All This Mighty Multitude Of Mountains, Rising From Valleys Filled
With Dense Forests, Have Then Put On Their Hues Of Gold And Scarlet, And,
Seen More Distinctly On Account Of Their Brightness Of Color, Seem To
Tower Higher In The Clear Blue Of The Sky.
At that season of the year they
are little visited, and only awaken the wonder of the occasional
traveller.
It is not necessary to ascend Mount Washington, to enjoy the finest views.
Some of the lower peaks offer grander though not so extensive ones; the
height of the main summit seems to diminish the size of the objects beheld
from it. The sense of solitude and immensity is however most strongly felt
on that great cone, overlooking all the rest, and formed of loose rocks,
which seem as if broken into fragments by the power which upheaved these
ridges from the depths of the earth below. At some distance on the
northern side of one of the summits, I saw a large snow-drift lying in the
August sunshine.
The Franconia Notch, which we afterwards visited, is almost as remarkable
for the two beautiful little lakes within it, as for the savage grandeur
of the mountain-walls between which it passes. At this place I was shown a
hen clucking over a brood of young puppies. They were littered near the
nest where she was sitting, when she immediately abandoned her eggs and
adopted them as her offspring. She had a battle with the mother, and
proved victorious; after which, however, a compromise took place, the slut
nursing the puppies and the hen covering them as well as she could with
her wings. She was strutting among them when I saw her, with an appearance
of pride at having produced so gigantic a brood.
From Franconia we proceeded to Bath, on or near the Connecticut, and
entered the lovely valley of that river, which is as beautiful in New
Hampshire, as in any part of its course. Hanover, the seat of Dartmouth
College, is a pleasant spot, but the traveller will find there the worst
hotels on the river. Windsor, on the Vermont side, is a still finer
village, with trim gardens and streets shaded by old trees; Bellows Falls
is one of the most striking places for its scenery in all New England. The
coach brought us to the railway station in the pleasant village of
Greenfield. We took seats in the train, and leaving on our left the quiet
old streets of Deerfield under their ancient trees, and passing a dozen or
more of the villages on the meadows of the Connecticut, found ourselves in
less than two hours in this flourishing place, which is rapidly rising to
be one of the most important towns in New England.
Letter XLIII.
A Passage to Savannah.
Augusta, Georgia, _March 29, 1849_.
A quiet passage by sea from New York to Savannah would seem to afford
little matter for a letter, yet those who take the trouble to read what I
am about to write, will, I hope, admit that there are some things to be
observed, even on such a voyage. It was indeed a remarkably quiet one, and
worthy of note on that account, if on no other. We had a quiet vessel,
quiet weather, a quiet, good-natured captain, a quiet crew, and remarkably
quiet passengers.
When we left the wharf at New York last week, in the good steamship
Tennessee, we were not conscious, at first, as we sat in the cabin, that
she was in motion and proceeding down the harbor. There was no beating or
churning of the sea, no struggling to get forward; her paddles played in
the water as smoothly as those of a terrapin, without jar or noise. The
Tennessee is one of the tightest and strongest boats that navigate our
coast; the very flooring of her deck is composed of timbers instead of
planks, and helps to keep her massive frame more compactly and solidly
together. It was her first voyage; her fifty-one passengers lolled on
sofas fresh from the upholsterer's, and slept on mattresses which had
never been pressed by the human form before, in state-rooms where foul air
had never collected. Nor is it possible that the air should become impure
in them to any great degree, for the Tennessee is the best-ventilated ship
I ever was in; the main cabin and the state-rooms are connected with each
other and with the deck, by numerous openings and pipes which keep up a
constant circulation of air in every part.
I have spoken of the passengers as remarkably quiet persons. Several of
them, I believe, never spoke during the passage, at least so it seemed to
me. The silence would have been almost irksome, but for two lively little
girls who amused us by their prattle, and two young women, apparently just
married, too happy to do any thing but laugh, even when suffering from
seasickness, and whom we now and then heard shouting and squealing from
their state-rooms. There were two dark-haired, long-limbed gentlemen, who
lay the greater part of the first and second day at full length on the
sofas in the after-cabin, each with a spittoon before him, chewing tobacco
with great rapidity and industry, and apparently absorbed in the endeavor
to fill it within a given time. There was another, with that atrabilious
complexion peculiar to marshy countries, and circles of a still deeper hue
about his eyes, who sat on deck, speechless and motionless, wholly
indifferent to the sound of the dinner-bell, his countenance fixed in an
expression which seemed to indicate an utter disgust of life.
Yet we had some snatches of good talk on the voyage. A robust old
gentleman, a native of Norwalk, in Connecticut, told us that he had been
reading a history of that place by the Rev. Mr. Hall.
"I find," said he, "that in his account of the remarkable people of
Norwalk, he has omitted to speak of two of the most remarkable, two
spinsters, Sarah and Phebe Comstock, relatives of mine and friends of my
youth, of whom I retain a vivid recollection.
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