“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 thy eyes of fire. But what is thy message to the sun? Far, far into the zenith art thou gone, forever 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 might be 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, and though I am sometimes hard pushed for the dollars needful, 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 necessaryto 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 do you 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 O, how perfectly delightful it was to have her cling to me, and to hear the beating of her heart, as the driver swung his whip and run 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 theircliffs gleaming in the sunlight like the pictures of a dream! For ages, have ye been the playmates of the storm, and held communion with the mysteries of the midnight sky. The earliest beams of the morning have bathed you in living light, and there too have been the last kisses of departing day. Man and his empires have arisen and decayed, but ye have remained unchanged, a perpetual mockery. Upon your 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 thy 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, and the 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.
But how in thunder shall I get down from this great poetical eminence? Why, by giving you a simple matter-of-fact description. As you know, the highest of these mountainswas 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 thecentreof a brotherhood of hills, it does notappearto be so grand an object as South Peak Mountain among the Catskills. Its summit, like most of its companions, is destitute of vegetation, and is 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 labor. The Painter will be pleased with the views which he will command in ascending the route from Crawford’s, and 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 thebreathless feeling, which will make him deem himself for a moment to be an angel or a god. And then, 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 anepic landscape, such as we seldom behold excepting in our dreams. Heavens! with what exquisite delight did I gaze upon the 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 lookeddownupon 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, and the rising mists obscuring 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 through the Notch valley, which is some twelve miles long, is perfectly magnificent. First is the Gap itself, only some twenty feet in width, andoverhung 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 deep 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 perfectly 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 now like 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 reach the bottom of the Notch valley, and to continue along the picturesque Saco, through a very pleasant and well cultivated country, to Conway. Mylastview of Mount Washington and its lordly companions was the mostbeautiful. The sun was near his setting, and the whole western sky was suffused with a glow of richest yellow and crimson, where hung two immense copper-colored 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 summerflowers in her hand, and a basket of berries and a dog at her side. One more yearning gaze upon the dear old mountains, and the fountain of my affections was full, and I wept like a very child.
Well, here I am at last in Portland. At the time of starting this morning from Conway it commenced raining, and all the way here were we attended with refreshing showers. There were six passengers, and it so happened that we were acquainted with each other before we reached the mountains, and having for the most part enjoyed their scenery in company, we were in a fitting mood to be somewhat entertaining. Doctor Orville Dewy, of New York, his lady and daughter, and John Frothingham, of Montreal, and daughter, are the friends whose names will ever be associated with my recollections of the White Mountains. The Doctor’s faculty for telling a good story or cracking a joke, is well worthy of the orator and writer; and if Mr. Frothingham excels as a merchant in proportion to his entertaining manner of relating his European travels, he must indeed be a merchant prince. As to the fair ladies, I cannot pay them a better compliment than by letting
“Expressive silence muse their praise.”
“Expressive silence muse their praise.”
Portland is a thriving city of some twenty thousand inhabitants, and commands a very fine view of the ocean. If for no other reason, it should interest the admirers of genius because it is the native place of Mrs. Seba Smith, Professor Longfellow, and John Neal. I have just received an invitation to hear some singing from the lips of one of my fellow-travellers, and as I know it will be of the rarest kind, I must conclude this rhapsody, andmigrateto the parlor.
