is the first landmark of note. It is\nseen, soon after leaving Plymouth, rising from the opposite side of the\nvalley, its green crest commanding a superb view of the lake region\nbelow, and of the lofty Franconia Mountains above. It is worth ascending\nthis mountain were it only to see again the beautiful islet-spotted\nSquam Lake and far-reaching Winnipiseogee quivering in noonday splendor.\n\nThe beautiful valley is now open throughout its whole extent. Of\ncourse I refer only to that portion lying above Plymouth. But it is an\nanomaly of mountain valleys. Its length is about twenty-five miles, and\nits greatest width, I should judge, not more than three or four. For\ntwenty miles it is almost as straight as an arrow. There is nothing to\nhinder a perfectly free and open view up or down. Contrast this with\nthe wilful and tortuous windings of the Ammonoosuc, or the Saco, which\nseem to grope and feel their way foot by foot along their cramped and\ncrooked channels. The angle of ascent, too, is here so gradual as to be\nscarcely noticed until the foot of the mountain wall, at its head, is\nreached. True, this valley is not clothed with a feeling of overpowering\ngrandeur, but it is beautiful. It is not terrible, but bewitching.\n\nThe vista of mountains on the east side of the valley becomes every\nmoment more and more extended, and more and more interesting. A long\narray of summits trending away to the north, with detached mountains\nheaved above the lower clusters, like great whales sporting in a frozen\nsea, is gradually uncovered. Green as a carpet, level as a floor, the\nvalley, adorned with clumps of elms, groves of maples, and strips of\ntilled land of a rich chocolate brown, makes altogether a picture which\nsets the eye fairly dancing. Even the daisies, the clover, and the\nbuttercups which so plentifully spangle the meadows seem far brighter\nand sweeter in this atmosphere, nodding a playful welcome as you pass\nthem by. We are in the country of flowers.\n\nSince passing Blair's and the bridge over the river to Campton Hollow I\nwas on the alert for that first and most engaging view of the Franconia\nMountains which has been so highly extolled. Perhaps I should say\nthat one poetic nature has revealed it to a thousand others. Without\ndoubt this landscape is the more striking because it is the first, and\nconsequently deepest, impression of grand mountain scenery obtained\nby those upon whom at a turn of the road, and without premonition, it\nflashes like the realization of some ecstatic vision.\n\nHalf a mile below the little hamlet of West Campton the road crosses\nthe point of a hill pushed well out into the valley. It is here that\nthe circlet of mountains is seen enclosing the valley on all sides\nlike a gigantic palisade. In one place, far away in the north, this\nwall is shattered to its centre, like the famous Breach of Roland;\nand through this enormous loop-hole we see golden mists rising above\nthe undiscovered country beyond. We are looking through the far-famed\nFranconia Notch. On one side the clustered peaks of Lafayette lift\nthemselves serenely into the sky. On the left a silvery light is\nplaying on the ledges of Mount Cannon, softening all the asperities of\nthis stern-visaged mountain. The two great groups now stand fully and\nfinely exposed; though the lower and nearer summits are blended with\nthe higher by distance. Remark the difference of outline. A series of\nhumps marks the crest-line of the group, which culminates in the oblique\nwall of Mount Cannon. On the contrary, that on the right, culminating\nin Lafayette, presents two beautiful and regular pyramids, older than\nCheops, which sometimes in early morning exactly resemble two stately\nmonuments, springing alert and vigorous as the day which gilds them. At\na distance of twenty miles it demands good eyes and a clear atmosphere\nto detect the supporting lines of these pyramidal structures, which in\nreality are two separate mountains, Liberty and Flume. This exquisite\nlandscape seldom fails of producing a rapturous outburst from those who\nare making the journey for the first time.\n\nThere are many points of resemblance between this view and that of the\nWhite Mountains from Conway Corner. Both unfold at once, and in a single\nglance, the principal systems about which all the subordinate chains\nseem manoeuvring under the commanding gaze of Washington or Lafayette.\n\nSoon after starting it was evident that my driver's loquaciousness was\ndue to his having \"crooked his elbow\" too often while loitering about\nPlymouth. The frequent plunge of the wheels into the ditches by the\nroadside, accompanied with a shower of mud, was little conducive to the\ncalm and free enjoyment of the beauties of the landscape. The driver\nalone was unconcerned, and as often as good fortune enabled him to steer\nclear of upsetting his passengers would articulate, thickly, \"Don't be\nalarmed, Cap': no one was ever hurt on this road.\"\n\nSilently committing myself to that Providence which is said to watch\nover the destinies of tipplers, I breathed freely only when we drew up\nat the hospitable door of the village inn, bespattered with mud, but\nwith no broken bones.\n\nSanborn's, at West Campton, is the old road-side inn that long ago swung\nthe stag-and-hounds as its distinctive emblem. A row of superb maples\nshades the road. Here we have fairly entered the renowned intervales,\nthat gleam among the darker forests or groves like patches of blue in\na storm-clouded sky. Looking southward, across the level meadows, the\nhills of Rumney flinging up smooth, firm curves, and the more distant,\ndownward-plunging outline of Mount Prospect, in Holderness, close the\nvalley. Upon the left, where the clearings extend quite to the summits\nof the near hills, the maple groves interspersed among them resemble\nsoldiers advancing up the green slopes in columns of attack. Following\nthis line a little, the valley of Mad River is distinguished by the deep\ntrough through which it descends from the mountains of Waterville. And\nhere, peering over the nearer elevations, the huge blue-black mass of\nBlack Mountain flings two splendid peaks aloft.\n\nFor a more intimate acquaintance with these surroundings the hillside\npasture above the school-house gives a perspective of greater breadth;\nwhile that from the Ellsworth road is in some respects finer still.\nAbout two miles up this road the valley of the East Branch, showing the\nmassive Mount Hancock, cicatriced with one long, narrow scar, is lifted\ninto view. The other features of the landscape remain the same, except\nthat Mount Cannon is now cut off by the hill rising to the north of us.\nAs often as one of these hidden valleys is thus revealed we are seized\nwith a longing to explore it.\n\n[Illustration: WELCH MOUNTAIN, FROM MAD RIVER.]\n\nOne need not push inquiry into the antecedents of Campton or the\nneighboring villages very far. The township was originally granted to\nGeneral Jabez Spencer, of East Haddam, Connecticut, in 1761. In 1768 a\nfew families had come into Campton, Plymouth, Hebron, Sandwich, Rumney,\nHolderness, and Bridgewater. No opening had been made for civilized men\non this side of Canada except for three families, who had gone fifty\nmiles into the wilderness to begin a settlement where Lancaster now\nis. The name is derived simply from the circumstance that the first\nproprietors built a camp when they visited their grant. The different\nvillages are much frequented by artists, who have spread the fame of\nCampton from one end of the Union to the other. But a serpent has\nentered even this Eden--the villagers are sighing for the advent of the\nrailway.\n\nHaving dedicated one day to an exploration of the Mad River Valley, I\ncan pronounce it well worth any tourist's while to tarry long enough\nin the vicinity for the purpose. It is certainly one of the finest\nexhibitions of mountain scenery far or near. Here is a valley twelve\nmiles long, at the bottom of which a rapid river bruises itself on a bed\nof broken rock, while above it are heaped mountains to be picked out\nof a thousand for peculiarity of form or structure. The Pemigewasset\nis passed by a ford just deep enough at times to invest the journey\nwith a little healthy excitement at the very beginning. The ford has,\nhowever, been carefully marked by large stones placed at the edge of the\nsubmerged road.\n\nFording the river and climbing the hill which lies across the entrance\nto this land-locked valley, I was at once ushered upon a scene of\ngreat and varied charm. Right before me, sunning his three peaks four\nthousand feet above, was the prodigious mass of Black Mountain. Far up\nthe valley it stretched, forming an unbroken wall nearly ten miles long,\nand apparently sealing all access from the Sandwich side. A nipple,\na pyramid, and a flattened mound protruding from the summit ridge\nconstitute these eminences, easily recognized from the Franconia highway\namong a host of lesser peaks. At the southern end of this mountain\nthe range is broken through, giving passage to a rough and straggling\nroad--fourteen hundred feet above the sea-level--to Sandwich Centre, and\nto the lake towns south of it. This pass is known as Sandwich Notch.\n\nCampton Village lies along the hill-slope opposite to Black Mountain.\nCompletely does it fill the artistic sense. Its situation leaves nothing\nto be desired in an ideal mountain village. So completely is it secluded\nfrom the rest of the world by its environment of mountains, that you\nmight pass and repass the Pemigewasset Valley a hundred times without\nonce surprising the secret of its existence. All those houses, half hid\nbeneath groves of maples, bespeak luxurious repose. Opposite to Black\nMountain, whose dark forest drapery hides the mass of the mountain, is\nthe immense whitish-yellow rock called Welch Mountain. Only a scanty\nvegetation is suffered to creep among the crevices. It is really\nnothing but a big excrescent rock, having a principal summit shaped\nsomewhat like a Martello tower; and, indeed, resembling one in ruins.\nThe bright ledges brilliantly reflect the sun, causing the eye to turn\ngratefully to the sombre gloom of the evergreens crowding the sides of\nthe neighboring mountains. Welch Mountain reminded me, I hardly know\nwhy, of Chocorua; but the resemblance can scarcely extend farther than\nto the meagreness, mutually characteristic, and to the blistered, almost\ncalcined ledges, which in each case catch the earliest and latest beams\nof day. In fact, I could think only of a leper sunning his scars, and in\nrags.\n\nAt the head of the vale, alternately coming into and retreating from\nview--for we are still progressing--is the mysterious triple-crowned\nmountain known on the maps as Tripyramid. When first seen it seems\nstanding solitary and alone, and to have wrapped itself in a veil of\nthinnest gauze. As we advance it displays the white streak of an immense\nslide, which occurred in 1869. This mountain is visible from the shore\nof the lake at Laconia. It is one of the first to greet us from the\nelevated summits, though from no point is its singularly admirable and\nwell-proportioned architecture so advantageously exhibited as when\napproaching by this valley. Its northern peak stands farthest from the\nothers, yet not so far as to mar the general grace and harmony of form.\nHail to thee, mountain of the high, heroic crest, for thy fortunate name\nand the gracious, kingly mien with which thou wearest thy triple crown!\nPrince thou art and potentate. None approach thy forest courts but do\nthee homage.\n\nThe end of the valley was reached in two hours of very leisurely\ndriving. The road abruptly terminated among a handful of houses\nscattered about the bottom of a deep and narrow vale. This is, beyond\nquestion, the most remarkable mountain glen into which civilization has\nthus far penetrated. On looking up at the big mountains one experiences\na half-stifled feeling; and, on looking around the scattered hamlet, its\ndozen houses seem undergoing perpetual banishment.\n\nThis diminutive settlement, in which signs of progress and decay stand\nside by side--progress evidenced by new and showy cottages; decay by\nabandoned and dilapidated ones--is at the edge of a region as shaggy and\nwild as any in the famed Adirondack wilderness. It fairly jostles the\nwilderness. It braves it. It is really insolent. Yet are its natural\nresources so slender that the struggle to keep the breath in it must\nhave been long and obstinate. A wheezy saw-mill indicates at once its\norigin and its means of livelihood; but it is evident that it might\nhave remained obscure and unknown until doomsday, had not a few anglers\nstumbled upon it while in pursuit of brooks and waters new.\n\n[Illustration: BLACK AND TRIPYRAMID MOUNTAINS.]\n\nThe glen is surrounded by peaks that for boldness, savage freedom,\nand power challenge any that we can remember. They threaten while\nmaintaining an attitude of lofty scorn for the saucy intruder. The\ncurious Noon Peak--we have at length got to the end of the almost\nendless Black Mountain--nods familiarly from the south. It long stood\nfor a sun-dial for the settlement; hence its name. Tecumseh, a noble\nmountain, and Osceola, its worthy companion, rise to the north. A\nshort walk in this direction brings Kancamagus[31] and the gap between\nthis mountain and Osceola into view. All these mountains stand in the\nmagnificent order in which they were first placed by Nature; but never\ndoes the idea of inertia, of helpless immobility, cross the mind of the\nbeholder for a single moment.\n\nThe unvisited region between Greeley's, in Waterville, and the Saco is\ndestined to be one of the favorite haunts of the sportsman, the angler,\nand the lover of the grand old woods. It is crossed and recrossed by\nswift streams, sown with lakes, glades, and glens, and thickly set\nwith mountains, among which the timid deer browses, and the bear and\nwildcat roam unmolested. Fish and game, untamed and untrodden mountains\nand woods, welcome the sportsman here. With Greeley's for a base,\nencampments may be pitched in the forest, and exploration carried into\nthe most out-of-the-way corners. The full zest of such a life can\nonly be understood by those to whom its freedom and unrestraint, its\nhealthful and vigorous existence, have already proved their charm. The\ntime may come when the mountains shall be covered with a thousand tents,\nand the summer-dwellers will resemble the tribes of Israel encamped by\nthe sweet waters of Sion.\n\nWaterville maintains unfrequent communication with Livermore and the\nSaco by a path twelve miles long--constructed by the Appalachian\nMountain Club--over which a few pedestrians pass every year. I have\nexplored this path for several miles beyond Beckytown while visiting\nthe great slide which sloughed off from the side of Tripyramid, and\nthe cascades on the way to it. Osceola, Hancock, and Carrigain, three\nremarkably fine mountains, offer inviting excursions to expert climbers.\nI was reluctantly compelled to renounce the intention of passing over\nthe whole route, which should occupy, at least, two days or parts of\ndays, one night being spent in camp.\n\nThe Mad River drive is a delightful episode. In the way of mountain\nvalley there is nothing like it. Bold crag, furious torrent, lonely\ncabin, blue peak, deep hollow, choked up with the densest foliage,\nconstitute its varied and ever-changing features. The overhanging\nwoods looked as if it had been raining sunshine; the road like an\nendless grotto of illuminated leaves, musical with birds, and exhaling a\nthousand perfumes.\n\n[Illustration: FRANCONIA NOTCH, FROM THORNTON.]\n\nThe remainder of the route up the Pemigewasset is more and more a\nrevelation of the august summits that have so constantly met us\nsince entering this lovely valley. Boldly emerging from the mass of\nmountains, they present themselves at every mile in new combinations.\nThrough Thornton and Woodstock the spectacle continues almost without\nintermission. Gradually, the finely-pointed peaks of the Lafayette group\ndeploy and advance toward us. Now they pitch sharply down into the\nvalley of the East Branch. Now the great shafts of stone are crusted\nwith silvery light, or sprayed with the cataract. Now the sun gilds the\nslides that furrow, but do not deface them. Stay a moment at this rapid\nbrook that comes hastening from the west! It is an envoy from yonder\ngreat, billowy mountain that lords it so proudly over\n\n        \"many a nameless slide-scarred crest\n    And pine-dark gorge between.\"\n\nThat is Moosehillock. Facing again the north, the road is soon swallowed\nup by the forest, and the forest by the mountains. A few poor cottages\nskirt the route. Still ascending, the miles grow longer and less\ninteresting, until the white house, first seen from far below, suddenly\nstands uncovered at the left. We are at the Flume House, and before the\ngates of the Franconia Notch.\n\n\n\n\nII.\n\nTHE FRANCONIA PASS.\n\n    Beyond them, like a sun-rimmed cloud,\n      The great Notch Mountains shone,\n    Watched over by the solemn-browed\n      And awful face of stone!--WHITTIER.\n\n\nWhen Boswell exclaimed in ecstasy, \"An immense mountain!\" Dr. Johnson\nsneered, \"An immense protuberance!\" but he, the sublime cynic, became\nrespectful before leaving the Hebrides. Charles Lamb, too, at one time\npretended something approaching contempt for mountains; but, after a\nvisit to Coleridge, he made the _amende honorable_ in these terms:\n\n\"I feel I shall remember your mountains to the last day of my life.\nThey haunt me perpetually. I am like a man who has been falling in love\nunknown to himself; which he finds out when he leaves the lady.\"\n\nNotwithstanding their prepossessions against nature, and their\nundisguised preference for the smoke and dirt of London, the mountains\nawoke something in these two men which was apparently a revelation of\nthemselves unto themselves. I have felt a higher respect for both since\nI knew that they loved mountains, as I pity those who have only seen\nheaven through the smoke of the city. It is not easy to explain two\nideas so essentially opposite as are presented in the earlier and later\ndeclarations of these widely famous authors, unless we agree, keeping\n\"Elia's\" odd simile in mind, that in the first case they should, like\nwoman, be taken, not at what she says, but what she means.\n\nThe Flume House is the proper tarrying-place for an investigation of the\nmountain gorge from which it derives both its custom and its name. It\nis also placed opposite to the Pool, another of those natural wonders\nwith which the pass is crowded, and which tempt us at every step to turn\naside from the travelled road.\n\nFronting the hotel is a belt of woods, with two massive mountains\nrising behind. In the concealment of these woods the Pemigewasset,\ncontracted to a modest stream, runs along the foot of the mountains.\nA rough, zigzag path leads through the woods to the river and to the\nPool. Now raise the eyes to the summit-ridge of yonder mountain. The\npeak finely reproduces the features of a gigantic human face, while\nthe undulations of the ridge fairly suggest a recumbent human figure\nwrapped in a shroud. The outlines of the forehead and nose are curiously\nlike the profile of Washington; hence the colossal figure is called\nWashington Lying in State. This immortal sculpture gave rise to the idea\nthat the tomb of Washington, like that of Desaix, on the St. Bernard,\nshould be on the great summit that bears his name.\n\n[Illustration: A GLIMPSE OF THE POOL.]\n\nFrom the Flume House I looked up through the deep cleft of the Notch--an\nimpressive vista. To the left is Cannon, or Profile Mountain; to the\nright the beetling crags of Eagle Cliff; then the pointed, shapely peaks\nof Lafayette; and so the range continues breaking off and off, bending\naway into lesser mountains that finally melt into pale-blue shadows.\nNow a stray cloud atop a peak gives it a volcanic character. Now a puff\nscatters it like thistle-down. It is a sultry summer's morning, and\nbanks of film hang like huge spider's-webs in the tree-tops. Soon they\ndetach themselves, and, floating lazily upward, are seized by a truant\nbreeze, spun mischievously round, and then settle quietly down on the\nhighest peaks like young eaglets on their nest.\n\nLet us first walk down to the Pool. This Pool is a caprice of the river.\nImagine a cistern, deeply sunk in granite, receiving at one end a weary\ncascade, which seems to crave a moment's rest before hurrying on down\nthe rocky pass. In the mystery and seclusion of ages, and with only the\nrude implements picked up by the way, the river has hollowed a basin\na hundred feet wide and forty deep out of the stubborn rock. Without\ndoubt Nature thus first taught us to cut the hardest marble with sand\nand water. Cliffs traversed by cracks rise a hundred feet higher.\nThe water is a glossy and lustrous sea-green, and of such marvellous\ntransparency that you see the brilliant pebbles sparkling at the bottom,\nshifting with the waves of light like bits of glass in a kaleidoscope.\nOvertopping trees lean timidly over and peer down into the Pool, which\ncoldly repulses their shadows. Only the colorless hue of the rocks\nis reflected; and the stranger, seeing an old man with a gray beard\nstanding erect in a boat, has no other idea than that he has arrived on\nthe borders and is to be accosted by the ferryman of Hades.\n\nThe Flume is reached by going down the road a short distance, and then\ndiverging to the left and crossing the river to the Flume Brook. A\ncarriage-way conducts almost to the entrance of the gorge. Then begins\nan easy and interesting promenade up the bed of the brook.\n\nThis is a remarkable rock-gallery, driven several hundred feet into\nthe heart of the mountain, through which an ice-cold brook rushes. The\nmiracle of Moses seems repeated here sublimely. Some unknown power smote\nthe rock, and the prisoned stream gushed forth free and lightsome as\nair. You approach it over broad ledges of freckled granite, polished\nby the constant flow of a thin, pellucid sheet of water to slippery\nsmoothness. Proceeding a short distance up this natural esplanade, you\nenter a damp and gloomy fissure between perpendicular walls, rising\nseventy feet above the stream, and, on lifting your eyes suddenly,\nespy an enormous bowlder tightly wedged between the cliffs. Now try to\nimagine a force capable of grasping the solid rock and dividing it in\nhalves as easily as you would an apple with your two hands.\n\n[Illustration: THE FLUME, FRANCONIA NOTCH.]\n\nAt sight of the suspended bowlder, which seems, like Paul Pry, to have\n\"just dropped in,\" I believe every visitor has his moment of hesitation,\nwhich he usually ends by passing underneath, paying as he goes with a\ntremor of the nerves, more or less, for his temerity. But there is no\ndanger. It is seen that the deep crevice, into which the rock seems\njammed with the especial purpose of holding it asunder, also hugs the\nintruder like a vise; so closely, indeed, that, according to every\nappearance, it must stay where it is until doomsday, unless released by\nsome passing earthquake from its imprisonment. Sentimental tourists do\nnot omit to find a moral in this curiosity, which really looks to be on\nthe eve of dropping, with a loud splash, into the torrent beneath. On\ntop of the cliffs I picked up a visiting-card, on which some one with\na poetic turn had written, \"Does not this bowlder remind you of the\nsword of Damocles?\" To a civil question, civil reply: No; to me it looks\nlike a nut in a cracker.\n\nOver the gorge bends an arcade of interlaced foliage shot through and\nthrough with sunshine; and wherever cleft or cranny can be found young\nbirches, sword-ferns, trailing vines, insinuating their long roots in\nthe damp mould, garland the cold granite with tenderest green. The\nexquisite white anemone blooms in the mossy wall wet with tiny streams\nthat do not run but glide unperceived down. What could be more cunning\nthan the persistency with which these hardy waifs, clinging or drooping\nalong the craggy way, draw their sustenance from the rock, which seems\nto nourish them in spite of itself? Underneath your feet the swollen\ntorrent storms along the gorge, dashing itself recklessly against\nintruding bowlders, or else passing them with a curl of disdain. How\ngallantly it surmounts every obstacle in its way! How crystal-clear are\nits waters! On it speeds, scattering pearls and diamonds right and left,\nlike the prodigal it is; unpolluted, as yet, by the filth of cities, or\nturned into a languid, broken-spirited drudge by dams or mill-wheels.\n\"Stop me?\" it seems exclaiming. \"Why, I am offspring of the clouds,\ntheir messenger to the parched earth, the mountain maid-of-all-work!\nStay; step aside here in the sun and I will show you my rainbow-signet!\nWhen I rest, do you not behold the mother imaged in the features of the\nchild? Stop me! Put your hand in my bosom and see how strong and full\nof life are my pulse-beats. To-morrow I shall be vapor. Thought is not\nfreer. I do not belong to earth any more than the eagle sailing above\nyonder mountain-top.\"\n\nOverhead a fallen tree-trunk makes a crazy bridge from cliff to cliff.\nThe sight of the gorge, with the flood foaming far below, the glitter\nof falling waters through the trees, the splendid light in the midst of\ndeepest gloom, the solemn pines--the odorous forest, the wildness and\nthe coolness--impart an indescribable charm to the spot that makes us\nreluctant to leave it. Many ladies ascend to the head of the gorge and,\ncrossing on the rude bridge, leave their visiting-cards on the other\nside; one had left her pocket-handkerchief, with the scent fresh upon\nit. I picked it up, and out hopped a toad.\n\nAfter the Pool and the Flume, an ascent of the mountain behind the hotel\nwill be found conducive to enjoyment of another kind. This mountain\ncommands delicious views of the valley of the Pemigewasset. A short hour\nis usually sufficient for the climb. It was a very raw, windy morning\non which I climbed it, but the uncommon purity of the air and the\nexceeding beauty of the landscape were most rarely combined with cloud\neffects seen only in conjunction with a brisk north-west wind. I had\ntaken a station similar to that occupied by Mount Willard with respect\nto the Saco Valley, now opening a vista essentially different from\nthat most memorable one in my mountain experience. The valley is not\nthe same. You see the undulating course of the river for many leagues,\nand but for an intercepting hill, which hides them, might distinguish\nthe houses of Plymouth. The vales of Woodstock, Thornton, and Campton,\nspotted with white houses, lie outspread in the sun, between enclosing\nmountains; and the windings of the Pemigewasset are now seen dark and\nglossy, now white with foam, appearing, disappearing, and finally lost\nto view in the blended distance. The sky was packed with clouds. Over\nthe vivid green of the intervales their black shadows drifted swiftly\nand noiselessly, first turning the light on, then off again, with\nmagical effect. To look up and see these clouds all in motion, and then,\nlooking down, see those weird draperies darkly trailing over the land,\nwas a reminiscence of\n\n    \"The dim and shadowy armies of our unquiet dreams--\n     Their footsteps brush the dewy fern and paint the shaded streams.\"\n\nThe mountain ridges flowed southward with marvellous smoothness to the\nvanishing-point, on one side of the valley bright green, on the other\nindigo blue. This picture was not startling, like that from the Crawford\nNotch, but, in its own way, was incomparable. The sunsets are said to be\nbeautiful beyond description.\n\nOne looks up the Notch upon the great central peaks composing\nthe water-shed--Cannon, Lafayette, Lincoln, and the rest--to see\ncrags, ridges, black forests, rising before him in all their gloomy\nmagnificence.\n\n[Illustration: THE BASIN.]\n\nOn one side all is beauty, harmony, and grace; on the other, a packed\nmass of bristling, steep-sided mountains seem storming the sky with\ntheir gray turrets. Could we but look over the brawny shoulders of the\nmountains opposite to us, the eye would take in the vast, untrodden\nsolitudes of the Pemigewasset forests cut by the East Branch and\npresided over by Mount Carrigain--a region as yet reserved for those\nrestless and adventurous spirits whom the beaten paths of travel have\nceased to charm or attract. But an excursion into this \"forest primeval\"\nis to be no holiday promenade. It is an arduous and difficult march\nover slippery rocks, through tangled thickets, or up the beds of\nmountain torrents. Hard fare and a harder bed of boughs finish the day,\nevery hour of which has been a continued combat with fresh obstacles.\nAt this price one may venture to encounter the virgin wilderness or, as\nthe cant phrase is, \"try roughing it.\" It is a curious feeling to turn\nyour back upon the last cart-path, then upon the last foot-path; to hear\nthe distant baying of a hound grow fainter and fainter--in a word, to\nexchange at a single step the sights and sounds of civilized life, the\nmovement, the bustle, for a silence broken only by the hum of bees and\nthe murmur of invisible waters.\n\nI left the Flume House in company with a young-old man, whom I met\nthere, and in whom I hoped to find another and a surer pair of eyes,\nfor, were he to have as many as Argus, the sight-seer would find\nemployment for them all.\n\nWhile gayly threading the green-wood, we came upon a miniature edition\nof the Pool, situated close to the highway, called the Basin. A basin\nin fact it is, and a bath fit for the gods. It is plain to see that\nthe stream once poured over the smooth ledges here, instead of making\nits exit by the present channel. A cascade falls into it with hollow\nroar. This cistern has been worn by the rotary motion of large pebbles\nwhich the little cascade, pouring down into it from above, set and\nkept actively whirling and grinding at its own mad caprice. But this\nwas not the work of a day. Long and constant attrition only could have\nscooped this cavity out of the granite, which is here so clean, smooth,\nand white, and filled to the brim with a grayish-emerald water, light,\nlimpid, and incessantly replenished by the effervescent cascade. In the\nbeginning this was doubtless an insignificant crevice, into which a few\npebbles and a handful of sand were dropped by the stream, but which,\nhaving no way of escape, were kept in a perpetual tread-mill, until what\nwas at first a mere hole became as we now see it. The really curious\nfeature of the stone basin is a strip of granite projecting into it\nwhich closely resembles a human leg and foot, luxuriously cooling itself\nin the stream. Such queer freaks of nature are not merely curious,\nbut they while away the hours so agreeably that time and distance are\nforgotten.\n\nAs we walked on, the hills were constantly hemming us in closer and\ncloser. Suddenly we entered a sort of crater, with high mountains all\naround. One impulse caused us to halt and look about us. In full view\nat our left the inaccessible precipices of Mount Cannon rose above a\nmountain of shattered stones, which ages upon ages of battering have\ntorn piecemeal from it. Its base was heaped high with these ruins.\nSeldom has it fallen to my lot to see anything so grandly typical\nof the indomitable as this sorely battered and disfigured mountain\ncitadel, which nevertheless lifts and will still lift its unconquerable\nbattlements so long as one stone remains upon another. Hewed and\nhacked, riven and torn, gashed and defaced in countless battles, one\ncan hardly repress an emotion of pity as well as of admiration. I do\nnot recollect, in all these mountains, another such striking example\nof the denuding forces with which they are perpetually at war. When we\nsee mountains crumbling before our very eyes, may we not begin to doubt\nthe stability of things that we are pleased to call eternal? Still,\nalthough it seems erected solely for the pastime of all the powers of\ndestruction, this one, so glorious in its unconquerable resolve to die\nat its post--this one, exposing its naked breast to the fury of its\ndeadliest foes--so stern and terrific of aspect, so high and haughty,\nso dauntlessly throwing down the gauntlet to Fate itself--assures us\nthat the combat will be long and obstinate, and that the mountain will\nfall at last, if fall it must, with the grace and heroism of a gladiator\nin the Roman arena. The gale flies at it with a shriek of impotent\nrage. Winter strips off its broidered tunic and flings white dust in\nits aged face. Rust corrodes, rains drench, fires scorch it; lightning\nand frost are forever searching out the weak spots in its harness; but,\nstill uplifting its adamantine crest, it receives unshaken the stroke\nor the blast, spurns the lightning, mocks the thunder, and stands fast.\nUnderneath is a little lake, which at sunset resembles a pool of blood\nthat has trickled drop by drop from the deep wounds in the side of the\nmountain.\n\nWe are still advancing in this region of wonders. In our front soars an\ninsuperable mass of forest-shagged rock. Behind it rises the absolutely\nregal Lafayette. Our footsteps are stayed by the glimmer of water\nthrough trees by the road-side. We have reached the summit of the pass.\n\nSix miles of continued ascent from the Flume House have brought us to\nProfile Lake, which the road skirts. Although a pretty enough piece of\nwater, it is not for itself this lake is resorted to by its thousands,\nor for being the source of the Pemigewasset, or for its trout--which\nyou take for the reflection of birds on its burnished surface--but for\nthe mountain rising high above, whose wooded slopes it so faithfully\nmirrors. Now lift the eyes to the bare summit! It is difficult to\nbelieve the evidence of the senses! Upon the high cliffs of this\nmountain is the remarkable and celebrated natural rock sculpture of a\nhuman head, which, from a height twelve hundred feet above the lake,\nhas for uncounted ages looked with the same stony stare down the pass\nupon the windings of the river through its incomparable valley. The\nprofile itself measures about forty feet from the tip of the chin to\nthe flattened crown which imparts to it such a peculiarly antique\nappearance. All is perfect, except that the forehead is concealed by\nsomething like the visor of a helmet. And all this illusion is produced\nby several projecting crags. It might be said to have been begotten by a\nthunder-bolt.\n\nTaking a seat within a rustic arbor on the high shore of the lake,\none is at liberty to peruse at leisure what, I dare say, is the most\nextraordinary sight of a lifetime. A change of position varies more or\nless the character of the expression, which is, after all, the marked\npeculiarity of this monstrous _alto relievo_; for let the spectator\nturn his gaze vacantly upon the more familiar objects at hand--as he\ninevitably will, to assure himself that he is not the victim of some\nstrange hallucination--a fascination born neither of admiration nor\nhorror, but strongly partaking of both emotions, draws him irresistibly\nback to the Dantesque head stuck, like a felon's, on the highest\nbattlements of the pass. The more you may have seen, the more your\nfeelings are disciplined, the greater the confusion of ideas. The moment\nis come to acknowledge yourself vanquished. This is not merely a face,\nit is a portrait. That is not the work of some cunning chisel, but a\ncast from a living head. You feel and will always maintain that those\nfeatures have had a living and breathing counterpart. Nothing more,\nnothing less.\n\nBut where and what was the original prototype? Not man; since, ages\nbefore he was created, the chisel of the Almighty wrought this sculpture\nupon the rock above us. No, not man; the face is too majestic, too\nnobly grand, for anything of mortal mould. One of the antique gods may,\nperhaps, have sat for this archetype of the coming man. And yet not man,\nwe think, for the head will surely hold the same strange converse with\nfuturity when man shall have vanished from the face of the earth.\n\nThis gigantic silhouette, which has been dubbed the Old Man of the\nMountain, is unquestionably the greatest curiosity of this or any other\nmountain region. It is unique. But it is not merely curious; nor is\nit more marvellous for the wonderful accuracy of outline than for the\nalmost superhuman expression of frozen terror it eternally fixes on the\nvague and shadowy distance--a far-away look; an intense and speechless\namazement, such as sometimes settles on the faces of the dying at the\nmoment the soul leaves the body forever--untranslatable into words, but\nseeming to declare the presence of some unutterable vision, too bright\nand dazzling for mortal eyes to behold. The face puts the whole world\nbehind it. It does everything but speak--nay, you are ready to swear\nthat it is going to speak! And so this chance jumbling together of a few\nstones has produced a sculpture before which Art hangs her head.\n\nI renounce in dismay the idea of reproducing the effect on the reader's\nmind which this prodigy produced on my own. Impressions more pronounced,\nyet at the same time more inexplicable, have never so effectually\novercome that habitual self-command derived from many experiences of\ntravel among strange and unaccustomed scenes. From the moment the\nstartled eye catches it one is aware of a _Presence_ which dominates the\nspirit, first with strange fear, then by that natural revulsion which\nat such moments makes the imagination supreme, conducts straight to\nthe supernatural, there to leave it helplessly struggling in a maze of\nimpotent conjecture. But, even upon this debatable ground, between two\nworlds, one is not able to surprise the secret of those lips of marble.\nThe Sphinx overcomes us by his stony, his disdainful silence. Let the\nvisitor be ever so unimpassioned, surely he must be more than mortal to\nresist the impression of mingled awe, wonder, and admiration which a\nfirst sight of this weird object forces upon him. He is, indeed, less\nthan human if the feeling does not continually grow and deepen while\nhe looks. The face is so amazing, that I have often tried to imagine\nthe sensations of him who first discovered it peering from the top of\nthe mountain with such absorbed, open-mouthed wonder. Again I see the\ntired Indian hunter, pausing to slake his thirst by the lake-side,\nstart as his gaze suddenly encounters this terrific apparition. I\nfancy the half-uttered exclamation sticking in his throat. I behold\nhim standing there with bated breath, not daring to stir hand or foot,\nhis white lips parted, his scared eyes dilated, until his own swarthy\nfeatures exactly reflect that unearthly, that intense amazement stamped\nlarge and vivid upon the livid rock. There he remains, rooted to the\nspot, unable to reason, trembling in every limb. For him there are no\naccidents of nature; for him everything has its design. His moment of\nterrible suspense is hardly difficult to understand, seeing how careless\nthousands that come and go are thrilled, and awed, and silenced,\nnotwithstanding you tell them the face is nothing but rocks.\n\n[Illustration: THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN.]\n\nIf the effect upon minds of the common order be so pronounced, a first\nsight of the Great Stone Face may easily be supposed to act powerfully\nupon the imaginative and impressible. The novelist, Hawthorne, makes\nit the interpreter of a noble life. For him the Titanic countenance is\nradiant with majestic benignity. He endows it with a soul, surrounds the\ncolossal brow with the halo of a spiritual grandeur, and, marshalling\nhis train of phantoms, proceeds to pass inexorable judgment upon them.