The Old Man of the Mountain.

We are now in the Notch. We have seen the lower end, with its Flume, Basin and other natural wonders. At the upper end we come upon another and greater, according to my judgment, museum of the handicraft of Nature. And, very properly, the first object to attract us in going up the valley is one of the purest little bodies of water to be found even in the White Hills, Profile Lake. We are in the heart of the mountains, the heart of Franconian wonders, the heart of peace and solitude, where one may behold, admire, praise, and rest. Nowhere else are its offerings equaled in all the wide world!

Here, mountain-environed, was a little hamlet,* the chief abode being the Profile House, as isolated from the busy, noisy toiling world as if built on an oases in the depths of Sahara. The comparison extends no further. Great wonders are not duplicated. There is but one Sahara, solitary and barren; there is but one Niagara, tremendous and thrilling; there is but one Franconia, with a beauty and grandeur all its own; Franconia and its Notch, with its marvelous series of wonders and restful solitude, where one is brought face to face with God.

And shining waters far below,
Walled in the swifter run.
Until the slopes of Campton Glow,
Green swarded in the sun.
We love Franconia’s even crest,
Here cascades white as snow;
Her rugged crags where eagles nest,
Her pines tossed to and fro!
-George Bancroft Griffith.

It is only a few steps to the mountain mirror, that beautiful sheet of water overhung by shaggy walls of granite, but the face it reflects with startling faithfulness. The pond is beautiful, so are hundreds of others; the pond we can duplicate, but the grim visage that has held watch over it for unnumbered years is alone, unmatched and unrivalled. With the thousands that come here yearly, we have come to discover again the stolid, yet ever attractive, face of stone! Over a thousand feet above the mountain lakelet stands out on the rocky shoulder of Mount Cannon, looking calmly down upon us, the Watchman of the Mountain!

At last we can say with multitude, “We have seen the Old Man of the Mountain!” Others are standing by us, and they express their wonder and amazement in ejaculations and exclamations that express the width and depth of their feeling. “Oh, my! Did you ever?” cries one. “OI have been around the world, and seen nothing like it.” “”Wonders upon wonders, When will wonders cease?” “I wanted to see this before I died. It is worth my waiting.” And so on ad infinittum.

The profile itself measures about forty feet from the end of the chin to the brow; all is perfect, except that the forehead is partially covered by what looks in the distant as a helmet. The most singular fact about this mighty profile is that it is formed by separated projecting shelves of ledge, the whole coming in a rang which produces a perfect profile of the human face, a face that was formed there long ere the first of the human race was begotten.

Rustic seats have been provided on the shore of the lake, and here, at your ease and convenience, you can study and watch the huge profile, a part of the granite wall, itself of granite. But is it granite you ask yourself? Has it a soul? Did it ever breathe? Surely it must have known life at some time. And while we lock and speculate, our mind recalls that beautiful, nay, grand, legend told by red men a long, long time ago. Once the Indians about his vicinity were governed by a chief-a mighty chieftain, according to their accounts. It was in the midst of a war between the Penacooks and the Mohawks, and this great chieftain had beaten back the invading horde; driven them across the “Long River,” the Connecticut, and over the distant mountains. All had fled save the Mohawk chieftain’s daughter, but she had remained behind of her free will, preferring to remain with the sachem of their conquerors.

So many years she and Pemigewasset, the Penacook, lived happily together. The there came a messenger from her father, saying he was old and asked that she and her husband might come and pay him a visit. He said the Mohawks had buried the tomahawk, so far as the Penacooks were concerned, and that he would promise no harm should befall his visitors. The messenger, who was on of her brothers, declared he would see no harm come of the visit. Now, it so happened that Pemigewasset had injured one of his feet, so it would be difficult for him to go so far. But he was willing his wife should go, if she wished. She had long desired to meet her father again, and so she started the next day, promising to return before the harvest moon. So husband and wife parted.

He promised to build signal fires on top of the mountain to let her know he was still thinking of her, while she was to respond in a similar manner at each evening. This was done, day by day, until the flashes from the distant hilltops ceased, and Pemigewasset know his wife had crossed over the mountains. He then waited patiently until the beginning of the harvest moon, when at the close of each day he climbed the mountain and builded carefully his signal fire, to look for a reply. But, day by day, he was disappointed, until the harvest moon had waxed and waned.

