Bulletin of the American Art-Union, November, 1850
“Mountain Views and Coast Scenery, by a Landscape Painter”
Transcription from pages 129–131

MOUNTAIN VIEWS AND COAST SCENERY, BY A LANDSCAPE PAINTER.

WHITE MOUNTAIN NOTCH, July, 1850.

Here we are, as you see, at Crawford’s. We reached Brattleboro’, the seat of the famous water-cure establishment, on Wednesday afternoon; and, staying there one night—in dry sheets, of course, as we were not under treatment—we took outside places the next morning on the stage for Putney, ten miles, through a charmingly diversified country. On reaching Putney, we determined to continue our journey, against our first intention, and not come to a halt till we should reach our present locality, unless something very attractive should present itself on the route. At night, we drew rein at Littleton, and, supping off some delicious trout, left by an early stage. We here got our first view of the Franconia mountains, a spur of the White Mountain range; and, stopping at Bethlehem (twelve miles from Fabyan’s) long enough to eat a dish of strawberries and cream, and get impatient at the long-delayed arrival of a stage from another quarter, reached Fabyan’s at twelve o’clock. Mount Washington, though nine miles off, is plainly visible, towering proudly above his compeers, and mingling with the clouds. From Fabyan’s to Crawford’s is about four miles, on a very uninteresting road, winding and tedious, without a single rock or tree worth the trouble of looking at, and hemmed in on both sides so narrowly by the forest, as to shut out all the country beyond, if there is any.

After dinner, we all started out, under a perpendicular, broiling sun, to make discoveries. We continued walking till the Notch opened before us, with Crawford’s on the left. Bartlett gives a correct view of it, with rather more picturesqueness, of course, than it really has. Here we “unlimbered,” and, taking our stations, began making sketches of the scene. But you can form no conception of the annoyance we were subjected to from swarms of mosquitoes and black flies. We were each of us surrounded by a cloud of them; so that, though we muffled up our faces with handkerchiefs, and kept a bunch of shrubs actively playing about our heads, yet we suffered indescribably from their attacks. This is a very serious obstacle to sketching in the open air: we have found it so, particularly here; and as for confining both hands, as the use of oils would do, it is out of the question, unless you wish to be devoured by these remorseless little winged blood-suckers.

On Saturday, we left Fabyan’s, and came to Crawford’s. The outlines of the mountains are here more broken and varied than we had before seen them, and, in some places, grand. Through the Notch, further on, there is ample material, and wild enough.

It has been raining now two days, and promises to hold out a day or two longer. This will swell some cascades which we saw tumbling down the mountains, almost from the very top. It has been a very interesting sight to watch the clouds, partly hidden by projecting spots, and broken by ravines and gullies, gallantly ascending some mountain outline, on which the cedars stood out in bold relief, as if they felt they had got too far earthward, and were resolutely bent on climbing up again to the sky.

This morning, we went fishing in the Notch, which is just wide enough for a road and a stream. In a dozen minutes or so, we took nearly twenty trout; but it is simply to let down your line and pull it up again, and every time up comes a trout at the end of it. Of course, a genuine sportsman, who gives his victims all the benefit of science, and treats them with an hour’s play-spell before death, would declaim against such unskilful haste.

CENTRE HARBOR, LAKE WINNIPISEOGEE, July, 1850.

We arrived here this afternoon. Last Tuesday morning, we left Tom Crawford’s for Bethlehem. A night there. The next morning, a fine breezy ride brought us, by a shady road, to the “Flume House,” a herald (not unwelcome) of approaching civilization, in the shape of better accommodations. A night at the Flume House, and another pleasant ride, varied, however, by rain, shine, and broiling heat, of twenty-four miles, through the most splendid country I ever beheld, set us down at Plymouth, whence, by stage, behind a capital team, we made the distance intervening between that place and this in about three hours. We have travelled from Brattleboro’, excepting a little over a hundred miles, on the topmost outside seats of the stage; so that all that the country adjoining the road on either hand, and extending miles away, could offer us, has been seen, discussed, and admired, or otherwise.

