Burlington—Lake Champlain—Distinguished Men.
Burlington—Lake Champlain—Distinguished Men.
Burlington. June.
Of all the towns which I have ever seen, Burlington in Vermont is decidedly one of the most beautiful. It stands on the shore of Lake Champlain, and from the water to its eastern extremity is a regular elevation, which rises to the height of some three hundred feet. Its streets are broad and regularly laid out, the generality of its buildings elegant, and its inhabitants well educated, refined, and wealthy. My visit here is now about to close, and I cannot but follow the impulses of my heart, by giving my reader a brief account of its principal picturesque attraction, and some information concerning a few of its public men.
As a matter of course, my first subject is LakeChamplain. In approaching it from the south, and particularly from Horicon, one is apt to form a wrong opinion of its picturesque features; but you cannot pass through it without being lavish in its praise. It extends, in a straight line from south to north, somewhat over a hundred miles, and lies between the States of Vermont and New York. It is the gateway between the country on the St. Lawrence and that on the Hudson, and it is therefore extensively navigated by vessels and steam-boats. It is surrounded with flourishing villages, whose population is generally made up of New Englanders and Canadians. Its width varies from half a mile to thirteen, but its waters are muddy, excepting in the vicinity of Burlington. Its islands are not numerous, but one of them, Grand Isle, is sufficiently large to support four villages. Its scenery may be denominated bold; on the west are the Adirondac Mountains; and at some distance on the east, the beautiful Green Mountains, whose gloriouscommandersare Mansfield Mountain and the Camel’s Hump. Owing to the width of the Lake at Burlington, and the beauty of the western mountains, the sunsets that are here visible, are exceedingly superb.
The classic associations of this Lake are uncommonly interesting. Here are the moss-coveredruins of Ticonderoga and Crown Point, whose present occupants are the snake, the lizard, and toad. Leaden and iron balls, broken bayonets, and English flints, have I picked up on their ramparts, which I cannot look upon without thinking of death-struggles and the horrible shout of war. And there too is Plattsburg, in whose waters Commodore McDonough vindicated the honour of the Stars and Stripes of Freedom.
RUINS OF TICONDEROGA.
RUINS OF TICONDEROGA.
As to the fishing of this Lake, I have but a word to say. Excepting trout, almost every variety of fresh-water fish is found here in abundance; but the water is not pure, which is ever a serious drawback to my enjoyment in wetting the line. LakeChamplain received its present name from a French nobleman, who discovered it in 1609, and who died at Quebec in 1635.
The associations I am now to speak of, are of a personal character; and the first, of the three names before me, is that of Joseph Torrey, the present Professor of Moral and Intellectual Philosophy in the University of Vermont. As a citizen, he is one of the most amiable and beloved of men. As one of the faculty of the University, he occupies a high rank, and is a particular favourite with all his students. A pleasing evidence of the latter fact I noticed a few days since, when it was reported among the students that the Professor had returned from a visit to the Springs for his health. I was in company with some half dozen of them at the time, and these are the remarks they made: “How is his health?” “I hope he has improved!” “Now shall I be happy; for ever since he went away, the recitation-room has been a cheerless place to me.” “Now shall I be advised as to my essay!” “Now shall my poem be corrected!” “Now, in my troubles, shall I have the sympathies of a true friend!” Much more meaning is contained in these simple phrases than what meets the eye. Surely, if any man is to be envied, it is he who has a place in the affections of all who know him.As a scholar, too, Professor Torrey occupies an exalted station, as will be proved to the world in due time. He has never published anything but an occasional article for a review, and the Memoir of President Marsh, (who was his predecessor in the University), as contained in the admirable volume of his Remains, which should occupy a conspicuous place in the library of every American scholar and Christian.
The memoir is indeed a rare specimen of that kind of writing, beautifully written, and pervaded by a spirit of refinement that is delightful. But I was mostly interested in Mr. Torrey as a man of taste in the Fine Arts. In everything but the mere execution, he is a genuine artist, and long may I remember the counsels of his experience and knowledge. A course of Lectures on the Arts forms a portion of his instruction as Professor; and I trust that they will eventually be published, for the benefit of our country. He has also translated, from the German of Schelling, a most admirable discourse, entitled “Relation of the Arts of Design to Nature;” a copy of which ought to be in the possession of every young artist. Mr. Torrey has been an extensive traveller in Europe, and being a lover and an acute observer of everything connected with literature and art, it is quite a luxuryto hear him expatiate upon “the wonders he has seen.”
