Three loud knocks upon my bed-room door awakened me from “a deep dream of peace.” “The Eastern stage is ready,” said my landlord as he handed me a light. Whereupon, in less than five minutes after the hour of three, I was on my way to the White Mountains, inditing on the tablet of my memory the following disjointed stage-coach rhapsody.
A fine coach, fourteen passengers, and six superb horses. My seat is on the outside and my eyes on the alert for anything of peculiar interest which I may meet with in my journey. Now do the beautiful Green Mountains meet my view. The day is breaking, and lo! upon either side of me, and like two leaders of an army, rise the peaks of Mansfield Mountains and the Camel’s Hump. Around the former the cloud-spirits of early morning are picturing the fantastic poetry of the sky; while just above the summit of the other may be seen the new moon and the morning star, waiting for the sun to come, like two sweet human sisters for the smiles and kisses of a returning father. And now, as the sunbeams glide along the earth, we are in the solitude of the mountains, and the awakened mist-creatures are ascending from the cool and shady nooks in the deep ravines.
Young Dana’s description of a ship under full sail is very fine, but it does not possess the living beauty of that picture now before me, in those six bay horses, straining every nerve to eclipse the morning breeze. Hold your breath, for the road is hard and smooth as marble, and the extended nostrils of those matchless steeds speak of a noble pride within. There, the race is done, the victory theirs, and now, as they trot steadily along, what music in the champing of those bits, and the striking of those iron-bound hoofs! Of all the soulless animals on earth, none do I love so dearly as the horse—I sometimes am inclined to think that they have souls. I respect a noble horse more than I do some men. Horses are the Indian chiefs of the brute creation.
The Winooski, along whose banks runs the most picturesque stage route in Vermont, is an uncommonly interesting stream, rapid, clear, and cold. It is remarkable for its falls and narrow passes, where perpendicular rocks of a hundred feet or more frown upon its solitary pools. Its chief pictorial attraction is the cataract at Waterbury, a deep and jagged chasm in the granite mountain, whose horrors are greatly increased by the sight and smothered howl of an avalanche of pure white foam. On its banks and forty miles from its outlet near Burlington, is situated Montpelier, the capital of Vermont. It is a compact town, mostly built upon two streets, and completely hemmed in by rich and cultivated mountains. Its chief attraction to my mind, however, during my short stay, was a pair of deep black eyes, only half visible under their drooping lids.
During one of my rambles near Montpelier, I discovered an isolated and abandoned dwelling, which stands upon a little plot of green, in the lap of the forest near the top of a mountain. I entered its deserted chambers and spent a long time musing upon its solemn admonitions. The cellar had become the home of lizards and toads. The spider and cricket were masters of the hearth, where once had been spun the mountain legend by an old man to the only child of his widowed son. They were, as I am told, the last of a long line which once flourished in Britain, and with them their name would pass into forgetfulness. Only the years of a single generation have elapsed since then, but the dwellers of yonder mountain are sleeping in the grave. And is this passing record of their existence the only inheritance they have left behind? Most true; but would it have been better for them, or for us, had they bequeathed to the world a noted name or immense possessions? What is our life?
The route between Montpelier and Danville lies along the Winooski, and is not less beautiful than that down the river. Its chief picture is Marshfield Waterfall. While at Montpelier a pleasure ride was got up by some of my friends, and as they were bound to the East, and I was honored with an invitation, I sent on my baggage and joined them, so that the monotony of my journey was considerably relieved. We had our fishing-rods with us, and having stopped at the fall, we caught a fine mess of trout, which we had cooked for dinner at the next tavern on our way,—and our dessert was fine singing from the ladies, and good stories from the lips of Senator Phelps, who was of the party, and is celebrated for his conversational powers. For further particulars concerning that expedition, I would refer my reader to that pair of eyes which I just now mentioned as having beamed upon me with a bewitching brilliancy. But alas! the dear creature is already—excuse me, I cannot, I will not speak the hateful word. The lucky fellow ought to carry a liberal and kind soul hereafter, if he has never done so before.
At cock-crowing this morning I was again in my seat outside of the stage-coach, anxiously waiting for the mists to evaporate in the East. The sun proved to be my friend, and as soon as he appeared, they vanished like a frightened troop, and he was marching up the sky in the plenitude of his glory. And then, for the first time, did my vision rest upon the White Mountains, as they reposed in the distance, like a mighty herd of camels in the solitude of the desert. In the charming valley of the Connecticut we only tarried about ten minutes, but long enough for me to hear the mower whet his scythe, the “lark sing loud and high,” and the pleasant tinkle of a cow bell far away in the broad meadow. While there I took a sketch, wherein I introduced the father of New England rivers, and the bald peak of Mount Lafayette, with the storm-inflicted scar upon its brow. A noble monument is yonder mountain to the memory of a noble man.
While breakfasting at Littleton this morning, I came to the conclusion to leave my baggage and visit Franconia. I jumped into the stage, and after a very pleasant ride of seventeen miles, found myself far into the Notch, in the midst of whose scenery I am to repose this night. I reached here in time to enjoy an early dinner with “mine host;” after which I sallied forth to examine the wonders of the place, but I was so delighted with everything around that I did not take time to make a single sketch. I saw the Flume, and was astonished. It is a chasm in the mountain, thirty feet wide, about a hundred deep, and some two thousand long, and as regular in its shape as if it had been cut by the hand of man. Bridging its centre is a rock of many tons weight, which one would suppose could only have been hurled there from the heavens. Through its centre flows a little brook, which soon passes over a succession of rocky slides, and which are almost as smooth and white as marble. And to cap the climax, this Flume is the centre of as perfect and holy a wilderness of scenery as could be imagined.
I have also seen (what should be the pride of the Merrimack, as it is upon one of its tributaries), the most superb pool in this whole country. The fall above it is not remarkable, but the forest-covered rocks on either side, and the pool itself are wonderfully fine. In the first place, you must remember that the waters of this whole region are cold as ice, and very clear. The pool forms a circle of about one hundred feet in diameter, and is said to be fifty feet in depth. Owing to the fall it is the “head-quarters” of the trout, which are found all along the stream in great abundance. After I had completed a drawing, I laid aside my pencils and fixed my fishing-rod. I threw the line only about two hours, and caught forty-five trout. Among them was the great-grandfather of all trout, as I thought at the time;—he was seventeen inches long, and weighed two pounds and one ounce.
The Old Man of the Mountain is another of the lions of this place. It is a cone-shaped mountain, (at the foot of which is a small lake,) upon whose top are some rocks, which have a resemblance to the profile of an old man. It is really a very curious affair. There the old fellow stands, as he has stood perhaps for centuries, “looking the whole world in the face.” I wonder if the thunder never frightens him! and does the lightning play around his brow without making him wink? His business there, I suppose, is to protect the “ungranted lands” of New Hampshire, or keep Isaac Hill from lecturing the White Mountains on Locofocoism. He need not trouble himself as to the first fear, for they could not be deeded even to a bear; and as to the second, I don’t believe the mountains could ever be persuaded to vote for the acquisition of new territory. Every plant upon them speaks of freedom, and in their fastnesses does the eagle find a home; their banner symbols are the stars and stripes, and therefore they must be Whigs.