ON MT. KEARSARGE: 1865.* * It is not necessary to cross the sea and wander in distant lands; an observant tourist will find enough in the journey of a day to feed his mind for a week and fill a moderate volume. He will be better pleased, gain more information and benefit from the hundred miles that he may travel, than one with half-closed eyes and dull ears, though he wander from Greenland to Patagonia and girdle the earth a dozen times. We only visited a single mountain-that was the one objective point of our journey; we passed but thirty-six hours from home, and yet our waking hours recall the incidents and sleep invites the return of the glorious visions in their ever-shifting panorama. And who were we? Two students, resting for a few weeks, seeking to increase our somewhat diminished store of strength, ambitious to ascend to lofty heights and have a mighty landscape mapped beneath our feet, like the kittens in the closet peering over the edge of their native box, to exclaim, "How large the world is!" One of us was a stranger to mountains, the other an acquaintance of two years' standing, who was and is possessed, to coin a word, of a perfect oreomania. We started on Monday. On the previous Saturday, looking from a high hill in mid-afternoon, lying at length in the north-west, stretched out like a drowsy bear, black and brawny, we saw the dark form of the Kearsarge. Again at sunset, returning homeward, we saw him as a monarch clad in robes of purple, a perfect incarnation of amethystine light, and the saffron sky made for him a golden throne high canopied with deep azure. No language can describe, no painting imitate, this mountain coloring. The most beautiful and highly colored copy of the artist fades to nothingness, when at the sunset hour Nature with soft pencil touches the mountain and sky with tints of purple *This article was written by Professor Fay as a theme for an English course, during his freshman year in college.—ED. and gold. From that hour the Kearsarge became our El Dorado. On its summit the riches that we sought would surely be found, views such as the soaring eagle looks upon as his pinions are damped in the cloud. Nor were we doomed to disappointment. As I said before, we started on Monday. The plan was perfected at eight o'clock in the morning, and at eleven we were on our way, ready for any emergency. Our arrangement was to ride to Andover and from there ascend the mountain. At sunset to descend, and pass the night at a house about a mile and a half from the top. To awake before sunrise, again seek the summit, descend on the opposite side and walk back to Concord, a distance, as we thought, of about seventeen miles. But by no means did we follow out this scheme. Our outfit for so short a trip was simple: a blanket, lest it should be cold on the mountain, a small package of provisions, and last, but most important of all (for were not our eyes to be the principal guests at the feast ?), a large field-glass. Thus equipped we set forth. We reached Andover after a pleasant ride by cars of about an hour and a half, up the valley of the Merrimac, winding in and out among the hills of rocky New Hampshire. Leaving the cars, we turned our footsteps towards the rocky slopes of the Kearsarge. A lofty headed usurper in North Conway has taken to himself this now famous name; the true Kearsarge is situated in Merrimac county some twenty miles north west of the capital of New Hampshire. As we plodded on, there it loomed, only a few minutes' walk perhaps. "What time shall we be there?" inquired Micrus of Typhlus, the lover of mountains, looking longingly towards the height. "About three o'clock," was the knowing response. Blissful ignorance! On we go up long hills, sweating fearfully under the noonday sun, resting here and there, for time is ours. As we ascend, hill after hill comes into view beyond its predecessors, making those that at first seemed so high, mere dwarfs and nearly under foot. Hereupon Typhlus, wiping the perspiration from his eyeglasses, began to moralize. "Micrus," said he, "thus it is in our student life." Every branch when mastered seems as trifling to our more enlightened eyes, as these hills at our feet look puny compared with those high ones yonder, and as we ascend the hill of science, each new height that rises on our vision, takes a lower position in our minds as the next rises beyond." Micrus evidently sees the point but does not care to give the conversation a metaphysical turn. The road was steep and the day hot, so not until half-past two did we reach the house where conveyances are left and aspirants for the summit take to their feet. There is as yet no bridle path up the mountain, although it is now much visited, mostly by inhabitants of the neighboring towns. Our idea of arriving at the top at three o'clock here met its end, and we fixed the time at four; afterwards, when higher up the hill, we decided that five would be sufficiently early. Micrus, being short of limb and unused to mountain travel, found the ascent difficult. Typhlus, lazy under the influence of the August weather, was glad to make frequent pauses. The path from the halfway house lies through a hill pasture for about three-quarters of a mile, and "then