The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2 No 4, October, 1862

We found a very comfortable dinner awaiting us, which rather surprised us, as our landlord, Mr. Lindsay, a very civil, obliging person, and a new proprietor here, I believe, had promised us but Lenten entertainment; but 'deeds, not words,' seems the motto of these mountaineers.

In the afternoon we drove up Mount Willard; 'straight up Ben Lomond did we press,' but our horses seemed to find no difficulty for themselves, and made no danger for us in the ascent. I shall not attempt to describe the view. I have never seen any mountain prospect resembling that of the deep ravine (abyss?) with its convex mountain-sides. The turnpike-road, looking like a ribbon carelessly unwound, the only bit of level to be seen, and prolonged for miles. The distant mountains that bound the prospect you may see elsewhere, but this ravine, with the traces of the 'Willey Slide' on one side of it, has no parallel. Don't laugh at me for the homeliness of the simile—it suggested a gigantic cradle. Here, as elsewhere, we were dazzled by the brilliancy of the October foliage, and having found a seat quite as convenient as a sofa, though being of rock, not quite so easy, we loitered till the last golden hue faded from the highest summit. And we should have staid to see the effect of the rising moon on the summits, contrasting with the black shadows of night in the abyss, but my father had observed that our driver had neglected the precaution of blanketing his horses; and as a mother is not more watchful of a sucking-child than he is of the well-being of animals, it matters not whether they are his own, he begged us to sacrifice our romance to their safety. Alice and I walked down the mountain; it was but a half-hour's easy walk.

I have forborne talking with Alice on the subject that haunts me in spite of myself. I know I have her sympathy and her approval; and that should satisfy me. But this evening, as we were returning, she said:

'Did you feel any electric influence as we sat looking at the view Crawford's 'stranger' sketched this morning?'

'I thought of Carl,' I honestly answered, and turned the subject.

Alas! Sue, when do I not think of him?

Profile House, Saturday Evening.—We have again, to-day, experienced the advantage of these open mountain-vehicles, which are quite as 'roomy' and as easy as the traveling-jails called stagecoaches, which always remind me of Jonah's traveling accommodations. Again, to-day, we have been enchanted with the brilliancy of the foliage. It is just at the culminating point of beauty, and I think it does not remain at this point more than three or four days when you perceive it is a thought less bright. Why is it that no painting of our autumnal foliage has succeeded? It has been as faithfully imitated as the colors on the pallet can copy these living, glowing colors; but those who have best succeeded—even Cole, with his accurate eye, and faithful, beautiful art—have but failed. The pictures, if toned down, are dull; if up to nature, are garish to repulsiveness. Is it not that nature's toning is inimitable, and that the broad overhanging firmament with its cold, serene blue, and the soft green of the herbage, and brown of the reaped harvest-fields, temper to the eye the intervening brilliancy, and that, within the limits of a picture, there is not sufficient expanse to reproduce these harmonies?

Saturday Evening.—We have driven some twenty-three miles—from the Mountain Notch to the Franconian Notch—to-day; the weather has been delicious. The drive has been more prosaic, more commonplace, or approaching to it, than we have before traveled in this hill country. This October coloring would make far tamer scenery beautiful, but I can fancy it very bleak and dismal when 'blow, blow November's winds,' whereas here, at the Franconian Notch, you feel as it were housed and secured by nature's vast fortresses and defences. The 'Eagle's Cliff' is on one side of you, and Mount Cannon (called so from a resemblance of a rock on the summit to a cannon) on the other, and they so closely fold and wall you in, that you need but a poetic stretch of the arms to touch them with either hand; and when the sun glides over the arch in the zenith above—but a four hours' visible course in mid-winter—you might fancy yourself sheltered from the sin and sorrow that great Eye witnesseth.

You will accuse me, I know, dear, rational friend, of being 'exalté,' (vernacular, cracked,) but remember, we are alone in these inspiring solitudes, free from the disenchantment of the eternal buzzing and swarming of the summer-troops that the North gives up, and the South keeps not back.

We were received at the Profile House with a most smiling welcome by Mr. Weeks, the pro tem. host, who promises to make us 'as comfortable as is in his power,' and is substantiating his promise by transferring his dinner-table from the long, uncarpeted dinner-saloon with its fearful rows of bare chairs and tables, to a well-furnished, home-looking apartment, where a fire-place worthy of the middle ages, is already brightened with a hospitable fire. The great rambling hotel is vacant, and its silence unbroken, save by the hastening to and fro of our willing host, who unites all offices of service in his own person, and the pattering of his pretty little boy's feet—the little fellow following him like his shadow, and, perchance, running away from other shadows in this great empty house. The little fellow makes music to my ear; there is no pleasanter sound than the footsteps of a child.