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 about 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 hath 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 some scenery-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, which are 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 himself. 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 upon a log, while the huge fire before them reveals every feature and wrinkle of their countenances, and makes a picture of the richest coloring. Now thecall is for a song, and a young man sings a song of Scotland, which is his native land; a mug of cider then goes round, 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 favor of Henry Clay. The fireplace 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 thousandlogs, and covers a space of some ten acres. In towing them to the Kennebeck, a small steamboat 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 this business 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 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 afish 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. We cut each of us a long pole, to which we fastened two immensely long lines with stout hooks. Our bait was squirrel meat, and I was the first to throw my 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 everlastingly slow in cutting up the squirrels; 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 myteeth, 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, and some of them, I tell you, were realsmashers. But the trout 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 to the Lake, is a narrow, deep, and picturesquestream, 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 laborers. Deer are so very plenty, 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 best for eating, is the moose. I did not kill one, but spent a night with an old hunter who did. During the warm summer night 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 thatforestsea.”On board a swan-like birch canoe we embarked, 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 an ink-black recess in the centre of a group of elms, where a thousand 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 fire 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, found my 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, andone 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 capital tavern, kept by one Burnham, who is a capital fellow to guide the lover of Nature or the trout fisherman to Moxy Fall or Lake Lanman, which are in the immediate vicinity. The mountains about here are quite 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 there drowned. Winding for a long distance among the rock of wild ravines, and eternally singing to the woods a trumpet-song, it finally makes a sudden plunge into a chasm morethan 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 down into the hell of waters,—was completely out of sight forthree minutes, then, like a creature endowed with life, shot upward again clear out of the water, made another less desperate plunge, and quietly pursued its course into the Kennebeck.
In speaking ofLake Lanman, it is necessary that I should be a little egotistical. It isa fairy-like sheet 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 honor 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 be mingling with the dust. O, will it be even thus with thememoryof name?
Not to attempt a description of the scenery of the Kennebeck, which could be faithfully given only by the pictures of a Cole or Durand, I will take you down its beautiful valley, and tell you what I know respecting its beautiful villages.
The first in order is Bingham, situated on a fertile “interval,” surrounded with picturesquehills, charming and quiet as a summer day, and containing within the jurisdiction of its town an 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 neighboring 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 little village, 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 perfect 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, and 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, make it an uncommonly 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, its commanding 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 singers, either with the piano or guitar.
Gardiner, further down, is a tremendous place for saw-mills,—and lumbering I look upon as one of the nicest and 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 finest.
Bath is the next and most southern town on the Kennebeck; it is quite a large place, where there is a great deal of shipping done, and is 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 May till mid-summer. To take them with the hook is aleetlethetallestkind of sportin all creation, and for the manner in which I conquered a solitary individual, I refer you 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 write from somewhere in Massachusetts, and the following passage will give you an idea of my theme:
All that life can rateWorth name of life, in her hath estimate;Youth, beauty, wisdom, courage, virtue, allThat happiness and prime can happy call.Shaks.
All that life can rate
Worth name of life, in her hath estimate;
Youth, beauty, wisdom, courage, virtue, all
That happiness and prime can happy call.
Shaks.
Lilly Larnard is an only child, the pride of her mother, and the delight of her father, who is the clergyman of our secluded and beautiful village. I desire to make you acquainted with this dear girl; but what can I find to say which hath not been anticipated by the poet? Her character is already revealed. Well, then, I will say something about her by way of illustration.
As I passed by her cottage this afternoon, which stands on the southern extremity of the green, about a hundred paces from the meetinghouse, I noticed an almost startling stillness about the premises, as if the place were deserted; but this was owing to the heat and natural silence of the hour. The closed window-blinds, half hidden by woodbine and honey-suckle; the open doors, with a kitten sunning itself upon the sill of one of them; bespoke it not only inhabited, but the abode of peace and contentment. In a green grape-vine arbor beside the house sat our little heroine, engaged in drawing some curious flowers, which she had gathered in the meadow during her morning walk. At this moment two of her female cousins stopped at the front gate, and called her to go with them on a ramble through the woodlands. I had just time to change from one hand to the other my heavy string of trout, for I was returning home from angling, when out she came, bounding like a fawn, robed in white muslin, her gypsy bonnet awry, and a crimson scarf thrown carelessly over her shoulders. This simple dress is a specimen of her taste in such matters, and the very thing to correspond with her dark-brown curling hair, regular pearly teeth, blue, Madonna-like eyes, and blooming cheeks. A snow-white terrier, her constant playmate andcompanion, soon came following after, and having licked the hands of the two friends, as a token of recognition, leaped a neighboring fence, and led the way across a clover-field. When I turned to look again, the happy group were crossing a rude bridge at the foot of a hill, and following the path a short distance they were lost to view.
