The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1890-11-01
AMONG the MouNTAIgs.
Late Fall Beauties Of tho North Corr
way Landscape.
The Closing CHAPTER Of a We'll Known
Romance.

From an occasional correspondent Of the PREss.I
NORTH CONWAY, Oct. %, 1880.
"There is nothing of interest remains
about a summer resort after the summer
boarders are gone," said a fashionable
woman, one crowded, brilliant, bewllderlDg
day last August. the day Of the East Side
Coaching Parade. This remark was recalled
this morning on walk through the woods,
from North Conway to KearsaTge village. Is
1t true, one wonders. that to the great ma
jority, 1t Is simply the fashionable multitude
that makes famous summer place delight
full? they can not take away with them the
beauty and charm Of the landscape that has
made the place famous. No, still and de-
serted as IS thetown. the everlasting noun
tains remain; very different they look now
from what they do when they are clad 10 tie
fresh green robes Of summer, or In the glow
ing coiors Of the earlier autumn. The dull,
rich hues Of an eastern carpet are spread
from their SUBMITS down over the vast for
ests that stand On their slopes. The crimson
and bright yellow maple leaves are fallen.
aud now the Ted-brown oaks, and beeches
whose fOlisge has changed to the color Of
FURNISHED cooper. combine with the blaekish
greens OF hSmlOck, spruce, pine and FIR; the
effect Is beau ful, low toned. and conyeysa a
suggestion Of pathos. These TOO must soon
fade when the reign Of the relentless Ice
king begins. In the heart OF the woods 1t is
beautiful beyond expression. The FURNISHED,
coppery, be, eh leaves burn like fame be-
yond the black green Of the winter trees,
their glowing color welcome as bright fire
in a dark room on a cold, dull day, The
ground is carpeted with brown pine needles
and dry leaves that rustic as you walk In
them; from the depths Of the woods and all
around rises faint. subtle, delicious odor
like altar of roses. II is the smell Of a wood
in the fall Of the year and comes from the
fallen leaves and fading ferns and brakes
Every now and then a partridge flies whir-
ring up close beside the path, and belated
birds call plaintiyely to each other from dis
tant points. All along the sides of the paths
are oak shoots Of one ears growth. changed
to the color Of rubles, and In low sheltered
places are tall ferns still fresh and green as II
1t were June instead Of almost November.
Mount Washington up at the end of this
valley of the Saco, has been radiant glowing
white for many days, since long before the
forests put off their splendid raiment and
the sight Of the gl.ttering, snowy pinnacle in
contrast with the many colored. gorgeous
woods In the foreground, is rare enough to
make IL memorable and wondrously beautI-
full enough to treasure lifetime.
But these days, hard upon November, the
countenances Of the mountains look frown-
ing and angry. They are often wrapped In
coId dul1 vonora and IN fa aaav % Fauov that
unfriendly, threatening spirits dwell upon
those vast heights and daily send forth
prophecies Of the evil that Is shortly to come
upon the valley. that they breathe out
menaces of the shroud they will let fall upon
the land and seal 1t fast therein.
1t was meet that In days so tinged with
pathos should fall the time Of mourning for
the sweet musician, Thomas p. Murphy,
who had lived here for fifteen years and died
on Sunday the 11th Of October at hospital
In Boston. Last Sunday there was memo
rial service for him In Christ Church where
he had conducted the music for many sum
mers, making the little reed organ seem like
a grand organ In some vaulted cathedral,
such exquisite harmony. such rapturous
melody. did he draw from 1t. But last Sun
day. one Of his pupils sat In his accustomed
place, though instead of her saddened face
and girlish form, many saw the changeful,
animated face, the inspired figure and action
of the artist as he used to sit there only so
short time ago.
Below the chaneel was a table filed with
flowers and inscribed 'In memory Of Mr..
Murphy, from his pupils" A photograph
Of the musician stood on the table with the
flowers. There we're lyre. a pillow, a bas-
ket of panSies and quantities OF roses, be-
sides bio ming plants In pots, disposed In
front Of the chancrl.
The rector, the Rev. William Greer, read
the burial service for the dead. and the dead
hss savoStes Uwh Win VIZ X sna1 na
Lead Thou Me On" Mr.. Grrrr spoke
touchingly OF the loss the whole community
felt In the death OF him who for so long had
Joined so delightfully."- In Gods praise In that
and the life beyond the grave.
There were many In the congregation who
do not usually attend there, but c me that
day to show their regard for Mr.. Murphy's
rable traits. Those who have been his pu
pills were deeply attached TO him.
In the afternoon there were services inli
memory in the Methodist church, whereI
had had friends and pupils and where he
also had played the organ. The pastor, Rev.
Mr.. Pendexter, spoke In praise Of Mr.. Muir
phys rare generosity and heIpfulness, and
the impetus he gave TO the study OF music
here.
And it is true that he did good work In
music here. Several years ago a young
woman who Is an excellent musician, was
spending the winter iu New York and jOinpd
the famous Damrosch Chorus. She was a
member OF the murphy Club" when at
home and said that the North Conway class,
small as IL was. compared most favorably
with the Damrosch class, and that through
Mr.. Murphy's teaching she was able TO have
a place in IT, One Of his pupils said des-
pondently the other day: "He raised music
to high standard here, but IL will never 20
farther and fear will fall far below"
Sir Arthur Sullivan was one Of Mr.. Muir
phys classmates when he was graduated
with honor from a famous conservatory Of
music In Belgium, and ROssini was one OF
the examining committee. AS musician be
probably had no superi)rs and few EQUALS
In New England. He had wit, Imagination,
sensitlveness, c0rdiality, generosity, to a
rare degree; his faults were rather those Of
his temperament rather than Of his heart
He had suffered much. and who can doubt
thatmany and many a time his spirits inmOst
cry was expressed In the song OF Adelaide
Proctor that he set to music and dedicated
to Lady Blanche, his brave, loyal, ever
loving wife, dead almost ten years before he
followed her:
what laexs my heart that makes IL
SO weary and full Of pam, .
That trembling hope fOrsakes u,
Never TO come again?
Only another heart,
Tender and all mine OWL
In the still g ave II Hes
IweeP aloneP
uots ot rast and at peace, where no Temp