‘From this place to the Notch, there is almost a continual ascent, generally gradual, but sometimes steep and sudden. The narrow pathway proceeds along the stream, sometimes crossing it, and shifting from the side of one mountain to the other, as either furnishes a less precarious foothold for the traveller than its fellow. Occasionally it winds up the side of the steep to such a height, as to leave, on one hand or the other, a gulf of unseen depth; for the foliage of the trees and shrubs is impervious to the sight. The Notch itself is formed by a sudden projection of rock from the mountain on the right or northerly side, rising perpendicularly to a great height—probably seventy or eighty feet—and by a large mass of rock on the left side, which has tumbled from its ancient location, and taken a position within twenty feet of its opposite neighbor. The length of the Notch is not more than three or four rods. The moment it is passed, the mountains seem to have vanished. A level meadow, overgrown with long grass and wild flowers, and spotted with tufts of shrubbery, spreads itself before the astonished eye, on the left, and a swamp or thicket, on the right, conceals the ridge of mountains which extend to the north: the road separates this thicket from the meadow. Not far from the Notch, on the right hand side of the road, several springs issue from the rocks that compose the base of the mountain, unite in the thicket, and form the Saco river. This little stream runs across the road into the meadow, where it almost loses itself in its meandering among the bogs, but again collects its waters and passes under the rock that makes the southerly wall of the Notch. It is here invisible for several rods, and its presence is indicated only by its noise, as it rolls through its rugged tunnel. In wet seasons and freshets, probably a portion of the water passes over the fragments of rock, which are here wedged together, and form an arch or covering for the natural bed of the stream.
‘The sensations which affect the corporeal faculties, as one views these stupendous creations of Omnipotence, are absolutely afflicting and painful. If you look at the summits of the mountains, when a cloud passes towards them, it is impossible for the eye to distinguish, at such a height, which is in motion, the mountain, or the cloud; and this deception of vision produces a dizziness, which few spectators have nerve enough to endure for many minutes. If the eye be fixed on the crags and masses of rock, that project from the sides of the mountains, the flesh involuntarily quivers, and the limbs seem to be impelled to retreat from a scene that threatens impendent destruction. If the thoughts which crowd upon the intellectual faculties are less painful than these sensations of flesh and blood, they are too sublime and overwhelming to be described. The frequent alterations and great changes, that have manifestly taken place in these majestic masses, since they were first piled together by the hand of the Creator, are calculated to awaken “thoughts beyond the reaches of the soul.” If the “everlasting hills” thus break in pieces, and shake the shaggy covering from their sides, who will deny that
“This earthly globe, the creature of a day,
Though built by God’s right hand, shall pass away?—
The sun himself, by gathering clouds oppressed,
Shall, in his silent, dark pavilion rest;
His golden urn shall break, and, useless, lie
Among the common ruins of the sky;
The stars rush headlong, in the wild commotion,
And bathe their glittering foreheads in the ocean?”
‘Reflection needs not the authority of inspiration to warrant a belief, that this anticipation is something more than poetical. History and philosophy teach its truth, or, at least, its probability. The melancholy imaginings which it excites are relieved by the conviction that the whole of God’s creation is nothing less
“Than a capacious reservoir of means,
Formed for his use, and ready at his will;”
and that, if this globe should be resolved into chaos, it will undergo a new organization, and be re-moulded into scenes of beauty, and abodes of happiness. Such may be the order of nature, to be unfolded in a perpetual series of material production and decay—of creation and dissolution—a magnificent procession of worlds and systems, in the march of eternity.’1
A few weeks after the slide mentioned in the above description, a disaster occurred which occasioned the destruction of the interesting family to which allusion is there made.
The afternoon had been rainy, and the weather continued so till eleven o’clock in the evening, when it cleared away. About the same hour, a great noise was heard, at the distance of several miles like the rushing down of rocks and much water from the mountains. The next morning, the people, at Conway, could perceive that some disaster, of no ordinary character, had happened, by the appearance of the mountains on each side of the road. On repairing to the spot, they found the house of Mr. Willey, standing near the Notch, unhurt, but destitute of any of the family. It is supposed that they left it in their fright, and were instantly swept away, and buried under the rocks and earth which were borne down by the freshet. This family consisted of Mr. Willey, his wife, five children, and two hired men, all of whom were suddenly swept from time to eternity, by this lamentable disaster. Had they remained in the house, they would probably have been safe.
The central and western parts of Maine are mountainous. The highest mountains are the Katahdin, situated near the centre of the state, the Speckled, Bald, Bigelow, and Ebeeme mountains. The range between the rivers Hudson and Connecticut, and this last and lake Champlain, is called the Green Mountains, an appellation which it has received from its perpetual verdure, being covered on its western side with hemlock, pine, spruce, and other evergreens. These mountains are from ten to fifteen miles wide, much intersected with valleys, and abounding in springs and streams. Vegetation decreases on approaching their summits; the trees diminish in size, and frequently terminate in a shrubbery of spruce and hemlock, two or three feet high, with branches so interwoven as to prevent all passage through them. The sides of the mountains are generally rugged and irregular; some of them have large apertures and caves. Their tops are coated with a compact and firm moss, which lies in extensive beds, and is sometimes of a consistency to bear the weight of a man without being broken through. These mosses absorb a great deal of moisture, and afford wet and marshy places, which in the warm season are the constant resort of water fowl. The loftiest summits are Killington Peak, near Rutland; Camel’s Rump, between Montpelier and Burlington, and Mansfield Mountain, a few miles farther north, all which are more than three thousand five hundred feet above the level of the sea. Ascutney, a single mountain near Windsor, is three thousand three hundred and twenty feet in height.
The range called Green Mountains in Vermont, enters the west part of Massachusetts from the north, and forms the Hoosac and Tagkannuc Ridges, which run nearly parallel to each other south, into Connecticut. The most elevated peaks of the Tagkannuc Ridge are Saddle Mountain in the north, four thousand feet high, and Tagkannuc Mountain in the south, three thousand feet. No summits of the Hoosac Ridge much exceed half these elevations. Mount Holyoke, in the neighborhood of Northampton, commands a prospect of the highest beauty; the waters of the Connecticut wind about its base, giving fertility and wealth of vegetation to the surrounding country. On its top a shanty is erected, in which refreshments are kept for the visitors who at favorable seasons make this excursion in great numbers.
There are two distinct chains belonging to the Alleghany range in the state of New York, the Catskill and the Wallkill. The Catskill, which is the most northern, is the continuation