\nAnother legend--like its predecessor, too long for our pages--runs to\nthe effect that a painter who had resolved to paint Christ sitting in\njudgment, and who was filled with the grandeur of his subject, wandered\nup and down the great art palaces, the cathedrals of the Old World,\nseeking in vain a model which should in all things be the embodiment of\nhis ideal. In despair at the futility of his search he hears a strange\nreport, brought by some pious missionaries from the New World, of a\nwonderful image of the human face which the Indians looked upon with\nsacred veneration. The painter immediately crossed the sea, and caused\nhimself to be guided to the spot, where he beheld, in the profile of the\ngreat White Mountains, the object of his search and fulfilment of his\ndream. The legend is entitled _Christus Judex._\n\nHad Byron visited this place of awe and mystery, his \"Manfred,\" the\nscene of which is laid among the mountains of the Bernese Alps, would\ndoubtless have had a deeper and perhaps gloomier impulse; but even among\nthe eternal realms of ice the poet never beheld an object that could\nso arouse the gloomy exaltation he has breathed into that tragedy. His\nline--\n\n     \"Bound to earth, he lifts his eye to heaven\"--\n\nbecomes descriptive here.\n\nAgain and again we turn to the face. We go away to wonder if it is still\nthere. We come back to wonder still more. An emotion of pity mingles\nwith the rest. Time seems to have passed it by. It seems undergoing some\nterrible sentence. It is a greater riddle than the gigantic stone face\non the banks of the Nile.\n\nAll effects of light and shadow are so many changes of countenance or of\nexpression. I have seen the face cut sharp and clear as an antique cameo\nupon the morning sky. I have seen it suffused, nay, almost transfigured,\nin the sunset glow. Often and often does a cloud rest upon its brow. I\nhave seen it start fitfully out of the flying scud to be the next moment\nsmothered in clouds. I have heard the thunder roll from its lips of\nstone. I recall the sunken cheeks, wet with the damps of its night-long\nvigil, glistening in the morning sunshine--smiling through tears. I\nremember its emaciated visage streaked and crossed with wrinkles that\nthe snow had put there in a night; but never have I seen it insipid or\ncommonplace. On the contrary, the overhanging brow, the antique nose,\nthe protruding under-lip, the massive chin, might belong to another\nPrometheus chained to the rock, but whom no punishment could make lower\nhis haughty head.\n\nI lingered by the margin of the lake watching the play of the clouds\nupon the water, until a loud and resonant peal, followed by large, warm\ndrops, admonished me to seek the nearest shelter. And what thunder!\nThe hills rocked. What echoes! The mountains seemed knocking their\nstony heads together. What lightning! The very heavens cracked with the\nflashes.\n\n                                 \"Far along\n    From peak to peak the rattling crags among\n    Leaps the live thunder! not from one lone cloud,\n    But every mountain now hath found a tongue,\n    And Jura answers, through her misty shroud,\n    Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!\"\n\n\n\n\nIII.\n\n_THE KING OF FRANCONIA._\n\n                           Hills draw like heaven\n    And stronger, sometimes, holding out their hands\n    To pull you from the vile flats up to them.\n                                    E. B. BROWNING.\n\n\nAt noon we reached the spacious and inviting Profile House, which is\nhid away in a deep and narrow glen, nearly two thousand feet above\nthe sea. No situation could be more sequestered or more charming. The\nplace seems stolen from the unkempt wilderness that shuts it in. An\noval, grassy plain, not extensive, but bright and smiling, spreads its\ngreen between a grisly precipice and a shaggy mountain. And there, if\nyou-will believe me, in front of the long, white-columned hotel, like a\nTurkish rug on a carpet, was a pretty flower-garden. Like those flowers\non the lawn were beauties sauntering up and down in exquisite morning\ntoilets, coquetting with their bright-colored parasols, and now and then\nglancing up at the grim old mountains with that air of elegant disdain\nwhich is so redoubtable a weapon--even in the mountains. Little children\nfluttered about the grass like beautiful butterflies, and as unmindful\nof the terrors that hovered over them so threateningly. Nurses in their\nstiff grenadier caps and white aprons, lackeys in livery, cadets in\nuniform, elegant equipages, blooded horses, dainty shapes on horseback,\ncavaliers, and last, but not least, the resolute pedestrian, or the\ngentlemen strollers up and down the shaded avenues, made up a scene as\nanimated as attractive. There is tonic in the air: there is healing in\nthe balm of these groves. Even the horses step out more briskly. Peals\nof laughter startle the solemn old woods. You hear them high up the\nmountain side. There go a pair of lovers, the gentleman with his book,\nwhose most telling passages he has carefully conned, the lady with her\nembroidery, over which she bends lower as he reads on. Ah, happy days!\nWhat is this youth, which, having it, we are so eager to escape, and,\nwhen it is gone, we look back upon with such longing?\n\n[Illustration: EAGLE CLIFF AND THE ECHO HOUSE.]\n\nThe lofty crag opposite the hotel is Eagle Cliff, a name at once\nlegitimate and satisfying, although it is now untenanted by the eagles\nwhich formerly made their home in the security of its precipitous\nrocks. The cliff is also seen to great advantage from Echo Lake, half a\nmile farther on, of which it constitutes a striking feature. In simple\nparlance it is an advanced spur of Mount Lafayette. The high and curving\nwall of this cliff encloses on one side the Profile Glen, while Mount\nCannon forms the other. The precipices tower so far above the glen that\nlarge trees look like shrubs. Behind Eagle Cliff, almost isolating it\nfrom the mountain, of which it is the barbacan, a hideous ravine yawns\nupon the pass. Here and there, among the thick-set evergreen trees,\nbeech and birch and maple, spread masses of rich green, and mottle it\nwith softness. The purple rock bulges daringly out, forming a parapet of\nadamant.\n\nThe turf underneath the cliff was most beautifully and profusely\nspangled with the delicate pink anemone, the _fleur des f\u00e9es_, that\npale darling of our New England woods, to which the arbutus resigns the\nsceptre of spring. It is a moving sight to see these little drooping\nflowers, so shy and modest, yet so meek and trustful, growing at the\nfoot of a bare and sterile rock. The face hardened looking up; grew\nsoft looking down. \"Don't tread on us!\" \"May not a flower look up at a\nmountain?\" they seem to plead. Lightly fall the dews upon your upturned\nfaces, dear little flowers! Soft be the sunshine and gentle the winds\nthat kiss those sky-tinted cheeks! In thy sweet purity and innocence\nI see faces that are beneath the sod, flowers that have blossomed in\nParadise.\n\nWe see also, from the hotel, the singular rock that occasioned the\nchange of name from Profile to Cannon Mountain. It nearly resembles a\npiece of heavy ordnance protruding, threateningly, from the parapet of a\nfortress.\n\nTaking one of the well-worn paths conducting to the water-side, a few\nminutes' walk brings us to the shore of Echo Lake, with Eagle Cliff now\nrising grandly on our right. Nowhere among the White Hills is there a\nfuller realization of a mountain lake than this. Light flaws frost it\nwith silver. Sharp keels cut it as diamonds cut glass. The water is so\ntransparent that you see fishes swimming or floating indolently about.\n\n[Illustration: ECHO LAKE.]\n\nEcho Lake is somewhat larger than Profile Lake, and is only a step\nfrom the road. Its sources are in the hundred streams that descend the\nsurrounding mountains, and its waters are discharged by the valley,\nlying between us and the heights of Bethlehem, into the Ammonoosuc.\nTherefore, in coming from one lake to the other we have crossed the\nsummit of the pass. On one side the waters flow to the Merrimac, on the\nother to the Connecticut. An idle fancy tempted me to bring a cup of\nwater from Profile and cast it into Echo Lake, forgetting that, although\ndivided in their lives, the twin lakes had yet a common destiny in the\nabyss of the ocean. I found the outlook from the boat-house on the whole\nthe most satisfying, because one looks back directly through the deep\nchasm of the Notch.\n\nIn this beautiful little mountain-tarn the true artist finds his ideal.\nThe snowy peak of Lafayette looked down into it with a freezing stare.\nCannon Mountain now showed his retreating wall on the right. The huge,\ncastellated rampart of Eagle Cliff lifted on its borders precipices\ndripping with moisture, and glistening in the sun like casements.\nExcept for the lake, the whole aspect would be irredeemably savage\nand forbidding--a blind landscape; but when the sun sinks behind the\nlong ridge of Mount Cannon, purpling all these grisly crags, and the\ncloaked shadows, groping their way foot by foot up the ravines, seem\nspectres risen from the depths of the lake, you see, underneath the\ncliffs, long and slender spears of golden light thrust deep into its\nblack and glossy tide, crimsoning it as with its own life-blood. Then,\ntoo, is the proper moment for surprising these vain old mountains\nviewing themselves in their mountain mirror, in which the bald, the\nwrinkled, and the decrepit appear young, vigorous, and gloriously fair;\nto see them gloating over their swarthy features like the bandit in\n\"Fra Diavolo.\" Their ragged mantles are changed to gaudy cashmeres,\npicturesquely twisted about their brawny shoulders, their snows to\nlaces. Oh the pomp, the majesty of these sunsets, which so glorify\nthe upturned faces of the haggard cliffs; which transmute, as in the\nmiracle, water into wine; which instantly transform these rugged\nmountain walls into gates of jasper, and ruby, and onyx--glowing,\neffulgent, enrapturing! And then, after the sun drops wearily down the\nwest, that gauze-like vapor, spun from the breath of evening, rising\nlike incense from the surface of the lake, which the mountains put on\nfor the masque of night; and, finally, the inquisitive stars piercing\nthe lake with ice-cold gleams, or the full-moon breaking in one great\nburst of splendor on its level surface!\n\nThe echo adds its feats of ventriloquism. The marvel of the phonograph\nis but a mimicry of Nature, the universal teacher. Now the man blows\na strong, clear blast upon a long Alpine horn, and, like a bugle-call\nflying from camp to camp, the martial signal is repeated, not once, but\nagain and again, in waves of bewitching sweetness and with the exquisite\nmodulations of the wood-thrush's note. From covert to covert, now here,\nnow there, it chants its rapturous melody. Once again it glides upon\nthe entranced ear, and still we lean in breathless eagerness to catch\nthe last faint cadence sighing itself away upon the palpitating air. A\ncannon was then fired. The report and echo came with the flash. In a\nmoment more a deep and hollow rumbling sound, as if the mountains were\nsplitting their huge sides with suppressed laughter, startled us.\n\nThe ascent of Mount Lafayette fittingly crowns the series of excursions\nthrough which we have passed since leaving Plymouth. This mountain\ndominates the valleys north and south with undisputed sway. It is the\nKing of Franconia.\n\nAt seven in the morning I crossed the little clearing, and, turning into\nthe path leading to the summit, found myself at the beginning of a steep\nascent. It was one of the last and fairest days of that bright season\nwhich made the poet exclaim,\n\n    \"And what is so fair as a day in June?\"\n\nThe thunder-storm of the previous afternoon, which continued its furious\ncannonade at intervals throughout the night, had purified the air and\ngiven promise of a day favorable for the ascension. No clouds were upon\nthe mountains. Everything betokened a pacific disposition.\n\n[Illustration: MOUNT CANNON, FROM THE BRIDLE-PATH, LAFAYETTE.]\n\nThe path at once attacks the south side of Eagle Cliff. A short way up,\nopenings afford fine views of Mount Cannon and its weird profile, of the\nvalley below, and of the glen we have just left. The stupendous mass of\nEagle Cliff, suspended a thousand feet over your head, accelerates the\npace.\n\nAfter an hour of steady, but not rapid, climbing, the path turned\nabruptly under the shattered, but still formidable, precipices of the\ncliff, which rose some distance higher, skirted it awhile, and then\nbegan to zigzag among huge rocks along the narrow ridge uniting the\ncliff with the mass of the mountain. Two deep ravines fall away on\neither side. For two or three hundred yards, from the time the shoulder\nof the cliff is turned until the mountain itself is reached, the walk\nis as romantic an episode of mountain climbing as any I can recall,\nexcept the narrow gully of Chocorua. But this passage presents no such\ndifficulties as must be overcome there. Although heaped with rocks, the\nway is easy, and is quite level. In one place, where it glides between\ntwo prodigious masses of rock dislodged from the cliff, it is so narrow\nas to admit only a single person at a time. When I turned to look back\ndown the black ravine, cutting into the south side of the mountain, my\neye met nothing but immense rocks stopped in their descent on the very\nedge of the gulf. It is among these that a way has been found for the\npath, which was to me a reminiscence of the high defiles of the Isthmus\nof Darien; to complete the illusion, nothing was now wanting except the\ntinkling bells of the mules and the song of the muleteer. I climbed upon\none of the high rocks, and gazed to my full content upon the granite\nparapet of Mount Cannon.\n\nIn a few rods more the path encountered the great ravine opening into\nthe valley of Gale River. Through its wide trough brilliant strips of\nthis valley gleamed out far below. The village of Franconia and the\nheights of Lisbon and Bethlehem now appeared on this side.\n\nI think that the perception of a distance climbed is greater to one who\nis looking down from a great height than to one looking up. Doubtless\nthe imagination, which associates the plunging lines of a deep gorge\nwith the horror of a fall, has much to do with this impression. Upon\ncrossing a bridge of logs, the peak of Lafayette leaped up; yet so\ndistant as to promise no easy conquest. Somewhere down the gorge I heard\nthe roar of a brook; then the report of the cannon at Echo Lake; but up\nhere there was no echo.\n\nThe usual indications now assured me that I was nearing the top. In\nthree-quarters of an hour from the time of leaving the natural bridge,\njoining Eagle Cliff with the mountain, I stood upon the first of the\ngreat billows which, rolling in to a common centre, appear to have\nforced the true summit a thousand feet higher.\n\nThe first, perhaps the most curious, thing that I noticed--for one\nhardly suspects the existence of considerable bodies of water in these\nhigh regions, and, therefore, never comes upon them except unawares--was\ntwo little lakelets, nestling in the hollow between me and the main\npeak. Reposing amid the sterility of the high peaks, these lakes\nsurround themselves with such plants as have survived the ascent from\nbelow, or, nourished by the snows of the summit, those that never do\ndescend into temperate climates. Thus an appearance of fertility--one\nof those deceptions that we welcome, knowing it to be such--greets us\nunexpectedly. But its appearance is weird and forbidding. Here the\nextremes of arctic and temperate vegetation meet and embrace; here the\nflowers of the valley annually visit their pale sisters, banished by\nNature to these Siberian solitudes; and here the rough, strong Alpine\ngrass, striking its roots deep among the atoms of sand, granite, or\nflint, lives almost in defiance of Nature herself; and when the snows\ncome and the freezing north winds blow, and it can no longer stand\nerect, throws itself upon the tender plants, like a brave soldier\nexpiring on the body of his helpless comrade, saved by his own devotion.\n\nBut these Alpine lakes always provoke a smile. When some distance\nbeyond the Eagle Lakes, as they are called, and higher, I caught,\nunderneath a wooded ridge of Cannon, the sparkle of one hidden among\nthe summits on the opposite side of the Notch. The immense, solitary\nKinsman Mountain overtops Cannon as easily as Cannon does Eagle Cliff.\nIn its dark setting of the thickest and blackest forests this lake\nblazed like one of the enormous diamonds which our forefathers so firmly\nbelieved existed among these mountains. They call this water--only to\nbe discovered by getting above it--Lonesome Lake, and in summer it is\nthe chosen retreat of one well known to American literature, whom the\nmountains know, and who knows them.\n\nI descended the slope to the plateau on which the lakes lie, soon\ngaining the rush-grown shore of the nearest. Its water was hardly\ndrinkable, but your thirsty climber is not apt to be too fastidious.\nThese lakes are prettier from a distance; the spongy and yielding moss,\nthe sickly yellow sedge surrounding them, and the rusty brown of the\nbrackish water, do not invite us to tarry long.\n\n[Illustration: CLOUD EFFECTS ON MOUNT LAFAYETTE.]\n\nThe ascent of the pinnacle now began. It is too much a repetition,\nthough by no means as toilsome, of the Mount Washington climb to merit\nparticular description. This peak, too, seems disinherited by Nature.\nThe last trees encountered are the stunted firs with distorted little\ntrunks, which it may have required half a century to grow as thick as\nthe wrist. I left the region of Alpine trees to enter that of gray\nrocks, constantly increasing in size toward the summit, where they were\nconfusedly piled in ragged ridges, one upon another, looming large and\nthreateningly in the distance. But as often as I stopped to breathe\nI scanned \"the landscape o'er\" with all the delight of a wholly new\nexperience. The fascination of being on a mountain-top has yet to be\nexplained. Perhaps, after all, it is not susceptible of analysis.\n\nAfter gaining the highest visible point, to find the real summit\nstill beyond, I stopped to drink at a delicious spring trickling from\nunderneath a large rock, around which the track wound. I was now among\nthe ruin and demolition of the summit, standing in the midst of a vast\natmospheric ocean.\n\nHad I staked all my hopes upon the distant view, no choice but\ndisappointment was mine to accept. Steeped in the softest, dreamiest\nazure that ever dull earth borrowed from bright heaven, a hundred peaks\nlifted their airy turrets on high. These castles of the air--for I will\nmaintain that they were nothing else--loomed with enchanting grace,\nthe nearest like battlements of turquoise and amethyst, or, receding\nthrough infinite gradations to the merest shadows, seemed but the dusky\nreflection of those less remote. The air was full of illusions. There\nwas bright sunshine, yet only a deluge of semi-opaque golden vapor.\nThere were forms without substance. See those iron-ribbed, deep-chested\nmountains! I declare it seemed as if a swallow might fly through them\nwith ease! Over the great Twin chain were traced, apparently on the air\nitself, some humid outlines of surpassing grace which I recognized for\nthe great White Mountains. It was a dream of the great poetic past: of\nthe golden age of Milton and of Dante. The mountains seemed dissolving\nand floating away before my eyes.\n\nStretched beneath the huge land-billows, the valleys--north, south, or\nwest--reflected the fervid sunshine with softened brilliance, and all\nthose white farms and hamlets spotting them looked like flakes of foam\nin the hollows of an immense ocean.\n\nHeaven forbid that I should profane such a scene with the dry recital\nof this view or that! I did not even think of it. A study of one of\nNature's most capricious moods interested me far more than a study of\ntopography. How should I know that what I saw were mountains, when the\nearth itself was not clearly distinguishable? Alone, surrounded by all\nthese delusions, I had, indeed, a support for my feet, but none whatever\nfor the bewildered senses.\n\nI found the mountain-top untenanted except by horse-flies, black gnats,\nand active little black spiders. These swarmed upon the rocks. I also\nfound buttercups, the mountain-cranberry, and a heath, bearing a little\nwhite flower, blossoming near the summit. There were the four walls of a\nruined building, a cairn, and a signal-staff to show that some one had\nbeen before me. This staff is 5259 feet above the ocean, or 3245 feet\nabove the summit of the Franconia Pass.\n\nThe ascent required about three, and the descent about two hours. The\ndistance is not much less than four miles; but, these miles being a\nnearly uninterrupted climb from the base to the summit of the mountain,\nhaste is out of the question, if going up, and imprudent, if coming\ndown. There are no breakneck or dangerous places on the route; nor any\nwhere the traveller is liable to lose his way, even in a fog, except\non the first summit, where the new and old paths meet, and where a\nguide-board should be erected.\n\n\n\n\nIV.\n\n_FRANCONIA, AND THE NEIGHBORHOOD._\n\n     Believe if thou wilt that mountains change their places, but\n     believe not that men change their dispositions.--_Oriental Proverb_.\n\n\nAlthough one may make the journey from the Profile House to Bethlehem\nwith greater ease and rapidity by the railway recently constructed along\nthe side of the Franconia range, preference will unquestionably be given\nto the old way by all who would not lose some of the most striking views\nthe neighborhood affords. Beginning near the hotel, the railway skirts\nthe shore of Echo Lake, and then plunges into a forest it was the first\nto invade. By a descent of one hundred feet to the mile, for nine and\na half miles, it reaches the Ammonoosuc at Bethlehem station. I have\nnothing to say against the locomotive, but then I should not like to go\nthrough the gallery of the Louvre behind one.\n\n[Illustration: FRANCONIA IRON WORKS AND NOTCH.]\n\nFrom Echo Lake the high-road to Franconia, Littleton, and Bethlehem\nwinds down the steep mountain side into the valley of Gale River. To\nthe left, in the middle distance, appear the little church-tower and\nwhite buildings constituting the village of Franconia Iron Works. This\nvillage is charmingly placed for effectively commanding a survey of the\namphitheatre of mountains which isolates it from the neighboring towns\nand settlements.\n\nAs we come down the three-mile descent, from the summit of the pass\nto the level of the deep valley, and to the northern base of the\nnotch-mountains, an eminence rises to the left. Half-way up, occupying\na well-chosen site, there is a hotel, and on the high ridge another\ncommands not only this valley, but also those lying to the west of it.\nOn the opposite side to us rise the green heights of Bethlehem, Mount\nAgassiz being conspicuous by the observatory on its summit. Those\nfarm-houses dotting the hill-side show how the road crooks and turns to\nget to the top. Following these heights westward, a deep rift indicates\nthe course of the stream dividing the valley, and of the highway to\nLittleton. Between these walls the long ellipse of fertile land beckons\nus to descend.\n\nI am always most partial to those grassy lanes and by-ways going no one\nknows where, especially if they have well-sweeps and elm-trees in them;\nbut here also is the old red farm-house, with its antiquated sweep,\nits colony of arching elms, its wild-rose clustering above the porch,\nits embodiment of those magical words, \"Home, sweet home.\" It fits the\nrugged landscape as no other habitation can. It fits it to a T, as\nwe say in New England. More than this, it unites us with another and\ndifferent generation. What a story of toil, privation, endurance these\nold walls could tell! How genuine the surprise with which they look down\nupon the more modern houses of the village! Here, too, is the Virginia\nfence, on which the king of the barn-yard defiantly perches. There is\nthe field behind it, and the men scattering seed in the fallow earth.\nYonder, in the mowing-ground, a laborer is sharpening his scythe, the\nsteel ringing musically under the quick strokes of his \"rifle.\"\n\nOver there, to the left, is the rustic bridge, and hard by a clump of\npeeled birches throw their grateful shade over the hot road. Many stop\nhere, for the white-columned trunks are carved with initials, some\nfreshly cut, some mere scars. But why mutilate the tree? What signify\nthose letters, that every idler should gratify his little vanity by\ngiving it a stab? Do you know that the birch does not renew its bark,\nand that the tree thus stripped of its natural protection is doomed?\nCease, then, I pray you, this senseless mutilation; nor call down the\njust malediction of the future traveller for destroying his shade.\nUnable to escape its fate, the poor tree, like a victim at the stake,\nstoically receives your barbarous strokes and gashes. Refrain, then,\ntraveller, for pity's sake! Have a little mercy! Know that the ancients\nbelieved the tree possessed of a soul. Remember the touching story\nof Adonis, barbarously wounded, surviving in a pine, where he weeps\neternally. Consider how often is the figure of \"The Tree\" used in the\nScriptures as emblematic of the life eternal! Who would wish to inhabit\na treeless heaven?\n\nThe stream--which does not allow us to forget that it is here--is a\nvociferous mountain brook. Hardly less forward is the roadside fountain\ngushing into a water-trough its refreshing abundance for the tired and\ndusty wayfarer. It makes no difference in the world whether he goes\non two legs or on four. \"Drink and be filled\" is the invitation thus\ngenerously held out to all alike. With what a sigh of pleasure your\nsteaming beast lifts his reluctant and dripping muzzle from the cool\nwave, and after satisfying again and again his thirst, luxuriously\nimmersing his nose for the third and fourth time, still pretends to\ndrink! How deliciously light and limpid and sparkling is the water, and\nhow sweet! How it cools the hot blood! You quaff nectar. You sip it as\nyou would champagne. It tastes far better, you think, pouring from this\nhalf-decayed, moss-crusted spout than from iron, or bronze, or marble.\nCome, fellow-traveller, a bumper! Fill high! God bless the man who\nfirst invented the roadside fountain! He was a true benefactor of his\nfellow-man.\n\n[Illustration: THE ROADSIDE SPRING.]\n\nTurn once more to the house. A little girl tosses corn, kernel by\nkernel, to her pet chickens. There go a flight of pigeons: they curvet\nand wheel, and settle on the ridge-pole, where they begin to flirt, and\nstrut, and coo. The men in the field look up at the top of the mountain,\nto see if it is not yet noon. And now a woman, with plump bare arms,\ncoming briskly to the open door, puts the dinner-horn to her lips with\none hand while placing the other lightly upon her hip. She does not know\nthat act and attitude are alike inviting. How should she?\n\nLet us follow the pretty stream that is our guide. Franconia has the\nreputation of being the hottest in summer and in winter the coldest of\nthe mountain villages. It _is_ hot. The houses are strung along the road\nfor a mile. People may or may not live in them: you see nobody. One\nmodest church-tower catches the eye for a moment, and then, as we enter\nthe heart of the village, a square barrack of a building, just across\nthe stream, is pointed out as the old furnace, which in times past gave\nimportance to this out-of-the-way corner. But the old furnace is now\ndeserted except by cows from the neighboring pastures, who come and go\nthrough its open doors in search of shade. At present the river, which\nbrings its music and its freshness to the very doors of the villagers,\nis the only busy thing in the place.\n\nDuring the Rebellion the furnace was kept busy night and day, turning\nout iron to be cast into cannon. The very hills were melted down for\nthe defence of the imperilled Union. In the adjoining town of Lisbon\nthe discovery of gold-bearing quartz turned the heads of the usually\nsteady-going population. The precious deposits were first found on the\nBailey farm, in 1865, and similar specimens were soon detected on the\nfarms adjoining. It is said the old people could scarcely be made to\ncredit these reports until they had seen and handled the precious metal;\nfor the country had been settled nearly a century, and the presence of\nany but the baser ores was wholly unsuspected and disbelieved.\n\nThere is one peculiarity, common to all these mountain villages,\nto which I must allude. A stranger is not known by any personal\npeculiarity, but by his horse. If you ask for such or such a person,\nthe chances are ten to one you will immediately be asked in return if\nhe drove a bay horse, or a black colt, or a brown mare with one white\near; so quick are these lazy-looking men, that loll on the door-steps or\nspread themselves out over the shop-counters, to observe what interests\nthem most. The girls here know the points of a horse better than most\nmen, and are far more reckless drivers than men. To a man who, like\nmyself, has lived in a horse-stealing country, it does look queerly to\nsee the barn-doors standing open at night. But then every country has\nits own customs.\n\nOne seeks in vain for any scraps of history or tradition that might\nshed even a momentary lustre upon this village out of the past. Yet its\nsituation invites the belief that it is full of both. Disappointed in\nthis, we at least have an inexhaustible theme in the dark and tranquil\nmountains bending over us.\n\nMount Lafayette presents toward Franconia two enormous green billows,\nrolled apart, the deep hollow between being the great ravine dividing\nthe mountain from base to summit. Over this deep incision, which,\nfrom the irregularity of one of its ridges, looks widest at the top,\npresides, with matchless dignity, the bared and craggy peak whose dusky\nbrown gradually mingles with the scant verdure checked hundreds of feet\ndown. With what hauteur it seems to regard this effort of Nature to\nplace a garland on its bronzed and knotted forehead! One can never get\nover his admiration for the savage grace with which the mountain, which\nat first sight seems literally thrown together, develops a beauty, a\nharmony, and an intelligence giving such absolute superiority to works\nof Nature over those of man.\n\nThe side of Mount Cannon turned toward the village now elevates two\nalmost regular triangular masses, one rising behind the other, and\nboth surmounted by the rounded summit, which, except in its mass, has\nlittle resemblance to a mountain. It is seen that on two-thirds of these\nelevations a new forest has replaced the original growth. Twenty-five\nyears ago a destructive fire raged on this mountain, destroying all the\nvegetation, as well as the thin soil down to the hard rock. Even that\nwas cracked and peeled like old parchment. This burning mountain was a\nscene of startling magnificence during several nights, when the village\nwas as light as day, the sky overspread an angry glow, and the river\nran blood-red. The hump-backed ridges, connecting Cannon with Kinsman,\npresent nearly the same appearance from this as from the other side of\nthe Notch--or as remarked when approaching from Campton.\n\nThe superb picture seen from the upper end of the valley, combining, as\nit does, the two great chains in a single glance of the eye, is extended\nand improved by going a mile out of the village to the school-house on\nthe Sugar Hill road. It is a peerless landscape. I have gazed at it for\nhours with that ineffable delight which baffles all power of expression.\nIt will have no partakers. One must go there alone and see the setting\nsun paint those vast shapes with colors the heavens alone are capable of\nproducing.\n\nDistinguished by the beautiful groves of maple that adorn its crest,\nSugar Hill is destined to grow more and more in the popular esteem. No\ntraveller should pass it by. It is so admirably placed as to command\nin one magnificent sweep of the eye all the highest mountains; it is\nalso lifted into sun and air by an elevation sufficiently high to\nreach the cooler upper currents. The days are not so breathless or\nso stifling as they are down in the valley. You look deep into the\nFranconia Notch, and watch the evening shadows creep up the great east\nwall. Extending beyond these nearer mountains, the scarcely inferior\nTwin summits pose themselves like gigantic athletes. Passing to the\nother side of the valley, we see as far as the pale peaks of Vermont,\nand those rising above the valley of Israel's River. But better than\nall, grander than all, is that kingly coronet of great mountains set on\nthe lustrous green cushion of the valley. Nowhere, I venture to affirm,\nwill the felicity of the title, \"Crown of New England,\"[32] receive\nmore unanimous acceptance than from this favored spot. Especially when\na canopy of clouds overspreading permits the pointed peaks to reflect\nthe illuminated fires of sunset does the crown seem blazing with jewels\nand precious stones. All the great summits are visible here, and all the\nravines, except those in Madison, are as clearly distinguished as if not\nmore than ten instead of twenty miles separated us.\n\nThe high crest of Sugar Hill unfolds an unrivalled panorama. This is but\nfaint praise. Yet I find myself instinctively preferring the landscape\nfrom Goodenow's; for those great horizons, uncovered all at once, like\na magnificent banquet, are too much for one pair of eyes, however good,\nor however unwearied with continued sight-seeing. As we cannot look\nat all the pictures of a gallery at once, we naturally single out the\nmasterpieces. The effort to digest too much natural scenery is a species\nof intellectual gluttony the overtaxed brain will be quick to revenge,\nby an attack of indigestion or a loss of appetite.\n\nI was very fond of walking, in the cool of the evening, either in this\ndirection or to the upper end of the village, on the Bethlehem road.\nThere is one point on this road, before it begins in earnest its ascent\nof the heights, that became a favorite haunt of mine. Emerging from the\nconcealment of thick woods upon a sandy plain, covered here with a thick\ncarpet of verdure, and skirted by a regiment of pines seemingly awaiting\nonly the word of command to advance into the valley, a landscape second\nto none that I have seen is before you. At the same time he would be\nan audacious mortal who attempted to transfer it to page or canvas.\nNothing disturbs the exquisite harmony of the scene. To the left of\nyou are all the White Mountains, from Adams to Pleasant; in front, the\nFranconia range, from Kinsman to the Great Haystack. Here is the deep\nrent of the Notch from which we have but lately descended. Here, too,\novertopped and subjugated by the superb spire of Lafayette, the long\nand curiously-distorted outline of Eagle Cliff pitches headlong down\ninto the half-open aperture of the pass. Nothing but an earthquake could\nhave made such a breach. How that tremendous, earth-swooping ridge seems\nbattered down by the blows of a huge mace! Unspeakably wild and stern,\nthe fractured mountains are to the valley what a raging tempest is to\nthe serenest of skies: one part of the heavens convulsed by the storm,\nanother all peace and calm. Thus from behind his impregnable outworks\nLafayette, stern and defiant, keeps eternal watch and ward over the\nvalley cowering at his feet.\n\nFrom this spot, too, sacred as yet from all intrusion, the profound\nravine, descending nearly from the summit of Lafayette, is fully\nexposed. It is a thing of cracks, crevices, and rents; of upward\ncurves in brilliant light; of black, mysterious hollows, which the eye\ninvestigates inch by inch, to where the gorge is swallowed up by the\nthick forests underneath. The whole side of the principal peak seems\ntorn away. Up there, among the snows, is the source of a flashing stream\nwhich comes roaring down through the gorge. Storms swell it into an\nungovernable and raging torrent. Thus under the folds of his mantle the\nlordly peak carries peace or war for the vale.\n\nAfter the half-stifled feeling experienced among the great mountains,\nit is indeed a rare pleasure to once more come forth into full\nbreathing-space, and to inspect at leisure from some friendly shade\nthe grandeur magnified by distance, yet divested of excitements that\nset the brain whirling by the rapidity of their succession. If the\nwayfarer chances to see, as I did, the whole noble array of high\nsummits presenting a long, snowy line of unsullied brilliance against\na background of pale azure, he will account it one of the crowning\nenjoyments of his journey.\n\nThe Bridal Veil Falls, lying on the northern slope of Mount Kinsman,\nwill, when a good path shall enable tourists to visit them, prove one\nof the most attractive features of Franconia. Truth compels me to say\nthat I did not once hear them spoken of during the fortnight passed in\nthe village, although fishermen were continually bringing in trout from\nthe Copper-mine Brook, on which these falls are situated. The height of\nthe fall is given at seventy-six feet, and its surroundings are said\nto be of the most romantic and picturesque character. Its marvellous\ntransparency, which permits the ledges to be seen through the gauze-like\nsheet falling over them, has given to it its name.\n\nFrom Franconia I took the daily stage to Littleton, which lies on both\nbanks of the Ammonoosuc, and, turning my back upon the high mountains,\nran down the rail to Wells River, having the intention of cultivating a\nmore intimate acquaintance with that most noble and interesting entrance\nformed by the meeting of the Ammonoosuc with the Connecticut.\n\n\n\n\nV.\n\n_THE CONNECTICUT OX-BOW._\n\n    Say, have the solid rocks\n    Into streams of silver been melted,\n    Flowing over the plains,\n    Spreading to lakes in the fields?\n               LONGFELLOW.\n\n\nThe Connecticut is justly named \"the beautiful river,\" and its valley\n\"the garden of New England.\" Issuing from the heart of the northern\nwilderness, it spreads boundless fertility throughout its stately march\nto the sea. It is not a rapid river, but flows with an even and majestic\ntide through its long avenue of mountains. Radiant envoy of the skies,\nits mission is peace on earth and good-will toward men. As it advances\nthe confluent streams flock to it from their mountain homes. On one side\nthe Green Mountains of Vermont send their hundred tributaries to swell\nits flood; on the other side the White Hills of New Hampshire pour their\nimpetuous torrents into its broad and placid bosom. Two States thus vie\nwith each other in contributing the wealth it lavishes with absolutely\nimpartial hand along the shores of each.\n\nUnlike the storied Rhine, no crumbling ruins crown the lofty heights\nof this beautiful river. Its verdant hill-sides everywhere display the\nevidences of thrift and happiness; its only fortresses are the watchful\nand everlasting peaks that catch the earliest beams of the New England\nsun and flash the welcome signal from tower to tower. From time to time\nthe mountains, which seem crowding its banks to see it pass, draw back,\nas if to give the noble river room. It rewards this benevolence with\na garden-spot. Sometimes the mountains press too closely upon it, and\nthe offended stream repays this temerity with a barrenness equal to the\nbeneficence it has just bestowed. Where it is permitted to expand the\namphitheatres thus created are the highest types of decorative nature.