Lilly Larnard is now in her sixteenth year. She is passionately fond of the country; and I do believe, could she obtain permission, would spend half her time in the open air. If she has but one summer hour to spare, she goes no farther than her favorite brook, half a mile from home, where she will angle away her time, wandering up the stream to where the overhanging trees throw a soft twilight upon her path; and, ifnecessityrequires it, will off with her slippers, and wade in after a bunch of lilies or some golden pebbles. The neighboring farmer as he comes to the post-office early in the morning, if he chances to pass the parsonage, will most likely be saluted by a sweet smile and bow. And from whom, do you think? Why, from Lilly Larnard, who is airing the parlor, dusting the furniture, or arranging some creeping flowers beside thedoor, with her pretty face almost hidden in a “kerchief white.” And it may be, when mowing in one of his fields in the afternoon, he will be surprised by a hearty laugh in an adjoining copse, and on looking round behold a party of girls returning from the strawberry hills, with Lilly as their leader. She is a pure-hearted lover of nature, and everything, from the nameless flower to the cloud-capt mountain, hath a language which causes her to feel that the attributes of God are infinite. For her gayer hours, Nature “hath a tale of gladness, and a smile and eloquence of beauty, and glides into her darker musings, with a mild and gentle sympathy, which steals away their sharpness ere she is aware.”
But how does she busy herself at home? it will be asked. She is an early riser; and the first thing she does in the morning, after she has left her room, is to put everything in its place which is out of place. She kindly directs and helps Betty, the servant, to perform those numerous little household duties, such as feeding the chickens and straining the milk, not forgetting to give pussy a saucer full of the warm, sweet liquid. She sets the breakfast table, prepares the toast, and all thosekindred delicacies, and pours out the coffee, sitting like a fairy queen in the old high-backed chair, with her parents on either side. And when her father clasps his hands to implore a blessing, she meekly bows her head, sweetly responding to the solemn Amen. If anything is wanted from the kitchen, she is up and away, and back again almost in a minute, so sprightly is she in all her movements. During the forenoon she is generally helping her mother to sew or knit, or do anything else which is required to be done; or, if her father wants her to read one of his chaste and deeply religious sermons, the sweetness of her eloquent voice makes it doubly impressive. In the afternoon she is generally engaged in some benevolent duty. Not one in a hundred is so well acquainted with the poor of the parish.
She enters the abode of the poor widow, and, besides administering to her temporal wants, gives her the overflowing sympathy of her own warm heart, administering at the same time the consolations of religion. It is a common sight to see her tripping along the street, with a basket on her arm; and the clerk, or more stately merchant, as he sees her pass his door, takes particular pains to make abow, inwardly exclaiming,—“Who now is to become the debtor of Lilly Larnard?” And the stranger who may have met her in his walk, fails not to inquire of his host, at evening, the name of the lovely creature who wears a white dress and gypsy bonnet.
Lilly is a Christian, not only a church-going Christian, but her life is one continued round of charitable deeds and pious duties, almost worthy of an angel. She has a class of little boys in the Sabbath school, and they are all so fond of their amiable teacher, that I do believe they would undergo almost any trial for her sake. Shelovesher Bible too, and would be unhappy were she deprived of the privilege of reading it every day. When she rises from her pillow at dawn, she kneels beside her couch, and breathes her offering of prayer; and so, too, when the day is closed and she retires to repose.
Her father is a clergyman of easy fortune. The prayer of his youth seems to have been kindly answered by the Most High. About one year ago he bought a beautiful chesnut pony, and, all saddled and bridled, presented it to Lilly on her fifteenth birth-day. As might be expected, she was perfectly transported withthe gift. “Oh! father,” she exclaimed, “how I will try to merit your approbation in every action of my life.”
A colored boy, named Tommy, is Lilly’s groom and page, and he seems to love the pony and his mistress above everything else in the world. A smarter and better-hearted page did not follow a high-born lady of the feudal times. Lilly has now become a first-rate rider; and often, when with her friends, takes pleasure in boasting of her noble accomplishment, and the speed of her horse. When she has been out riding, she almost always manages to canter through the middle street of the village on her return. Sometimes she is alone with her dog, and sometimes with a female friend; but the forelock of her pony is always surmounted by a few flowers, or a cluster of green leaves, for she has a queer notion of ransacking the most secluded corners of the field and wood. Only a week ago (the very day I caught that two-pound trout), while standing upon a hill, I saw her trying to leap a narrow but deep brook, and she did not give up trying until she had accomplished the deed. I thought that if her pony had been gifted with the power of speech, hewould have exclaimed, “Well done, you courageous girl, you possess a wonderful deal of spunk!”
