LITMIR.BIZ

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sickness in the house, and hunger at the door,

      My bairn gied me her hand, although her heart was sore.

      I saw her heart was sore – why did I take her hand?

      That was a sinfu' deed! to blast a bonnie land.

      "It was na very lang ere a' did come to light;

      For Jamie he came back, and Jenny's cheek grew white.

      My spouse's cheek grew white, but true she was to me;

      Jenny! I saw it a' – and oh, I'm glad to dee!

      "Is Jamie come?" he said, and Jamie by us stood —

      "Ye loo each other weel – oh, let me do some good!

      I gie you a', young man – my houses, cattle, kine,

      And the dear wife hersel, that ne'er should hae been mine."

      We kiss'd his clay-cold hands – a smile came o'er his face;

      "He's pardon'd," Jamie said, "before the throne o' grace.

      Oh, Jenny! see that smile – forgi'en I'm sure is he,

      Wha could withstand temptation when hoping to win thee?"

      The days at first were dowie; but what was sad and sair,

      While tears were in my ee, I kent mysel nae mair;

      For, oh! my heart was light as ony bird that flew,

      And, wae as a' thing was, it had a kindly hue.

      But sweeter shines the sun than e'er he shone before,

      For now I'm Jamie's wife, and what need I say more?

      We hae a wee bit bairn – the auld folks by the fire —

      And Jamie, oh! he loo's me up to my heart's desire.

      THE SUMMER TOURIST. – SCENERY OF THE FRANCONIA MOUNTAINS, N.H

BY WILLIAM M'LEOD

      The approach of summer will turn the thoughts and steps of thousands toward those sections of our wide country whose picturesque beauty makes them ample amends for comparative sterility of soil and poverty of population. New Hampshire, with due allowance for the exaggerations of patriotism, may well be styled the Switzerland of America; and, although they are inferior in magnificent sublimity to the regal Alps, few tourists through the Northern States would leave the White Mountains unvisited.

      Though it forms part of this great chain, the inhabitants of the Franconia range, jealously claim for their hills a separate name, character, and interest, having no connection with the more eminent firm of Washington, Adams, and Co. Like the latter, the Franconians boast a chief to their clan —Mount Lafayette, a "Notch," and other important features of a distinct and complete establishment, which combine to make it no mean rival to the great Patriot Group. We propose, with pen and pencil, to make a brief excursion through these picturesque localities.

      These remarkable scenes are chiefly comprised within the extraordinary defile, or "notch," formed by the Franconia Mountains for a distance of five miles. The northern and southern approaches to this singular pass, have their peculiar advantages. Coming from the south, the tourist, from a very great distance, sees the outlines of its grander features rising far above the beautiful valley he follows; but, perhaps, this long and constantly visible approach, interesting as it is, begets a familiarity that weakens the impression of their sublimity when he finally confronts their more palpable magnificence. Not so with the approach from the north, where the views being more abrupt, shifting, and at times wholly concealed, their effect is the more startling upon the traveler, brought suddenly before them. Thus, in approaching the Franconia Notch from Bethlehem, we shall find the slow ascent of the dull steep hill eastward of that village, to be an excellent preparative for the superb prospect that bursts upon our vision, on reaching its top. Across the Franconia Valley lying beneath us, we see the lofty summits, forming the "Notch," "swell from the vale," and receding in peaks of picturesque irregularity —

      "like giants stand

      To sentinel enchanted land!"

      There is no general view in the White Mountains equal to this distant prospect of the Franconia Notch, in respect to picturesque majesty of outline and massive breadth. Descending into the valley, our road suddenly turns eastward, and as we begin the opposite slow ascent to the Notch, the view before us assumes a finely-grouped concentrated character – losing that diffuseness so destructive of picturesqueness and point in the American landscape generally. This scene is attempted in the accompanying sketch, showing Mount Lafayette filling the centre of the view, the irregular peaks of the Notch on the right, while below, the eye is cheered with the snug farm-house by the road-side, and other rural accessories charmingly arranged for the artist's purpose.

      Keeping the grander points of this fine prospect before us as we continue our ascent, every step reveals more distinctly the volcano-like crest and seamed bosom of Lafayette, than which not Washington himself, though five hundred feet taller, presents a form of more august character. Lafayette is not only distinguished over his fellows by his height, but also by the rocky bareness of his peaked summit, that descends with converging rows of ravines and hemlock-topped cliffs into an immense verdant basin presented toward us. In fine weather, the dry rocks of these ravines shine like bars of silver, and after heavy rains they glisten with the torrents disappearing into the vast shadowy basin below.

      No tourist that has made this ascent to the Notch during the dog-days, can forget the grateful change of the hot, treeless road, for the shady coolness of the wooded avenue he enters at the top, and through whose green twilight his now recruited steeds drag him merrily for two miles to the Lafayette House at the entrance of the Notch. Just before reaching the hotel, we see through the fine birchen groves, skirting our avenue, Echo Lake, a small sheet of water of great depth and transparency, the mountainous sides of which clothed with an unbroken forest of dreary hemlock, deprive it of all beauty of setting, or of interest aside from its marvelously distinct echoes.

      The Franconia Notch hardly deserves more than the name of a pass– even for its narrowest point near the Lafayette House, where it is about a quarter of a mile in width. It has no such jaws– projecting tusks, and other palpable signs of violent disrupture, as make the expressive title of "Notch" so fitly applied to its great rival in the White Mountains. Still its features are distinctive, and grandly unique, and though not so sublimely rugged as those of its rival, they are infinitely more picturesque, and this peculiar difference of character extends to all the scenery lying within the two rival regions. But the wonder and pride of the Franconia Notch is the "Old Man" of the Profile Mountain, that forms its western wall, and which, ascending on the north side with a gradual wooded slope, to a height of two thousand feet, abruptly terminates in a perpendicular rocky precipice, five hundred feet high, which in a bare "granite front" extends along the eastern face of the mountain for two miles. An exquisite sheet of water, in size and purity similar to Echo Lake, lies between the mountain and our road, from which through a clearing, we have an admirable view of the mountain, rising wave-like from its lake – its rich rolling groves, overtopped by a pinnacle of rock, like the comb of a breaking billow, and in the fantastic outlines of that granite crest, juts out as perfect an outline of an old man's head, as human hand itself could execute!

      Every tourist through the White Mountains knows the propensity of the natives to increase the interest of their region, by pointing out all sorts of fancied zoological likenesses in their rocks and mountains – so that before he sees the "Old Man," he will be apt to rank him, in advance, with the facial pretensions he has already seen. But, no! this time the artist has made a hit, and the likeness is admirable. There is nothing vague, imperfect, or disproportioned about him. You are not forced to imagine a brow to the nose, or go in search of a chin to support the mouth. They are all there! – a bent, heavy brow, not stern, but earnest – a straight, sharp nose – lips thin and with the very weakness of extreme senility in their pinched-up lines – and a chin, long and massive, thrown forward with a certain air of obstinacy, that

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