\nGraciously touching first one shore and then the other, making the\nloveliest windings imaginable, the river actually seems on the point of\nretracing its steps; but, yielding to destiny, it again resumes its\nslow march, loitering meanwhile in the cool shadows of the mountains, or\nindolently stretching itself at full length upon the green carpet of the\nlevel meadows. Every traveller who has passed here has seen the Happy\nValley of Rasselas.[33]\n\nSuch is the renowned Ox-Bow of Lower Co\u00f6s. Tell me, you who have seen\nit, if the sight has not caused a ripple of pleasurable excitement?\n\nHere the Connecticut receives the waters of the Ammonoosuc, flowing from\nthe very summit of the White Hills, and, in its turn, made to guide\nthe railway to its own birthplace among the snows of Mount Washington.\nHere the valley, graven in long lines by the ploughshare, heaped with\nfruitful orchards and groves, extends for many miles up and down its\ncheckered and variegated floor. But it is most beautiful between the\nvillages of Newbury and Haverhill, or at the Great and Little Ox-Bow,\nwhere the fat and fecund meadows, extending for two miles from side\nto side of the valley, resemble an Eden upon earth, and the villages,\nprettily arranged on terraces above them, half-hid in a thick fringe of\nfoliage, the mantel-ornaments of their own best rooms. Only moderate\nelevations rise on the Vermont side; but the New Hampshire shore is\nupheaved into the finely accentuated Benton peaks, behind which,\nlike a citadel within its outworks, is uplifted the gigantic bulk of\nMoosehillock--the greatest mountain of all this valley, and its natural\nlandmark--keeping strict watch over it as far as the Canadian frontiers.\n\nThe traveller approaching by the Connecticut Valley holds this exquisite\nlandscape in view from the Vermont side of the river. The tourist\nwho approaches by the valley of the Merrimac enjoys it from the New\nHampshire shore.\n\nThe large village of Newbury, usually known as the \"Street,\" is built\nalong a plateau, rising well above the intervale, and joined to the\nfoothills of the Green Mountains. The Passumpsic Railway coasts the\nintervale, just touching the northern skirt of the village. The\nvillage of Haverhill is similarly situated with respect to the skirt\nof the White Mountains; but its surface is much more uneven, and it\nis elevated higher above the valley than its opposite neighbor. The\nBoston, Concord, and Montreal Railway, having crossed the divide between\nthe waters of the Merrimac and the Connecticut, now follows the high\nlevel, after a swift descent from Warren Summit. These plateaus, or\nterraces, forming broken shelves, first upon one side of the valley,\nthen upon the other, strongly resemble the remains of the ancient bed of\na river of tenfold the magnitude of the stream as we see it to-day. They\ngive rise at once to all those interesting conjectures, or theories,\nwhich are considered the special field of the geologist, but are also\nequally attractive to every intelligent observer of Nature and her\nwondrous works.\n\nOf these two villages, which are really subdivided into half a dozen,\nand which so beautifully decorate the mountain walls of this valley,\nit is no treason to the Granite State to say that Newbury enjoys a\npreference few will be found to dispute. It has the grandest mountain\nlandscape. Moosehillock is lifted high above the Benton range, which\noccupies the foreground. The whole background is filled with high\nsummits--Lafayette feeling his way up among the clouds, Moosehillock\nroughly pushing his out of the throng. Meadows of emerald, river\nof burnished steel, hill-sides in green and buff, and etched with\nglittering hamlets, gray mountains, bending darkly over, cloud-detaining\npeaks, vanishing in the far east--surely fairer landscape never brought\na glow of pleasure to the cheek, or kindled the eye of a traveller,\nalready sated with a panorama reaching from these mountains to the Sound.\n\nWe are now, I imagine, sufficiently instructed in the general\ncharacteristics of the famed Ox-Bow to pass from its picturesque and\ntopographical features into the domain of history, and to summon from\nthe past the details of a tragedy in war, which, had it occurred in\nthe days of Homer, would have been embalmed in an epic. Our history\nbegins at a period before any white settlement existed in the region\nimmediately about us. No wonder the red man relinquished it only at the\npoint of the bayonet. It was a country worth fighting for to the bitter\nend.\n\n\n\n\nVI.\n\n_THE SACK OF ST. FRANCIS DE SALES._\n\n    \"L'histoire \u00e0 sa v\u00e9rit\u00e9; la legende a la sienne.\"\n\n\nIn the month of September, 1759, the army of Sir Jeffrey Amherst\nwas in cantonments at Crown Point. A picked corps of American\nrangers, commanded by Robert Rogers, was attached to this army. One\nday an aide-de-camp brought Rogers an order to repair forthwith to\nhead-quarters, and in a few moments the ranger entered the general's\nmarquee.\n\n\"At your orders, general,\" said the ranger, making his salute.\n\n\"About that accursed hornet's-nest of St. Francis?\" said the general,\nfrowning.\n\n\"When I was a lad, your excellency, we used to burn a hornet's-nest, if\nit became troublesome,\" observed Rogers, significantly.\n\n\"And how many do you imagine, major, this one has stung to death in the\nlast six years?\" inquired General Amherst, fumbling among his papers.\n\n\"I don't know; a great many, your excellency.\"\n\n\"Six hundred men, women, and children.\"\n\nThe two men looked at each other a moment without speaking.\n\n\"At this rate,\" continued the general, \"his Majesty's New England\nprovinces will soon be depopulated.\"\n\n\"For God's sake, general, put a stop to this butchery!\" ejaculated the\nexasperated ranger.\n\n\"That's exactly what I have sent for you to do. Here are your orders.\nYou are commanded, and I expect you to destroy that nest of vipers,\nroot and branch. Remember the atrocities committed by these Indian\nscoundrels, and take your revenge; but remember, also, that I forbid the\nkilling of women and children. Exterminate the fighting-men, but spare\nthe non-combatants. That is war. Now make an end of St. Francis once and\nfor all.\"\n\n[Illustration: ROBERT ROGERS.]\n\nNearly a hundred leagues separated the Abenaqui village from the\nEnglish; and we should add that once there, in the heart of the enemy's\ncountry, all idea of help from the army must be abandoned, and the\nrangers, depending wholly upon themselves, be deprived of every resource\nexcept to cut their way through all obstacles. But this was exactly the\nkind of service for which this distinctive body of American soldiers was\nformed.\n\nSir Jeffrey Amherst had said to Rogers, \"Go and wipe out St. Francis for\nme,\" precisely as he would have said to his orderly, \"Go and saddle my\nhorse.\"\n\nBut this illustrates the high degree of confidence which the army\nreposed in the chief of the rangers. The general knew that this\nexpedition demanded, at every stage, the highest qualities in a leader.\nRogers had already proved himself possessed of these qualities in a\nhundred perilous encounters.\n\nThat night, without noise or display, the two hundred men detailed for\nthe expedition left their encampment, which was habitually in the van of\nthe army. On the evening of the twenty-second day since leaving Crown\nPoint a halt was ordered. The rangers were near their destination. From\nthe top of a tree the doomed village was discovered three miles distant.\nNot the least sign that the presence of an enemy was suspected could\nbe seen or heard. The village wore its ordinary aspect of profound\nsecurity. Rogers therefore commanded his men to rest, and prepare\nthemselves for the work in hand.\n\nAt eight in the evening, having first disguised himself, Rogers took\nLieutenant Turner and Ensign Avery, and with them reconnoitred the\nIndian town. He found it the scene of high festivity, and for an\nhour watched unseen the unsuspecting inhabitants celebrating with\ndancing and barbaric music the nuptials of one of the tribe. All this\nmarvellously favored his plans. Not dreaming of an enemy, the savages\nabandoned themselves to unrestrained enjoyment and hilarity. The f\u00eate\nwas protracted until a late hour under the very eyes of the spies, who,\nfinding themselves unnoticed, crept boldly into the village, where they\nexamined the ground and concerted the plan of attack.\n\nAt length all was hushed. The last notes of revelry faded on the still\nnight air. One by one the drowsy merry-makers retired to their lodges,\nand soon the village was wrapped in profound slumber--the slumber of\ndeath. This was the moment so anxiously awaited by Rogers. Time was\nprecious. He quickly made his way back to the spot where the rangers\nwere lying on their arms. One by one the men were aroused and fell into\ntheir places. It was two in the morning when he left the village. At\nthree the whole body moved stealthily up to within five hundred yards\nof the village, where the men halted, threw off their packs, and were\nformed for the assault in three divisions. The village continued silent\nas the grave.\n\nSt. Francis was a village of about forty or fifty wigwams, thrown\ntogether in a disorderly clump. In the midst was a chapel, to which the\ninhabitants were daily summoned by matin and vesper bell to hear the\nholy father, whose spiritual charge they were, celebrate the mass. The\nplace was enriched with the spoil torn from the English and the ransom\nof many miserable captives. We have said that these Indians had slain\nand taken, in six years, six hundred English: that is equivalent to one\nhundred every year.\n\nThe knowledge of numberless atrocities nerved the arms and steeled the\nhearts of the avengers. When the sun began to brighten the east the\nthree bands of rangers, waiting eagerly for the signal, rushed upon the\nvillage.\n\nA deplorable and sickening scene of carnage ensued. The surprise was\ncomplete. The first and only warning the amazed savages had were the\nvolleys that mowed them down by scores and fifties. Eyes heavy with the\ncarousal of the previous night opened to encounter an appalling carnival\nof butchery and horror. Two of the stoutest of the rangers--Farrington\nand Bradley--led one of the attacking columns to the door where the\nwedding had taken place. Finding it barred, they threw themselves so\nviolently against it that the fastenings gave way, precipitating Bradley\nheadlong among the Indians who were asleep on their mats. All these were\nslain before they could make the least resistance.\n\nOn all sides the axe and the rifle were soon reaping their deadly\nharvest. Those panic-stricken, half-dazed wretches who rushed pell-mell\ninto the streets either ran stupidly upon the uplifted weapons of the\nrangers or were shot down by squads advantageously posted to receive\nthem. A few who ran this terrible gauntlet plunged into the river\nflowing before the village, and struck boldly out for the opposite\nshore; but the avengers had closed every avenue of escape, and the\nfugitives were picked off from the banks. The same fate overtook those\nwho tumbled into their canoes and pushed out into the stream. The frail\nbarks were riddled with shot, leaving their occupants an easy target for\na score of rifles. The incessant flashes, the explosions of musketry,\nthe shouts of the assailants, and the yells of their victims were all\nmingled in one horrible uproar. For two hours this massacre continued.\nCombat it cannot be called. Rendered furious by the sight of hundreds of\nscalps waving mournfully in the night-wind in front of the lodges, the\npitiless assailants hunted the doomed savages down like blood-hounds.\nEvery shot was followed by a death-whoop, every stroke by a howl of\nagony. For two horrible hours the village shook with explosions and\nechoed with frantic outcries. It was then given up to pillage, and then\nto the torch, and all those who from fear had hid themselves perished\nmiserably in the flames. At seven o'clock in the morning all was over.\nSilence once more enveloped the hideous scene of conflagration and\nslaughter. The village of St. Francis was the funeral pyre of two\nhundred warriors. Rogers had indeed taken the fullest revenge enjoined\nby Sir Jeffrey Amherst's orders.\n\nFrom this point our true history passes into the legendary.\n\nWhile the sack of St. Francis was going on a number of the Abenaquis\ntook refuge in the little chapel. Their retreat was discovered. A few\nof their assailants having collected in the neighborhood precipitated\nthemselves toward it, with loud cries. Others ran up. Two or three blows\nwith the butt of a musket forced open the door, when the building was\ninstantly filled with armed men.\n\nAn unforeseen reception awaited them. Lighted candles burnt on the high\naltar, shedding a mild radiance throughout the interior, and casting\na dull glow upon the holy vessels of gold and silver upon the altar.\nAt the altar's foot, clad in the sacred vestments of his office, stood\nthe missionary, a middle-aged, vigorous-looking man, his arms crossed\nupon his breast, his face lighted up with the exaltation of a martyr.\nFace and figure denoted the high resolve to meet fate half-way. Behind\nhim crouched the knot of half-crazed savages, who had fled to the\nsanctuary for its protection, and who, on seeing their mortal enemies,\ninstinctively took a posture of defence. The priest, at two or three\npaces in advance of them, seemed to offer his body as their rampart. The\nscene was worthy the pencil of a Rembrandt.\n\nAt this sight the intruders halted, the foremost even falling back a\nstep, but the vessels of gold and silver inflamed their cupidity to\nthe highest pitch; while the hostile attitude of the warriors was a\nmenace men already steeped in bloodshed regarded a moment in still more\nthreatening silence, and then by a common impulse recognized by covering\nthe forlorn group with their rifles.\n\nBelieving the critical moment come, the priest threw up his hands in\nan attitude of supplication, arresting the fatal volley as much by\nthe dignity of the gesture itself, as by the resonant voice which\nexclaimed, in French, \"Madmen, for pity's sake, for the sake of Him on\nthe Cross, stay your hands! This violence! What is your will? What seek\nye in the house of God?\"\n\nA gunshot outside, followed by a mournful howl, was his sole response.\n\nThe priest shuddered, and his crisped lips murmured an _ave_. He\ncomprehended that another soul had been sent, unshriven, to its final\naccount.\n\n\"Hear him!\" said a ranger, in a mocking undertone; \"his gabble minds me\nof a flock of wild geese.\"\n\nA burst of derisive laughter followed this coarse sally.\n\nIn fact, they had not too much respect for the Church of Rome, these\nwild woodsmen, but were filled with ineradicable hatred for its\nmissionaries, domesticated among their enemies, in whom they believed\nthey saw the real heads of the tribes, and the legitimate objects,\ntherefore, of their vengeance.\n\n\"Yield, Papist! Come, you shall have good quarter; on the word of a\nranger you shall,\" cried an authoritative voice, the speaker at the same\ntime advancing a step, and dropping his rifle the length of his sinewy\narms.\n\n\"Never!\" answered the ecclesiastic, crossing himself.\n\nA suppressed voice from behind hurriedly murmured in his ear, \"_\u00c9coutez:\nrendez-vous, mon p\u00e8re: je vous en supplie!_\"\n\n\"_Jamais! mieux vaut la mort que la mis\u00e9ricorde de brigands et\nmeurtriers!_\" ejaculated the missionary, rejecting the counsel also,\nwith a vehement shake of the head.\n\n\"_Grand Dieu! tout, donc, est fini_,\" sighed the voice, despairingly.\n\nThe rangers understood the gesture better than the words. An officer,\nthe same who had just spoken, again impatiently demanded, this time in a\nhigher and more threatening key,\n\n\"A last time! Do you yield or no? Answer, friar!\"\n\nThe priest turned quickly, took the consecrated Host from the altar,\nelevated it above his head, and, in a voice that was long remembered by\nthose who heard it, exclaimed,\n\n\"To your knees, monsters! to your knees!\"\n\nWhat the ranger understood of this pantomime and this command was that\nthey conveyed a scornful and a final refusal. Muttering under his\nbreath, \"Your blood be upon your own head, then,\" he levelled his\ngun and pulled the trigger. A general discharge from both sides shook\nthe building, filling it with thick and stifling smoke, and instantly\nextinguishing the lights. The few dim rays penetrating the windows, and\nwhich seemed recoiling from the frightful spectacle within, enabled the\ncombatants vaguely to distinguish each other in the obscurity. Not a cry\nwas heard; nothing but quick reports or blows signaled the progress of\nthis lugubrious combat.\n\nThis butchery continued ten minutes, at the end of which the rangers,\nwith the exception of one of their number killed outright, issued from\nthe chapel, after having first stripped the altar, despoiled the shrine\nof its silver image of the Virgin, and flung the Host upon the ground.\nWhile this profanation was enacting a voice rose from the heap of dead\nat the altar's foot, which made the boldest heart among the rangers stop\nbeating. It said,\n\n\"The Great Spirit of the Abenaquis will scatter darkness in the path of\nthe accursed Pale-faces! Hunger walks before and Death strikes their\ntrail! Their wives weep for the warriors that do not return! Manitou is\nangry when the dead speak. The dead have spoken!\"\n\nThe torch was then applied to the chapel, and, like the rest of the\nvillage, it was fast being reduced to a heap of cinders. But now\nsomething singular transpired. As the rangers filed out from the\nshambles the bell of the little chapel began to toll. In wonder and\ndread they listened to its slow and measured strokes until, the flames\nhaving mounted to the belfry, it fell with a loud clang among the ruins.\nThe rangers hastened onward. This unexpected sound already filled them\nwith gloomy forebodings.\n\nAfter the stern necessities of their situation rendered a separation\nthe sole hope of successful retreat, the party which carried along\nwith it the silver image was so hard pressed by the Indians, and by a\nstill more relentless enemy, famine, that it reached the banks of the\nConnecticut reduced to four half-starved, emaciated men. More than once\nhad they been on the point of flinging their burden into some one of the\ntorrents every hour obstructing their way; but as one after another fell\nexhausted or lifeless, the unlucky image passed from hand to hand, and\nwas thus preserved up to the moment so eagerly and so confidently looked\nfor, during that long and dreadful march, to end all their privations.\n\nBut the chastisement of heaven, prefigured in the words of the expiring\nAbenaqui, had already overtaken them. Half-crazed by their sufferings,\nthey mistook the place of rendezvous appointed by their chief, and,\nhaving no tidings of their comrades, believed themselves to be the sole\nsurvivors of all that gallant but ill-fated band. In this conviction, to\nwhich a mournful destiny conducted, they took the fatal determination\nto cross the mountains under the guidance of one of their number who\nhad, or professed, a knowledge of the way through the Great Notch of the\nWhite Hills.\n\nFor four days they dragged themselves onward through thickets, through\ndeep snows and swollen streams, without sustenance of any kind, when\nthree of them, in consequence of their complicated miseries, aggravated\nby finding no way through the wall of mountains, lost their senses.\nWhat leather covered their cartouch-boxes they had already scorched\nto a cinder and greedily devoured. At length, on the last days of\nOctober, as they were crossing a small river dammed by logs, they\ndiscovered some human bodies, not only scalped, but horribly mangled,\nwhich were supposed to be some of their own band. But this was no\ntime for distinctions. On them they accordingly fell like cannibals,\ntheir impatience being too great to await the kindling of a fire to\ndress their horrid food by. When they had thus abated somewhat the\nexcruciating pangs they before endured, the fragments were carefully\ncollected for a future store.\n\nMy pen refuses to record the dreadful extremities to which starvation\nreduced these miserable wretches. At length, after some days of\nfruitless wandering up and down, finding the mountains inexorably\nclosing in upon them, even this last dreadful resource failed, and,\ncrawling under some rocks, they perished miserably in the delirium\nproduced by hunger and despair, blaspheming, and hurling horrible\nimprecations at the silver image, to which, in their insanity, they\nattributed all their sufferings. One of them, seizing the statue,\ntottered to the edge of a precipice, and, exerting all his remaining\nstrength, dashed it down into the gulf at his feet.\n\nTradition affirms that the first settlers who ascended Israel's River\nfound relics of the lost detachment near the foot of the mountains; but,\nnotwithstanding the most diligent search, the silver image has thus far\neluded every effort made for its recovery.\n\n\n\n\nVII.\n\nMOOSEHILLOCK.\n\n    And so, when restless and adrift, I keep\n      Great comfort in a quietness like this,\n    An awful strength that lies in fearless sleep,\n      On this great shoulder lay my head, nor miss\n    The things I longed for but an hour ago.\n        SARAH O. JEWETT.\n\n\nMoosehillock, or Moosilauke,[34] is one of four or five summits from\nwhich the best idea of the whole area of the White Mountains may be\nobtained. It is not so remarkable for its form as for its mass. It is an\nimmense mountain.\n\nLifted in solitary grandeur upon the extreme borders of the army of\npeaks to which it belongs, and which it seems defending, haughtily\nover-bearing those lesser summits of the Green Mountains confronting\nit from the opposite shores of the Connecticut, which here separates\nthe two grand systems, like two hostile armies, the one from the other,\nMoosehillock resembles a crouching lion, magnificent in repose, but\nterrible in its awakening.\n\nThis immense strength, paralyzed and helpless though it seems, is\nnevertheless capable of arousing in us a sentiment of respectful\nfear--respect for the creative power, fear for the suspended life we\nbelieve is there. The mountain really seems lying extended under the sky\nlistening for the awful command, \"Arise and walk!\"\n\nThis mountain received a name before Mount Washington, and is in\nsome respects, as I hope to point out, the most interesting of the\nwhole group. In the first place, it commands a hundred miles of the\nConnecticut Valley, including, of course, all the great peaks of the\nGreen Mountain and Adirondack chains. Again, its position confers\ndecided advantages for studying the configuration of the Franconia\ngroup, to which, in a certain sense, it is allied, and of the ranges\nenclosing the Pemigewasset Valley, which it overlooks. Moosehillock\nstands in the broad angle formed by the meeting waters of the\nConnecticut and the Ammonoosuc. In a word, it is an advanced bastion\nof the whole cluster of castellated summits, constituting the White\nMountains in a larger meaning.\n\nTherefore no summit better repays a visit than Moosehillock; yet it is\nastonishing, considering the ease of access, how few make the ascent.\nThe traveller can hardly do better than begin here his experiences of\nmountain adventure, should chance conduct him this way; or, if making\nhis exit from the mountain region by the Connecticut Valley, he may,\ntaking it in his way out, make this the appropriate pendant of his\ntours, romantic and picturesque.\n\nHaving been so long known to and frequented by the Indian as well as\nwhite hunters, the mountain is naturally the subject of considerable\nlegend,[35] which the historian of Warren has scrupulously gathered\ntogether. One of these tales, founded on the disaster of Rogers,\nrecounts the sufferings of two of his men, hopelessly snared in the\ngreat Jobildunk ravine. But that tale of horror needs no embellishment\nfrom romance. This enormous rent, equally hideous in fact as in name,\ncut into the vitals of the mountain so deeply that a dark stream gushes\nfrom the gaping wound, conceals within its mazes several fine cascades.\nOwing to long-continued drought, the streams were so puny and so languid\nwhen I visited the mountain that I explored only the upper portion of\nthe gorge, which bristles with an untamed forest, levelling its myriad\nspears at the breast of the climber.\n\nThe greater part of the mountain lies in the town of Benton, or,\nperhaps, it would be nearer the truth to say that fully half the\ntownship is appropriated by its prodigious earthwork. But, to reach it\nwithout undergoing the fatigues of a long march through the woods,\nit is necessary to proceed to the village of Warren, which is twenty\nmiles north of Plymouth, and about fourteen south of Haverhill. Behind\nthe village rises Mount Carr. Still farther to the north the summits\nof Mounts Kineo, Cushman, and Waternomee, continuing this range now\nseparating us from the Pemigewasset Valley, form also the eastern wall\nof the valley of Baker's River, which has its principal source in the\nravines of Moosehillock. There is a bridle-path opening communication\nwith the mountain from the Benton side, on the north; and so with Lisbon\nand Franconia. A carriage-road is also contemplated on that side, which\nwill render access still more feasible for a large summer population;\nwhile a bridle-path, lately opened between two peaks of the Carr range,\nfacilitates ingress from the Pemigewasset side.\n\nI set out from the village of Warren on one of the hottest afternoons\nof an intensely hot and dry summer. The five miles between the village\nand the base of the mountain need not detain the sight-seer. At the\ncrossing of Baker's River I remarked again the granite-bed honey-combed\nwith those curious pot-holes sunk by whirling stones, first set in\nmotion and then spun around by the stream, which here, breaking up into\nseveral wild pitches, pours through a rocky gorge. But how gratefully\ncool and refreshing was even the sound of rushing water in that still,\nstifling atmosphere, coming, one would think, from a furnace! Then for\ntwo miles more the horse crept along the road, constantly ascending the\nside of the valley, until the last house was reached. Here we passed a\nturnpike-gate, rolled over the crisped turf of a stony pasture through a\nsecond gate, and were at the foot of Moosehillock.\n\nIn a trice we exchanged the sultriness, the dryness, the dust, parching\nor suffocating us, of a shadeless road, for the cool, moist air of the\nmountain-forest and the delectable sound of running water. A brook shot\npast; then another; then the horse, who stopped when he liked, and as\noften as he liked, like a man forced to undertake a task which he is\ndetermined shall cost his task-masters dearly, began a languid progress\nup the increasing declivity before us. His sighs and groans, as he\nplodded wearily along, were enough to melt a heart of stone. I therefore\ndismounted and walked on, leaving the driver to follow as he could. The\nquestion was, not how the horse should get us up the mountain, but how\nwe should get the horse up.\n\nThey call it four and a half miles from the bottom to the top. The\ndistances indicated by the sign-boards, nailed to trees, did not appear\nto me exact. They are not exact; and the reason why they are not is\nsufficiently original to merit a word of explanation. Having long\nobserved the effect of imagination, especially in computing distances,\nthe builder of the road, as he himself informed me, adopted a truly\ningenious method of his own. He lengthened or shortened his miles\naccording as the travelling was good or bad. For example: the first\nmile, being an easy one, was stretched to a mile and a quarter. The\nlast mile is also very good travelling. That, too, he lengthened to a\nmile and a half. In this way he reduced the intervening two and a half\nmiles of the worst road to one and three-fourth miles. This absolutely\nharmless piece of deception, he averred, considerably shortened the most\ndifficult part of the journey. No one complained that the good miles\nwere too long, while the bad ones were now passed over with far less\ngrumbling than before they were abbreviated by this simple expedient,\nwhich very few, I am convinced, would have thought of. In fact, the sum\nof the whole distance being scrupulously adhered to, it is the most\ncivil piece of engineering of which I have any knowledge.\n\nThe road up is rough, tedious, and, until the ridge at the foot of the\nsouth peak is reached, uninteresting. It crooks and turns with absolute\nlawlessness while climbing the flanks of the southern peak, skirting\nalso the side of the profound ravine eating its way into the mountain\nfrom the south. Nearing this summit we obtained through an opening a\nglimpse of Mount Washington, veiled in the clouds. The trees now visibly\ndwindled. Just before reaching the ridge, where it joins this peak, a\nfine spring, deliciously cold, gushed from the mountain side. A few\nrods more of ascent brought us quite out upon the long, narrow, curving\nbackbone of the mountain, uplifting its sharp edge between two profound\ngorges, connecting the peaks set at its two extremes, between which\nNature has decreed a perpetual divorce. The sun was just setting as we\nemerged upon this natural way conducting from peak to peak along the\nairy crest of the mountain.\n\nAlthough this, it will be remembered, is one of the longest miles,\naccording to the scale of computation in vogue here, the unexpected\nspeed which the horse now put forth, the sight of the squat, little\nTip-Top House, clinging to the summit beyond, the upper and nether\nworlds floating or fading in splendor, while the night-breezes sweeping\nover cooled our foreheads, and rudely jostled the withered trees, drawn\na little apart to the right and left to let us pass, quickly replaced\nthat weariness of mind and body which the mountain exacts of all who\npass over it on a sultry midsummer's day.\n\nAt the extremity of the ridge, which is only wide enough for the road,\na gradual ascent led to the high summit and to a level plateau of a\nfew acres at its top. This was treeless, but covered with something\nlike soil, smooth, and, being singularly free from the large stones\nfound everywhere else, affords good walking in any direction. The\nhouse is built of rough stone, and, though of primitive construction,\nis comfortable, and even inviting. Furthermore, its materials being\ncollected on the spot, one accepts it as still constituting a part of\nthe mountain, which, indeed, at a little distance it really seems to\nbe. In the evening I went out, to find the mountain blindfolded with\nclouds. Soon rain began to drive against the window-panes in volleys.\nAt a late hour we heard wheels grinding on the rocks outside, and then\na party of tourists drove up to the door, dripping and crestfallen at\nhaving undertaken the ascent with a storm staring them in the face. But\nthey had only this one day, they said, and were \"bound\" to go up the\nmountain. So up they toiled through pitch darkness, through rain and\ncloud, passed the night in a building said to be on the summit, and\nreturned down the mountain in the morning, to catch their train, through\nas dense a fog as ever exasperated a hurried tourist. But they had been\nto the top! Are there anywhere else in the world people who travel two\nhundred miles for a single day's recreation?\n\nIt is very curious, this being domesticated on the top of a mountain. We\ngo to bed wondering if the scene will not all vanish in our dreams. It\nwas very odd, too, to see the tourists silently mount their buck-board\nin the morning, and disappear, within a stone's throw, in clouds.\nDetaching themselves to all intents from earth, they began a flight in\nair. Walking a short distance, perhaps a gunshot, from the house, I\ngroped my way back with difficulty. The case seemed desperate.\n\nBut grandest scene of all was the breaking up of the storm. Shortly\nafter noon the high sun began to exert a sensible influence upon the\nclouds. A perceptible warmth, replacing the chill and clammy mists,\nbegan to pervade the mountain-top. Presently a dim sun-ray shot through.\nThen, as if a noiseless explosion had suddenly rent them, the whole\nmass of clouds was torn in ten thousand tatters flying through space.\nAll nature seemed seized with sudden frenzy. Here a summit and there a\npeak was seen, struggling fiercely in the grasp of the storm. Coming up\nwith rushing noise, the west wind charged home the routed storm-clouds\nwith fresh squadrons. What indescribable yet noiseless tumult raged in\nthe heavens! Even the mountains seemed scarcely able to stem the tide\nof fugitives. A panic seized them. Fear gave them wings. They rushed\npell-mell into the ravines and clung to the tree-tops; they dashed\nthemselves blindly against the adamant of Lafayette, only to fall\nback broken into the deep fosse beneath. Bolts of dazzling sunshine\ncontinually tore through them. The gorges themselves seemed heaped with\nthe wounded and the dying. But the rushing wind, trampling the fugitives\ndown, dispersed and cut them mercilessly to pieces. One was irresistibly\ncarried away by this rage of battle. In ten minutes I looked around upon\na clear sky. One cloud, impaled on the gleaming spear of Lafayette,\nhung limp and lifeless; another floated like a scarf from the polished\ncasque of Chocorua; a third, taken prisoner _en route_, humbly held the\ntrain of Washington. All the rest of the phantom host, using its power\nto render itself invisible, vanished from sight as if the mountains had\nswallowed it up.\n\nThe landscape being now fully uncovered, I enjoyed all its rare\nperfection. It is a superb and fascinating one, invested with a\npowerful individuality, surrounded by a charm of its own. You wish to\nsee the two great chains? There they are, the greater rising over the\nlesser, in the order fixed by Nature. That sunny space in the softened\ncoloring of old tapestry, more to the right, is the Pemigewasset Valley,\nand the spot from where not long ago we looked up at this mountain\nlooming large in the distance. We raise our eyes to glance up the East\nBranch upon Mount Hancock and the peaks of Carrigain peeping over.\nWe touch with magic wand the faint cone of Kearsarge, so dim that it\nseems as if it must rise and float away; then, continuing to call the\nroll of mountains, Moat, Tripyramid, Chocorua, and all our earlier\nacquaintances rise or nod among the Sandwich peaks. Some draw their\ncloud-draperies over their bare shoulders, some sun their naked and\nhairy breasts in savage luxury. We alight like a bird upon the glassy\nbosom of Winnepiseogee the incomparable, and, like the bird, again rise,\nrefreshed, for flights still more remote. We sweep over the Uncanoonucs\ninto Massachusetts, steadying the eye upon far Wachusett as we pass from\nthe Merrimac Valley. Now come thronging in upon us the mountains of the\nConnecticut Valley. We rest awhile upon the transcendently beautiful\nexpanse of the Ox-Bow, and its playthings of villages, strung along\nthe glittering necklace of the river. Across this valley, lifting our\neyes, we wander among the loftiest peaks of the Green Mountains--those\ncolossal _verd-antiques_--exchanging frozen glances across the placid\nexpanse of Champlain with the haughtiest summits of the Adirondacks.\nWe grow tired of this. One last look, this time up the valley, reveals\nto us the wide and curious gap between two distant mountains, and far\nbeyond Memphremagog, where these mountains rise, we scan all the route\ntravelled by Rogers, the perils of which are fresh in our memory. We\npass on unchallenged into the dominions of Victoria.\n\nIs not this a landscape worth coming ten miles out of one's way to see?\nAnd yet the half is not told. I have merely indicated its dimensions.\nNow let the reader, drawing an imaginary line from peak to peak, go\nover at leisure all that lies between. I merely prick the chart for\nhim. Moosehillock, not quite five thousand feet high, overlooks all\nNew Hampshire, pushes investigation into Maine and Massachusetts, is\nfamiliar with Vermont, distant with New York, and has an eye upon\nCanada. It is said the ocean has been seen, but I did not see it.\n\nCircumstances compelled me to drive the old horse, who has made more\nascensions of the mountain than any living thing, back to Warren. No\nother was to be had for love or money. Had there been time I would have\npreferred walking, but there was not. This horse measured sixteen hands.\nHis thin body and long legs resembled a horse upon stilts. He looked\ndejected, but resigned. I argued that he would be able to get down the\nmountain somehow; and, once out of the woods, I could count on his\neagerness to get home, to some extent, perhaps. I was not deceived in\neither expectation.\n\nThe road, as I have said, is for most of the way a rough, steep, and\nstony one. In order to check the havoc made by sudden showers, and\nto hold the thin soil in place, hemlock-boughs were spread over it,\nartfully concealing those protruding stones which the scanty soil\nrefused to cover. He who intrusted himself to it did not find it a\nbed of roses. The buck-board was the longest, clumsiest, and most\nill-favored it has ever been my lot to see. This vehicle, being peculiar\nto the mountains, demands, at least, a word. It is a very primitive and\ningenious affair, and cheaply constructed. Naturally, therefore, it\noriginated where the farmers were poor and the roads bad. But what is\nthe buck-board? Every one has seen the spring-board of a gymnasium or of\na circus. A smooth plank, ten feet long, resting upon trestles placed\nat either end, assists the acrobat to vault high in the air. Each time\nhe falls the rebound sends him up again. This is the principle of the\nbuck-board. Remove the trestles, put a pair of wheels in the place of\neach, and you have the vehicle itself, _minus_ shafts or pole, according\nas one or two horses are to draw it. Increased weight bends the board or\nthe spring more and more until it is in danger of touching the ground.\nThe passengers sit in the hollow of this spring, the natural tendency of\nwhich is to shoot them into the air.\n\n[Illustration: THE BUCK-BOARD WAGON.]\n\nI am justified in speaking thus of the road and the vehicle. But\nwho shall describe the horse? That animal was possessed of a devil,\nand, like the swine of the miracle, ran violently all the way down\nthe mountain, without stopping for water or breath. Fortunate indeed\nfor me was it that the sea was not at the bottom. In three-quarters\nof an hour, half of which was spent in the air, I was at the foot\nof the mountain which had required two tedious hours to ascend. How\nthe quadruped managed to avoid falling headlong fifty times over\nthe concealed stones I have no idea. How I contrived to alight,\nwhen a wheel, coming violently against one of these stones, put the\nspring-board in play--how I contrived to alight, I remark, during this\ngame of battledoor and shuttlecock, never twice in the same place, is to\nthis day an enigma.\n\nThe houses of ancient Rome frequently bore the inscription for the\nbenefit of strangers, \"_Cave canem._\" This could be advantageously\nreplaced here, upon the first turnpike-gate, at the mountain's foot,\nwith the warning, \"Beware of the horse!\"\n\n\n\n\nVIII.\n\n_BETHLEHEM._\n\n    _Ros._ O Jupiter! how weary are my spirits!\n    _Touch._ I care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary.\n                            _As You Like It._\n\n\nHaving finished with the western approach to the White Mountains, I\nwas now at liberty to retrace my route up the Ammonoosuc Valley, which\nso abounds in picturesque details--farms, hamlets, herds, groups of\npines, maples, torrents, roads feeling their way up the heights--to\nthat anomaly of mountain towns, Bethlehem. Thanks to the locomotive,\nthe journey is short. The villages of Bath, Lisbon, Littleton, are\nsuccessively entered; the same flurry gives a momentary activity to each\nstation, the same faces crowd the platforms, and the same curiosity is\nexhibited by the passengers, whose excitement receives an increase with\nevery halt of the laboring train.