Lilly left school about two years ago, because her father chose to superintend her education himself. She is a good scholar in everything requisite for a lady. You could hardly puzzle her with questions in history, geography, or mathematics. Her modesty and simplicity of character are so great, that you would be surprised at the extent of her book-information and practical knowledge. She has a wonderful talent for making herself agreeable under all circumstances. If she meets a beggar woman in the street, she will talk familiarly with her about her sorrows, instructing her to bear up under every trial. She is the universal favorite of the whole village. All who know her, the poor and the rich, from the child of three years to the hoary head, all love her with the affection felt toward a sister or daughter. She smiles with those who smile, and weeps with those who weep. Servant-girls consult with her about purchasing a new dress, and little children invite her to participate with them in their pastimes.
Lilly Larnard is a lover of poetry. Yes, whether she sees it in the primrose and the evening cloud; or hears it in the laughing rivulet and the song of birds; or reads it in the pages of Spenser, Milton, Shakspeare, Wordsworth, or Coleridge. And she is awriter, too, of sweet and soothing poetry, just such as should always emanate from the pure-hearted. To give you an idea of her poetic powers, I will here quote her last effort, which was written with a pencil on a fly-leaf of Dana’s Poems while walking on the sea-shore; for, be it known that the village of her birth is within sound of the never-ceasing roar of the Atlantic. The title of it is—
“Alone! and on the smooth, hard, sandy shore of the boundless sea! A lovelier morning never dawned upon the world of waters. O! how balmy, how clear, how soul-subduing, how invigorating is the air! Calmness sits throned upon the unmoving clouds, whose colors are like the sky, only of a brighter hue. One of them, more ambitious than its fellows, is swimming onward, a wanderer, and companionless. O that I could rest upon its ‘unrolling skirts,’ and take an aerial pilgrimagearound the globe,—now looking down upon its humming cities, and fruitful and cultivated plains; and again, upon some unpeopled wilderness or ocean solitude! But alas! the peerless beauty of that light cloud will be extinguished, when the sun shall have withdrawn his influence, and, if not entirely dispersed, will take another shape, and make its home in darkness. And so have I seen a man, when wandering from the heavenly sunshine of religion, passing from his cradle to the grave.
“As I gaze upward into yon blue dome, the anxieties of life are all forgotten, and my heart throbs with a quicker pulse, and beats with an increasing thrill of joy. How holy and serene those azure depths of air! Strange, that aught so beautiful should canopy a world of tears, decay, and death! Yonder sky is the everlasting home of countless worlds; the vast ethereal chamber, where are displayed the wonders of the thunder, and lightning, and rainbow; and a mirror, too, reflecting the glorious majesty, the wisdom and power of the Omnipotent. Lo! across my vision there is floating another cloud, whiter than the driven snow! Rearward, there trails along another,and still another, until pile on pile they reach upward to the very zenith; and oh, how gorgeous the scenes which my fancy conjures up, delighted with their changing loveliness! One moment, I behold a group of angels reclining at ease upon the summit of a pearly battlement; and now, summoned by a celestial strain of melody, they spread their pinions for a higher flight,—a flight into the diamond portals of the New Jerusalem. Again, a river of pure white foam rolls swift but noiseless through unpeopled valleys, hemmed in by airy mountains of wondrous height, until its waters empty into a tranquil sea, boundless and ‘beautiful exceedingly;’ and on this, a myriad of swanlike barges are gliding to and fro, without a breeze, while the voyagers are striking their golden harps, and singing hymns of sweetest strain and holiest import, whose echoes die away on the shadowy waves. There! all these, like the dreams of youth, are melting into nothingness;—and my eyes now rest only upon the dark blue ocean.
