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Other documents randomly have
different content
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 its
western side with hemlock, pine, spruce, and other evergreens.
These mountains are from ten to fifteen miles wide, much
intersected with valleys, and abounding in springs and streams.
Vegetation decreases on approaching their summits; the trees
diminish in size, and frequently terminate in a shrubbery of spruce
and hemlock, two or three feet high, with branches so interwoven as
to prevent all passage through them. The sides of the mountains are
generally rugged and irregular; some of them have large apertures
and caves. Their tops are coated with a compact and firm moss,
which lies in extensive beds, and is sometimes of a consistency to
bear the weight of a man without being broken through. These
mosses absorb a great deal of moisture, and afford wet and marshy
places, which in the warm season are the constant resort of water
fowl. The loftiest summits are Killington Peak, near Rutland; Camel’s
Rump, between Montpelier and Burlington, and Mansfield Mountain,
a few miles farther north, all which are more than three thousand
five hundred feet above the level of the sea. Ascutney, a single
mountain near Windsor, is three thousand three hundred and twenty
feet in height.

The range called Green Mountains in Vermont, enters the west

part of Massachusetts from the north, and forms the Hoosac and
Tagkannuc Ridges, which run nearly parallel to each other south,
into Connecticut. The most elevated peaks of the Tagkannuc Ridge
are Saddle Mountain in the north, four thousand feet high, and
Tagkannuc Mountain in the south, three thousand feet. No summits
of the Hoosac Ridge much exceed half these elevations. Mount
Holyoke, in the neighborhood of Northampton, commands a
prospect of the highest beauty; the waters of the Connecticut wind
about its base, giving fertility and wealth of vegetation to the
surrounding country. On its top a shanty is erected, in which
refreshments are kept for the visitors who at favorable seasons
make this excursion in great numbers.

There are two distinct chains belonging to the Alleghany range in

the state of New York, the Catskill and the Wallkill. The Catskill,
which is the most northern, is the continuation of the proper
Alleghany or western chain; the eastern is called, by some
geographers, Wallkill.

A visit to the Catskill is a favorite excursion of northern travellers,

and several days may be spent very agreeably in examining the
grand and romantic scenery of the neighborhood. Pine Orchard is a
small plain, two thousand two hundred and fourteen feet above the
Hudson, scattered with forest trees, and furnished with an elegant
house of great size. Immediately below is seen a wild and
mountainous region, finely contrasting with the cultivated country
beyond, which presents every variety of hill and valley, interspersed
with town, hamlet, and cottage.
 The hills of Weehawken are on the west side of the Hudson,
nearly opposite the city of New York.

Weehawken.

The Highlands of the Hudson, or Fishkill Mountains, which first

appear about forty miles from New York, are marked for their
sublimity and grandeur, and interesting from their connection with
many great events of the revolution. This chain is sixteen miles in
width, and extends twenty miles along both sides of the Hudson.
The height of the principal has been estimated at one thousand five
hundred and sixty-five feet. The Peruvian Mountains consist of a
lofty tract in the northern part of New York, being round the sources
of the Hudson, and separating the waters of Lake Champlain from
those of the St. Lawrence. They received their name from the
supposition that they contained mineral treasures. Their loftiest
summit, called Whiteface, is about three thousand feet above the
level of Lake Champlain.
 Highlands.

The Apalachian chain in Pennsylvania spreads to its widest limits,

and covers with its various ranges more than one half of the state.
The greatest width of the chain equals two hundred miles. It
consists of parallel ridges sometimes little distant from each other,
and at other times with valleys twenty or thirty miles broad lying
between them. The range nearest the coast is called the South
Mountain, and is a continuation of the Blue Ridge of Virginia. This,
however, is hardly a distinct ridge, but only an irregular series of
rocky, broken eminences, sometimes disappearing altogether, and at
others spreading out several miles in breadth. These eminences lie
one hundred and fifty or two hundred miles from the sea, and their
height does not exceed one thousand two hundred feet above the
surrounding country. Beyond these are the Kittatinny or Blue
Mountains, which extend from Maryland to New Jersey across the
Susquehanna and Delaware. Farther westward are the ridges
bearing the names of the Sideling Hills, Ragged Mountains, Great
Warrior Mountain, East Will’s Mountain, till we come to the Alleghany
Ridge, the highest range, and from which this whole chain has in
common language received the name of the Alleghany Mountains.
The highest summits are between three and four thousand feet
above the level of the sea. West of the Alleghany are the Laurel and
Chesnut Ridges.

These mountains are in general covered with thick forests. The

Laurel Mountains are overgrown on their eastern front with the tree
from which they are named. The wide valleys between the great
ridges are filled with a multitude of hills, confusedly scattered up and
down. The tops of the ridges sometimes exhibit long ranges of table
land, two or three miles broad; some of them are steep on one side,
and extend with a long slope on the other. These mountains are
traversed by the great streams of the Susquehanna chain, and the
head-waters of the Ohio.