\n\nBethlehem is ranged high up, along the side of a mountain, like the\nbest china in a cupboard. The crest of Mount Agassiz[36] rises behind\nit. Beneath the village the ground descends, rather abruptly, to the\nAmmonoosuc, which winds, through matted woods, its way out of the\nmountains. There are none of those eye-catching gleams of water which so\nagreeably diversify these interminable miles of forest and mountain land.\n\nIt is only by ascending the slopes of Mount Agassiz that we can secure\na stand-point fairly showing the commanding position of Bethlehem, or\nwhere its immediate surroundings may be viewed all at once. It is so\nsituated, with respect to the curvature of this mountain, that at one\nend of the village they do not know what is going on at the other.\nOne end revels in the wide panorama of the west, the other holds the\nunsurpassed view of the great peaks to the east.\n\nBethlehem has risen, almost by magic, at the point where the old highway\nup the Ammonoosuc is intersected by that coming from Plymouth, the\nPemigewasset Valley, and the Profile House. In time a small roadside\nhamlet naturally clustered about this spot. Dr. Timothy Dwight, the\npioneer traveller for health and pleasure among these mountains,\npassed through here in 1803. Speaking of the appearance of Bethlehem,\nhe says: \"There is nothing which merits notice, except the patience,\nenterprise, and hardihood of the settlers which have induced them to\nstay upon so forbidding a spot; a magnificent prospect of the White\nMountains; and a splendid collection of other mountains in their\nneighborhood, particularly on the south-west.\" It was then reached by\nonly one wretched road, which passed the Ammonoosuc by a dangerous ford.\nThe few scattered habitations were mere log-cabins, rough and rude.\nThe few planting-fields were still covered with dead trees, stark and\nforbidding, which the settlers, unable to fell with the axe, killed by\ngirdling, as the Indians did.\n\nFrom this historical picture of Bethlehem in the past, we turn to\nthe Bethlehem of to-day. It is turning from the post-rider to the\nlocomotive. Not a single feature is recognizable except the splendid\nprospect of the White Mountains, and the magnificent collection of\nother mountains, which call forth the same admiration to-day. Fortunate\ngeographical position, salubrity, fine scenery--these, and these alone,\nare the legitimate cause of what may be termed the rise and progress\nof Bethlehem. All that the original settlers seem to have accomplished\nis to clear away the forests which intercepted, and to make the road\nconducting to the view.\n\nIt is the position of Bethlehem with respect to the recognized points\nor objects of interest that gives to it a certain strategic advantage.\nFor example, it is admirably situated for excursions north, south,\neast, or west. It is ten miles to the Profile, twelve to the Fabyan,\nseventeen to the Crawford, fifteen to the Waumbek, and eighteen to the\nbase of Mount Washington. One can breakfast at Bethlehem, dine on Mount\nWashington, and be back for tea; and he can repeat the experience with\nrespect to the other points named as often as inclination may prompt.\nMoreover, the great elevation exempts Bethlehem from the malaria and\nheat of the valleys. The air is dry, pure, and invigorating, rendering\nit the paradise of those invalids who suffer from periodical attacks of\nhay-fever. Lastly, it is new, or comparatively new, and possesses the\ncharm of novelty--not the least consideration to the thousands who are\nin pursuit of that and that only.\n\nBethlehem Street is the legitimate successor of the old road. This is\na name _sui generis_ which seems hardly appropriate here, although it\nis so commonly applied to the principal thoroughfares of our inland New\nEngland villages. It has a spick-and-span look, as if sprung up like\na bed of mushrooms in a night. And so, in fact, it has; for Bethlehem\nas a summer resort dates only a few years back its sudden rise from\ncomparative obscurity into the full blaze of popular fame and favor.\nThe guide-book of fifteen years ago speaks of the _one_ small but\ncomfortable hotel, kept by the Hon. J. G. Sinclair. In fact, very little\naccount was made of it by travellers, except to remark the magnificent\nview of the White Mountains on the east, or of the Franconia Mountains\non the south, as they passed over the then prescribed tour from North\nConway to Plymouth, or _vice versa_.\n\nBut this newness, which you at first resent, besides introducing here\nand there some few attempts at architectural adornment, contrasts\nvery agreeably with the ill-built, rambling, and slip-shod appearance\nof the older village-centres. They are invariably most picturesque\nfrom a distance. But here there is an evident effort to render the\nplace itself attractive by making it beautiful. Good taste generally\nprevails. I suspect, however, that the era of good taste, beginning with\nthe incoming of a more refined and intelligent class of travellers,\ncommunicated its spirit to two or three enterprising and sagacious\nmen,[37] who saw in what Nature had done an incentive for their own\nefforts. We walk here in a broad, well-built thoroughfare, skirted on\nboth sides with hotels, boarding-houses, and modern cottages, in which\nthree or four thousand sojourners annually take refuge. All this has\ngrown from the \"one small hotel\" of a dozen years ago. Shade-trees and\ngrass-plots beautify the way-side. An immense horizon is visible from\nthese houses, and even the hottest summer days are rendered endurable\nby the light airs produced and set in motion by the oppressive heats of\nthe valley. The sultriest season is, therefore, no bar to out-of-door\nexercise for persons of average health, rendering walks, rambles, or\ndrives subject only to the will or caprice of the pleasure-seeker.\nBut in the evening all these houses are emptied of their occupants.\nThe whole village is out-of-doors, enjoying the coolness or the\npanorama with all the zest unconstrained gratification always brings.\nThe multitudes of well-dressed promenaders surprise every new-comer,\nwho immediately thinks of Saratoga or Newport, and their social\ncharacteristics. Bethlehem, he thinks, must be the ideal of those who\nwould carry city or, at least, suburban life among the mountains; who do\nnot care a fig for solitude, but prefer to find their pleasures still\nconnected with their home life. They are seeing life and seeing nature\nat the same time.\n\nSauntering along the street from the Sinclair House, a strikingly large\nand beautiful prospect opens as we come to the Belleview. Here the\nroad, making its exit from the village, descends to the Ammonoosuc. The\nvalley broadens and deepens, exposing to view all the town of Littleton,\npicturesquely scattered about the distant hill-sides. Its white houses\nresemble a bank of daisies. The hills take an easy attitude of rest.\nSix hundred feet below us the bottom of the valley exhibits its rich\nsavannas, interspersed with cottages and groves. Above its deep hollow\nthe Green Mountains glimmer in the far west. \"Ah!\" you say, \"we will\nstop here.\"\n\nLet us now again, leaving the Sinclair House behind, ascend the\nroad to the Profile. It is not so much travelled as it was before\nthe locomotive, in his coat-of-mail, sounded his loud trumpet at\nthe gates of Franconia. A mile takes us to the brow of the hill. We\nhardly know which way to look first. Two noble and comprehensive views\npresent themselves. To the left Mount Agassiz rears his commanding\npeak. In front of us, across a valley, is the great, deeply-cloven\nFranconia Notch. Lafayette is superb here. Now the large, compact\nmass of Moosehillock looms on the extreme right, together with all\nthose striking objects lately studied or observed from the village of\nFranconia, which so quietly reposes beneath us. But this landscape\nproperly belongs to the environs of Bethlehem, and never is it so\nincomparably grand as when the summits are fitfully revealed, battling\nfiercely with storm-clouds. Every phase of the conflict is watched with\neager attention. Seeing all this passion above, it calls up a smile to\nlook down at the unbroken and unconscious tranquillity of the valley.\n\n[Illustration: MOUNT LAFAYETTE, FROM BETHLEHEM.]\n\nFacing now in the direction of Bethlehem, the eye roves over the\nbroad basin of the Ammonoosuc for many miles up and down. The hills of\nLittleton, Whitefield, Dalton, Carroll, and Jefferson bend away from\nthe opposite side; and over the last the toothed Percy Peaks[38] rise\nblue and clear at the point where the waters of the Connecticut and the\nAndroscoggin, approaching each other, conduct the Grand Trunk Railway\nout of the mountains. The west is packed with the high summits of the\nGreen Mountain chain. The great White Mountains are concealed, as yet,\nby the swell of the mountain down whose side the road conducts to the\nvillage. \"This,\" you exclaim, \"this is the spot where we will pitch\nour tents!\" But there is no public-house here, and we are reluctantly\nforced to descend. In proportion as we go down, this seemingly limitless\npanorama suffers a partial eclipse. The landscape changes from the\nhigh-wrought epic to the grand pastoral, if such a distinction may\nbe applied to differing forms of mountain scenery. This approach is,\nwithout doubt, the most striking introduction to Bethlehem. It is\ncuriously instructive, too, as regards the relative merits of successive\nelevations, each higher than the other, as proper view-points.\n\nA third ramble is altogether indispensable before we can say that we\nknow Bethlehem of the Hills. The direction is now to the east, by the\nroad to the Crawford House, or Fabyan's, or the Twin. We continue along\nthe high plateau, in the shade of sugar-maples or Lombardy poplars,\nto the eastern skirt of the village, the houses getting more and more\nunfrequent, until we come upon the edge of the slope to the Ammonoosuc,\nwhere the road to Whitefield, Lancaster, and Jefferson, leaving the main\nthoroughfare, drops quietly down into Bethlehem Hollow. No envious hill\nnow obstructs the truly \"magnificent view.\" Through the open valley the\nlordly mountains again inthrall us with the might of an overpowering\nmajesty.\n\nThis locality has taken the name of the great hotel erected here\nby Isaac Cruft, whose hand is visible everywhere in Bethlehem. The\nMaplewood, as it is called, easily maintains at its own end the prestige\nof Bethlehem for rapid growth. When I first visited the place, in\n1875, I found a modest roadside hostelry accommodating sixty guests;\nfive years later a mammoth structure, in which six hundred could be\naccommodated, had risen, like Aladdin's palace, on the same spot.\nInstead of our little musical entertainment, our mock-trial, our quiet\nrubber of whist, of an evening, there were readings, lectures, balls,\nmasquerades, theatricals, _musicales_, for every day of the week.\n\nBut Bethlehem is emphatically the place of sunsets. In this respect no\nother mountain resort can pretend to equal it. From no other village\nare so many mountains visible at once; at no other has the landscape\nsuch length and breadth for giving full effect to these truly wonderful\ndisplays. More because the sublimity of the scene deserves a permanent\nchronicle than from any confidence in my own ability to reproduce it, I\nattempt in black and white to describe one of unparalleled intensity of\ncolor, one that may never be repeated, certainly never excelled, while\nthe sun, the heavens, and the mountains shall last.\n\nA cold drizzle having set in on the day of my arrival, the mountains\nwere invisible when I rose in the morning. I looked, but they were no\nlonger there. I was much vexed at the prospect of being storm-bound,\nor of making under compulsion a sojourn I had beforehand resolved\nto make at my own good will and pleasure. So strongly is the spirit\nof resistance developed in us. After a critical investigation of\nthe weather, it crossed my mind like an intuition that something\nextraordinary was preparing behind the enormous masses of clouds\nclinging like wet draperies to the skirts of the mountains, forming\nan impenetrable curtain, now and then slowly lifted by the fresh\nnorth wind, now suddenly distended or collapsing like huge sails, but\nnoiselessly and mysteriously as the ghostly canvas of the _Flying\nDutchman._\n\nToward the middle of the afternoon, the wind having freshened, the\nlower clouds broke apart here and there--just enough to reveal to us\nthat ever-new picture of the White Mountains, beautifully robed in\nfresh snow, above the darker line of forest; but so thoroughly were\nthe high summits blended with the dull silver-gray of upper sky that\nthe true line of separation defied the keenest scrutiny to detect it.\nThis produced a curious optical illusion. Extended sumptuously along\nthe crest-line, rivalling the snow itself, a bank of white clouds\nrendered the deception perfect, since just above them began that heavy\nand dull expanse which overspread and darkened the whole heavens,\nthus imperfectly delineating a second line of summits mounting to a\nprodigious height. They seemed miles upon miles high.\n\nUp stretched this gigantic and shadowy phantasm of towers, domes,\nand peaks, illimitably, as if mountains and heavens were indeed come\ntogether in eternal alliance. At the same time the finger dipped in\nwater could trace a more conclusive outline on glass than the eye could\nfind here. The summits, a little luminous, emitted a cold, spectral\nglare. It gave you a chill to look at them. No sky, no earth, no deep\ngorges, no stark precipices--no anything except that dead wall, so\nsepulchral in its gray gloom that equally mind and imagination failed to\nfind one familiar outline or contour. The true peaks seemed clouds, and\nthe clouds peaks. But this phantasm was only the prologue.\n\nAt the hour of sunset all the lower clouds had disappeared. The\nupper heavens now wore that deep grape-purple impervious to light\nor warmth, and producing the effect of a vast dome hung with black.\nThe storm replaced the azure tint of the sky with the most sombre\ncolor in its laboratory. The light visibly waned. The icy peaks still\nreflected a boreal glitter. But in the west these funereal draperies\nfell a little short of touching the edge of the horizon--a bare\nhand's-breadth--leaving a crevice filled with golden light, pure and\nlimpid as water, clear and vivid as winnowed sunshine. The sun's eye\nwould soon be applied to this peep-hole. A feverish impatience seized\nus. We could see the people at their doors and in the street standing\nsilent and expectant, with their faces turned to the heavens. From a\nstation near Cruft's Ledge we watched intently for the moment when this\nsplendid light, concentrated in one level sheet, should fall upon the\ngreat mountains.\n\nIn a few seconds a yellow spot of piercing brilliancy appeared in this\nnarrow band of light. One look at it was blinding; a second would have\nparalyzed the optic nerve. Mechanically we put up our hands to shut\nit out. Imagine a stream of molten iron--hissing-hot and throwing off\nfiery spray--gushing from the side of a furnace! Even that can give\nbut a feeble idea of the unspeakable intensity of this last sun-ray.\nIt blazed. It flooded us with a suffocating effulgence. Suppose now\nthis cataract of liquid flame suddenly illuminating the pitchy darkness\nof a cavern in the bowels of the earth. The effect was electrifying.\nConfined between the upper and nether expanse--dull earth and brooding\nsky--rendered tenfold more dazzling by the blackness above, beneath, the\nsun poured upon the great mountains one magnificent torrent of radiance.\nIn an instant the broad land was deluged with the supreme glories of\nthat morning when the awful voice of God uttered the sublime command,\n\n    \"Let there be light, and there was light.\"\n\nAn electric shock awoke the torpid earth, transfigured the mountains. On\nswept the mighty wave, shedding light, and warmth, and splendor where a\nmoment before all was dark, cold, and spiritless. Like Ajax before Troy,\nthe giant hills braced on their dazzling armor. Like Achilles's shield,\nthey threw back the brightness of the sun. Every tree stood sharply out.\nEvery cavern disclosed its inmost secrets. Twigs glittered diamonds,\nleaves emitted golden rays. All was ravishingly beautiful.\n\nThis superb exhibition continued while one might count a hundred. Then\nall the lower mountains took on that ineffable purple that baffles\ndescription. Starr King, Cherry Mountain, were resplendent. As if the\nlivid and thick-clustered clouds above had been trodden by invisible\nfeet, these peaks seemed drenched with the juice of the wine-press.\nThe high summits, buried in snow and cloud, were yet coldly impassive,\nbut presently, little by little, the light crept up and up. Now it\nseized the topmost pinnacles. Heavens, what a sight! Ineffable glory\nseemed quenched in the sublime terrors of that moment. On our right the\nTwin and Franconia mountains glowed, from base to summit, like coals\nof fire. The lower forests were wrapped in flame. Then all the snowy\nline of peaks, from Adams to Clinton, turned blood-red. No pale rose\nor carnation tints, as in those enrapturing summer sunsets so often\nwitnessed here. The stupendous and flaming mountains of hell seemed\nrisen before us, clothed with immortal terrors. We stood rooted to\nthe spot, like men who saw the judgment-day dawning, the solid earth\nconsuming, before their doubting eyes. Everlasting, unquenchable fires\nseemed encompassing us about. Nothing more weird, more unearthly,\nor more infernal was ever seen. Even the country-people, stolid and\nindifferent as they usually are, regarded it with mingled stupefaction\nand dismay.\n\nThe drama approached its climax. Before we were aware, the valley grew\ndark. But still, the granite peaks of Lafayette, and of that admirable\npyramid, Mount Garfield, which even the greater mountain cannot reduce\nto impotence, glowed like iron drawn from the fire. Their incandescent\npoints, thrust upward into the black gulf of the heavens, towered\nabove the blacker gulfs below unspeakably. By degrees the scorching\nheat cooled. The great Franconia spires successively paled. But long\nafter they seemed reduced to ashes, the red flame still lingered upon\nthe snows of Mount Washington. At last that, too, faded out. Life was\nextinct. The great summit took on a wan and livid hue. Night kindly\nspread her mantle over the lifeless form of the mountain, which still\ndisclosed its larger outlines rigid, majestic, even in death.\n\nTwilight succeeded--twilight steeped in silence and coolness, in the\nthousand odors exhaled by the teeming earth. One by one the birds hushed\ntheir noisy twitter. Overcome by their own perfumes, flowers shut their\ndewy petals and drooped their tender little heads. The river seemed a\ndrowsy voice rising from the depths of the forest, complaining that\nit alone should toil on while all else reposed. With night comes the\nfeeling of immensity. With sleep the conviction that we are nothing,\nand that the order of nature disturbs itself in nothing for us. If we\nawake, well; if not, well again. What if we should never wake? One such\nsplendid pageant as I have attempted to describe instinctively quenches\nhuman pride. It is true, a sunset is in itself nothing, but it compels\nyou to admit that the world moves for itself, not for you. Believe it\nnot a gorgeous display in which you, the critical spectator, assist, but\nthe signal that the day ends and the night cometh. A spectacle that can\narouse the emotions of joy, fear, hope, suspense--nothing? Perhaps. God\nknows.\n\nThere are very pleasant walks, affording fine views of all the highest\nmountains, around the eastern slope or to the summit of the mountain\nrising at the back of the hotel. The bare but grassy crest of this\nmountain, one of my favorite haunts, enabled me to reconnoitre my route\nin advance up the valley, and to look over into the yet unvisited\nregion of Jefferson, or back again, at the environs of Franconia. The\nglory that pours down upon these hills, the vales they infold, the wild\nstreams, the craggy mountain spurs, the soft, velvety clearings that\nturn their dimpled cheeks to be kissed by the sunshine, may all be seen\nand fully enjoyed from this spot.\n\nThe heights behind us are well-wooded on the summits, but below this\nbelt of woodland extends a broad band of sunny clearings checkered with\nfields of waving grain. These fields are among the highest cultivated\nlands in New England. Long tillage was necessary to reduce this\nrefractory soil to subjection. Farther down, toward the railway-station,\nthe pastures are so encumbered with stones that a sheep would turn from\nthem in dismay. To mow among these stones a man would have to go down on\nhis knees.\n\nThere is a beautiful orchard of sugar-maples down the road to the\nHollow; but it always makes me sad to see these trees standing with\ntheir naked sides pierced and bleeding from gaping wounds.\n\nAt the corner of this road my attention was arrested by a sign-board\nplanted in front of an unpainted cottage, behind which rose a clump\nof magnificent birches. I walked over to see what it could mean. The\nsign-board bore the name \"Sir Isaac Newton Gay,\" in large black letters.\nHere was a spur to curiosity! A knight, or at least a baronet, living\nin humble seclusion, yet parading his quality thus in the face of the\nworld! Going to the gate, my perplexity increased upon seeing the\ngrass-plot in front of the dwelling literally covered with broken glass,\nlamp-chimneys, bits of colored china, bottles of every imaginable shape\nand size stuck upright upon sticks, interspersed with lumps of white\nquartz. Some cabalistic meaning, doubtless, attached to the display.\nThis brilliant rubbish sparkled in the sun, filling the enclosure with\nthe cheap glitter of a pawnbroker's shop-window. The thing so far\nannounced a little eccentricity, at least, so I made bold to push my\ninvestigation still farther, and was rewarded by finding, piled against\nthe trunk of a tree, at the back of the house, a heap of skulls of\nanimals as high as my head. The recluse's intent was now plain. Here\nwas a lesson that he who ran might read. The rubbish in the front yard\nillustrated the pomp, glitter, and emptiness of life; the monument of\nskulls its true estate, divested of all false show or pretence. Without\ndoubt this was a philosopher worthy of his name.\n\nI was admitted by a singular-looking being, with dry, straight, lank\nhair, weak features, watery eyes, and a shuffling gait. Some accident\nhaving partially closed one eye, gave him a look of preternatural\nwisdom. He was ready to give an opinion on any subject under the sun,\nno matter how difficult or abstruse, as soon as broached, and stroked\nhis scanty beard while doing so with evident self-complacency. I had a\nmoment to see that the walls were papered with old handbills of county\nfairs, travelling shows, and the like, the floor covered with patches of\ncarpet as various as Joseph's coat, when my man began a formula similar\nto what the Bearded Lady drawls out or the Tattooed Man recites through\nhis nose to gaping rustics at a country muster, at ten cents a head.\nHe told where he was born, how old he was, and how long he had lived\nin Bethlehem. At the proper moment I put my hand in my pocket and took\nout a dime, which he thankfully accepted, and dropped inside a broken\ncoffee-pot.\n\n\"Sir,\" I observed, \"seeing you are American-born, I infer your title\nmust have been conferred by some foreign potentate?\"\n\n\"No; that is my name.\"\n\n\"But,\" I pursued, \"has it not an unrepublican sound in a country where\ntitles are regarded with distrust, not to say aversion?\"\n\n\"I tell you it is my name,\" with some heat; \"I was named for the great\n_Sir_ Isaac Newton.\"\n\n\"Your pardon, Sir Isaac. May I ask if you inherit the genius of your\ndistinguished namesake?\"\n\n\"Well, yes, to some extent I do; I philoserphize a good deal. I read a\ngood many books folks leaves here, besides what newspapers I can pick\nup; but you see it costs a lifetime to get knowledge.\"\n\nJaques, the misanthrope, wandering in the Forest of Arden, was not more\nastonished at Touchstone's philosophy than I at this answer. \"Very\ntrue,\" I assented. \"What is your philosophy of life?\"\n\nHe tapped his forehead with his forefinger, but it was only too evident\nthe apartment was untenanted. He remained a moment or two as if in deep\nthought, and then began,\n\n\"Well, I'm eighty-six years of age, come next July.\"\n\nMy flesh began to creep: he was beginning, for the third time, his\neternal formula. The hermit, fumbling a red handkerchief, resumed,\n\n\"I can say I've never wanted for necessaries, and don't propose to give\nmyself any trouble about it.\" And then he expatiated on the folly of\nfretfulness.\n\nThe Hermit of Bethlehem, as he is called, but who opens his door wide\nfor the world to enter, is a very ordinary sort of hermit indeed.\nStill, his very feebleness of intellect, his vanity even, should be a\nshield instead of a target for those who, like myself, are lured by the\nunmeaning trumpery at his door, which has no other significance in the\nworld than a childish passion for objects that glitter in the sun.\n\nThe constituents of hotel life do not belong to any locality: they\nare universal. It is curious to see here people who have spent half\ntheir lives in India, or China, or Australia moving about among the\nuntravelled with the well-bred ease and adaptation to circumstances that\nnewly-fledged tourists can neither understand nor imitate. It is very\ndroll, too, that people who have lived ten years in the same street, at\nhome, without knowing each other, meet here for the first time.\n\nI beg to introduce another acquaintance picked up by the roadside while\nwalking from the Twin Mountain House to Bethlehem. Had I been driving,\nthe incident would still have waited for a narrator.\n\nClimbing the hill-side at a snail's pace was a peddler's cart, drawn by\na scrubby little white horse, and bearing a new broom for an ensign,\nwhich seemed to symbolize that this petty trader meant to sweep the road\nclean of its loose cash. The sides of the cart were gayly decorated\nwith pans, basins, dippers by the dozen, and bristled with knickknacks\nfor barter or ready money, from a gridiron to a door-mat. The movement\nof the vehicle over the stony road kept up a lively clatter, which\nannounced its coming from afar. There being for the moment, no house in\nsight, the proprietor was engaged in picking raspberries by the roadside.\n\nThe peddler--well, he was little, and stubby too, like his horse,\nfor whom he had dismounted to lighten the pull up-hill. The animal\nseemed to know his business, for he stopped short as often as he came\nto a water-bar, blew a cloud from his nostrils, champed his bit, and\ndistended his sides so alarmingly with a long, deep respiration, that\nthe patched-up harness seemed in danger of bursting. He then glanced\nover his shoulder toward his master, shook his head deprecatingly, and,\nwith a deep sigh, moved on.\n\nThe little merchant of small wares and great had on a rusty felt hat,\nrakishly set on one side of his bullet head, and a faded olive-green\ncoat, rather short in the skirts, to conceal two patches in his\ntrousers. The latter were tucked into a pair of dusty boots very much\nturned up at the toes. His face was a good deal sunburnt, and his\nhair, eyebrows, and mustache were the color of the road--sandy. Except\na pair of scissors, the points of which protruded from his left-hand\nvest-pocket, I perceived no weapon offensive or defensive about him. He\nwas a very innocent-looking peddler indeed.\n\nAs I was passing him he held out a handful of ripe fruit. The hand was\ndisfigured with an ugly cicatrice: it was rather dirty. He accompanied\nthe offer with an invitation to \"hop on\" his cart and ride. This double\ncivility emanated from a gentleman and a peddler.\n\nThe walk from Crawford's to Bethlehem _is_ rather fatiguing; but I said,\nas in duty bound, \"No\" (I said it because the thought of riding through\nBethlehem Street on the top of a peddler's cart appeared ridiculous in\nmy eyes--with shame I confess it), \"thank you; your horse already has\nall he can pull, and I have only a mile or two farther to go.\"\n\nThe peddler then fell into step with me, taking a long, even stride that\nbrought back old recollections. I said,\n\n\"You have been a soldier.\"\n\n\"How know you dat?\"\n\n\"By your gait--you do not walk, you march: by that sabre-cut on your\nright hand.\"\n\n\"Ha! you goot eyes haf; but it a payonet vas.\"\n\nBelieving I saw a veteran of our great civil war, I asked, with\nundisguised interest,\n\n\"Where did you serve? Where were you wounded?\"\n\n\"Von year und half in war mit Danemark, von year und half mit Oustria,\nund two mit Vrance.\"\n\nI looked at him again. What! That undersized, insignificant appearing\nlittle chap, whom I could easily have pitched into the ditch, he a\nsoldier of Sadowa, of Metz, of Paris. Bah!\n\n\"So, the wars over, you emigrated to America?\"\n\n\"Right avay. Ven I get home from Baris I tell Linda, my vife, 'Look\nhere, Linda: I been soldier six year. Now I plenty fighting got. Dere's\ntwo hunder thaler in the knapsack. Shut your mouth tight, open your eye\nclose, and we get out of dis double-quig.' She say 'Where I go?' und I\ntell her the _U_-nited States, by hell, befor anoder var come. She begin\nto cry, I begin to schwear, und we settle it right avay.\"\n\nI asked if he minded telling how he came by the wound in his hand. This\nis what he told me in his broken English:\n\nWhen Marshal Bazaine made his last desperate effort to shake off the\ndeadly gripe the Prussians had fastened upon Metz, a battalion of\n_tirailleurs_ suddenly surrounded an advanced post established by\nthe Germans in the suburbs. The morning was foggy, and the surprise\ncomplete. The picket had hardly the time to run to their arms before\nthey were driven back pell-mell on the reserve, amid a shower of balls.\nThe reserve took refuge in a stone building surrounded by a thick hedge,\nmaintaining an irregular fire from the windows. One of the last to cross\nthe court-yard, with the French at his heels, was our German. Before\nhe could gain the friendly shelter of the house he stumbled and fell\nheadlong, his gun flying through the air as he came to the ground, so\nthat he was not only prostrate but disarmed.\n\nHalf-stunned, he scrambled to his knees just as his nearest pursuer\nmade a savage lunge with his sabre-bayonet. The Prussian instinctively\ngrasped it. While trying thus to parry the deadly thrust, the keen\nweapon pierced his hand, and he was a second time borne to the earth,\nor, rather, pinned to it by his adversary's bayonet.\n\n\"_Rendez-vous Allemand, cochon!_\" screamed the Frenchman, bestriding the\nlittle Prussian with a look of mortal hatred.\n\n\"_Je ne fous combrends,_\" replied the wounded man, drawing a revolver\nwith his free hand and shooting his enemy dead. \"I couldn't helb it,\nI vas so mad,\" finished the ex-soldier, running to serve two of his\ncustomers, who stood waiting for him at a gate by the roadside. I left\nhim exhibiting ribbons, edgings, confectionery--heaven knows what!--with\nall the volubility of an experienced shopman.\n\n\n\n\nIX.\n\n_JEFFERSON, AND THE VALLEY OF ISRAEL'S RIVER._\n\n    Through the valley runs a river, bright and rocky, cool and swift,\n    Where the wave with many a quiver plays around the pine-tree's drift.\n                                  _Good Words._\n\n\nIt remains to introduce the reader into the valley watered by Israel's\nRiver, and for this purpose we take the rail from Bethlehem to\nWhitefield, and from Whitefield to Jefferson.\n\nLike Bethlehem, Jefferson lies reposing in mid-ascent of a mountain.\nHere the resemblance ends. The mountain above it is higher, the valley\nbeneath more open, permitting an unimpeded view up and down. The\nhill-side upon which the clump of hotels is situated makes no steep\nplunge into the valley, but inclines gently down to the banks of the\nriver. Instead of crowding upon and jostling each other, the mountains\nforming opposite sides of this valley remain tranquilly in the alignment\nthey were commanded not to overstep. The confusion there is reduced to\nadmirable order here; the smooth slopes, the clean lines, the ample\nviews, the roominess, so to speak, of the landscape, indicate that\neverything has been done without haste, with precision, and without\ndeviation from the original plan, which contemplated a paradise upon\nearth.\n\nIssuing from the wasted sides of Mount Jefferson and Mount Adams,\nIsrael's River runs a short north-westerly course of fifteen miles into\nthe Connecticut at Lancaster. This beautiful stream received its name\nfrom Israel Glines, a hunter, who frequented these regions long before\nthe settlement of the country. The road from Lancaster to Gorham follows\nthe northern highlands of its valley to its head, then crossing the\ndividing ridge which separates its waters from those of Moose River,\ndescends this stream to the Androscoggin at Gorham.\n\nOn the north side Starr King Mountain rises 2400 feet above the valley\nand 3800 feet above the sea. On the south side Cherry Mountain lifts\nitself 3670 feet higher than the tide-level. These two mountains form\nthe broad basin through which Israel's River flows for more than half\nits course. The village of Jefferson Hill lies on the southern slope\nof Starr King, and, of course, on the north side of the valley. Cherry\nMountain, the most prominent object in the foreground, is itself a\nfine mountain study. It looks down through the great Notch, greeting\nChocorua. It is conspicuous from any elevated point north of the\nFranconia group--from Fabyan's, Bethlehem, Whitefield, Lancaster, etc.\nOwl's Head is a conspicuous protuberance of this mountain. Over the\nright shoulder of Cherry Mountain stand the great Franconia Peaks, and\nto the right of these, its buildings visible, is Bethlehem. Now look up\nthe valley.\n\n[Illustration: THE NORTHERN PEAKS FROM JEFFERSON.]\n\nWe see that we have taken one step nearer the northern wing of the\ngreat central edifice whose snowy dome dominates New England. We are\nadvancing as if to turn this magnificent battle-line of Titans, on\nwhose right Madison stands in an attitude to repel assault. Adams next\nerects his sharp lance, Jefferson his shining crescent, Washington his\nbroad buckler, and Monroe his twin crags against the sky. Jefferson,\nas the nearest, stands boldly forward, showing its tremendous ravines,\nand long, supporting ridges, with great distinctness. Washington loses\nsomething of its grandeur here; at least it is not the most striking\nobject; that must be sought for among the sable-sided giants standing at\nhis right hand. The southern peaks, being foreshortened, show only an\nirregular and flattened outline which we do not look at a second time.\nFrom Madison to Lafayette, our two rallying points, the distance can\nhardly be less than forty miles as the eye travels: the entire circuit\nit is able to trace cannot fall short of seventy or eighty miles. As\nat Bethlehem, the view out of the valley is chiefly remarkable for its\ncontrast with every other feature.\n\nI took a peculiar satisfaction in these views, they were so ample,\nso extensive, so impressive. Here you really feel as if the whole\nnoble company of mountains were marshalled solely for your delighted\ninspection. At no other point is there such unmeasured gratification\nin seeing, because the eye roves without hinderance over the grandest\nsummits, placed like the Capitol at the head of its magnificent avenue.\nIt alights first on one pinnacle, then flits to another. It interrogates\nthese immortal structures with a calm scrutiny. It dives into the cool\nravines; it seeks to penetrate, like the birds, the profound silence\nof the forests. It toils slowly up the broken crags, or loiters by\nthe cascades, hanging like athletes from dizzy brinks. It shrinks, it\nadmires, it questions; it is grave, gay, or thoughtful by turns. I do\nnot believe the man lives who, looking up to those mountains as in the\nface of the Deity, can deliberately utter a falsehood: the lie would\nchoke him.\n\nFurthermore, you get the best idea of height here, because the long\namphitheatre of mountains is seen steadily growing in stature toward\nthe great central group; and comparison is, by all odds, the best of\nteachers for the eye.\n\nIf for no other reason than the respect due to age, Jefferson deserves a\nmoment to itself. It was granted, October 3d, 1765, to John Goffe, under\nthe name of Dartmouth. The road diverging here, and crossing Cherry\nMountain to Fabyan's, is the oldest, as it long was the only highway\nthrough the White Mountains. In those early times the travelled way\nwas by the Connecticut River and Lancaster through this valley to the\nWhite Mountain Notch. The divergent road is the old turnpike between\nVermont and Portland. Gradually, as settlements were pushed farther and\nfarther up the Ammonoosuc, a way was made by Bath, Lisbon, Littleton,\nand Dalton, to Lancaster; but to pass beyond it was still necessary to\nfollow the old route; nor was it until after the settlement of Bethlehem\ncleared the way that an execrable horse-path was made over the present\ngreat highway up the Ammonoosuc. In 1803 President Dwight passed over\nthis new road on his second excursion to the great Notch. Few travellers\nwould now be willing to undergo what he did to see the mountains.\nThere were then only three or four houses in the sixteen miles between\nBethlehem and the Notch.\n\nOne of the first settlers of Jefferson was Colonel Joseph Whipple,\nmentioned in the narrative of Nancy, the ill-starred mountain-maid, who\ndied while following her faithless lover in his flight from Jefferson\nout of the mountains. Colonel Whipple lived on the road to Cherry\nMountain, near the mill. In 1797 his was the only house on the road.\nDuring the Revolution a party of Indians, led by a white man, surrounded\nthe house, and made Whipple their prisoner. Inventing some pretext, the\ncolonel obtained leave to go into another room, from which he made his\nescape by a window and fled to the woods, where he successfully eluded\npursuit.\n\nFinding myself already well advanced toward the summit of Starr King,\nI finished the ascent of this mountain during an afternoon's stroll.\nNothing worthy of remark, except the exquisite view from the summit,\npresented itself. Here I met again a throng of old acquaintances, and\nencountered a crowd of new ones. Here I saw something like a shadow\ndarken the side of Mount Washington, and watched it creep steadily up\nand up to the summit. The shadow was the smoke of the locomotive making\nits last ascent for the day, under the eyes of thousands of spectators,\nwho look at it to turn away with a smile, a shrug, or a shake of the\nhead.\n\nThe name of Starr King has become a household word with all travellers\nin the White Mountains. It was most fitting that he who interpreted\nNature so well and so truly should receive his monument at her hands. To\nhim the mountains were emblematic of her highest perfection. He loved\nthem. His tone when speaking of them is always tender and caressing.