We left Portsmouth on a fine morning in August, to visit the White Hills. The land in the neighborhood of the commercial capital of the Granite State lies in fine ridges, interspersed with large intervales of alluvial soil, comprising some of the most fertile sections of NewEngland. Some fine country seats are to be seen just out of the town, with handsome parks, and well-kept lawns. The farms are highly cultivated, and the large fruit orchards of choice and thrifty trees indicate the industry and taste of the owners. The lands all around us, as we drove along, were lying fallow, clad in soft gray, or green, or russet clothing; dotted with slender poplars, lessening in the distance, up to the low, far range of azure hills; patches of wood were scattered all over the landscape, and cattle and sheep, in every picturesque attitude, demanding in vain the pencil of some old Dutch master. And then the glorious vivifying breezes, awakening all the unconsciousness and the confidence of existence; the very vitality of life its blessing, its hope, and its joy! I do not believe the richest portion of England can boast of more profuse and crowded vegetation, where Nature seems to have poured out at once all the treasures of her lap. The waving of the heavy wheat, ripe to the harvest; the dark green fields of Indian corn; the plains of vines, loaded with the weight of their treasures, and showing their golden sides above the vegetation they rioted in, almost realized to the eye of Fancy the fabled dreams of the Gardens of the Hespe rides. In Stratham, especially, we remarked several farms of great beauty, over which were scattered clumps of the elm and maple, and on the borders of the little streams, the rich green willow. It was here that Judge Wingate, for a long time the oldest graduate of Harvard college, and one of the prominent members of Congress under the administration of WASHINGTON, lived and died. The influence he exerted over the inhabitants of the town, in keeping alive a spirit of improvement, and encouraging a good taste in husbandry, is still to be observed in the farms of his neighbors, and in the intelligence and enterprise of the people. He was a genuine country gentleman of the old school; courteous to strangers, a dear lover of hospitality, and never so much delighted as when he saw happy human faces gathered around his social board. His mansion, although not so large as those of some of the neighboring gentry, could always furnish beds for friends and casual visitors. I have never encountered more genuine comfort and hilarity, than at his fireside. Go when you would, you were always sure to meet a cordial greeting, and a room full of company, and the gay old man the youngest of the party. The good Judge especially loved to make his home a scene of enjoyment to young folks; and his heart in the winter of life, like the hardy evergreen, showed all the freshness of spring to the children around him. It was afternoon before we reached the old town of Dover. The entrance from the south, down a long street shaded by graceful trees, with its white-painted houses on each side, makes a pleasant impression on the traveller; more pleasant, perhaps, from the succession of delicious pictures which are presented in the ride from Portsmouth; garden and lawn, cottage, hamlet, and village; all composed of the same objects, it is true, but in a variety of combination that precludes all weariness or satiety. There is a beauty in all the farm-houses you pass, which is exceedingly attractive, from the neatness within and without, and the more to be remarked, as many of them are rude, lowly, and time-stricken structures. The white-washed fences and walls look cleanly and carefully kept; the honey-suckle and jessamine, clustering roses and graceful laburnums, with their thick blossoms overhanging and festooning the doors and windows with sweet drapery, add a charm, so rare with us, but strongly reminding one of the cottage homes of England. With an attention all alive to the beautiful, you drive into Dover, whose tall spires, pointing like needles to the sky, afford a promise which is not disappointed. The fine hotels; the chaste architecture of many of the buildings; the noble manufactories; and especially the neat and imposing churches, all conspire to make Dover one of the most beautiful towns in New-Hampshire. And then its glorious prospects! - most glorious of all from Mount Pleasant! That is indeed a spot of rare and unsurpassed beauty. There lies before you the village, sleeping in its sweet valley, surrounded by hills the most romantic, of every form and position, up the sides of which grow the ivy and laurel, with thick hemlocks waving their banners of dark and luxuriant foliage from the very top. Below you winds the home loving Cochecho, as if loath to leave the bright valley of