qrsv * v ^ -y^. # ^ -saps <? % <y 
 
t Ha\\, Frederick, 
 
 A TRIP 
 
 Ml 
 
 FROM 
 
 BOSTON TO LITTLETON, 
 
 THROUGH THE 
 
 NOTCH OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 BY B. K. Z. 
 
 ' y °f Was' 
 
 WASHINGTON. 
 
 JACOB GIDEON, JR., PRINTER. 
 
 1836. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 These hasty Letters were scribbled, more than two 
 years ago, for the amusement of the traveller himself, 
 and the perusal of a beloved Niece, who was left at 
 home to keep the fire burning. They, shortly after, 
 made their appearance, at the urgent solicitation of the 
 Editor of the Baltimore Patriot, in his Paper. They 
 are now printed — not for the use, or abuse, of that 
 great personage — the Public — but for the gratification 
 
 of MYSELF. 
 
 B. K. Z. 
 
A TRIP FROM BOSTON TO LITTLETON. 
 
 Concord, N. H., August 15, 1833. 
 My Dear F.— 
 
 I have placed myself al a little table to write you a letter. 
 "And why have you not done it earlier? Why pass over more 
 than half a thousand miles, without sending home a single syllable to 
 give life to our lonely hours ?" For the best reason in the world. 
 I had nothing to say. The ground we travelled over, you had been 
 jolted on, again and again. Could I tell you any thing new of the 
 city of " Brotherly Love," or of the " Renowned city of Gotham ?" 
 I could only have reiterated the hundred times " told tale," thatthe}'- 
 are both large cities, and that the prosperity and enterprise of their 
 inhabitants are daily rendering them larger, and richer, and more 
 magnificent. And what could I have said of New Haven — that fa- 
 vored seat of Science and Refinement ? The long range of her lofty 
 temples of learning, you know, full well, have, for scores of years, 
 reflected the light of knowledge, and of life eternal, over the dark- 
 ened and guilty earth. What of Hartford ? — that " scorned" city of 
 the misnamed " Seditious Convention ?" The bones of Hooker, 
 whose enraptured spirit is now singing, with archangels, anthems of 
 praise to " Him who sitteth on the throne," rest here, in unmolested 
 quietude. I passed a moment in gazing at his grave, and reading the 
 half obliterated chronicle, carved on the stone that covers it. The 
 noble edifices, which adorn the back grounds of this thriving city, 
 attract the stranger's eye, as he stands on the steam-boat deck, 
 winding her way up the broad Connecticut to her destined moor- 
 ings. The philanthropist's countenance brightens, when he is in- 
 formed, that in these ornamental and spacious buildings, the child of 
 misfortune, the deaf-mute, the more favored youth, who loves to 
 climb the rugged hill of knowledge, and " crazy Kate," are all en- 
 joying blessings of no ordinary character. It would have been loss 
 of ink, and paper, and time, to have told you^that the old " Charter 
 Oak" still stands on the acclivity of the little hill, reluctantly bending 
 
bis stiffened branches before the impetuous northern blast. " Yes, 
 indeed, it would, for I have idled away many a sunny hour of my 
 school-day girlhood, under its broad and cooling shade." I remember 
 it well. But when we entered the metropolis of the north, we had 
 gone beyond the parrallel of your latitude — we had reached a region 
 of the Union, whose objects possess the charm of novelty — at least 
 for you. At Boston, then, let the journal of our travels commence. 
 
 Here we saw much to entertain and delight us. Among the first 
 objects visited, was one of Scottish origin. It was an exhibition of 
 four statues, large as life, wrought in hard stone, by the self-taught 
 artist, Thorn, viz : Tarn O'Shanter, Souter Jonny, and the Land- 
 lord and Landlady — an exhibition of thrilling interest — an exhibition, 
 the objects of which will render imperishable the reputation of the 
 unlettered sculptor. Who has not read, and split his sides with 
 laughter, while reading, Burn's "Tarn O'Shanter?" That is des- 
 cription, graphic, indeed. This is chiselled reality, no less graphic. 
 There, the ear listens, and is delighted. Here, the eye — a better 
 sense — gazes and is charmed. 
 
 We spent an evening and a morning at Nahant — inhaling the re- 
 viving sea breezes. This is a pretty little village — neat, and, at this 
 time, full of bustle. It has one large hotel, which is thronged with 
 visitants. Nahant is a fashionable retreat for the Bostonians, during 
 the roasting heats of summer. In returning to Boston, I was pleased 
 to meet, among our boat companions, an old acquaintance, the Rev. 
 Dr. Kirklancl — late president of Havard University, as sprightly, and 
 as enterlaining as ever. His lady was with him. Half an hour I 
 passed, delightfully, in listening to the story of their wanderings on 
 the old continent. No other Americans have ever enjoyed such fa- 
 cilities for gaining valuable information. They were allowed access 
 to nearly all the most interesting curiosities of Europe, Asia and Af- 
 rica. It was, to the small party which gathered around the speaker, 
 a " feast of reason." I had often read descriptions of the pyramids 
 of Egypt — of the Holy city — of the Ottoman monarch's seraglio ; 
 but. how unanimating — how frigid are these, in comparison with the 
 oral relations of travellers, of die highest worth, who, but yesterday, 
 clambered up these pyramids, in persona, paced the magnificent 
 halls of the Turkish Sovereign's palace — and walked over the identi- 
 
cal ground, which drank in the hlood oi" the Son of God ! This 
 imparted to our bosoms heart-felt pleasure. It was next to being 
 ourselves in those oriental regions — breathing the mild air of Pales- 
 tine, or ransacking the mummy pits of old Thebes. 
 
 We passed a pleasant, mournful hour, in riding over the sepul- 
 chral grounds of Mount Auburn, and in viewing the costly dwellings 
 of the dead. The territory, consecrated to this holy purpose, is rug- 
 ged, as the surface of the stormy ocean, and mostly overspread with 
 trees, and brushwood, of natural growth. It is spacious, containing 
 many acres, and is divided into different tracts, by beautiful roads, and 
 serpentine avenues, each bearing the name of some forest, or horti- 
 cultural plant. The tombs are, as yet, "few and far asunder," but 
 are fast multiplying. Several are now being built — others, recently 
 completed, are waiting to be occupied. Here and there, one is al- 
 ready tenanted. They are all built of massy blocks of granite, and 
 closed with pondrous iron doors. We paused a moment before the 
 "long home" of Hannah Adams, the historian, whose mortal remains 
 were the first interred in the romantic and picturesque grounds of 
 Mount Auburn. It is surmounted by a neat marble monument. 
 Here, too, repose the ashes of Ashmun — the Negro's friend, the 
 friend of man, and of God. These enclosures, though not yet. popu- 
 lous, 
 
 "Death, the great proprietor of all," 
 
 will shortly fill. What a countless multitude of the rich, and the 
 great, will another century see congregated in this sequestered 
 Aceldama! And yet, who can refrain from casting an eye still 
 further onward, to the gloomy day, when, in the hoary age of 
 our now happy Republic, a new race of Goths and Vandals will 
 tear open these strong holds of the dead, and scatter their contents 
 to the four winds. 
 
 We visited, repeatedly, the gallery of paintings at the Athenae- 
 um, among which the admirers of the works of the pencil might lin- 
 ger for weeks, and then go away unsated — a collection, in which we 
 saw many of the richest pioductions of the old painters, and some of 
 the most celebrated pictures of the modern descendants of Apelles. 
 
