Back Of Augusta The Country Swells Into Hills Of
Considerable Height With Deep Hollows Between, In Which Lie A Multitude Of
Lakes.
We passed several of these, beautifully embosomed among woods,
meadows, and pastures, and were told that if we continued
On the course we
had taken we should scarcely ever find ourselves without some sheet of
water in sight till we arrived at Fryeburg on the boundary between Maine
and New Hampshire. One of them, in the township of Winthrop, struck us as
particularly beautiful. Its shores are clean and bold, with little
promontories running far into the water, and several small islands.
At Winthrop we found that the coach in which we set out would proceed to
Portland, and that if we intended to go on to Fryeburg, we must take seats
in a shabby wagon, without the least protection for our baggage. It was
already beginning to rain, and this circumstance decided us; we remained
in the coach and proceeded on our return to Portland. I have scarcely ever
travelled in a country which presented a finer appearance of agricultural
thrift and prosperity than the portions of the counties of Kennebeck and
Cumberland, through which our road carried us. The dwellings are large,
neatly painted, surrounded with fruit-trees and shrubs, and the farms in
excellent order, and apparently productive. We descended at length into
the low country, crossed the Androscoggin to the county of York, where, as
we proceeded, the country became more sandy and sterile, and the houses
had a neglected aspect. At length, after a journey of fifty or sixty miles
in the rain, we were again set down in the pleasant town of Portland.
Letter XLII.
The White Mountains.
Springfield, Mass., _August_ 13, 1847.
I had not space in my last letter, which was written from Keene, in New
Hampshire, to speak of a visit I had just made to the White Mountains. Do
not think I am going to bore you with a set description of my journey and
ascent of Mount Washington; a few notes of the excursion may possibly
amuse you.
From Conway, where the stage-coach sets you down for the night, in sight
of the summits of the mountains, the road to the Old Notch is a very
picturesque one. You follow the path of the Saco along a wide valley,
sometimes in the woods that overhang its bank, and sometimes on the edge
of rich grassy meadows, till at length, as you leave behind you one summit
after another, you find yourself in a little plain, apparently inclosed on
every side by mountains.
Further on you enter the deep gorge which leads gradually upward to the
Notch. In the midst of it is situated the Willey House, near which the
Willey family were overtaken by an avalanche and perished as they were
making their escape. It is now enlarged into a house of accommodation for
visitors to the mountains. Nothing can exceed the aspect of desolation
presented by the lofty mountain-ridges which rise on each side. They are
streaked with the paths of landslides, occurring at different periods,
which have left the rocky ribs of the mountains bare from their bald tops
to the forests at their feet, and have filled the sides of the valley with
heaps of earth, gravel, stones, and trunks of trees.
From the Willey house you ascend, for about two miles, a declivity, by no
means steep, with these dark ridges frowning over you, your path here and
there crossed by streams which have made for themselves passages in the
granite sides of the mountains like narrow staircases, down which they
come tumbling from one vast block to another. I afterward made
acquaintance with two of these, and followed them upward from one clear
pool and one white cascade to another till I was tired. The road at length
passes through what may be compared to a natural gateway, a narrow chasm
between tall cliffs, and through which the Saco, now a mere brook, finds
its way. You find yourself in a green opening, looking like the bottom of
a drained lake with mountain summits around you. Here is one of the houses
of accommodation from which you ascend Mount Washington.
If you should ever think of ascending Mount Washington, do not allow any
of the hotel-keepers to cheat you in regard to the distance. It is about
ten miles from either the hotels to the summit, and very little less from
any of them. They keep a set of worn-out horses, which they hire for the
season, and which are trained to climb the mountain, in a walk, by the
worst bridle-paths in the world. The poor hacks are generally tolerably
sure-footed, but there are exceptions to this. Guides are sent with the
visitors, who generally go on foot, strong-legged men, carrying long
staves, and watching the ladies lest any accident should occur; some of
these, especially those from the house in the Notch, commonly called Tom
Crawford's, are unmannerly fellows enough.
The scenery of these mountains has not been sufficiently praised. But for
the glaciers, but for the peaks white with perpetual snow, it would be
scarcely worth while to see Switzerland after seeing the White Mountains.
The depth of the valleys, the steepness of the mountain-sides, the variety
of aspect shown by their summits, the deep gulfs of forest below, seamed
with the open courses of rivers, the vast extent of the mountain region
seen north and south of us, gleaming with many lakes, took me with
surprise and astonishment. Imagine the forests to be shorn from half the
broad declivities - imagine scattered habitations on the thick green turf
and footpaths leading from one to the other, and herds and flocks
browzing, and you have Switzerland before you. I admit, however, that
these accessories add to the variety and interest of the landscape, and
perhaps heighten the idea of its vastness.
I have been told, however, that the White Mountains in autumn present an
aspect more glorious than even the splendors of the perpetual ice of the
Alps.
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