\nThey appealed to his rare and exquisite perception of the beautiful,\nto his fine and sensitive nature, capable of detecting intuitively\nwhat was hid from common eyes. He felt their presence to be ennobling\nand uplifting. He opened for us the charmed portal. We accompanied him\nthrough an earthly paradise then first revealed to us by the fervor\nand wealth of his description. He led us to the shadiest retreats, the\ncoolest groves, the most secluded glens. He guided our footsteps up the\nsteep mountain-side to the bleak summit. Thrice fitting was it that a\nmountain should perpetuate the name of Thomas Starr King. As was said at\nthe grave of Gautier, he too dated \"from the creation of the beautiful.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI have now rested four days at Ethan Crawford's, who lives on the side\nof Boy Mountain, five miles east of Jefferson Hill, on the road to\nGorham. This Ethan is a son of the celebrated guide and host so well\nknown to former travellers by the _sobriquet_ of Keeper of the Mountains.\n\nI go to the window, and facing toward the setting sun look down the\nbroadening valley of Israel's River, over the glistening house-tops\nof Whitefield, into and beyond the Connecticut Valley. I have Mitten\nMountain and Cherry Mountain, both heavily wooded, just over the way,\nalthough the view of these elevations is in part intercepted by a nearer\nmountain, also covered with a vigorous forest. At this moment I hear the\nrush of the stream far down in the Hollow; and, following the serpentine\nline its dark course makes among the press of hills, am confronted by\nthe massive slopes of Madison and Adams, the sombre ravine and castled\ncrags of Jefferson, and the hoary crest of Washington. I am really in\nthe heart of the mountains.\n\nSwiftly from these mountains descend, with exquisite grace, enormous\nbillows of deep sea-green, which do not subside but lift themselves\nproudly at the foot of those great overhanging walls of olive and\nmalachite. Here rolling together, their foliage, bright or dark, repeats\nthe effect of flaws sweeping over a sunny sea. Their deep hollows,\narching sides, and limpid crests perfect the resemblance to the moment\nwhen, having exerted its utmost energy, the panting ocean stands\nexhausted and motionless in the grasp of the north wind.\n\nThese lower mountains, interposing a barrier between the two valleys\nof the Ammonoosuc and of Israel's River, seem, you think, pushed up\nfrom the yielding earth simply by the enormous weight of the higher\nand neighboring mountains whose keen summit-lines cut New England in\nhalves. At this hour these lines are edged with dull gold. All along\nthe wavering heights I can detect with the naked eye isolated black\ncrags, and can plainly see the deep dents in the broken cornices and\ncapitals of the grand old mountains--those vestiges of their primordial\narchitecture. Here the inclined ridge of the plateau, connecting the\npinnacle of Washington with the peaks of Monroe, is traced along its\nwhole extent. At this distance its craggy outline breaks in light\nripples, announcing nothing of that wilderness of stones assailing the\nclimber. All the asperities are softened into capricious harmonies.\nBelow yawn the ravines.\n\nThe tracks of old slides and torrents in the side of Monroe remind\nyou of the branches of a gigantic fossil tree, exposed by a fracture\ndividing the mountain in two. Such is, in fact, the impression received\nby looking at this mountain; but the object which most excites my\nattention is the broad and deep rent in the side of Jefferson, over\nwhich hang on one side the crumbling counterfeits of towers and\nbattlements, while on the other cataracts, like necklaces, are suspended\nover its unfathomed abysses. Cloud-shadows drift noiselessly along the\nwarm steeps. Cataracts glisten brightly in the sun. The grave peaks look\ndown unmoved on the play of the one and the sport of the other.\n\nThe picture of life in East Jefferson would not be complete without the\nold hound dozing in the sun, the turkey-cocks strutting consequentially\nup and down, the barn-swallows darting swiftly in and out, the ring of\nyoung Ethan's anvil, and the bleating of sheep far up the mountain-side.\nI see them nibbling the fresh herbage, and watch the gambols of the\nlambs like a child--only the child laughs aloud, and I do not laugh.\nVoices come down the hillside, and I see the slow movement of a hammock\nand the flutter of a dress in the maple-grove. Poetry and perfume mingle\nwith the scent of wild-flowers and songs of golden-mouthed birds.\n\nEvening does not drive us within doors, the nights are so enchanting.\nDay fades imperceptibly out. Even the stars seem disconcerted. One by\none they peep, and then flit from view. We watch the slow mustering of\nthe celestial host in silence. A meteor leaps from heaven to earth.\nThe fire-flies resemble a shower of sparks, or, as darkness deepens,\na phosphorescent sea. Dorbeetles hurtle the still air, and frogs sing\nbarcarolles in the misty fens. Now the mountains put on their sable\narmor that is to render them invisible. Here the poet must assist us:\n\n    \"It is the hush of night; and all between\n       Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,\n     Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen--\n       Save darkened Jura, whose capped heights appear\n             Precipitously steep.\"\n\nLight seems reluctant to leave the summits. It does not wholly fade\nout of the west until a late hour. In a clear and starry night all the\nsurrounding mountains can be distinguished long after the valley is\nsteeped in darkness. At half-past nine I could easily tell the time by\nmy watch; and even at this hour a pale, nebulous light still lingered\nwhere the sun had gone down. So at near two thousand feet above the full\nsea one peers over into that deeper horizon where twilight and dawn meet\nand embrace on the dusky threshold of midnight.\n\nWhile in the neighborhood, I devoted a day to an exploration of the\nRavine of the Cascades. This ravine is entered from a point on the\nGorham road about three miles distant from the Mount Adams House. A\ncart-way crosses the meadow here to an abandoned mill which is on the\nstream coming from the ravine, and by which you must ascend. A more\nbeautiful example of a mountain brook it has never been my lot to see.\nThe ascent is, however, tedious and toilsome in the extreme over the\nsmooth and slippery rocks in its bed. Four hours of this brought me to\nthe region of low trees, and to the foot of the first fall, which, I\njudged, descended about thirty feet. This way to the summit is open only\nto the most vigorous climbers. Even then it is better to descend into\nthe ravine from the gap between Adams and Jefferson in order to visit\nthese cascades.\n\nThe two most profitable excursions to be made here are undoubtedly the\nascent of Mount Adams and the drive to the top of Randolph Hill. I have\nfound on the first summit irrefragable evidence that, next to Washington\nand Lafayette, Adams is the peak which summer tourists are most desirous\nof ascending. A good path, on which there is a camp, leads to the\nsummit. Having other views in regard to this mountain, which I had so\noften admired from a distance, I made a third reconnoisance of its\noutworks and its remarkable ravine, while _en route_ for Randolph Hill.\n\nUnquestionably fine as the views are along this road, on which you are\nat one time rolling smoothly over meadow or upland, with the great\nnorthern peak rising to its full height, or again toiling up a stony\nhill-side to obtain a much better idea of its real character and\nprodigious dimensions, the climax is reserved until, turning from the\nhighway, you begin a slow advance up the long hill-side that makes an\nalmost uninterrupted descent for five miles to the Androscoggin. Here\nI saw from a balcony what I had before seen from the ground-floor.\nThe view is large and expansive. You look down the surging land into\nthe Androscoggin. You look over among the mountains circling its\nhead, huddled together like a frightened herd. You look down into the\nvalley of the Moose, and through the gap in the great chain you again\nsee the valley of the Peabody and the Carter Notch. Now you hold the\ngreat northern peaks admiringly at arm's-length, as you would an old\nfriend. Putting an imaginary hand on each broad shoulder, you scan them\nfrom head to foot. They submit calmly and with condescension to your\nlengthened scrutiny. Presently the low sun floods them with royal purple\nand gilds the topmost crags with refined gold. You glance up the valley.\nThe little river comes like a stream of fire which the huge mountains\nseem crowding forward to trample out. Now look down. The same mountains\nseem spurning the glittering serpent away from their feet.\n\nKing's Ravine is as well seen from this point, perhaps, as any. It\nis a huge natural niche excavated high up the mountain. You see\neverything--grizzled spruces, blackened shafts of stone, rifted walls,\ntawny crags--all in one glance. It is formidable and forbidding, though\na way has been made through it by which to ascend Mount Adams. Now that\nthere is a good path skirting the ravine and avoiding it, that look will\nusually suffice to deter sensible people from attempting to reach the\nsummit by it. It is far better to descend into it and grope one's way\ndown through and underneath the bowlders. The same, and even greater,\nobstacles are encountered as in Tuckerman's. In early spring the walls\nof the ravine are streaked with slowly-melting snows. These gulches, all\nconverging toward the bottom, send a torrent roaring down with noise\nequal to surf on a hard sea-beach. This torrent is the principal source\nof the Moose.\n\nWell do I remember my first venture here. I had walked from Gorham.\nSeeing a man chopping wood by the side of the road, I entered into\nconversation with him; but at the first suggestion I let fall of an\nintention to climb to the ravine he gaped open-mouthed. To ascend\nthe brook to the ravine, the escarpment of the ravine to the high\nprecipices, the precipices to the gate-way, was an exploit in those\ndays. But this was long ago. A good climber now puts King's Ravine down\nin his list of excursions with the same nonchalance that a belle of the\nball-room enters an additional waltz on her card of engagements.[39]\n\nOne day I had fished along the Moose without success. Nothing could\ngive a better idea of a mountain stream than this one, fed by snows and\ngushing from the breached side of Mount Adams. But either the water was\ntoo cold or the trout too wary. They persistently refused my fly. I\ntried red and brown hackle, then a white moth-miller; all to no purpose.\nFeeling downright hungry, I determined to seek a dinner elsewhere.\nUnjointing my rod, I returned, rather crestfallen, down the mountain\ninto the road.\n\nI knocked at the first house. Pretty soon the curtain of the first\nwindow at my left hand was partly drawn aside. I felt that I was under\nthe fire of a pair of very black eyes. An instant after the door was\nhalf-opened by a woman past middle life, who examined me with a scared\nlook while wiping her hands on a corner of her apron. Two or three white\nheads peeped out from the folds of her dress like young chickens from\nthe old hen's wing, and as many pairs of widely-opened eyes surveyed me\nwith innocent surprise.\n\nPerceiving her confusion, I was on the point of asking some indifferent\nquestion, about the distance, the road--I knew not what--but my stomach\ngave me a twinge of disdain, and I stood my ground. Hunger has no\nconscience: honor was at stake. In two words I made known my wants, I\nconfess with confidence oozing away at my fingers' ends.\n\nHer confusion became still greater--so evident, indeed, that I took a\nbackward step and stammered, quite humbly, \"A hunch of bread-and-cheese\nor a cup of milk--\" when the good-wife nailed me to the threshold.\n\nQuoth she, \"The men folks have all _et_ their dinners, and there hain't\nno more meat; but if you could put up with a few trout?\"\n\nPut up with trout! Did I hear aright? The word made my mouth water.\nI softly repeated it to myself--\"Trout!\"--would I put up with trout?\nNot to lower myself in this woman's estimation, I replied that, seeing\nthere was nothing else in the house, I would put up with trout. Let it\nsuffice that I made a repast fit for a prince, and, like a prince, being\nserved by a bashful maiden with cheeks like the arbutus, which everybody\nknows shows its most delicate pink only in the seclusion of its native\nwoods.\n\nMy hours of leisure in Jefferson being numbered, having now made the\ncircuit of the great range by all the avenues penetrating or environing\nit, the reader's further indulgence is craved while his faithful guide\npoints his well-worn alpenstock to the last stage of our mountain\njourneys.\n\nBehold us at last, after many capricious wanderings, after calculated\navoidance, approaching the inevitable end. We are _en route_ for\nFabyan's by the road over Cherry Mountain. This road is twelve miles\nlong. As we mount with it the side of Cherry Mountain the beautiful\nvistas continually detain us. We are now climbing the eastern wall of\nthe valley, so long the prominent figure from the heights of Jefferson.\nWe now look back upon the finely-traced slopes of Starr King, with the\nvillage luxuriously extended in the sun. For some time we are like two\ntravellers going in opposite directions, but who turn again and again\nfor a last adieu. Now the forest closes over us and we see each other no\nmore.\n\nNoonday found me descending that side of the mountain overlooking the\nAmmonoosuc Valley. Where the Cherry Mountain road joins the valley\nhighway the White Mountain House, an old-time tavern, stands. The\nrailway passes close to its door. A mile more over the level brings us\nto Fabyan's, so called from one of the old mountain landlords, whose\nimmortality is thus assured. Now that mammoth caravansary, which seems\nall eyes, is reached just as the doors opening upon the great hall\ndisclose a long array of tables, while permitting a delicious odor to\nassail our nostrils.\n\nTo speak to the purpose, the Fabyan House really commands a superb front\nview of Mount Washington, from which it is not six miles in a bee-line.\nAll the southern peaks, among which Mount Pleasant is undoubtedly the\nmost conspicuous for its form and its mass, and for being thrown so\nboldly out from the rest, are before the admiring spectator; but the\nnorthern peaks, with the exception of Clay and Jefferson, are cut off\npartly by the slopes of Mount Deception, which rises directly before the\nhotel, partly by the trend of the great range itself to the north-east.\nThe view is superior from the neighborhood of the Mount Pleasant House,\nhalf a mile beyond Fabyan's, where Mount Jefferson is fully and finely\nbrought into the picture.\n\n[Illustration: MOUNT WASHINGTON, FROM FABYAN'S.]\n\nThe railway is seen mounting a foot-hill, crossing a second and\nhigher elevation, then dimly carved upon the massive flanks of Mount\nWashington itself, as far as the long ridge which ascends from the\nnorth in one unbroken slope. It is then lost. We see the houses upon\nthe summit, and from the Mount Pleasant House the little cluster of\nroofs at the base. A long and well-defined gully, exactly dividing the\nmountain, is frequently taken to be the railway, which is really much\nfarther to the left. The smoke of a train ascending or descending still\nfurther indicates the line of iron, which we admit to the category of\nestablished facts only under protest.\n\nSylvester Marsh, of Littleton, New Hampshire, was the man who dreamed\nof setting aside the laws of gravitation with a puff of steam. Like\nall really great inventions, his had to run the gauntlet of ridicule.\nWhen the charter for a railway to the summit of Mount Washington was\nbefore the Legislature a member moved that Mr. Marsh also have leave\nto build one to the moon. Had the motion prevailed, I am persuaded Mr.\nMarsh would have built it. Really, the project seemed only a little\nmore audacious. But in three years from the time work was begun (April,\n1866) the track was laid and the mountain in irons.[40] The summit which\nthe superstitious Indian dared not approach, nor the most intrepid\nwhite hunter ascend, is now annually visited by thousands, without more\nfatigue than would follow any other excursion occupying the same time.\nThe excitement of a first passage, the strain upon the nerves, is quite\nanother thing.\n\nIn a little grass-grown enclosure, on the other side of the Ammonoosuc,\nis a headstone bearing the following inscription:\n\n                              IN MEMORY OF\n                          CAP ELIEZER ROSBROOK\n                            WHO DIED SEP. 25\n                                  1817\n                             In the 70 Year\n                              Of His Age.\n\n    When I lie buried deep in dust,\n      My flesh shall be thy care\n    These withering limbs to thee I trust\n      To raise them strong and fair.\n\n                                 WIDOW\n                            HANNAH ROSEBROOK\n                            Died May 4, 1829\n                                Aged 84\n\nBlessed are the dead who die in the Lord. For they rest from their labors\n                    And their works do follow them.\n\nSo far as is known Rosebrook was the first white settler on this spot.\nOne account[41] says he came here in 1788, another fixes his settlement\nin 1792.[42] His military title appears to have been derived from\nservices rendered on the Canadian frontier during the Revolutionary\nWar. Rosebrook was a true pioneer, restless, adventurous, and fearless.\nHe was a man of large and athletic frame. From his home in Massachusetts\nhe had first removed to what is now Colebrook, then to Guildhall, Vt.,\nand lastly here, to Nash and Sawyer's Location, exchanging the comforts\nwhich years of toil had surrounded him with, abandoning the rich and\nfertile meadow-lands of the Connecticut, for a log-cabin far from any\nhuman habitation, and with no other neighbors than the bears and wolves\nthat prowled unharmed the shaggy wilderness at his door. With his axe\nthis sturdy yeoman attacked the forest closely investing his lonely\ncabin. Year by year, foot by foot, he wrested from it a little land\nfor tillage. With his gun he kept the beast of prey from his little\nenclosure, or provided venison or bear's meat for the wife and little\nones who anxiously awaited his return from the hunt. Hunger and they\nwere no strangers. For years the strokes of Rosebrook's axe, or the\ncrack of his rifle, were the only sounds that disturbed the silences\nof ages. Little by little the circle was enlarged. One after another\nthe giants of the forest fell beneath his blows. But years of resolute\nconflict with nature and with privation found him at last in the\nenjoyment of a dearly-earned prosperity. Travellers began to pass his\ndoors. The Great White Mountain Notch soon became a thoroughfare, which\ncould never have been safely travelled but for Rosebrook's intrepidity\nand Rosebrook's hospitality. In this way began the feeble tide of travel\nthrough these wilds. In this way the splendidly equipped hotel, with its\nthousands of guests the locomotive every hour brings to its door, traces\nits descent from the rude and humble cabin of Eleazer Rosebrook.\n\n\n\n\nX.\n\n_THE GREAT NORTHERN PEAKS._\n\n    Cradled and rocked by wind and cloud,\n    Safe pillowed on the summit proud,\n    Steadied by that encircling arm\n    Which holds the Universe from harm,\n    I knew the Lord my soul would keep,\n    Upon His mountain-tops asleep!\n             LUCY LARCOM.\n\n\nThus I found myself again at the base of Mount Washington, but on the\nreverse, opposed to the Glen. Before the completion of the railway from\nFabyan's to the foot of the mountain I had passed over the intervening\nsix miles by stage--a delightful experience; but one now steps on\nboard an open car, which in less than half the time formerly occupied\nleaves him at the point where the mountain car and engine wait for him.\nThe route lies along the foaming Ammonoosuc, and its justly admired\nfalls, cut deep through solid granite, into the uncouth and bristling\nwilderness which surrounds the base of the mountain. The peculiarity\nof these falls does not consist in long, abrupt descents of perturbed\nwater, but in the neatly excavated caves, rock-niches, and smoothly\nrounded cliffs and basins through which for some distance the impatient\nstream rears and plunges like a courser feeling the curb. Imperfect\nglimpses hardly give an idea of the curious and interesting processes\nof rock-cutting to one who merely looks down from the high banks above\nwhile the train is in rapid motion. It is better, therefore, to visit\nthese falls by way of the old turnpike.\n\nThe advance up the valley which has first given us an outlook through\nthe great Notch, on our right, presents for some time the huge green\nhemisphere of Mount Pleasant as the conspicuous object. The track then\nswerves to the left, bringing Mount Washington into view, and in a few\nminutes more we are at the ill-favored clump of houses and sheds at its\nbase.\n\n[Illustration: MOUNTAIN RAILWAY-STATION IN STAGING TIMES.]\n\nThe mechanism of the road-way is very simple. The track is formed of\nthree iron rails, firmly clamped to stout timbers, laid lengthwise upon\ntransverse pieces, or sleepers. These are securely embedded, where the\nsurface will allow, or raised upon trestles, where its inequalities\nwould compel a serious deflection from a smooth or regular inclination.\nOne of these, about half-way up the mountain, is called Jacob's Ladder.\nHere the train achieves the most difficult part of the ascent. After\ntraversing the whole line on foot, and inspecting it minutely and\nthoroughly, I can candidly pronounce it not only a marvel of mechanical\nskill, but bear witness to the scrupulous care taken to keep every\ntimber and every bolt in its place. In two words, the structure is\nnothing but a ladder of wood and iron laid upon the side of the\nmountain.[43]\n\nThe propelling force employed is equally simple. The engine and car\nmerely rest upon and are kept in place by the two outer rails, while\nthe power is applied to the middle one, which we have just called a\nrail, but is, more properly speaking, a little ladder of steel cogs,\ninto which the corresponding teeth of the locomotive's driving-wheel\nplay--a firm hold being thus secured. The question now merely is, how\nmuch power is necessary to overcome gravity and lift the weight of the\nmachine into the air? This cogged-rail is the fulcrum, and steam the\nlever. Mr. Sylvester Marsh has not precisely lifted the mountain, but he\nhas, nevertheless, with the aid of Mr. Walter Aiken, reduced it, to all\nintents, to a level.\n\nThe boiler of the locomotive, inclined forward so as to preserve a\nhorizontal position when the engine is ascending, the smoke-stack\nalso pitched forward, give the idea of a machine that has been in a\ncollision. Everything seems knocked out of place. But this queer-looking\nthing, that with bull-dog tenacity literally hangs on to the mountain\nwith its teeth, is capable of performing a feat such as Watt never\ndreamed of, or Stephenson imagined. It goes up the mountain as easily as\na bear climbs a tree, and like a bear.\n\nI had often watched the last ascension of the train, which usually\nreaches the summit at sunset, and I had as often pleased myself with\nconsidering whether it then most resembled a big, shining beetle\ncrawling up the mountain side, or some fiery dragon of the fabulous\ntimes, dragging his prey after him to his den, after ravaging the\nvalley. My own turn was now come to make the trial. It was a cold\nafternoon in September when I entered the little carriage, not much\nlarger than a street-car, and felt the premonitory jerk with which the\nascent begins. The first hill is so steep that you look up to see the\ntrack always mounting high above your head; but one soon gets used to\nthe novelty, and to the clatter which accompanies the incessant dropping\nof a pawl into the indentures of the cogged-rail, and in which he\nrecognizes an element of safety. The train did not move faster than one\ncould walk, but it moved steadily, except when it now and then stopped\nat a water-tank, standing solitary and alone upon the waste of rocks.\n\nBy the time we emerged above the forest into the chill and wind-swept\ndesolation above it--a first sight of which is so amazing--the sun\nhad set behind the Green Mountain summits, showing a long, serrated\nline of crimson peaks, above which clouds of lake floated in a sea\nof amber. It grew very cold. Great-coats and shawls were quickly\nput on. Thick darkness enveloped the mountain as we approached the\nhead of the profound gulf separating us from Mount Clay, which is the\nmost remarkable object seen at any time either during the ascent or\ndescent. Into this pitchy ravine, into its midnight blackness, a long\nand brilliant train of sparks trailed downward from the locomotive, so\nthat we seemed being transported heavenward in a chariot of fire. This\nflaming torch, lighting us on, now disclosed snow and ice on all sides.\nWe had successfully attained the last slope which conceals the railway\nfrom the valley. Up this the locomotive toiled and panted, while we\nwatched the stars come out and emit cold gleams around, above, beneath.\nThe light of the Summit House twinkled small, then grew large, as,\nsurmounting the last and steepest pitch of the pinnacle, we were pushed\nbefore a long row of lighted windows crusted thick with hoar-frost.\nStiffened with cold, the passengers rushed for the open door without\nceremony. In an instant the car was empty; while the locomotive,\ndripping with its unheard-of efforts, seemed to regard this desertion\nwith reproachful glances.\n\nReader, have you ever sat beside Mrs. Dodge's fire after such a passive\nascension as that just described? After a two hours' combat with the\ninstinct of self-preservation, did you dream of such comforts, luxuries\neven, awaiting you on the bleak mountain-top, where nothing grows, and\nwhere water even congeals and refuses to run? Could you, in the highest\nflights of fancy, imagine that you would one day sit in the courts of\nheaven, or feast sumptuously amid the stars? All this you either have\ndone or may do. And now, while the smartly-dressed waiter-girl, who\nseems to have donned her white apron as a personal favor, brings you the\nbest the larder affords, pinch yourself to see if you are awake.\n\nIn several ascensions by the railway I have always remarked the same\nsymptoms of uneasiness among the passengers, betrayed by pale faces,\ncompressed lips, hands tightening their grasp of the chairs, or subdued\nand startled exclamations, quickly repressed. To escape the influence of\nsuch weird surroundings one should be absolutely stolid--a stock or a\nstone. So for all it is an experience more or less acute, according to\nhis sensibility, strength of nerve, and power of self-control. However\nwell it may be disguised, the strong equally with the weak, and more\ndeeply than the weak, feel the strain which ninety minutes' combat with\ngravitation, attraction, ponderosity, engenders. The mind does not for a\nsingle instant quit its hold of this defiance of Nature's laws. As long\nas iron and steel hold fast, there is no danger; but you think iron and\nsteel are iron and steel, and no more. An anecdote will illustrate this\nfeeling.\n\nAfter pointing out to a lady-passenger the skilful devices for stopping\nthe engine--the pawl, the steam, and the atmospheric brakes--and after\npatiently explaining their mechanism and uses, the listener asked the\nconductor, with much interest,\n\n\"Then, if the pawl breaks while we are going up?\"\n\n\"The engine will be stopped by means of these powerful brakes, applied\ndirectly to the axles, which will, of course, render the train\nmotionless. As the locomotive has two driving-wheels, the engineer can\nbring a double power to bear, as you see. Each is independent of the\nother, so that if one gives way the other is still more than sufficient\nto keep the engine stationary.\"\n\n\"Thank you; but the car?\"\n\n\"Oh, the car is not attached to the engine at all; and should the\nengineer lose the control of his machine, which is not at all likely,\nthe car can be brought to a stand-still by independent brakes of its\nown. You see the engine goes up behind, and in front, down; and the car\nis simply pushed forward, or follows it.\"\n\n\"So that you consider it--.\"\n\n\"Perfectly safe, madam, perfectly safe.\"\n\n\"Thank you. One question more. Suppose all these things break at once.\nWhat then? Where would we go?\"\n\n\"That, madam, would depend on what sort of a life you had led.\"\n\nI have still a consolation for the timid. Ten years' trial has confirmed\nthe declaration of its projectors, that they would make the road as safe\nor safer than the ordinary railway. No life has been lost by an injury\nto a passenger during that time. Besides, what is the difference? After\nits day, the railway will pass like the stage-coach--that is, unless you\nbelieve, as you do not, that the world and all progress are to stop with\nourselves.\n\n[Illustration: ASCENT BY THE RAILWAY.]\n\nThe affable lady hostess told me that she paid an annual rental of ten\nthousand dollars for her palace of ice; nominally for a year, but really\nfor a term of only seventy-six days, this being the limit of the season\nupon the summit. During the remaining two hundred and eighty-nine\ndays the house is closed. During four or five months it is buried, or\nhalf-buried, in a snow-drift. Of this large sum, three thousand dollars\ngo to the Pingree heirs. These facts may tend to modify the views of\nthose who think the charges exorbitant, if such there are.\n\nRaising my eyes to look out of the window, the light from within\nfell upon a bank of snow. A man was stooping over it as if in search\nof something. Going out, I found him feeling it with his hands, and\nexamining it with childish wonder and curiosity. I approached this\neccentric person very softly; but he, seeing my shadow on the snow\nbeside him, looked up.\n\n\"Can I assist you in recovering what you have lost?\" I inquired.\n\n\"Thank you; no. I have lost nothing. Ah! I see,\" he continued, laughing\nquietly, \"you think I have lost my wits. But it is not so. I am a native\nof the East Indies, and I assure you this is the first time in my life I\nhave ever seen snow near enough to handle it. Imagine what an experience\nthe ascent of Mount Washington is for me!\"\n\nWe took a turn down the hard-frozen Glen road together in order to see\nthe moon come up. The telegraph-poles, fantastically crusted with ice to\nthe thickness of a foot, stretched a line of white-hooded phantoms down\nthe dark side of the mountain. From successive coatings of frozen mist\nthe wires were as thick as cables. Couches of snow lay along the rocks,\nand fresh snow had apparently been rubbed into all the inequalties of\nthe cliffs rising out of the Great Gulf. The scene was supremely weird,\nsupremely desolate.\n\nFrom here we crossed over to the railway, and, ascending by it, shortly\ncame upon the heap of stones, surmounted by its tablet, erected on\nthe spot where Miss Bourne perished while ascending the mountain, in\nSeptember, 1855. The party, of which she was one, setting out in high\nspirits in the afternoon from the Glen House, was overtaken near the\nsummit by clouds, which hid the house from view, and among which they\nbecame bewildered. It was here Miss Bourne declared she could go no\nfarther. Overcome by her exertions, she sunk exhausted and fainting\nupon the rocks. Her friends were scarcely awakened to her true\ncondition when, amid the surrounding darkness and gloom, this young\nand lovely maiden of only twenty expired in the arms of her uncle. The\nmourners wrapped the body in their own cloaks, and, ignorant that a\nfew rods only separated them from the summit, kept a vigil throughout\nthe long and weary night. We hasten over this night of dread. In the\nmorning, discovering their destination a few rods above them, they bore\nthe lifeless form of their companion to it with feelings not to be\ndescribed. A rude bier was made, and she who had started up the mountain\nfull of life now descended it a corpse.\n\nThe evening treated us to a magnificent spectacle. The moon, in\nfull-orbed splendor, moved majestically up the heavens, attended by her\nglittering retinue of stars. Frozen peaks, reflecting the mild radiance,\nshone like beaten silver. But the immense hollows between, the deep\nvalleys that had been open to view, were now inundated with a white and\nluminous vapor, from which the multitude of icy summits emerged like a\nvast archipelago--a sea of islands. This spectral ocean seemed on the\npoint of ingulfing the mountains. This motionless sea, these austere\npeaks, uprising, were inconceivably weird and solemnizing. An awful hush\npervaded the inanimate but threatening host of cloud-girt mountains.\nUpon them, upon the sea of frozen vapor, absorbing its light, the clear\nmoon poured its radiance. The stars seemed nearer and brighter than\never before. The planets shone with piercing brilliancy; they emitted\na sensible light. The Milky Way, erecting its glittering nebula to the\nzenith, to which it was pinned by a dazzling star, floated, a glorious,\nstar-spangled veil, amid this vast sea of gems. One could vaguely catch\nthe idea of an unpeopled desolation rising from the fathomless void of\na primeval ocean. The peaks, incased in snow and ice, seemed stamped\nwith the traces of its subsidence. Pale and haggard, they lifted their\nantique heads in silent adoration.\n\nGoing to my room and extinguishing the light, I stood for some time\nat the window, unable to reconcile the unwonted appearance of the\nstars shining far below, with the fixed idea that they ought not to be\nthere. Yet there they were. To tell the truth, my head was filled with\nthe surpassing pomp I had just witnessed, of which I had not before\nthe faintest conception. I felt as if I was silently conversing with\nall those stars, looking at me and my petty aspirations with such\ninflexible, disdainful immobility. When one feels that he is nothing,\nself-assurance is no great thing. The conceit is taken out of him. On a\nmountain the man stands naked before his Maker. He is nothing. That is\nwhy I leave him there.\n\nThat night I did not sleep a wink. Twenty times I jumped out of bed and\nran to the window to convince myself that it was not all a dream. No;\nmoon and stars were still bright. Over the Great Gulf, all ghastly in\nthe moonlight, stood Mount Jefferson in his winding-sheet. I dressed\nmyself, and from the embrasure of my window kept a vigil.\n\nSunrise did not produce the startling effect I had anticipated. The\nmorning was fine and cloudless. A gong summoned the inmates of the\nhotel to the spectacle. Without dressing themselves, they ran to their\nwindows, where, wrapped in bed-blankets, they stood eagerly watching the\neast. To the pale emerald of early dawn a ruddy glow succeeded. Before\nwe were aware, the rocky waste around us grew dusky red. The crimsoned\nair glided swiftly over the neighboring summits. Now the brightness\nwas upon Adams and Jefferson and Clay, and now it rolled its purpled\nflood into the Great Gulf, to mingle with the intense blackness at the\nbottom. For some moments the mountain-tops held the color, then it was\ntransfused into the clear sunshine of open day; while the vapors, heavy\nand compact, stretched along the valleys, still smothering the land,\nretained their leaden hue.\n\nIt was still early when I descended the carriage-road on my way to Mount\nAdams. The usual way is to keep the railway as far as the old Gulf Tank,\nnear which is a house of refuge, provided with a cooking-stove, fuel,\nand beds. I continued, however, to coast the upper crags of the Great\nGulf, until compelled to make directly for the southern peak of Mount\nClay. The view from this _col_ is imposing, embracing at once, and\nwithout turning the head, all the southern summits of the chain. Here I\nwas joined by two travellers fresh from Mont Blanc and the Matterhorn.\n\nEach choosing a route for himself, we pushed on to the high summit of\nClay, from which we looked down into the deep gap dividing this mountain\nfrom Jefferson. Arrived there, we resolutely attacked the eastern slopes\nof this fine peak, whose notched summit rose more than seven hundred and\nfifty feet above our heads. Patches of Alpine grasses, of reindeer-moss,\ninterspersed with irregular ridges of stones, extended quite up to the\nsummit, which was a mere elongated stone-heap crowning the apex of its\ncone. Those undulating masses encircling its bulk, half hid among the\ngrass, were like an immense python crushing the mountain in its deadly\nfolds. We picked our way carefully among this chaotic d\u00e9bris, which the\nSwiss aptly call \"cemeteries of the devil,\" tripping now and then in the\nlong, wiry grass, or burying our feet among the hummocks of dry moss,\nwhich were so many impediments to rapid progress. This appearance and\nthis experience were common to the whole route.\n\nAt each summit we threw ourselves upon the ground, to feast upon the\nlandscape while regaining breath. Each halt developed more and more\nthe grand and stupendous mass of Washington receding from the depths\nof the Great Gulf, along whose edge the carriage-road serpentined\nand finally disappeared. We saw, a little softened by distance, the\nhorribly mutilated crags of the head wall stripped bare of all verdure,\npresenting on its knobbed agglomerates of tempest-gnawed granite a\nthousand eye-catching points and detaining as many shadows. Nothing--not\neven the glittering leagues of mountains and valleys shooting or\nslumbering above, beneath--so riveted the attention as this apparently\nbottomless pit of the five mountains. It was a continued wonder. It drew\nus by a strange magnetism to its dizzy brink, chained us there, and\nthen abandoned us to a physical and moral vertigo, in which the power\nof critical investigation was lost. An invisible force seemed always\ndragging us toward it. Whence comes this horrible, this uncontrollable\ndesire to throw ourselves in?\n\nOut of the death-like torpor which eternally shrouds the ravine\nthe smiling valley seems escaping. The crystal air of the heights\ngrows thick in its depths. Beasts and birds of prey haunt its gloomy\nsolitudes. An immense grave seems yawning to receive the mountains. The\naged mountains seem standing with one foot in the grave.\n\nThis gulf makes an impression altogether different from the others.\nIt is an immense ravine. Each of the five mountains pushes down into\nit massive buttresses of granite, forming lesser ravines between of\nconsiderable extent. Through these streams trickle down from invisible\nsources. But these buttresses, which fall lightly and gracefully as\nfolds of velvet from summit to base of the highest mountains, these\nravines, are hardly noticed. The insatiable maw of the gulf swallows\nthem as easily as an anaconda a rabbit. In immensity, which you do not\neasily grasp, in grandeur, which you do not know how to measure, this\nhas no partakers here. Even the great Carter Mountain, rising from the\nPeabody Valley, seems no more than a stone rolled away from the entrance\nof this enormous sepulchre.\n\nOur first difficulties were encountered upon the reverse of Mount\nJefferson, from whose side rocky spurs detached themselves, and, jutting\nout from the side of the mountain, formed an irregular line of cliffs\nof varying height, in the way we had selected for the descent. But\nthese were no great affair. We now had the Ravine of the Castles upon\nour left, the stately pyramid of Adams in front, and, beneath, the deep\nhollow between this mountain and the one we were descending. We had the\nlittle hamlet of East Jefferson at the mouth of the ravine, and that\ncrowd of peaks, tightly wedged between the waters of the Connecticut and\nthe Androscoggin, looming above it.