 We were greeted with a hearty shake of the hand, by numerous 
 old friends — shared largely in their unbounded hospitality — talked 
 
over the deeds of other years — recalled to vivid recollection the fro- 
 lics of our college days, when the heart was young, and shot its ten- 
 drils into other congenial hearts, intertwining and interlacing, till a 
 union was formed, which the roll of years, and the fluctuations of 
 fortune, have no power to dissolve. We surveyed the changes — and 
 they are marvellous — which twenty years have wrought in this city 
 of the pilgrims — now filled with magnificent palaces — built of ever- 
 lasting stone — built for eternity. After passing four days, delight- 
 fully, in this Athens of New England — where riches, and learning, 
 and hospitality all cluster, and flourish together — where opulence has 
 its homage, but science its higher homage — we reluctantly bade a 
 last adieu to the few associates of our youth, who are still spared from 
 the dust — and took our departure from the Tremonl House, (and a 
 better hotel we have never seen) in the stage for Lowell, drawn by 
 six prancing steeds. Crossing one of the long bridges, which be- 
 stride Charles river, I could not help casting a " longing, lingering 
 look behind," and saying within myself, Farewell, Boston, a long, 
 an everlasting farewell to the city I love, above all others on earth, — 
 where I have whiled away many an happy hour, in years that have 
 flitted by, never, never to return. 
 
 Wc passed through Mcdford, Woburn — the birth-place of the 
 late Count Rumford — Billerica, and Chelmsford, noted for its ex- 
 haustless quarries of beautiful granite, of which many of the most 
 superb edifices in Boston are built. We saw the busy labors of the 
 Rail-road, which is shortly to link Lowell, the manufacturer, to Bos- 
 ton, the mart of her wares. We saw the Middlesex canal — the 
 oldest in the Union, bearing, on its bosom, boats, loaded with iron, 
 and coal, and cotton, all destined for the place of spools. Suddenly 
 the stage stops, amidst a little Babel — a throng innumerable of people 
 of all tongues, the noise of rushing waters, and the rattling of a thou- 
 sand machines. Driver, what city is this? There was nothing here 
 twenty-five years ago. "No, nor fifteen, sir. But it is no city ; 
 it is the village of Lowell. " A village ! It should be a city. It is 
 the Manchester of America. What a bustle! what a scene of activi- 
 ty ! I have witnessed nothing like it on this side of the Atlantic. 
 Here, Industry throws her shuttle, and out springs a fabric, which is 
 destined to travel over half the globe, to adorn the fair daughters of 
 
Eve, in Maine, in Ohio, in Mexico, on the scattered islands of the 
 Pacific, or to warm the shivering limbs of her hardy sons in far dis- 
 tant regions of the North. The stage gave us no time to breathe — 
 it whirled onward, while we were counting, I know not how many, 
 elegant churches, and steepled school-houses, and long and lofty fac- 
 tories, filled with flesh, and bones and spirit, all toiling, bee-like, for 
 the rest of their race. Lowell, like the setting sun, soon fell below 
 our horizon. 
 
 We crossed the Merrimac on a substantial wooden bridge. This 
 river, owing to its windings, its rapids, and its shallowness, is far less 
 favorable to boat navigation, than its sister stream, the Connecticut, 
 which laves the western boundary of New Hampshire. In traversing 
 Pelham, Windham, Londonderry and Bow, we observed nothing of 
 peculiar novelty, or interest, to engage our attention. The country 
 appeared, every where, judiciously husbanded and prosperous — the 
 crops abundant — orchards bending under ponderous loads of fruit — 
 chiefly the apple — we saw no peaches, and but few pears. One of 
 the most agreeable objects, which these townships presented to our 
 organs of vision, was the numberless fields of wheat, seen on every 
 hand, mature for the sickle, and agitated into a myriad of unspeakably 
 beautiful waves of gold by a gentle breeze — fields, too, where, in my 
 boyish days, little, or no wheat was grown, nor were the lands, 
 then, deemed capable of yielding to their cultivator, so rich a reward 
 for the sweat of his brow. 
 
 We reached this place — Concord — just as the goddess of night 
 began to spread her sooty mantle over the face of wearied nature. 
 The darkness was premature. Half an hour before our arrival, the 
 sun went down behind a dense, shaggy, menacing cloud, which 
 shortly extended itself over the whole celestial vault. The lightning 
 now streaked athwart the sky, shooting out its zig-zag ramifications 
 in every imaginable form — the thunder roared and rolled, like the 
 sound of a hundred cannon, followed by its long-continued echo — 
 the windows of heaven were open wide, and the rain was poured 
 down in torrents. 
 
 Resolved to see, what could be seen, under such inauspicious 
 circumstances, I took my umbrella, and, venturing forth, under the 
 pel tings of the merciless storm, soon saw enough to convince me, that 
 
8 
 
 Concord is one of the largest, and handsomest villages in New En- 
 gland. It is huilt near the Merrimac, on an extensive plain, limited 
 on the north hy a large tract of alluvial land, formed by the river, 
 and rendered as exhuberant by it, as the richest in the valley of the 
 Mississippi, or of the Nile. The public buildings are, a large, well- 
 proportioned state-house, constructed of granite, of an excellent 
 quality, which, we are told, is indigenous in this neighborhood ; a 
 state-prison, built of the same material; an academy, town-house, 
 bank, and four or five meeting-houses. The number of dwellings is 
 about two hundred. They are ranged, chiefly, on two long parallel 
 streets, situated on the west bank of the river, and wear the appear- 
 ance of uncommon neatness. They are all commodious — some ele- 
 gant, and a few of them are splendid, and furnished with large and 
 tasteful gardens. 
 
 At one of the hotels in this village, we had the good fortune to 
 meet that accomplished man, Matthew St. Clair Clarke, Clerk to the 
 House of Representatives of the U. S. , busily occupied in transcribing 
 old records, found among the archives of New Hampshire, in obedi- 
 ence, we believe, to an order of Congress. 
 
 Yours, ever, 
 
 B. K. Z. 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 Centre-Harbor, August 16, 1833. 
 
 My Dear F. — 
 
 We were torn from the arms of Morpheus this morning, by 
 the noisy stage-driver, and posted off, before cock-crowing, north- 
 ward. Passing from Concord to Boscawan, in the early twilight, we 
 were pointed to an island — Duston's island — situated near the mouth 
 of the Contoocook, where Mrs. Duston, an inhabitant of Haverhill, 
 Mass., with the story of whose captivity by the Indians, you are fa- 
 miliar, raising her valorous arm, nerved by insult and the fear of the 
 gauntlet, slew, and scalped her inhuman captivators, and effected her 
 escape. 
 
We breakfasted at Franklin, formerly a part of Salisbury, in the 
 old house where Daniel Webster, the Orator, the Statesman, the 
 Defender of the Constitution, passed his boyhood — he was born in a 
 dwelling a few rods distant. At table, we were amused by the 
 talkativeness of a decently dressed man of the mountains, whose 
 hoary locks told us, that fourscore winters had travelled over his 
 head. He gave us, in his vernacular language, a number of 
 aencdotes respecting the Senator's father, and some of the occurren- 
 ces in the greener years of the Senator himself. 
 
 "Judge Webster," said the old man, " kept this house, and a 
 plagy good one it was. too. I've put up here a hundred times in 
 my day. Every body thought a dreadful deal of the old Judge. 
 He was the greatest man in these parts, I tell you. He did putty 
 much as he was a mind to, and, by gingo, he always did right too, or 
 the people thought he did, and that was the same thing !" Did you 
 ever see Daniel, asked one of our party, when he was a boy ? 
 " See'd him ? yes, a thousand times, and Zeke too. I've seen 'em 
 both dance a jig in that are yard thare," pointing to the door-yard. 
 What do you mean by that, said I. — " Why, I put up here one bit- 
 ter cold night, and told the old Judge, I wanted to have my horse 
 water'd and fed arely, 'cause I meant to jog on a piece before break- 
 fast, and so he told the boys to do it. But when I got up in the mor- 
 ning — and it was a nation sight later than I thought it was — I went 
 straight to the barn, and I'll be choak'd, if the cretur had a mite of 
 hay, or oats, or water. I was darn'd mad — that's sartin — and went, 
 putty quick step, and told the Judge. lie tared right up, and bawl- 
 ed out 'Zeke! Dan!!' and gave 'em sich a trimming, as they 
 didn't want to have agin, I tell you." 
 