He also examines everything with the eye of a philosopher; and his conclusions are ever of practical utility. Not only can he analyze in a profound manner the principles of metaphysical learning, but, with the genuine feelings of a poet, descant upon the triumphs of poetic genius, or point out the mind-charms of a Claude or Titian. He is—but I will not say all that I would, for I fear that at our next meeting he would chide me for my boyish personalities. Let me conclude then, reader, with the advice, that, if you ever chance to meet the Professor in your travels, you must endeavour to secure an introduction, which I am sure you cannot but ever remember with unfeigned pleasure.
John Henry Hopkins, D.D., Bishop of Vermont, is another of the principal attractions of Burlington. The history of his life, the expression of his countenance, and his general deportment, all speak of the “peace of God.” Considering the number and diversity of his acquirements, I think him a very remarkable man. He is not only, in point of character, well worthy of his exalted station as Bishop, but as a theologian, learned and eloquent to an uncommon degree. His contributions to the world of Letters are of rare value, as he has publishedvolumes entitled “Christianity Vindicated,” “The Primitive Church,” “The Primitive Creed,” “The Church of Rome,” “British Reformation,” and “Letters to the Clergy.” His style of writing is persuasive, vigorous, and clear; and all his conclusions seem to have been formed in full view of the Bible, which is a virtue worth noticing in these degenerate days. It is because of his honesty and soundness, I suppose, that some of his own church are disaffected with his straightforward conduct. Bishop Hopkins, as a divine, is of the same school with the late Bishop White, and therefore among the most eminently wise and good of his age and country.
The Bishop of Vermont is also a man of remarkable taste with regard to Architecture, Music, and Painting; in which departments, as an amateur, he has done himself great credit. Not only did he plan and superintend the building of an edifice for his recent school, but has published an interesting book on Architecture, wherein he appears to be as muchat homeas if he were Christopher Wren. Knowing the market to be full of sentimental nonsense in the way of songs, he composed, for the benefit of his own children, a few with a moral tone, which he also set to music, and are now published as a worthy tribute to his fine feelings, and the correctnessof his ear. But he ranks still higher as a man of taste in the capacity of a Painter. The Vermont Drawing Book, which he published, is an evidence of his ability as a draughtsman. The family portraits which adorn his walls, prove him to have an accurate eye for colour, and an uncommon knowledge of effect;—his oil sketches of scenes from nature, give token of an ardent devotion to nature. But the best, in my opinion, of all his artistical productions, is a picture representing “our Saviour blessing little children.” Its conception, grouping, and execution, are all of very great merit, and I am persuaded will one day be looked upon with peculiar interest by the lovers and judges of art in this country. Though done in water colours, and considered by the artist as a mere sketch for a larger picture, there are some heads in it that would have called forth a compliment even from the lamented Allston. Would that he could be influenced to send it, for exhibition, to our National Academy! And thus endeth my humble tribute of praise to a gifted man.
I now come to the Hon. George P. Marsh, of whom, if I were to follow the bent of my feelings, I could write a complete volume. Though yet in the early prime of life, he is a sage in learning and wisdom. After leaving college, he settled inBurlington, where he has since resided, dividing his time between his legal profession and the retirement of his study. With a large and liberal heart, he possesses all the endearing and interesting qualities which belong to the true and accomplished gentleman. Like all truly great men, he is exceedingly retiring and modest in his deportment, and one of that rare class who can never be excited by the voice of fame. About two years ago, almost without his knowledge, he was elected to a seat in the lower house of Congress, where he at once began to make an impression as a Statesman. Though few have been his public speeches, they are remarkable for sound political logic, and the classic elegance of their language. As an orator, he is not showy and passionate, but plain, forcible, and earnest.
