The Hermit of Aroostook.
The Hermit of Aroostook.
Mouth of the Aroostook. July.
I was on my way down the river St. John, in New Brunswick, and having heard that the Aroostook, (one of its principal tributaries,) was famous for its salmon and a picturesque waterfall, I had taken up my quarters at a tavern near the mouth of that stream, with a view of throwing the fly for a few days, and adding to my stock of sketches. I arrived at this place in the forenoon, and after depositing my luggage in an upper room, and ordering a dinner, I proceeded to arrange my tackle and pencils for an afternoon expedition. This preparatory business I performed in the sitting-room of the tavern, where there happened to be seated at the time, and reading the New York Albion, an oddly-dressed but gentlemanly-looking man. Inform, he was tall and slender, appeared to be about fifty years of age, and there was such an air of refinement in his appearance and manners that he attracted my particular attention. I said nothing, however, and quietly continued my snelling operations, until summoned to dinner. While at the table, I sent for the landlord, to inquire about the stranger whom I had noticed, and his reply was as follows:—“His name is Robert Egger; he is a strange but good man, and lives the life of a recluse; his house is above the Fall, on the Aroostook, and about four miles from here. He has been in this part of the country for many years, but I seldom see him at my house, excepting when he wants to read the news, put a letter in the office, or purchase a bag of flour.”
With this intelligence I was quite delighted, for I fancied that I had discovered acharacter, which eventually proved to be the case. On returning to the room where the stranger was seated, I introduced myself by offering him a cigar; and while fixing my rod, asked him a few questions about the surrounding country. His replies proved him to be an intelligent man, and as he happened to express himself a lover of the “gentle art,” I offered him the use of some fishing tackle, and invited him to accompany me. He refused my offer, but acceptedmy invitation, and we started for the Aroostook. He officiated as my guide; and when we approached the river, which was from two to five feet deep, about one hundred yards wide, very rapid, and filled with bridge piers in ruin, we jumped into a Frenchman’s canoe, and were landed on the northern shore. Here we came into a road which passed directly along the bank of the river; this we followed for one mile, until we arrived at a flouring-mill, situated at the mouth of a large and very beautiful brook, where the road made a sudden turn towards the north.
Directly opposite the mill, on the Aroostook side, was a narrow and rapid rift, where, my friend told me, I was sure to hook a salmon. I did not like the appearance of the place, but took his advice and waded in. I tried my luck for some thirty minutes, but could not tempt a single fish. This, my friend did not understand; he said there were salmon there, and thought that the fault was mine. I knew what he wanted, and therefore handed him my rod, that he might try his fortune. He fished for nearly half an hour, and then broke the fly-tip of my rod. As I was cherishing an earnest desire to take at least one salmon, under the Fall, which I thought the only likely place to succeed, and towards which I had set my face, this little accident made me exceedinglynervous. My friend attempted to console me by remarking, that as it was getting towards evening, we had better return to the tavern, and take a fresh start in the morning. But this proposition did not suit me at all, and I promptly said so. “Just as you please,” replied my companion, and so we repaired the rod, and continued up the river. Very rapid, with many and deep pools, was this portion of the stream; and our course along the shore, over logs and fallen trees, through tangled underbrush and around rocky points—was attended with every imaginable difficulty, and so continued for at least two miles. On coming in sight of the Fall, however, I was more than amply repaid for all my trouble, by the prospect which there presented itself. It was, perhaps, one hour before sunset, and there was a delightful atmosphere resting upon the landscape.
Directly before me, in the extreme distance, and immediately under the crimson sun, was a narrow rocky gorge, through which foamed the waters of the Aroostook, over a precipice of some thirty feet; and just below the Fall, rose a perpendicular rock, to the height of nearly a hundred feet, dividing the stream into two channels. The entire middle distance of the prospect was composed of a broad and almost circular basin of very deep and darkwater, skirted mostly with a rocky shore, while directly across the surface of this pool, winding down the stream, was a line of foam, distinguishing the main channel; while the foreground of this picture consisted of a gravelly beach, two bark wigwams, several canoes, and some half dozen Indians, who were enjoying their evening meal by the side of an expiring fire.
We held a brief conversation with the Indians, and found out that they had visited the basin for the purpose of spearing salmon by torchlight; and while my companion sat down in their midst to rest himself, I jumped into one of the canoes, and paddled to the foot of the fall, to try one of my fancy flies. I fished for about thirty minutes—caught one small salmon—lost two very large ones, and returned to the Indian camp, where I had previously concluded to spend the night, provided my guide did not insist upon returning to the tavern by moonlight. It so happened, however, that my interesting plan was vetoed by my companion, who told me that his dwelling was only a mile off, and that I must go and spend the night with him. I willingly assented to this proposition, and having picked up the salmon, we engaged the Indians to ferry us across the basin, and proceeded on our way. Our path was somewhat narrow, crooked, and intricate,and as I listened to the roaring of the waterfall, and thought of the mystery which hung over my companion, I could not but wonder what I was about, to what strange place I was going.
