The Great Stone Face, and Other Tales of the White Mountains Read online

couples, all the way fromMassachusetts, on the matrimonial jaunt, Besides these strangers, therugged county of Coos, in which we were, was represented by half a dozenwood-cutters, who had slain a bear in the forest and smitten off hispaw.

  I had joined the party, and had a moment's leisure to examine thembefore the echo of Ethan's blast returned from the hill. Not one, butmany echoes had caught up the harsh and tuneless sound, untwisted itscomplicated threads, and found a thousand aerial harmonies in one sterntrumpet tone. It was a distinct yet distant and dreamlike symphonyof melodious instruments, as if an airy band had been hidden on thehillside and made faint music at the summons. No subsequent trialproduced so clear, delicate, and spiritual a concert as the first. Afield-piece was then discharged from the top of a neighboring hill,and gave birth to one long reverberation, which ran round the circleof mountains in an unbroken chain of sound and rolled away without aseparate echo. After these experiments, the cold atmosphere drove us allinto the house, with the keenest appetites for supper.

  It did one's heart good to see the great fires that were kindled inthe parlor and bar-room, especially the latter, where the fireplace wasbuilt of rough stone, and might have contained the trunk of an old treefor a backlog. A man keeps a comfortable hearth when his own forest isat his very door. In the parlor, when the evening was fairly set in, weheld our hands before our eyes to shield them from the ruddy glow,and began a pleasant variety of conversation. The mineralogist and thephysician talked about the invigorating qualities of the mountain air,and its excellent effect on Ethan Crawford's father, an old man ofseventy-five, with the unbroken frame of middle life. The two brides andthe doctor's wife held a whispered discussion, which, by their frequenttitterings and a blush or two, seemed to have reference to the trials orenjoyments of the matrimonial state. The bridegrooms sat together in acorner, rigidly silent, like Quakers whom the spirit moveth not, beingstill in the odd predicament of bashfulness towards their own youngwives. The Green Mountain squire chose me for his companion, anddescribed the difficulties he had met with half a century ago intravelling from the Connecticut River through the Notch to Conway, nowa single day's journey, though it had cost him eighteen. The Georgiansheld the album between them, and favored us with the few specimensof its contents which they considered ridiculous enough to be worthhearing. One extract met with deserved applause. It was a 'Sonnet to theSnow on Mount Washington,' and had been contributed that very afternoon,bearing a signature of great distinction in magazines and annals. Thelines were elegant and full of fancy, but too remote from familiarsentiment, and cold as their subject, resembling those curious specimensof crystallized vapor which I observed next day on the mountain top. Thepoet was understood to be the young gentleman of the gold opera glass,who heard our laudatory remarks with the composure of a veteran.

  Such was our party, and such their ways of amusement. But on a winterevening another set of guests assembled at the hearth where these summertravellers were now sitting. I once had it in contemplation to spend amonth hereabouts, in sleighing time, for the sake of studying the yeomenof New England, who then elbow each other through the Notch by hundreds,on their way to Portland. There could be no better school for such aplace than Ethan Crawford's inn. Let the student go thither in December,sit down with the teamsters at their meals, share their eveningmerriment, and repose with them at night when every bed has its threeoccupants, and parlor, barroom, and kitchen are strewn with slumberersaround the fire. Then let him rise before daylight, button hisgreatcoat, muffle up his ears, and stride with the departing caravana mile or two, to see how sturdily they make head against the blast. Atreasure of characteristic traits will repay all inconveniences, evenshould a frozen nose be of the number.

  The conversation of our party soon became more animated and sincere,and we recounted some traditions of the Indians, who believed that thefather and mother of their race were saved from a deluge by ascendingthe peak of Mount Washington. The children of that pair have beenoverwhelmed, and found no such refuge. In the mythology of the savage,these mountains were afterwards considered sacred and inaccessible,full of unearthly wonders, illuminated at lofty heights by the blazeof precious stones, and inhabited by deities, who sometimes shroudedthemselves in the snowstorm and came down on the lower world. Thereare few legends more poetical than that of the' Great Carbuncle' of theWhite Mountains. The belief was communicated to the English settlers,and is hardly yet extinct, that a gem, of such immense size as to beseen shining miles away, hangs from a rock over a clear, deep lake,high up among the hills. They who had once beheld its splendor wereinthralled with an unutterable yearning to possess it. But a spiritguarded that inestimable jewel, and bewildered the adventurer with adark mist from the enchanted lake. Thus life was worn away in the vainsearch for an unearthly treasure, till at length the deluded one went upthe mountain, still sanguine as in youth, but returned no more. On thistheme methinks I could frame a tale with a deep moral.

  The hearts of the palefaces would not thrill to these superstitionsof the red men, though we spoke of them in the centre of the hauntedregion. The habits and sentiments of that departed people were toodistinct from those of their successors to find much real sympathy. Ithas often been a matter of regret to me that I was shut out from themost peculiar field of American fiction by an inability to see anyromance, or poetry, or grandeur, or beauty in the Indian character, atleast till such traits were pointed out by others. I do abhor an Indianstory. Yet no writer can be more secure of a permanent place in ourliterature than the biographer of the Indian chiefs. His subject, asreferring to tribes which have mostly vanished from the earth, giveshim a right to be placed on a classic shelf, apart from the merits whichwill sustain him there.

  I made inquiries whether, in his researches about these parts, ourmineralogist had found the three 'Silver Hills' which an Indian sachemsold to an Englishman nearly two hundred years ago, and the treasure ofwhich the posterity of the purchaser have been looking for ever since.But the man of science had ransacked every hill along the Saco, and knewnothing of these prodigious piles of wealth. By this time, as usual withmen on the eve of great adventure, we had prolonged our session deepinto the night, considering how early we were to set out on our sixmiles' ride to the foot of Mount Washington. There was now a generalbreaking up. I scrutinized the faces of the two bridegrooms, and saw butlittle probability of their leaving the bosom of earthly bliss, in thefirst week of the honeymoon and at the frosty hour of three, to climbabove the clouds; nor when I felt how sharp the wind was as it rushedthrough a broken pane and eddied between the chinks of my unplasteredchamber, did I anticipate much alacrity on my own part, though we wereto seek for the 'Great Carbuncle.'