\n\nA deviation to the left enabled us to approach the Castellated Ridge,\nwhich is, beyond dispute, the most extraordinary rock-formation the\nwhole extent of the range can show. As it is then fully before you, it\nis seen to much better advantage when approached from Mount Adams. I\ndo not know who gave it this name, but none could be more felicitous\nor expressive. It is a sloping ridge of red-brown granite, broken at\nits summit into a long line of picturesque towers and battlements,\nrising threateningly over an escarpment of d\u00e9bris. Such an illusion is\ntoo rarely encountered to be easily forgotten. It is hardly possible\nto doubt you are really looking at an antique ruin. One would like to\nwander among these pre-Adamite fortifications, which curiously remind\nhim of the old Spanish fortresses among the Pyrenees. From the opposite\nside of the ravine--for I had not the time requisite for a closer\nexamination--the rock composing the most elevated portion of the ridge\nappears to have been split perpendicularly down, probably by frost,\nallowing these broken columns and shafts to stand erect upon the verge\nof the abyss. In the warm afternoon light, when the shadows fall, it is\nhardly possible to conceive a finer picture of a crumbling but still\nformidable mountain fortress. Bastions and turrets stand boldly out.\nEach broken shaft sends a long shadow streaming down into the ravine,\nwhose high and deeply-furrowed sides are thus beautifully striped with\ndusk-purple, while the sunlit parts retain a greenish-gray.\n\nAt the foot of Jefferson we found, concealed among rushes, a spring,\nwhich refreshed us like wells of the desert the parched and fainting\nArab. From here two routes offered themselves. One was by keeping the\ncurved ridge, rising gradually to a subordinate peak (Samuel Adams),[44]\nand to the foot of the summit itself; a second was by crossing the\nground sloping downward from this ridge into the Great Gulf. We chose\nthe latter, notwithstanding the dwarf-spruce, advancing well up to the\nfoot of the ridge, promised a warm reception.\n\n[Illustration: THE CASTELLATED RIDGE.]\n\nAt last, after sustaining a vigorous tussle with the scrub-firs, and\nstopping to unearth a brook whose waters purred underneath stones,\nI stood at the foot of the pointed shaft I had so often seen wedged\ninto the sky. Five hundred feet or more of the apex of this pyramid\nis apparently formed of broken rocks, dropped one by one into place.\nNothing like a ledge or a cliff is to be seen: only these ponderous,\nsharp-edged masses of cold gray stone, lifted one above another to the\ntapering point. Up this mutilated pyramid we began a slow advance. It\nwas necessary to carefully choose one step before taking another, in\norder to avoid plunging into the deep crevasses traversing the peak in\nevery direction. At last I placed my foot upon the topmost crag.\n\nNo one can help regarding this peak with the open admiration which is\nits due. You conceive that every mountain ought to have a pinnacle.\nWell, here it is. We could easily have stood astride the culminating\npoint. But how came these rocks here? and what was the primitive\nstructure, if these fragments we see are its relics? One hardly believes\nthat an ice-raft could have first transported and then deposited such\nmisshapen masses in their present symmetrical form. Still less does\nhe admit that the original shaft, crushed in a thousand pieces by\nthe glacier itself, fell with such grace as to rise again, as he now\nsees it, from its own ruins. If, again, it proceeds from the eternal\nhammering of King Frost, what was the antique edifice that first rose so\nproudly above the frozen seas of the great primeval void? But to science\nthe things which belong to science. We have a book describing heaven,\nbut not one that resolves the problems of earth. The \"_Veni, vidi,\nvici,_\" of the Book of Genesis leaves us at the beginning. We are still\nstaring, still questioning, still vacillating between this theory and\nthat hypothesis.[45]\n\nWe had from the summit an inspiring though not an extensive view. A\nbank of dun-colored smoke smirched the fair western sky as high as the\nsummits of the Green Mountains. At fifty miles mountains and valleys\nmelted confusedly into each other. Water emitted only a dull glimmer.\nHere a peak and there a summit surveyed us from afar. All else was\nintangible; almost imaginary. At twenty-five miles the land, resuming\nits ordinary appearance, was bathed in the soft brilliance caused by the\nsun shining through an atmosphere only half transparent.\n\nUpon this obscure mass we traced once more the well-known objects\nenvironing the great mountain. To the south Mount Washington divided\nthe landscape in two. For some time we stood admiring its magnificent\n_torso_, its amplitude of rock-land, its easy preponderance over every\nother summit. Again we followed the road down the great north-east\nspur. Once more we caught the white specks which denote the line of\nthe railway. We plunged our eyes down into the Great Gulf, and lifted\nthem to the shattered protuberances of Clay, which seemed to mark the\nroute where the glacier crushed and ground its way through the very\ncentre of the chain. A second time we descended Jefferson to the deep\ndip, opening like a trough between two enormous sea-waves, where we\nfirst saw the little Storm Lake glistening. Following now the long,\nrocky ridge, rolling downward toward the hamlets of Jefferson and\nRandolph, the mountains yawned wide at our feet. We were looking over\ninto King's Ravine--to its very bottom. We peered curiously into its\nremotest depths, traced the difficult and breathless ascent through\nthe remarkable natural gateway at its head out upon a second ridge,\non which a little pond (Star Lake) lies hid. We then crossed the gap\ncommunicating with Mount Madison, whose summit, last and lowest of the\ngreat northern peaks, dominates the Androscoggin Valley with undisputed\nsway. To-day it made on us scarcely an impression. Its peak, which from\nthe valley holds a rough similitude with that of Adams, is dwarfed here.\nYou look down upon it.\n\nMore applicable to Adams than to any other, for our eyes grow dazzled\nwith the glitter and sparkle of countless mica-flakes incrusting the\nhard granite with clear brilliancy as from the facets of a diamond; more\napplicable, again, from the stern, unconquerable attitude of the great\ngray shaft itself, lifted in such conscious pride beyond the confines\nof the vast ethereal vault of blue--a tower of darkness invading the\nbright realms of light; a defiance flung by earth in the face of high\nheaven--is the magnificent description of the Matterhorn from the pen of\nRuskin:\n\n\"If one of these little flakes of mica-sand, hurried in tremulous\nspangling along the bottom of the ancient river, too light to sink,\ntoo faint to float, almost too small for sight, could have had a mind\ngiven to it as it was at last borne down with its kindred dust into\nthe abysses of the stream, and laid (would it not have thought?) for a\nhopeless eternity in the dark ooze, the most despised, forgotten, and\nfeeble of all earth's atoms; incapable of any use or change; not fit,\ndown there in the diluvial darkness, so much as to help an earth-wasp\nto build its nest, or feed the first fibre of a lichen--what would it\nhave thought had it been told that one day, knitted into a strength as\nof imperishable iron, rustless by the air, infusible by the flame, out\nof the substance of it, with its fellows, the axe of God should hew that\nAlpine tower;--that against _it_--poor, helpless mica-flake!--the snowy\nhills should lie bowed like flocks of sheep, and the kingdoms of the\nearth fade away in unregarded blue; and around it--weak, wave-drifted\nmica-flake!--the great war of the firmament should burst in thunder, and\nyet stir it not; and the fiery arrows and angry meteors of the night\nfall blunted back from it into the air; and all the stars in the clear\nheaven should light, one by one, as they rose, new cressets upon the\npoints of snow that fringed its abiding-place on the imperishable spire!\"\n\nMyself and my companions set out on our return to the Summit House early\nin the afternoon, choosing this time the ridge in preference to the\nscrubby slope. From this we turned away, at the end of half an hour,\nby an obscure path leading to a boggy pool, sunk in a mossy hollow\nunderneath it, crossed the area of scattered bowlders, strewn all around\nlike the relics of a petrified tempest, and, filling our cups at the\nspring, drank to Mount Adams, the paragon of mountain peaks.\n\nAs we again approached the brow of Mount Washington the sun resembled\na red-hot globe of iron flying through the west and spreading a\nconflagration through the heavens. Again the colossal shadow of the\nmountain began its stately ascension in the east. One moment the burning\neye of the great luminary interrogated this phantom, sprung from the\nloins of the hoary peak. Then it dropped heavily down behind the Green\nMountains, as it has done for thousands of years, the landscape fading,\nfading into one vast, shadowy abyss, out of which arose the star-lit\ndome of the august summit.\n\n\n\n\nTOURIST'S APPENDIX.\n\nPREPARED FOR \"THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS.\"\n\n\nGEOGRAPHY.--The White Mountains are in the northern central part of the\nState of New Hampshire. They occupy the whole area of the State between\nMaine and Vermont, and between Lake Winnipiseogee and the head-streams\nof the Connecticut and Androscoggin rivers.\n\nTwo principal chains, having a general direction from south-west to\nnorth-east, constitute this great water-shed of New England. These are\nthe Franconia and the White Mountains proper, sometimes called the\n\"Presidential Range.\"\n\nGrouped on all sides of the higher summits are a great number of\ninferior ridges, among which, as in the Sandwich Range, rise some very\nfine peaks, widely extending the mountainous area, and diversifying it\nwith numerous valleys, lakes, and streams.\n\nTwo principal rivers, the Saco and Merrimack, flowing from these two\nchief clusters, form the two great valleys of the White Mountain system;\nand by these valleys the railways enter the mountains from the seaboard.\nLake Winnipiseogee, which washes the southern foot of the mountains,\nis also a thoroughfare, as are the valleys of the Connecticut and\nAndroscoggin rivers.\n\nDISTANCES.--It is 430 miles from Philadelphia to Fabyan's; 340 from New\nYork, _via_ Springfield; 190 from Montreal, _via_ Newport; 208 _via_\nGroveton; 169 from Boston, _via_ North Conway (Eastern R.R.); 208 _via_\nConcord (B., C., & M. R.R.); 91 from Portland, _via_ North Conway (P.\n& O. R.R.); 91 from Portland to Gorham (G. T. R.); 199 from Boston to\nGorham, _via_ Eastern and Grand Trunk roads; and 206 _via_ Boston and\nMaine and Grand Trunk roads.\n\nROUTES.--Procure, before starting, the official time-tables of the\nrailroads running to the mountains or making direct connection with\nthem, by application to local agents, by writing to the ticket-agents of\nthe roads, or by consulting a railway guide-book. The roads reaching the\nmountains are--\n\nFrom Washington: The Pennsylvania, and New York & New England.\n\nFrom Philadelphia: The Pennsylvania, and New York & New England.\n\nFrom Montreal: The Grand Trunk, and The South-eastern.\n\nFrom Quebec: The Grand Trunk Railway.\n\nFrom Saratoga: The Delaware & Hudson Canal Co.\n\nFrom New York: New York, New Haven, & Hartford (all rail _via_\nSpringfield, White River Junction, and Wells River to Fabyan's; or all\nrail _via_ Springfield, Worcester, Nashua, and Concord, N. H.; or all\nrail _via_ \"Shore Line,\" Boston & Albany, or New York & New England\nroads to Boston); or by Fall River, Norwich, or Stonington \"Sound Lines\"\nto Boston; thence by either of the following railroads:\n\n[Illustration: JACOBS LADDER, MOUNT WASHINGTON RAILWAY.]\n\nFrom Boston: Eastern R.R., _via_ Beverly (18 miles, branch to Cape Ann);\nHampton (46 miles, Boar's Head and Rye Beaches); Portsmouth (56 miles,\nNewcastle and Isles of Shoals and York Beach); Kittery (57 miles);\nWolfborough Junction (98 miles, branch to Lake Winnipiseogee); North\nConway (138 miles; connects with Portland and Ogdensburg); Intervale\n(139 miles); Glen Station (144 miles, for Jackson and Glen House);\nCrawford's (165 miles); Fabyan's (169 miles; connects with B., C., & M.\nfor Summit of Mount Washington, Bethlehem, Profile House, and Jefferson;\nor by same route to Portland, thence by P. & O. R.R. to North Conway, or\nGrand Trunk Railway to Gorham).\n\nBoston, Lowell & Concord, and Boston, Concord & Montreal Railroads,\n_via_ Lowell (26 miles); Nashua, Manchester, Concord (75 miles);\nPlymouth (123 miles); Woodsville (166 miles, Wells River); Littleton\n(185 miles, for Sugar Hill); Wing Road (192 miles, branch to Jefferson);\nBethlehem (196 miles, branch road to Profile House, also to \"Maplewood,\"\nand Bethlehem Street); Twin Mountain House, Fabyan's (208 miles, branch\nto Summit of Mount Washington, 217 miles); connects at Fabyan's with P.\n& O. and Eastern roads for North Conway, Portland, and Boston.\n\nBoston & Maine R.R. _via_ Lawrence (26 miles); Haverhill, Exeter (50\nmiles); Dover (68 miles); Rochester (78 miles); Alton Bay (96 miles),\nconnecting with steamer for Wolfborough and Centre Harbor, on Lake\nWinnipiseogee; or by the same road to Portland, thence by P. & O. to\nNorth Conway and Fabyan's, or Grand Trunk to Gorham and Glen House.\n\nFrom Portland: Portland & Ogdensburg R.R. via Sebago Lake (17 miles);\nFryeburg (49 miles); Conway Centre, North Conway (60 miles); Glen\nStation (66 miles, Jackson and Glen House); Bartlett (72 miles);\nCrawford's (87 miles); Fabyan's (91 miles; connects with B., C., & M.\nR.R. for Summit of Mount Washington, Bethlehem, Profile House, Sugar\nHill, Jefferson, etc.).\n\nGrand Trunk Railway: Danville Junction (27 miles); Bethel (70 miles);\nShelburne (86 miles); Gorham (91 miles, for Glen House).\n\nA good way to do the mountains by rail is to buy an excursion-ticket\nover the route entering on the west, and, passing through, leave them\nby the roads on the east side via Boston or Portland, or _vice versa_.\nAt Fabyan's, where the two great routes meet, the traveller coming from\neither direction may pursue his journey without delay. From _Boston to\nBoston_, _Portland to Portland_, there is continuous rail without going\ntwice over the same line.\n\n_Lake Winnipiseogee._--At Alton Bay, Wolfborough, and Weirs steamer is\ntaken for Centre Harbor, at the head of the lake. Here the traveller may\neither take the daily stages for West Ossipee (E. R.R.) or steamer to\nWeirs (B., C., & M.), and thus be again on the direct rail routes.\n\nHOW TO CHOOSE A LOCATION.--Do you wish a quiet retreat, off the\ntravelled routes, where you may have rest and seclusion, or do you\ndesire to fix yourself in a position favorable to exploring the whole\nmountain region?\n\nIn either case consult (1) some friend who has visited the mountains;\n(2), consult the maps in this volume; (3), consult the landlord in any\nplace you may fancy for a limited or a lengthened residence; (4), apply\nto the agents of the Eastern, Portland, & Ogdensburg, Boston, Concord, &\nMontreal, Boston & Maine, or Grand Trunk Railways, for books or folders\ncontaining a list of the mountain hotels reached by their lines, and the\ncharge for board by the day and week. (The Eastern, and B., C., & M.\nprint revised lists every year, for gratuitous distribution.)\n\nWolfborough, Weirs, Centre Harbor, and Sandwich (all on or near\nLake Winnipiseogee); Blair's, Sanborn's, Campton Village, Thornton,\nand Woodstock, in the Pemigewasset Valley; Tamworth, Conway Corner,\nFryeburg, the Intervale (North Conway), Jackson, the Glen House, Bethel\n(Me.), Shelburne, Randolph, East Jefferson, Jefferson Hill, Lancaster,\nLittleton, Franconia, Sugar Hill, Haverhill, and Newbury (Vt.)--all come\nwithin the category first named; while the second want will be supplied\nat such points as North Conway, Crawford's, Fabyan's, Twin Mountain\nHouse, Bethlehem, and the Profile House. North Conway and Bethlehem are\nthe keys to the whole mountain region. Fabyan's and the Glen House are\nthe proper points from which to ascend Mount Washington.\n\nTo aid in locating these places on the map, refer constantly to the\nIndex at the end of the volume.\n\nLeaving Boston or Portland in the morning, any of the points named may\nbe reached in from four to eight hours.\n\nHINTS FOR TOURISTS.--Select your destination, if possible, in advance;\nand if you require apartments, telegraph to the hotel where you mean\nto stop, giving the number of persons in your party, thus avoiding\nthe disappointment of arriving, at the end of a long journey, at an\nover-crowded hotel.\n\n[Illustration: U. S. METEOROLOGICAL STATION, MOUNT WASHINGTON, IN\nSUMMER.]\n\nShould you fix upon a particular locality for a long or short stay,\nwrite to one (or more) of the landlords for terms, etc.; and if his\nhouse is off the line of railway, inform him of the day and train you\nmean to take, so that he may meet you with a carriage at the nearest\nstation. But if you do not go upon the day named, remember to notify the\nlandlord.\n\nAlways take some warm woollen clothing (inside and outside) for mountain\nascensions. It is unsafe to be without it in any season, as the nights\nare usually cool even in midsummer.\n\nFrom the middle of June to the middle of October is the season of\nmountain travel. The best views are obtained in June, September, and\nOctober. From the middle of September to the middle of October the air\nis pure and invigorating, the mountain forests are then in a blaze of\nautumnal splendor, the cascades are finer, and out-of-door jaunts are\nless fatiguing than in July and August.\n\nShould you wish merely to make a rapid tour of the mountain region, it\nwill be best so to arrange your route before starting that the first day\nwill bring you where there is something to be seen, to a comfortable\nhotel, and from which your journey may be continued with an economy of\ntime and money.\n\nThe three journeys described in this volume will enable you to see all\nthat is most desirable to be seen; but the excellent facilities for\ntraversing the mountains render it immaterial whether these routes\nare precisely followed, taken in their reverse order, or adopted as\na general plan, with such modifications as the tourist's time or\ninclination may suggest.\n\nUpon arriving at his destination the traveller naturally desires to\nuse his time to the best advantage possible. But he is ignorant how to\ndo this. \"What shall I do?\" \"Where shall I go?\" are the two questions\nthat confront him. Let us suppose him arrived, first, at NORTH\nCONWAY.\n\nAs he stands gazing up the Saco Valley, Moat Mountain is on his left,\nKearsarge at his right, and Mount Washington in front. (Refer to the\nChapter and Index articles on North Conway.) The high cliffs on the side\nof Moat are called the Ledges. This glorious view may be improved by\ngoing a mile up the railroad, or highway, to the Intervale. The Ledges\ncontain the local celebrities. Taking a carriage, or walking, one may\nvisit them in an afternoon, seeing in turn Echo Lake, the Devil's Den,\nthe Cathedral, and Diana's Baths. The picturesque bits of river, meadow,\nand mountain seen going and returning will make the way seem short, and\nare certain to detain the artistic traveller. Artists' Falls, on the\nopposite side of the valley, will repay a visit, if the stream is in\ngood condition. Artists' Brook, on which these falls are, runs from the\nhills east of the village. A carriage-road leads to the Artists' Falls\nHouse, from which a short walk brings one to the falls. This excursion\nwill require not more than two hours. Then there are the drives to\nKearsarge village, under the mountain, and back by the Intervale; to\nJackson, over Thorn Hill, and back by Goodrich Falls (three to four\nhours each); to Bartlett Bowlder, by the west, and back by the east side\nof the valley; to Fryeburg and Mount Chocorua--the last two requiring\neach half a day at least. The ascent of Kearsarge (from Kearsarge\nvillage) or of the Moats (from Diana's Baths) each demands a day to\nitself. But by starting early in the morning a good climber may ascend\nand descend Kearsarge, getting back to the village by two o'clock in the\nafternoon.\n\n_At the Intervale_ he can easily repeat all these experiences, as this\nis a suburb of North Conway. Let him take his first stroll over the\nmeadows to the river, or among the grand old pines in the forest near\nthe railway station, while preparing for more extended excursions.\n\n_At Glen Station._--While waiting for the luggage to be put on, if the\nday is perfectly clear, the traveller, by going up the track a few\nrods, to the bridge over the Ellis, may get a glimpse of the summit of\nMount Washington, with the hotel upon the apex; also of Carter Notch.\nOn the way to Jackson he will pass over Goodrich Falls by a bridge. He\nshould not fail to remark the fine cliffs of Iron Mountain, at his left\nhand, before entering the village. Should he be _en route_ for the Glen\nHouse, let him be on the lookout for the Giant's Stairs, on the left,\nafter leaving Jackson, and then for the grand view of Pinkham Notch,\nwith Mount Washington at the left, about four miles beyond Jackson. The\nsummit of Spruce Hill--the scene of the highway robbery in 1881--is the\ntop of the long rise beyond the bridge over Ellis River.\n\n_At Jackson_ we have moved eight miles nearer Mount Washington, in\nthe direction of the Glen House (12 miles) and Gorham (20 miles), and\nalso toward the Carter Notch, distant from the village 9 miles. The\nexcursions back to North Conway are similar to those described from\nthat place. The first thing to do here is to stroll up the Wildcat, and\npass an hour or two among the falls on this stream, which begin at the\nvillage. A walk or drive up this valley to Fernald's Farm, and back\nby the opposite side, or over Thorn Hill, are two tempting half-day\nexcursions. In an hour one may walk to Goodrich Falls (road to Glen\nStation) and back to the village. He may start after breakfast, and\ndrive to Glen Ellis Falls (road to Glen House), eight miles, returning\nto the hotel for dinner; or, lunching at Glen Ellis, go on one mile\nfarther to the Crystal Cascade; then, dining at the Glen House (3\nmiles), return at leisure. But it is a mistake to take two such pieces\nof water in one day. The pedestrian whose base is Jackson, and who\nmakes this trip, should pass the night at the Glen House and return by\nthe Carter Notch, the distance being about the same as by the highway.\nBut he should never try this alone, for fear of a disabling accident.\nOr he may take the Glen House stage at Jackson early in the afternoon,\nand, letting it drop him at Glen Ellis, make his own way to the hotel\n(4 miles) on foot, after a visit to the falls. Apply to Mr. Osgood, the\nveteran guide, at the Glen House, for services, or directions how to\nenter the Carter Notch from the Glen House side; and to Jock Davis, who\nlives at the head of the Wildcat Valley, if going in from the Jackson\nside.\n\nLadies who are accustomed to walking can reach Carter Notch with a\nlittle help now and then from the gentlemen. But the fatigue of going\nand returning on the same day would be too great. A party could enter\nthe Notch in the afternoon, pass the night in Davis's comfortable cabin,\nand return the next morning. The path in is much easier and plainer from\nthe Jackson than from the Glen House side; but there is no difficulty\nabout keeping either. Davis will take up everything necessary for\ncamping out, except food, which may be procured at your hotel before\nstarting. There is plenty of water in the Notch.\n\n_At the Glen House_ one may finish the afternoon by walking back a mile\non the Jackson road to the Emerald Pool; or, if he is in the vein, go\none mile farther on to Thompson's Falls, and, ascending to the top, look\nover the forest into Tuckerman's Ravine. The Crystal Cascade (3 miles)\nand Glen Ellis (4 miles) from the hotel, ought to occupy half a day, but\nthree hours (driving) will suffice, if one is in a hurry. The drive to\nJackson, or march into the Notch, are just noted under Jackson. To go\ninto Tuckerman's Ravine by the Crystal Cascade, or by Thompson's Path\n(Mount Washington carriage-road), will take a whole day. Ladies have\nbeen into Tuckerman's; but the trial cannot be recommended except for\nthe most vigorous and courageous. The Appalachian Club has a camp near\nHermit Lake, where a party going into the ravine in the afternoon may\npass a comfortable night, ascend to the Snow Arch in the morning, and\nreturn to the hotel for dinner.\n\nA three-mile walk on the Gorham road, crossing the Peabody River to the\nCopp Farmhouse, gives a view of the celebrated \"Imp\" profile, on the\ntop of the opposite mountain. This walk is an affair of two hours and\na half. (See art. \"Imp\" in Index.) The Garnet Pool (one mile from the\nhotel) may be taken on the way. Or, for a short and interesting stroll,\ngo down this road a half-mile to where the Great Gulf opens wide before\nyou its immense wall of mountains. The carriage-road to the summit\nrequires four hours for the ascent by stage; a good climber can do it\non foot in about the same time. Should a storm overtake him above the\nwoods, he can find shelter in the Half-way House, just at the edge of\nthe forest.\n\n[Illustration: INTERIOR OF THE METEOROLOGICAL STATION, MOUNT WASHINGTON.]\n\n_At Crawford's_ one can saunter into the woods at the left of the\nhotel, and enjoy himself in the sylvan retreat, \"Idlewild;\" or, going\ndown the road, ascend the Elephant's Head by a path turning in at the\nleft (sign-board), obtaining the view down the Notch; or, continuing\non a short distance, enter and examine the Gate of the Notch. All\nthese objects are in full view from the hotel. Other rambles of an\nhour are to Gibbs' Falls, entering the woods at the left of the hotel\n(guide-board), or, crossing the bridge over the railroad track on the\nright, to Beecher's Cascades. The ascent of Mount Willard (3 miles)\nshould on no account be omitted. Good carriage-road all the way, and\nvehicles from the hotel. The celebrated Crawford Trail to the Summit\nof Mount Washington, the scene of many exploits, begins in the grove\nat the left of this hotel. The distance is fully nine miles, and six\nor seven hours will be none too many for the jaunt. Four intervening\nmountains, Clinton, Pleasant, Franklin, and Monroe, are crossed. There\nis a shelter-hut in the woods near the summit of Clinton.\n\n[Illustration: METEOROLOGICAL STATION, MOUNT WASHINGTON, IN WINTER.]\n\n_At Fabyan's._--Three or four hours may be profitably spent on Mount\nDeception, opposite the hotel. The first summit is as much as one would\ncare to undertake in an afternoon, to get the extended and magnificent\nview of the great range at sunset. Opposite the hotel is a cosy little\ncottage, kept open by the railroads for the use of travellers, and to\ngive them information respecting routes, hotels, distances, fares, etc.\nThe Upper Ammonoosuc Falls (3-1/2 miles) are well worth a visit. They\nare on the Old Turnpike to the base of Mount Washington. The traveller\nhas now at command all the important points in the mountains.\n\nHe is 9 miles from the Summit, 4 from Crawford's, 29 from North Conway,\n13 from Bethlehem, 22 from the Profile, and 18 from Jefferson--all\nreached by rail in one or two hours.\n\n_At Bethlehem._--If the tourist locates himself at the \"Maplewood,\" the\nwalk up the mountain to the Observatory, or to Cruft's Ledge, at sunset,\nor to the village (1-1/2 miles), or down the Whitefield road to The\nHollow, is a good introduction. At \"The Street\" he will find the busiest\nthoroughfare in the mountains, leading him on to a beautiful panorama\nof the Ammonoosuc Valley, with Littleton in its lap; or, ascending the\nold Profile House road above the Sinclair House for a mile, will see the\ngreat Franconia mountains from the best view-point. Bethlehem is 9 miles\nfrom the Profile House, 13 from Fabyan's, 17 from Crawford's, 42 from\nNorth Conway, 15 from Jefferson, and 22 from the Summit.\n\n_At Profile House._--If you arrive by rail via Bethlehem, you have\ncrossed the broad flank and great ravine of Mount Lafayette to the\nshores of Echo Lake, a mile from the hotel. But the opposite side\nof this lake is a more eligible site for views of the surrounding\nmountains; and the summit of Bald Mountain, at its north end, is still\nbetter. From the long piazza of the Profile House the great Notch\nmountains close in toward the south. Cannon Mountain is on your right,\nwith the peculiar rocks giving it this name thrust out from the highest\nridge in full view. The woods at the foot of this mountain, filling\nthe pass in front of you, conceal the beautiful Profile Lake, the\ntwin-sister of Echo Lake. The enormous rock at your left is Eagle Cliff,\na spur of Mount Lafayette, the mountain being ascended on the south side\nof this cliff. Improve the first hour of leisure by walking directly\ndown the road to Profile Lake. In a few minutes you will reach the shore\nnear a rustic arbor (guide-board), furnished with seats, and here you\ncommand the best view of the renowned \"Old Man of the Mountain.\" Boats\nmay be had here for a sail upon the lake. Return to the hotel by the\npath through the woods. Walk next up the pass one mile to Echo Lake\n(boats and fishing-gear at the boat-house); or, extending your jaunt\nas far as Bald Mountain, obtain, by following the old path through the\nwoods at the right, the best observation of the pass from the north. The\ntrip to the Flume House (including the Basin, Pool, and Flume) is next\nin order, and will occupy a half day, although the distance is only six\nmiles, and the road excellent. If the forenoon is taken, a party can\neither return to the hotel for dinner or dine well at the Flume House.\nThe Pool is reached by a path half a mile long, entering the woods\nopposite the Flume House. It will take an hour to drive to the Flume;\nand an hour to go into the chasm itself and return is little enough;\nallowing another hour for the Pool makes four hours for the excursion.\n\nThe ascent of Mount Lafayette (3-3/4 miles) demands three to four hours.\nSaddle-horses can be procured at the hotel. Those unwilling to undertake\nthe whole climb may, by ascending Eagle Cliff (1 mile on same path),\nsecure a grand view of the Notch and lakes, the Profile, the ravines,\nand the Pemigewasset Valley. A stage leaves the Profile House every\nmorning for Plymouth, connecting with trains for Boston and New York,\nand permitting the tourist to enjoy the beauties of the Pemigewasset\nValley. But it is better to ascend this valley.\n\n_At the Flume House_ (refer to the preceding article).--It is a\ncomparatively easy climb of an hour and a half to the top of Mount\nPemigewasset, behind the hotel. See, from the hotel, the outline of the\nmountain ridge opposite, called Washington Lying in State.\n\n_At Jefferson._--The branch railway from Whitefield (B., C., & M. R.R.)\nleaves its passengers about three miles from the cluster of hotels and\nboarding-houses called Jefferson Hill, or five from East Jefferson\n(E. A. Crawford's, Highland, or Mount Adams House); but carriages\nare usually in waiting for all these houses. The walks and drives up\nand down this valley are numerous and interesting, especially so in\nthe direction of Mount Adams and Randolph Hill, Cherry Mountain and\nLancaster. The trip over Cherry Mountain, reaching Fabyan's (13 miles)\nby sunset, or from Fabyan's, reaching Jefferson at this hour, is a\nmemorable experience of mountain beauty. Excursions to Mount Washington,\nProfile House, Glen House, or Gorham, demand a day. The ascent of Starr\nKing, Owl's Head, Ravine of the Cascades, King's Ravine, or Mount Adams\nare the _pi\u00e8ces de r\u00e9sistance_ for this locality.\n\nITINERARY OF A WALKING TOUR.--Two weeks of fine weather will enable\na good pedestrian to traverse the mountains from Plymouth to North\nConway, or _vice versa_, following the great highways throughout the\nwhole journey, and giving time to see what is on the route. Good hotel\naccommodation will be found at the end of each day. Should bad weather\nunsettle his plans, he will nearly always be able to avail himself of\nregular stage or railway conveyance for a less or greater distance.\nThus: First day, Plymouth to Woodstock (dine at Sanborn's, West\nCampton), 16 miles; second day, Flume House (visiting Flume and Pool),\n8 miles; third day, Profile House (visiting Basin and \"Old Man\"), 5-1/2\nmiles; fourth day, Bethlehem (_via_ Echo Lake and Franconia), 9 miles;\nfifth day, Whitefield, 8 miles; sixth day, East Jefferson, 13 miles;\nseventh day, Glen House, 14 miles; eighth day, for vicinity of Glen\nHouse; ninth day, Summit of Mount Washington by carriage-road, 8 miles;\ntenth day, descent by mountain railway to Crawford's, 13 miles; eleventh\nday, through the Notch to Bartlett, 13 miles; twelfth day, Jackson and\nvicinity, 9 miles; thirteenth day, North Conway, 8 miles. Total, 124\nmiles.\n\n_Advice for Climbers._--Don't hurry when on a level road--keep your\nstrength for the ascent. Always take the long route up a mountain, if it\nbe the easier one. Be careful where you plant the foot in gullied trails\nor on icy ledges--a sprain is a serious matter if you are alone. Carry\nin your pocket a flask, fitted with a tumbler or cup; matches that will\nignite in the wind, half a dozen cakes of pitch-kindling, a good glass,\nand a luncheon; in your hand a stout walking-stick; and upon your feet\nshoes that can be trusted--none of your gimcracks--but broad-soled ones,\nshod with steel nails. On a long march a rubber overcoat, a haversack,\nand an umbrella will be needed. Cold tea slakes thirst more effectually\nthan water; but when you are exposed to wet and cold something stronger\nwill be found useful. Should you have a palpitation of the heart, or an\ninclination to vertigo, do not climb at all. Take quiet rambles instead.\nMy word for it, they are better for you than scaling breathless ascents\nor looking down over dizzy precipices. If you feel nausea, stop at once\nuntil you recover from it. If caught on the Crawford trail between\nMounts Clinton and Washington, go back to the hut on the first-named\nmountain.\n\n_Newspapers for Tourists_, at Bethlehem (_The Echo_) and on the Summit\n(_Among the Clouds_) are published during the season of travel,\ngiving hotel arrivals, information concerning rail and stage routes,\nexcursions, and whatever may be of interest to the summer population in\ngeneral.\n\nTelegraphic and telephone communication may be had at all the principal\nhotels and railway-stations.\n\nThe Appalachian Mountain Club prints every year a periodical made up of\nscientific and literary contributions from its members. Address the club\nat Boston.\n\n_Trout_, _pickerel_, and _black bass_ are found in all the mountain\nwaters. The State stocks the ponds and streams with trout, bass, and\nsalmon from its breeding-houses at Plymouth. Fishing legally begins May\n1. There is good trout-fishing on Swift River (Albany), with Conway for\nhead-quarters. From Jackson, or Glen House, the Wildcat and Ellis are\nboth good trout streams; so are Nineteen-Mile Brook and the West Branch\nof Peabody; but the Wild River region (from Shelburne, Glen House, or\nJackson) affords better sport, because less visited. To go in from\nJackson or Glen House a guide will be necessary, and Davis, of Jackson,\nis a good one. From Jefferson and Randolph the upper waters of the\nMoose, and Israel's River (especially in the Mount Jefferson ravine),\nare fished with good success. E. A. Crawford, of East Jefferson, knows\nthe best spots. From Bartlett there should be good fishing on Sawyer's\nRiver, above the Livermore mills. Consult Frank George, the veteran\nlandlord of the Bartlett House. From Crawford's the best fishing-ground\nis Ethan's Pond, behind Mount Willey. At Franconia the writer has\nseen some fine strings brought from the Copper-mine Brook (back of\nMount Kinsman). Fair fishing may also be had on Lafayette Brook--ask\nCharles Edson, of the Edson House. Profile Lake is stocked with trout\nfor the benefit of guests of the hotel. The upper streams of the\nPemigewasset are all good fishing-ground. Apply to Mr. D. P. Pollard,\nNorth Woodstock, or Merrill Greeley, Waterville. The houses of both are\nresorted to by experienced fishermen who track the East Branch or Mad\nRiver tributaries. Pickerel and bass are caught in Lakes Winnipiseogee,\nSquam, Chocorua, Ossipee, and Silver, besides scores of ponds lying\nchiefly in the lake region.\n\nN.B.--Those going exclusively to fish should go early in the season for\nthe best sport.\n\n_Guides._--The landlords will either accompany you or procure a suitable\nperson.\n\n_Camping Out._--A wall tent is preferable, but two persons get along\ncomfortably in one of the \"A\" pattern. Get one with the fly, which\ncan be spread behind the tent, thus giving an additional room, in\nwhich the cooking and eating may be done under cover. Set up your tent\nwhere there is natural drainage--where the surface water will run off\nduring wet weather. Dig a shallow trench around it, on the outside,\nfor this purpose, and if you can obtain them, lay boards for a floor.\nA kerosene-oil stove, with its utensils, folding cot-bed, camp-chairs,\nand mess-chest, containing dishes (tin is best), constitute a complete\noutfit, to be reduced according to convenience or pleasure. To make a\nwoods-man's camp, first set up two crotched posts five feet high, and\nsix or eight apart (according to number). On these lay a pole. From this\npole three or four others extend to the ground. Then cut brush or bark\nfor the roof and sides, and build your fire in front. For a camp of this\nsort a hatchet and packet of matches only are necessary. But always\npitch your encampment in the vicinity of wood and water.\n\n_Mount Washington Railway._--Length, from base to summit, 3 miles. Rise\nin the three miles, 3,625 feet. Steepest grade, 13-1/2 inches in three\nfeet, or 1980 feet to the mile. Begun in 1866; completed in 1869.\n\n_Mount Washington Carriage-road._--Length, 8 miles. Average grade, one\nfoot in eight. Steepest grade, one foot in six. Begun in 1855; finished\nin 1861.\n\n_Mount Washington Signal Station._--The Summit was first occupied for\nscientific purposes in the winter of 1870-'71. Since then it has been\nattached to the Weather Bureau at Washington, and occupied by men\ndetailed from the United States Signal Corps, the men volunteering for\nthe service.\n\nALTITUDES.--The following list of altitudes of the more important\nand well-known points has been compiled from the publications of the\nGeological Survey of New Hampshire and of the Appalachian Mountain Club.\nThe figures in =heavy-face= type are the results either of actual\nlevelling or of trigonometrical survey, while the remainder depend upon\nbarometrical measurement. Where the mean of two not widely-differing\nauthorities is given, the fact is denoted by the letter \"_m_\" preceding\nthe figures:\n\n    MOUNTAIN SUMMITS.\n\n  Adams-----_m_ 5785\n  Ascutney (Vermont)-----3186\n  Black (Sandwich Dome)-----=3999=\n  Boott's Spur-----5524\n  Cannon-----3850\n  Carrigain-----_m_ 4651\n  Carter Dome-----_m_ 4827\n  Chocorua-----3540\n  Clay-----5553\n  Clinton-----_m_ 4315\n  Crawford-----3134\n  Giant's Stairs-----3500\n  Gunstock-----=2394=\n  Iron-----_about_ 2000\n  Jefferson-----5714\n  Kearsarge, S. (Merrimack County)-----=2943=\n  Kearsarge, N. (Carroll County)-----=3251=\n  Lafayette-----=5259=\n  Madison-----_m_ 5350\n  Moat (North peak)-----3200\n  Monadnock-----_m_ 3177\n  Monroe-----_m_ 5375\n  Moosilauke-----=4811=\n  Moriah-----4653\n  Osceola-----_m_ 4408\n  Passaconnaway-----4200\n  Percy (North peak)-----3336\n  Pleasant (Great range)-----_m_ 4768\n  Pleasant (Maine)-----=2021=\n  Starr King-----_m_ 3872\n  Twin-----_about_ 5000\n  Washington-----=6293=\n  Webster-----4000\n  Whiteface-----=4007=\n  Willey-----4300\n\n  VILLAGES AND HOTELS.