The Wallkill, which crosses the Hudson at West Point, forty miles
below the Catskill, is the continuation of the Blue Ridge, or Eastern
Chain, which is the most general appellation for the extensive ridge
which fronts the Atlantic. The eastern and western ranges run
parallel to each other, south-west, till on the frontiers of North
Carolina and Virginia they unite in a knot which has been called the
Alleghany Arch, because the principal chain embraces there in a
curve all its collaterals from the east. A little farther to the south, but
still in North Carolina, a second knot unites all the collateral ridges
from the west, and forms a culminating point of heads of rivers. The
second bifurcation stretches south-west and then west, and the
name of the 2Cumberland Mountains through the whole state of
Tennessee, while the proper Alleghany Chain, left almost alone,
continues its course to the south-west, and completes the boundary
of Georgia and the two Carolinas. From the Alleghany Arch, there
are three principal ridges or ramifications of the Alleghany, running
north-east and nearly parallel to each other, namely, the Alleghany
Proper, the North Mountain, and the Blue Ridge. Of the last ridge
the highest summits are the Otter Peaks. The elevated district of
South Carolina presents seven or eight mountains running in regular
directions, the most distinguished of which is the 3Table Mountain.
Mr. Jefferson, with peculiar felicity of illustration, called the range of
the Alleghanies the spine of the United States separating the eastern
from the western waters, and the whole of the territory from the
Mississippi to the Atlantic into three natural divisions, materially
differing from each other in climate, configuration, soil, and produce;
namely, the coast, the mountains, and the western territory.

In extent, in elevation, and in breadth, the Rocky Mountains far

exceed the Alleghanies of the Eastern States. Their mean breadth is
two hundred miles, and where broadest, three hundred. Their height
must be very great, since, when first seen by Captain Lewis, they
were at least one hundred and fifty miles distant. On a nearer
approach, the sublimity of the prospect is increased, by the
appearance of range rising behind range, each yielding in height to
its successor, till the most distant is mingled with the clouds. In this
lofty region the ranges are covered with snow in the middle of June.
From this last circumstance, these ranges have been sometimes
denominated the Shining Mountains—an appellation much more
appropriate than that of the Rocky or Stony Mountains, a property
possessed by all mountains, but peculiar to none. The longitudinal
extent of this great chain is immense, running as far north-west as
sixty degrees north latitude, and perhaps to the Frozen Ocean itself.
The snows and fountains of this enormous range, from the thirty-
eighth to the forty-eighth degree of northern latitude, feed, with
never-failing supplies, the Missouri and its powerful auxiliary
streams.
 Table lands at the foot of the Rocky Mountains.