On the afternoon of Monday, we rode down from old Crawford’s to his son Tom’s; saw the really affecting sight of the desolation at the “Willey House,” the road winding at the base of lofty hills rising up on both sides, with grand and picturesque outlines and masses, and covered with vegetation to the summits, or broken with immense walls and precipices of rock.

From Bethlehem to Franconia, the outlines of mountains and peaks, of various elevations, and at different distances from the road, were constantly changing; and, with the varying effects of light and atmosphere, formed a succession of pictures of the most beautiful and majestic character. We saw many exceedingly fine things, which we regretted extremely to leave. At Franconia, we made two sketches of as many lakes—one called “Echo Lake,” where they row you out till you reach the centre, and then discharge a small swivel, little longer than your arm. The reverberation among the mountains is tremendous, crashing louder than ordinary thunder, and rolling far away out of hearing along the distant mountain slopes. Then we found a second lake ourselves, far prettier than the other, which we copied from a leaky boat, just making out to float a few rods from the shore. Above us rose to a great height the termination of one of the mountain ranges, the top of which, and I might say the whole, one mass of rock. On the highest part is the profile, perfectly unmistakable, of the “Old Man of the Mountain,” jutting far out of a perpendicular with the rock below, and wearing a severe expression. One looks upon the features with something of awe, and associates them somehow with the race whose haunts were once among these hills and lakes, but whose shout is no longer sent back, and whose oar no longer flashes to the eye. They seem as if they belonged to some brave old forest chief, set there to keep “watch and ward” as long as the rocks and hills remain. There he stands, unalterable and grim, ’mid cloud and sunshine—sometimes muffled up in storm, and looking solemn and almost conscious under the chastened light of the moon.

At the Flume House, which is a large, hastily-built caravansary, occupied only in summer, and surrounded by spacious piazzas, commanding grand and delightful views, you visit the “Pool” and the “Flume,” which are very fair curiosities and worth seeing, especially the latter—a great quantity of water coming down between perpendicular walls of rocks, wide enough apart for, perhaps, two New-York omnibuses, provided New-York drivers managed them; and in one place they have caught, and hold suspended in the air high above your head, an enormous rock as big as your parlor. The ride thence to Plymouth is through the richest-looking country ever I saw, judging from the luxuriance of the vegetation. In regard to Plymouth, on looking behind us, we beheld a view which, for amplitude and richness of feature, I think I never yet saw equalled, and we several more between that and Plymouth kept our tongues and eyes pretty busy.

Let me here impart to you a piece of meteorological information, which, as it subverts received opinions, I predict will gain access slowly. It seems that Franconia Notch is not the coldest place after all in these Hyperborean regions, but the Franconia iron works, where, as Tom Crawford himself told me, a cow was frozen up fast, and full of milk, a few winters ago, so that she furnished ice cream through the following summer. All these places find their harvest in midsummer, during the travelling season. In the winter, they are frozen and snowed up, and, of course, there is very little passing of any kind.

We have neither of us painted anything yet. It would be impossible to do it among the mountains, infested as they are by mosquitoes and flies; but we have made a dozen or more careful sketches in pencil, of more or less value. Our plan at present is to retrace our steps to-morrow about four miles, and make careful sketches of some most valuable views which we found that distance back; and, in the afternoon, to take the steamboat for Wolfsborough, stay there a night, and leave in the morning stage for Great Falls, where we intersect the Maine Railroad, and spend the Sabbath in Portland. A steamer is the mode of conveyance thence to Mount Desert Island. Intersected as the coast is by arms of the sea and headlands, we hope for fine weather and a pleasant sail.

It must be now after 10, P. M. G. has just drawn a deep breath, as if he was dreaming that he had just reached the top of a long hill. So good night.

MOUNT DESERT ISLAND, July, 1850.