“The green waves of the Atlantic, with their undulating swell, come rolling in upon the sand, making a plaintive music, sweeter than the blended harmonies of a thousand instruments.Would that I might leap in and wrestle with them, and, when overcome by fatigue, lay my heated brow upon those cool watery pillows, rocked to sleep as in a cradle, while my lullaby would be the moaning of the sea. The mists of morning are all dispelled, and the glorious sunshine, emblem of God’s love, is bathing with effulgent light the ocean before me, and behind me the mountains and valleys of my own loved country. Look! how the white caps chase each other along the watery plain, like the milk-white steeds, striving in their freedom to outstrip the breeze. Whence comes this breeze, and whither is it going? Three days ago, at set of sun, it spread its wing near to a sandy desert of Africa, where a caravan of camels, and horses, and men, had halted for the night; and at the dawning of to-morrow, it will be sporting with the forest-trees of the western wilderness!
“Far as the eye can reach, the sea is ‘sprinkled o’er with ships,’ their white sails gleaming in the sunlight. One of them has just returned from India, another from the Pacific, and another from the Arctic Sea. Years have elapsed since they departed hence. They have been exposed to a thousand dangers,but the great God, who holds the ocean in the hollow of his hand, has conducted them back to their desired homes. How many silent prayers of thanksgiving, and what a thrilling and joyous shout, will echo to the shore, as those storm-beaten mariners drop anchor in their native waters! Yonder, too, are other ships, bound to the remotest corners of the earth. They seem to rejoice in their beauty and speed, and proud is their bearing; but will they ever return? Alas! the shadowy future alone can answer. Farewell, a long farewell, ye snowy daughters of the ocean.”
But to return. Lilly Larnard is fond of music, too, and plays delightfully on the harp. Her voice is sweeter than the fall of waters when heard at a distance in the stillness of the twilight hour. She knows nothing of fashion, and if she did, would consider it beneath her dignity to be incommoded or swayed by it. Instead of decking herself with gew-gaws, for a brilliant appearance in the gay saloon, within sound of the rude jest and foolish flattery, she strives by watchfulness and care to purify her daily conduct; for hers is not less prone to sin than all other human hearts. “Necklacesdoes she sometimes wear, in her playful glee, made of the purple fruit that feeds the small birds in the moors, and beautiful is the gentle stain then visible over the blue veins of her swan-like bosom.” Beautiful as she is, a feeling of vanity never yet entered the heart of the rector’s daughter. She feels too deeply the truth, that personal charms, which are the only pride of weak-minded persons, time will eventually transform into wrinkled homeliness; and that an affectionate heart and good understanding will endure, and become more perfect, until the pilgrimage of life is ended.
Never has Lilly Larnard been more than thirty miles away from the village of her birth. She has read of cities, and the busy multitudes that throng them; of armies and navies; of politics and war; but all these things to her are but as the visions of a dream. She is ignorant of the real condition and character of the great world, for nought but the echo of its din has ever fallen upon her ear. She listens with wonder to the deeds of which I sometimes tell her I have been an unwilling witness in the wilderness of men. She thinks it strange, that the inhabitants of cities think so much of the present life, and so little of thefuture. Her days have been spent in innocence beneath the blue dome of the illimitable sky, inhaling the pure unadulterated air of the country, now sporting in the sunshine, and now sprinkled by a refreshing shower; while the loveliest of flowers and birds, and holy and tender affections, have been her hourly companions; and her nights have passed away in pleasant dreams of that bright world beyond the stars.
You ask me to tell you who is Louis L. Noble, to whom I dedicated a volume of Essays some years ago? There is hardly a task in the wide world that I could enter upon with greater pleasure than the answering of this question. And why? Because he is one of my best friends, and a poet of rare genius and power.