But it is in the walks of private life, that Mr. Marsh is to be mostly admired. His knowledge of the Fine Arts is probably more extensive than that of any other man in this country, and his critical taste is equal to his knowledge; but that department peculiarly his hobby, is Engraving. He has a passion for line engravings; and it is unquestionably true, that his collection is the most valuable and extensive in the Union. He is well acquainted with the history of thisart from the earliest period, and also with its various mechanical ramifications. He is as familiar with the lives and peculiar styles of the Painters and Engravers of antiquity, as with his household affairs; and when he talks to you on his favourite theme, it is not to display his learning, but to make you realize the exalted attributes and mission of universal Art.
As an author, Mr. Marsh has done but little in extent, but enough to secure a seat beside such men as Edward Everett, with whom he has been compared. He has published (among his numerous things of the kind) a pamphlet entitled “The Goths in New England,” which is a fine specimen of chaste writing and beautiful thought; also another on the “History of the Mechanic Arts,” which contains a great deal of rare and important information. He has also written an “Icelandic Grammar” of one hundred and fifty pages, which created a sensation among the learned of Europe a few years ago. As to his scholarship,—it can be said of him, that he is amasterin some twelve of the principal modern and ancient languages. He has not learned them merely for the purpose of being considered a literary prodigy, but to multiply his means of acquiring information, which information is intendedto accomplish some substantial end. He is not a visionary, but a devoted lover of truth, whether it be in History, Poetry, or the Arts.
But my chief object in speaking of this gentleman, was to introduce a passing notice of his Library, which is undoubtedly the most unique in the country. The building itself, which stands near his dwelling, is of brick, and arranged throughout with great taste. You enter it, as it was often my privilege, and find yourself in a perfect wilderness of gorgeous books, and portfolios of engravings. Of books, Mr. Marsh owns some five thousand volumes. His collection of Scandinavian Literature is supposed to be the more complete than any out of the Northern Kingdoms. To give you an idea of this literary treasure, I will mention a few of the rarest specimens. In old Northern Literature, here may be found theArna Magnæaneditions of old Icelandic Sagas, all those ofSuhm, all those of the Royal Society of Northern Antiquaries, and, in fact, all those printed at Copenhagen and Stockholm, as well as in Iceland, with scarcely an exception. This Library also contains the great editions ofHeimskringla, the twoEddas,Kongs-Skugg-Sjo,Konunga,Styrilse, the Scriptores Rerum Danicarum, Scriptores Rerum Svecicarum, Dansk Magazin, thetwocomplete editions ofOlaus Magnus,Saxo Grammaticus, the works of Bartholinus, Torfaus, Schöning, Suhm, Pontoppidan, Grundtvig, Petersen, Rask, theAplanticaof Rudbeck, the great works ofSjöborg, Liljegren, Geijer, Cronholm, and Strinnholm, all the collections of old Icelandic, Danish, and Swedish laws, and almost all the writers, ancient and modern, who have treated of the language, literature, or history, of the ancient Scandinavian race.
In modern Danish Literature, here may be found the works of Holberg, Wessel, Ewald, Hejberg, Baggesen, Oehlenschläger, Nyerup, Ingemann, with other celebrated authors; in Swedish, those of Leopold Oxenstjerna, Bellmann, Franzen, Atterbom, Tegner, Frederika Bremer, and indeed almost all thebelles-lettresauthors of Sweden, the Transactions of the Royal Academy of Science, (more than one hundred volumes), those of the Swedish Academy, and of the Royal Academy of Literature, and many collections in documentary history, besides numerous other works.
