Hawthorne in
his notebook characterized its beauty thus: "I have never driven
through such romantic scenery, where there was such a variety of
mountain shapes as this, and though it was a bright sunny day,
the mountains diversified the air with sunshine and shadow and
glory and gloom."
"Never came day more joyfully upon mountains," and never was any
more fully enjoyed. The dew was almost as refreshing as rain, so
copiously had it gathered on the grass and flowers. Their
brilliant spikes of blossoms were like magic wands, enticing us
through the place like fair enchantresses. Ferns, the like of
which we never beheld, grew all about the highway. Great Osmunda
ferns, nearly as high as our heads, formed vase-like clusters,
whose magic shields seemed guarding the home of some forest
nymphs. It is a delight to be alive amid scenes so fair and on
days which are as perfect as July days can be.
Imagine if you can a balmy south wind, heavily laden with the
fragrance of pine mint, balsam and scented fern; myriads of pine
needles each tipped with its diamond drop; musical brooks far-
flashing in the morning light; twittering swallows in the sky
above; add to this the mysterious veil of color that makes
distance so magical, and you yet have a faint idea of the
picture.
In the valleys lay velvety meadows with their stately groups of
elms, beneath which droves of cattle and sheep were grazing.
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