It had been our intention to cross the country from Augusta directly to the White Hills in New Hampshire, and we took seats in the stage-coach with that view.  Back of Augusta the country swells into hills of considerable height with deep hollows between, in which lie a multitude of lakes.  We passed several of these, beautifully embosomed among woods, meadows, and pastures, and were told that if we continued on the course we had taken we should scarcely ever find ourselves without some sheet of water in sight till we arrived at Fryeburg on the boundary between Maine and New Hampshire.  One of them, in the township of Winthrop, struck us as particularly beautiful.  Its shores are clean and bold, with little promontories running far into the water, and several small islands.

At Winthrop we found that the coach in which we set out would proceed to Portland, and that if we intended to go on to Fryeburg, we must take seats in a shabby wagon, without the least protection for our baggage.  It was already beginning to rain, and this circumstance decided us; we remained in the coach and proceeded on our return to Portland.  I have scarcely ever travelled in a country which presented a finer appearance of agricultural thrift and prosperity than the portions of the counties of Kennebeck and Cumberland, through which our road carried us.  The dwellings are large, neatly painted, surrounded with fruit-trees and shrubs, and the farms in excellent order, and apparently productive.  We descended at length into the low country, crossed the Androscoggin to the county of York, where, as we proceeded, the country became more sandy and sterile, and the houses had a neglected aspect.  At length, after a journey of fifty or sixty miles in the rain, we were again set down in the pleasant town of Portland.

Letter XLII.

The White Mountains.

Springfield, Mass., August 13, 1847.

I had not space in my last letter, which was written from Keene, in New Hampshire, to speak of a visit I had just made to the White Mountains.  Do not think I am going to bore you with a set description of my journey and ascent of Mount Washington; a few notes of the excursion may possibly amuse you.

From Conway, where the stage-coach sets you down for the night, in sight of the summits of the mountains, the road to the Old Notch is a very picturesque one.  You follow the path of the Saco along a wide valley, sometimes in the woods that overhang its bank, and sometimes on the edge of rich grassy meadows, till at length, as you leave behind you one summit after another, you find yourself in a little plain, apparently inclosed on every side by mountains.