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                              A   T O U R

                                 TO THE

                     R I V E R   S A G U E N A Y ,

                                   IN

                       L O W E R   C A N A D A .

                                   BY
                            CHARLES LANMAN,
                AUTHOR OF “A SUMMER IN THE WILDERNESS.”

                             PHILADELPHIA:
                     C A R E Y   A N D   H A R T .
                                 1848.

     Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1847, by
                            CAREY AND HART,
in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of
                             Pennsylvania.

                             PHILADELPHIA:
                   T. K. AND P. G. COLLINS, PRINTERS.

                                   TO
                        SOLOMON T. NICOLL, ESQ.,
                           OF NEW YORK CITY.
    MY DEAR SIR,

    To you, in testimony of my friendship, I inscribe this little
    volume.

    On a pleasant morning in May last, I awoke from a piscatorial
    dream, haunted by the idea that I _must_ spend a portion of the
    approaching summer in the indulgence of my passion for angling.
    Relinquishing my editorial labors for a time, I performed a
    pilgrimage which has resulted in the production of this volume,
    and I hope it may entertain those of my friends and the public
    who have heretofore received my literary efforts with favor. The
    work will be found to contain a record of adventures in the
    valleys of the Hudson, St. Lawrence and St. Johns, and along
    some of the rivers of New England.

                                         Truly, your friend,
                                                   CHARLES LANMAN.
      NEW YORK, _Autumn of 1847_.

                               CONTENTS.

                               CHAPTER I.

    The Catskill Mountains—South Peak Mountain—A thunder
    storm—Midnight on the mountains—Sunrise—Plauterkill
    Clove—Peter Hummel—Trout fishing—Stony Clove—The Kauterskill
    Fall—The Mountain House—The Mountain Lake

                              CHAPTER II.

    A spring day—The sky—The mountains—The streams—The
    woods—The open fields—Domestic animals—Poetry—The poultry
    yard

                              CHAPTER III.

                         The Corn Planting Bee

                              CHAPTER IV.

    Lake Horicon—Sketches of its scenery—Information for
    anglers—Sabbath Day Point—War memories—The insect city—Death
    of a deer—Rogers’ Slide—Diamond Island—The snake
    charmer—Snake stories—Night on Horicon

                               CHAPTER V.

    The Scaroon country—Scaroon Lake—Pike fishing by
    torchlight—Trout fishing—Lyndsay’s Tavern—Paradox Lake

                              CHAPTER VI.

    The Adirondac Mountains—Trout fishing in the Boreas River—A
    night in the woods—Moose Lake—Lake Delia—The Newcomb
    Farm—Mount Tahawus—The Indian Pass—Lakes Sanford and
    Henderson—The McIntyre iron works

                              CHAPTER VII.

         John Cheney, the Adirondac hunter—Some of his exploits

                             CHAPTER VIII.

              Burlington—Lake Champlain—Distinguished men

                              CHAPTER IX.

    Stage coach—The Winooski—The Green Mountains—The ruined
    dwelling—The White Mountains—The Flume—A deep pool—The Old
    Man of the Mountains—The Basin—Franconia Notch—View of the
    mountains—Mount Washington—The Notch Valley

                               CHAPTER X.

                                Montreal

                              CHAPTER XI.

                                 Quebec

                              CHAPTER XII.

        A sail down the St. Lawrence—Sword-fish chasing a whale

                             CHAPTER XIII.

    The Saguenay River—Storm picture—The Hudson’s Bay
    Company—Eminent merchant—The Mountaineer
    Indians—Tadousac—Ruin of a Jesuit establishment

                              CHAPTER XIV.

                     The salmon—Several adventures

                              CHAPTER XV.

          Seal hunting on the St. Lawrence—The white porpoise

                              CHAPTER XVI.

                   The Esquimaux Indians of Labrador

                             CHAPTER XVII.

                         The Habitans of Canada

                             CHAPTER XVIII.

    The Grand Portage into New Brunswick—Lake Timiscouta—The
    Madawaska River

                              CHAPTER XIX.

                              The Acadians

                              CHAPTER XX.

           Sail down the Madawaska—The Falls of the St. John

                              CHAPTER XXI.

                        The Hermit of Aroostook

                             CHAPTER XXII.

                           The River St. John

                             CHAPTER XXIII.

                          The Penobscot River

                             CHAPTER XXIV.

                 Moosehead Lake and the Kennebeck River

                              CHAPTER XXV.

       A fishing party on the Thames—Watch Hill—Night adventures

                             CHAPTER XXVI.

    A week in a fishing smack—Fishermen—A beautiful morning at
    sea—A day at Nantucket—Wreck of a ship—Night on the
    Sound—Safe arrival

                              A   T O U R
                                 TO THE
                      R I V E R   S A G U E N A Y.

                           C H A P T E R   I.

    The Catskill Mountains—South Peak Mountain—A thunder
    storm—Midnight on the mountains—Sunrise—Plauterkill
    Clove—Peter Hummel—Trout fishing—Stony Clove—The Kauterskill
    Fall—The Mountain House—The Mountain Lake.

                                             _Plauterkill Clove, May._

I commence this chapter in the language of Leather Stocking:—“You know
the Catskills, lad, for you must have seen them on your left, as you
followed the river up from York, looking as blue as a piece of clear
sky, and holding the clouds on their tops, as the smoke curls over the
head of an Indian chief at a council-fire.” Yes, everybody is acquainted
with the names of these mountains, but few with their peculiarities of
scenery. They are situated about eight miles from the Hudson, rise to an
average elevation of about thirty-five hundred feet, and running in a
straight line from north to south, cover a space of some twenty-five
miles. The fertile valley on the east is as beautiful as heart could
desire; it is watered by the Kauterskill, Plauterkill and Esopus creeks,
inhabited by a sturdy Dutch yeomanry, and is the agricultural mother of
Catskill, Saugerties and Kingston. The upland on the west for about
forty miles is rugged, dreary and thinly settled, but the winding valley
of Schoharie beyond is possessed of many charms peculiarly American. The
mountains themselves are covered with dense forests abounding in cliffs
and waterfalls, and for the most part untrodden by the footsteps of man.
Looking at them from the Hudson, the eye is attracted by two deep
hollows, which are called “Cloves.” The one nearest to the Mountain
House, Kauterskill Clove, is distinguished for a remarkable fall, which
has been made familiar to the world by the pen of Bryant and the pencil
of Cole; but this Clove is rapidly filling up with human habitations;
while the other, Plauterkill Clove, though yet possessing much of its
original glory, is certain of the same destiny. The gorge whence issues
the Esopus, is among the Shandaken mountains, and not visible from the
Hudson.

