Here we go, through the Connecticut River Valley, famous for its scenery and its legends—the region of bright eyes and strong arms—the land of quiltings and huskings—of house-raisings and militia trainings, and the home of savory roast pigs and stuffed turkeys, of fat geese, of apple sauce, and pumpkin pies; the Ultima Thule to the Yankee’s imagination. Now we are at Deerfield. While they are about our breakfast, we will run across the road, and see the old Williams Mansion. A hundred years since, it was surrounded by Indians, and its occupant, the clergyman, with his family, carried off captives to Canada. Here is the very hole cut in the front door by their tomahawks, and here the hacks of the hatchets. Through this hole they ran their rifles, and fired into the house, killing a man confined to his bed by sickness, and here is the ball lodging to this day in the side of the wall—and this occurred one hundred years ago! Say you, that the people that treasure up these legends, and retain these memorials untouched, have no poetry in their souls? But there goes the stageman’s horn! Our breakfast finished, we resume our places at the side of the good-natured driver, and on we roll. We pass Brattleboro’, snugly ensconced in its mountain eyrie, and Hanover, with its broad parade, its flourishing colleges, and its inhabitants that never die,—save from old age. With teams of six and eight horses, we speed over hill, over dale, over mountain, over valley, ascending and descending the mountains in full run; our gallant horses almost with human instinct, guiding themselves. Snorting leaders, swerve not aside in your career—linch-pins, do your duty—traces and breeching, hold on toughly, or “happy men be our dole.” Hah! Wild Amonoosac, we greet thy indeed wild roar.—How it sweeps the fallen timber in its boiling eddies! The huge logs slide dancing onwards with the velocity of the canoes of the Indian; or caught by envious projection, or uplifting rock, form dams and cascades, till the increasing and cumbrous masses, gathering momentum, plunge forward, sweeping all before them,—and—but whist! Step into the shade of this tree—look into the dark pool beneath those gnarled roots—how beautifully the gold and purple colours glitter—how motionlessly still is the head—how slight and tremulous the movement of that fin—the wavy motion of the tail. A two pounder, as I am a Christian! Whist! whist! See that dragon-fly, gently sailing o’er the surface—he rests a moment on it. Watch! the head slowly turns—the fins move decidedly—ay—now—one rapid whirl of the tail—an electric leap to the surface—Poor fly, thy history is written; and well for thee, thou greedy trout, that no barbed hook suspends thee in mid air—struggling in beauty, though in death, the prize of exulting angler. And thou, too, art there, savage _Mount Franconia_, with thy fantastic and human outline! Old Man of the Mountain!—with what