In due time, however, we emerged from the woods, and came out upon the side of a gentle hill, which sloped to the margin of the Aroostook, and was sufficiently open to command an extensive view of the river. Here my friend told me to tarry a few moments, for he had a canoe hidden among some willows, and wished to hunt it up, that we might recross the river once more. I heard his words, but neglected to assist him, for my whole attention was riveted by the scene upon which I was gazing. The sober livery of twilight had settled upon the world, and the flowing of the river was so peaceful, that I could distinctly hear the hum of unnumbered insects, as they sported in the air. On the opposite shore was a lofty forest-covered hill, and at the foot of it a small clearing, in the centre of which stood a rude log cabin—the dwelling-place of my friend. On my left, the river presented the appearance of a lake: and apparently in the centre of it were two of the most exquisitely foliaged islands imaginable. The valley seemed completely hemmed in with mountains, and these, together with a glowing sky, were all distinctly mirrored in the sleeping waters.Charming beyond compare was this evening landscape, and the holy time “was quiet as a nun, breathless with adoration.” But now my companion summoned me to a seat in the canoe, and we passed over the stream in safety; he hauled up his shallop, laid aside his paddle, and, slapping me on the shoulder, led the way to his cabin, repeating, in a loud clear voice, the following words:
“Alone I live, between four hills,—Fame Roostook runs between;—At times, wild animals appear,But men are seldom seen.”
“Alone I live, between four hills,—
Fame Roostook runs between;—
At times, wild animals appear,
But men are seldom seen.”
ROBERT EGGER’S FARM-HOUSE.
ROBERT EGGER’S FARM-HOUSE.
On entering the hut, which was now quite dark, as it only contained one window, my companionturned abruptly round, and after making a frolicsome remark about my being in his power, he exclaimed—“That poetry I repeated to you just now was a home-spun article, but as you might fancy something a little more civilized, I would say to you, my young friend, in the language of Wordsworth’s ‘Solitary,’
“This is my domain, my cell,My hermitage, my cabin, what you will—I love it better than a snail his house,But now ye shall be feasted with our best.”
“This is my domain, my cell,
My hermitage, my cabin, what you will—
I love it better than a snail his house,
But now ye shall be feasted with our best.”
Soon as these words had fallen from his lips, my friend proceeded to collect some wood for a fire, and while I was left to kindle the flame, he seized a tin-pail and went after some spring water, which he said was some distance off. In a few moments, I produced a sufficient quantity of light to answer my purpose, and then took occasion to survey the room, into which I had been thus strangely introduced. Everything about me seemed to be oddity itself. First was the huge fire-place, rudely made of rough stones and filled with ashes; then the blackish appearance of the log walls around, and the hemlock rafters above. In one corner stood a kind of wooden box, filled with blankets, which answered the purpose of a bed,—and in front of the only window in the cabin was a pine table, on whichstood an inkstand and some writing paper, and under which sat a large gray cat, watching my movements with a suspicious eye. In one place stood a wooden chest, and a half-barrel of meal, and the only things in the room, to sit upon were a couple of wooden chairs. The crevices in the walls were stopped up with rags and clay, and from various rafters depended bundles of mint, hemlock, and other useful productions of the wood. A rusty old gun, and a home-made fishing rod occupied one corner; and on every side, resting upon wooden pegs, were numerous shelves, of every size and form, which were appropriated to a variety of uses. On one or two of them were the cooking utensils of my friend; on another, a lot of smoky books; and on others, a little of every thing, from a box of salt or paper of tea, down to a spool of thread or a paper of needles.
In a few moments my friend re-entered the cabin, and immediately began to prepare our evening meal, which consisted of bread, fried pork, and salmon, and a cup of tea. Plain was our food, but it was as nicely cooked as if it had been done by a pretty girl, instead of an old man; and the comic pomposity with which every little matter was attended to, afforded me much amusement. One thing I remember, which struck me as particularly funny.My host was talking about the conduct of Sir Robert Peel and the British Parliament, and, while in the midst of his discourse, opened a trap-door leading to his cellar, and descended therein. I knew not what he was after, and waited his re-appearance with some anxiety, when suddenly he bobbed up his ghost-like head, resumed the thread of his remarks, and held forth in one hand a huge piece of fat pork, and as he became excited about the conduct of the Prime Minister, he occasionally slapped the pork with the remaining hand, and then shook it in the air, as if it had been one of the murderous Irishmen to whom he was occasionally alluding. He reminded me of the grave-digger in Hamlet. I also remember, that when my friend was kneading his bread, the idea entered his head, from some remark that I had dropped, that I did not comprehend the meaning of a certain passage in Shakspeare, so he immediately wiped one of his hands, leaned over for his ragged copy of the mighty bard, and immediately settled the question to our mutual satisfaction.
Supper being ended, I pulled out of my pocket a couple of cigars which I had brought with me, and we then seated ourselves comfortably before the fire and entered into a systematic conversation. The greater part of the talking was done by my companion, and in the course of the evening, I gatheredthe following particulars respecting his own history.
He told me he was a native of Hampshire, England, and had spent his boyhood in the city of London, as a counting-house clerk. He claimed a good name for his family, and added that Mr. Jerdan, editor of the London Literary Gazette, was his brother-in-law, having married his only sister. He avowed himself about sixty years of age, and had been a resident of New Brunswick ever since the year 1809. He first came across the Atlantic as a government agent, for the transaction of business connected with the fur trade; and when he settled in the province, the whole country was an untrodden wilderness. Since that time he had followed a variety of employments, had acquired a competence, but lost it through the rascality of friends. He told me he was a widower, and that he had one son, who resided in Frederickton, and was rapidly acquiring a reputation for his knowledge of engineering. “It does my heart good to remember this fact,” continued my friend, “and I do hope that my son will not disgrace his family, as some people seem to think I have done. The God-forsaken inhabitants of this region have a habit of calling me a crazy old man. God be praised,—I know they overshoot the mark in that particular; if I have lost my reason, I cantell the mocking world, that I have endured trouble enough to make even a philosopher, a raving maniac. By patient and unwearied toil, I have won two small fortunes, but both of them were snatched away, and I was left a beggar. The Home Government took pity on me, and offered to make me a present of land, adding that I was at liberty to make my own selection. I accepted their offer and selected five hundred acres on the Aroostook, making the Fall we visited this evening the centre of my domain. I duly received a deed for the property, and having concluded that my fellow-men were as tired of me as I was of them, I bolted for the wilderness and have lived here ever since. Yes, sir, for twelve years have I been the only human inmate of this rude cabin; I ought to except, however, ‘a lucid interval’ of some nine months, which I spent in England, about four years ago, visiting my friends and the favourite haunts of my childhood. To enjoy even that little luxury, I was compelled to sacrifice a portion of my land.”