My nominal residence, at the present time, is at the mouth of
Plauterkill Clove. To the west, and only half a mile from my abode, are
the beautiful mountains, whose outlines fade away to the north, like the
waves of the sea when covered with a visible atmosphere. The nearest,
and to me the most beloved of these, is called South Peak. It is nearly
four thousand feet high, and covered from base to summit with one vast
forest of trees, varying from eighty to an hundred feet in height. Like
its brethren, it is a wild and uncultivated wilderness, abounding in all
the interesting features of mountain scenery. Like a corner-stone, does
it stand at the junction of the northern and western ranges of the
Catskills; and as its huge form looms against the evening sky, it
inspires one with awe, as if it were the ruler of the world:—yet I have
learned to love it as a friend. I have pondered upon its impressive
features when reposing in the noontide sunshine, when enveloped in
clouds, when holding communion with the most holy night, and when
trembling under the influence of a thunder-storm and encircled by a
rainbow. It has filled my soul with images of beauty and sublimity, and
made me feel the omnipotence of God.

A day and a night was it lately my privilege to spend upon this
mountain, accompanied by a poet friend. We started at an early hour,
equipped in our brown fustians, and laden with well-filled
knapsacks—one with a hatchet in his belt, and the other with a brace of
pistols. We were bound to the extreme summit of the peak, where we
intended to spend the night, witness the rising of the sun, and return
at our leisure on the following day. But when I tell my readers that our
course lay right up the almost perpendicular side of the mountain, where
there was no path save that formed by a torrent or a bear, they will
readily believe it was somewhat rare and romantic. But this was what we
delighted in; so we shouted “excelsior!” and commenced the ascent. The
air was excessively sultry, and the very first effort we made caused the
perspiration to start most profusely. Upward, upward was our course, now
climbing through a tangled thicket, or under the spray of a cascade, and
then, again, supporting ourselves by the roots of saplings, or
scrambling under a fallen tree;—now, like the samphire gatherer,
scaling a precipice, and then again clambering over a rock, or
“shinning” up a hemlock tree to reach a desired point.

Our first halt was made at a singular spot called “Hunter’s Hole,” which
is a spacious cavern or pit, forty feet deep, and twenty wide, and
approached only by a fissure in the mountain, sufficiently large to
admit a man. Connected with this place is the following story. Many
years ago, a farmer, residing at the foot of the mountain, having missed
a favorite dog, and being anxious for his safety, called together his
neighbors, and offered a reward for the safe return of his canine
friend. Always ready to do a kind deed, a number of them started in
different directions for the hunt. A barking sound having been heard to
issue from this cavern, it was discovered, and at the bottom of it the
lost dog, which had probably fallen therein while chasing a fox. “But
how shall he be extricated from this hole?” was the general inquiry of
the now assembled hunters. Not one of all the group would venture to
descend, under any circumstances; so that the poor animal remained a
prisoner for another night. But the next morning he was released, and by
none other than a brave boy, the son of the farmer and playmate of the
dog. A large number of men were present on the occasion. A strong rope
was tied around the body of the child, and he was gently lowered down.
On reaching the bottom, and finding, by the aid of his lamp, that he was
in a “real nice place,” the little rogue concluded to have some sport,
whereupon he proceeded to pull down more rope, until he had made a coil
of two hundred feet, which was bewildering enough to the crowd above;
but nothing happened to him during the adventure, and the dog was
rescued. The young hero having played his trick so well, it was
generally supposed, for a long time after, that this cavern was two
hundred feet deep, and none were ever found sufficiently bold to enter
in, even after a beautiful fox. The bravery of the boy, however, was the
cause of his death, for he was cut down by a leaden ball in the war of
1812.

The next remarkable place that we attained in ascending South Peak, was
the Bear Bank, where, in the depth of winter, may be found an abundance
of these charming creatures. It is said that they have often been seen
sunning themselves, even from the hills east of the Hudson.

We were now upon a beetling precipice, three hundred feet high, and
under the shadow of a huge pine, we enjoyed a slice of bread and pork,
with a few drops of genuine mountain dew. Instead of a dessert of
strawberries and cream, however, we were furnished by venerable dame
Nature with a thunder-storm. It was one that we had noticed making a
great commotion in the valley below. It had, probably, discovered two
bipeds going towards its home, the sky, and seemed to have pursued us
with a view of frightening us back again. But, “knowing that Nature
never did betray the heart that loved her,” we awaited the
thunder-storm’s reply to our obstinate refusal to descend. The cloud was
yet below us, but its unseen herald, a strong east wind, told us that
the conflict had commenced. Presently, a peal of thunder resounded
through the vast profound, which caused the mountain to tremble to its
deep foundation. And then followed another, and another, as the storm
increased; and the rain and hail poured down in floods. Thinking it more
safe to expose ourselves to the storm than remain under the pine, we
retreated without delay, when we were suddenly enveloped in the heart of
the cloud, only a few rods distant. Then a stroke of lightning blinded
us, and the towering forest monarch was smitten to the earth. We were in
the midst of an unwritten epic poem about that time, but we could not
appreciate its beauties, for another peal of thunder, and another stroke
of lightning, attracted our whole attention. Soon as these had passed, a
terrible gale followed in their wake, tumbling down piles of loose
rocks, and bending to the dust, as though in passion, the resisting
forms of an army of trees; and afterwards, a glorious rainbow spanned
the mountain, appearing like those distinguishing circles around the
temples of the Mighty and Holy, as portrayed by the painters of old. The
commotion lasted for an hour, when the region of the Bear Bank became as
serene as the slumber of a babe. A spirit of silent prayer was brooding
upon the earth and in the air, and with a shadow of thoughtfulness at
our hearts, we resumed our upward march.