In endeavoring to explore these Alpine heights, and the sources

of the Red and Arkansaw rivers, Captain Pike and his party were
bewildered amidst snows, and torrents, and precipices. The cold was
so intense, that several of the party had their limbs frostbitten, and
were obliged to be abandoned to their fate, by Pike and his surviving
companions. In a lateral ridge, separating the valley of the Arkansaw
from that of the Platte river, in north latitude forty-one degrees, is a
remarkable peak, called the Great White Mountain; so remarkable,
indeed, as to be known to all the savage tribes for hundreds of miles
round, and spoken of in terms of admiration by the Spaniards of
New Mexico, and which formed the boundary of their knowledge to
the north-west. The altitude of this peak was taken on the base of a
mile by Pike, and found to be ten thousand five hundred and eighty-
one feet above the level of the meadow at its foot; and the height of
this latter was estimated at eight thousand feet above the level of
the sea; in all, eighteen thousand five hundred and eighty-one feet
of absolute elevation; being six thousand feet higher than the peak
of Teneriffe, by Humboldt’s measurement; or two thousand eight
hundred and ninety-one feet short of that of Chimborazo, admitting
the elevation of this last to be twenty-one thousand four hundred
and seventy-two feet. Captain Pike and his companions never lost
sight of this tremendous peak, unless in a valley, for the space of ten
weeks, wandering amongst the mountains. What is the elevation at
the sources of the Missouri can only be matter of mere conjecture.
The level of the river, where they left their canoes, could not be less
than six thousand feet above the sea; but how high the mountains
rose above this point the narrative does not inform us, and hardly
gives us any data to decide. The central chain, as usual, is marked in
the map as highest, and covered with snow during the whole year.
The latitude is between forty-five and forty-seven degrees; and
between these parallels, in Europe, the lower limit of perpetual
congelation is fixed at from nine to ten thousand feet above the level
of the sea; and it can hardly be supposed that the summits of this
snowy range were less than eight thousand five hundred or nine
thousand feet high, making a reasonable allowance for the greater
coldness of the American continent. Captain Clarke allows this
central range to be sixty miles across, and that the shortest road
across the different ranges is at least one hundred and forty miles,
besides two hundred miles more, before we can reach a navigable
river. In their first passage across these tremendous mountains, the
American party suffered every thing which hunger, cold, and fatigue,
could impose, during three weeks. They were compelled to melt the
snow for their portable soup; many of their horses (which they used
for conveying their baggage, or for riding,) were foundered by falls
from precipices; the men became feeble through excessive toil, and
sickly from want of food, as there are no wild animals in these
inhospitable regions; and, but for an occasional meal of horse flesh,
the whole party must have perished. In returning home from the
mouth of the Columbia, their state was little better. Having again
come in sight of the mountains, in the middle of May, they
attempted to pass them but in vain, on account of the snow, which
lay from six to ten feet deep, and were obliged to return, and rest in
the plains to the twenty-fourth of June. These mountains are,
therefore, a far more formidable barrier to the Pacific, than the
Alleghanies to the back country, and can be passed with great
difficulty only for three months in the year, namely, from the latter
end of June to the latter end of September.
 We are indebted to the Missouri Advocate for the following
account of General Ashley’s discoveries in this quarter. He considers
it quite possible to form a route across this formidable barrier to the
Pacific Ocean. The route proposed, after leaving St. Louis, and
passing generally on the north side of the Missouri river, strikes the
river Platte, a short distance above its junction with the Missouri;
then pursues the waters of the Platte to their sources, and, in
continuation, crosses the head-waters of what General Ashley
believes to be the Rio Colorado of the west, and strikes, for the first
time, a ridge or single connecting chain of mountains, running from
north to south. This however presents no difficulty, as a wide gap is
found apparently prepared for the purpose of a passage. After
passing this gap, the route proposed falls directly on a river, called
by George Ashley the Buenaventura, and runs from that river to the
Pacific Ocean. The face of the country, in general, is a continuation
of high, rugged, and barren mountains; the summits of which are
either timbered with pine, quaking-asp, or cedar; or, in fact, almost
entirely destitute of vegetation. Other parts are hilly and undulating;
and the valleys and table-lands (except on the borders of water-
courses, which are more or less timbered with cotton-wood and
willows,) are destitute of wood; but this indispensable article is
substituted by an herb, called by the hunters wild sage, which grows
from one to five feet high, and is found in great abundance in most
parts of the country. The sterility of the country generally is almost
incredible. That part of it, however, bounded by the three ranges of
mountains, and watered by the sources of the supposed
Buenaventura, is less sterile; yet the proportion of arable land, even
within those limits, is comparatively small; and no district of the
country visited by General Ashley, or of which he obtained
satisfactory information, offers inducements to civilized people,
sufficient to justify an expectation of permanent settlement. The
river visited by General Ashley, and which he believes to be the Rio
Colorado of the west, is, at about fifty miles from its most northern
source, eighty yards wide. At this point, General Ashley embarked
and descended the river, which gradually increased in width to one
hundred and eighty yards. In passing through the mountains, the
channel is contracted to fifty or sixty yards, and so much obstructed
by rocks as to make its descent extremely dangerous, and its ascent
impracticable. After descending this river about four hundred miles,
General Ashley shaped his course northwardly, and fell upon what he
supposed to be the sources of the Buenaventura; he represents
those branches as bold streams, from twenty to fifty yards wide,
forming a junction a few miles below where he crossed them, and
then emptying into a lake (called Grand Lake,) represented by the
Indians as being forty or fifty miles wide, and sixty or seventy miles
long. This information is strengthened by that of the white hunters,
who have explored parts of the lake. The Indians represent, that at
the extreme west end of this lake, a large river flows out, and runs
in a westward direction. General Ashley, when on those waters, at
first thought it probable they were the sources of the Multnomah:
but the account given by the Indians, supported by the opinion of
some men belonging to the Hudson Bay Company, confirms him in
the belief, that they are the head-waters of the river represented as
the Buenaventura. To the north and north-west from the Grand
Lake, the country is represented as abounding in salt. The Indians
west of the mountains are remarkably well disposed towards the
citizens of the United States; the Eutaws and Flatheads are
particularly so, and express a great wish that the Americans should
visit them frequently.

A large number of lateral ranges project to the south-east, east,

and north-east of the main range. Where the Missouri enters the
plains, is the most eastern projection; and from where the Jaune
leaves the snowy range, there is a lateral range, running more than
two hundred miles south-east, which is intersected by the Bighorn
river. As these mountains have not yet been explored by the eye of
geological science, it is impossible to say any thing respecting their
component parts; but, from every thing that we can learn from Pike
and Clarke, they seem to be chiefly granitic. No volcanoes have yet
been discovered amongst them; but strange unusual noises were
heard from the mountains, by the American party, when stationed
above the falls of the Missouri. These sounds seemed to come from
the north-west. ‘Since our arrival at the falls,’ says the narrative, ‘we
have repeatedly heard a strange noise coming from the mountains,
a little to the north of west. It is heard at different periods of the day
and night: sometimes when the air is perfectly still and unclouded,
and consists of one stroke only, or of five or six discharges in quick
succession. It is loud, and resembles precisely the sound of a six
pounder at the distance of three miles. The Indians had before
mentioned this noise like thunder, but we had paid no attention to it.
The watermen also of the party say, that the Pawnees and Ricaras
give the same account of a similar noise made in the Black
Mountains, to the westward of them.’ Again, near the same place, it
is afterwards said: ‘They heard, about sunset, two discharges of the
tremendous mountain artillery.’ Not a word more occurs upon the
subject; but we know that similar explosions take place among the
mountains near the head of the Washita, and among the mountains
of Namhi, near the sources of the Red river.

In our present state of ignorance respecting these mountains, it

is impossible to give a solution of this phenomenon, though it may
proceed from some distant volcano, which, like Stromboli, may be in
a state of constant activity, but more irregularly. It is well known that
the sounds of volcanoes are heard at very great distances, as at
Guatimala, where the sound of the volcano of Cotopaxi was distinctly
heard, though more than two hundred and twenty miles distant.
Some indications of volcanoes had been seen by the American party,
when ascending the river, about sixty miles below the mouth of the
Little Missouri, where they passed several very high bluffs on the
south side, one of which had been lately a burning volcano, as the
pumice stones lay very thick around it, and emitted a strong
sulphureous smell. Similar appearances are mentioned by
Mackenzie, as taking place among the Rocky Mountains on their
eastern side, in north latitude fifty-six and one hundred and twenty
degrees west longitude. ‘Mr. Mackay,’ says he, ‘informed me, that in
passing over the mountains, he observed several chasms in the
earth that emitted heat and smoke, which diffused a strong
sulphureous stench.’ From all these circumstances combined, it is
natural to infer that the sound proceeds from some very distant and
unknown volcano.