 When we had become satisfied with our repast — and what Parisian 
 gourmand would not be satisfied with such a multifarious dejeu?ie, 
 it was a delicious meal — "I put down nothing in malice" — compo- 
 sed of mutton chops, potatoes, cheese, apple-sauce, cucumbers, but- 
 ter, three kinds of cake, two sorts of pies, pickles, two bottles of 
 cider, coffee and tea — a rich and fashionable breakfast, I assure } r ou, 
 in the estimation of the good people of these inland regions: and 
 when we had become more than satisfied with the loquaciousness ol 
 
10 
 
 our octogenarian, we re-seated ourselves in the stage, and moved off 
 towards the north pole. 
 
 The next township we entered was Sandbornton. In our progress 
 this morning, we again crossed the Merrimac,or, as it is here called, 
 the Pemigewasset; and shortly after, the Winnippiseogee river, or the 
 eastern branch of the Merrimac. At Union Bridge, eighteen miles 
 from Concord, our party were separated, and conveyed off in differ- 
 ent directions, some for Haverhill on the Connecticut, and others on 
 an excursion of pleasure among the White mountains. We, happen- 
 ing to belong to the latter and less fraction, were placed in a smaller, 
 and less commodious carriage, moved by the power — or rather by 
 the weakness — of two worn-out steeds, -'ill-favored and lean-fleshed," 
 and whose ribs were as distinguishable as the rails in the fence. 
 You need not be told, that our progress was slow. The motion was 
 like that of a French "Diligence," in old-time, just four miles an 
 hour. 
 
 At eleven in the morning, we reached, unexpectedly, a little, 
 beautiful, bustling village, planted at Meridith Bridge, the seat, ap- 
 parently, of more business, mechanical, manufacturing and mercan- 
 tile, than any place I had passed, north of Lowell. From this 
 interesting bee-hive, in which we saw no drones, our road lay in the 
 neighborhood of several splendid sheets of water — more splendid than 
 their names are musical — such as 'Great Bay,' 'Long Bay,' 'Measly 
 Pond,'&c. Thirteen miles brought us to Centre-Harbor — the place, 
 where my old steel-pen is now hard at work, drilling out an "inval- 
 uable epistle" to transmit to you by the next mail. 
 
 Centre-Harbor is a township, limited on one side by the Squam, 
 and, on the opposite, by the Winnippiseogee, or, as the dwellers 
 around it say, Winnippis-sogga lake. I like this pronunciation. It 
 is said to be that of the Indians, and who does not know, that their 
 sound of their own words is infinitely more musical than ours. 
 
 This is as charming a spot, as the wildest imagination of the 
 poet, or the novelist, ever led him to picture to himself. Here the 
 boldest fictions of Asiatic romance become sober realities. You, 
 my dear F., love to gaze at, and admire, the frolics, and the gran- 
 deur of nature. How I wish that you, and W. and J., and your 
 whole house-hold were with us, at this moment, to participate in the 
 
11 
 
 ecstatic pleasure we feel in beholding the numberless beauties and 
 sublimities, which the Omnipotent hand has thrown together within 
 our present chequered horizon. 
 
 Here, mountains are piled on mountains, till their lofty summits 
 are literally lost in the heavens. Some of these enormous protube- 
 rances are environed by gray, fleecy, floating vapors, which render 
 it impossible to ascertain, where the land terminates, and where the 
 sky begins. Some shoot their bald heads, tipped with silver, far 
 above the world of clouds, that clothe, in thick darkness, their mid- 
 way zones, and, in awful majesty, seem to hang suspended from the 
 immeasurable heights above. A lake — nature's mirror, the largest 
 in New England — pure and picturesque as that of the trans-Atlantic 
 Geneva, dotted with a hundred — report says, three hundred and six- 
 ty-five — islands, spreads itself before us. Good farm-houses and 
 capacious barns, scattered among the distant hills — log cottages, re- 
 cently erected, far up the rugged mountain sides — innumerable fields 
 of wheat, diversifying the scene with spots of gold — orchards, loaded 
 with the richest fruit — these, and a myriad of other objects, which I 
 have not leisure to enumerate, go to constitute a landscape, whose 
 beauty, and grandeur, and sublimity my poor pen possesses no pow- 
 er to describe. 
 
 We stepped from the carriage, just as a clock in a neighboring 
 house, struck two — three or four hours after the steam-boat had taken 
 its departure for the opposite extremity of the lake. A steam-boat! ! 
 yes, a steam-boat, and a very convenient one, too, lam told, of ninety 
 tons burden, here among the mountains ! The fact astonishes me. 
 It was totally unlooked for. Does it not speak loudly in praise of 
 the enterprising spirit, that dwells in this Alpine corner of our be- 
 loved land ? 
 
 As soon as we arrived, I procured of the inn-keeper, a fishing 
 apparatus, stepped into a little boat, and, shoving off from the wharf 
 into deep water, had the good fortune, in half an hour, to bring into 
 another element four lusty fish — the only ones I had caught for twen- 
 ty-six years. While attempting to beguile away from his home 
 another of the finny tribe, 1 heard the well known voice of one, 
 who stood on the margin of the glassy lake, cry "come to dinner." 
 As in duty bound, and prompted by the yearnings of appetite, I 
 
12 
 
 obeyed the summons— and the consequence was, the disappearance 
 of two, or three fine, large pike, with the most gratifying accompani- 
 ments. 
 
 At four o'clock, we posted off from this fascinating place, — where 
 the appetite and the eye had been sumptuously feasted — with the speed 
 of a carrier pigeon. From Concord to Centre-Harbor, we had tra- 
 velled in an extra stage. As no carriage could be procured in the 
 latter village to-day, — they were all occupied in the conveyance of 
 pleasure-seekers hither and thither — we were obliged to take our 
 seats in a little Yankee tomtiddy, drawn by two powerful horses, 
 stretched out "tandem," and managed by a legitimate great grand- 
 son of Jehu, the old. We flew, John Gilpin-like, over twenty-four 
 miles, in two hours and a half, and lighted, where we now are, at 
 Atkinson's tavern, in Eaton. And, here, my second chapter, which 
 is twenty-nine verses too long already, must have its " Finis." 
 
 You are loved too well by 
 
 B. K. Z. 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 Eaton, August, 17, 1833. 
 My Dear F. 
 
 I went, early this morning, accompanied by our attentive land- 
 lord, Mr. A., to examine the Eaton lead mine, from which an 
 esteemed friend, in Fryeburg, Maine, sent me, some years since, 
 a number of good specimens of galena and sulphate of lead. Brought, 
 in our journeyings, so near to it, and being, in the language of Dow- 
 ningville, a pretty considerable sort of a sciolist in geology, mineral- 
 ogy, ichthyology, and many other ologies, I could not deny myself 
 the gratification of taking a personal peep at this somewhat celebra- 
 ted ore bed. It is situated three and a half miles south-east from 
 our resting place. We rode two miles, or more, on a tolerably good 
 carriage-road ; the remainder of the way was an ordinary horse-path, 
 over which, however, teams, and, perhaps, carriages, formerly tra- 
 velled. 
 
 Ascending a moderate swell of land, we came first to a small, 
 one-story building, which had been used as a boarding house for the 
 
13 
 
 miners. Proceeding a few yards farther, we arrived at a number of 
 heaps of galena and blende, broken into small fragments, and not 
 more than fifty feet distant, was the source from which the ore had 
 been derived. A shaft had been sunk — we know not to what depth, 
 for it was filled with water to within eight or ten feet from the sur- 
 face. 
 