Our next halting place was upon a sort of peninsula called the Eagle’s
Nest, where, it is said, an Indian child was formerly carried by one of
those birds, and cruelly destroyed, and whence the frantic mother, with
the mangled body of her babe, leaped into the terrible abyss below. From
this point we discovered a host of clouds assembled in council above
High Peak, as if discussing the parched condition of the earth, and the
speediest mode of affording relief to a still greater extent than they
had done; and far away to the west, was another assembly of clouds,
vying, like sporting children, to outrun and overleap each other in
their aerial amphitheatre.

After this we surmounted another point called Rattlesnake Ledge. Here
the rocks were literally covered with the white bones of those reptiles,
slaughtered by the hunter in by-gone years, and we happened to see a
pair of them that were alive. One was about four feet long, and the
other, which was only half as large, seemed to be the offspring of the
old one, for, when discovered, they were playing together like an
affectionate mother with her tender child. Soon as we appeared in their
presence, the serpents immediately ceased their sport, and in the
twinkling of an eye coiled themselves in the attitude of battle. The
conflict was of short duration, and to know the result you need only
look into my cabinet of curiosities.

Higher yet was it our lot to climb. We went a little out of our course
to obtain a bird’s-eye view of a mountain lake. In its tranquil bosom
the glowing evening sky and mountain sides were vividly reflected, and
the silence surrounding it was so profound that we could almost hear the
ripples made by a solitary duck, as it swam from one shore to the other
in its utter loneliness. Very beautiful, indeed, was this picture, and
as I reflected upon it, I thought that as the Infant of Bethlehem was
tenderly protected by the parents who watched over its slumbers, so was
this exquisite lake cradled and protected in the lap of the mountains.

One sight more did we behold before reaching the summit of South Peak.
It was the sunset hour, and on a jutting cliff which commanded an
immense view, our eyes were delighted by the sight of a deer, standing
still, and looking down upon the silent void below, which was then
covered with a deep purple atmosphere, causing the prospect to resemble
the boundless ocean. It was the last of its race we could not but fancy,
bidding the human world good night, previous to taking to its heathery
couch in a nameless ravine.

One effort more and the long-desired eminence was attained, and we were
a little nearer the evening star than we had ever been before. It was
now the hour of twilight, and as we were about done over with fatigue,
it was not long before we had pitched our leafy tent, eaten some supper,
and yielded ourselves to the embrace of sleep, “dear mother of fresh
thoughts and joyous health!”

At midnight, a cooling breath of air having passed across my face, I was
awakened from a fearful dream, which left me in a nervous and excited
state of mind. A strange and solemn gloom had taken possession of my
spirit, which was greatly enhanced by the doleful song of a neighboring
hemlock grove. Our encampment having been made a little below the summit
of the peak, and feeling anxious to behold the prospect at that hour,
from that point, I awakened my companion, and we seated ourselves upon
the topmost rock, which was nearly bare of shrubs, but covered with a
rich moss, softer and more beautiful than the finest carpet. But how can
I describe the scene that burst upon our enraptured vision? It was
unlike anything I had ever seen before, creating a lone, lost feeling,
which I supposed could only be realized by a wanderer in an uninhabited
wilderness, or on the ocean, a thousand leagues from home. Above, around
and beneath us, ay, far _beneath_ us, were the cold bright stars, and to
the eastward the “young moon with the old moon in her arms.” In the west
were floating a little band of pearly clouds, which I almost fancied to
be winged chariots, and that they were crowded with children, the absent
and loved of other years, who, in a frolic of blissful joy, were out
upon the fields of heaven. On one side of us reposed the long broad
valley of the Hudson, with its cities, towns, villages, woods, hills and
plains, whose crowded highway was diminished to a narrow girdle of deep
blue. Towards the south, hill beyond hill, field beyond field receded to
the sky, occasionally enlivened by a peaceful lake. On our right a
multitudinous array of rugged mountains lay piled up, apparently as
impassable as the bottomless gulf. In the north, old High Peak, King of
the Catskills, bared his bosom to the moonlight, as if demanding and
expecting the homage of the world. Strange and magnificent, indeed, was
the prospect from that mountain watch-tower, and it was with reluctance
that we turned away, as in duty bound, to slumber until the dawn. The
dawn! and now for a sunrise picture among the mountains, with all the
illusive performances of the mists and clouds! He comes! he comes! “the
king of the bright days!” Now the crimson and golden clouds are parting,
and he bursts on the bewildered sight! One moment more, and the whole
earth rejoices in his beams, falling alike as they do upon the prince
and the peasant of every land. And now, on either side and beneath the
sun an array of new-born clouds are gathering—like a band of cavaliers,
preparing to accompany their leader on a journey. Out of the Atlantic
have they just arisen; at noon, they will have pitched their tents on
the cerulean plains of heaven; and when the hours of day are numbered,
the far-off waters of the Pacific will again receive them in its cool
embrace. Listen! was not that the roar of waves? Naught but the report
of thunder in the valley below. Are not the two oceans coming together?
See! we are on a rock in the midst of an illimitable sea, and the tide
is surely rising—rising rapidly! Strange! it is still as death, and yet
the oceans are covered with billows! Lo! the naked masts of a ship,
stranded on a lee shore!—and yonder, as if a reef were hidden there to
impede their course, the waves are struggling in despair, now leaping to
the sky, and now plunging into a deep abyss! And when they have passed
the unseen enemy, how rapid and beautiful are their various evolutions,
as they hasten to the more distant shore! Another look, and what a
change! The mists of morning are being exhaled by the rising sun,
already the world of waters is dispersed, and in the valley of the
Hudson, far, far away, are reposing all the enchanting features of the
green earth.