On the west side of the Mississippi, and about midway between

the Rocky Mountains and the Alleghanies, lies a broad range of
mountains, called the Ozarks, six or seven hundred miles in length,
about one hundred broad, and having an elevation varying from one
to two thousand feet above the sea. This range of low mountains,
which is penetrated by two branches of the Mississippi, the Arkansas
and Red river, was nearly altogether unknown till within these few
years. It is parallel with the range of the Alleghanies, making an
angle of about forty degrees with the great range of the Andes. As
far as the Ozarks have yet been explored, the granites and older
primitive rocks are found at the lowest part, being surmounted by
those of more recent formation. The reverse of this is observed in
the Rocky Mountains. A similar range of broken and hilly country
commences on the Ouisconsin river and extends north to Lake
Superior. It is called the Wisconsin or Ouisconsin Hills.

GENERAL REMARKS ON MOUNTAINS.

Mountains are supposed by naturalists to have different origins, and to

date their commencement from various periods. Those which form a chain,
and are covered with snow, are accounted primitive, or antediluvian. They
greatly exceed all other mountains in height; in general their elevation is
very sudden, and their ascent steep and difficult. They are composed of
vast masses of quartz, destitute of shells, and of all organized marine
matter; and appear to descend almost perpendicularly into the body of the
earth. Of this kind are the Pyrenees, the Alps, the Himmaleh ranges, the
Atlas, and the Andes. Another class are of volcanic origin. These are either
detached or surrounded with groups of lower hills, the soil of which is
heaped up in disorder, and consists of gravel and other loose substances.
Among these are Mount Ætna and Vesuvius. A third class of mountains,
whether grouped or isolated, are such as are composed of stratified earth
or stone, consisting of different substances of various colors. The interior
consists of numerous strata, almost horizontally disposed, containing shells,
marine productions, and fish bones in great quantities. The strata of
mountains which are lower and of more recent date, sometimes appear to
rise from the side of primitive mountains which they surround, and of which
they form the first step in the ascent.

The mountains in Asia are the most elevated and imposing in the world.
Of these the Himmaleh chain is the highest; one of its peaks, Dhawalaghiri,
reaching the altitude of twenty-eight thousand and ninety-six feet, and
several exceeding twenty-four thousand. Africa has some extensive chains
of mountains, but the altitudes of only a few have been ascertained. Mont
Blanc is the highest summit of Europe, reaching an elevation of fifteen
thousand seven hundred and thirty-five feet. The Andes of South America
present the most striking and stupendous features; cataracts, volcanoes,
and immense chasms of an almost perpendicular descent. Chimborazo, the
highest point of the Andes, reaches twenty-one thousand four hundred and
sixty-four feet; in many places the peaks rise to upwards of twenty
thousand feet, though in others they sink to less than one thousand.

In general, all the chains of mountains in the same continent, seem to

have a mutual connection more or less apparent; they form a sort of frame-
work to the land, and appear in the origin of things to have determined the
shape which it was to assume; but this analogy, were we to generalize too
much, would lead us into error. There are many chains, which have very
little, or, rather, no affinity to each other. Such are the mountains of
Scandinavia and of Scotland, mountains as independent as the character of
the nations who inhabit them.

