Campbell became a hermit,
seldom seeking or seeing his fellowmen, and two years after he
was found dead in his hut." (footnote: From The White Hills, by
Starr King.)
As we looked out over the sylvan beauty of the scenery that is
unsurpassed, we realized that long ago the curse had been
removed. The hills are intersected by charming labyrinths of
wood that lead to peaceful valleys. These dreamy forest
solitudes, with their deep foliage and singing rills which
wander here and there, lull your senses like an enchantment
after the noise and scrambling bustle of the busy manufacturing
centers from which you no doubt have so recently come.
"The Appalachian mountains in their long majestic course from
northeast to southwest rise to their greatest height in the New
England states, culminating in Mount Washington, sixty-two
hundred and ninety feet elevation, surrounded on all sides by
lesser peaks, mostly from two thousand to five thousand feet
high. "Bretton Woods," an estate of ten thousand acres, lies in
a very picturesque section of these mountains. The Amonoosuc
valley is somewhat less than four miles west from the head of
Crawford's notch. Here a railroad and the one through highway
skirt the east side of the Amonoosuc river; while on the west
side a level meadow extends about a half mile directly across to
a range of low foot-hills back of which Mount Washington rears
his immense bulk. All through this region you will find the most
ample accommodations that tourists could wish; along the
tributary routes as well as in and about the mountains, you will
find comfortable, well-kept rooms and good, wholesome food, and
the finest of American resort hotels, with all the luxuries to
be found in the city. Notably among the latter class is the
Mount Washington, a three-million-dollar hotel, and said to be
the finest tourist hotel in the world.
When we left Crawford's notch the pine needles were still
shimmering with sparkling points of light; the long bright green
of the balsam fir and the silvery blue of the graceful hemlocks
were full of glory and splendor; myriads of luminous green
scalloped beech leaves sent back a million glinting beams of
light as they caught the rays of the morning sun. The yellow and
white birch waved their spicy branches soothingly above the
songful streams, like emerald sprays of art. The vireo's cheery
strain sounded from many points in the vast wilderness of
foliage. This song coming from afar, only served to heighten the
vast and lonely grandeur of the forest solitudes. From the
wooded hills of southeastern Ohio to the Green Mountains of
Vermont we heard his cheery notes. Whether in the morning when
the pine needles glistened in the bright light; at noon when the
heat flowed in tremulous waves; or at evening when the last rosy
beam gladdened the west, his song was alike full of contentment
and rarest melody.
As we proceeded on our journey we beheld country homes
charmingly embowered among their trees and vines, yet the region
still retains that wild and primeval beauty that defies
civilization.
Boys and men were busy making hay and their industry proclaimed
that they had heeded the proverb of "make hay while the sun
shines." Now and then herds of cattle were grazing or standing
up to their knees in the cool of streams. What pictures of
homely contentment they made! How much they add to the beauty of
pastoral scenes!
More and more we were impressed with the grandeur and grace of
the restful, flowing outlines of these mountains. With the light
gray of their granite walls and the vivid green of their
forests, they make beautiful harmony.
We paused along a beautiful sheet of water, Echo lake. A bugler
whom some tourists paid for his crude attempts was doing his
best (which was none too good) to awake the echoes. How harsh
and grating were the tones he made, seeming like the bleat of a
choking calf; yet, with what marvelous sweetness were those
rasping tones transformed by the nymphs of the mountains. After
a few moments' pause they were repeated among the nearer ridges,
but softer and with a rare sweetness as pure and clear as a
thrush's vesper bell. Again a short pause and we heard them
higher, fainter, sweeter, until they died away among the hills;
too fine for our mortal ears to catch. It seemed as if some
sylvan deity, some Mendelssohn or Chopin of this vast forest
solitude heard those harsh notes and putting a golden cornet to
his lips, sent back the melodies the bugler meant to make. As
the last reverberations died away among the hills we thought of
those lines in Emerson's "May Day":
Echo waits with Art and Care
And will the faults of song repair.
How crude the attempts of man at producing the melodies of life!
How beautiful the discordant notes become when the Master
Musician breathes into them the melodies of infinite love!
"O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on field, or hill or river
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow forever and forever."
The water of the lake was so clear we could see the white
pebbles at the bottom, or the pike that swam slowly to the edge.
How pure the mountains looked! How fresh and new the grass and
flowers! The sky above was blue; the water of Profile lake was
dark blue; the mountains wore a delicate veil of misty blue;
blue were the myriads of delicate campanula that peeped from
their rocky ledges; silvery blue was the smoke that curled from
the forest's green from a dozen camp fires; and out of that
mysterious all-pervading blue lifted the benign countenance of
the Great Stone Face.