We descended the mountain by a circuitous route, that we might enjoy the
luxury of passing through Plauterkill Clove. The same spring that gives
rise to Schoharie Creek, which is the principal tributary of the Mohawk,
also gives rise to the Plauterkill. In its very infancy, it begins to
leap and laugh with the gladness of a boy. From its source to the plain,
the distance is only two miles, and yet it has a fall of twenty-five
hundred feet; but the remainder of its course, until it reaches the
Esopus, is calm and picturesque, and on every side, and at every turn,
may be seen the farm-houses of a sturdy yeomanry.

The wild gorge or dell through which it passes, abounds in waterfalls of
surpassing beauty, varying from ten to a hundred feet in height, whose
rocks are green with the moss of centuries, and whose brows are ever
wreathed with the most exquisite of vines and flowers. Here is the
double leap, with its almost fathomless pool, containing a hermit trout
that has laughed at the angler’s skill for a score of years; the fall of
the Mountain Spirit, haunted, as it is said, by the disembodied spirit
of an Indian girl, who lost her life here while pursuing a phantom of
the brain; and here is the Blue-bell Fall, forever guarded by a
multitudinous array of those charming flowers. Caverns, too, and chasms
are here, dark, deep, chilly and damp; where the toad, the lizard and
snake, and strange families of insects, are perpetually multiplying, and
actually seeming to enjoy their loathsome lives; and here is the Black
Chasm, and the Devil’s Chamber, the latter with a perpendicular wall of
twice the height of old Trinity, and with a wainscoting of pines and
hemlocks which have “braved a thousand years the battle and the breeze.”
Plauterkill Clove is an eddy of the great and tumultuous world, and in
itself a world of unwritten poetry, whose primitive loveliness has not
yet been disfigured by the influence of Mammon. It has been consecrated
by a brotherhood of friends, well-tried and true, to the pure religion
of Nature; and after spending a summer-day therein, and then emerging
under the open sky, their feelings are always allied to those of a
pilgrim in a strange land, passing through the dreamy twilight of an old
cathedral.

But it is time that I should change my tune, as I desire to record a few
fishing adventures which I have lately experienced among the Catskills.
My first excursion was performed along the margin of Sweetwater Brook,
which flows out of the lake already mentioned. My guide and companion
was a notorious hunter of this region, named Peter Hummel, whose
services I have engaged for all my future rambles among the mountains.
He is, decidedly, one of the wildest and rarest characters I have ever
known, and would be a valuable acquisition to a menagerie. He was born
in a little hut at the foot of South Peak, is twenty-seven years of age,
and has never been to school a day in his life, nor, in his travels
towards civilization, further away from home than fifteen miles. He was
_educated_ for a bark-gatherer, his father and several brothers having
always been in the business; but Peter is averse to common-place labor,
to anything, in fact, that will bring money. When a boy of five years,
he had an inkling for the mountains, and once had wandered so far, that
he was found by his father in the den of an old bear, playing with her
cubs. To tramp among the mountains, with a gun and dog, is Peter’s chief
and only happiness. He is, probably, one of the best specimens of a
hunter now living; and very few, I fancy, could have survived the
dangers to which he has exposed himself. As to his constitution, he
seems to be one of those iron mortals who never die with age and
infirmity, but who generally meet with a sudden death, as if to
recompense them for their heedlessness. But with all his wildness and
recklessness, Peter Hummel is as amiable and kind-hearted a man as ever
breathed. He is an original wit withal, and shrewd and very laughable
are many of his speeches, and his stories are the cream of romance and
genuine mountain poetry.

But to my story. As usual, we started on our tramp at an early hour, he
with a trout-basket in his hand, containing our dinner, and I with my
sketch-book and a “pilgrim staff.” After a tiresome ascent of three
hours up the side of a mountain, over ledges, and through gloomy
ravines, we at last reached the wished-for brook. All the day long were
we cheered by its happy song, as we descended; now leaping from one deep
pool to another, and now scrambling over green-coated rocks, under and
around fallen trees, and along the damp, slippery sides of the
mountains, until we reached its mouth on a plain, watered by a charming
river, and sprinkled with the rustic residences of the Dutch yeomanry.
We were at home by sunset, having walked the distance of twenty miles,
and captured one hundred and fifty trout, the most of which we
distributed among the farm-houses in our way, as we returned. The trout
were quite small, varying from three to eight ounces in weight, and of a
dark-brown color.

On another occasion, I had taken my sketch-book and some fishing tackle,
and gone up a mountain road to the banks of Schoharie Creek, nominally
for the purpose of sketching a few trees. In the very first hole of the
stream into which I accidentally peered, I discovered a large trout,
lying near the bottom, just above a little bed of sand, whence rose the
bubbles of a spring. For some thirty minutes I watched the fellow with a
“yearning tenderness,” but as he appeared to be so very happy, and I was
in a kindred mood, I thought that I would let him live. Presently,
however, a beautiful fly lighted on the water, which the greedy hermit
swallowed in a minute, and returned to his cool bed, with his
conscience, as I fancied, not one whit troubled by what he had done.
Involuntarily I began to unwind my line, and having cut a pole, and
repeated to myself something about “diamond cut diamond,” I whipped on a
red hackle, and passed it over the pool. The rogue of a trout, however,
saw me, and scorned for a while to heed my line; but I coaxed and coaxed
until, at last, he darted for it, apparently out of mere spite.
Something similar to a miniature water-spout immediately arose, and the
monarch of the brook was in a fair way of sharing the same fate which
had befallen the innocent fly. I learned a salutary lesson from this
incident, and as I had yielded to the temptation of the brook, I
shouldered my sketch-book with a strap, and descended the stream. At
noon, I reached a farm-house, where I craved something to eat. A good
dinner was given me, which was seasoned by many questions, and some
information concerning trout. That afternoon, in company with a little
boy, I visited a neighboring stream, called the Roaring Kill, where I
caught one hundred and sixty fish. I then returned to the farm-house,
and spent the evening in conversation with my new acquaintances. After
breakfast, on the following morning, I set out for home, and reached
there about noon, having made only two additions to my sketches. Long
shall I remember the evening spent with this family, and their
hospitality towards an entire stranger. A pleasant family was that night
added to my list of friends.