“But why do you not sell your entire property?” I remarked, “and take up your abode among men, where your knowledge might be made available?”
“Knowledge, indeed!” replied the hermit philosopher; “all that I possess, you might easily hidein the bowl of an acorn. I do know enough to cast my eyes heavenward, when crushed by misfortune, but the same knowledge was possessed by the worm upon which I accidentally trod this morning. What is man, at his best estate, but a worm? But this is not answering your question. My only reason for not selling this property is, that I cannot find a purchaser. Most gladly would I jump at the chance, and then Iwouldmingle with my fellow-men, and endeavour to beofthem. Travellers, who sometimes pass through this region, tell me that my property is worth 5000 dollars; I know it to be worth at least that amount, but I should be glad to sell it for 3000 dollars, and that too, on a credit of ten years. The interest would, indeed, be a meagre income, but I have schooled myself in the ways of poverty; and though it once cost me 2000 dollars to carry me through a single year, I can tell you that my expenses for the last five years have not averaged more than 20 dollars, which I have had to obtain as best I could. But you must not misunderstand me. The little clearing which surrounds my rookery contains six acres, and, as I cultivate them with all diligence, they keep me from actual starvation.”
“But it strikes me, my dear sir, that you ask rather an extravagant price for your uncultivatedland?” I asked this question with a view of obtaining some information in reference to the valley of the Aroostook, and was not disappointed. The reply of my friend was as follows:
“I can convince you that you are mistaken. In the first place, the water privilege which my land covers, is acknowledged to be the most valuable on the Aroostook, and I may add that it is abundantly fertile. And then think of the valley, at the very threshold of which I am located. It is one of the most beautiful and luxuriant in this northern wilderness; and the only thing against it, though I say it, that should not, is the fact that nearly five miles of its outlet belongs to the English Government, while the remainder belongs to the United States. The whole of it ought to be yours, but if it were, I would not live here a year; I am near enough to you now; directly on the boundary-line between your country and mine. The Aroostook, I verily believe, is one of the most important branches of the St. John. Its general course is easterly, but it is exceedingly serpentine, and according to some of your best surveyors, drains upwards of a million acres of the best soil in Maine. Above my place, there is hardly a spot that might not be navigated by a small steam-boat; and I believe the time is not far distant when yourenterprising Yankees will have a score of boats employed here in carrying their grain to market. Before that time comes, however, you must dig a canal or build a railroad around my beautiful waterfall, which I am sure could be done for 20,000 dollars. An extensive lumbering business is now carried on in the valley, but its future prosperity must depend upon its agriculture. Already are its shores dotted with well-cultivated farms, and every year is adding to their number, and the rural beauty of those already in existence. The soil of this valley is rich, and composed principally of what is calledalluvial(not intervale) land, together with the quality known asupland. In many portions, however, you will find some of the most charming intervales in the world. The trees of this region are similar to those of your northern states. The staple crop of the Aroostook farmer is wheat; owing to the shortness of our seasons, corn does not arrive at perfection, and its cultivation is neglected. Rye, barley, and oats, all flourish here, but much more buckwheat is raised than any other grain besides wheat. Grasses flourish here in great perfection, and the farmer of Aroostook will yet send to market immense quantities of cattle. As to the climate, it is not so severe as is generally supposed. Snow falls early, and continues late, which prevents theground from freezing very deep. And when summer comes, as you may testify, the weather is sufficiently warm for every necessary purpose. Now, Sir, do you not think I have made out a clear case?” I answered in the affirmative, and thanked him for the information he had given me. Like Oliver Twist, however, I was anxious for “more,” and therefore endeavoured to start him on another subject. In this laudable effort I fully succeeded; and by merely expressing the opinion that he must lead a very lonely life in this remote wilderness.
“Not at all, not at all,” replied my friend. “It is my good fortune to belong to that class of men who depend upon books, the works of nature, and themselves for happiness, and not upon a selfish and heartless world. As to my books, they are not very abundant, nor are they bound in fancy morocco, but the substance of them is of the right sort. Foremost among them is the Bible, which tells even a poor devil like me that he is a man. Perfect in their generation are the truths of this glorious old book; they have an important bearing upon everything; and they should be studied and cherished with jealous care. But the earth-born minds, with whom I hold daily communion, are the mighty Shakspeare, the splendid Gibbon,the good and loving brother poets Thompson and Wordsworth, the gifted but wayward Burns, the elegant and witty Addison, and the ponderous Johnson. These are the minds which always afford me solid satisfaction. As to the immense herd who keep the printing-presses of the present day constantly employed, I know nothing about them, and care still less. And now as to the pleasures which are brought to me by the revolving seasons. They are indeed manifold, and it is pleasant to remember that ‘Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.’ The hills which surround my cabin, I look upon as familiar friends, not only when crowned with a wreath of snow, but when rejoicing in their summer bloom; and a more peaceful and heart-soothing stream can nowhere be found, than the one which flows along by my door, and you know from experience that it abounds in the finest of salmon and trout. The surrounding woods furnish me with game, but their greatest treasures are the ten thousand beautiful birds, which make melody in their little hearts, and afford me unalloyed pleasure for at least one half the year. I seldom have occasion to kill these feathered minstrels for food, and the consequence is, whenever I go out into my fields to work, they gather around me without fear, and often come so near, as to be in my very way. Thequail and the wren, the jay and the blue-bird, the mocking-bird, the partridge, the fish-hawk, the eagle and the crow, and also the swallow, the owl, and whip-poor-will, all build their nests within a stone’s throw of my door, and they know that the friendless old man will do them no harm. And then what exquisite pleasure do I continually enjoy in watching the ever-varying changes of the year! First, when the primrose tells me that the rains are over and gone, and I go forth in the refreshing sunshine to sow my seeds; secondly, when the glorious summer is in its prime, with its dewy mornings and lovely twilights; also in the sober autumnal time, when I thoughtfully count the leaves floating on the bosom of the stream; and then again when the cold winds of winter are howling around my cabin, and I sit in my pleasant solitude before a roaring fire, building palaces in my mind, as I peer into the burning embers. Yes, sir, I have learned to live without excitement, and to depend upon myself for the companionship I need. I do, indeed, occasionally steal out of my beautiful vale, and mingle with my fellow-men; but I always return perfectly contented with my lot. After all, I do not believe that the worldcouldadd greatly to my stock of happiness, even if I were a worshipper of Mammon, a brawling politician, or a responsible statesman.”