\n\n  Bartlett (Upper)-----=660=\n  Bethlehem (Sinclair House)-----_m_ 1454\n  Franconia-----921\n  Crawford House-----=1899=\n  Fabyan \"-----1571\n  Flume \"-----1431\n  Glen \"-----=1632=\n  Gorham-----=812=\n  Jackson-----759\n  Jefferson Hill-----1440\n  Jefferson Highlands (Mt. Adams House)-----1648\n  Lancaster-----=870=\n  North Conway-----=521=\n  Plymouth-----=473=\n  Profile House-----1974\n  Sugar Hill (Post Office)-----1351\n  Waterville (Greeley's Hotel)-----_m_ 1544\n  Willey House-----=1323=\n\n  NOTCHES.\n\n  Carter Notch-----3240\n  Cherry Mt. Road (summit)-----_m_ 2180\n  Crawford or White Mt. Notch-----=1914=\n  Dixville Notch-----1831\n  Franconia Notch-----_m_ 2015\n  Pinkham Notch (south of Glen House)-----2018\n  Carrigain Notch-----2465\n\n  MISCELLANEOUS.\n\n  Ammonoosuc Sta. (base of Mt. Washington)-----=2668=\n  Camp of Appalachian Mountain Club, on the\n  -----Mt. Adams path-----3307\n  Echo Lake (Franconia)-----_m_ 1928\n  Lake of the Clouds-----5053\n  Lake Winnipiseogee-----=500=\n\n_Distant Points Visible from Mount Washington_ (taken from\n\"Appalachia\").--Mount Megantic (Canada), 86 miles, seen between\nJefferson and Adams; Mount Carmel, 65 miles, just over Mount Adams;\nSaddleback, 60 miles, head of Rangely Lakes; Mount Abraham, 68\nmiles, N., 47\u00b0 E.; Ebene Mountain, 135 miles, vicinity of Moosehead\nLake (rarely seen, even with a telescope); Mount Blue, 57 miles,\nnear Farmington, Me.; Sebago Lake, 43 miles, over Mount Doublehead;\nPortland, 67 miles, over Lake Sebago; Mount Agamenticus, 79 miles,\nbetween Kearsarge and Moat Mountains; Isles of Shoals, 96 miles, to\nthe right of Agamenticus (rarely seen); Mount Monadnock, 104 miles,\nbetween Carrigain and Sandwich Dome; Mount Ascutney (Vt.), 81 miles,\nS., 45\u00b0 W.; Killington Peaks (near Rutland, Vt.), 88 miles, on the\nhorizon between Moosilauk and Lincoln; Camel's Hump (Vt), 78 miles, over\nBethlehem Street; Mount Whiteface (Adirondack chain, N.Y.), 130 miles,\nover the right slope of Camel's Hump; Mount Mansfield (highest of Green\nMountains), 77 miles, between Twin Mountain House and Mount Deception;\nMount Wachusett (Mass.), 126 miles, is also visible under favorable\nconditions, just to the right of Whiteface (N. H.).\n\nMOUNTAIN PATHS. [Those with an asterisk (*) were built by the\nAppalachian Mountain Club.] _Chocorua._--There are three or four paths.\nThe best leads from the Hammond Farm, 2-1/2 miles from the Chocorua Lake\nHouse, and 14 miles from North Conway. The ascent, as far as the foot of\nthe final peak, is feasible for ladies. From this point the easiest way\nis to flank the peak to the left until an old watercourse is reached,\nwhich may be followed nearly to the summit.\n\n*_Moat._--An old path leads from the Swift River road to the summit of\nthe South Peak. Another, from the clearings on an old road which extends\nalong the base of the South Peak, leads to the top of the middle ridge;\nbut the best path for tourists is the one from Diana's Baths, on Cedar\nBrook, following the stream to the foot of the ridge, thence over the\nridge to the summit of the North Peak. Path well made, and plainly\nmarked with signs and cairns; about 3-1/2 miles in length.\n\n*_Middle Mountain, North Conway._--Beginning at the ice-ponds near\nArtists' Falls House, the path extends around the base of Peaked\nMountain, thence to the bare ledges which reach to the summit. Distance,\n1-5/8 miles. Path well marked, and the view very beautiful.\n\n_Kearsarge, North Conway._--A bridle-path starts from a farm-house near\nKearsarge Village, and extends to the summit. Distance, nearly 3 miles.\nRoute plain, and not difficult.\n\n*_Mount Bartlett._--The path starts near the Pequawket House, Lower\nBartlett, follows old logging roads for some distance, runs thence\ndirectly to the summit. From the summit the path extends along the ridge\nuntil it joins the bridle-path to Kearsarge.\n\n*_Carrigain._--The route leads from the mills at Livermore, which are\nreached by a road leaving the P. & O. R.R. at Livermore Station. From\nthe mills, logging roads are followed--crossing Duck Pond and Carrigain\nBrooks--to the base; thence by a plain path through a fine forest to\n\"Burnt Hat Ridge,\" from which it is only a short distance to the summit.\n\nFrom mills to summit is about 5 miles. Station to mills, 2 miles.\n\n*_Livermore-Waterville Path._--This is intended for a bridle-path.\nStarting from the mills at Livermore, a logging-road is followed nearly\ntwo miles on the southerly side of Sawyer's River. Here the path begins\nand runs along the north-west base of Green's Cliff, crosses Swift River\nat a beautiful fall, thence through the Notch south of Mount Kancamagus\nto Greeley's, in Waterville. The path is well marked by painted signs.\nDistance from Livermore to Swift River, 5 miles; to Greeley's, 12 miles.\n\n*_Mount Willey._--Path leaves the P. & O. R.R. a little south of Willey\nStation. The rise is rapid until the Brook Kedron is reached; this\nbrook is then followed to its source, thence the path leads direct to\nthe summit. Distance, 1-1/2 miles. The climb is steep; but the view\nunsurpassed.\n\n_Crawford Bridle-path_ leads from the Crawford House to the summit of\nWashington. Path is plain, and the travelling along the ridge is easy;\nbut it is not in condition for horses. See pp. 325, 326.\n\n*_Carter Notch._--Path begins near the end of the Wildcat Valley road,\nabout 5-1/2 miles from Jackson; thence it follows the valley of the\nbrook to the ponds in the Notch. From the ponds it follows Nineteen Mile\nBrook to the clearing back of the Glen House. The travelling is easy;\nthe view in the Notch grand.\n\nDistance from the road to the ponds, about 4 miles; from the ponds to\nthe Glen House, about the same.\n\n*_Carter Dome._--The path starts from the larger pond in the Notch, and\nis well marked to the summit. It is very steep, and about 1-1/2 miles in\nlength.\n\n_Great Gulf._--A path beginning near the Glen House goes through this\ngorge. From the end of the path the carriage-road or railroad on Mount\nWashington may be reached by a severe climb up the side of the ravine.\n\n_Tuckerman's Ravine._--The Glen House path leaves the Mount Washington\ncarriage-road about 2 miles up, then crosses through the forest to\nHermit Lake.\n\n*_Via Crystal Cascade._--The Mountain Club path begins about 3 miles\nfrom the Glen House, on the Jackson road, ascending the stream until it\njoins the Glen House path near Hermit Lake. Here the Club has a good\ncamp for the use of travellers. Beyond, a single path extends to the\nSnow-field; and a feasible route has been marked with white paint on the\nrocks--up the head wall of the ravine, and thence to the summit.\n\n*_Mount Adams._--This path starts opposite the residence of Charles\nE. Lowe, on the road from Jefferson Hill to Gorham, about 8-1/2 miles\nfrom either town, and climbs the steep spur forming one wall of King's\nRavine, following over the ledges to the westerly peak, thence to the\nsummit. Distance, about 4 miles. Nearly half way up the spur a good\ncamp has been built for the use of climbers. The way over the ledges is\nmarked by cairns. Mount Jefferson may be reached by turning to the right\nbefore reaching the summit of the westerly peak; Madison by turning to\nthe left.\n\n*_King's Ravine._--The path branches from the Mount Adams path about\n1-1/2 miles from Lowe's. The bowlders in the Ravine are reached without\ngreat difficulty. From the bowlders up the head-wall, and through the\ngate-way, the climb is arduous; and the way is not very distinctly\nmarked. From the gate-way, Madison and the several peaks of Adams may be\nreached.\n\n_Mount Madison._--There are several routes up Madison, but the best\nis probably that leading up the ridge from \"Dolly\" Copp's, on the Old\nPinkham Road. The climb is tedious, and the path somewhat overgrown. The\nMountain Club will probably clear and keep this path in good condition.\n\n*_Bridal Veil Falls._--Path starts from Horace Brooks's, on the road\nfrom Franconia to Easton--2 to 3 miles from Sugar Hill and Franconia\nVillage. It follows an old road across the clearings to Copper-mine\nBrook, thence by the brook to the foot of the Falls. Distance, 2-1/2\nmiles from Brooks's. Walking easy.\n\nThe path to the Flume on Mount Kinsman leads from the same highway about\na mile beyond Brooks's.\n\n_Mount Lafayette._--The bridle-path begins near the Profile House,\nturning Eagle Cliff, and crossing over to the main ridge. It leads\nnearly to the summit of the ridge, thence across the col by the lakes,\nand up the main peak. Distance, 3-1/2 to 3-3/4 miles.\n\n_Mount Cannon._--The path enters the forest near the cottages in front\nof the Profile House. The summit is reached by a steep climb of 1-1/2\nmiles. The Cannon Rock is a short distance down the mountain-side, to\nthe left of the path as it emerges from the forest; the forehead rock of\nthe Profile can be reached by bearing down the mountain diagonally to\nthe right from Cannon Rock until the edge of the cliff is reached. It is\na hard scramble to the latter.\n\n_Black Mountain, Waterville._--The new path leaves the highway 2 miles\nbelow Greeley's, near Drake's Brook. It runs near the edge of the ravine\nof Drake's Brook, crosses the ridge between Noon and Jennings' Peaks--to\neach of which a branch path leads--thence up the northerly slope of the\nmain summit. Distance from the road to the summit is 3-1/4 miles. The\nviews are very fine, and the climb easy for ordinary walkers.\n\n_Osceola._--Path leaves the Greeley-pond path beyond the saw-mill above\nGreeley's, bearing to the left. Ascent easy. Distance, about 4 miles.\n\n_Tecumseh._--Path branches from the Osceola path at the crossing of\nthe west branch of Mad River, 7/8 of a mile from Greeley's. The grade\nis easy, except for a short distance near the summit. Distance from\nGreeley's, 3 miles.\n\n_Tri-Pyramid._--The great slide on Tri-Pyramid may be reached from\nGreeley's by a path across the pasture to the right from the rear of the\nhouse, thence about 1-1/2 miles through fine old woods to a deserted\nclearing known as Beckytown. From here the stream may be followed by\nclambering over the _d\u00e9bris_ of the slide nearly 2 miles to the base of\nthe South Peak. The summit is reached by climbing to the apex of the\nslide, thence bearing up to the right a short distance through low woods.\n\n*_Thornton-Warren Path._--This path was built to enable visitors in the\nUpper Pemigewasset Valley or in Warren to cross from one locality to\nthe other, avoiding the long d\u00e9tour _via_ Plymouth. It starts from the\nProfile House stage-road at the junction of the Tannery road, in West\nThornton, crosses Hubbard Brook at this point, and passes over a long\nstretch of pasture until the woods are reached. At this point, and at\nall doubtful points, signs have been placed. For much of the distance\nthe path follows Hubbard Brook, and passes out through the Notch between\nMounts Kineo and Cushman to an old road-way leading to clearings on\nBaker's River, near the mountain-houses at the foot of Mount Moosilauke.\n\nDistance from the stage-road to the road-way in Warren, 8 miles. A\npermanent camp has been built half-way on Hubbard Brook.\n\nA trail has been spotted from a point in the path about 1 mile north of\nthe camp to the summit of Kineo.\n\n\n\n\nINDEX.\n\n     Refer to a mountain, lake, or river, under its proper name,\n     thus: Washington (Mount); Squam (Lake); Saco (River).\n\n     The abbreviations in parentheses show that the town or village\n     is on the line of a railway: (E. R.R.) stands for Eastern; (P. &\n     O.), Portland and Ogdensburg; (B., C., & M.), Boston, Concord, and\n     Montreal; (G. T. R.), Grand Trunk; (Pass.), Passumpsic.\n\n\nADAMS, Mount, from North Conway, 55;\n  from Thorn Hill, 122;\n  from Wildcat Valley, 133;\n  from Carter Dome, 142;\n  from the Glen House, 145;\n  from Mount Washington carriage-road, 181;\n  ascent by King's Ravine, 298;\n  ascent from Mount Washington, 312-315;\n  the apex, 315;\n  view from, 316.\n\nAdirondacks, from Moosehillock, 273.\n\nAgassiz, Mount, from Profile House Road, 249, 276.\n\nAgiochook, or Agiockochook (Indian name for the White Mountains), 120.\n\nAmherst, Sir Jeffrey (Gen.), in the French War, 259.\n\nAmmonoosuc, Falls of, 304.\n\nAmmonoosuc River, source of, 179.\n\nAmmonoosuc Valley, from Mount Clinton, 98;\n  at Bethlehem, 277;\n  at Fabyan's, 300.\n\nAndroscoggin River, at Gorham, 170;\n  at Berlin, 174;\n  at Shelburne, 176;\n  at Bethel, 177.\n\nAppalachian Mountain Club, 62, 221.\n\nArtists' Falls (North Conway), 46, 47.\n\nAutumn foliage, 66, 67.\n\n\nBAKER'S RIVER (branch of Pemigewasset, branch of the Merrimack), 210;\n  falls on, 269.\n\nBald Mountain, an inferior summit of Chocorua, 26.\n\nBall, B. L., lost on Mount Washington, 186.\n\nBartlett Bowlder, 58.\n\nBartlett (P. & O. R.R.), mountains surrounding, 61, 62;\n  ascent of Mount Carrigain from, 62-65.\n\nBasin (Franconia Pass), 231.\n\nBeecher's Cascade (near Crawford House), 89.\n\nBelknap, Jeremy, D.D. (historian of New Hampshire), quoted, 69.\n\nBelknap, Mount (Lake Winnipiseogee), 8.\n\nBemis, Dr. Samuel A., home of, 69, 70.\n\nBerlin (G. T. R.), 172;\n  the Falls, 174, 175.\n\nBethel, Maine (G. T. R.), 177.\n\nBethlehem (B., C., & M. R.R.), 276;\n  admirable position of as a centre, 277;\n  Bethlehem Street, 278, 279;\n  fine views from, 280, 281;\n  a sunset from the \"Maplewood,\" 282-284;\n  White Mountains from, 284;\n  the Hermit, 286;\n  the peddler, 288.\n\nBigelow's Lawn (Mount Washington), 198.\n\nBlack Mountain (Sandwich Dome), from West Campton, 216;\n  Noon Peak, 220;\n  from Waterville (Greeley's), 221.\n\nBoott's Spur (Mount Washington), 146;\n  from the plateau, 198.\n\nBourne, Lizzie, death of, on Mount Washington, 310.\n\nBridal Veil Falls (Mount Kinsman), 255.\n\nBrown, George L. (painter), referred to, 253.\n\nBuck-board wagon described, 273.\n\n\nCAMPTON, 211;\n  Campton Hollow, 214;\n  West Campton, and view from, 215;\n  Sanborn's, 216;\n  annals of Campton, 216.\n\nCampton Village (Pemigewasset Valley), 218.\n\nCannon (or Profile) Mountain, from West Campton, 215;\n  from the clearing below the Profile, 231;\n  remarkable profile on, 232;\n  from Franconia, 252.\n\nCarrigain, Mount, from Chocorua, 30;\n  from Bartlett, 62;\n  ascent from Bartlett, 62-64;\n  view from summit, 64, 65.\n\nCarrigain Notch, from Mount Chocorua, 30;\n  from Mount Carrigain, 64.\n\nCarter Dome, 133;\n  the Pulpit, 136;\n  ascent of, and view from, 140, 141.\n\nCarter Mountains, from Gorham, 170.\n\nCarter Notch, from Chocorua, 31;\n  from North Conway, 40;\n  from Thorn Hill, 122, 132;\n  way into, from Jackson, 132;\n  impressive desolation of the interior, 137;\n  the Giants' Barricade, 137, 138;\n  the lakes, 139;\n  way out to Glen House, 143.\n\nCastellated Ridge (Mount Jefferson), 314.\n\nCathedral (North Conway), 46.\n\nCathedral Ledge (North Conway), 41, 42.\n\nCathedral Woods (North Conway), 55.\n\nCentre Harbor, approach to, by Lake Winnipiseogee, 8-10;\n   settled, 10;\n   route by stage to West Ossipee _via_ Sandwich and Tamworth, 18-21.\n\nChandler, Benjamin, lost on Mount Washington, 186.\n\nCherry Mountain (Valley of Israel's River), 291;\n   Owl's Head, 292;\n   road to Fabyan's, 300.\n\nChocorua, Lake, from the mountain, 29, 31, 32.\n\nChocorua (Sho'kor'ua), Mount, from Lake Winnipiseogee, 9;\n   from Red Hill, 16;\n   legend of, 21;\n   ascent from Tamworth, 25-28;\n   landscapes from, 29-31;\n   from Mount Willard, 92.\n\nClay, Mount (next north of Washington), 169;\n   ascent of, 312.\n\nClinton, Mount (near Crawford House), 97;\n   view from summit, 100. (First mountain ascended by Crawford Path.)\n\nConnecticut Ox-Bow, 256-258.\n\nConway, or Conway Corner (E. R.R.), superb view of the great chain from, 33.\n\nCopp Farm (view-point for seeing \"The Imp\"), 165.\n\nCopp, Nathaniel, his adventurous deer-hunt, 167.\n\nCopper-mine Brook (branch of Gale River), 255.\n\nCrawford, Abel, described, 70-72.\n\nCrawford, Ethan Allen, 71, 72;\n   his burial-place, 302.\n\nCrawford bridle-path, opened, 89;\n   march to the summit (_see_ Chapter X.);\n   Mount Clinton first, 117;\n   the crystal forests, 98;\n   Liliputian wood, 99;\n   fine view from summit, 100;\n   frost-work, 100;\n   Mount Pleasant next, 102;\n   in a snow-storm, 102;\n   crossing the ridge, 103;\n   Oakes's Gulf, 103;\n   Mount Franklin next, 103;\n   (_water here_) weird objects by the way, 104;\n   Mount Monroe next (two peaks, with shallow ponds near the path);\n   the plateau, 105;\n   base of the cone reached, 105;\n   ascent of the cone, 107;\n   the stone corral, 107;\n   the summit, 108.\n\nCrawford Glen (Saco Valley), 69.\n\nCrawford House (summit of Crawford Notch), its surroundings, 87-94.\n\nCrawford, Mount (Saco Valley, east side), 69;\n   Davis Path to Mount Washington, 73;\n   view of from Frankenstein Bridge, 74.\n\nCrawford Notch (_see_ Great Notch of the White Mountains).\n\nCrawford, T. J., opens a bridle-path to the summit, 89.\n\nCrystal Cascade (Pinkham Notch), 149, 150.\n\n\nDARTMOUTH, _see_ Jefferson.\n\nDavis Path (to Mount Washington), 73;\n   junction with Crawford Path, 198.\n\nDeception, Mount (near Fabyan's), 300.\n\nDestruction of mountain forests, 172.\n\nDevil's Den (North Conway), 45, 46.\n\nDiana's Baths (North Conway ), 46.\n\nDouglass, William, M.D., quoted, on the origin\n      of the name White Mountains, 121, _note_.\n\nDwight, Timothy, L.L.D., 71 (_see_ his \"Travels in New England,\"\n      and journeys through the mountains).\n\n\nEAGLE CLIFF (Franconia Pass), from Flume House, 225;\n   from Profile House, 238, 239;\n   ascent by the bridle-path, 243;\n   from Franconia, 254.\n\nEagle Lakes (Mount Lafayette), 244. (Also called Cloud Lakes.)\n\nEagle Mountain (Eagle Mountain House), Wildcat Valley, Jackson, 133.\n\nEarly settlements by white people, 216, 217, 293.\n\nEcho Lake (Franconia Pass), 239.\n\nEcho Lake (North Conway), 45.\n\nElephant's Head (Crawford Notch), 87.\n\nEllis River (branch of the Saco; rises in Pinkham Notch),\n      _see_ Goodrich Falls, 125;\n   Glen Ellis Falls, 151;\n   incident connected with, 153.\n\nEmerald Pool (near Glen House, Pinkham Notch), 147, 148.\n\nEndicott Rock, a surveyor's monument at the outlet of Lake Winnipiseogee, 10.\n\n\nFABYAN'S (B., C., & M. and P. & O. R.R.), view at, 300;\n   Mount Washington Railway, 301;\n   Eleazer Rosebrook and E. A. Crawford, 302, 303.\n\nFall of a Thousand Streams, 162.\n\nFarmer, John (historian), quoted, 210.\n\nField, Darby, makes the first ascent of Mount Washington, 116-119;\n   second ascent, 119, _see note_.\n\nFlume (Franconia Pass), way to and description of, 226-228.\n\nFlume Cascade, _see_ description by Dr. T. Dwight, in his\n      \"Travels in New England.\"\n\nFlume House (Franconia Pass), 224.\n\nFranconia Mountains, from West Campton, 215;\n   from Bethlehem, 280;\n   from Jefferson, 292.\n\nFranconia Pass (Chapters II. and III., Third Journey), Flume House, 224;\n   the Pool, 225;\n   the Flume, 226;\n   the Basin, 231;\n   Mounts Cannon and Lafayette, 231, 232;\n   the \"Old Man,\" 232;\n   Profile Lake, 232;\n   Profile House, 237;\n   Eagle Cliff, 238;\n   Echo Lake, 239;\n   sunset in the pass, 240;\n   from Bethlehem heights, 279.\n\nFranconia village (Iron Works), from Mount Lafayette, 243;\n   general view of, 251;\n   fine views in, 253, 254.\n\nFrankenstein Cliff (Saco Valley), named, 73;\n   appearance of, from the valley, 73, 74;\n   the bridge, 74.\n\nFryeburg, Maine (P. & O. R.R.), 33-38.\n\n\nGALE RIVER (branch of the Ammonoosuc, branch of the Connecticut), 243.\n\nGarfield, Mount (_see_ Haystack), 284.\n\nGiant's Stairs (Saco Valley, east side), 73;\n   from Jackson, 123, 129.\n\nGibbs's Falls (near Crawford House), 97.\n\nGlen Ellis Falls, 151, 152; legend of, 152.\n\nGlen House, way to, by Jackson and Carter Notch, 131;\n  its surroundings, 144;\n  carriage-road to the summit, 144;\n  Mount Washington from, 144, 145;\n  Emerald Pool, 147, 148;\n  Thompson's Falls, 146;\n  Crystal Cascade, 149;\n  Glen Ellis Falls, 151;\n  Tuckerman's Ravine, 155;\n  The Imp, 165;\n  to or from Gorham, 165, 170;\n  from Mount Washington carriage-road, 181.\n\nGoodenow's, _see_ Sugar Hill.\n\nGoodrich Falls (Ellis River), 125.\n\nGorham (G. T. R.), its situation, 169.\n\nGrand Monadnock, from Red Hill, 17;\n  from Mount Washington, 192.\n\nGreat Gulf, from Glen House, 165;\n  from Mount Washington carriage-road, 181, 185;\n  from Mount Clay, 313.\n\nGreat Notch of the White Mountains (Crawford Notch), from Mount Chocorua, 31;\n  from Mount Carrigain, 64, 65;\n  approach to, by the Saco Valley, 76;\n  the mountains forming it, 77;\n  Willey, or Notch House, 77;\n  landslip of 1826, 79, 80;\n  the Cascades, 84, 85, 89, 97;\n  Gate of the Notch, 86;\n  summit of the Notch (Crawford House), 86;\n  Elephant's Head, 87;\n  discovery of the Pass, 88, 89;\n  the Notch from Mount Willard, 91;\n  from Mount Clinton, 100.\n\nGreeley's, _see_ Waterville.\n\nGreen Mountains, from Mount Washington, 190;\n  from Moosehillock, 273.\n\nGyles, John (Capt.), quoted on the Indian name for the White Mountains, 120.\n\n\nHancock, Mount, from the Ellsworth road (Campton), 216;\n  from Moosehillock, 272.\n\nHart's Ledge (Saco Valley, east side, near Bartlett), 62.\n\nHaverhill (B., C., & M. R.R.), 257.\n\nHawthorne, Nathaniel, origin of his story of \"The Great Carbuncle,\" 119;\n  death of, 209;\n  legend of \"The Great Stone Face,\" 235.\n\nHayes, Mount (Gorham, New Hampshire), 169-171.\n\nHaystack, Mount (now Mount Garfield), 254.\n\nHermit Lake (Tuckerman's Ravine, Mount Washington), 159.\n\nHitchcock, C. H. (geologist), 197.\n\nHumphrey's Ledge (near Glen Station), 41.\n\nHunter, Harry W., lost on Mount Washington, 199, _note_.\n\nHuntington's Ravine, from Carter Dome, 142.\n\n\nIdlewild (near Crawford House), 89.\n\nImp, The (rock profile near Glen House), 166.\n\nIndians, customs of mountain tribes, 10;\n  Sokokis, or Pigwackets, or _Pequawkets_, destruction of\n      by Love-well, 34-38;\n  Indian names, 24, 25, _note_;\n  superstitions regarding the high summits, traditions, etc.\n      (_see_ Chapter I., Second Journey);\n  attack Shelburne, 177;\n  at Plymouth, 210;\n  attack Dartmouth (Jefferson), 294.\n\nIntervale (North Conway, E. R.R. and P. & O. R.R.), superb\n      panorama from, 55-57;\n  _see_ art. North Conway.\n\nIsrael's River (branch of the Connecticut), 291.\n\n\nJackson (_see_ Chapters II. and III., Second Journey), 122-143;\n  how to get there from North Conway, 122;\n  its topography, 123;\n  Jackson Falls (on Wildcat River), 124;\n  Fernald's Farm, 130;\n  Wildcat Valley, 133;\n  to Carter Notch, 133-140.\n\nJackson, C. T. (geologist), quoted, 197, _note_.\n\nJackson Falls (Wildcat River), 124.\n\nJefferson, Mount, from Jefferson Hill, 293;\n  Ravine of the Cascades, 297;\n  ascent from Mount Washington, 312;\n  Ravine of the Castles, 313;\n  Castellated Ridge, 314.\n\nJefferson (branch R.R. from Whitefield), 291;\n  Jefferson Hill, 292;\n  antecedents of, 293;\n  Indian attack on, 294;\n  East Jefferson, 295;\n  to Randolph Hill, 297;\n  to Fabyan's, 300.\n\nJockey Cap (Fryeburg, Maine), 34.\n\nJosselyn, John (author of \"New England's Rarities\"),\n      ascends Mount Washington, 119.\n\n\nKearsarge, Mount, from North Conway, 39, 40, 41;\n  winter ascent of, 47-54;\n  view from summit, 51, 52;\n  from Bartlett, 62;\n  from Carter Dome, 141.\n\nKing, Thomas Starr, tribute to, 294, 295.\n\nKing's Ravine (Mount Adams), from Randolph Hill, 298;\n  from Mount Adams, 317.\n\nKinsman, Mount (next south of Cannon, Franconia group), 244, 252.\n\n\nLafayette, Mount, from West Campton, 215;\n  _see_ Chapter III., Third Journey;\n  Eagle Cliff, 238, 239;\n  from Echo Lake, 240;\n  ascent from the Profile House, 243-247;\n  the Notch, 243;\n  the ravines, 243-254;\n  Eagle Lakes, 244;\n  summit and view, 246, 247;\n  from Franconia Iron Works, 252;\n  from Newbury, Vermont, 258;\n  from Bethlehem heights, 279.\n\nLake of the Clouds (Mount Washington), 198.\n\nLary's (Gorham, New Hampshire), 171.\n\nLead Mine Bridge (Shelburne, G. T. R.), grand view from, 175, 176.\n\nLegends of General Hampton and the Devil, 11-14;\n  of Mount Chocorua, 21-24;\n  of Passaconnaway, 24, 25, _note_;\n  Indian tradition of the Deluge, 114;\n  the Indian's heaven, 115;\n  the Great Carbuncle, 115;\n  the war party and its prisoners, 127, 128;\n  the youthful lovers, 128;\n  of Glen Ellis Falls, 152;\n  of the Silver Image, 263.\n\nLion's Head (Tuckerman's Ravine), 142, 146, 159.\n\nLisbon (B., C., & M. R.R.), discovery of gold ores in, 251.\n\nLittleton (B., C., & M. R.R.), from Bethlehem, 279.\n\nLivermore (P. & O. R.R.), Saco Valley, logging hamlet of, 63;\n   way to the Pemigewasset, 221.\n\nLivermore Falls (Pemigewasset River), 212.\n\nLogging on the Androscoggin, 173, 174.\n\nLonesome Lake (Mount Kinsman), 244.\n\nLong Island, Lake Winnipiseogee, east shore, 9.\n\nLovewell, John (captain of colonial rangers), battle with the Sokokis, 34-38.\n\nLovewell's Pond (scene of Lovewell's fight), 34.\n\nLowell, Mount (Saco Valley), slide on, 64.\n\n\nMAD RIVER and Valley (branch of Pemigewasset), 218.\n\nMadison, Mount (next north of Adams), 165.\n\nMarsh, Sylvester, projector of Mount Washington railway, 301.\n\nMerrimack River, source of, 65.\n\nMoat Range, position of, 39;\n   cliffs of, 40, 41, 44;\n   the ascent, 47;\n   from Jackson Falls, 124.\n\nMonroe, Mount, from Tuckerman's Ravine, 160.\n\nMoose River (branch of Androscoggin), 171.\n\nMoosehillock, or Moosilauke, from Lake Winnipiseogee, 10;\n   from Chocorua, 30;\n   from Pemigewasset Valley, 223;\n   from Newbury, Vermont, 258;\n   _see_ Chapter VII., Third Journey, 269-275;\n   how to reach the mountain, 269;\n   the mountain's top, 271;\n   view from, 273;\n   from Bethlehem, 279.\n\nMoriah, Mount (Carter Chain, near Gorham), 169.\n\nMountain Butterfly, 202.\n\n\nNANCY'S BROOK (Saco Valley), story of, 67-69.\n\nNewbury, Vermont (Pass. R.R.), 257.\n\nNineteen Mile Brook (branch of the Peabody River, a branch\n      of the Androscoggin; rises in Carter Notch), 143.\n\nNorth Conway (E. R.R. and P. & O. R.R.), topographical features of, 39-41;\n   excursions from, 57;\n   _see_ Intervale, White Horse Ledge, Cathedral Ledge, Humphrey's\n      Ledge, Echo Lake, Diana's Baths, Artists' Falls,\n      Kearsarge and Moat Mountains, etc.\n\n\nOAKE'S GULF (in great range), 103.\n\nOld Man of the Mountain (Franconia Pass), 231-236;\n   legends of, 235.\n\nOssipee Mountains, from Lake Winnipiseogee, 8.\n\nOwl's Head (Lake Memphremagog), from Moosehillock, 273;\n   Cherry Mountain, 292.\n\n\nPEABODY RIVER (branch of the Androscoggin; rises in Pinkham\n      Notch), 144, 154, _note_.\n\nPemigewasset River, branch of Merrimack, 210;\n   Livermore Falls, 211;\n   East Branch, 223.\n\nPemigewasset, Mount (near Flume House), ascent and view, 229.\n\nPemigewasset Valley (Chapter I., Third Journey), 210-223;\n   villages of, 212.\n\nPemigewasset Wilderness, way through, 221, 229.\n\nPercy Peaks, 280, note.\n\nPerkins Notch, position of, 133.\n\nPilot Mountains from Gorham, 170;\n   origin of name, 170, 171.\n\nPine Mountain (Gorham, New Hampshire), 170.\n\nPinkham Notch from Thorn Hill, 122;\n   from the road between Jackson and Glen House, 129;\n   from Glen House, 144;\n   _see_ Thompson's Falls, Emerald Pool, Crystal Cascade,\n      Tuckerman's Ravine, Glen Ellis Falls, etc., 144-164.\n\nPleasant, Mount, from Fabyan's, 300.\n\nPlymouth (B., C., & M. R.R.), 209;\n   routes through the mountains, 211.\n\nPool, The (Franconia Pass), 225.\n\nPortland and Ogdensburg Railroad, passage of the White Mountains Notch, 93.\n\nPrime, W. C., referred to, 244.\n\nProfile House (Franconia Pass), its attractions, 237-240;\n   _see_ Old Man, Profile Lake, Mounts Cannon and Lafayette,\n      Eagle Cliff, Echo Lake, etc.;\n   to Bethlehem by the old highway via Franconia, 248;\n   by rail, 248.\n\nProfile Lake (Franconia Pass), 232.\n\nProspect, Mount (Holderness), 214.\n\n\nRANDOLPH HILL, drive to, and view from, 297, 298.\n\nRavine of the Castles (Mount Jefferson), 313.\n\nRaymond's Cataract, from Carter Dome, 142;\n   from Pinkham Notch, 147;\n   see Tuckerman's Ravine.\n\nRed Hill from Lake Winnipiseogee, 10;\n   ascent of, from Centre Harbor, and view from summit, 14-17.\n\nRipley Falls (on Cow Brook, Saco Valley), 89.\n\nRogers's, Robert (Major), account of the White Mountains, 119, 121, note;\n   destroys St. Francis, 259;\n   _see_ Chapter VI., Third Journey.\n\nRosebrook, Eleazer, sketch of, 302, 303.\n\n\nSACO VALLEY (Chapters IV. to IX., inclusive), from Mount Chocorua, 31;\n   at Fryeburg (Maine), 33;\n   at North Conway, 39;\n   at Bartlett, 61-65;\n   from Mount Carrigain, 64, 65;\n   source of the Saco, 88;\n   historical incident, 153.\n\nSandwich Mountains from Lake Winnipiseogee, 8;\n   from Sandwich Centre, 19;\n   from Tamworth (Nickerson's), 24.\n\nSandwich (town of), mountains near, 19.\n\nSandwich Notch, position of, 218.\n\nSawyer's River (branch of the Saco), valley of, 62, 63.\n\nSawyer's Rock (Saco Valley, west side, near Bartlett), 62.\n\nSchoolcraft, Henry Rowe, quoted on the Indian name for the\n      White Mountains, 120.\n\nSilver Cascade (Crawford Notch), 85.\n\nSnow Arch (Tuckerman's Ravine), 161, 162.\n\nSpencer, Jabez (General), settles Campton, 216.\n\nSquam Lake from Red Hill, 16.\n\nSt. Francis de Sales, sacked by Rogers, 259;\n  _see_ Chapter VI., Third Journey.\n\nStar Lake (Mount Adams), 317.\n\nStark, John (General), captured by Indians, 210, 211.\n\nStark, William, 210, 211.\n\nStarr King Mountain, 291.\n\nStorm Lake (between Madison and Adams), 317.\n\nSugar Hill, from Profile House road, 249;\n  view from, 252, 253.\n\nSullivan, James (Governor of Massachusetts), his authority for\n      the story of \"The Great Carbuncle,\" 116;\n  quoted, 153.\n\nSwift River (branch of the Saco), from Mount Chocorua, 30.\n\n\nTAMWORTH IRON WORKS (point from which Chocorua is usually ascended), 21, 25.\n\nThompson's Falls (near Glen House), 146.\n\nThorn Mountain, from North Conway, 40;\n  walk over Thorn Hill (lower spur of Thorn Mountain) to Jackson, 122, 132.\n\nTripyramid Mountain, from Mad River Valley, 219;\n  slide on, 221.\n\nTrout-breeding, State establishment at Plymouth, 212.\n\nTrout-fishing begins in New Hampshire May 1, 213.\n\nTrumbull, J. Hammond, LL.D., quoted on the Indian names\n      for the White Mountains, 120, _note_.\n\nTuckerman's Ravine from Mount Kearsarge, 51;\n  from Carter Dome, 142;\n  from Thompson's Falls, 146;\n  way into from Glen House, 156;\n  appearance from Glen House, 156;\n  Hermit Lake and Lion's Head Crag, 159;\n  Snow Arch, 161;\n  head wall, 162;\n  out by the path to Crystal Cascade, 164.\n\n\nVIEWS, from Red Hill, 14-17;\n  from Chocorua, 29-31;\n  from Jockey Cap, 34;\n  from Conway Corner, 33;\n  from North Conway, 40;\n  from Mount Kearsarge, 51;\n  from the Intervale (North Conway), 55-57;\n  from Mount Carrigain, 64, 65;\n  from above Bemis's, 74;\n  from Mount Willard, 91;\n  from Mount Clinton, 100;\n  from Carter Dome, 141;\n  from Glen House, 145;\n  from Gorham, 169;\n  from Berlin, 172, 175;\n  from Shelburne (Lead Mine Bridge), 176;\n  from Mount Washington carriage-road, 181, 185;\n  from the summit, 189-192;\n  from West Campton, 215;\n  from the Ellsworth road (Pemigewasset valley), 216;\n  from Mount Pemigewasset (Flume House), 229;\n  from Mount Lafayette, 246;\n  from Sugar Hill, 252;\n  from the foot of Bethlehem heights (Gale River valley), 254;\n  from Moosehillock, 272;\n  from Bethlehem, 280, 281;\n  from Jefferson Hill, 292;\n  from East Jefferson, 295;\n  from Randolph Hill, 297;\n  from Mount Adams, 316.\n\n\nWARREN (B., C., & M. R.R.), point from which to ascend Moosehillock, 269.\n\nWashington, Mount, River (formerly Dry River), grand\n      view of the high summits up this valley from P. & O. R.R., 74;\n  the valley from Mount Clinton, 100.\n\nWashington, Mount, carriage-road, 178;\n  Half-way House and the Ledge, 180;\n  Great Gulf, 181;\n  accident on, 183;\n  Willis's Seat, and the view 185;\n  Cow Pasture, 186;\n  Dr. Ball's adventure, 186;\n  fate of a climber, 186;\n  up the pinnacle, 186;\n  United States Meteorological Station, 187;\n  the summit, 188.\n\nWashington, Mount, from Lake Winnipiseogee, 9;\n  from Mount Chocorua, 31;\n  from Conway, 33;\n  from North Conway, 40;\n  from Mount Kearsarge, 51;\n  from Mount Carrigain, 65;\n  first path to, 71;\n  Davis path, 73;\n  view near Bemis's (P. & O. R.R.), 74;\n  Crawford bridle-path opened, 89;\n  from Mount Willard, 93;\n  from Mount Clinton, 100;\n  first ascension, 116-119;\n  Indian traditions of, _see_ Chapter I., Second Journey;\n  from Thorn Hill, 122;\n  from the Wildcat Valley, 133;\n  from Carter Dome, 142;\n  from Glen House, 144;\n  from the Glen House and Gorham road, 168;\n  carriage-road, _see_ Chapter VII., Second Journey;\n  the Signal Station, 187, 196;\n  a winter tornado on the summit, 192-194;\n  shadow of the mountain, 195;\n  the plateau--its floral and entomological treasures, 197, 198;\n  transported bowlders on, 197;\n  Lake of the Clouds, 198;\n  from Mount Lafayette, 246;\n  travellers lost on, 186, 199, 310;\n  from Moosehillock, 270;\n  from Bethlehem, 281, 282;\n  from Fabyan's, 300;\n  railway to summit, 301-306;\n  moonlight on the summit, 311;\n  sunrise, 312;\n  sunset, 318.\n\nWashington, Mount, Railway, from Fabyan's, 301;\n  to the base, 304;\n  its mechanism, 305;\n  Jacob's Ladder, 305;\n  up the mountain, 306, 307;\n  the Summit Hotel, 307.\n\nWaterville (Mad River valley), the neighborhood, 219;\n  path to Livermore, 221.\n\nWebster, Daniel, at Fryeburg, Maine, 33.\n\nWebster, Mount, approach to, 75;\n  from Mount Willard, 92.\n\nWeirs (B., C., & M. R.R.), Lake Winnipiseogee, west shore, 10, _see note_.\n\nWelch Mountain (Pemigewasset valley), 218.\n\nWhipple, Joseph (Colonel), settles at Jefferson, 294.\n\nWhite Horse Ledge (North Conway), 41.\n\nWhite Mountains, general view of, from Conway, 33;\n  from North Conway, 40;\n  from Mount Carrigain (in mass), 65;\n  legends of, _see_ Chapter 1., Second Journey;\n  first ascensions, 116-119;\n  how named, 119, 120;\n  appearance from the coast, 120, 121;\n  from Mount Lafayette, 246;\n  from Bethlehem, 281;\n  from Fabyan's, 300.\n\nWildcat River (branch of the Ellis, a branch of the Saco;\n      rises in Carter Notch), Jackson Falls on, 124;\n  disappearance of, 136.\n\nWildcat Mountain (one of Carter Notch and Pinkham\n      Notch Mountains), position of, 123;\n  avalanche of bowlders, 136;\n  appearance from Carter Notch, 141;\n  from Glen House, 145.\n\nWildcat Valley (Jackson to Carter Notch), 133-140.\n\nWillard, Mount, 77;\n  ascent of, from Crawford House, 91.\n\nWilley family, burial-place of, 55;\n  destruction of, by a landslip, 77-80.\n\nWilley, Mount, from Carrigain, 65;\n  approach to by the valley, 75;\n  from Mount Willard, 92.\n\nWinnipiseogee, Lake, sail up, from Wolfborough to Centre Harbor, 8-10;\n  Indian occupation and customs, 10;\n  sunset view of, from Red Hill. 16, 17.\n\nWinnipiseogee River (outlet of the lake), Indian remains on, 10;\n  Endicott Rock in, 10, _note_.\n\nWolfborough ( E. R.R. branch ), Lake Winnipiseogee, 8.\n\n\nNEW YORK & NEW ENGLAND RAILROAD.\n\nTHIS IS THE MOST CONVENIENT LINE BETWEEN\n\nBoston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Washington,\n\nAS IT IS THE ONLY LINE RUNNING\n\nTHROUGH PULLMAN CARS WITHOUT CHANGE.\n\n     The train leaving Washington, Baltimore, and Philadelphia in\n     the afternoon, arrives in Boston the following morning in season\n     to connect with trains on the Eastern, Boston & Maine, and Boston\n     & Lowell Railroads, for points in the White Mountains and shore\n     resorts. The morning trains from the White Mountains and shore\n     resorts arrive in Boston in sufficient time to cross the city and\n     take the 7 P.M. train for the South.\n\n     Berths in Pullman Sleepers can be secured in advance on\n     application to the Company's Office,\n\n322 Washington St., Boston, and Depot, foot of Summer St.; and at\nPennsylvania Railroad Ticket Offices in Philadelphia, Baltimore, and\nWashington.\n\n==>Ask for Tickets via New England and Str. Maryland Lines.\n\nS. M. FELTON, Jr., General Manager. A. C. KENDALL, General Passenger Agent.\n\n\nWILLIAM S. BUTLER & CO.\n\n90 & 92 Tremont Street,\n\n(Opposite Tremont House),  BOSTON, MASS.\n\nDEALERS IN\n\nRibbons, Laces, Flowers, Montures, Velvets, Nets,\n\nFEATHERS, SPRAYS, &c.\n\n     HATS, for Ladies and Misses; CORSETS--the Best Fitting and\n     Most Sensible: KID GLOVES A SPECIALTY--Latest Styles, Lowest\n     Prices; BUTTONS, TRIMMINGS, &c., in endless variety; HOSIERY and\n     UNDERWEAR, for Ladies and Misses--an admirable assortment at low\n     rates.\n\nFANCY GOODS, PERFUMERY, TOILET ARTICLES, &c.\n\nAND MANY OTHER NOVELTIES.\n\n     Ladies visiting Boston, or gentlemen wishing to make purchases\n     for absent wives, sisters, or lady friends, will do well to inspect\n     the admirably selected stock of Gloves, Laces, Velvets, Ribbons,\n     Flowers, Millinery Goods, Hats, Hosiery, Small Wares, and Fancy\n     Goods generally, offered by WILLIAM S. BUTLER & CO., at\n     90 and 92 Tremont Street (opposite the Tremont House). This firm\n     has won an enviable reputation for the excellence of its goods, its\n     courteous attendance, and the moderation of its prices; while its\n     location renders it most convenient of access by horse cars, either\n     from the hotels or from any of the railroad depots.\n\n==>Orders by mail or express will receive prompt attention.\n\nWILLIAM S. BUTLER & CO.,--90 and 92 Tremont Street, Boston.\n\nSHORE LINE ROUTE.\n\nNEW YORK AND BOSTON.\n\n     Trains leave GRAND CENTRAL DEPOT, New York, for Boston, at\n     =8.05 A.M.=, =1= and =10 P.M.=; arriving in Boston\n     at =6= and =8.05 P.M.=, and =6.20 A.M.=\n\nSundays for Boston at 10 P.M.\n\nWAGNER DRAWING-ROOM CARS\n\n     On 1 P.M. trains from Boston and New York.\n\nWAGNER SLEEPING CARS\n\n     On night trains from Boston and New York.\n\n     Leave BOSTON and PROVIDENCE STATION, Boston, at =8 A.M.=,\n     =1= and =10.30 P.M.=; arriving in the Grand Central\n     Depot, New York, at =4.22= and =7.40 P.M.=, and =6.38\n     A.M.=\n\nSundays for New York at 10.30 P.M.\n\n     For further information, apply to\n\nJ. W. RICHARDSON, Agent, State Street, Corner Washington;\n\nOr at Providence Railroad Station, Columbus Avenue, near Boston Common.\n\nA. A. FOLSOM, Superintendent.\n\nHARPER'S CYCLOPEDIA\n\nOF\n\nBRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY.\n\nEDITED BY\n\nEPES SARGENT.\n\nLarge 8vo, nearly 1000 pages, Illuminated Cloth, with Colored Edges,\n$4.50; Half Leather, $5.00.\n\n     Mr. Sargent was eminently fitted for the preparation of a work\n     of this kind. Few men possessed a wider or more profound knowledge\n     of English literature; and his judgment was clear, acute, and\n     discriminating. * * * The beautiful typography and other exterior\n     charms broadly hint at the rich feast of instruction and enjoyment\n     which the superb volume is eminently fitted to furnish.--_N.Y.\n     Times._\n\n     We commend it highly. It contains so many of the notable poems\n     of our language, and so much that is sound poetry, if not notable,\n     that it will make itself a pleasure wherever it is found.--_N.Y.\n     Herald._\n\n     The selections are made with a good deal of taste\n     and judgment, and without prejudice against any school or\n     individual. An index of first lines adds to the usefulness of the\n     volume.