You know we were at Centre Harbor at the date of my last letter. We left in a storm of wind and rain at five in afternoon of our second day there, on board of a little steamer, the “Lady of the Lake.” The captain, who was only a fresh-water sailor, declared with emphasis, that it was the severest storm he had ever experienced, though it seemed to us very trifling. The clouds shut out from sight the highlands bordering on the lake, and we could get no idea of the scenery, further than to imagine, from dim glimpses, that it might be very fine.

In two hours we landed at Wolfborough, and next morning took stage for the depot of some branch railroad, which we reached with no little discomfort in a pouring rain and strong wind. The cars soon brought us to Dover, where we dined, and waited for the Portland train from Boston. We reached Portland in the afternoon, entering the city on rails laid for a great distance on high posts across some branch of the sea.

Portland is a large, thriving place. From an adjacent hill, it shows very compactly. Smooth, well-shaded streets, substantial warehouses, comfortable and (in some cases) fine, respectable old mansions, make it a most beautiful city. I was perfectly enchanted with it.

On Monday evening, about ten o’clock, we set off for Belfast, in the steamer “Governor,” Capt. Rogers. The night was as magnificent as a clear sky and full moon could make it. After we got out to sea, we had something of a swell, but it did not prevent us from sleeping soundly; and so we reached Belfast in the morning.

Immediately after breakfast, we went on board a little sloop, and stood across the bay for Castine. It was a very pleasant sail, though we got becalmed half way across, and were some three or four hours going twelve miles. At Castine we saw at the water’s edge a few dilapidated palisades, the sole relics of the fort erected here by the French under Baron Castine.

After a hasty dinner, we embarked on board the schooner “Charles” for Mount Desert, distant about forty miles. We were again becalmed, and came to anchor for the night. As our vessel was only a fishing schooner, bound for the Banks, and thence for California with a load of mackerel, we went ashore, and found dismal accommodations enough—molasses for our tea “trimmings,” and fleas in abundance for roommates. The next day, about two hours before sunset, we came to in Seal Cove, on the south-eastern coast of the island.

We have not come thus far to be disappointed, I assure you. The island, in point of natural scenery, would not lose by comparison with the Isle of Wight. Of course, picturesque cottages and noble mansions, which are pretty objects certainly, but not necessary as a means of expressing Nature, are never a feature of American landscape, save by accident. There is an immense range of mountains running through the island, one some two thousand feet high, of admirably varied outline—in some places covered with forest, and broken with rocks and precipices overhanging gems of lakes, and in others showing nothing but bare rock from summit to base. From the highest peak, to which two of us made an excursion on Saturday afternoon, we could easily see Mount Desert rock, twenty-five miles off in the ocean; and the mountain on which we stood is seen sixty miles at sea.

From our elevation, we had the whole of the seaward part of the island at our feet. On an adjacent island, a fine stone light-house, with other buildings, enlivened by their white color, the dense green foliage in which they were buried; while, far out in the offing, the soft, hazy, blue floor of the ocean was studded with nearly a hundred white sails of fishing smacks. We are exceedingly delighted with the scenery, and with the people too. Capt. Rogers told us that we should find the latter “kind to a fault;” and, really, we never leave off talking with an occasional group of the islanders (all Irishmen nearly), without simultaneously remarking, “How polite and respectful and kind-hearted they are!”—“What kindly tones of voice!” &c.

But what do you think of going to church in a boat? At meeting-time, you see sail-boats and row-boats putting off from Mount Desert Island and Cranberry Islands that lie along its south-eastern coast, and making for the shore of South-West Harbor, where there is a very decent house of worship, and attended by a congregation as respectable and devout as you will see in any New England village. After morning service, which closes at twelve, an intermission of half an hour takes place; and then comes the afternoon service, which closes at two, when the little fleet of well-laden boats scatter to their several points of destination.

At Bass Harbor, which is west of the place where we are staying at present, they bring in whales not unfrequently, which they take a little way out at sea and “try” them there. We intend to see the next one that arrives.