TABLE OF THE PRINCIPAL ELEVATIONS IN

THE UNITED STATES.
1. Long’s Peak, the highest of the Rocky Mountains, Missouri
Territory 12,000
2. James’s Peak, of the Rocky Mountains, Missouri Territory 11,500
3. Inferior peaks of the Rocky Mountains, varying from 10,700
to 7,200
4. Mt. Washington, the highest of the White Hills, New
Hampshire 6,234
5. Inferior peaks of the White Hills, varying from 5,328 to 4,356
6. Moosehillock Mt., Grafton County, New Hampshire 4,636
7. Mansfield or Chin Mt., Chittenden County, Vermont 4,279
 8. Camels’ Rump, Chittenden County, Vermont 4,188
9. Shrewsbury Peak, Rutland County, Vermont 4,034
10. Saddleback Mt., Berkshire County, Massachusetts 4,000
11. Table Mountain, Pendleton District, South Carolina 4,000
12. Peaks of Otter, Bedford County, Virginia 3,955
13. Killington Peak, Rutland County, Vermont 3,924
14. Round Top, the highest of the Catskill Mountains, New York 3,804
15. High Peak, one of the highest of the Catskill Mountains,
New York 3,718
16. Grand Monadnock, Cheshire County, New Hampshire 3,718
17. Manchester Mountain, Bennington County, Vermont 3,706
18. Ascutney Mountain, Windsor County, Vermont 3,320
19. Ozark Mountains, Arkansas Territory, average height 3,200
20. Wachuset Mountain, or Mount Adams, Worcester County,
Mass. 2,990
21. Whiteface Mountain, Essex County, New York 2,690
22. Kearsarge Mountain, Hillsborough County, New Hampshire 2,460
23. Alleghany Mountains, average height 2,400
24. Porcupine Mountains, Chippeway County, south of Lake
Superior 2,200
25. Cumberland Mountains, average height 2,200
26. Moose Mountain, New Hampshire 2,008
27. New Beacon, the highest of the Highlands, New York 1,658
 CHAPTER II.—VALLEYS.
THE Valley of the Mississippi is the largest in the world; and
differs from any other of very great extent, in the peculiar
distinctness of its outline. It is bounded south by the gulf of Mexico,
west by the Rocky Mountains, north by the great lakes of British
America, and east by the Apalachian Mountains. Its general surface
may be classed under three distinct aspects; the thickly timbered,
the barren, and the prairie country. This valley extends from the
twenty-ninth to the forty-ninth parallel of north latitude, and exhibits
every variation of temperature from the climate of Canada to that of
Louisiana. It is a wide extent of level country, in which the various
rivers, inclosed between two chains of mountains three thousand
miles apart, find a common centre, and discharge their waters into
the sea by a single channel. Geologically considered, this immense
valley presents every where the aspect of what is called secondary
formation. Its prevailing rocks are carbonate of lime, disposed in the
most regular lamina, masses of limestone, in which seashells or
organic remains are imbedded, retaining their distinct and original
form. At every step, is presented the aspect of a country once
covered by lakes or seas. The soil, stones, and exuviæ of lake or
river formation, are, to all appearance, of comparatively recent
origin. In the alluvial soils, to the depth of from twenty to an
hundred feet, are found pebbles, smoothed by the evident attrition
of waters, having the appearances of those masses of smoothed
pebbles that are thrown on the seashore by the dashing of the
surge. Leaves, branches, and logs are also found at great distances
from the points where wood is seen at present, and at great depths
below the surface. In the most solid blocks of limestone, split for
building, deers’ horns and other animal exuviæ are found
incorporated in the solid stone.

‘From its character of recent formation,’ says Mr. Flint, ‘from the
prevalence of limestone every where, from the decomposition which
it has undergone, and is constantly undergoing, from the prevalence
of decomposed limestone in the soil, probably, results another
general attribute of this valley—its character generally for uncommon
fertility. We would not be understood to assert, that the country is
every where alike fertile. It has its sterile sections. There are here,
as elsewhere, infinite diversities of soil, from the richest alluvions, to
the most miserable flint knobs; from the tangled cane brakes, to the
poorest pine hills. There are, too, it is well known, towards the
Rocky Mountains, wide belts that have a surface of sterile sands, or
only covered with a sparse vegetation of weeds and coarse grass.
But of the country in general, the most cursory observer must have
remarked, that, compared with lands, apparently of the same
character in other regions, the lands here obviously show marks of
singular fertility. The most ordinary, third rate, oak lands, will bring
successive crops of wheat and maize, without any manuring, and
with but little care of cultivation. The pine lands of the southern
regions are in many places cultivated for years, without any attempts
at manuring them. The same fact is visible in the manner in which
vegetation in this country resists drought. It is a proverb on the
good lands, that if there be moisture enough to bring the corn to
germinate, and come up, they will have a crop, if no more rain falls
until the harvest. We have a thousand times observed this crop
continuing to advance towards a fresh and vigorous maturity, under
a pressure of drought, and a continuance of cloudless ardor of sun,
that would have burned up and destroyed vegetation in the Atlantic
country.
 ‘We have supposed this fertility to arise, either from an
uncommon proportion of vegetable matter in the soil; from the
saline impregnations mixed with the earth, as evidenced in the
numberless licks, and springs of salt water, and the nitrous character
of the soil, wherever, as in caves, or under buildings, it is sheltered
from moisture; or, as we have remarked, from the general diffusion
of dissolved limestone, and marly mixtures over the surface. In some
way, spread by the waters, diffused through the soil, or the result of
former decomposition, there is evidently much of the quickening and
fertilizing power of lime mixed with the soil.’

The greatest length of the Valley of the Missouri is twelve

hundred miles, its greatest breadth seven hundred. In the direction
of the western rivers, the inclined plain of the Missouri extends eight
hundred miles from the Chippewayan Mountains, and rather more
than that distance from south to north, from the southern branches
of the Kansas, to the extreme heads of the northern confluents of
the valley. Ascending from the lower verge of this widely extended
plain, wood becomes more and more scarce, until one naked surface
spreads on all sides. Even the ridges and chains of mountains
partake of these traits of desolation.