In Spanish and Portuguese, besides many modern authors, here are numerous old chronicles, such as the Madrid collection of old Spanish Chronicles in seven volumes 4to.; the PortugueseLivrosineditos da Historia Portugueza, five volumes folio; Fernam Lopez, de Brito, Duarte Nunez de Liam, Damiam de Goes, de Barros, Castanheda, Resende, Andrada, Osorio; also, de Menezes, Mariana, and others of similar character. In Italian, most of the best authors, who have acquired a European reputation; several hundred volumes of French works, including many of the ancient chronicles; a fine collection in German, including many editions of Reyneke der Fuchs, the Niebelungen, and other works of the middle ages. In classical literature, good editions of the most celebrated Greek and Latin authors; and in English, a choice collection of the best authors, among which should be mentioned, as rare in this country, Lord Berners’ Froissart, Roger Ascham, the writings of King James I., John Smith’s Virginia (edition of 1624), Amadis de Gaul, and Palmerin of England. In lexicography, the best dictionaries and grammars in all the languages of Western Europe, and many biographical dictionaries and other works of reference in various languages. Many works also on astrology, alchemy, witchcraft, and magic; and a goodly number of works on the situation of Plato’s Atlantis and Elysian Fields, such as Rudbeck’s Atlantica, Goropius Becanus, de Grave République des Champs-Elysées, and a host ofothers in every department of learning, the mere mention of which would cause the bookworm a thrill of delight.
In the department of Art, Mr. Marsh possesses the Musée Français, Musée Royal, (proof before letters) Liber Veritatis, Houghton Gallery, Florence Gallery, Publications of Dilettanti Society, and many other illustrated works and collections of engravings; the works of Bartsch, Ottley Mengs, Visconti, Winckelmann, and other writers on the history and theory of Art; old illustrated works, among which are the original editions of Teuerdanck and Der Weiss Kunig; and many thousand steel engravings, including many originals by Albert Dürer, Luke of Leyden, Lucas Cranach, Aldegreuer, Wierx, the Sadelers Nauteuil, (among others the celebrated Louis XIV., size of life, and a proof of the Cadet à la Perle, by Masson), Edelink, Drevet, Marc Antonio, and other old engravers of the Italian school, Callot, Ostade, Rembrandt, (including a most superb impression of the Christ Healing the Sick, the hundred guilder Piece, and the portrait of Renier Ansloo), Waterloo, Woollett, Sharp, Strange, Earlom, Wille, Ficquet Schmidt, Loughi, and Morghen; in short, nearly all the works of all the greatest masters in chalcography, from the time of Dürer to the presentday. It were folly for me to praise these various works, and I have alluded to them merely for the purpose of letting you know something of the taste and possessions of Mr. Marsh. His library is one of the most delightful places it has ever been my fortune to visit, and the day that I became acquainted with the man, I cannot but consider as an era in my life. Morning, noon, and evening did I linger with the master-spirits of olden time, collected in his library, and though I often stood in mute admiration of their genius, I was sometimes compelled to shed a tear, as I thought of the destiny, as a writer, which will probably be mine. Thank God, there is no such thing as ambition in that blessed world above the stars, which I hope to attain,—no ambition to harass the soul,—for then will it be free to revel, and for ever, in its holy and godlike conceptions. But a truce to this strain of thought, and also to the Lions of Burlington, of whom I now take my leave with a respectful bow.
Stage-coach—The Winooski—The Green Mountains—The ruined Dwelling—The White Mountains—The Flume—A deep Pool—The Old Man of the Mountain—The Basin—Franconia Notch—View of the Mountains—Mount Washington—The Notch Valley.
Stage-coach—The Winooski—The Green Mountains—The ruined Dwelling—The White Mountains—The Flume—A deep Pool—The Old Man of the Mountain—The Basin—Franconia Notch—View of the Mountains—Mount Washington—The Notch Valley.
In a Stage-coach. June.
Three loud knocks at 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 thebeautiful Green Mountains meet my view. The day is breaking, and lo! upon either side of me, and like the two leaders of an army, rise the peaks of Mansfield Mountain 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 silent 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 sodearly 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 the 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 attractions 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 longtime 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 upon 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 beenbetterfor 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 honoured with an invitation, I sent on my baggage and joined them, so that the monotony of my journey was agreeably 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 fordinner 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 you 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 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 a broad meadow. While there I tooka 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 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, thisFlume 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 isreally 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 ever 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 do not 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.
And another curiosity, which everybody goes to see, is called the Basin,—an exquisite little spot,—fit for the abode of a very angel. It is formed in the solid rock, and though twenty feet in depth, you can see a sixpence at the bottom,—it is so wonderfully clear. But the wild beauties of this Notch, unknown to fame, are charming beyond compare. There goes the midnight warning of the clock, and I must retire. Would that my dreams might be of yonder star, now beaming withintense brightness above the dark outline of the nearest mountain.