“But, Mr. Egger, it strikes me that your manner of life is not in keeping with the Bible, for which you have expressed so much reverence.”
“That may be true,” was the reply, “but I make no sanctimonious pretensions. I do but little to promote the happiness of my fellow-men, and I congratulate myself with the idea that I do as little to make them miserable. The influence of my example amounts to nothing, and I give no bread to the poor, because I have none to give. But let us drop the subject; I feel that your questions may so annoy me, that I shall be compelled to abandon the glorious old wilderness, and become a denizen of the busy and noisy world.”
A breach having thus been made in our discourse, I examined my watch and found it to be near twelve o’clock. My companion took the hint, and immediately proceeded to fix a sleeping-place that would accommodate us both. This was done by spreading the clothes of the wooden bedstead upon the floor. While going through with this little operation, he held high above his head a ragged old bed-quilt, and asked me what I thought Queen Victoria would say, if she had such an article to rest her royal limbs upon? He then pointed tothe particular spot which he wanted me to occupy, giving as a reason for the request, that there was a hole on the opposite side of his mansion, where toads, rats, and weasels were frequently in the habit of entering, and he was afraid they might annoy me, though he had never been disturbed by their nocturnal visits. This information appeared to me somewhat peculiar, but did not prevent me from undressing myself to lie down. When about half through this business, however, I was actually compelled to take a seat on account of a laughing-fit, brought upon me by one or two stories, which my host related for my special benefit. What a strange man indeed! thought I; and making another effort, I tumbled into bed. In the meantime, my companion had stripped himself of everything but his shirt, and, in spite of the frailty of his “spindle shanks,” was throwing himself into the attitudes for which Kemble was distinguished, whose acting he had often witnessed in olden times. I was already quite exhausted with excess of laughter, and I verily believed that the queer antics of the anchorite and philosopher would be the death of me. But I felt that I must go to sleep, and, in self-defence, partly covered my head with the end of a quilt, and almost swore that I would not be disturbed again.
I did not swear, however, and was consequently again disturbed. I had just fixed my head upon the pillow, as I thought for the last time, when I was startled by a tremendous yell proceeding from without the cabin. I rushed out of the house, as if the Old Harry himself had been after me, and beheld my spare and venerable friend, sitting upon a stump, gazing upon the rising moon, and listening to the distant howl of a wolf, with one of his feet dangling to and fro, like the pendulum of a clock. “Wasn’t that a musical yell, my boy?” were the first words spoken by the hermit mad-cap; and then he went on to point out all the finer features of the scene spread out before us. Silently flowed the stream, grand and sublime looked the mountains, clear and very blue the sky, spirit-like the moon and stars, and above the neighbouring waterfall ascended a column of spray, which was fast melting into a snowy cloud. After enjoying this picture for a reasonable time, my companion then proposed that we should enjoy a swim in the river, to which arrangement I assented, even as did the wedding guest of Coleridge to the command of the Ancient Mariner. Our bath ended, we returned to the cabin, and in the course of half-an-hour, the hermit and the stranger were side by side in the arms of sleep.
On opening my eyes in the morning, the pleasant sunshine was flooding the floors through the open door, and my friend, who had risen without disturbing me, was frying some trout which he had just taken in the stream. I arose, rolled up the bed, and prepared myself for breakfast, which was particularly relished by the giver and the receiver. I spent the forenoon rambling about the estate of my old friend, and enjoying the surrounding scenery; I then proposed to him that he should go down and be my guest at the tavern on the St. John for a day or two, which invitation was accepted. On my return, I took a sketch of the secluded vale where stands the cottage of my friend, also a profile of his own handsome face, and a view of his waterfall. The time of my departure having arrived, I left him with a heavy heart—I for my distant city-home, and he to return to his solitary cottage among the mountains.
The River St. John.
The River St. John.
Woodstock. July.
I have recently performed a pilgrimage along the valley of the Lower St. John, and as I am about to leave the river, it is meet that I should give my reader a record of my observations. The distance from the Falls of St. John to the city of that name, is two hundred and twenty miles. The width varies from a quarter of a mile to nearly two miles, and the depth from two to forty feet. That portion lying north of Frederickton, abounds in rapids and shallows, and is navigated only by flat-bottomed boats, which are taken up stream by horse power, but descend with the current. Here, for the most part, the shores are mountainous, and only partly cultivated, with high and picturesque banks; thelowest portion, however, is of a level character, and presents the appearance of an ancient and highly cultivated country, and is navigated by steam-boats, and the common sail craft of the country. The soil, all along the shores, is good, but seems better adapted for grass than wheat, and I can see no good reason for its not becoming greatly distinguished as a grazing country.