 There is no nook of earth, in these wild regions, where the 
 Master's hand has not left manifold traces of His wisdom, and of His 
 unlimited power. Standing on the platform of the shaft, and turn- 
 ing your face to the east, you have, before you, a broad valley, dot- 
 ted, here and there, with humble dwellings, beyond which, Ossipee 
 mountain, rising to the height of two, or three thousand feet, covered 
 with brushwood and a few straggling trees, of stinted growth, pre- 
 sents to your vision his bold front. On the left, and a little below 
 you, lies Cook's pond, a beautiful oblong sheet of water, overspread 
 by a splendid carpet of white and yellow lilies, now in fresh bloosn, 
 under which the darting pickerel play their gambols, little molested 
 by the fear of man. This body of water appears to be an arm of Six 
 Mile pond, along whose margin we travelled in the gray twilight of 
 the last evening. On your right is a dense forest, composed, prin- 
 cipally, of hard wood, of numerous sorts, growing on a slightly 
 ascending plain. 
 
 At a short distance from the ore heaps, is a large, two-story edi- 
 fice, built of wood, and intended for the residence of the superintend- 
 ent of the works — new, but wretchedly finished, and already rickety. 
 It belongs to the sinking fund. Its foundation is giving way. One 
 of the fire places has fallen into the cellar. The floors are almost as 
 uneven as the hillocks in a maize field. The whole will soon be a 
 ruin. We entered it. No voice bade us welcome. The stillness 
 of Jeremiah's dungeon reigned in it. We walked through its echo- 
 ing apartments, and found, in one of the chambers, a parcel of the 
 ore, which had evidently been culled from, again and again, by 
 mineralogists, in quest of specimens. They had, however, left one, 
 which I eagerly seized ; it was a small piece of well characterized 
 brucite. This edifice, to which the expression "fuit," will soon be 
 applicable, cost, as Mr. A. informed me, two thousand dollars. 
 After the expenditure of much labor and money on this concern, 
 
14 
 
 the noise of the hammer has ceased. The blasts of the miner are no 
 longer heard, echoing and re-echoing among the mountains. The 
 buzz of active business no longer falls on the ear of the approaching 
 visitant. The whole affair is abandoned, or, at least, the operations 
 are suspended. " Why? Is the ore worthless?" No. It is less rich 
 than that of Missouri. The galena — I judge from its appearance 
 only — will yield from 25 to 40 per cent of metallic lead. This, 
 surely, would more than defray the expense of working it. " Pray 
 is lead in much demand?" Yes, it has been in use, in all ages. I have 
 no time now to point out its applications, nor could I do it, in less 
 than half a day, if I had leisure. As you are a young lady, how- 
 ever, I will inform you, that the ladies of old Rome employed lead, 
 in a certain state, as a cosmetic, or a beautifying commodity. The 
 ancients used this metal, as the moderns do, to render harsh wines 
 milder, but they were less guilty, or not guilty at all perhaps, for 
 they did not know, as we do, that it was one of the most deadly poi- 
 sons. Lead is much used in glazing earthenware : but I advise you, 
 if you would avoid a sudden and painful death, never to eat apple 
 sauce, or any thing sour, which has been kept in yellow earthen pots 
 or pans. Through ignorance on this subject, many valuable lives 
 have been lost. This metal is used for covering buildings, making 
 aquaducts, &c. &c. 
 
 The sulphuret of zinc, connected with the galena, is very abun- 
 dant, and too valuable to remain here unappropriated. "I have 
 never seen this metal. Is it much used ?" Not so much as it might 
 be. Le grand usage du zine, says the Abbey Hauy, est de former 
 le laiton par son alliage avec le cuivre. It is an important article 
 in the composition, also, of pinchbeek, bronze, tombac, &c. It is 
 more combustible than any other metal. You can set a thin leaf of 
 it on fire by the heat of a candle. It may be pressed into thin plates, 
 and applied to innumerable uses. In China, it circulates as a coin, 
 and has a small square hole in it, that it may be suspended on a 
 string. It is made into water pipes ; is employed in roofing houses ; 
 is converted into medicine ; is used as a pigment. The gangue, both 
 cf the galena and the blend, is quartz, mixed, here and there, with 
 very brilliant specks of pink-colored fluate of lime. In the cavities of 
 
15 
 
 the quartz, I observed several fine specimens of crystallized sulphate, 
 and carbonate of lead. 
 
 " Who are the owners of this property ?" They are numerous, 
 I understand ; some residing in its vicinity, and some at a dis- 
 tance. One of its principal proprietors lived in Boston, but has late- 
 ly deceased. Another, a gentleman of science and of enterprise, 
 belongs to the Monumental City, which all the world knows, means 
 Baltimore. He passed some time in thi3 quarter, and had the good 
 fortune, I am told, to impress on the minds of those, with whom he 
 came in contact, a very favorable opinion of him, as a gentleman, and 
 as a mineralogist. "Why does not this individual supply with lead 
 the shot-towers of the city, he dwells in, from this mine ? Why 
 does he not procure, from the Eaton blende, zinc, in quantum suf- 
 Jicit, to overspread the roofs of the buildings, which are springing 
 up, like mushrooms in an autumnal night, in all parts of that rapidly 
 growing London of Maryland ?" Je ne peut pas dire. Had I his 
 knowledge, and his purse, I would do it, or, at least, make the trial, 
 and I have no doubt, that the concern, if judiciously managed, might 
 be rendered lucrative. 
 
 Night coming on, we left the hill, bearing away with us samples 
 of every thing we had seen — not omitting the lilies — and cherishing 
 a better opinion of the Eaton ore, than of the manner in which the 
 late attempt was made to raise it from the eart|j^ and separate the 
 metal from its foreign associates. 
 
 The Concord stage arriving at 8 in the evening, we took seats in 
 it for Conway — a distance of six miles — where I am now sitting, in a 
 comfortable apartment, at Abbott's hotel, scribbling for your gratifi- 
 cation, or, it may be, making an opiate for you. My companions 
 have all retired for the night, and I am here, solitary as the lone owl 
 upon the house-top. I am obliged to write, you see, on the wing. 
 In these vagabond epistles, — I give you due notice — you must not 
 expect to find Euclidian exactness. I will assure you, however, that 
 nothing erroneous shall be put down from design — much may be 
 from ignorance and from haste. — But I must away from the work of 
 the quill. Sleep, with her stupifying wand, has nearly put a period 
 to its motion. Your nocturnal lamp — fori now see it with my ima- 
 gination's eye — burns dim and blue. It has been standing on the 
 
16 
 
 hearth, two hours already, wasting its light on you, fast bound in the 
 welcome embrace of 
 
 '• Tirfcd nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep." 
 
 May God preserve you. Good night. 
 
 B. K. Z. 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 Conway, August IS, 1833. 
 My Dear F. — 
 
 The sun had travelled far up the eastern sky — meting out 
 the hours of holy time — before we were prepared to come forth from 
 our chamber to enjoy his cheering beams. We had expected, that 
 our ears would be saluted by the animating music of the little church- 
 going bell, but we are now told, that there will be no preaching here 
 to-day. The clergyman is absent — gone to attend a literary jubilee 
 — the public commencement at Dartmouth College — the only colle- 
 giate institution in New Hampshire, founded, as you know, in 1769 
 — an institution, around which this joyous anniversary always as- 
 sembles a large number of the cultivated intellects of this, and of the 
 adjoining States. It is a homage, which the temples of sound learn- 
 ing should every whqre witness It is a homage, which the Greeks 
 cheerfully, rapturously^ paid at the Academy of Plato, at the Lyceum 
 of Aristotle, and at all their public games. This homage we must 
 pay to our seminaries of education, or the full foliage of the Ameri- 
 can tree of liberty will soon wither and die. Let the love of money 
 — the ruling passion of our countrymen — totally supplant the love of 
 learning ; let a cheerless apathy brood over the minds of parents, in 
 regard to the momentous subject of educating their sons — yes, and 
 their daughters too — and shortly our free, and happy, and glorious 
 institutions, purchased by the toil, and blood, of our brave forefath- 
 ers, will flee away, like chaff before the whirlwind. 
 