The distance from Knight’s tavern to the western outlet of Franconia Notch is eight miles. The eastern stage was to pass through about the middle of the afternoon, so after eating my breakfast I started on, intending to enjoy a walk between the mountains. With the conceptions and feelings that were with me then, I should have been willing to die, for I was very happy.
FRANCONIA NOTCH.
FRANCONIA NOTCH.
Now, as I sat upon a stone to sketch a mass of foliage, a little red squirrel came within five feet of me, and commenced a terrible chattering, as if hislady-love had given him the “mitten,” and he was inveighing against the whole female sex; and now an old partridge with a score of children came tripping along the shadowy road, almost within my reach, and so fearless of my presence, that I would not have harmed one of them even for a crown. Both of these were exceedingly simple pictures, and yet they afforded me a world of pleasure.
I thought of the favourite haunts of these dear creatures—the hollow tree—the bed of dry leaves—the cool spring—the mossy yellow log—the rocky ledges overgrown with moss—the gurgling brooklet stealing through the trees, with its fairy waterfalls in a green shadow and its spots of vivid sunlight—and of a thousand other kindred gems in the wonderful gallery of Nature. And now as I walked onward, peering into the gloomy recesses of the forest on either side, or fixed my eyes upon the blue sky with a few white clouds floating in their glory, many of my favourite songs were remembered, and, in a style peculiarly my own, I poured them upon the air, whilst I was answered by unnumbered mountain echoes. Nothing had they to do with the place or with each other, but like the pictures around me, they were a divine food for my soul—so that I was in the enjoyment of a heavenly feast.Now, as I looked through the opening trees, I saw an eagle floating above the summit of a mighty cliff;—now, with the speed of a falling star descending far into the leafy depths, and then, slowly but surely ascending, until hidden from view by a passing cloud. Fly on, proud bird, glorious symbol of my country’s freedom! What a god-like life is thine! Thou art the “sultan of the sky,” and from thy craggy home for ever lookest upon the abodes of man with indifference and scorn. The war-whoop of the savage, the roar of artillery on the bloody battle field, and the loud boom of the ocean cannon, have fallen upon thy ear, and thou hast listened, utterly heedless as to whom belonged the victory. What strength and power in thy pinions! traversing in an hour a wider space
“Than yonder gallant ship, with all her sailsWooing the winds, can cross from morn till eve!”
“Than yonder gallant ship, with all her sails
Wooing the winds, can cross from morn till eve!”
When thy hunger-shriek echoes through the wilderness, with terror does the wild animal seek his den, for thy talons are of iron and thine eyes of fire. But what is thy message to the sun? Far, far into the zenith art thou gone, for ever gone—emblem of a mighty hope that once was mine.
My thoughts were upon the earth once more, and my feet upon a hill out of the woods, whence mightbe seen the long broad valley of the Amonoosack, melting into that of the Connecticut. Long and intently did I gaze upon the landscape, with its unnumbered farm-houses, reposing in the sunlight, and surmounted by pyramids of light blue smoke, and also upon the cattle gazing on a thousand hills. Presently I heard the rattling wheels of the stage-coach;—one more look over the charming valley, and I was in my seat beside the coachman.
In view of the foregoing and forthcoming facts, I cannot but conclude that I am a most lucky fellow. My ride from Franconia to Littleton was attended with this interesting circumstance. A very pretty young lady, who was in the stage, found it necessary to change her seat to the outside on account of the confinement within. Of course, I welcomed her to my side with unalloyed pleasure. The scenery was fine, but what does my reader suppose I cared for that—as I sat there talking in a most eloquent strain to my companion, with my right arm around her waist to keep her from falling? That conduct of mine may appear “shocking” to those who have “never travelled,” but it was not only an act of politeness but of absolute necessity. Neither, as my patient’s smile told me, “was it bad to take.” And how delightful it was to have her cling to me, and to hear the beating of her heart,as the driver swung his whip and ran his horses down the hills! Animal magnetism is indeed a great invention—and I am a believer in it, so far as the touch of a beautiful woman is concerned.