If he was worried now, he did not say so, but he continued his lonely vigils, remaining now on the mountain all of the time. When the weather grew cold, he builded him a bough house, and faithful warriors brought him food, while one and all begged of him to return to the village.

If the Mohawks had betrayed their trust, or some misfortune had befallen the missing wife, no one know. Pemigewasset would have led an attack upon his enemies, but exposure on the mountain had made his foot much worse, so that was not to be considered. He shook his head, declared she would certainly come, and so maintained his lofty vigil by day and night. The winter wore away, and spring came, and summer. Still the chief, grown weak and haggard now, kept his lonely post, for his wife never came. Delirious now at times, he would say, “She will come another harvest moon.”

So this moon came and went, but it brought no absent wife. If she were dead; if she were being held as a captive; if she were false to here husband, - no one knew. He believed she would yet come. But the morning following the moon, the faithful men who had stood by him so long climbed to his lofty post, and-found him stark and stern. If his wife had not come to him, his spirit had gone to her!

More than this! On the side of the smooth mountain wall, the Great Spirit had placed his profile in remembrance of him. And to this day that majestic profile remains to tell to all who come hither of the constancy of the great Pennacook Chief!

Says Drake, “This gigantic silhouette, which has been dubbed the Old Man of the Mountain, is unquestionably the greatest curiosity of this or any other mountain region. It is unique. But it is not merely curious; nor is it more marvelous for the wonderful accuracy of outline than for the almost superhuman expression of frozen terror it eternally fixes on the vague and shadowy distance, - a faraway look; an intense and speechless amazement, such as sometime settles on the faces of the dying at the moment the should leaves the body forever-untranslatable into words, but seeming to declare the presence of some unutterable vision, too bright and dazzling for mortal eyes to behold. The face puts the whole world behind it. It does everything but speak-nay, you are ready to swear that it is going to speak!” All of this and more that cannot be described in words, done by a few pieces of shattered rock-and the imagination.

The Stone Face.

The Indians believed, and not without reason, that the expression upon the Stone Face had changed materially during the lapse of many years. Roth, in his vivid romance of “Christus Juudex,” a work upon this subject really worth reading, says, when he has led his heroes upon their journey: “Jacques also looked at the wonderful Face with feelings of indescribable awe, and listened with the liveliest interest to the Indians, as they recorded the various changes of expression it had assumed in the course of ages. Formerly, said they, before the white mad made his appearance, it seemed happy, and looked with benign aspect out over the wild forests where the aborigines chased the deer and slew the savage bear. At certain times every year, the little lake was the rendezvous where deputies from various parts of the country-even from the distant Western lakes=met, bringing presents to testify their gratitude to the great “Onon-maniteau,” or “Mountain Spirit,” for the produce of their lands, the success of the chase, or the increasing prosperity, in general, of each tribe.

“But in the progress of time the old men remarked, with disquietude, that the Face began to lose its joyful expression, and to assume an appearance of grief, which they feared opened some unmistakable misfortune that was to befall the nation. Full of alarm, they had sought to propitiate it with prayers and sacrifices and new treaties of peace (for they might have offended it by frequent wars); but to their utter consternation, they saw it becoming every year more and more stern and inexorable in its lineaments, though it still preserved that mournful expression, which had excited their alarm at first. And ever since it is becoming sterner and more relentless, which changed only forbodes the utter annihilations of the Indian race.”

It is natural many traditions and legends should linger, like the rays of the setting sun, around the stern-featured Sentinel of the Mountain. Of all these legends and traditions of love, honor and bravery told around the council fires by the wise men of the tribe, I know of none more apt. It has the true Franconian spirit.

It is the tale first told by a smoldering campfire under the shadows of the Old Man of the Mountain; it is a weird tale listened to by his daughter under the spell of a storm-swept night; it is the tale she told her children from generation to generation of men. It was told by the last of his race, as he stood crouching like a hunted fugitive far from the scenes and the years of his ancient ancestor to the first comer of the white race. This aged pioneer told it again to his son’s son, as I am telling it to you.