I left Alice dressing for dinner—I think Alice would perform the ceremonial of a lady if she were shipwrecked on a desert island—and my father awaiting dinner. Dear father is never the pleasantest company at these seasons, when 'time stands still withal,' or rather, to him, keeps a snail's fretting pace. Well, I left them both and went down to the lake, a short walk, to greet the 'Old Man of the Mountain,' as they prosaically call the wonderful head at the very summit of the Headland Cliff, upreared on high over the beautiful bit of water named 'The Old Man's Punch-bowl.' The nomenclature of our country certainly does not indicate one particle of poetry or taste in its people. There are, to be sure, namesakes of the old world which intimate the exile's loving memories, and there are scattered, here and there, euphonious and significant Indian names, not yet superseded by Brownvilles or Smithdales, but for the most part, one would infer that pedagogues, sophomores, and boors, had presided at the baptismal-font of the land. To call that severe Dantescan head, which it would seem impossible that accident should have formed, so defined and expressive is its outline, like the Sphynx, a mystery in the desert—to call it the Old Man of the Mountain, is irreverence, desecration! I and this exquisite little lake, lapped amid the foldings and windings of the mountains, whose 'million unseen spirits' may do the bidding of that heroic old Prospero who presides over it—to call this gem of the forest a 'Punch-bowl,' is a sorry travesty. I paid my homage to him while his profile cut the glowing twilight, and then sat down at the brim of the lake.

Dear Susan,

——'the leaningsOf the close trees o'er the brim,Had a sound beneath their leaves.'

And—I will borrow two lines more to help out my confession—

'Driftings of my dream do lightAll the skies, by day and night.'

But truly, it is mere drift-wood, not fit even to build a 'castle in the air.'

I was startled from my musings by a rustling of the branches behind me, and I turned, expecting—not to see a bear or a fox, but my fancies incorporate. The leaves were still quivering, but I saw no apparent cause for so much disturbance. I probably had startled a brace of partridges from their roost. They brought me back to the actual world, and I came home to an excellent dinner, which I found my father practically commending.

Sunday.—My father has brought us up to so scrupulous an observance of the Puritan Sabbath, that I was rather surprised, this morning, by his proposition to drive over to the Flume. His equanimity had been disturbed by finding one of the horses that had brought us here, seemingly in a dying condition. He was one of the 'team' that had taken us on to Mount Willard, and my father had then prophesied that he would suffer from the driver's neglect to blanket him. He was in nowise comforted by the verification of his 'I told you so!' but walked to and fro from the stable, watching the remedies administered, and vituperating all youth as negligent, reckless, and hard-hearted. I think it was half to get rid of this present annoyance that he proposed the drive to the Flume, saying, as he did so: 'These mountains are a great temple, my children; it matters not much where we stand to worship.'

We stopped for a half-hour at a little fall just by the roadside, called by the mountain-folk 'The Basin,' and by fine people, 'The Emerald Bowl,' a name suggested by the exquisite hue of the water, which truly is of as soft and bright a green as an emerald's. The stream has curiously cut its way through a rock, whitened, smoothed, and almost polished by its fretting, which overhangs the deep, circular bowl like a canopy, or rather, like a half-uplifted lid, its inner side being mottled and colored like a beautiful shell. The stream glides over the brim of its sylvan bowl and goes on its way rejoicing. We loitered here for a half-hour watching the golden and crimson leaves that had dropped in, and that lay in rich mosaics in the eddies of the stream.

The morning was misty, and the clouds were driven low athwart the mountains, forming, as Alice well said, pedestals on which their lofty heads were upreared. No wonder that people in mountainous and misty regions become imaginative, even superstitious. These forms, falling, rising, floating, over the eternal hills, susceptible of heavenly brightness, and deepening into the gloomiest of earth's shadows, spur on fancy and fear to act at will.

I shall not attempt, my friend, to describe this loveliest of all five-mile drives, from the Profile House to the Flume under the Eagle's Cliff, and old 'Prospero,' and beside his lake, and the Emerald Bowl, and then finished by the most curious, perhaps the most beautiful passage we have yet seen in the mountains—'The Flume'—thus called, probably, from a homely association with the race-way of a mill. The ravine is scarcely more than a fissure, probably made by the gradual wearing of the stream. I am told the place resembles the Bath of Pfeffers, in Switzerland. That world's wonder can scarcely be more romantically beautiful than our Flume.