Around in Frenchman’s Bay, there are precipitous rocks that come down abruptly to the water, some four hundred feet high. You face the East there; and, in stormy weather, the surf dashing against the rocks must be grand. We shall go there soon, and make a permanent settlement. We have already done considerable in sketching and painting, and hope to accomplish a good deal more.

It is a pity that there is no better provision for the enjoyment of “creature comforts” here than there are. What with trout fishing, (one of us, with a friend who has just arrived, took a hundred this afternoon,) and deep-sea fishing, and deer and partridges, and an occasional “bar” on the mountains, and riding and sailing, an air which cannot be surpassed for purity, sea and mountain both, and charms of scenery, composed likewise of both, it is surprising that some shrewd Bostonian has not erected some sort of hotel here. The only drawback to the enjoyment of the beauties of the island is an occasional fog, which the south-east wind blows hither from the Banks, lasting a day, or perhaps a week, possibly longer. We have just got into the edge of one, which, however, has not prevented our transferring to canvas an old hull of a boat, and some rocks, this morning.

BAR HARBOR, MT. DESERT, AUG. 30, 1850.

One of us leaves to-morrow, and I embrace the opportunity of sending a few lines by him, at least as far as the mainland. Since I last wrote, nothing very extraordinary has occurred. One day has been a “pattern” to its successor, which has made a pretty faithful imitation of it generally, varied by an occasional spell of foggy weather. Last Sunday evening, however, it blew tremendously from the southward, and Monday morning we had the pleasure of seeing some immense waves. To be sure, the amphibious islanders scarcely looked at them, saying they were nothing; but they compared so favorably with the calmer pulsations of old Ocean, as to cause us no small excitement. We were out on “rocks” and “peaks” all day. It was a stirring sight to see the immense rollers come toppling in, changing their forms and gathering in bulk, then dashing into sparkling foam against the base of old “Schooner Head,” and leaping a hundred feet into the air. There is no such picture of wild, reckless, mad abandonment to its own impulses, as the fierce, frolicsome march of a gigantic wave. We tried painting them, and drawing and taking notes of them, but cannot suppress a doubt that we shall neither be able to give actual motion nor roar to any we may place upon canvas.

We came up here from Lyman’s two days ago, for the purpose of visiting these Porcupine Islands that lie just off Bar Harbor. This is quite a settlement compared with the total isolation of Lyman’s, where the mountain shuts out the sun by four or five o’clock on the landward side, and the ocean beats against the rocks on the other. There are perhaps twenty houses in this immediate vicinity, so that there is quite a village street. But you see no inhabitants, save women and children and a few stiff, weather-beaten old men, besides the post-master. The men proper are all off fishing or coasting; but in the winter they return to the island, those whom the elements spare, and what with the schooners in the bay and the men at home on shore, the place must assume a very different aspect.

The Porcupine Islands, although a large group, are most of them uninhabited. They are rough, iron-bound, rocky islands, presenting, some of them, high frowning precipices of rock two to three hundred feet high: one called “Yellow Isle” is composed of a beautiful salmon-colored rock. They are well wooded: some have sheep turned out upon them, and produce a good many whortleberries, which is all the “grow” in these parts, especially on the mountains.

One of this group, which lies abreast of Lyman’s, further down the bay towards the sea, is a great resort of eagles, hawks, sea-pigeons, gulls, snipe, ducks, &c. &c. I am writing with a quill which I picked up on that island two or three days ago. In the migrating season, the numbers of ducks, geese, and pigeons, are prodigious. Lyman’s boy told us of his uncle having shot six dozen pigeons at one shot, and Lyman, who is one of your cool, quiet, unexcitable men, told us he “rather guessed it was true, too.” They had alighted, I don’t know how many deep, on a low meadow, and the sportsman had an old King’s arm, and raked them so that every shot would kill, and they sometimes put in a hundred of them. We propose to leave early in September, and hope to see you soon.