THE PIPE OF PEACE*
A Legend of the Old Man of the Mountain.

The adventure-loving Red Man tired at intervals of the drum beats of the wildwood and the eternal war-whoop. There was greater comfort in the quiet field of corn waving its tasseled heads softly in the summer breeze; there was greater solace in the changing hues that autumn threw over the forest-tinted hillsides; there was deeper restfulness in the uplifting arms of the council fire as it was wafted upward on the sable wings of night, when it was fitting this tale of conquest of peace over was should be told.

Ask the North Wind wrapped in the white robe of winter whence came these tales of war; these tales of Penacook bravery and cunning over the Mohawks on the Plains of the Brave Lands; these tales of conquest of the Sokoki over the Abnaki; these tales of the warfare of Franconia against the Hurons of the Northland? These works spake the ancient story-teller, as she laid aside her pipe and her listeners became silent.

Franconia, the Penacook, was in sorrow. His dream of lasting peace had been dreamed in vain. Where was Wonnaloonsa, the brave sachem? Merruwacomet, the Indian runner, who had fallen these days since? Where was Annalucta, Erlbeguntam, Unsalaska, and a score-yea, hundreds of others as good. A Mohawk from the Genesee valley had robbed him of his parents. An Abnaki from the land of the rising sun had taken away his brother, and, worse yet, a brave from the Hurons of the North had stolen the life of his only son. Do you marvel that Franconia’s tears fell like spring rain? And the war was still on!

Even now the Hurons rallied on the Plains of Coashauke; the Abnakis from the intervals of the Saco; the Mohawks stormed the very gate of the Brave Lands. Well might he despair; well might he tear his hair; well might he beseech the Great Spirit for surcease from strife!

In his grief he thought of the grim watcher of so many hard-fought battles in the Vale of the Pemigewasset. In his sadness and hopelessness he turned to the Old Man of Silence. Then a new light broke in upon his darkness.

Immediately he began to search through the forest for something he seemed to look for in vain. However, his people looked upon the old man’s longing, one and all noticed that he had gained the respect, if not the help, of the forest people. The trees bowed their heads in silent consent. The animal people looked on, if not with sanctions, with confidence. No creature offered him harm or molestation. He roamed hither and thither, always looking up and down, here and yon.

At last he ended his search. His hatchet was sharpened. His strong arm grew stouter. Morning, noon and night he was seen hewing at the huge branch of a tree, old, gnarled, knotty, fallen.
His people looked on and smiled. They understood now. The animals had know from the first. It was even claimed that the Old Man actually winked. Ay, they claimed he closed one eye and gazed down upon the workman and smiled.

When at last he had cut away the branch from the truck and looped away the foliage, it was seen he had secured a crooked bit of wood, laid with knots and seamed with wrinkles of over-lapping bark.

Now he had obtained his stick, he kept on in his labor early and late. So early he did not stop to taste of his morning food; so late he did not share his suppers with his people. But his good squaw did not chide him. She knew the struggle going on. She knew the hope that kindled in his heart. If he could gain his end, she knew the result was worth all it might cost.

So he worked on and on. The gnarled, stubborn piece of wood grew into a shape that took life and purpose.

Once, as he labored on, he smiled. And then the Old Man smiled. When the Old Man smiled it was like the dawning of a new day. Then Franconia told her who was silently watching him that a new day was breaking for the Red Men.

She, too, now smiled. There was peace and happiness in their hearts. The little son of the sachem dared to draw nearer to his father, which he too, felt that the sun was breaking over their lives.
So the tree branch took shape and life and hope.

Franconia had shaped with cunning hand out of the wood of the forest, out of common matter blessed with the spirit of the vale, a huge pipe fit for the stern lips of the huge dumb Guardian of the Mountains.

He had hewed and shaped a pipe for the Old Man of the Mountains!

This wonderful pipe was seen with curiosity; it was seen with awe; it was seen with dread. Then the beholder’s heart lightened.

What if Franconia’s dream should prove the truth of the saying:
“When the Old Man should smoke, peace would reign forever in the Vale of the Pemigewasset!”
Not one dared to murmur. Not one dared to rebuke. The alternative was too well known.