The river is not distinguished for any pictorial feature, (though it abounds in beautiful landscapes,) excepting a place called the Narrows, situated at the southern extremity. At this point, the stream is not more than five hundred yards wide, and as it is bounded on either side by a high, rocky barrier, the current ordinarily passes through with great rapidity. The tides of the ocean ascend about thirty miles, and it is only when the tide is high that the point in question can be navigated. Though these Narrows are a great annoyance to the navigator, by the lover of the picturesque they are highly esteemed. Not only are they beautiful in themselves, but, owing to the peculiarity of the place, it is frequently the case that the broad expanse of water above it, is covered with a fleet of sloops, schooners, steam-boats, tow-boats, and timber-crafts, which present a peculiar and agreeable panorama. The river abounds with salmon andshad, the former of which, though rather small, may be taken by the angler in the principal tributaries. They are not sufficiently abundant, however, to constitute an important article of commerce, and the common modes for taking them are with the spear, and the drift-net.
The principal towns on the St. John are, Woodstock, French Village, Frederickton, and St. John. The first of these is one hundred and fifty miles from the mouth, and though a ragged, yet an interesting village. So far as its natural productions are concerned, I am disposed to compliment this Province in the highest terms; but I must say that the ignorance, idleness, and gouging character of its common people, have made me quite willing to take my departure therefrom. The expenses of travelling are enormous, and so also are all the little incidentals which go to make a man comfortable.
The stage-route from the Grand Falls to St. John passes through Woodstock, but the distance from this place to the American town of Houlton, is ten miles, and in this direction there is also an established stage-route to Bangor.
The next place on the St. John, of any note, is French Village. It usually contains a thousand souls—most of them Indians. They live in frameand log-houses, and though they pretend to do some farming, they are chiefly engaged in hunting and fishing. They are a good-looking race, speak English fluently, and are the followers of a Catholic priest, who lives among them, and officiates in a small chapel, which was built by the Jesuits at an early day. This society is said to be one of the most wealthy in the Province. The chief of the village is one Louis Beir. He lives in a very comfortable, and well-furnished house, is rather a handsome man, dresses in a half-savage manner, and while he offers his visitor a comfortable chair, he invariably seats himself upon the floor in true Indian fashion.
Frederickton is at the head of steam-boat navigation, and distant from St. John eighty miles. Between these two places there runs a morning and evening boat, and the summer travel is very extensive. Frederickton contains about eight thousand inhabitants, composed principally, of Irish, Scotch, and English. It contains three principal streets, running north and south, and some half-dozen handsome public buildings, including an Episcopal church, after the Tuscan order, a Court House and a College. The town is situated on a level plain, and its suburbs are made exceedingly beautiful by the number of rural residences whichattract the eye in every direction. The elm and poplar both seem to flourish here, and add much to the picturesqueness of the place and vicinity. The business of Frederickton is only of a second-rate character, and it has become what it is, merely from the fact that it has heretofore been the seat of Government. This fact has also had a tendency to collect a good society in the place, and its “ton,” though in a small way have been disposed to cut quite a dash. The “mother Parliament,” I believe, have recently removed the seat of government to St. John, and the lovers of Frederickton are sorry, and a little angry.
The city of St. John stands at the mouth of the river of that name, and is also laved by the waters of the Bay of Fundy. I hate cities, but suppose that I must stop a moment in the one alluded to. It is a business place, planted among rocks, contains some twenty thousand inhabitants, (two-thirds of whom are Irish,) and in its port, at the present time, is moored a fleet of two hundred ships. Its public buildings are numerous, the finest of which are the Court House, an Episcopal church, of the Doric order, another after the Gothic, and a Presbyterian church, after the Corinthian order. The city is defended by a fortress, which presents a handsome appearance as you approach the port. The merchantsof the place are chiefly employed in the square-timber trade, and have heretofore done an extensive business. This trade, however, I am inclined to believe, is rapidly running out. On the opposite side of the St. John’s river is a picturesque point, or hill, which is called Carlton Hill. It is surmounted by a massive block-house, and commands an extensive prospect of the Bay of Fundy, the spring tides of which rise to the height of sixty feet, and when coming in make a terrible roar.
The Penobscot River.
The Penobscot River.
Off the Coast of Maine. July.
A week ago I was fighting with mosquitoes and flies, on the head waters of the Penobscot, and now that I am upon the ocean once more, I fancy that my feelings are allied to those of an old moose that I lately saw standing in a mountain lake, with the water up to his chin. The noble river which I have mentioned, “is all my fancy painted it,” and in spite of its insect inhabitants, I shall ever remember it with pleasure.