To come directly to the point, then, he is a young clergyman of the Episcopal church, whose present field of ministerial labor is in North Carolina. He was born on the Susquehannah; but having spent his boyhood in the wilderness where I was born, there has ever been (since our acquaintance commenced) a delicate stream of sympathy flowing out of one heart into the other. His poetry (and this is perhaps the secret of my attachment to it) is the offspring of that wilderness countryfamiliar to the world as Michigan, and his themes I look upon as my own. He has always been an admirer of the red man, and, like me, in times past has associated with him in the most intimate and familiar intercourse. Therefore, when their customs inspire his pen, you may depend upon the faithfulness of his descriptions. He is a creature of impulse, and whenever he strikes the lyre, it is because he cannot help it, or because it affords him an indescribable joy. He writes “with fury, and corrects with care;” and I am not sure but he sometimes weakens his conceptions by too much pruning and artificial arrangement. He is yet in the vigor of his days, and if his life is spared, we have reason to expect great things from his pen. In temper he is exceedingly amiable, and in disposition variable as the shade, but ever joyous as a strong-bodied and intellectual boy,—a feeling which his philosophy teaches him is a treasure beyond all price. In person he is rather slender, but well formed and sinewy, with dark complexion, hair like the raven’s wing, and an eye as black, as keen, and spirit-stirring as that of an Ottawa Chief. He is one who cannot but belovedby all who study his works, and to do this is the bestliterary advice I can offer you or any of my thinking friends.
And now, as an important portion of himself, let me characterize his poetry, and give you a few specimens. As yet, he has only occasionally published in our prominent periodicals; but a volume of his Poems is now in press, and I prophecy that its appearance will be a bright era in our Polite Literature. His principal efforts, up to this time, are entitled “Ni-ma-min,” “Tale of the Morning Wind,” “Lines to a Swan,” “Love and Beauty,” “The Cripple Boy,” the “Emigrant’s Burial,” the “Girl of the Sky-blue Lake,” and some fine songs and sonnets. A valuable and remarkable feature of his poetry, is its suggestive tendency. It is of a kind calculated to purify the public taste, to make more happy those who read it, to instil into the heart a love for the beautiful and true, and to make us at once conscious of our own littleness in the sight of God, and of the exalted attributes of the soul; or rather, makes a man feel that he is but a man, and yet a portion of the Invisible. It displays a consummate knowledge of the Indian character, an ardent attachment to the works of nature, and showing aremarkable mastery of language, and the writer to be possessed of a mind of refined poetical genius. You find nothing in it “long drawn out”; every sentence has a meaning. It contains no far-fetched conceptions and images; and every portion of each poem is closely cemented together, and pervaded by one spirit, one idea. Take away the rhyme, and it is poetry; take away the thought, and you will find much poetry in the versification alone. It breathes of the virgin wilderness, and of its brave, hardy, and noble children; and dearly, dearly do I love it, for it recalls to mind the living joys of my wild, free, and happy boyhood. I would rather have written his forthcoming volume, than to have been the author of all the fashionable novels of the present century. If it be true, that “a thing of beauty is a joy forever,” then must the poetry of Noble be as enduring as the English language, or the memory of the Indian race now withering from the land. A thousand blessings rest upon the poet of my boyhood’s home! As to the faults of his poetry, I confess that he has his share, because he is of “woman born.” So far as my sagacity goes, the most glaring ones are these. He is somewhat inclinedto the mysticism of the German, and sometimes makes use of epithets that remind us of his favorite authors. In the next place, his stories are not as clearly defined as they should be; but what, after all, to the genuine lover of poetry, is the mere story of a poem? “Thoughtsthat breathe, and words that burn,” are what delight him, and it will probably be only among kindred spirits that Noble will be popular. The mass of people will likely pass him by “as the idle wind, which they regard not.” And why? Because their minds are too narrow and weakly to enjoy anything superior to the horrid and disgusting trash continually teeming from the press. Noble’s poetry is possessed of the true spirit of the nine, and its gifted author need not doubt as to his reward, which is the only one he desires, namely, the approbation of sensible and refined minds.
And now, to back the foregoing opinions, I mean to quote three poems, neither of which shall be the longest and most ambitious he has written, viz.; “Lines to a Swan Flying in the Vale of the Huron,” “The Cripple Boy,” and the “Girl of the Sky-blue Lake.” The Huron, alluded to in the first, rises in the interior of Michigan, and empties into Lake Erie.Its clear waters gave it the name of its more mighty kinsman, Lake Huron. Now free your imagination and give it wings.