Another of my trouting pilgrimages was to a famous place called Stony
Clove, among the mountains of Shandaken. It is a deep perpendicular cut
or gorge between two mountains, two thousand feet in depth, from twenty
feet to four hundred in width, and completely lined from base to summit
with luxuriant vegetation. It is watered by a narrow but deep brook,
which is so full of trout that some seven hundred were captured by
myself and two others in a single day. When I tell my readers that this
spot is only about one hundred miles from New York, they will be
surprised to learn that in its immediate vicinity we saw no less than
two bears, one doe with two fawns, and other valuable game. In some
parts of this clove the sunshine never enters, and whole tons of the
purest ice may be found there throughout the year. It is, indeed, a most
lonely and desolate corner of the world, and might be considered a
fitting type of the valley of the shadow of death; in single file did we
have to pass through that gorge, and in single file do the sons of men
pass into the grave. To spend one day there we had to encamp two nights,
and how we generally manage that affair I will mention presently.

In returning from Stony Clove, we took a circuitous route, and visited
the Mountain House. We approached it by way of the celebrated Catskill
Falls, which I will describe in the graphic language of Cooper, as my
readers may not remember the passage in his Pioneer. “Why, there’s a
fall in the hills, where the water of two little ponds, that lie near
each other, breaks out of their bounds, and runs over the rocks into the
valley. The stream is, may be, such a one as would turn a mill, if so
useless a thing was wanted in the wilderness. _But the hand that made
that ‘Leap’ never made a mill!_ Then the water comes croaking and
winding among the rocks, first so slow that a trout might swim in it,
and then starting and running, like any creature that wanted to make a
fair spring, till it gets to where the mountain divides, like the cleft
foot of a deer, leaving a deep hollow for the brook to tumble into. The
first pitch is nigh two hundred feet, and the water looks like flakes of
snow afore it touches the bottom, and then gathers itself together again
for a new start, and, may be, flutters over fifty feet of flat rock,
before it falls for another hundred feet, when it jumps from shelf to
shelf, first running this way and that way, striving to get out of the
hollow, till it finally comes to the plain.”

Our party, on this occasion, consisted of three—Peter Hummel, a
bark-gatherer and myself. I had chosen these fellows for the expedition,
because of their friendship for me and their willingness to go; and I
resolved to give them a “treat” at the “Grand Hotel,” which the natives
of this region look upon as a kind of paradise. You are aware, I
suppose, reader, that the Mountain House is an establishment vying in
its style of accommodations with the best of hotels. Between it and the
Hudson, there is, during the summer, a semi-daily line of stages, and it
is the transient resort of thousands, who visit it for the novelty of
its location as well as for the surrounding scenery. The edifice itself
stands on a cliff, within a few feet of the edge, and commands a
prospect extending from Long Island Sound to the White Mountains. The
first time I visited this spot, I spent half the night at my bed-room
window, watching the fantastic performances of a thunder-storm far below
me, which made the building tremble like a ship upon a reef, while the
sky above was cloudless, and studded with stars. Between this spot and
South Peak, “there’s the High Peak and the Round Top, which lay back,
like a father and mother among their children, seeing they are far above
all the other hills.”

But to proceed. Coarsely and comically dressed as we were, we made a
very unique appearance as we paraded into the office of the hotel. I met
a few acquaintances there to whom I introduced my comrades, and in a
short time each one was spinning a mountain legend to a crowd of
delighted listeners. In due time I ushered them into the dining-hall,
where was enacted a scene which can be better imagined than described;
the fellows were completely out of their element, and it was laughable
in the extreme, to see them stare and hear them talk, as the servants
bountifully helped them to the turtle soup, ice-cream, charlotte russe
and other fashionable dainties.

About the middle of the afternoon we commenced descending the beautiful
mountain-road leading towards the Hudson. In the morning there had been
a heavy shower, and a thousand happy rills attended us with a song. A
delightful nook on this road is pointed out as the identical spot where
Rip Van Winkle slept away a score of his life. I reached home in time to
spend the twilight hour in my own room, musing upon the much-loved
mountains. I had but one companion, and that was a whippoorwill, which
nightly comes to my window-sill, as if to tell me a tale of its love, or
of the woods and solitary wilderness.

But the most unique and interesting of my fishing adventures remains to
be described. I had heard a great deal about the good fishing afforded
by the lake already mentioned, and I desired to visit it and spend a
night upon its shore. Having spoken to my friend Hummel, and invited a
neighbor to accompany us, whom the people had named “White Yankee,” the
noontide hour of a pleasant day found us on our winding march: and such
a grotesque appearance as we made was exceedingly amusing. The group was
mostly _animated_ when climbing the steep and rocky ravines which we
were compelled to pass through. There was Peter, “long, lank, and lean,”
and wild in his attire and countenance as an eagle of the wilderness,
with an axe in his hand, and a huge knapsack on his back, containing our
provisions and utensils for cooking. Next to him followed White Yankee,
with three blankets lashed upon his back, a slouched white hat on his
head, and nearly half a pound of tobacco in his mouth. Crooked-legged
withal, and somewhat sickly was this individual, and being wholly
unaccustomed to this kind of business, he went along groaning, grunting,
and sweating, as if he was “sent for and _didn’t want_ to come.” In the
rear tottered along your humble friend, dear reader, with a gun upon his
shoulder, a powder-horn and shot-pouch at his side, cowhide boots on his
feet, and a cap on his head, his beard half an inch long, and his
flowing hair streaming in the wind.