The celebrated valley called the American Bottom extends along

the eastern bank of the Mississippi to the Piasa Hills, four miles
above the mouth of the Missouri. It is several miles in width, and has
a soil of astonishing fertility. It has all the disadvantages attending
tracts of recent alluvion, the most valuable parts of it being liable to
be swept away by the current of the Mississippi. ‘But the
inexhaustible fertility of its soil,’ says Major Long, ‘makes amends for
the insalubrity of the air, and the inconvenience of a flat and marshy
situation, and this valley is undoubtedly destined to become one of
the most populous parts of America. We were formerly shown here a
field that had been cultivated, without manure, one hundred years in
succession, and which when we saw it, (in August, 1816,) was
covered with a very luxuriant growth of corn.’
 The Ohio Valley is divided by the river into two unequal sections,
leaving on the north-west side eighty thousand, and on the south-
east one hundred and sixteen thousand square miles. The river flows
in a deep ravine five hundred and forty-eight miles long in a straight
line, and nine hundred and ninety-eight by the windings of the
stream. In its natural state the Ohio valley, with the exception of the
central plain, was covered with a dense forest. Open savannahs
commence as far east as the sources of the Muskingum. Like the
plain itself, those savannahs expand to the westward, and on the
Illinois open into immense prairies. This valley may be regarded as a
great plain inclining from the Apalachian system of the north-west,
obliquely and deeply cut by the Ohio and its numerous confluents,
into chasms from an elevation of four hundred feet to nearly the
level of the streams. On the higher parts of the valley, the banks of
the river rise by bold acclivities which wear almost a mountainous
aspect. This boldness of outline imperceptibly softens in descending
the Ohio, and on approaching the Mississippi, an extent of level
woodland bounds the horizon. Ascending the rivers of the south-east
slope, the scenery becomes more and more rugged, until it
terminates in the ridges of the Apalachian chains: if the rivers of the
north-west slope are followed, on the contrary, we find the
landscape broken and varied near the Ohio, but around their sources
flat and monotonous.

The Valley of the Hudson varies extremely in its width, being in

some places contracted to the immediate neighborhood of the
stream; in others extending forty miles. On the borders of the river
the land is generally elevated. The Mohawk is bordered by two long
ranges of hills presenting little variety of aspect. In the early part of
its course it flows through extensive flats. The valleys of the
Susquehanna and its branches are remarkably irregular. These
streams traverse the whole width of the Apalachian chain of
mountains, sometimes flowing in wide valleys between parallel
ranges for fifty or sixty miles in a direct course, and at other times
breaking through the mountain ridges. The valleys between the
different ranges of the great chain extending throughout
Pennsylvania are often twenty or thirty miles in width with a hilly or
broken surface.

Valley of the Mohawk.

The only large valley in North Carolina lies between the Blue
Ridge, and a parallel range called the Iron, Bald, and Smoky
Mountains. It runs north-east and south-west, is one hundred and
eighty miles in length, and from ten to forty in width.

The valleys of the small rivers of Tennessee are singularly

beautiful and fertile, surpassing all others of the same description in
the Western States. The valleys of the Cumberland and Tennessee
differ little from the alluvions of the other great rivers of the west.

The Valley of the Connecticut is one of the most celebrated

valleys of the United States for its fertility and beauty. It is a large
tract of land extending from Long Island sound to Hereford
Mountains in Canada, five miles beyond the forty-fifth degree of
latitude. In the largest sense, it is from five to forty-five miles in
width, and its surface is composed of a succession of hills, valleys
and plains. The interval lands begin about twelve or fourteen miles
from the mouth of the river. These are formed by a long and
continued alluvion. The tributary streams of the Connecticut run
every where through a soft and rich soil, considerable quantities of
which, particularly the lighter and finer particles, are from time to
time washed into their channels, by occasional currents springing
from rains and melted snows. Wherever the stream moves with an
uniform current these particles are carried along with it; but where
the current is materially checked, they are in greater or less
quantities deposited. In this manner a shoal is formed at first, which
afterwards rises into dry land; this is almost invariably of good
quality, but those parts which are lowest are commonly the best, as
being the most frequently overflowed, and therefore most enriched
by successive deposits of slime. Of these parts, that division which is
farthest down the river is the most productive, consisting of finer
particles, and being more plentifully covered with this manure. In
the spring these grounds are almost annually overflowed. In the
months of March and April, the snows, which in the northern parts
of New England are usually deep, and the rains, which at this time of
the year, are generally copious, raise the river from fifteen to twenty
feet, and extend the breadth of its waters in some places a mile and
a half or two miles. Almost all the slime conveyed down the current
at this season, is deposited on these lands, for here, principally, the
water becomes quiescent, and permits the earthy particles to
subside; this deposit is a rich manure; the lands dressed with it are
preserved in their full strength, and being regularly enriched by the
hand of nature, cannot but be highly valuable. Nor are these
grounds less distinguished by their beauty. The form of most of
them is elegant; a river passing through them becomes, almost of
course, winding; the earth of which they are composed is of a
uniform texture, the impressions made by the stream upon the
border are also nearly uniform; hence this border is almost
universally a handsome arch, with a neat margin, frequently
ornamented with a fine fringe of shrubs and trees.

Nor is the surface of these grounds less pleasing; their terraced

forms and undulations are eminently handsome, and their universal
fertility makes a cheerful impression on every eye. A great part of
them is formed into meadows which are here more profitable, and
every where more beautiful than lands devoted to any other culture;
here they are extended from five to five hundred acres, and are
every where covered with a verdure peculiarly rich and vivid. The
vast fields also which are not in meadow, exhibit all the productions
of the climate, interspersed in parallelograms, divided only by
mathematical lines, and mingled in a charming confusion. In many
places, large and thrifty orchards, and every where forest trees
standing singly, of great height and graceful figures, diversify the
landscape. Through its whole extent this valley is almost a continual
succession of delightful scenery. The Connecticut is one of the most
beautiful rivers in the world; the purity, salubrity and sweetness of
its waters, the frequency and elegance of its meadows, its absolute
freedom from aquatic vegetables, the enchanting elegance and
grandeur of its banks, sometimes consisting of a smooth and
winding beach, here covered with rich verdure, there fringed with
bushes, now crowned with lofty trees, and now formed by the
intruding hill, the rude bluff, and the shaggy mountain; these are
objects which no description can equal.