The small stream, which is now reduced to a mere rill by the prolonged droughts, forces its way between walls of rock, upheaved in huge blocks like regular mason-work. Where you enter the passage, it may be some hundred yards wide, but it gradually contracts till you may almost touch either side with your outstretched arms. I only measured the height of the rock-walls with my eye—and a woman's measure is not very accurate—it may be one hundred or one hundred and fifty feet. Tall trees at the summits interlace, and where they have fallen, bridge the passage from one side to the other. Rich, velvety mosses cover the rocks like a royal garment, and wild vines, almost glittering in their autumnal brightness, lay on them like rich embroidery, so that we might say, as truly as was said of the magnificence of oriental nature, that 'Solomon, in all his glory, was not arrayed like one of these.'

But how, dear Susan, am I to show the picture to you—the sun glancing on the brilliant forest above us, and the indescribable beauty of the shrubs—golden, and crimson, and fine purple—that shot out of the crevices of the rocks? It is idle to write or talk about it; but only let me impress on you that this enchanting coloring is limited to the first days of October. I am afraid it may be said of scenery as has been said of lover's tête-à-tête talks, that it resembles those delicate fruits which are exquisite where they are plucked, but incapable of transmission. As my father can never enjoy any thing selfishly, he was particularly pleased with the nice little foot-path won from the mountain-side, and the frequent foot-bridges that indicate the numbers that have taken this wild walk before us. My father fancies he enjoys our security from the summer swarms, but the social principle born in him masters his theories.

Alice and I were amused this morning, just at the highest access of our enthusiasm, while we stood under a huge rock wedged in between the two walls, on looking back, to see my father sitting on a bench arranged as a point of sight, not gazing, but listening profoundly, his graceful person and beautiful old head inclined in an attitude of the deepest attention to a loafer who had unceremoniously joined us, and who, as my father afterwards rather reluctantly confessed, was recounting to him the particulars of his recent wooing of a third Mrs. Smith or Mrs. Brown, or whatever might be her name. And when we returned to our quarters at the Profile House, and came down to dinner, we met our landlord at the door, his face even more than usually effulgent with smiles.

'There has a lady and gentleman come in,' he said, 'and your father has no objection to their dining at table with you?'

His voice was slightly deprecatory; I think he didn't quite give us credit for our father's affability. Of course we acquiesced, and were afterwards edified by our brief acquaintance with the strangers, a mother and son, who had come up from the petty cares of city life for a quiet ramble among the hills to find here

'A peace no other season knows.'

The mother wears widow's weeds, and has evidently arrived at the 'melancholy days.' As we just now sat enjoying our evening fire, 'My hearthstone,' she said, 'was never cold for seventeen years, but there is no light there now. My children are dispersed, and he who was dearest and best lies under the clods. My youngest and I hold together—I can not let him go.'

The loving companionship of a mother and a son who returns to her tenderness the support of his manly arm, never shrinking from the shadows that fall from her darkened and stricken heart, or melting those shadows in his own sunny youth, is one of the consoling pictures of life.

This poor lady seems to have the love of nature which never dies out. It is pleasant to see with what patience her son cares for the rural wealth she is amassing in her progress through the hills, the late flowers and bright leaves and mosses, though I have detected a boyish, mischievous smile as he stowed them away.

We had something approaching to an adventure this evening on Echo Lake, the loveliest of all these mountain lakes, and not more than half a mile from our present inn—the Profile House. Our dear father consented to go out with us, and let Alice and me, who have been well trained at that exercise on our home-lake, take our turns with him in rowing. This lake is embosomed in the forest, and lies close nestled under the mountains which here have varied shape and beautiful outlines. It takes its name from its clear echoes; we called, we sang, and my father whistled, and from the deep recesses of the hills our voices came back as if spirit called to spirit, musical and distinct. You know the root of fascination there is in such a scene. The day had continued misty to the last, the twilights at this season are at best short, and while my father was whistling, one after another, the favorite songs of his youth, we were surprised by nightfall. My father startled us with 'Bless me, girls, what are you about?' (it was he who was most entranced,) 'I can not see our landing-place!'

