Cole in Franconia Notch
Through the pass, called the Franconia Notch, there is a good road, over which passes a small coach to Plymouth. After a hearty meal, and with a little bread and cheese in my pocket in case of necessity, I set off with the expectation of the coach overtaking me in the Notch. For five or six miles the road ascends, and, as the day was mild, I found it rather fatiguing before I reached the entrance of the pass, where you begin to descend.
This has nothing of the desolate grandeur of the other Notch. The elements do not seem to have chosen this for a battle-ground, and the hoar mountains do not appear wrinkled by recent convulsions. One of the two lakes, you here meet with, is presided over by the Old Man of the Mountains, as the people about here call it, a singular crag some fifteen hundred feet aloft, having the features of a human face. The perfect repose of these waters, and the unbroken silence reigning through the whole region, made the scene peculiarly impressive and sublime: indeed, there was an awfulness in the deep solitude, pent up within the great precipices, that was painful.
While there was a pleasure in the discovery, a childish fear came over me that drove me away: the bold and horrid features, that bent their sever expression upon me, were too dreadful to look upon in my loneliness: I could not feel happy in their communion, nor take them to my heart as my companions. The very trees were wild and savage in their forms of expression.