So Franconia went on with his work. So Franconia’s purpose was gained.

So the night came with the moon shining softly down on mountain and valley, but nowhere did it shine as bright as it did on the stark, stern face against the rock wall. Then, when shadows lay thick and deep under the beech tree and the maple; dark under the pine and hemlock; but a halo shone over the dusky forehead, Franconia began his ascent to the face set against the night.
“Give me strength, Great Spirit, give me strength!”

Slowly, showing dimly at first, his figure rose from out of the blanket at the foot of the mountain, up, up, up, until the water below reflected his figure. Higher and higher the sachem climbed; slower and slower the sachem climbed.

The base now lay far below him. A single misstep meant failure-it meant death to him-worse, was to his people-a war that must end in annihilation to them.

So, inch by inch, foot by foot, yard by yard, he went up, up , up, until at last he rested just under the mighty chin.
He touched the craggy chin and shivered.
He looked up into the eyes that were sightless and trembled.
There was no smile, no response in the cold, hard, grim, features.
“Old Man, have I offended?” he beseeched in a whisper.
It may have been only the answer of his wild hope! It may have been the trembling of his own faint heart. But he imagined-he dreamed-he knew the square jaw moved!
He grew bolder. He climbed to another point of rock. Then he paused.
He dared not look down lest his head swim. He must cling. He must do. The Old Man of Silence must smoke his Pipe of Peace!

So he lifted the stem. The bowl was well-filled with fragrant wee. He pulled at the mouth-piece once to make certain he had not failed.

Ah! The fragrance he drew from that bit of bended wood! It had not betrayed him. The Old Man must smoke it. If he did?

Slowly he raised the long stem to the cold lips that never parted! Slowly, lest he fall! Slowly, lest he miss the expression on the features of granite! Do not count you worries until you have measured Franconia’s suspense!
The Old Man smiled!

Franconia heard a commotion below him. He dared not turn his gaze from the face above. He knew he was being watched. The deer, the panther, the bear, the wolf, the moose, ay, all of the creatures of the woods were below, watching and waiting. Farther away he knew his own people were watching him. All were silent, hopeful, yet dreading the end. Overhead an eagle screamed in encouragement. A hawk shouted its derision. Nothing sought to discourage him.

The big stone lips seemed to move-to part. The pipe stem slipped silently, without obstruction, in between. The, the huge wooden pipe was held firmly between lips that had never opened!
" Smoke, Old Man, smoke the Pipe of Peace!” cried Franconia.

The words came down to those watching and waiting-those and nothing more.

Quickly great clouds of smoke rose from the strange pipe; slowly ascended until the countenance of the Old Man was hidden; slowly, until Franconia was lost to view; until the moon sailed dimly through the ocean of space
.
It was said the mountain trembled; that a sullen roar, if a wrath or approval, came from the bowels of the earth. But it was hours before the scene had cleared; before the Old Man looked benignly down upon his watchers. Some said he was still smiling; some said he was frowning. A few of the more stubborn could see not change in the stolid features.
All were now looking for Franconia.

The heroic Sachem, the great peace-make-where was he?

Ask of the forest that bowed its head that night in glory. Ask of the wild denizens of the forest that watched and waited until another day broke over the valley. Ask of his people and they would have told you that Franconia had been taken up to his fathers. He had become the spirit of the stone face.

Let all of this be as it may, the Mohawks silently faded from the valley of the Merrimack. The Hurons checked their warlike march from the North, and never came back. The Abnakis fled from the Saco, which they never crossed again.

From that day peace fell upon the Penacooks. Had Franconia lived and died in vain?
Dost unbelieve this fanciful tale? Seek an answer from signing birch? Wait for your reply from the gossiping alder, from the ravings of the poplar, the nonsense of the fir, the sighing of the pine, the thundering of the oak, the whispering of the linden, the roar of the hemlock, from the murmuring of the elm, and in one refrain the voices say:
“Alla mora!” which means “All is peace!” That and silence.

*And these abodes have vanished before the torch of fire, leaving the spot more lonely then before,---Author.
*From Indian Nights Entertainment, Copyright 1926, by Noble and Noble, New York. Used by permission.