--_N.Y. Sun._\n\n     The collection is remarkably complete. * * * Mr. Sargent's\n     work deserves special commendation for the exquisite justice it\n     does to living writers but little known. It is a volume of rare and\n     precious flowers culled because of their intrinsic value, without\n     regard to the writer's fame. The selections are prefaced by a brief\n     biographical notice of the author, with a critical estimate of the\n     poetry. * * * A valuable acquisition to the literary treasures of\n     American households.--_N.Y. Evening Express._\n\n     He seems to have culled the choicest and the best from the\n     broad field. * * * Mr. Sargent had the fine ear to detect the pure,\n     true music of the heart and imagination wherever it was voiced. * *\n     * The elegant volume is a household treasure which will be highly\n     prized.--_Evangelist, N.Y._\n\nPUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.\n\n==>_Sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, on\nreceipt of the price._\n\nDRAKE'S NEW ENGLAND COAST.\n\n     NOOKS AND CORNERS OF THE NEW ENGLAND COAST. By SAMUEL\n     ADAMS DRAKE. With numerous Illustrations. Square 8vo, Cloth,\n     $3 50; Half Calf, $5 75.\n\n     MY DEAR SIR,--I laid out your new and beautiful\n     book to take with me to-day to my summer home, but before I go I\n     wish to thank you for preparing a volume which is every way so\n     delightful. All summer I shall have it at hand, and many a pleasant\n     hour I anticipate in the enjoyment of it. I have _read_ far enough\n     in it already to feel how admirably you have done your part of it,\n     and I have _seen_, in turning over the delectable pages, what a\n     panorama of lovely nooks and rocky coast your artist has prepared\n     for the pleasure of your readers. May they be a good many thousand\n     this year, and continue to increase time onward. If I am not\n     greatly out in my judgment, edition after edition will be called\n     for. Truly yours,\n\nJAMES T. FIELDS.\n\nThy \"Nooks and Corners of the New England Coast\" is a delightful book,\nand one of most frequent reference in my library. Thy friend,\n\nJOHN G. WHITTIER.\n\nI take this opportunity of acknowledging the pleasure I have received\nfrom your interesting book on our New England coast. It was my companion\nlast summer on the coast of Maine. Yours truly,\n\nF. PARKMAN.\n\nMr. Samuel Adams Drake does for the New England coast such service as\nMr. Nordhoff has done for the Pacific. His \"Nooks and Corners of the\nNew England Coast\"--a volume of 459 pages--is an admirable guide both\nto the lover of the picturesque and the searcher for historic lore, as\nwell as to stay-at-home travellers. The \"Preface\" tells the story of the\nbook; it is a sketch-map of the coast, with the motto, \"On this line, if\nit takes all summer.\" \"Summer\" began with Mr. Drake one Christmas-day\nat Mount Desert, whence he went South, touching at Castine, Pemaquid,\nand Monhegan; Wells and \"Agamenticus, the ancient city\" of York;\nKittery Point; \"The Shoals;\" Newcastle; Salem and Marblehead; Plymouth\nand Duxbury; Nantucket; Newport; Mount Hope; New London, Norwich, and\nSaybrook. What nature has to show and history to tell at each of these\nplaces, who were the heroes and worthies--all this Mr. Drake gives in\npleasant talk--_N.Y Tribune._\n\nMY DEAR MR. DRAKE,--I have given your beautiful book, \"Nooks\nand Corners of the New England Coast,\" a pretty general perusal. It is\none \"after my own heart,\" and I thank you very much for it. Your Preface\nis an admirable \"hit\" in more ways than one. Like Grant, whom you have\nquoted, it took you, I imagine, _all winter_ as well as _all summer_\nto accomplish your victory, for you speak of experiences with snow and\nsleet.\n\nYou have gathered into your volume, in the most attractive form, a vast\namount of historical and descriptive matter that is exceedingly useful.\nI hope your pen will not be stayed. Your friend and brother of the pen,\n\nBENSON J. LOSSING.\n\nTo-morrow I leave home for a week or two in Maine, and shall take your\nbeautiful volume, \"Nooks and Corners of the New England Coast,\" with\nme to read and enjoy at leisure. I am sure it cannot fail to be very\ninteresting.\n\nYours faithfully,\nHENRY W. LONGFELLOW.\n\nI need not tell you with how much interest both my husband and\nmyself--lovers of the valley--look forward to your work, nor how much\npleasure your \"Nooks and Corners\" has already afforded us.\n\nWith most cordial regards,\nHARRIET P. SPOFFORD.\n\nHis style is at once simple and graphic, and his work as conscientious\nand faithful to fact as if he were the dullest of annalists instead of\none of the liveliest of essayists and historians. The legitimate charm\nof variety--characteristic of a work of this kind--makes the book more\nentertaining than any volume of similar size devoted exclusively to\nchronology, biography, essays, or anecdotes.--JOHN G. SAXE, in\nthe _Brooklyn Argus_.\n\nMr. Drake's \"Nooks and Corners of the New England Coast\" ought to be in\nthe hands of every one who visits our sea-side resorts. The artistic\nfeatures serve to embellish a very interesting description of our New\nEngland watering-places, enlivened with anecdotes, bits of history\nconnected with the various places, and pleasant gossip about people and\nthings in general.--_Saturday Evening Gazette_, Boston.\n\nPUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.\n\n==>HARPER & BROTHERS _will send the above work by mail, postage\nprepaid, to any part of the United States, on receipt of the price_.\n\nGLOWING TRIBUTES TO AMERICAN ART.\n\nWHAT LEADING ENGLISH PAPERS\n\nSAY OF\n\n\"PASTORAL DAYS;\n\nOR,\n\nMEMORIES OF A NEW ENGLAND YEAR.\"\n\nBY W. HAMILTON GIBSON.\n\n4to, Illuminated Cloth, Gilt Edges, $7 50.\n\nFROM \"THE TIMES,\" LONDON.\n\n     The title of this very beautifully illustrated book conveys\n     but a very faint idea of its merits, which lie, not in the\n     descriptions of the varied beauties of the fields and fens of New\n     England, but in the admirable wood-engravings, which on every\n     page picture far more than could be given in words. The author\n     has the rare gift of feeling for the exquisitely graceful forms\n     of plant life and the fine touch of an expert draughtsman, which\n     enables him both to select and to draw with a refinement which few\n     artists in this direction have ever shown. Besides these essential\n     qualities in a painter from nature, Mr. Gibson has a fine sense\n     of the poetic and picturesque in landscape, of which there are\n     many charming pieces in this volume, interesting in themselves as\n     pictures, and singularly so in their resemblance to the scenery\n     of Old England. Most of the little vignette-like views might be\n     mistaken for Birket Foster's thoroughly English pictures, and some\n     are like Old Crome's vigorous idyls. One of the most striking--a\n     wild forest scene with a storm passing, called \"The Line Storm\"--is\n     quite remarkable in the excellent drawing of the trees swept by the\n     gale and in the general composition of the picture, which is full\n     of the true poetic conception of grandeur in landscape beauty. But\n     all Mr. Gibsons's good drawing would have been nothing unless he\n     had been so ably aided by the artist engravers, who have throughout\n     worked with such sympathy with his taste, and so much regard for\n     the native grace of wild flowers, grasses, ferns, insects, and\n     all the infinite beauties of the fields, down to the mysterious\n     spider and his silky net spread over the brambles. These cuts are\n     exceptional examples of beautiful work. Nothing in the whole round\n     of wood-engraving can surpass, if it has even equalled, these\n     in delicacy as well as breadth of effect. Much as our English\n     cutters pride themselves on belonging to the school which Bewick\n     and Jackson founded, they must certainly come to these American\n     artists to learn the something more which is to be found in their\n     works. In point of printing, too, there is much to be learned in\n     the extremely fine ink and paper, which, although subjected to\n     \"hot-pressing,\" are evidently adapted in some special condition for\n     wood-printing. The printing is obviously by hand-press,[46] and in\n     the arrangement of the type with the cuts on each page the greatest\n     ingenuity and invention are displayed. This, too, has been designed\n     with a sort of a Japanesque fancy; here is a tangled mass of\n     grasses and weeds, with a party of ants stealing out of the shade,\n     and there the dragon-flies flit across among the blossoms of the\n     reeds, or the feathery seeds of the dandelion float on the page.\n     Each section of the seasons has its suggestive picture: Springtime,\n     with a flight of birds under a may-flower branch that hangs across\n     the brook: Summer, a host of butterflies sporting round the wild\n     rose: Autumn, with the swallows flying south and falling leaves\n     that strew the page; while for Winter the chrysalis hangs in the\n     leafless bough, and the snow-clad graves in the village church-yard\n     tell the same story of sleep and awakening. As many as thirty\n     different artists, besides the author and designer, have assisted\n     in producing this very tastefully illustrated volume, which\n     commends itself by its genuine artistic merits to all lovers of the\n     picturesque and the natural.\n\nFROM \"THE SATURDAY REVIEW,\" LONDON.\n\n     This pleasant American book has brought to our remembrance,\n     though without any sense of imitation, two old-fashioned favorites.\n     In the first place, its descriptions of rural humanity, its rustic\n     sweetness and humor, have a certain analogy with the delicately\n     pencilled studies of life in Miss Mitford's \"Our Village;\" but the\n     relation it bears to the second book is much closer. It is more\n     than forty years since Mr. P. H. Gosse published the first of those\n     delightful sketches of animal life at home which have led so many\n     of us with a wholesome purpose into the woods and lanes. It was in\n     the _Canadian Naturalist_ that he broke this new ground; and though\n     we do not think this has ever been one of his best-known books, we\n     cannot but believe that there are still many readers who will be\n     reminded of it as they glance down Mr. Gibson's pages.\n\n     People must be strangely constituted who do not enjoy such\n     pages as Mr. Gibson has presented to us here. It is not merely that\n     he writes well, but the subject itself is irresistibly fascinating.\n     We plunge with him into the silence of a New England village in a\n     clearing of the woods. The spring is awakening in a flush of tender\n     green, in a fever of warm days and shivering nights, and we hasten\n     with our companion through all the bustle and stir of the few busy\n     hours of light so swiftly that the darkness is on us before we are\n     aware. Then falls on the ear a pathetic, an intolerable silence;\n     a deep mist covers the ground, a few lights twinkle in scattered\n     farms and cottages, and all seems brooding, melting, in the deep\n     and throbbing hush of the darkness. * * * The wailing of the great\n     owl upon the maple-tree takes our author back in memory to the\n     scenes of his youth, where the owl was looked upon as a creature of\n     most sinister omen, and his own partiality to it, as a proof that\n     there was something uncanny or even \"fey\" about him. All this is\n     described with great sympathy and delicacy; but perhaps Mr. Gibson\n     is most felicitous in his little touches of floral painting. He\n     has a few words about the earthy, spicy fragrance of the arbutus\n     that might have been said in verse by the late Mr. Bryant; his\n     description of the effect of biting the bulbs of the Indian turnip,\n     or \"Jack-in-the-pulpit,\" is inimitable in its quiet way; while the\n     phrase about the fading dandelions--\"the golden stars upon the\n     lawn are nearly all burned out; we see their downy ashes in the\n     grass\"--is perhaps the best thing ever said about a humble flower,\n     whose vulgarity, in the literal sense, blinds us to the beauty of\n     its evolution and decay.\n\n     In his studies of life and country manners Mr. Gibson is a\n     very agreeable and amusing, if not quite so novel, a companion.\n     Not seldom he reminds us not merely of Miss Mitford, but sometimes\n     of Thoreau and of Hawthorne. The story of Aunt Huldy, the village\n     crone who sustained herself upon simples to the age of a hundred\n     and three, is one of those little vignettes, half humorous, half\n     pathetic, and altogether picturesque, in which the Americans excel.\n     Aunt Huldy was an old witch in a scarlet hood, whose long white\n     hair flowing behind her was wont to frighten the village children\n     who came upon her in the woods; but she was absolutely harmless, a\n     crazy old valetudinarian, who was always searching for the elixir\n     of life in strange herbs and decoctions. At last she thought\n     she had found it in sweet-fern, and she spent her last years in\n     grubbing up every specimen she could find, smoking it, chewing it,\n     drinking it, and sleeping with a little bag of it tied round her\n     neck.\n\n     But although Mr. Gibson writes so well, he modestly disclaims\n     all pretension as a writer, and lets us know that he is an artist\n     by profession. His book is illustrated by more than seventy designs\n     from his pencil, engraved in that beautiful American manner to\n     which we have often called attention. The scenes designed are\n     closely analogous to those described in the text. We have an\n     apple-orchard in full blossom, with a group of idlers lounging\n     underneath the boughs; scenes in the fields so full of mystery and\n     stillness that we are reminded of Millet, or of our own Mason;\n     clusters of flowers drawn with all the knowledge of a botanist and\n     the sympathy of a poet. It is hard to define the peculiar pleasure\n     that such illustrations give to the eye. It is something that\n     includes and yet transcends the mere enjoyment of whatever artistic\n     excellence the designs may possess. We are directly reminded by\n     them of such similar scenes as have been either the rule or the\n     still more fascinating exception of every childish life, and at\n     their suggestion the past comes back; in the familiar Wordsworthian\n     phrase, \"a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.\"\n\n     We know so little over here of the best American art that\n     it may chance that Mr. Gibson is very well known in New York.\n     We confess, however, that we never heard of him before; but his\n     drawings are so full of delicate fancy and feeling, and his writing\n     so skilful and graceful, that, in calling attention to his book, we\n     cannot but express the hope that we soon may hear of him again, in\n     either function, or in both.\n\n\"PASTORAL DAYS\" is published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York,\nwho will send the work, postage prepaid, to any part of the United\nStates, on receipt of $7 50.\n\nHARPER'S GUIDE TO EUROPE.\n\nHARPER'S HAND-BOOK FOR TRAVELLERS IN EUROPE AND THE EAST: being a Guide\nthrough Great Britain and Ireland, France, Belgium, Holland, Germany,\nItaly, Egypt, Syria, Turkey, Greece, Switzerland, Tyrol, Spain, Russia,\nDenmark, Norway, Sweden, United States, and Canada. By W. Pembroke\nFetridge. With Maps and Plans of Cities. In Three Volumes. 12mo,\nLeather, Pocket-Book Form, $3 00 per vol. _The volumes sold separately_.\n\nVOL. I. GREAT BRITAIN, IRELAND, FRANCE, BELGIUM,\nHOLLAND.\n\nVOL. II. GERMANY, AUSTRIA, ITALY, SICILY AND MALTA, EGYPT,\nTHE DESERT, SYRIA AND PALESTINE, TURKEY, GREECE.\n\nVOL. III. SWITZERLAND, TYROL, DENMARK, NORWAY, SWEDEN,\nRUSSIA, SPAIN, UNITED STATES AND CANADA.\n\nIt has stood the test of trying experience, and has proved the\ntraveller's friend in all emergencies. Each year has added to its\nattractions and value, until it is about as near perfect as it is\npossible to make it.--_Boston Post_.\n\n     Personal use of this Guide during several visits to\n     various portions of Europe enables us to attest its merits. No\n     American is fully equipped for travel in Europe without this\n     Hand-Book.--_Philadelphia North American_.\n\n     Take \"Harper's Hand-Book,\" and read it carefully through;\n     then return to the parts relating to the places you have resolved\n     to visit; follow the route on the maps, and particularly study the\n     plans of cities. So you will start with sound pre-knowledge, which\n     will smoothen the entire course of travel.--_Philadelphia Press_.\n\n     The book is not only unrivalled as a guide-book, for which\n     it is primarily intended, but it is a complete cyclop\u00e6dia of\n     all that relates to the countries, towns, and cities which are\n     described in it--their curiosities, most notable scenes, their\n     most celebrated historical, commercial, literary, and artistic\n     centres. Besides general descriptions of great value, there are\n     minute and detailed accounts of everything that is worth seeing\n     or knowing relative to the countries of the Old World. The great\n     value of the book consists in the fact that it covers all the\n     ground that any traveller may pass through--being exhaustive not\n     only of one country or two, but comprising in its ample pages exact\n     and full information respecting every country in Europe and the\n     East.--_Christian Intelligencer_, N. Y.\n\n     It is a marvellous compendium of information, and the author\n     has labored hard to make his book keep pace with the progress of\n     events. * * * It forms a really valuable work of reference on all\n     the topics which it treats, and in that way is as useful to the\n     reader who stays at home as to the traveller who carries it with\n     him abroad.--_N. Y. Times_.\n\n     I have received and examined with lively interest the new\n     and extended edition of your extremely valuable \"Hand-Book for\n     Travellers in Europe and the East.\" You have evidently spared no\n     time or pains in consolidating the results of your wide travel,\n     your great experience. You succeed in presenting to the traveller\n     the most valuable guide and friend with which I have the good\n     fortune to be acquainted. With the warmest thanks, I beg you to\n     receive the most cordial congratulations of yours, very faithfully,\n     JOHN MEREDITH READ. Jr., _United States Minister of\n     Greece._\n\n     From having travelled somewhat extensively in former years\n     in Europe and the East. I can say with entire truth that you have\n     succeeded in combining more that is instructive and valuable for\n     the traveller than is contained in any one or series of hand-books\n     that I have ever met with.--T. BIGELOW LAWRENCE.\n\n     To make a tour abroad without a guide-book is impossible.\n     The object should be to secure that which is most complete and\n     comprehensive in the least compass. The scope, plan, and execution\n     of Harper's makes it, on the whole, the most satisfactory that can\n     be found.--_Albany Journal_.\n\nPUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.\n\nHARPER & BROTHERS _will send the above work by mail, postage\nprepaid, to any part of the United States, on receipt of the price._\n\nENGLISH MEN OF LETTERS.\n\nEDITED BY JOHN MORLEY.\n\nThe following volumes are now ready:\n\nJOHNSON, LESLIE STEPHEN.\n\nGIBBON, J. C. MORISON.\n\nSCOTT, R. H. HUTTON.\n\nSHELLEY, J. A. SYMONDS.\n\nHUME, Professor HUXLEY.\n\nGOLDSMITH, WILLIAM BLACK.\n\nDEFOE, WILLIAM MINTO.\n\nBURNS, Principal SHAIRP.\n\nSPENSER, The DEAN OF ST. PAUL'S.\n\nTHACKERAY, ANTHONY TROLLOPE.\n\nBURKE, JOHN MORLEY.\n\nMILTON, MARK PATTISON.\n\nSOUTHEY, Professor DOWDEN.\n\nCHAUCER, Professor A. W. WARD.\n\nBUNYAN, J. A. FROUDE.\n\nCOWPER, GOLDWIN SMITH.\n\nPOPE, LESLIE STEPHEN.\n\nBYRON, JOHN NICHOL.\n\nLOCKE, THOMAS FOWLER.\n\nWORDSWORTH, F. W. H. MYERS.\n\nDRYDEN, G. SAINTSBURY.\n\nLANDOR, Professor SIDNEY COLVIN.\n\nDE QUINCEY, Professor D. MASSON.\n\nLAMB, The Rev. ALFRED AINGER.\n\nBENTLEY, Professor JEBB.\n\n12mo, Cloth, 75 cents per volume.\n\nHAWTHORNE. By HENRY JAMES, JR.............12mo, Cloth, $1 00.\n\nVOLUMES IN PREPARATION:\n\nSWIFT, JOHN MORLEY.\n\nGRAY, E. W. GOSSE.\n\nADAM SMITH, LEONARD H. COURTNEY.\n\nDICKENS, Professor A. W. WARD.\n\n_Others will be announced._\n\nPublished by HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.\n\n==>HARPER & BROTHERS _will send any of the above works by mail,\npostage prepaid, to any part of the United States, on receipt of the\nprice_. */\n\nENGLISH CLASSICS.\n\nEDITED, WITH NOTES,\n\nBY WM. J. ROLFE, A.M.\n\nSHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS.\n\n  The Merchant of Venice.\n  The Tempest.\n  Julius C\u00e6sar.\n  Hamlet.\n  As You Like It.\n  Henry the Fifth.\n  Macbeth.\n  Henry the Eighth.\n  Midsummer-Night's Dream.\n  Richard III.\n  Richard the Second.\n  Much Ado About Nothing.\n  Antony and Cleopatra.\n  Romeo and Juliet.\n  Othello.\n  Twelfth Night.\n  The Winter's Tale.\n  King John.\n  Henry IV. Part I.\n  Henry IV. Part II.\n  King Lear.\n  Taming of the Shrew.\n  All's Well that Ends Well.\n  Coriolanus.\n  Comedy of Errors.\n  Cymbeline.\n  Merry Wives of Windsor.\n  Measure for Measure.\n  Two Gentlemen of Verona.\n  Love's Labour's Lost.\n  Timon of Athens.\n\nSELECT POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.\n\nSELECT POEMS OF THOMAS GRAY.\n\n_ILLUSTRATED._\n\n16MO, CLOTH, 50 CENTS PER VOLUME; PAPER, 40 CENTS PER VOLUME.\n\nIn the preparation of this edition of the English Classics it has been\nthe aim to adapt them for school and home reading, in essentially\nthe same way as Greek and Latin Classics are edited for educational\npurposes. The chief requisites are a pure text (expurgated, if\nnecessary), and the notes needed for its thorough explanation and\nillustration.\n\nEach of Shakespeare's plays is complete in one volume, and is preceded\nby an introduction containing the \"History of the Play,\" the \"Sources of\nthe Plot,\" and \"Critical Comments on the Play.\"\n\nPUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.\n\nHARPER & BROTHERS _will send any of the above work by mail,\npostage prepaid, to any part of the United States, on receipt of the\nprice_.\n\n[Illustration: Map of White Mountains, New Hampshire]\n\n[Illustration: Map of Vermont and New Hampshire]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTypographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:\n\ngriping his arm=> gripping his arm {pg 103}\n\nmore and more drouth=> more and more drought {pg 173}\n\nturned to looked back=> turned to look back {pg 243}\n\nMoosilauk 4881=> Moosilauke 4881 {pg 330}\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[1] So called from the fishing-weirs of the Indians. The Indian name was\nAquedahtan. Here is the Endicott Rock, with an inscription made by\nMassachusetts surveyors in 1652.\n\n[2] No tradition attaches to the last three peaks. Passaconnaway was a\ngreat chieftain and conjurer of the Pennacooks. It is of him the poet\nWhittier writes:\n\n    Burned for him the drifted snow,\n    Bade through ice fresh lilies blow,\n    And the leaves of summer glow\n       Over winter's wood.\n\nThis noted patriarch and necromancer, in whose arts not only the Indians\nbut the English seemed to have put entire faith, after living to a great\nage, was, according to the tradition, translated to heaven from the\nsummit of Mount Washington, after the manner of Elias, in a chariot of\nfire, surrounded by a tempest of flame. Wonnalancet was the son and\nsuccessor of Passaconnaway. Paugus, an under chief of the Pigwackets, or\nSokokis, killed in the battle with Lovewell, related in the next\nchapter.\n\n[3] Something has since been done by the Appalachian Club to render this\npart of the ascent less hazardous than it formerly was.\n\n[4] The Saco has since been bridged, and is traversed with all ease.\n\n[5] The sequel to this strange but true story is in keeping with the\nrest of its horrible details. Perpetually haunted by the ghost of his\nvictim, the murderer became a prey to remorse. Life became\ninsupportable. He felt that he was both shunned and abhorred. Gradually\nhe fell into a decline, and within a few years from the time the deed\nwas committed he died.\n\n[6] Dr. Jeremy Belknap relates that, on his journey through this region\nin 1784, he was besought by the superstitious villagers to lay the\nspirits which were still believed to haunt the fastnesses of the\nmountains.\n\n[7] This house stood just within the entrance to the Notch, from the\nnorth, or Fabyan side. It was for some time kept by Thomas J., one of\nthe famous Crawfords. Travellers who are a good deal puzzled by the\nfrequent recurrence of the name \"Crawford's\" will recollect that the\npresent hotel is now the only one in this valley bearing the name.\n\n[8] A portion of the slide touching the house, even moved it a little\nfrom its foundations before being stopped by the resistance it opposed\nto the progress of the d\u00e9bris.\n\n[9] I have since passed over the same route without finding those\nsensations to which our inexperience, and the tempest which surrounded\nus, rendered us peculiarly liable. In reality, the ridge connecting\nMount Pleasant with Mount Franklin is passed without hesitation, in good\nweather, by the most timid; but when a rod of the way cannot be seen the\ncase is different, and caution necessary. The view of this natural\nbridge from the summit of Mount Franklin is one of the imposing sights\nof the day's march.\n\n[10] The remains of this ill-fated climber have since been found at the\nfoot of the pinnacle. See chapter on Mount Washington.\n\n[11] This analogy of belief may be carried farther still, to the\npopulations of Asia, which surround the great \"Abode of Snow\"--the\nHimalayas. It would be interesting to see in this similarity of\nreligious worship a link between the Asiatic, the primitive man, and the\nAmerican--the most recent, and the most unfortunate. Our province is\nsimply to recount a fact to which the brothers Schlaginweit\n(\"Exploration de la Haute Asie\") bear witness:\n\n\"It is in spite of himself, under the enticement of a great reward, that\nthe superstitious Hindoo decides to accompany the traveller into the\nmountains, which he dreads less for the unknown dangers of the ascent\nthan for the sacrilege he believes he is committing in approaching the\nholy asylum, the inviolable sanctuary of the gods he reveres; his\ntrouble becomes extreme when he sees in the peak to be climbed not the\nmountain, but the god whose name it bears. Henceforth it is by sacrifice\nand prayer alone that he may appease the profoundly offended deity.\"\n\n[12] Sullivan: \"History of Maine.\"\n\n[13] Field's second ascension (July, 1642) was followed in the same year\nby that of Vines and Gorges, two magistrates of Sir F. Gorges's province\nof Maine, within which the mountains were believed to lie. Their visit\ncontributed little to the knowledge of the region, as they erroneously\nreported the high plateau of the great chain to be the source of the\nKennebec, as well as of the Androscoggin and Connecticut rivers.\n\n[14] It also occurs, reduced to Agiochook, in the ballad, of unknown\norigin, on the death of Captain Lovewell. One of these was, doubtless,\nthe authority of Belknap. Touching the signification of Agiochook, it is\nthe opinion of Dr. J. Hammond Trumbull that the word which Captain Gyles\nimperfectly translated from sound into English syllables is Algonquin\nfor \"at the mountains on that side,\" or \"over yonder.\" \"As to the\ngenerally received interpretations of Agiockochook, such as 'the abode\nof the Great Spirit,' 'the place of the Spirit of the Great Forest,' or,\nas one writer prefers, 'the place of the Storm Spirit,'\" says Dr.\nTrumbull, \"it is enough to say that no element of any Algonkin word\nmeaning 'great,' 'spirit,' 'forest,' 'storm,' or 'abode,' or combining\nthe meaning of any two of these words, occurs in 'Agiockochook.' The\nonly Indian name for the White Hills that bears internal evidence of\ngenuineness is one given on the authority of President Alden, as used\n'by one of the eastern tribes,' that is, Waumbekketmethna, which easily\nresolves itself into the Kennebec-Abnaki waubeghiket-amadinar, 'white\ngreatest mountain.' It is very probable, however, that this synthesis is\na mere translation, by an Indian, of the English 'White Mountains.' I\nhave never, myself, succeeded in obtaining this name from the modern\nAbnakis.\"\n\n[15] Here is what Douglass says in his \"Summary\" (1748-'53): \"The White\nHills, or rather mountains, inland about seventy miles north from the\nmouth of Piscataqua Harbor, about seven miles west by north from the\nhead of the Pigwoket branch of Saco River; they are called white not\nfrom their being continually covered with snow, but because they are\nbald atop, producing no trees or brush, and covered with a whitish stone\nor shingle: these hills may be observed at a great distance, and are a\nconsiderable guide or direction to the Indians in travelling that\ncountry.\"\n\nAnd Robert Rogers (\"Account of America,\" London, 1765) remarks that the\nWhite Mountains were \"so called from that appearance which is like snow,\nconsisting, as is generally supposed, of a white flint, from which the\nreflection is very brilliant and dazzling.\"\n\n[16] Captivity of Elizabeth Hanson, taken at Dover, New Hampshire, 1724.\n\n[17] No Yankee girl need be told for what purpose spruce gum is\nprocured; but it will doubtless be news to many that the best quality is\nworth a dollar the pound. Davis told me he had gathered enough in a\nsingle season to fetch ninety dollars.\n\n[18] I use the name, as usually applied, to the whole mountain. In point\nof fact, the Dome is not visible from the Notch.\n\n[19] The guide knew no other name for the larger bird than meat-hawk;\nbut its size, plumage, and utter fearlessness are characteristic of the\nCanada jay, occasionally encountered in these high latitudes. I cannot\nrefrain from reminding the reader that the cross-bill is the subject of\na beautiful German legend, translated by Longfellow. The dying and\nforsaken Saviour sees a little bird striving to draw the nail from his\nbleeding palm with his beak:\n\n    \"And the Saviour spoke in mildness:\n       'Blest be thou of all the good!\n     Bear, as token of this moment,\n       Marks of blood and holy rood!\"\n\n    \"And the bird is called the cross-bill;\n       Covered all with blood so clear.\n     In the groves of pine it singeth\n       Songs like legends, strange to hear.\"\n\n[20] Peabody River is said to have originated in the same manner, and in\na single night. It is probable, however, that as long as there has been\na valley there has also been a stream.\n\n[21] Since the above was written, a deplorable accident has given\nmelancholy emphasis to these words of warning. I leave them as they are,\nbecause they were employed by the very person to whom the disaster was\ndue: \"The first accident by which any passengers were ever injured on\nthe carriage-road, from the Glen House to the summit of Mount\nWashington, occurred July 3d, 1880, about a mile below the Half-Way\nHouse. One of the six-horse mountain wagons, containing a party of nine\npersons--the last load of the excursionists from Michigan to make the\ndescent of the mountain--was tipped over, and one lady was killed and\nfive others injured. Soon after starting from the summit the passengers\ndiscovered that the driver had been drinking while waiting for the party\nto descend. They left this wagon a short distance from the summit and\nwalked to the Half-Way House, four miles below, where one of the\nemploy\u00e9s of the Carriage-road Company assured them that there was no bad\nplace below that, and that he thought it would be safe for them to\nresume their seats with the driver, who was with them. Soon after\npassing the Half-Way House, in driving around a curve too rapidly, the\ncarriage was overset, throwing the occupants into the woods and on the\nrocks. Mrs. Ira Chichester, of Allegan, Michigan, was instantly killed,\nher husband, who was sitting at her side, being only slightly bruised.\nOf the other occupants, several were more or less injured. The injured\nwere brought at once to the Glen House, and received every possible care\nand attention. Lindsey, the driver, was taken up insensible. He had been\non the road ten years, and was considered one of the safest and most\nreliable drivers in the mountains.\"\n\n[22] A stone bench, known as Willis's Seat, has been fixed in the\nparapet wall at the extreme southern angle of the road, between the\nsixth and seventh miles. It is a fine lookout, but will need to be\ncarefully searched for.\n\n[23] Benjamin Chandler, of Delaware, in August, 1856.\n\n[24] Dr. B. L. Ball's \"Three Days on the White Mountains,\" in October,\n1855.\n\n[25] Considering the pinnacle of Mount Washington as the centre of a\ncircle of vision, the greatest distance I have been able to see with the\nnaked eye, in nine ascensions, did not probably much exceed one hundred\nmiles. This being half the diameter, the circumference would surpass six\nhundred miles. It is now considered settled that Katahdin, one hundred\nand sixty miles distant, is not visible from Mount Washington.\n\n[26] The highest point, formerly indicated by a cairn and a beacon, is\nnow occupied by an observatory, built of planks, and, of course,\ncommanding the whole horizon. It is desirable to examine this vast\nlandscape in detail, or so much of it as the eye embraces at once, and\nno more.\n\n[27] One poor fellow (Private Stevens) did die here in 1872. His comrade\nremained one day and two nights alone with the dead body before help\ncould be summoned from below.\n\n[28] It was for a long time believed that the summit of Mount Washington\nbore no marks of the great Glacial Period, which the lamented Agassiz\nwas the first to present in his great work on the glaciers of the Alps.\nSuch was the opinion of Dr. C. T. Jackson, State Geologist of New\nHampshire. It is now announced that Professor C. H. Hitchcock has\ndetected the presence of transported bowlders not identical with the\nrocks in place.\n\n[29] In going to and returning from the ravine, I must have walked over\nthe very spot which has since derived a tragical interest from the\ndiscovery, in July, 1880, of a human skeleton among the rocks. Three\nstudents, who had climbed up through the ravine on the way to the\nsummit, stumbled upon the remains. Some fragments of clothing remained,\nand in a pocket were articles identifying the lost man as Harry W.\nHunter, of Pittsburg, Pennsylvania. This was the same person whom I had\nseen placarded as missing, in 1875, and who is referred to in the\nchapter on the ascent from Crawford's. A cairn and tablet, similar to\nthose erected on the spot where Miss Bourne perished, had already been\nplaced here when I last visited the locality, where the remains had so\nlong lain undiscovered in their solitary tomb. An inscription upon the\ntablet gives the following details: \"Henry W. Hunter, aged twenty-two\nyears, perished in a storm, September 3d, 1874, while walking from the\nWilley House to the summit. Remains found July 14th, 1880, by a party of\nAmherst students.\" The place is conspicuous from the plain, and is\nbetween the Crawford Path and Tuckerman's. By going a few rods to the\nleft, the Summit House, one mile distant, is in full view. This makes\nthe third person known to have perished on or near the summit of Mount\nWashington. Young Hunter died without a witness to the agony of his last\nmoments. No search was made until nearly a year had elapsed. It proved\nineffectual, and was abandoned. Thus, strangely and by chance, was\nbrought to light the fact that he sunk exhausted and lifeless at the\nfoot of the cone itself. I can fully appreciate the nature of the\nsituation in which this too adventurous but truly unfortunate climber\nwas placed.\n\n[30] A log-hut has been built near the summit of Mount Clinton since\nthis was written. It is a good deed. But the long miles over the summits\nremain as yet neglected. Had one existed at the base of Monroe, it is\nprobable that one life, at least, might have been saved. It is on the\nplain that danger and difficulties thicken.\n\n[31] Kancamagus, the Pennacook sachem, led the Indian assault on Dover,\nin 1689.\n\n[32] This name was given to his picture of the great range, in\npossession of the Prince of Wales, by Mr. George L. Brown, the eminent\nlandscape-painter. The canvas represents the summits in the sumptuous\ngarb of autumn.\n\n[33] The true source of the Connecticut remained so long in doubt that\nit passed into a by-word. Cotton Mather, speaking of an ecclesiastical\nquarrel in Hartford, says that it was almost as obscure as the rise of\nthe Connecticut River.\n\n[34] This orthography is of recent adoption. By recent I mean within\nthirty years. Before that time it was always Moosehillock. Nothing is\neasier than to unsettle a name. So far as known, I believe there is not\na single summit of the White Mountain group having a name given to it by\nthe Indians. On the contrary, the Indian names have all come from the\nwhite people. That these are sometimes far-fetched is seen in Osceola\nand Tecumseh; that they are often puerile, it is needless to point out.\nMoosehillock is probably no exception. It is not unlikely to be an\nEnglish nickname. The result of these changes is that the people\ninhabiting the region contiguous to the mountain do not know how to\nspell the name on their guide-boards.\n\n[35] Speaking of legends, that of Rubenzal, of the Silesian mountains,\nis not unlike Irving's legend of Rip Van Winkle and the Catskills. Both\nwere Dutch legends. The Indian legends of Moosehillock are very like to\nthose of high mountains, everywhere.\n\n[36] In the valley of the Aar, at the head of the Aar glacier, in\nSwitzerland, is a peak named for Agassiz, who thus has two enduring\nmonuments, one in his native, the other in his adopted land. The eminent\nSwiss scientist spent much time among the White Mountains.\n\n[37] Such, for example, as the Hon. J. G. Sinclair, Isaac Cruft, Esq.,\nand ex-Governor Howard of Rhode Island.\n\n[38] The twin Percy Peaks, which we saw in the north, rise in the\nsouth-east corner of Stratford. Their name was probably derived from the\ntownship now called Stark, and formerly Percy. The township was named by\nGovernor Wentworth in honor of Hugh, Earl of Northumberland, who figured\nin the early days of the American Revolution. The adjoining township of\nNorthumberland is also commemorative of the same princely house.\n\n[39] The greater part of the ascent so nearly coincides, in its main\nfeatures, with that into Tuckerman's, that a description would be, in\neffect, a repetition. To my mind Tuckerman's is the grander of the two;\nit is only when the upper section of King's is reached that it begins to\nbe either grand or interesting by comparison.\n\n[40] The road up the Rigi, in Switzerland, was modelled upon the plans\nof Mr. Marsh.\n\n[41] Dr. Timothy Dwight.\n\n[42] Rev. Benjamin G. Willey.\n\n[43] The greatest angle of inclination is twelve feet in one hundred.\n\n[44] Samuel Adams at the feet of John Adams is not the exact order that\nwe have been accustomed to seeing these men. Better leave Samuel Adams\nwhere he stands in history--alone.\n\n[45] It is only forty years since Agassiz advanced his now generally\nadopted theory of the Glacial Period. The Indians believed that the\nworld was originally covered with water, and that their god created the\ndry land from a grain of sand.\n\n[46] The English reviewer is in error here. The letterpress and\nillustrations were printed together on an Adams press.","title":"The Heart of the White Mountains, Their Legend and Scenery: Tourist's Edition","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":124604}