 From the sequestered halls of old Dartmouth, how many men, of 
 giant intellect, and of exalted worth have gone forth to enlighten, adorn 
 and bless the world ! Here were nourished, with the milk of wis- 
 dom, the Danas, the Worcesters, the Websters, the Woodburys, the 
 Browns, the Tieknors, the Marshes, and a host of others, who have 
 
17 
 
 already encircled, or who are now encircling, their brows with 
 wreaths of undying fame. — But where am I roving ? 
 
 This little village — composed of twenty, or thirty houses, a neat 
 church, a commodious school-house, both painted white, and furnish- 
 ed with steeples, all standing on a broad alluvial plain, across which 
 meanders the sprightly Saco — is, lam told, a sort of family concern, 
 belonging to two or three brothers, by the name of Abbott. The 
 father planted himself here, in olden time, amidst lofty pines, and 
 prowling bears, and the howlings of savage men, and, in process of 
 years, sleepless industry, wise economy, sterling integrity and ap- 
 proving Heaven, raised him to a respectable independence. A short 
 time since, in ripe old age, he sunk into the tomb, and left his chil- 
 dren, the unembarrassed proprietors of the large domain, on which he 
 had expended the vigor of his manhood, and the decrepitude of his 
 hoary years. His sons are men of enterprise and worth. The ta- 
 vern, where we lodge, and where we find order, quietness and good 
 fare, is kept by one of them. 
 
 White Mountain Post Office, Aug. 19, 1833. 
 
 At the early hour of five in the morning, we betook ourselves to 
 the stage, which passes from Portland to Littleton. A copious rain 
 had fallen in the night, and swollen the Saco, usually a pigmy stream, 
 to a mighty river. Shall I put down all our disasters " by flood and 
 field ?" Our destined course lay up this river. On arriving at the 
 place where it was to be forded, the driver informed us, that its bot- 
 tom, here, was a quick-sand, and that his load — the stage was crowded 
 with passengers — must be diminished before he would attempt to 
 cross. We, " the lords of creation," readily debarked. The ladies 
 — dear creatures — were first to be conveyed over in the stage, and 
 then the gentlemen were to be honored with transportation — not to 
 Botany Bay — but across this mountain Styx. The fairest and love- 
 liest of our party we saw landed safe, without a limb broken, or a 
 hair displaced, on the opposite bank. At that moment, a little one- 
 horse wagon came up. Our cocher called out " let two of the gen- 
 tlemen come over in the wagon, that my next load may be lighter." 
 Two of our number complied, but your humble servant was not, I 
 assure you, one of them. The gentlemen stood erect in the little 
 
 3 
 
crazy vehicle, whilst the rustic waggoner took his station On the for- 
 ward deck. The horse, proud of his genteel cargo, rushed forward, 
 fearlessly, into the the middle of the torrent, and, there became fixed 
 and moveless as Mount Atlas. The owner, armed with a hickory 
 cudgel, now commenced active operations, first on his broad sides, 
 then in front, and then astern, but all to no purpose. Bucephalus, 
 Gallio like, " cared for none of these things." In the meantime, the 
 whole affair was sijiking deeper and deeper in the yielding quick- 
 sand — approaching nearer and nearer Simmes' farm, and who could 
 decide that this was not the very entrance to it — perhaps the only one. 
 The ladies, standing on yonder terra firma, in imminent danger of 
 losing their bigger halves, were greatly alarmed. The torrent was, 
 indeed, angry and powerful, and seemed, instantly, on the point of 
 sweeping away horse, wagon and cargo to the boundless Atlantic. 
 After our companions had remained ten or fifteen minutes in this 
 perilous situation, the stage came to their rescue. 
 
 Being all safely over the water, we moved onward to Bartlett — 
 sixteen miles from @onway — where we were refreshed with a good 
 breakfast, at which we had the honor of the driver's company — no 
 uncommon occurrence, we are told, in this boreal portion of the 
 Union. And who would not desire this honor, when he saw, that 
 the manager of the steeds was a well-dressed, a well-behaved, a well- 
 informed man of thirty-five, tall, vigorous, ruddy-cheeked ; and was 
 assured, that he was the sole proprietor of the line of stages, which 
 ply between Conway and Littleton : and more especially, when he 
 learned, that this gentleman stage-driver was one of the sage mem- 
 bers of the sage legislature of the Neo-Hantoniensien commonwealth. 
 You need not contract your risibles, Miss, These things are so. 
 They are all matters of fact. " I'll be shot if they a'nt" — so be tran- 
 quil, and listen. The passengers actually contended with each other 
 for the privilege of sitting on the driver's seat to converse with the 
 legislator. The individual, to whom the prize was finally awarded, 
 obtained, from his communicative lips, a fund of information, touch- 
 ing the principal measures of the incorruptible, immaculate managers 
 of the legislature of New-Hampshire. — "But, enough of this." — 
 No, let me edge in one word more. "Well, do it in a hurry." 
 The drivers, in New England, I have found to be — to speak gene- 
 
19 
 
 rally — the very antipodes of our's at the south. These are the own- 
 ers, or, at least, the co-sharers of the profits of the concern ; our's 
 are mere hirelings, sheer eye-servants ; these are careful, obliging, 
 industrious — it is their interest to be so — our's are heedless, indo- 
 lent, often headstrong and insolent. 
 
 From Bartlett, we travelled over seven miles of undulating lands, 
 gently ascending, however, and then halted for a few moments, at a 
 decent looking inn. It was kept by a most venerable old man, 
 whose snow-white locks the last century began to bleach, and yet 
 he walks with the firm step of manhood, erect, as the beautiful firs 
 of the forest, which surrounds his lone abode. His name is Craw- 
 ford, and he is well known by all, who have visited this romantic 
 region within the last fifty years. 
 
 Here a most magnificent panorama — a scene altogether novel and 
 stupendous — opened on our delighted vision. A valley, ten or 
 twelve miles in length, and three or four in width, lay before us, 
 encompassed by walls of granite — built by the hand of Omnipotence 
 — of astonishing altitude and of frightful steepness. 
 
 "The mountains that infold, 
 In their wide sweep, the colored landscape round, 
 
 Seem'd groups of giant kings, all dress'd in gold, 
 That guard the enchanted ground." 
 
 This is, indeed, I could not help exclaiming, the Switzerland of the 
 West. Such amazing grandeur — such terrific majesty, in the Al- 
 mighty's works, I had never before witnessed. 
 
 Somewhere in this valley, a love-sick damsel, in times of yore, 
 while following her loving swain, who had, unknown to her, depar- 
 ted from Jefferson, where they both resided, on a visit to a neighbor's 
 in Bartlett — only thirty miles distant — found a snowy grave. The 
 story is told by Dr. Dwight, who had more time and talent to tell it, 
 than I can command. — As soon as a shoe was set on one of the hor- 
 ses, we were again in motion. 
 
 The next pause in our travels was at the Willey-house, — six 
 miles up the lonely valley — in which no sounds were heard, save 
 the murmurings of the Saco — now reduced to a diminutive streamlet 
 — whose waters — like the wheels of time — were hurrying forward 
 to he lost in the "vasty deep." Our eyes remained constantly rivet- 
 
20 
 
 ted to the everlasting mountains, which accompanied us on our right 
 hand, and on our left, around whose towering summits the clouds 
 were ever frolicking, and whose long sides were striped, like ribbon- 
 jasper, by the memorable avalanches of 1S26. 
 