Neither, with all possible straining, could our younger eyes descry it. We approached as near the shore as we dared, but could go no nearer without the danger of swamping our boat, when suddenly we perceived a blessed apparition, a long white signal flying, made quite obvious in the dim light by a background of evergreens. We rowed toward it with all our might, wondering what kind friend was waving it so eagerly. As we approached near the shore it suddenly dropped and hung motionless, and when we landed we saw no person and heard no footstep. I untied the signal, and finding it a man's large, fine linen handkerchief, I eagerly explored the corner for the name, but the name had evidently just been torn off. Strange! We puzzled ourselves with conjectures. My father cut us short with:

'It's that young man at the hotel: young folks like this sort of thing.'

But it was not he; we found him reading to his mother, who said she was just about sending him to look after us.

Thus abruptly ended Mary Langdon's journal-letter. The reason of its sudden discontinuance will be found in our own brief relation of the experience of the following morning, (Monday,) which we had from all the parties that partook in it.

Our friends were to leave the Profile House on Monday, on their return to the lowlands, to go from there to the Flume House, visit 'the Pool,' and then down to the pretty village of Plymouth, in New-Hampshire.

Mary and her sister rose early, and having a spare half-hour before breakfast, went down to take a last look of Prospero and his 'Bowl.' There they found a crazy, old, leaky boat, with a broken oar, and Mary, spying some dry bits of board on the shore, deftly threw them in and arranged them so that she and her sister could get in dry-shod. Alice looked doubtfully at the crazy little craft and hung back—the thought of husband and children at home is always a sedative—but her eager sister overcame her scruples, and they were soon fairly out from shore in deep water. They went on, half-floating, half-rowing, unconscious of the flying minutes. Not so their father, who after waiting breakfast 'an eternity,' (as he said, possibly some five minutes,) came to the lake to recall them. Just as he came within fair sight of them—for they were not two hundred yards from him—the boat suddenly began whirling round. An eddying wind had sprung from the mountain upon them. The poor father saw their dilemma, and could not help them. He could not swim. He screamed for help, but what likelihood that any one should hear or could aid him?

Alice prudently sat perfectly still. The oar was in Mary's hand. She involuntarily sprung to her feet; her head became giddy; not so much, she afterward averred, with the whirling of the boat as with the sight of her poor old father, and the sense that she had involved Alice in this peril. She plunged the oar into the water in the vain hope, by firmly holding it, of steadying the boat; but she dropped it from her trembling hand, and in reaching after it, she too dropped over into the water, and in her struggle she pushed the boat from her, and thus became herself beyond the possibility of her sister's reach. Her danger was imminent; she was sinking. Her father and sister shrieked to Him—who they believed heard them and sent his Messenger; for a plash in the water, a strong man with wonderful—it seemed superhuman—strength and speed, was making his way toward Mary. In one moment more he had grasped her with one hand. She had still enough presence of mind not to embarrass him by any struggles, and shouting a word of comfort to Alice, he swam to the shore and laid Mary in her father's arms. He then returned to the boat, and soon brought it to shore.

There are moments of this strange life of ours not to be described—feelings for which language is no organ. While such a moment sped with father and daughters, their deliverer stood apart. The father gazed upon his darling child, satisfying himself that 'not a hair' had perished, but she was only 'fresher than before;' and, as he afterward said, 'fully recovering his wits,' he turned to thank the preserver of his children. He was standing half-concealed behind a cluster of evergreens.

'Come forward, my dear fellow,' he said, 'for God's sake, let me grasp your hand!'

He did not move.

'Oh! come,' urged Mr. Sandford, 'never mind your shirt-sleeves—it's no time to be particular about trifles.'

Still he didn't move.

'Oh! come, dear Carl!' said Mary.

And her lover sprang to her feet!

What immediately followed was not told me. But there was no after-coldness or reluctance on the part of the good father. His heart was melted and fused in affection and gratitude for his daughter's lover. His prejudices were vanquished, and he was just as well satisfied as if they had been overcome by the slower processes of reason and conviction.

The truth was, the old gentleman was not to be outdone in magnanimity. Mary's filial devotion had prepared him to yield his opposition, and he confessed that he had, in his own secret counsel with himself, determined to recall Heiner at the end of another year, if he proved constant and half as deserving as his foolish girl thought him. But Prospero—as Mary called the Old Man of the Mountain—had seen fit to take the business into his own hands, and setting his magic to work, had stirred up a tempest in his Punch-Bowl, just to bring these young romancers together. But by what spell had he conjured up the lover, just at the critical moment?

