THE

WORCESTER MAGAZINE

AND

historical Journal.

MISCELLANEOUS,

ORIGINAL.

A RAMBLE AMONG THE WHITE MOUNTAINS.

FROM the period of the first settlement of New England down to the present time, the giant heights then called the "Crystal Hills," and since denominated the White Mountains, have attracted the attention, and tempted the visits of many a curious and inquisitive traveller. They have now become the resort of the idle wanderers who pursue pleasure even on their barren summits, or of the scientific enquirers, who explore their rocky sides with unbounded industry, who consider themselves happy, and their toils rewarded, if, perchance, they discover some quaint moss or obscure lichen, invisible to common observers and unknown to former learned strollers. The crowds of visitors of the colossal piles, plunder nothing but a few perishing flowers, withered grasses, or mineral fragments: they leave to every new climber, the severe labors of ascending, the sublime views from the summits, and all the novelty and grandeur of mountain scenery.

The White Mountains are indeed most interesting objects. Standing as they do in a rude and wild region, not remarkable for towering elevations, they are distinguished for their lofty height. Mount Washington, the tallest of the brothers, is said to exceed in altitude, the Alleghanies of the South, and the Green Mountains of the North, by nearly 2,500 feet. He even rises above the more celebrated peaks of other more romantic lands: Olympus, connected as he is with so many classic recollections, is only of equal stature. Ben Nevis, the most elevated land in the island of Great Britain, and Snowdon, the king of the Welsh Hills, are lower by more than 2,000 feet.

It was in the pleasant season of spring, that the writer, in com

pany with an intelligent friend, set forth on the excursion which has furnished the materials for the narrative in the following pages. Believing that every speck of the soil of our country is interesting to its inhabitants, he is induced to suppose, that the description of the most massive of its piles of earth and stone, will be amusing to some.

Our journey had been along the Eastern side of the range, and upon the banks of the rapid, but beautiful stream of the Androscoggin. This noble river, issuing from a series of solitary lakes, embosomed in the forest, and dignified with Indian names, almost as formidable as the red warriors themselves, pours westward seeking an outlet among the ridges of hills that encompass it about.— At length, it does escape through an opening in the mountain barrier, and rushes through the vallies at its base, with a hurried motion, as if the favorable opportunity might be lost by any delay; but after journeying to the South for a few miles, it is again obstructed by an opposing ridge, and wanders on to the East, in quest of a channel to convey its waters to the sea. It does not, however, take the direct course to the ocean, until it has traversed fifty miles between parallel hills, of so firm structure as to resist every attempt of their prisoner to break from its confinement.Then it goes on with a clear and tranquil motion, scattering fertility along its banks, till it meets with other obstructions. At Rumford a precipice is stretched across the bed of the waters: They are not precipitated in one broad sheet from its edge, but tumbling from cliff to cliff are dashed into foam. The spray, tinged with all the bright colors of the rainbow, rises from their commotion and is painted by the sun-beams. The thunder of this miniature cataract is heard from a distance, and the earth, either in reality or imagination, trembles with the heavy falling. The descent is estimated at seventy feet. After dashing over the rock, the river spreads out in a broad basin, and seems resting to recover power before it rushes over a second ledge, which opposes its passage about a fourth of a mile below. It leaps over this smaller bar, and frets along another quarter of a mile, and again plunges down a declivity, about fifteen feet in height. An island at the foot of the last rapid, covered with fair trees, rests placidly amid the uproar, as if smiling on the turmoil around it. The snowy whiteness of the stream is beautifully contrasted with the green and waving foliage. All the difficulties are not yet surmounted. The Pejypscot rocks sturdily spread themselves across the path, and