Away, away—thoughts of the human world! for I am entering into the heart of the White Mountains. Ah me! how can I describe these glorious hierarchs of New England! How solemnly do they raise their rugged peaks to heaven! Now, in token of their royalty, crowned with a diadem of clouds; and now with every one of their cliffs gleaming in the sunlight like the pictures of a dream! For ages, have they been the playmates of the storm, and held communion with the mysteries of the midnight sky. The earliest beams of the morning have bathed them in living light, and theirs too have been the last kisses of departing day. Man and his empires have arisen and decayed, but they have remained unchanged, a perpetual mockery. Upon their summits, Time has never claimed dominion. There, as of old, does the eagle teach her brood to fly, and there does the wild bear prowl after his prey. There do the waterfalls still leap and shout on their way to the dells below, even as when the tired Indian hunter, some hundred ages agone, bent him to quaff the liquid element. There still, does the rank grass rustle in the breeze, andthe pine, and cedar, and hemlock, take part in the howling of the gale. Upon Man alone falls the heavy curse of time; Nature has never sinned, therefore is her glory immortal.
As is well known, the highest of these mountains was christened after our beloved Washington; and with it, as with him, are associated the names of Jefferson, Madison, and Adams. Its height is said to be six thousand and eight hundred feet above the sea; but owing to its situation in the centre of a brotherhood of hills, it does not appear to be so grand an object as South Peak Mountain among the Catskills. Its summit, like most of its companions, is destitute of vegetation, and therefore more desolate and monotonous. It is somewhat of an undertaking to ascend Mount Washington, though the trip is performed on horseback; but if the weather is clear, the traveller will be well repaid for his labour. The painter will be pleased with the views he may command in ascending the route from Crawford’s, which abounds in the wildest and most diversified charms of mountain scenery. But the prospect from the summit of Washington, will mostly excite the soul of the poet. Not so much on account of what he will behold, but for the breathless feeling, which will make him deem himself, for a moment, to be an angel or a god. Andthen, more than ever, if he is a Christian, will he desire to be alone, so as to anticipate the bliss of heaven by a holy communion with the Invisible.
I spent a night upon this mountain; and my best view of the prospect was at the break of day, when, as Milton says,
“—— morn, her rosy steps in th’ Eastern climeAdvancing, sow’d the earth with orient pearls,”
“—— morn, her rosy steps in th’ Eastern clime
Advancing, sow’d the earth with orient pearls,”
and,
“Wak’d by the circling hours, with rosy handUnbarr’d the gates of light;”
“Wak’d by the circling hours, with rosy hand
Unbarr’d the gates of light;”
or, when in the language of Shakspeare,
“The grey-eyed morn smiled on the frowning night,Checkering the eastern clouds with streaks of light.”
“The grey-eyed morn smiled on the frowning night,
Checkering the eastern clouds with streaks of light.”
Wonderfully vast, and strangely indistinct and dreamy, was the scene spread out on every side. To the west lay the superb Connecticut, with its fertile valley reposing in the gloom of night; while to the east, the ocean-bounded prospect, just bursting into the life of light, was faintly relieved by Winnepiseogee and Sebago lakes; and, like rockets along the earth, wandered away the Merrimack, the Saco, and the Androscoggin, to their ocean home,—the whole forming an epic landscape, such as we seldom behold excepting in our sleep. Heavens! with what exquisite delight did I gaze uponthe scene, as in the eyes of truth and fancy it expanded before my mind. Yonder, in one of a hundred villages, a young wife, with her first-born child at her side, was in the midst of her morning dream; and there, the pilgrim of fourscore years was lying on his couch in a fitful slumber, as the pains of age crept through his frame. There, on the Atlantic shore, the fisherman in the sheltering bay, hoisted anchor and spread his sail for the sea; and there, the life-star of the lighthouse was extinguished, again at its stated time to appear with increased brilliancy. In reality, there was an ocean of mountains all around me; but in the dim light of the hour, and as I looked down upon them, it seemed to me that I stood in the centre of a plain, boundless as the universe; and though I could not see them, I felt that I was in a region of spirits, and that the summit of the mount was holy ground. But the morning was advancing, the rising mists obscured my vision, and as I did not wish to have that day-break picture dissipated from my mind, I mounted my faithful horse, and with a solemn awe at heart, descended the mountain.