The length of this stream, from the mouth of its bay, to where its principal branches come together, is about one hundred and forty miles; from this junction, to the fountain head of the west branch, the distance is supposed to be one hundred and fiftymiles, while the east branch is probably only one hundred miles in length. Both of these streams rise in the midst of a mountain wilderness, looming above which, is old Katahden, the loftiest mountain in Maine, and elder brother to Mount Washington, in New Hampshire. This mountain is distant from Moosehead Lake only about twenty miles; but it towers into the sky so grandly, that nearly all the people who inhabit the northern part of Maine, look upon it as a familiar friend. The two branches of the Penobscot, run through a mountainous region, both of them abounding in rapids, though the west branch contains a number of picturesque falls. The soil of this region, generally speaking, is good, but remains in its original wilderness. Its stationary inhabitants are few and far between; but it gives employment to about three thousand lumbermen. They spend the winter in wielding the axe in the forests, and the spring and summer in driving down the stream logs which they have prepared for the saw-mills, which are mostly situated on the lower part of the Penobscot. Nine months in the year they labour without ceasing, but usually appropriate to themselves a three months holiday, which is the entire autumn. They are a young and powerfully built race of men, mostly New Englanders, generally unmarried, and, though rude and intemperatein their manners, are very intelligent. They seem to have a passion for their wild and toilsome life, and, judging from their dresses, I should think possess a fine eye for the comic and fantastic. The entire apparel of an individual usually consists of a pair of grey pantaloons, and two red flannel shirts, a pair of long boots, and a woollen covering for the head, and all these things are worn at one and the same time. The head-covering alluded to, when first purchased, is what might be called a hat; but the wearers invariably take particular pains to transform the article into such queer shapes, as to render it indescribable. Sometimes they take the crown and tic it in the shape of a fool’s-cap, and sometimes they trim the rims with a jack-knife, into many different fashions. Their wages vary from twenty to thirty dollars per month; and they are chiefly employed by the lumber merchants of Bangor, who furnish them with necessary supplies.
The Penobscot, I suppose, is unquestionably the most fruitful lumber river in the United States, and its pine and hemlock forests seem yet to be inexhaustible. And the State of Maine is indebted to the lumber business for many of its beautiful cities and towns.
From the Forks of the Penobscot to Bangor, the distance is about sixty miles. This portion of theriver is about a quarter of a mile wide. The banks are rather low and level, and somewhat cultivated. The water is deep and clear, and the current strong. Generally speaking, the scenery of the river is not remarkable, and were it not for its numerous islands, it might be considered tame, by the lover of a mountain land. The islands alluded to, however, are exceedingly beautiful. Covered as they are with venerable elms, and containing no underbrush, but a continuous plot of green, they have all the appearance of cultivated parks. The stage-route, from Woodstock, after reaching the Penobscot, continues along the eastern bank, and as the coaches are comfortable, and the horses good, the ride is very pleasant. The principal village, of which there are four, is Old Town. It is a busy little place, and the present termination of a railroad from Bangor, which is twelve miles distant. Directly opposite Old Town is a small island, where reside a remnant of the Penobscot Indians. They number some four hundred souls, and are just sufficiently civilized to lead a very miserable sort of life.
I come now to speak of Bangor. It is a well-built and handsome city, eighty miles from the ocean, and contains about eight thousand inhabitants. It is at the head of tide water navigation, and has a good harbour, where I counted from onepoint near two hundred sails. The principal article of trade is lumber, which is distinguished for its good qualities. All the heaviest merchants are engaged in the lumber trade, and almost every body deals in it to a limited extent. A few thousand shingles will pay your tailor for a coat, a few loads of plank will settle your account with the butcher, and bundles of clap-boards are gladly received by the grocer, in exchange for his tea and sugar.
With the people of Bangor I was much pleased. Their manners and habits are stamped with the true New England character, they mind their own business, and are distinguished for their intelligence, virtue, and hospitality. When I reached this place, my beard was more than half as long as that of the Wandering Jew; and it took me nearly a whole day to forget the bad French which I had acquired in Canada and New Brunswick, and transform myself into the semblance of a civilized man. I had been in the woods for so long a time, that I seized the first paper I saw to find out whether I had forgotten to read. You may readily imagine, therefore, what a refreshing effect the appearance and conversation of intelligent people had upon my feelings. But the class of citizens who made the deepest impression upon me, were the children of Bangor. I met them at every corner, and heard their happyvoices in every dwelling, and a more perfectly beautiful race of creatures, I never before saw in any city.
The distance from Bangor to the ocean is eighty miles. For twenty miles the river averages three quarters of a mile in width, when it gradually widens into an expansive bay or gulf. The water is deep, always covered with vessels, and abounds with salmon, which are only taken with the net. The shores are hilly, and well-cultivated, and the towns of Bucksport, Frankfort, Belfast and Thomaston, as you pass them, present each a thriving and pleasant appearance.
Moosehead Lake.—The River Kennebeck.
Moosehead Lake.—The River Kennebeck.
Portland. August.
Moosehead Lake is the largest and the wildest in New England. It lies in the central portion of the State of Maine, and distant from the ocean near one hundred and fifty miles. Its length is fifty miles, and its width from five to fifteen. It is embosomed among a brotherhood of mountains, whose highest peak has been christened with the beautiful name of Katahden. All of them, from base to summit, are covered with a dense forest, in which the pine is by far the most abundant. It is the grand centre of the only wilderness region in New England, whose principal denizens are wild beasts. During the summer months, its tranquil waters remain in unbroken solitude, unless somescenery-hunting pilgrim, like myself, should happen to steal along its shores in his birchen canoe. But in the winter the case is very different, for then, all along its borders, may be heard the sound of the axe, wielded by a thousand men. Then it is that an immense quantity of logs are cut, to be manufactured into lumber at the extensive mills down the Kennebeck, which is the only outlet to the lake.