We reached our place of destination about five o’clock, and halted under
a large impending rock, which was to be our sleeping place. We were
emphatically under the “shadow of a rock in a weary land.” Our first
business was to build a fire, which we did with about one cord of green
and dry wood. Eighty poles were then cut, to which we fastened our
lines. The old canoe in the lake was bailed out, and, having baited our
hooks with the minnows we had brought with us, we planted the poles in
about seven feet of water all around the lake shore. We then prepared
and ate our supper, and awaited the coming on of night. During this
interval I learned from Peter the following particulars concerning the
lake. It was originally discovered by a hunter named Shew. It is
estimated to cover about fifty acres, and in the centre to be more than
two hundred feet in depth. For my part, however, I do not believe it
contains over five acres, though the mountains which tower on every side
but one, are calculated to deceive the eye; but, as to its depth, I
could easily fancy it to be bottomless, for the water is remarkably
dark. To the number of trout in this lake there seems to be no end. It
is supposed they reach it, when small, through Sweetwater Brook, when
they increase in size, and multiply. It also abounds in green and
scarlet lizards, which are a serious drawback to the pleasures of the
fastidious angler. I asked Peter many questions concerning his
adventures about the lake, and he told me that the number of “harmless
murders” he had committed here was about three hundred. In one day he
shot three deer; at another time a dozen turkeys; at another twenty
ducks; one night an old bear; and again half-a-dozen coons; and on one
occasion annihilated a den of thirty-seven rattlesnakes.

At nine o’clock we lighted a torch, and went to examine our lines; and
it was my good fortune to haul out not less than forty-one trout,
weighing from one to two pounds a-piece. These we put into a spring of
very cold water, which bubbled from the earth a few paces from our
camping place, and then retired to repose. Branches of hemlock
constituted our couch, and my station was between Peter and White
Yankee. Little did I dream, when I first saw these two bipeds, that I
should ever have them for my bed-fellows; but who can tell what shall be
on the morrow? My friends were in the land of Nod in less than a dozen
minutes after we had retired; but it was difficult for me to go to sleep
in the midst of the wild scene which surrounded me. There I lay, flat on
my back, a stone and my cap for a pillow, and wrapped in a blanket, with
my nose exposed to the chilly night air. And what pictures did my fancy
conjure up, as I looked upon the army of trunks around me, glistening in
the firelight. One moment they were a troop of Indians from the
spirit-land, come to revisit again the hunting-grounds of their fathers,
and weeping because the white man had desecrated their soil; and again I
fancied them to be a congress of wild animals, assembled to try,
execute, and devour us, for the depredations our fellows had committed
upon their kind during the last one hundred years. By and by a star
peered out upon me from between the branches of a tree, and my thoughts
ascended heavenward. And now my eyes twinkled and blinked in sympathy
with the star, and I was a dreamer.

An hour after the witching time of night, I was startled from my sleep
by a bellowing halloo from Peter, who said it was time to examine the
lines again. Had you heard the echoes which were then awakened, far and
near, you would have thought yourself in enchanted land. But there were
_living_ answers to that shout, for a frightened fox began to bark, an
owl commenced its horrible hootings, a partridge its drumming, and a
wolf its howl. There was not a breeze stirring, and

            “Naught was seen in the vault on high
            But the moon and the stars and a cloudless sky,
            And a river of white in the welkin blue.”

Peter and Yankee went out to haul in the trout, but I remained on shore
to attempt a drawing, by moonlight, of the lake before me. The opposite
side of the mountain, with its dark tangled forests, was perfectly
mirrored in the waters below, the whole seeming as solid and variegated
as a tablet of Egyptian marble. The canoe with its inmates noiselessly
pursued its way, making the stillness more profound. In the water at my
feet I distinctly saw lizards sporting about, and I could not but wonder
why such reptiles were ever created. I thought with the Ancient Mariner,

                   “A thousand slimy things lived on,
                   And so did I.”

Again did we retire to rest, slumbering until the break of day. We then
partook of a substantial trout breakfast, gathered up our plunder, and
with about one hundred handsome trout, started for home.

The accidents we met with during the night were harmless, though
somewhat ridiculous. A paper of matches which Peter carried in his
breeches-pocket took fire, and gave him such a scorching that he
bellowed lustily;—while Yankee, in his restless slumbers, rolled so
near our watch-fire, that he barely escaped with a corner of his
blanket, the remainder having been consumed. As for me I only fell into
the water among the lizards, while endeavoring to reach the end of a log
which extended into the lake. In descending the mountain we shot three
partridges, and confoundedly frightened a fox, and by the middle of the
afternoon were quietly pursuing our several avocations among our fellow
men of the lower world.

                              CHAPTER II.

    A spring day—The sky—The mountains—The streams—The
    woods—The open fields—Domestic animals—Poetry—The poultry
    yard.

                                             _Plauterkill Clove, May._

May is near its close, and I am still in the valley of the Hudson.
Spring is indeed come again, and this, for the present year, has been
its day of triumph. The moment I awoke, at dawn, this morning, I knew by
intuition that it would be so, and I bounded from my couch like a
startled deer, impatient for the cool delicious air. Spring is upon the
earth once more, and a new life is given me of enjoyment and hope. The
year is in its childhood, and my heart clings to it with a sympathy that
I feel must be immortal and divine. What I have done to-day I cannot
tell. I only know that my body has been tremulous with feeling, and my
eyes almost blinded with seeing. Every hour has been fraught with a new
emotion of delight, and presented to my vision numberless pictures of
surpassing beauty. I have held communion with the sky, the mountains,
the streams, the woods, and the fields; and these, if you please, shall
be the themes of my present chapter.

The sky! it has been of as deep an azure and as serene as ever canopied
the world. It seemed as if you could look _through_ it into the
illimitable home of the angels—could almost behold the glory which
surrounds the Invisible. Three clouds alone have attracted my attention.
One was the offspring of the dawn, and encircled by a rim of gold; the
next was the daughter of noon, and white as the driven snow, and the
last, of evening, and robed in deepest crimson. Wayward and coquettish
creatures were these clouds! their chief ambition seemed to be to
display their charms to the best advantage, as if conscious of their
loveliness; and, at sunset, when the light lay pillowed on the
mountains, it was a joyous sight to see them, side by side, like three
sweet sisters, as they were, _going home_. Each one was anxious to favor
the world with its own last smile, and by their changing places so
often, you would have thought they were all unwilling to depart. But
they were the ministers of the sun, and he would not tarry for them; and
while he beckoned them to follow on, the evening star took his station
in the sky, and bade them depart; and when I looked again, they were
gone. Never more, thought I, will those clouds be a source of joy to a
human heart. And in this respect, also, they seemed to me to be the
emblems of those beautiful but thoughtless maidens, who spend the flower
of youth trifling with the affections of all whom they have the power to
fascinate.

