DEAR FRANK,

LETTER XIII.

NATURE or education, or that mysterious influence, whatever it may be, which inclines the human mind to certain pursuits, and fits it to derive enjoyment from the contemplation of particular objects, has made me a great admirer of mountain scenery. Whether it be the silence and solitude that reign in these lofty regions, which naturally calls the imagination into action, or the magnitude of the objects everywhere presenting themselves to the eye; or the vivifying elasticity of the air we breathe, that, separate or combined, produce in me the sensation of elevated pleasure, I neither know, nor do I much Let philosophers analyze their feelings, while I content myself with feeling, without philosophizing. You, I know, have never been among the mountains; for I remember your father, the worthy alderman, had an idea there was nothing worth seeing out of the great cities. He sent you from one to the other, with store of money and recommendations, to see mankind, without being aware that the politer sort of people in cities, are, like mould candles, all of a size and shape, and taking the same number to the pound. He thought the whole world could be seen at the coffee-house.

care.

For this reason, and because I delight to recall and arrange the impressions I derived from the scene, I will sketch a mountain landscape for you, without caring so much to administer to your gratification as to my own. I am now in the very midst of that great congregation of hills, comprising all the spurs, branches, knobs, and peaks, of the great chain which has been called, with a happy aptitude, the backbone of America. From the window where I am now writing, I can see them running into each other, as when we lock our fingers together, exhibiting an infinitude of various outlines; some waving, others rising in peaks, and others straight for many miles. Everywhere they are covered from top to bottom with every various shade of green foliage; except that here and there a bare rocky promontory is seen, crowned at its summit with pines. As the clouds pass over, an infinite succession of light and shadow is produced, that occasions a perpetual variety in the combinations of scenery. The sides of many of the ridges are, at intervals, ribbed with forests of pine, the deep foliage of which fringes the rocky projections from the foot to the summit, broad at the bottom, and ending in a point. Between these projecting ribs, in the deep glens, is seen a motley host of forest trees, all green, but all different in proportion as they are exposed to the sun, or enveloped in the shade. In some places appear extensive patches of deep red or brown, where the trees have been set on fire, either by accident, or with a view to turn the side of the hill into pasture. It may, perhaps, be

owing to this practice, that one of the favourite Virginia reels is, "Fire in the mountains, run boys, run."

In traversing this mountain region, one of the first things that struck me was the solemn, severe silence which prevailed everywhere, and only broken, at distant intervals, by the note of the cock-of-the-wood; the chirping of a ground-squirrel; the crash of a falling tree; or the long echoes of the fowler's gun, which render the silence, thus broken in upon for a moment, still more striking. But if it should happen that a gust of wind comes on, the scene of repose is instantly changed into one of sublime and appalling noise and motion. The forest roars, the trees totter, and the limbs crack, in a way that is calculated to alarm the stoutest city tourist. You can hear it coming at a distance, roaring like far-off thunder, and warning the traveller to get into some clear spot, out of the reach of the falling trees. I did not see a tree actually fall; but in many places we were obliged to turn out of the road to avoid the trunks of immense oaks and pines, that had been blown down just before. Our good mothers think only of the perils of the sea; and give up a son for lost who becomes a sailor. But the perils of the land are far greater than those of the water; for there, whether in crowded cities or lonely mountains, it is the fate of man ever to be exposed to dangers, which often he cannot see, and often cannot avoid.

Yet, though the ingredients of mountain scenes are pretty much the same, wherever we go, there is a continued variety occurring in the combination of

the same materials of earth, water, wood, and rocks, that never tires. The prospect is always expanding or contracting: as you lose sight of an object on one side, another gradually opens in a different direction; and this continual change is the parent of endless diversity. From the tops of the mountains, whence you can see as far as the eye can extend, you descend into little narrow glens, hemmed in, on either side, by lofty bluffs, above which you catch the clouds passing, like shadows, no sooner seen than lost. Through these glens invariably winds a brook, or river, stealing or rushing from side to side,-striking first the foot of one mountain, and rebounding back to the other in regular meanders. The sides of these are sometimes skirted with narrow strips of meadow; and when this is the case, you may be pretty certain somebody lives near. The traces of

impetuous torrents, now dry, or only displaying here and there a pool of clear water among the rocks, occur frequently, and sometimes form the road over which you travel. Little is seen of the traces of man, except the tracks of the road, or occasionally a column of smoke rising at a distance, which gives token of his being near, but which not seldom turns out to proceed from the unextinguished fire of a west country wagoner, who has, perhaps, encamped there the night before, or stopped to cook his supper.

Of living objects, we sometimes saw a covey of partridges, a cock-of-the-wood, or a ground-squirrel. Their tameness convinced us they were little acquainted with man, whose acquaintance, instead of

ripening into familiarity, produces nothing but fear. Occasionally we saw a litter of swine, half wild, which always snorted violently, and scampered into the woods as we approached; which convinced me they had some knowledge of our race, else they would not have been so frightened. In some few instances we came suddenly upon a brace of woodcutters, with a couple of hounds, which were employed in scouring the forest, while their masters were felling trees. In the solemn repose of the woods we could hear the echoings of every stroke of their axes at a great distance. They sometimes condescended to stop a moment to look at us; but often continued their work without deigning us that attention; for there is a pride in these woodmen that prevents them from doing strangers the honour to gape at them, as our fashionable well-bred people do. It sometimes happened that we found it expedient to inquire of them our way, when they always answered very civilly, and with much intelligence. In many places the only traces of human agency are the incisions of the sugar-maple, and the little troughs at the foot of the tree turned upside down, to wait the flowing of the sap in the spring. Where these trees are plenty in the mountains, a family will sometimes build a hut, and remain till the season of sap is over, to make sugar, which they do by simply boiling the sap in a common kettle. When the sap flows no longer, they return home. It is in this mountainous region that the Great and Little Bull, Cow, and Calf Pasture rivers, and indeed almost all