The ride from the Notch House, (kept by the celebrated hunter, named Crawford), through the Notch Valley, some twelve miles long, is magnificent. First is the Gap itself, only some twentyfeet in width, and overhung with jagged rocks of wondrous height; and then the tiny spring, alive with trout, which gives birth to the untamed Saco. A few more downward steps, and you are in full view of a bluff, whose storm-scathed brow seems to prop the very heavens, its grey shadows strongly contrasting with the deep blue sky. A little further on, and you find yourself in an amphitheatre of mountains, whose summits and sides are barren and desolate, where the storms of a thousand years have exhausted their fury. Downward still, and farther on, and you come to the memorable Wiley cottage, whose inhabitants perished in the avalanche or slide of 1826. The storm had been unceasing for some days upon the surrounding country, and the dwellers of the cottage were startled at midnight by the falling earth. They fled, and were buried in an instant; and up to the present time, only one of the seven bodies has ever been found. As it then stood, the dwelling still stands—a monument of mysterious escape, as well as of the incomprehensible decrees of Providence. The Saco river, which runs through the valley, was lifted from its original bed, and forced into a new channel. The whole place, which but a short time before was “a beautiful and verdant opening amid the surrounding rudeness and deep shadow, is nowlike a stretch of desolate sea-shore after a tempest,—full of wrecks, buried in sand and rocks, crushed and ground to atoms.”
After witnessing so much of the grand and gloomy, I was glad to retrace my course back to a more tame country. My last view of Mount Washington and its lordly companions was the most beautiful. The sun was near his setting, and the whole sky was suffused with a glow of richest yellow and crimson, while to the eastward hung two immense copper-coloured clouds just touching the outline of the mountains; and through the hazy atmosphere the mountains themselves looked cloud-like, but with more of the bright blue of heaven upon them. In the extensive middle distance faded away wood-crowned hills, and in the foreground an exquisite little farm, with the husbandman’s happy abode almost hidden by groups of elms, and with the simple figures, only a few paces off, of a little girl sitting on a stone, with a bunch of summer flowers in her hand, and a basket of berries and a dog at her side. One more yearning gaze upon the dear old mountains, and I resumed my pilgrimage towards the north.
Montreal.
Montreal.
Montreal. June.
With some things in Montreal I have been pleased, but with others a good deal dissatisfied. The appearance which it presents from every point of view is imposing in the extreme. Its numerous church towers and extensive blocks of stores, its extensive shipping and noble stone wharves, combine to give one an idea of great wealth and liberality. On first riding to my hotel I was struck with the cleanliness of its streets; and, on being shown to my room, I was convinced that the hotel itself (Donegana’s) was of the first water. It abounds in public buildings, which are usually built of lime-stone, and the city extends along the river St. Lawrence about three miles. Thestreets in the older parts of the town are as picturesque and narrow as those of the more ancient cities of the old world, but in the modern portions they are quite regular and comfortable. The principal street is Notre Dame, which always presents, on a pleasant day, a gay and elegant appearance.
Generally speaking, its churches are below mediocrity, but it has one architectural lion worth mentioning, the Catholic Cathedral. It faces a square called Place d’Armes, and presents an imposing appearance. It is built of stone, and said to be after the Norman-Gothic order of architecture, but I should think it a mixture of a dozendis-orders. Its extreme length is two hundred and fifty-five feet, breadth one hundred and thirty-five, and its height seventy-two feet. It has also two towers, which measure two hundred and twenty feet to their summit. The windows in these towers are closed with coarse boards; and yet it cost four hundred thousand dollars. The ground-floor is covered with pews capable of seating eight thousand people, while the aisles and galleries might hold two thousand more. The galleries are supported by wooden pillars, which reminded me of a New York barber’s sign. The interior has a naked and doleful appearance; the large window above the altar iswretchedly painted; the altar itself is loaded with gewgaws, and, of the many paintings which meet you in every direction, there is not one for which I would pay ten dollars. The organ resembles a bird-house, and the music perpetrated there every day in the year would jar upon the ear of even an American Indian. And when it is remembered that this church was built by one of the wealthiest corporations on the continent, it is utterly impossible to entertain a feeling of charity towards the founders thereof.