its meandering, and through the trees you catch glimpses of the blue sky, vieing in its far-off beauty and clear depths with the far-famed sky of Italy. We lingered on the hill until day faded, rejoicing in one of the finest sunsets I ever beheld, and then returned to our inn. After supper, tempted by the soft airs of the evening, we strolled about the town. All seemed as busy and bustling as it had been during the day. The shops were brilliantly lighted, and thronged with crowds of girls just released from the spinning-jennies and looms of the factories. Knots of politicians were assembled in different points and corners of the streets, discussing the news of just terminated elections. Jaunty beaux sauntered idly along, in their straw hats and white jackets, and auctioneers clamored at their sales, and emitted a world of noisy commendation of their respective wares. It was the noon-time of a manufacturing town. Nobody dreamed of home, or thought of sleep, so long as buyers could be tempted, or bargains made. One poor Italian music-stroller, with his organ-box before him, labored hardest and longest, with the poorest success. Before shop and tavern, office and dwelling-house, did he grind at the mill of music, and for the pittance of a few pence, march off contented and cheerful, followed by a crowd of noisy boys. The following morning, after an early breakfast, we resumed our journey. Passing through Great Falls, a flourishing manufacturing village, we drove for several miles through flat sand-barrens, covered with the Norway pine. A few half-starved sheep and cows were grazing on the scanty herbage. Here and there a slab house was to be seen, with its turf chimney and solitary window, the broken panes patched with old hats and petticoats; and near by, a half acre of ground enclosed for potatoes. Beyond Rochester, however, the barrens disappear, and the road assumes the mountainous and rugged features of New-Hampshire. There is no country where the advantages of persevering industry are more conspicuous than here. In passing over the mountainous parts, the traveller is struck with admiration, as he observes rocks, naturally barren, abounding with rich pastures, and marks the traces of the plough along the sides of steep precipices. The inhabitants seem to have surmounted every obstruction which soil, situation, and climate have thrown in their way, and to have spread fertility over various spots of their State, consigned by nature to everlasting barrenness. The population of New-Hampshire falls somewhat short of three hundred thousand inhabitants; and a more persevering, thrifty, intelligent, and moral community; a more brave, hardy, industrious people, remarkable for their fidelity, and their zealous attachment to the liberties of their country, is not to be found in the world. There is a pristine simplicity of manners, an open and unaffected frankness, and an invincible spirit of freedom, which I have never found in any other State in the Union. It is remarkable that the countries the least fertile are the most beloved by their inhabitants. An Italian or a Spaniard may be contented in exile, but a Swiss peasant, or a New-Hampshire farmer, never; and although the young men often leave the State after they arrive at their majority, yet when they have acquired a competence, neither the luxuries of the cities, nor the rich prairies of the West, can content them, while away from their sublime but unproductive mountains. Some thirty miles north of Dover, between Wakefield and Wolfborough, the road passes by the old farm of Governor Wentworth, the last of the colonial governors of New-Hampshire. It was here, in the midst of what was then an almost unbroken forest, on the banks of a lovely lake, whose sides ascend gradually to the base of the high mountains around, that a gay and polished courtier of England established his residence. Clearing enough around the lake to open its beauties, he erected a magnificent dwelling, in one of the loveliest spots in New-England. Roads were made, fences were built, trees were transplanted, flowers and foreign shrubs were introduced; and the solitary place became indeed a garden. It was here that of old the haunch smoked and the flagon foamed. It was here, in the inclement season, that the wayfarer took his place at the festive board, a welcome though uninvited guest. Here, while the storm howled without, the faggot blazed on the capacious hearth, and reflected back the light of smiling faces, while the jest and the song went round, and the old hall rang to the roof-tree. The old man was a rigid observer of the customs of the Church; and the inhabitants of the town will still tell you the traditionary tales of Christmas holidays at the hall. For the twelve merry days, the roast beef and the turkey smoked on the board, and no cold refusal was