The mountains! in honor of the season which has just clothed them in the
richest green, they have, this day, displayed every one of their varied
and interesting charms. At noon, as I lay under the shadow of a tree,
watching them “with a look made of all sweet accord,” my face was
freshened by a breeze. It appeared to come from the summit of South
Peak, and to be the voice of the Catskills. I listened, and these were
the words which echoed through my ear.

“Of all the seasons, oh Spring! thou art the most beloved, and, to us,
always the most welcome. Joy and gladness ever attend thy coming, for we
know that the ‘winter is past, the rains are over and gone, the time of
the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in
our land.’ And we know, too, that from thy hands flow unnumbered
blessings. Thou softenest the earth, that the husbandman may sow his
seed, which shall yield him a thousand fold at the harvest. Thou
releasest the rivers from their icy fetters, that the wings of commerce
may be unfurled once more. Thou givest food to the cattle upon a
thousand hills, that they, in their turn, may furnish man with necessary
food, and also assist him in his domestic labors. Thou coverest the
earth with a garniture of freshest loveliness, that the senses of man
may be gratified, and his thoughts directed to Him who hath created all
things, and pronounced them good. And, finally, thou art the hope of the
year, and thine admonitions, which are of the future, have a tendency to
emancipate the thoughts of man from this world, and the troubles which
may surround him here, and fix them upon that clime where an everlasting
spring abides.” “The voice in my dreaming ear melted away,” and I heard
the roaring of the streams, as they fretted their way down the rocky
steeps.

The streams! such “trumpets” as they have blown to-day would, I am
afraid, have caused Mr. Wordsworth to exclaim:

“The cataracts—_make a devilish noise up yonder_!”

The fact is, as “all the earth is gay,” and all the springs among the
mountains are “giving themselves up to jollity,” the streams are full to
overflowing, and rush along with a “vindictive looseness,” because of
the burden they have to bear. The falls and cascades, which make such
exquisite pictures in the summer months, are now fearful to behold, for,
in their anger, every now and then they toss some giant tree into an
abyss of foam, which makes one tremble with fear. But after the streams
have left the mountains, and are running through the bottom lands, they
still appear to be displeased with something, and at _every turn_ they
take, _delve_ into the “bowels of the harmless earth,” making it
dangerous for the angler to approach too near, but rendering the haunt
of the trout more spacious and commodious than before. The streams are
about the only things I cannot praise to-day, and I hope it will not
_rain_ for a month to come, if this is the way they intend to act
whenever we have a number of delightful showers.

The woods! A goodly portion of the day have I spent in one of their most
secret recesses. I went with Shakspeare under my arm; but I could not
read any more than fly, so I stretched myself at full length on a huge
log, and kept a sharp look-out for anything that might send me a waking
dream. The brotherhood of trees clustered around me, laden with leaves
just bursting into full maturity, and possessing that delicate and
peculiar green which lasts but a single day, and never returns. A fitful
breeze swept through them, so that ever and anon I fancied a gushing
fountain to be near, or that a company of ladies fair was come to visit
me, and that I heard the rustle of their silken kirtles. And now my eyes
rested on a tree that was entirely leafless, and almost without a limb.
Instead of grass at its foot, was a heap of dry leaves, and not a bush
or a vine grew anywhere near it; but around its neighbors they grew in
great abundance. It seemed branded with a curse; alone, forsaken of its
own, and despised by all. Can this, thought I, be an emblem of any human
being? Strange that it should be, but it is nevertheless too true. Only
one week ago, I saw a poor miserable maniac, bound hand and foot, driven
from “home and all its treasures,” and carried to a dark, damp
prison-house in a neighboring town. I can be reconciled to the mystery
of a poisonous reptile’s existence; but it is very hard to understand
for what good purpose a maniac is created. Another object I noticed, was
a little tree about five feet high, completely covered with blossoms of
a gaudy hue. At first, I tried to gather something poetical out of this
thing, but with all my endeavors I could not. It caused me a real hearty
laugh, as the idea expanded, for it reminded me of a certain maiden lady
of my acquaintance, who is _old_, _stunted_, very fond of _tall men_,
and always strutting among her fellows under a weight of _jewelry_. But
oh! what beautiful flowers did I notice in that shady grove, whose
whispering filled me with delight! Their names? I cannot tell them to
you, fair reader—they _ought_ to have no names, any more than a cloud,
or a foam-bell on the river. Some were blue, some white, some purple,
and some scarlet. There were little parties of them on every side, and
as the wind swayed their delicate stems, I could not but fancy they were
living creatures; the personified thoughts, perhaps, of happy and
innocent children. Occasionally, too, I noticed a sort of straggler
peeping at me from beside a hillock of moss, or from under the branches
of a fallen tree, as if surprised at my temerity in entering its
secluded haunt. Birds, also, were around me in that green-wood
sanctuary, singing their hymns of praise to the Father of Mercies for
the return of spring. The nests of the females being already built, they
had nothing to do but be happy, anticipating the time when they
themselves should be the “dealers-out of some small blessings” to their
helpless broods. As to their mates, they were about as independent,
restless, and noisy as might be expected, very much as any rational man
would be who was the husband of a young and beautiful wife.

