age of the white men wavered not. They continued the strife until the dreaded Paugus fell, and the Indians, convinced of the fierce and determined resolution of the whites, in consternation gave up the battle. They left their foes master of the ground, and silently retreated to North Conway. Here they held a counsel, and believing it impossible to exterminate the whites, they immediately took up their march through the Notch of the White Mountains and settled themselves in Canada. They always remembered this conflict; and frequently have individuals of the remnant tribe visited the battle-ground.

Among the fallen officers, lost by the whites in this fierce struggle, was their worthy Chaplain, Frye, of Andover, for whom the town of Fryeburg was named. But a small number of this ill-fated company ever reached their homes. They made their graves in the wilderness; and the pen of the historian, and the rhyme of the ballad-maker, have kept their deeds in remembrance. The closing verse of one of these songs is:

"Old men will shake their heads and say,
Sad was the hour, and terrible,

When Lovewell brave 'gainst Paugus came,
With two score men from Dunstable."

In company with several friends we rode to the place before named, where Lovewell and his men encamped and hid their knapsacks, &c., previous to the engagement. This place was afterwards identified by one of the venerable survivors of the company. Directly over it rises the rocky promontory of "Jocky Cap," nearly two hundred feet high. After ascending this we wended our way to the battle-ground. In olden time, lofty pines, with no underbrush, grew all around this pond. But these have disappeared and a younger growth of trees has arisen, and our pathway took us through a thick undergrowth. As we came to the beach, a few broken tree trunks, with their dry mossy arms extended, revealed to us the place of

battle. There were the old pines, scarred in that deadly combat. One was pointed out to us beneath which Paugus fell. A small rivulet, emptying into the pond, was also pointed out as being the place where the surviving whites repaired to quench their thirst and wash their guns. Bullet marks are still visible on the trunks of the old trees, and also places where balls have been cut out by the curious. Around the trees repose the bones of the white men. The silence pervading the scene seemed in strange contrast with the warwhoop and rattling of musketry heard here one hundred and twenty years ago. Bushes and rank

grass encircle the resting places of the fallen, and the winds and waters murmur a perpetual requiem over their graves.

After enjoying one of the happiest visits desirable, we took our departure from Fryeburg, with many pleasing recollections of the place and people, to return to our home in Vermont. Our route lay along the margin of the Saco river even to its source in the "Notch." The weather was fine and the ride was highly enjoyed. Rich "intervales" along the river, and beautiful cottages and farm houses greeted the eye. As we proceeded the scenery increased in grandeur; and when we drove up to the door of the "Mount Crawford House," we began to realize that we were embosomed in the mountains. Here we ordered refresements, and never were we better served. Trout, right from the mountain brook; apples of the finest flavor; meats of various kinds; eggs, pies, cakes, custards. preserves, sweetmeats, &c., &c., of the choicest kinds and in rich abundance, were set before us. Our faithful beast was well attended to by the accommodating hostler, and nothing seemed to be lacking for the accommodation and comfort of travelers.

From this, (the elder Crawford's,) we proceeded on our way up the Saco. No human habitation is visible for six miles. Then we came to the Wil

ley House," where we always made a call when traveling that way. The account of the sad catastrophe at this place has been published again and again. The spot where the Willey family were found buried by the great slide is marked by a stake and stones. Letting our horse rest a moment, we, escorted by a polite guide, walked down to view the spot. Nearly all visitors to the White Mountains go to the "Willey House." A polite and affable gentleman now occupies the house for the purpose of entertaining travelers.

Three miles above the Willey House is the "Notch House," kept by Thomas J. Crawford. Our sensations in passing those three miles cannot be described. The feelings of awe and reverence, inspired by the vast mountainous piles that rear their tops on either hand so high, and almost shut out the light of heaven, are beyond the power of language to express.

As we pass the "Gap," a natural passway of thirty feet between this body of mountain stone, where only the road and river find room, the Notch House appears in full view.

"Hail! Nature's storm-proof fortresses,
By Freedom's children trod;
Hail! ye invulnerable walls,
The masonry of God!"

This poetic salutation of Brooks seems appropriate at this place. The beautiful silvery cascades that leap from the mountain tops, down their sides, into the bed of the Saco, here a mere rivulet do not fail pleasantly to meet the eye of the beholder; while the deep cuts worn by the Saco, far down beneath the road, make one giddy with wonder.

The travel to the White Mountains has been yearly increasing, and this season is very great. There is a small basin of water but a few rods from the Notch House, which divides the waters of the Saco and Amonoosuc rivers. The one empties its waters into the Atlantic near the city of

Saco, in Maine; while the other, by way of the Connecticut river, empties its waters into Long Island Sound.

Five miles from the Notch, down the Amonoosuc, is the well-known "Fabyan House." Here the traveler has an excellent view of Mount Washington. This and the Notch House are rival hotels. They are both excellent and satisfactory to the public in every respect.

Descending the Amonoosuc, some twenty miles, we arrived at Littleton, a beautiful and pleasantly situated village, doing much business, and increasing in population and wealth. Nothing of remarkable interest now marked our journey home; and at the close of the second day we found ourselves happily seated in our own domicile.

Bradford, Vt., July, 1845.

From the Green Mountain Gem.

AUTUMN.

BY THE EDITOR.

This season is proverbially beautiful and interesting. Our springs are too humid and chilly; our summers too hot and dusty; and our winters too cold and tempestuous. But autumn, that soft twilight of the waning year, is ever delightfully temperate and agreeable. Nothing can be more rich and splendid than the variegated mantles which our forests put on, after throwing off the light green drapery of summer.

Poets of every grade have descanted in doleful strains on the "sere and yellow leaf." From the sage achiever of stately verse, down to the sappy rhymer of beardless years, each must have something to say about the melancholy of these autumnal days. But is there any thing really sad appertaining to them? True, there is a sedate and even solemn look on the visage of nature, and such an aspect usually gives rise to a sober and reflect

ive turn of mind; but the feelings, thus drawn out, are not painful or deeply saddening; they are rather, as we have heard it expressed, pleasingly pensive.

In our New England, autumn comes not in "sober guise," or in "russet mantle clad," but, as expressed in the beautiful language of Miss Kemble, like a triumphant emperor arrayed in "gorgeous robes of Tyrian dyes!"

Nothing for beauty can exceed the forests at this time. No eye can behold them without being delighted. What a variegated scene! The leaves present a thousand dyes, all rich and charming. How must England envy us in respect to our woodland scenery! She has none of our variety of trees, consequently her parks can give nothing of that various coloring which our forests now present.

This is the proper season in which one truly enjoys in all its maturity of luxurious loveliness a country excursion.

"There, the loaded fruit-trees, bending,
Strew with mellow gold the land;
Here, on high, from vines impending,
Purple clusters court the hand."

Autumn now throws her many-tinted robe over our landscape, unequaled by the richest drapery which nature's wardrobe can furnish in any part of the world. We read of Italian skies and tropical evergreens, and often long to visit those regions where the birds have

-"no sorrow in their song,
No winter in their year."

But where can we find such an assemblage of beauty as is displayed, at this moment, in the groves and forests of our Green Mountain State? Europe and Asia may be explored in vain. To them has prodigal nature given springs like Eden, summers of plenty and winters of mildness. To the land of our nativity alone has she given au