given, even to the beggar at the door, who might ask for alms. Those were Christmas days of the olden time, wearing their livery of goodly green, and lacking not the holly garland, with its glowing berries; when the oft-told tale cheered the face, and hospitality brightened the heart, of the toiling poor. The first alarm of the revolt of the Colonists came in the midst of the governor's improvements; and the outbreaks in Massachusetts decided him to flee to a safer refuge. He left his paradise, never to return to it; and at the conclusion of the war it was confiscated and sold. Though the house is now burned to the ground, yet many of the improvements in the fields and gardens still remain; and as we wandered around the delightful lake, we fancied we could almost hear the loud sounds of mirth resounding from the high-bred ladies and gentlemen of England, who resorted here in the days of its grandeur. The aged people in the neighborhood still relate many stories of the worthy old governor. He had, it seems, married a very pretty little girl, some thirty years his junior, who, like most young wives, was fond of gayety, and liked better to pass the evening in strolling through the woods by moonlight, or in dancing at some merry-making, than in the arms of her gray-haired husband. Nevertheless, although she kept late hours, she was in every other respect an exemplary wife. The governor, who was a quiet, sober personage, and careful of his health, preferred going to bed early, and rising before the sun, to inhale the cool breeze of the morning; and as the lady seldom came home till past midnight, he was not very well pleased at being disturbed by her late hours. At length, after repeated expostulations, his patience was completely exhausted, and he frankly told her that he could endure it no longer, and that if she did not return home in future before twelve o'clock, she should not be admitted to the house. This The lady laughed at her spouse, as pretty ladies are wont to do in such cases; and on the very next occasion of a merry-making, she did not return till past two in the morning. The governor heard the carriage drive to the door, and the ponderous knocker clang for admittance; but he did not stir. The lady then bade her servant try the windows; but this the governor had foreseen; they were all secured. Determined not to be out-generalled, she alighted from the carriage, and drawing a heavy key from her pocket, sent it ringing through the window into the very chamber of her good man. answered the purpose. Presently a night-capped head peered from the window, and demanded the cause of the disturbance. Let me into the house, Sir!' sharply replied the wife. The governor was immoveable, and very ungallantly declared she should remain without all night. The fair culprit coaxed, entreated, expostulated, and threatened; but it was all in vain. At length becoming frantic at his imperturbable obstinacy, she declared that unless she were admitted at once, she would throw herself into the lake, and he might console himself with the reflection that he was the cause of her death. The governor begged she would do so, if it would afford her any pleasure; and shutting the window, he retired again to bed. The governess now instructed her servants to run swiftly to the water, as if in pursuit of her, and to throw a large stone over the bank, screaming as if in terror, at the moment of doing it, while she would remain concealed behind the door. The good governor, notwithstanding all his decision and nonchalance, was not quite at ease when he heard his wife express her determination. Listening, therefore, very attentively, he heard the rush to the water side the expostulations of the servants the plunge, and the screams; and knowing his wife to be very rash, in her moments of vexation, and really loving her most tenderly, he no longer doubted the reality. 'Good God! is it possible!' said he; and springing from his bed, he ran to the door, with nothing about him save his robe de nuit, and crying out, 'Save her, you rascals!-leap in, and save your mistress!' made for the lake. In the mean time his wife hastened in-doors, locked and made all fast, and shortly afterward appeared at the window, from which her husband had addressed her. The governor discovered the ruse, but it was too late; and he became in his turn the expostulator. It was all in vain, however; the fair lady bade him a pleasant good night, and shutting the window, retired to bed, leaving the little man to shift for himself, as best he might, until morning. Whether the governor forgave his fair lady, tradition does not say; but it is reasonable to presume that he never again interfered with the hours she might choose to keep. CHARITY. 'NAY, thank not me,' the kind one said, Each friendly deed like this, I make A stepping-stone to Heaven!' |