 The Willey-house ! The stillness of the grave dwells here. 
 Around it reigns " desolation horrific." Stones of fifty tons weight, 
 and trees, without number, had been hurled from the lofty crags, 
 and cast headlong on the world below. The house is small — asingle 
 story — having three or four contracted apartments. The different 
 rooms exhibited nothing but broken chairs, broken vessels and straw. 
 I need not relate to you the fate of its former peaceful, contented 
 inmates. It is already known to you, and to all Christendom. I 
 had heard of it, long since, in a distant State. But we were now on 
 the identical spot, where the sad catastrophe occurred. Our imagi- 
 nations pictured it as actually present, in all its freshness, and horror 
 and solemnity. We felt, as those did, who walked over the battle- 
 grounds of Chippewa, or Waterloo, the clay after the deadly conflict 
 took place; or as those do, who ramble, at dusky eve, among a wilder- 
 ness of sepulchres, just built, and filled with the remains of the dead. 
 The grave, it is said, preaches — and so does the Willey-house. 
 Who can enter its thresh-hold, without reflecting on the change, the 
 great, the momentous, the final change, which will shortly, and may, 
 in an unlooked for hour, come over him ? 
 
 None, but Heaven, knows the sensations of this lamented family 
 on that awful night, when, far removed from human aid, and human 
 counsel, the lightning, riving into shivers the sturdiest trees of the 
 forest, poured down on the affrighted mortals an unintermitted stream 
 of liquid fire ; when the thunders rolled, and echoed, among the 
 mountains, and the water rushed from the dense and angry clouds, 
 not in rain, but in torrents, like those, which deluged the old world ; 
 when the rocks, and trees, and brush-wood, and soil, far up the 
 mountain sides, loosened from their hold, came tumbling down, with 
 more than earthquake sound. The elements were in wild uproar. 
 I have said, the inhabitants of this isolated dwelling were alone. It 
 is true; none were near, but God, and the angel of the storm. On 
 every side, ghastly death stared them full in the face. In the midst 
 of dangers, like these, who would not be terrified ? The Willey- 
 
21 
 
 house-hold, in the most fearful state of alarm, fled from their abode, to 
 seek safety somewhere — they knew not where — and in their flight, 
 were overtaken by an avalanche, and all — nine in number — were 
 hurried into the unseen world. 
 
 The house is occupied in winter, we were informed, by two men, 
 who furnish accommodations, of some sort, to teamsters and others, 
 who are obliged to travel, in this dreary season, through this unin- 
 habited wild. 
 
 From the Willey-house, we proceeded through the Notch — a 
 deep, and narrow, and dark defile in the mountains, scarcely wide 
 enough for the road, and the little Saco to pass — to Thomas Craw- 
 ford's — a twig of the old tree, of the same name, already mentioned. 
 The distance is two miles. 
 
 On the way, our attention was drawn to an object, at which a 
 dweller on the rugged Alps, who is accustomed to view nature, clad 
 in her grandest robes, would look with astonishment. It is a cascade, 
 on the right of the road, the most picturesque, and beautiful, in my 
 judgment, that man ever fixed his eyes on. " The stream runs over 
 a series of rocks, almost perpendicular, with a course, so little bro- 
 ken, as to preserve the appearance of an uniform current, and yet so 
 far disturbed as to be perfectly white." C 'est un spectacle vraiment 
 mugnifique. It is of the size of a small mill-stream, and comes dan- 
 cing down from rock to rock, from the height of near a mile, dash- 
 ing and foaming, and resembling a continuous sheet of snow, stretched 
 over the gray granite. This charming object — this cascade of liquid 
 silver — is, my dear F., no fiction, nor is it of recent origin. It is a 
 reality, it has been here, murmuring the same unvaried minstrelsy, 
 night and day, ever since the waters of the Mosaic flood were assua- 
 ged, and Mount Washington raised its hoary summit above the sur- 
 face of the briny deep. It has been the charm of thousands, and 
 will yet be the charm of millions. We gazed at it ten minutes, in 
 silent admiration. But I will leave it, undescribed. It is too fine, 
 too sublime, to be meddled with by my blunt pen. It merits the 
 pencil of a David, or a Morse. 
 
 We reached the " Upper Crawford's" — the first-born of the old 
 patriarch, who resides at the foot of the mountain — precisely at two, 
 P. M. This is the most elevated land in the United States, over 
 
22 
 
 which a public road passes. We are making preparations for ascend- 
 ing Mount Washington to-morrow. You may expect to hear from 
 me again, on the- evening of that day, if the fatigue of the excursion 
 do not send me too early to bed. 
 
 B. K. Z. 
 
 LETTER V. 
 
 Summit of Mount Washington, Aug. 20, 1S33. 
 I commence this letter, dear F., on the pinnacle of the lof- 
 tiest mountain* in the United States, east of the Mississippi ; where, 
 or when, it will be completed, I know not. I am now seated on a 
 rock ; a rock is my table, and a rock my footstool. 
 
 At seven, in the morning, we took up our march for the moun- 
 tain. The company consisted of seven individuals, viz: a father, a 
 rustic, uneducated, good man, with three sons, the youngest, a lad, 
 eis;ht, or ten years of age. The old man told me, last evening, that 
 he had, some twenty years ago, climbed up this wonderful peak, and 
 was so deeply impressed with the power of its Maker, that he had 
 promised his sons, if they would be good boys, that he would, when 
 they were big enough, bring them here to see the mighty works of 
 God. "And now," said he, patting the head of the youngest, " I 
 have come to fulfil my promise. They are obedient, industrious 
 children, and if I expect to be treated well by them, when I am old 
 and helpless, I must treat them kindly, when they are young, and 
 perform all my promises to them." What a lesson to parents! 
 There is truth in it, and philosophy too. In addition to this family 
 and myself, there was a spruce young man, recently married, a 
 " Down Easter," who, with his "better half," had come hither to 
 while away their honey-moon. He, mounted on his own steed, 
 young, gay and prancing, presented a finer figure than any other'in 
 the whole cortege. Six of us rode on Crawfordite horses, not over- 
 
 *In a newspaper, notice was given, a short time since, that a mountain in North 
 Carolina, had recently been ascertained to be of greater altitude than the White 
 Mountains of New Hampshire. Whether this account is to be relied on, or not, I 
 have no means, at present, of determining. 
 
23 
 
 splendidly caparisoned. They were, indeed, shabby enough — had 
 long tails, long manes, hair all over uncurried and shaggy, as a buffa- 
 lo's. The saddles screaked sadly as we placed ourselves astride of 
 them. Some of the bridle-reins were composed of old straps, fasten- 
 ed together by knots. 
 
 We cut a sorry figure, I assure you, as we passed off from the inn. 
 Our knight-errant, proud of his horse and his equipage, galloped 
 away ahead. u That are horse there won't run before us long, I tell 
 you," said the guide. " He don't know one tenth part as much as 
 our'n does. He ha'nt climbed up these hills sixty-eight times, as 
 this 'ere horse has." We rode more than a mile on the turnpike- 
 road, which leads to the Notch, and then took a path to the left. 
 From the turnpike, we travelled five miles, on a road, incomparably 
 worse than the worst of the Virginia horse-paths, and these, you y 
 know, are, in all conscience, bad enough. The land, on both sides 
 of it, is clothed with trees, fir, birch, spruce, maple and hemlock, of 
 the ordinary forest size. The first half of this distance is nearly 
 level, the last half gradually ascending, and the whole excessively 
 wet. The horses, in many places, sunk in the mud, at every step, 
 knee deep. Much of the path was paved, in the Yankee style, with 
 rough logs and poles, thrown across it, just far enough asunder to 
 allow the animal's feet to slip down between them to an immeasura- 
 ble depth. Where the logs are wanting, nature's pavement exists, 
 which is still more frightful and dangerous — the roots, interlacing 
 with each other, form a sort of net-work, between the threads of 
 which, a horse, unaccustomed to such travelling, is, perpetually, 
 plunging his feet, and is, sometimes, unable to extricate them. Short- 
 ly after entering on this ineffably bad road, our companion of the fleet 
 horse fell behind, and often met with trouble. 
 
 "Hallo! there, guide, halloo!" " What's the matter, there," 
 thundered out the leader of the caravan, with a voice like Stentor's. 
 iC Matter enough, matter enough." " But what ails you !" " Why 
 my horse has got his foot fastened among the roots, and can't get it 
 out." — " Aye," said the exulting guide to me, who had the honor to 
 precede all, but himself, " that's the fine horse !" The alarmed own- 
 er continued to vociferate^ "pray come, and help, or the poor crea- 
 ture will break his leg." " Never mind," answered the guide, with 
 
24 
 
 the most provoking non chalance, " have patience, and he will work 
 it out." And so he did, but left the shoe. 
 