GENERAL REMARKS ON VALLEYS.

Valleys are formed by the separation of chains of mountains or of hills.

Those which are formed between high mountains, are commonly narrow
and long, as if they had originally been only fissures dividing their
respective chains, or for the passage of extensive torrents. The angles of
their direction sometimes exhibit singular symmetry. In the Pyrenees there
are said to be valleys whose salient and re-entrant angles so perfectly
correspond, that if the force which separated them were to act in a contrary
direction, and bring their sides together again, they would unite so exactly
that even the fissure would not be perceived. There are some highly
situated valleys containing rivers and lakes which have no outlets or
streams. Most high valleys have their surface upon a level with the summits
of the secondary mountains in the neighborhood. The lower valleys widen
as they recede from the secondary mountains from which they originate,
and gradually lose themselves in the plains. Their opposite angles
correspond regularly, but are very obtuse.
 The sort of narrow passage by which we enter into these high valleys is
called a pass or defile. Between Norway and Sweden is one of these
passes, formed by several masses of rock cut by nature into the shape of
long parallelograms, and which have between them a passage shut in by
perpendicular walls. This pass is near Skiærdal; another of the same kind is
at Portfeld, or the Mountain of the Gate. These openings exactly resemble
those by which the Hudson passes through successive chains of mountains,
which seem desirous of checking its course. The Cordilleras of the Andes
present the most stupendous passes of this kind that are known; they are
from four to five thousand feet deep.

The valleys of the Hudson and Connecticut are equalled by few in the
old world for natural beauty and romantic scenery. Of the valleys of Europe,
that of the Rhine is most celebrated; and is only more interesting than the
Hudson on account of its old historical associations, its populous cities, and
the picturesque ruins and massive monuments of architecture which frown
upon its banks.
 CHAPTER III.—
PRAIRIES AND PLAINS.
ONE of the most remarkable features of the western country
consists in its extensive prairies or savannahs, which prevail in all the
vast region between the Alleghany and the Rocky Mountains, and
also to the west of the Rocky Mountains. When seen from the
summits of the Mexican and the Rocky Mountains, they seem
absolutely boundless to the view. They are not to be considered
merely as dead flat, but undulating into gentle swelling lawns, and
expanding into spacious valleys, in the centre of which is always
found a little timber, growing on the banks of the brooks and rivulets
of the finest water. Pike, who viewed them from the summit of the
Blue Mountain, under the source of the Arkansaw, says, ‘the
unbounded prairie was overhung with clouds, which seemed like the
ocean in a storm, wave piled on wave, and foaming; while the sky
over our heads was perfectly clear, and the prospect was truly
sublime.’ In these vast prairies the soil is dry, sandy, with gravel; but
the moment we approach a stream, the land becomes more humid,
with small timber. It is probable that these steppes or prairies were
never well wooded, as, from the earliest ages, the aridity of the soil,
having so few water-courses running through it, and these being
principally dry in summer, no sufficient nourishment has been
afforded to the growth of timber. In all timbered land, the annual
discharge of the leaves, with the continual decay of old trees and
branches, creates a manure and moisture, which are preserved from
the heat—the sun not being permitted to direct his rays
perpendicularly, but to shed them only obliquely through the foliage.
But in Upper Louisiana, a barren soil, dried up for eight months in
the year, presents neither moisture nor nutriment for the growth of
wood.

These vast plains of Louisiana, near the upper courses of the

Arkansaw, with its tributary streams, and the head-waters of the
Kanzas, White and Grand Osage rivers, may become in time like the
sandy deserts of Africa; ‘for,’ says Pike, ‘I saw in my route, in various
places, tracts of many leagues, where the wind had thrown up the
sand in all the fancied forms of the ocean’s rolling waves, and on
which not a single speck of vegetation appeared.’ From this
circumstance Pike deduces the following remark: ‘From these
immense prairies may arise a great advantage to the United States,
namely, the restriction of our population to some certain limits, and
thereby a continuation of the Union. Our citizens being so prone to
rambling, and extending themselves on the frontiers, will, through
necessity, be compelled to limit their extent on the west to the
borders of the Missouri and Mississippi; while they leave the prairies,
incapable of cultivation, to the wandering and uncivilized aborigines
of the country.’ These prairies, from the borders of the Mississippi,
on the east, to the base of the Mexican Alps on the west, rise with a
continually increasing acclivity for many hundred miles, till, at the
base of the mountains, they attain an elevation of eight thousand
feet, as we are informed by Pike, which is greater than the elevated
level of the great desert of Gobi, on the north-west of China,
estimated by Du Halde to be five thousand five hundred and eleven
feet above the level of the sea, or the great arid desert, to the north
of the cape of Good Hope, traversed by the Orange river, and lately
visited by the Rev. Mr. Campbell, the elevation of which is estimated
by Colonel Gordon at six thousand five hundred and sixty-one feet
above the level of the sea. In addition to the aridity of the Louisiana
prairies, they are so impregnated with nitre, and other salts, as to
taint the waters that flow in various directions. Pike says, that for
leagues together, they are covered with saline incrustations; and a
number of tributary streams descending into the Arkansaw and
Kanzas rivers are perfect salines; and beyond the river Platte, as we
are informed by Colonel Lewis, the lands are not only destitute of
timber, but even of good water, of which there is but a small quantity
in the creeks, and even that is brackish. The same saline
incrustations pervade the prairies on the Upper Missouri; and the
same want of timber, little or no dew, with very little rain, continues
till the neighborhood of the mountains.