comes the tug-of-war." Up steep ascent, over slippery ledges inclined at forty-five degress, with not a shrub to aid one, the path ascends another three-quarters of a mile and lands one upon the highest ledge. As we began to ascend the ledges, we met a party returning, many of the number being ladies clad in the Bloomer style, the most sensible apparel for the mountain, the most hideous and unladylike for the home or street. This party gave encouraging accounts, and seemed glad once more to meet with residents of earth. Leaving them behind, onward we went, Micrus leading the way. Now and then we halted to rest and enjoy the views. Woe to Typhlus! At one haltingplace, unheeding youth! he left behind the small package of provision that he bore, and the loss was not discovered until the next halt was made, some hundreds of yards farther up the ledges. We had taken but little food with us, as we had planned to stop at the farm-house below; but meanwhile we had decided to pass the night on the summit; moreover, we had eaten nothing since we started and it was now 4 o'clock. Alas! he must return! With as good a grace as one might imagine in an escaped convict returning to his cell to regain some valued token, he departed and shortly returned hot and panting. Meanwhile the brief limbs of Micrus enjoyed a grateful rest. The package was regained and the berries were not destined to become our “infelix victus." Upward again and another rest; again, and we stand upon the highest ridge at half-past four o'clock. Glorious is the view from the summit of any mountain, but that from the Kearsarge is of surpassing loveliness. Though by no means as high as the lowest of its northern cousins, the White Hills, the prospect far exceeds in point of beauty that seen from the most frequented of these peaks. It most resembles that from Mansfield in Vermont, though its peak is far more isolated. It is not my intention here to describe the picture minutely. Each one must see it for himself. It includes the White and Franconia ranges in the north, and reaches to Wachuset and Monadnock towards the south. Agamenticus in Maine looms in the eastern horizon, and far to the west lie Mansfield, Camel's Hump, and others of the Green Mountain range. The charm of water scenery is not wanting-that which the tourist so much misses in the White Mountain views. To the east lies Winnepesaukee, gemmed with its myriad islets, pouring forth its crystal waters by the river of the same name, into the Merrimac. Due west Sunapee Lake shines like a mirror in the landscape, reflecting the form of neighboring heights. Neat white villages are scattered on every side. Having surveyed the landscape with delighted eyes, hungry enough from our long fasting and exertion, we ate our supper, and then spent a few moments in sketching the outlines of the most remarkable peaks. The contour of Lafayette as seen from the south is quite peculiar. It rises with a heavy swell from the Franconia notch, and then the peak springs suddenly in a regular cone thousands of feet higher, while the eastern line is continued by other mountains towards the White Mountain range. Seen from the northeast this peak has the form of a hay-stack. So greatly does the profile of a mountain differ, according to the standpoint of the spectator. Then came the sunset hour. Rose-tinted clouds clustered about with a smiling good night for the father of day. Slowly he descended towards the summit of the western hills. Now the lowest edge of the shining disc rests on Ascutney. For a moment he peers over the ridge to take a farewell look, and see that the lazy shadows are keeping pace, and is gone. How still the air! No sound save the strange note of the whip-poor-will, as cutting the air in sudden swoop he makes havoc in some swarm of insects. Does that weird p-r-r-p, so suddenly uttered, as he shoots up again after his impetuous headlong descent, express his joy at his success? Many of these were taking their evening prey at the lofty attitude. It now behooved us to prepare for the night. We made a shelter of hemlock boughs laid upon a simple pent-house frame of notched poles, and rolling ourselves in our blankets, lay down beneath it. The day had been an excessively hot one, so the night air even on the mountain-top was not very cold, although we drew our covering closer towards morning. The novelty of our position long kept sleep from our eyes. Through the chinks of our fragrant roofing the stars were peeping, and winking to us. Are they versed in college trickery?—the mischievous clique of blinkers! At length we slept. Awaking at midnight, we found that the waning moon had risen and was shining upon us. The silence was death-like. We ran up to the highest ridge, some rods above us, and looked down into the gloomy ravines and gulfs. Here the bare rocks reflected the deadly pallor of the moon; there were the dark fearful abysses that the rays did not yet reach. The night scene upon the mountain is awful. "Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the gen'ral pulse Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause; Deeply moved, almost terrified, at the scene, we returned and sought our blankets. Our next nap was sound until our waking |