 We had now reached the head of horse navigation. The animals 
 were fastened to branches of trees, and their riders, from this point, 
 became pedestrians, and, sometimes, quadrupeds. Moving forward 
 a short distance, we arrived at the spot, where formerly stood the 
 " Wigwam," or *' Camp," in which those individuals lodged, or, 
 rather stayed, over night, who designed to be on the summit at sun- 
 rising. Here, a fine, bubbling spring of delicious water, which, 
 doubtless, has its origin in an ice-cellar, hidden, somewhere, in the 
 wilderness of rocks above us, offered itself for our refreshment. 
 Spirits and wine had been proffered us at Crawford's, for our use in 
 supporting the fatigues of this day's excursion, but both were decli 
 ned. Here, we rested ourselves a few moments under an umbrage- 
 ous fir tree — ate our lunch of crackers and cheese, and slaked our 
 thirst at this living fountain, whose pellucid liquid was, a thousand 
 fold, more agreeable to us, than would have been, that greatest of 
 man's foes — au de vie — or rather — au de mort — for it excites, and 
 lulls, only to destroy. Between the turnpike and the " camp," we 
 crossed the Ammonoosuc six, or seven times, and witnessed, every 
 where, in the immense, heterogeneous masses of logs and roots, and 
 stones and earth, the desolating effects of the flood of 1826. From 
 this resting place, we had three miles to clamber. It was now half 
 after nine, and we intended, if possible, to reach the object of our 
 toil before mid-day. 
 
 Continuing our march, we soon arrived at the foot of an aclivity 
 of four or five hundred feet, in almost perpendicular height. To 
 scale that elevation, thought I, hoc opus, hie labor est. It is called 
 "Jacob's Ladder." I must stop, a moment, said I to the party, to 
 examine the rocks, which form the steps of this physical escalier. 
 They are altogether different from any I have seen in the neighbor- 
 hood of the mountains. They are mica-slate, and micaceous schis- 
 tus. Most of the rocks, which have fallen under my observation, in 
 this quarter, are granite, and, here, let me say, once for all, that 
 above this point, the mere mineralogist will find few things to inte- 
 rest him. He will see huge blocks of gneiss, and a mongrel sort of 
 granite, in which are sparingly scattered dodecahedral crystals of 
 
25 
 
 garnet ; here and there, crystals of mica, black, red and silvery , 
 crystalized feldspar, schorl, beryl, magnetic oxide of iron, and horn- 
 blende. "Don't stop forever, there, at the head of the Ladder," 
 cried the guide to me, in a half angry, and half playful tone. But I 
 wish to rest a moment. My legs ache. "Your legs ache ! Then 
 they'll ache in earnest, I'll tell you, before they get away up to the 
 top of them bald rocks there." 
 
 Advancing a mile farther, we found ourselves surrounded by a 
 dense forest, formed of trees of Lilliputian size — none more than ten, 
 or twelve feet high ; these were soon succeeded by trees still more 
 dwarfish — chiefly the fir — a thousand years old, perhaps, having their 
 dark ever-green branches interlocked, and woven together so firmly, 
 that we walked on them, without being apprehensive of falling 
 through. This was, indeed, a novel scene to me. I was stalking, 
 fearlessly along, over the top of a wilderness, which had veiled the 
 ground for centuries, and yet not a tree in it rose to one third of my 
 own height. For the gratification of your curiosity, I shall bring 
 you one of the largest trees, which grow within a mile and a quarter 
 of the apex, in my valise ! It is a well-proportioned fir, and was, 
 it may be, growing here, when Julius Caesar invaded Great Britain. 
 These give place, as you ascend, to those of a minuter grade, being 
 only a few inches in altitude ; and these, again, to little else but 
 lichens, of numerous species, overspreading most of the rocks, which 
 constitute the " Upper Cone." 
 
 I am surprised to find every thing in these Alpine regions out 
 of place. The rocks are all broken in pieces — the work of the Ti- 
 tans, perhaps, in their wars against the gods — when they hurled 
 these ponderous blocks of granite at their foes, as boys now do snow- 
 balls. But why not suppose, that this entire cone once constituted 
 an integral part of the rocky selenian Appenines, which make so 
 prominent a figure on the surface of Madam Luna, and that her 
 ladyship, in a fit of hystericks, kicked it off, and whirling, and 
 whirling, and whirling, it at length formed a — not water — but rock- 
 spout, and was all poured together, in the wildest, and boldest, and 
 strangest confusion on this boreal spot. Who can doubt it? None, 
 we think, who gives credence to Laplace's theory of meteoric stones. 
 In our toilsome journey, and at short distances from each other, we 
 
 4 
 
26 
 
 met with springs of excellent water, gushing from the crevices of the 
 rocks — affording us a luxury, which was exceedingly grateful to our 
 parched lips. 
 
 We reached the summit, just as the ruler of day was crossing his 
 mid-way line. Our party were in raptures. The prospect! I can- 
 not describe it. The pencil cannot. Such a broad horizon — a hun- 
 dred and sixty, or eighty miles in diameter — never before expanded 
 itself to my vision. My sensations were delightful. The highest 
 anticipations we had cherished, of the grandeur of the scene, fell 
 infinitely below the reality. All our toil was forgotten. The view, 
 from this lofty point, of the world below, and around us, is truly 
 magnificent — worth "a voyage" — not only "across the Atlantic," 
 but to the Sandwich Islands. The day is superb. The heavens are 
 cloudless. No floating vapor dims the noon-day lustre of the sun, as 
 he careers, in glory, along the cerulean vault 
 
 We now stand, according to Captain Partridge's admeasurement, 
 6234 feet above the level of the ocean. The historian of Vermont 
 — Dr. Williams — makes our elevation 7800 feet. Dr. Cutler sup- 
 poses it to be 10,000, and Dr. Belknap — the able historian of New 
 Hampshire, runs still wider from the truth. The estimates, how- 
 ever, of the two last named gentlemen, were the work of the imagi- 
 nation — an instrument less trust-worthy than a good barometer, or 
 quadrant. 
 
 Travellers have complained of the severity of the cold they have 
 experienced here, even in the months of July and August. A Mr. 
 Little states, that he was unable to carve his name on the rocks, with- 
 out frequently warming his hands. This all-important operation 
 was effected by most of our number, and yet no one felt the slightest 
 unpleasant sensation of cold. The atmosphere, which rests on Mount 
 Washington, is less heated, and less dense, than it is at Crawford's, 
 but the difference, in our case, is scarcely perceptible. 
 
 Dr. Cutler says, "The Mountain has three distinct zones. 1st. 
 The woods. 2d. The bald mossy part. 3d. The part above vege- 
 tation." There is, strictly speaking, no third zone ; for there is no 
 part entirely destitute of vegetation. We find grass growing in the 
 crevices of the rocks, even on the very pinnacle, and, also, a consid- 
 
27 
 
 erable variety of other small plants, now in full blossom. Mosses 
 occur every where, thinly veiling the rocks in velvet green. 
 
 It is impossible to name a hundredth part of the objects of thril- 
 ling interest, embraced within the almost boundless circumference of 
 our vision. A number of the peaks of the White Mountains will 
 carry down, to a far distant age, the names of the early Presidents of 
 the United States, and of other distinguished men, who figured nobly 
 in the politico-military drama of the American revolution. Mt. Jef- 
 ferson is the first seen on the north from Mt. Washington. The 
 next, in the same direction, is Mt. Adams, which, if once seen, will 
 never be forgotten. Its apex forms an acuter angle than any of the 
 others. Mt. Madison occupies a stand at the east. On the south, 
 are Mts. Monroe, Franklin and Pleasant. The last has a sugar-loaf 
 shaped summit. 
 