A winter at Moosehead must be attended with much that is rare, and wild, and exciting, not only to the wealthy proprietor who has a hundred men to superintend, but even to the toiling chopper. Look at a single specimen of the gladdening scenes enacted in that forest world. It is an awful night, the winds wailing, the snow falling, and the forests making a moan. Before you is a spacious, but rudely built log cabin, almost covered with snow. But now, above the shriek of the storm, and the howl of the wolf, you hear a long, loud shout, from a score of human mouths. You enter the cabin, and lo, a merry band of noble men, some lying on a buffalo-robe, and some seated on a log, while the huge fire before them reveals every feature and wrinkle of their countenances, and makes a picture of the richest colouring. Now the call is for a song, and a young man sings a song of Scotland, which is his native land; a mug of cider then goesround, after which an old pioneer clears his throat for a hunting legend of the times of old; now the cunning jest is heard; and peals of hearty laughter shake the building; and now a soul-stirring speech is delivered in favour of Henry Clay. The fire-place is again replenished, when with a happy and contented mind each woodman retires to his couch, to sleep, and to dream of his wife and children, or of the buxom damsel whom he loves.
The number of logs which these men cut in a single winter is almost incredible, and the business of conveying them to the lake upon the snow gives employment to a great many additional men and their oxen. The consequence is, that large quantities of flour, potatoes, pork, and hay, are consumed; and as these things are mostly supplied by the farmers of the Kennebeck, winter is the busiest season of the year throughout the region. When the lake is released from its icy fetters in the spring, a new feature of the logging business comes into operation, which is called rafting. A large raft contains about eighteen thousand logs, and covers a space of some ten acres. In towing them to the Kennebeck, a small steam-boat is employed, which, when seen from the summit of a hill, looks like a living creature struggling with a mighty incubus. But the most picturesque thing connected with thisbusiness is a floating log-cabin, called a Raft House, which ever attends a raft on its way to the river. During the summer, as before stated, Moosehead Lake is a perfect solitude, for the “log chopper” has become a “log driver” on the Kennebeck,—the little steamer being moored in its sheltering bay, near the tavern at the south end of the lake, and the toiling oxen having been permitted to enjoy their summer sabbath on the farm of their master.
The islands of Moosehead Lake, of any size, are only four; Moose and Deer Islands at the southern extremity, Sugar Island in the large eastern bay, and Farm Island in a north-western direction from that. All of these are covered with beautiful groves, but the time is not far distant when they will be cultivated farms. Trout are the principal fish that flourish in its waters, and may be caught at any time in great abundance. And thereby hangs a fish story.
It was the sunset hour, and with one of my companions I had gone to a rocky ledge for the purpose of trying my luck. My bait was squirrel meat, and I was the first to throw the line. It had hardly reached the water, before I had the pleasure of striking and securing a two pound trout. This threw my friend into a perfect fever of excitement, so that he was exceedingly slow in cutting up thesquirrels; and it may be readily supposed that I was somewhat excited myself; so I “grabbed” the animal out of his hands, and in less than a “jiffy,” and with my teeth, made a number of good baits. The conclusion of the whole matter was, that in less than forty minutes we had caught nearly seventy pounds of salmon trout. But the fish of Moosehead are not to be compared with those of Horicon in point of delicacy, though they are very large, and very abundant. The reason of this is, that its waters are not remarkably clear, and a good deal of its bottom is muddy. Moose River, which is the principal tributary of the Lake, is a narrow, deep, and picturesque stream, where may be caught the common trout, weighing from one to five pounds.
In this portion of Maine every variety of forest game may be found, but the principal kinds are the grey wolf, the black bear, the deer, and the moose. Winter is the appropriate season for their capture, when they afford a deal of sport to the hunter, and furnish a variety of food to the forest labourers. Deer are so very plentiful, that a certain resident told me, that, in the deep snow of last winter, he caught some dozen of them alive, and having cut a slit in their ears, let them go, that they might recount to their kindred their marvellous escape. But the homeliest animal, the most abundant, and the bestfor eating, is the moose. I did not kill one, but spent a night with an old hunter who did. During the warm summer nights these animals, for the purpose of getting clear of the black-fly, are in the habit of taking to the water, where, with nothing but their heads in sight, they remain for hours. It was the evening of one of those cloudless nights, whose memory can never die. We were alone far up the Moose River, and it seemed to me, “we were the first that ever burst into that forest sea.” Embarked on board a swan-like canoe, and with our rifles ready, we carefully and silently descended the stream. How can I describe the lovely pictures that we passed? Now we peered into a dark recess in the centre of a group of elms, where unnumbered fire-flies were revelling in joy;—and now a solitary duck shot out into the stream from its hidden home, behind a fallen and decayed tree; now we watched the stars mirrored in the sleeping waves, and now we listened to the hoot of the owl, the drum of the partridge, the song of a distant waterfall, or the leap of a robber-trout. It was not far from midnight when my companion whispered, “Hush, hush!” and pointed to a dim spot some hundred yards below. The first chance was allotted me, so I took the best aim I could, and fired. I heard the ball skip along the water, and on coming near, foundmy mark to be only a smooth rock. Two hours more passed on, one small moose was killed, and at day-break we were in our cabin fast asleep.
The principal outlet to Moosehead Lake is the Kennebeck, which “now demands my song.” It is the second river in Maine, and one of the most beautiful I have ever seen. Instead of watering a wilderness, as I had supposed, all along its valley for over a hundred miles are fertile and extensive farms, with here and there a thriving village, inhabited by an intelligent and industrious people. Its principal tributary is Dead River, and the spot at the junction of the two is called the Forks. The cultivated region stops here, and between this point and Moosehead, the distance is about twenty-five miles, which is yet a forest wilderness.