The calcareous districts, which form the great portion of the

region west of the Alleghanies, present certain tracts entirely
divested of trees, which are called barrens, though capable of being
rendered productive. The cause of this peculiarity has not been
accurately examined. Those parts of this region which are elevated
three or four hundred feet, and lie along deeply depressed beds of
rivers, are clothed with the richest forests in the world. The Ohio
flows under the shade of the plane and the tulip tree, like a canal
dug in a nobleman’s park; while the lianas, extending from tree to
tree, form graceful arches of flowers and foliage over branches of
the river. Passing to the south, the wild orange tree mixes with the
odoriferous and the common laurel. The straight silvery column of
the papaw fig, which rises to the height of twenty feet, and is
crowned with a canopy of large indented leaves, forms one of the
most striking ornaments of this enchanting scene. Above all these,
towers the majestic magnolia, which shoots up from that calcareous
soil to the height of more than one hundred feet. Its trunk, perfectly
straight, is surmounted with a thick and expanded head, the pale
green foliage of which affects a conical figure. From the centre of
the flowery crown which terminates its branches, a flower of the
purest white rises, having the form of a rose, and to which succeeds
a crimson cone. This, in opening, exhibits rounded seed of the finest
coral red, suspended by delicate threads six inches long. Thus, by its
flowers, its fruit, and its gigantic size, the magnolia surpasses all its
rivals of the forest.
 The following excellent description of the prairie country is from
the pen of Mr. James Hall. ‘That these vast plains should be totally
destitute of trees, seems to be an anomaly in the economy of
nature. Upon the mind of an American, especially, accustomed to
see new lands clothed with timber, and to associate the idea of
damp and silent forests with that of a new country, the appearance
of sunny plains, and a diversified landscape, untenanted by man,
and unimproved by art, is singular and striking. Perhaps if our
imaginations were divested of those associations, the subject would
present less difficulty; and if we could reason abstractly, it might be
as easy to account for the existence of a prairie as of a forest.

‘It is natural to suppose that the first covering of the earth would
be composed of such plants as arrived at maturity in the shortest
time. Annual plants would ripen, and scatter their seeds many times
before trees and shrubs would acquire the power of reproducing
their own species. In the mean time, the propagation of the latter
would be likely to be retarded by a variety of accidents—the frosts
would nip their tender stems in the winter—fire would consume, or
the blasts would shatter them—and the wild grazing animals would
bite them off, or tread them under foot; while many of their seeds,
particularly such as assume the form of nuts or fruits, would be
devoured by animals. The grasses, which are propagated both by
the root and by seed, are exempt from the operation of almost all
these casualties. Providence has, with unerring wisdom, fitted every
production of nature to sustain itself against the accidents to which
it is most exposed, and has given to those plants which constitute
the food of animals, a remarkable tenacity of life; so that although
bitten off, and trodden, and even burned, they still retain the vital
principle. That trees have a similar power of self protection, if we
may so express it, is evident from their present existence in a state
of nature. We only assume that in the earliest state of being, the
grasses would have the advantage over plants less hardy, and of
slower growth; and that when both are struggling together for the
possession of the soil, the former would at first gain the ascendancy;
although the latter, in consequence of their superior size and
strength, would finally, if they should ever get possession of any
portion of the soil, entirely overshadow and destroy their humble
rivals.

‘We have no means of determining at what period the fires

began to sweep over these plains, because we know not when they
began to be inhabited. It is quite possible they might have been
occasionally fired by lightning, previous to the introduction of that
element by human agency. At all events, it is very evident that as
soon as fire began to be used in this country by its inhabitants, the
annual burning of the prairies must have commenced. One of the
peculiarities of this climate is the dryness of its summers and
autumns. A drought often commences in August, which, with the
exception of a few showers towards the close of that month,
continues throughout the season. The autumnal months are almost
invariably clear, warm, and dry. The immense mass of vegetation
with which this fertile soil loads itself during summer, is suddenly
withered, and the whole surface of the earth is covered with
combustible materials. This is especially true of the prairies where
the grass grows to the height of from six to ten feet, and being
entirely exposed to the sun and wind, dries with great rapidity.
A single spark of fire, falling any where upon these plains at such a
time, would instantly kindle a blaze, which would spread on every
side, and continue its destructive course as long as it should find
fuel. Travellers have described these fires as sweeping with a rapidity
which renders it hazardous to fly before them. Such is not the case;
or it is true only of a few rare instances. The flames often extend
across a wide prairie, and advance in a long line. No sight can be
more sublime than to behold in the night a stream of fire of several
miles in breadth, advancing across these wide plains, leaving behind
it a black cloud of smoke, and throwing before it a vivid glare which
lights up the whole landscape with the brilliancy of noonday.
A roaring and cracking sound is heard like the rushing of a
hurricane. The flame, which in general rises to the height of about
twenty feet, is seen sinking and darting upwards in spires, precisely
as the waves dash against each other, and as the spray flies up into