 What ! a pond here ! and placed but a few rods below the very 
 acme of Mt. Washington ! Has it any name, guide ? " Yes, it is 
 * The Lake of the Clouds'." This, surely, is no misnomer. The 
 clouds come here to rest, and to drink, often. Let us go to it. It 
 covers more than half an acre of ground, or rather, of rocks. Its 
 water is limpid, as the Pit diamond, and deep. We drank of it, and 
 never drank better. No fish ruffles its surface, or disturbs its tran- 
 quillity. No vegetables are seen on its margin. This "Lake of the 
 Clouds," is fed by a small spring, whose waters enter it on the south- 
 east, and are the " head stream of the Ammonoosuc." A rivulet, is- 
 suing from the lake, commences its descent, and, dashing and roaring 
 and foaming, in its headlong course of several thousand feet, is pour- 
 ed into the mountain valley, near the "Wigwam." Another sheet 
 of water, of less dimensions, appears at a short distance to the north- 
 west. 
 
 We returned to the summit, to take a farewell view of a prospect, 
 •broader, and more picturesque and grand, than will ever again open 
 itself to my mortal eye. — On the south-east and south, we saw, 
 with different degrees of distinctness, many mountain peaks of vari- 
 ous elevations ; the romantic lake, Winnippiseogee, studded with 
 countless islands ; Long pond, Lovell's pond, famous for a battle 
 fought near it, by Lovell and the Indians; the valley of the Saco, and 
 much of the road, which threads it. The blue Atlantic, unseen by 
 
28 
 
 us, and Portland, the commercial emporium of Maine, are, it is said, 
 clearly visible by the aid of a telescope. On the north-east, we over- 
 looked the vale of the Androscoggin, replete with wild and interesting 
 scenery. On the north, appeared the glassy surface of lake Umba- 
 gog, environed by a rough, uncultivated, inhospitable country. To 
 the south-west, the Grand Monadnoc raises his bald head a little 
 above the dusky horizon. On the west, your eye surveys the beau- 
 tiful valley of the Connecticut, and, beyond it, the long range of the 
 Green Mountains ; and, still further off, if I do not misjudge, the 
 lofty mountains, situated in New York, west of lake Champlain, are 
 indistinctly visible. 
 
 To sum up the whole in five words — I must say, that the pros- 
 pect from Mount Washington is unique. It is like nothing else. It 
 is sublime in the highest degree, but it is the sublimity of nature, un- 
 aided and alone, or rather, of nature's God. Art has had no hand in 
 the manufacture of the objects exhibited, or in their presentation. 
 
 It is altogether unlike the prospect from St. Paul's in London, 
 where you look down on a million and a half of your fellow-beings, 
 diminished to dwarfs, all in hurried motion, jostling, and impeding 
 each other in their progress ; and by enlarging the circle a few miles, 
 you embrace another million ; with villages countless, sumptuous 
 villas, fine roads, radiating in all directions 5 Greenwich Hill, sur- 
 mounted by the Royal observatory, Westminster Abbey, where rest, 
 in undisturbed repose, the ashes of poets, and warriors, and states- 
 men, and their royal masters ; the Thames, pursuing silently, his 
 meandering course, through this little world of human habitations, 
 and, lined on either side, as far down as the eye can reach, with ships 
 innumerable from all nations. Here, most that appears in the superb 
 picture, is the workmanship of man. 
 
 It is unlike the view from Salisbury Craig, in old Scotia, where 
 your eye is greeted by a landscape of superlative beauty, comprehen- 
 ding the Athens of Great Britain — Edinburgh — the Old town, with 
 long and narrow, and filthy streets, and lofty houses contrasting, for- 
 cibly, with the spacious, cleanly streets and magnificent buildings of 
 the New city — Holy-Rood House, the habitation of the ancient 
 Scottish monarchs — the Frith of Fourth, rolling its mighty tide into 
 the German ocean — and a broad rim of country, on all sides, made up 
 
29 
 
 of hills and dales, chequered with country seats, and groves, and cul- 
 tivated fields, rendered rich as the garden of God. These prospects 
 interest and charm the eye of the beholder ; but there is nothing in 
 them, which fills the mind with astonishment and shivering awe. 
 As to grandeur and solemn sublimity, they are vastly inferior to 
 the view afforded from the loftiest of the White Mountains. This 
 huge pile of primitive matter, essentially the same it was, when it 
 came from the creative hand of Omnipotence — an immeasurable 
 waste of rocks, overspread with lichens, and dwarfish evergreens, 
 and margined by a dense, dark wilderness, which the axe will, pro- 
 bably, never level — is doomed, by the rigors of its elimate, to remain 
 unaltered to the end of time. 
 
 " Descensus averni facilis." We arrived at Crawford's at six 
 in the evening. There we continued, till the Portland stage of to- 
 day made its appearance. We took passage in it for Littleton, where 
 we now are, and where I intend to finish this already too long 
 epistle. — Most of the country, between Crawford's and this place, 
 is rough and in a state of nature, but is capable of being converted 
 into the best land for pasturage. The road is passable, but not 
 good. 
 
 What do I see ? A company of Indians ? It is so ; and who 
 knows, but they are descendants of the once independent, but now 
 humbled and pealed people, who were the original owners of this 
 rich and lovely valley. A party of forty or fifty of the Aborigines — 
 composed of men, squaws and pappooses — actually are encamped but 
 a few rods from the inn, where we are resting our jolted frames j 
 some smoking, some throwing stones, some standing idle, some ly- 
 ing on the ground, some mothers toting about their infant offspring 
 in baskets slung over their backs, and some offering brooms, and 
 other articles of their own manufacture, for sale. I have not learned 
 for what purpose they are here, nor have I time to go and interro- 
 gate them on the subject, as the tyrannic driver, under whose iron 
 government we have placed ourselves, will allow us to remain in this 
 village only fifteen minutes. 
 
 It is now 7 o'clock, P. M. We must travel nearly the whole 
 night, crossing the Connecticut river on a bridge, to Concord, and 
 thence, feeling our way, in moonless darkness, through forests and 
 
30 
 
 over hills and dales, to Montpelier, the capital of Vermont. There 
 we shall breakfast, and then pass onward, down the Onion river, ho- 
 ping to reach Burlington at 4 o'clock, P. M., and take our births in 
 the lake Champlain steam-boat, which will convey us, while locked 
 in the arms of the old god of sleep, to White Hall, N. Y., in time 
 for an early breakfast. There we shall resort to the stage, or canal- 
 boat, which will bring us to Saratoga at the moment the tout le mond, 
 assembled there, will be dining. Thence the rail-road car will whirl 
 us forward to Albany, in season to take our places in a North-river 
 steam-boat, which will arrive at the city of Gotham, soon after the 
 dawning of the following day. We shall then step, immediately, 
 into a Philadelphia boat, and reach that city at an early hour in the 
 afternoon. We shall there take an evening boat, and expect to ar- 
 rive at B. in the gloom of midnight — perhaps, before this letter will 
 come into your hands — being — according to my hasty computation^T- 
 but 80 hours in travelling from the White Mountain Post Office to 
 the Monumental city — a distance of more than 600 miles ! Had my 
 good old grandmother, who, by the by, lived hi the neighborhood of 
 Salem, only dreamed, that her child of the third generation, would 
 have been borne over such a space, in so brief a period, she would, I 
 am persuaded, have been hung, or drowned for a witch. 
 
 I have now, my dear F., in some manner, fulfilled my promise, 
 to give you the incidents of our tour. — The hurried sketch has, I 
 trust, contributed to enliven the solitary hours of our absence. But 
 the stage is waiting. 
 
 Adieu, 
 
 B. K. Z. 
 
 H 106 89 
 
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 ^^OCT 89 
 
 fgOP N. MANCHESTER, 
 ^^2 / INDIANA 46962