The population of Montreal is now estimated at forty thousand, one-half of whom are Roman Catholics, one quarter Protestants, and the remainder nothing in particular. By this statement it will be readily seen that the establishments of the Catholics must be the most abundant. Nunneries are consequently very numerous, some of them well endowed; and to those who have a passion for such affairs must be exceedingly interesting.
But I wish to mention one or two more specimens of architecture. The market of Montreal is built of stone, situated near the river, and remarkably spacious and convenient in all its arrangements. It eclipses anything of the kind that we can boast of in the States. The only monument in the cityof any note is a Doric column, surmounted with a statue, and erected in honour of Lord Nelson. The entire column is seventy feet high, and gives an air of elegance to that portion of Notre Dame where it stands. On the four sides of the pedestal are pictorial representations, in alto relievo, representing Nelson in some of his memorable battles. It was erected by the British inhabitants of Montreal at a cost of near six thousand dollars.
One of the more striking peculiarities of this city is the fact that every body has to live, walk, and sleep at the point of a bayonet. Military quarters are stationed in various portions of the city, and soldiers meet you at every corner, marching to and fro, and sometimes puffed up with ignorance and vanity. The last woman, I am sorry to say, who has become an outcast from society, attributes her misfortune to a soldier; but the officers of the British army stationed here are generally well-educated and agreeable gentlemen.
The people whom you meet in the streets of Montreal seem to come from almost every nation in the world. Now it may be the pompous Englishman, who represents some wilderness district in Parliament, and now it may be the cunning Scotchman, or a half-famished Irishman. Sometimes itis the speculating American, or the humble, but designing Jew, the gay and polite Habitan, or a group of wandering Indians from the far north. The better class of Montreal people (so called by a fashionable world) are the British settlers, or rather the English population. Generally speaking, they are highly intelligent, somewhat arbitrary in expressing their opinions, but they entertain hospitable feelings towards strangers. They boast of their mother-country, as if her glory and power were omnipotent, and an occasional individual may be found who will not scruple to insult an American if he happens to defend his own. In religion, they are generally Episcopalians; they hate the Habitan, look with contempt upon the poor Irish, and address their brethren of Scotland with a patronising air. They drink immense quantities of wine; and those who happen to be the illiterate members of the Provincial Parliament, think themselves the greatest people on earth.
The island upon which Montreal is situated is seventy miles in circumference, and was once (if not now) the property of an order of Catholic priesthood. In the rear of the city rises a noble hill, called Mount Royal, from which it derives its name. The hill itself is thickly wooded, butthe surrounding country is exceedingly fertile, and studded with elegant country seats and the rural abodes of the peasantry. A ride around the Mount, on a pleasant day, is one of the most delightful imaginable, commanding a view of Montreal and the St. Lawrence valley, which is grand beyond compare.
To appreciate the unique features of Montreal, it is necessary that you should be there on the Sabbath, the gala-day of the Catholics. Then it is that the peasantry flock into the city from all directions, and, when they are pouring into the huge Cathedral by thousands, dressed in a thousand fantastic fashions, cracking their jokes and laughing as they move along, the entire scene is apt to fill one with peculiar feelings. It was beautiful to look at; but the thought struck me that I should hate to live in the shadow of that Cathedral for ever. But if you chance to take a walk in the suburbs on a Sabbath afternoon, you will notice much that cannot but afford you real satisfaction. You will find almost every cottage a fit subject for a picture, and the flocks of neatly-dressed, happy, and polite children playing along the roads, together with frequent groups of sober men, sitting in a porch, and the occasional image of a beautiful girl orcontented mother leaning out of a window—all these things, I say, constitute a charm which is not met with everywhere. But enough. Montreal is a fine city, and I trust that it will yet be my fortune to visit it again, and see more of its polished society.