Heiner confessed, that not being able to get off in the steamer of the twenty-ninth, as he had purposed, he had delayed his embarkation for ten days, and the magic of love—really the only magic left in our prosaic world—had drawn him to the White Mountains, where he might have the happiness (a lover, perhaps, only could appreciate it) of breathing the same atmosphere with Mary, and possibly of now and then getting a glimpse of her. Thus he had stood on the summit of Mount Washington when, by some mysterious magnetism, she was gazing through the glass; thus he narrowly escaped detection near the Willey Slide; and preceding her by a few hours on Mount Willard, he was in time at the Echo Lake to signalize her, and by a good providence had been present at her hour of need on the magic domain of 'The Old Man of the Mountain.'

It was flood-tide in the old gentleman's heart. Mary's affairs ripened rapidly. They seemed to me well typified by one of my Malmaison rose-buds that I have watched slowly growing through the ungenial May-days, drooping under a cold rain, suddenly expand into luxurious perfection with a half-day's June sunshine. The happy future was already arranged. The thrice-blessed October sun was to shine upon the bridal festival, and then Mary was to go with her husband, and accompanied by her father, to pass a year in Europe. 'Mary and I are already wedded,' said he to me, with a smile of complete satisfaction; 'we only take this young fellow into the partnership.'

It was a bright day in the outer and inner world when we separated. And thus ended our October visit to the White Hills of New-Hampshire, but not our gratitude to Him who had held us

'In his large love and boundless thought.'

If our young friend has imperfectly sketched the beauties of the mountains, she has exaggerated nothing. We hope our readers—though, alas! perchance over-wearied now—may make the complete tour of these White Hills, including, as it should, the enchanting sail on Lake Winnipiseogee, the beautiful drive by North-Conway, and the ascents of Kiarsarge, Chicoma, Mount Moriah, and the Red Mountain.

THE LAST TOAST

'Quick! fill up our glasses, comrade true!I hear the reveille,' he fainting said;'O brave McClellan! I drink to you!'His glass lay broken—the soldier was dead.

EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND SIXTY-TWO

Alone at her window a maiden sat,And toward the South looked she,Over the field, over the flood,Over the restless sea.My Love, she said, he wanders far,He may not come to me.To and fro, to and fro,Sweeps the tide in ebb and flow:You and I, ah! well we knowHow hope and fear may come and go.With folded hands the maiden sat;Her work beside her lay;She saw the dusty, lengthening miles,A weary, weary way,Dullest links of a leaden chain,Unfolding, day on day.To and fro, to and fro,Breaking waves in restless flow:You and I, ah! well we knowHow hope and fear may come and go.My Love, she said, he wanders farOver the Southern sea;Nor Paris gay, nor ancient Rome,Could keep my love from me.The good ship drives through the misty nightWith the black rocks under the lea.To and fro, to and fro,Winter storms may come and go:You and I, ah! well we knowHope of good and fear of woe.I would, she said, I were by his side,Fighting on sea and land;Harder by far the folded hands,Than in battle light to stand—Stand with the faithful knights of God,Afar on the Southern sand.To and fro, to and fro,Spring may come, but spring must go:You and I, ah! well we knowChange is stamped on all below.My Love, she said, is every manWho girds him for the fight,By fortressed coast or Western wood,To battle for the Right.Be still, my heart, the end is sure;From darkness cometh light.To and fro, to and fro,The watchful sentries come and go:You and I, ah! well we knowRifle-shot of unseen foe.I glory with my Love, she said,My heart beats quick and highWhen captured fort or well-fought fieldEchoes the victor cryOf those who know 'like men to live,Or hero-like to die.'To and fro, to and fro,Summer's smiles and winter's snow:You and I, ah! well we knowFaith may fail and doubt may grow.I mourn my Love with bitter tears,Lying on many a plain;Above him sighs the winter windAnd weeps the summer rain—The nation's holy ground, where lowHer martyr sons are lain.To and fro, to and fro,Man must reap as well as sow:You and I, ah! well we knowGrain shall to the ripening grow.Though long miles lie between, I standBeside my Love, she said;No couch of roses, wet with dew,The wounded soldier's bed,When fever-flushes, crown of thorns,Rest on the martyr's head.Soft and low, soft and low,Woman's footsteps come and go:You and I, ah! well we knowWoman's love and woman's woe.With folded hands the maiden sat,And toward the South looked she,Over the field, over the flood,Over the restless sea.And I shall go to my love, she said,Though he may not come to me.To and fro, to and fro,Sweeps the tide in ebb and flow:You and I, ah! well we knowDeath brings peace to all below.