The principal attraction at the Forks is a tavern kept by one Burnham, who is a capital fellow to guide the lover of Nature or the trout fisherman to Moxy Fall and Nameless Lake, which are in the immediate vicinity. The mountains about here are very lofty, and exceedingly picturesque, abounding in the maple, the oak, the pine, and hemlock. Emptying into the Kennebeck, a few miles north of the Forks, is a superb mountain-stream, named Moxy, after an Indian who was drowned there many years ago. Winding for a long distance amongrocky ravines, and eternally singing to the woods a trumpet-song, it finally makes a sudden plunge into a chasm more than a hundred feet in depth. The perpendicular rocks on either side rise to an immense height, their tops crowned with a “peculiar diadem of trees,” and their crevices filled up with dark-green verdure, whence occasionally issues, hanging gracefully in the air, beautiful festoons of the ivy, and clusters of the mountain blue-bell. The depth of the pool was never told, and its waters wash against the granite walls in a perpetual gloom. On one occasion I visited it when there was a high freshet, and saw what I could hardly have believed from a description. I stood on an elevated point in front of the Fall, when my eyes rested upon an immense log, some sixty feet long, coming down the foaming stream with all the fury of a maddened steed; presently it reached the precipice,—then cleaved its airy pathway into the hell of waters,—was completely out of sight for three minutes, then, like a creature endowed with life, shot upward again entirely out of the water, made another less desperate plunge, and quietly pursued its course into the Kennebeck.
In speaking of the Nameless Lake, it is necessary that I should be a little egotistical. It is a fairy-likesheet of pure water in the heart of the mountain wilderness, only about a mile in length, but full of trout. The proprietor was of the party that accompanied me on my first visit. While approaching it, the remark was made, that it was yet without a name; when it was agreed that it should be christened after that individual, who should on that day throw the most successful fly. As fortune would have it, the honour was awarded to me; and on a guide-board in the forest, three miles from Burnham’s, may be seen the figure of a hand, and the words “Lake Lanman.” There stands my written name, exposed “to the peltings of the pitiless storm;” and in a few years, at the longest, it will be washed away, and the tree which supports it mingling with the dust. Will it be even thus with the memory of name?
Not to attempt a description of the scenery of the Kennebeck, which could be only faithfully given by the pictures of an artist, I will take my reader down its beautiful valley, and tell him what I know respecting its beautiful villages.
The first in order is Bingham, situated on a fertile “interval,” surrounded with picturesque hills, charming and quiet as a summer day, and containing within the jurisdiction of its townan uncommonly fine farm, belonging to a Mr. Parlin, who manufactures large quantities of maple sugar.
Solon is the next village in the Kennebeck valley, remarkable for nothing but Caritunk Falls, which are twenty feet high, and run through a gorge fifty feet wide. Here I saw some twenty men “driving” the logs that had been lodged all along the river when it was low. It is a laborious life which these men lead, but they receive good pay, and meet with many interesting adventures. They generally have the soul to enjoy fine scenery, and therefore demand the respect of the intelligent traveller.
Anson, though in the valley of the Kennebeck, is situated on Seven Mile Brook, and is a flourishing business place. From its neighbouring hills may be seen the sky-piercing peaks of Mount Blue, Saddleback, Bigelow, and Mount Abraham, which are the guardian spirits of Maine. The town is distinguished for its agricultural enterprise, and the abundance of its wheat, having actually produced more than is reported from any other town in the State.
Norridgwock, so named by the Kennebeck Indians, because, when fighting with their enemies at this place, they could findno-ridge-to-walkupon, which was a desirable object. It is a charming littlevillage, and associated with a celebrated Indian Chief named Bomazeen, and also with a Jesuit Missionary, whose name I do not remember. Not far from here is a picturesque fall, also a picturesque bend of the Kennebeck, where empties Sandy River, upon which are many extensive farms.
Skowhegan is a thriving village, where there are fine falls, which I never could look upon without thinking of the famous Glen’s Falls in New York, of which they are a complete counterpart, though on a smaller scale. Many and very dear to me are my recollections of its “choice bits” of scenery, of the fine singing I there heard, of the acquaintances there formed, and of the pleasant literary communings which were mine in company with one of the best and most intellectual of women, who has for many years been my “guide, counsellor, and friend.”
Waterville, the next town on the river, is the seat of a Baptist College, and the head of navigation on account of the Ticonic Falls. It is the centre of an extensive farming district, which fact, together with the literary taste of its people, makes it an interesting place.
Augusta, the capital of the State, is also on the Kennebeck, and with its State House and other State buildings, its admirably conducted hotels, itscommanding churches, its large bridge, and pleasant residences, is one of the most picturesque and interesting towns in the whole of New England.
Hallowell, two miles below Augusta, was once a great place of business, and is still a very pleasant place, though unable to compete with its rival the Capital. In my mind, it is chiefly associated with some fine people, and particularly with three beautiful sisters, who are great lovers of poetry and fine musicians.
Gardiner, further down, is a tremendous place for saw-mills; and lumbering I look upon as one of the surest kinds of business. It contains the handsomest church-building in the State, and a number of fine residences belonging to its wealthy citizens, of which that one belonging to Mr. Gardiner (after whom the place was named), is the most elegant.
Bath is the next and most southern town on the Kennebeck; it is a large place, where there is a great deal of shipping done, and now in a flourishing condition. The sail down the river from here is a most delightful one, for the eye revels on a continual succession of pleasant farms, quiet headlands, solitary islands, and vessels of every kind passing up and down the stream. Even to the present day, the Kennebeck abounds in salmon, which are caught with nets from the first of Maytill midsummer. To take them with the hook is indeed rare sport, and for the manner in which I conquered a solitary individual I refer my reader to a certain passage in “Scrope on Salmon Fishing.” Few are the rivers that I love more than the Kennebeck, and very dear to me are its manifold associations.
I date this chapter from Portland, which is a thriving city of twenty thousand inhabitants, and interesting to the admirers of genius, because it is the native place of Mrs. Seba Smith, the poet Longfellow, and John Neal.