only upward, and there the diminutive circle of his vision is cribbed and confined by the battlements of nature’s ‘cloud-capped towers,’ which seem as if they wanted only the breathing of a zephyr, or the wafting of a straw against them, to displace them, and crush the prisoner in their fall. Just before our visit to this place, on the 26th of June, 1826, there was a tremendous avalanche, or slide, as it is there called, from the mountain which makes the southern wall of the passage. An immense mass of earth and rock, on the side of the mountain, was loosened from its resting place, and began to slide towards the bottom. In its course, it divided into three portions, each coming down, with amazing velocity, into the road, and sweeping before it shrubs, trees, and rocks, and filling up the road, beyond all possibility of its being removed. With great labor, a pathway has been made over these fallen masses, which admits the passage of a carriage. The place from which the slide, or slip, was loosened, is directly in the rear of a small, but comfortable dwelling-house, owned and occupied by a Mr. Willey, who has taken advantage of a narrow, a very narrow interval—where the bases of the two mountains seem to have parted and receded, as if afraid of coming into contact—to erect his lone habitation: and, were there not a special Providence in the fall of a sparrow, and had not the finger of that Providence traced the direction of the sliding mass, neither he, nor any soul of his family, would ever have told the tale. They heard the noise, when it first began to move, and ran to the door. In terror and amazement, they beheld the mountain in motion. But what can human power effect in such an emergency? Before they could think of retreating, or ascertain which way to escape, the danger was passed. One portion of the avalanche crossed the road about ten rods only from their habitation; the second, a few rods beyond that; and the third, and much the largest portion, took a much more oblique direction. The whole area, now covered by the slide, is nearly an acre; and the distance of its present bed from its former place on the side of the mountain, and which it moved over in a few minutes, is from three quarters of a mile to a mile. There are many trees of large size that came down with such force as to shiver them in pieces; and innumerable rocks, of many tons’ weight, any one of which was sufficient to carry with it destruction to any of the labors of man. The spot on the mountain, from which the slip was loosened, is now a naked, white rock; and its pathway downward is indicated by deep channels, or furrows grooved in the side of the mountain, and down one of which pours a stream of water, sufficient to carry a common saw-mill.
‘From this place to the Notch, there is almost a continual ascent, generally gradual, but sometimes steep and sudden. The narrow pathway proceeds along the stream, sometimes crossing it, and shifting from the side of one mountain to the other, as either furnishes a less precarious foothold for the traveller than its fellow. Occasionally it winds up the side of the steep to such a height, as to leave, on one hand or the other, a gulf of unseen depth; for the foliage of the trees and shrubs is impervious to the sight. The Notch itself is formed by a sudden projection of rock from the mountain on the right or northerly side, rising perpendicularly to a great height—probably seventy or eighty feet—and by a large mass of rock on the left side, which has tumbled from its ancient location, and taken a position within twenty feet of its opposite neighbor. The length of the Notch is not more than three or four rods. The moment it is passed, the mountains seem to have vanished. A level meadow, overgrown with long grass and wild flowers, and spotted with tufts of shrubbery, spreads itself before the astonished eye, on the left, and a swamp or thicket, on the right, conceals the ridge of mountains which extend to the north: the road separates this thicket from the meadow. Not far from the Notch, on the right hand side of the road, several springs issue from the rocks that compose the base of the mountain, unite in the thicket, and form the Saco river. This little stream runs across the road into the meadow, where it almost loses itself in its meandering among the bogs, but again collects its waters and passes under the rock that makes the southerly wall of the Notch. It is here invisible for several rods, and its presence is indicated only by its noise, as it rolls through its rugged tunnel. In wet seasons and freshets, probably a portion of the water passes over the fragments of rock, which are here wedged together, and form an arch or covering for the natural bed of the stream.
‘The sensations which affect the corporeal faculties, as one views these stupendous creations of Omnipotence, are absolutely afflicting and painful. If you look at the summits of the mountains, when a cloud passes towards them, it is impossible for the eye to distinguish, at such a height, which is in motion, the mountain, or the cloud; and this deception of vision produces a dizziness, which few spectators have nerve enough to endure for many minutes. If the eye be fixed on the crags and masses of rock, that project from the sides of the mountains, the flesh involuntarily quivers, and the limbs seem to be impelled to retreat from a scene that threatens impendent destruction. If the thoughts which crowd upon the intellectual faculties are less painful than these sensations of flesh and blood, they are too sublime and overwhelming to be described. The frequent alterations and great changes, that have manifestly taken place in these majestic masses, since they were first piled together by the hand of the Creator, are calculated to awaken “thoughts beyond the reaches of the soul.” If the “everlasting hills” thus break in pieces, and shake the shaggy covering from their sides, who will deny that
“This earthly globe, the creature of a day,
Though built by God’s right hand, shall pass away?—
The sun himself, by gathering clouds oppressed,
Shall, in his silent, dark pavilion rest;
His golden urn shall break, and, useless, lie
Among the common ruins of the sky;
The stars rush headlong, in the wild commotion,
And bathe their glittering foreheads in the ocean?”
‘Reflection needs not the authority of inspiration to warrant a belief, that this anticipation is something more than poetical. History and philosophy teach its truth, or, at least, its probability. The melancholy imaginings which it excites are relieved by the conviction that the whole of God’s creation is nothing less
“Than a capacious reservoir of means,
Formed for his use, and ready at his will;”
and that, if this globe should be resolved into chaos, it will undergo a new organization, and be re-moulded into scenes of beauty, and abodes of happiness. Such may be the order of nature, to be unfolded in a perpetual series of material production and decay—of creation and dissolution—a magnificent procession of worlds and systems, in the march of eternity.’1
A few weeks after the slide mentioned in the above description, a disaster occurred which occasioned the destruction of the interesting family to which allusion is there made.
The afternoon had been rainy, and the weather continued so till eleven o’clock in the evening, when it cleared away. About the same hour, a great noise was heard, at the distance of several miles like the rushing down of rocks and much water from the mountains. The next morning, the people, at Conway, could perceive that some disaster, of no ordinary character, had happened, by the appearance of the mountains on each side of the road. On repairing to the spot, they found the house of Mr. Willey, standing near the Notch, unhurt, but destitute of any of the family. It is supposed that they left it in their fright, and were instantly swept away, and buried under the rocks and earth which were borne down by the freshet. This family consisted of Mr. Willey, his wife, five children, and two hired men, all of whom were suddenly swept from time to eternity, by this lamentable disaster. Had they remained in the house, they would probably have been safe.
The central and western parts of Maine are mountainous. The highest mountains are the Katahdin, situated near the centre of the state, the Speckled, Bald, Bigelow, and Ebeeme mountains. The range between the rivers Hudson and Connecticut, and this last and lake Champlain, is called the Green Mountains, an appellation which it has received from its perpetual verdure, being covered on