But the open fields to-day have superabounded with pictures to please
and instruct the mind. I know not where to begin to describe them. Shall
it be at the very threshold of our farm-house? Well, then, only look at
those lilac trees in the garden, actually top-heavy with purple and
white flowering pyramids. The old farmer has just cut a number of large
branches, and given them to his little daughter to carry to her mother,
who will distribute them between the mantle-piece, the table, and the
fire-place of the family sitting-room. But what ambrosial odor is that
which now salutes the senses! It comes not from the variegated corner of
the garden, where the tulip, the violet, the hyacinth, the bluebell and
the lily of the valley are vying to outstrip each other in their attire;
nor from the clover-covered lawn, besprinkled with buttercups,
strawberry blossoms, and honeysuckles, but from the orchard, every one
of whose trees are completely covered with snow-white blossoms. And from
their numberless petals emanates the murmur of bees as they are busy
extracting the luscious honey. What an abundance of fruit—of apples,
cherries, peaches and pears, do these sweet blossoms promise! But next
week there _may_ be a bitter _frost_; and this is the lesson which my
heart learns. Now that I am in the spring-time of life, my hopes, in
numbers and beauty, are like the blossoms of trees, and I know not but
that they may even on the morrow be withered by the chilly breath of the
grave. But let us loiter farther on. The western slope of this gentle
hill is equally divided, and of two different shades of green; one is
planted with rye and the other with wheat. The eastern slope of the hill
has lately been loosened by the plough, and is of a sombre color, but to
my eyes not less pleasing than the green. And this view is enlivened
with figures besides—for a farmer and two boys are planting corn, the
latter opening the beds with their hoes and the former dropping in the
seed (which he carries in a bag slung at his side), and covering it with
his foot. And now, fluttering over their heads is a roguish bobolink,
_scolding_ about something in their _wake_; at a _respectful_ distance,
and hopping along the ground, are a number of robins, and on the nearest
fence a meadow-lark and bluebird are “holding on for a bite.” But there
is no end to these rural pictures, so I will just take my reader into
this neighboring meadow-pasture, thence into the poultry-yard at home,
and conclude my present rhapsody.

Here we are, then, in the midst of various domestic animals. Yonder a
couple of black colts are chasing each other in play, while their
venerable mother (for they are brothers, though not twins) is standing a
little way off, watching their antics, and twisting about her ears, as
she remembers the happy days of her own colt-hood. Here are some half
dozen hearty cows, lying down and grazing, each one with a “pledge of
affection” sporting about her. There are six or eight oxen, eating away
as fast as they can, while one who seems to be a sentinel, occasionally
rolls up his eye to see if the farmer is coming to renew his song of
“haw! gee! gee! haw!” Under the shadows of that old oak is a flock of
sheep, with their lambs bounding beside them, as to the “tabor’s sound;”
but to me there comes no “thought of grief” at the sight, wherein I must
be suffered to disagree with Wordsworth, to whom I have already alluded
once or twice, and whose celebrated and most wonderful ode has been
echoing in my heart all the day long. Some of the lines in it are
appropriate to the day, the charms of which I am attempting to make you
_feel_, reader, and you will oblige me by conning and inwardly digesting
the following fragments of a whole and yet really complete poem:—

                  “The sunshine is a glorious birth.”

            “The winds come to me from the fields of sleep.”

              “And the babe leaps up on his mother’s arm.”

            “Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own.”

          “Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,
          And custom lie upon thee with a weight
          Heavy as fate, and deep almost as life.”

                      “O joy, that in our embers
                      Is something that doth live,
                      That nature yet remembers
                      What was so fugitive.”

            “To me the meanest flower that blooms, can give
            Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.”

Strange that a man, after dwelling upon such poetry, should be willing
to go into a _poultry_ yard. But why not? I would rather do this
_willingly_ than be compelled, as I have been, and may be again, to hear
a man say, after reading to him Wordsworth’s great Ode, “Why! of what
_use_ is such _stuff_? what does it _prove_? will it furnish a man with
_bread and butter_? will it make the _pot boil_?” The people of the
poultry-yard have been in such glee to-day, and contributed so much to
the gladness of the day, that I must pay them a passing tribute. In the
first place, our old gobbler, with his retinue of turkey wives, has been
at the point of bursting with pride ever since sunrise. If the Grand
Sultan of Turkey, (who must be the father of all turkeys,) cuts the same
kind of capers in the presence of his hundred ladies, Turkey must be a
great country for lean people to “laugh and grow fat.” Our gobbler is a
feathered personification of Jack Falstaff, possessing his prominent
trait of cowardice to perfection. I flourished a red handkerchief in his
face this morning, and, by the way he strutted round and gobbled, you
would have thought he was going to devour you. About ten minutes after
this, I threw down a handful of corn, which was intended for his
particular palate. While he was busy picking it up, a certain cock
stepped alongside, and commenced picking too. The intruder, having got
in the way of the gobbler, was suddenly pushed aside; whereupon the
gentleman with spurs chuckled and “showed fight;” but the gobbler for a
moment heeded him not. This the cock could not bear, so he pounced upon
his enemy, and whipped him without mercy, until the coward and fool ran
away, with his long train of affectionate wives following behind.

The cocks, hens and chickens which have figured in the yard to-day,
would more than number a hundred; and such cackling, crowing, chuckling,
and crying as they have made, was anything but a “_concord_ of sweet
sounds.” But the creatures have been happy, and it was therefore a
pleasure to look at them. A young hen, this morning, made her first
appearance with a large brood of chickens, yellow as gold, and this
caused quite a sensation among the feathered husbands generally. The
mother, as she rambled about, seemed to say, by her pompous air, to her
daughterless friends—“Ar’n’t they beautiful? don’t you wish you had a
few?” It was also very funny to see with what looks of astonishment the
youthful cocks surveyed these “infant phenomenons.” As to our ducks, and
geese, and guinea-hens, they have minded their business very well—the
two former paddling about the creek and mud-puddles, and the latter,
“between meals,” roaming at large through the orchard and garden,
altogether the most beautiful and rational of the feathered tribes.

A mountaineer, who is to take this queer record to the post-office, is
waiting for me below, and I must close,—hoping that the country
pictures I have endeavored to sketch, may have a tendency to make you
feel a portion of that joy which has characterized this delightful
Spring Day.

                              CHAPTER III.

                         The Corn Planting Bee.
                                             _Plauterkill Clove, May._

The people who inhabit that section of country lying between the
Catskill Mountains and the Hudson River, are undoubtedly the legitimate
descendants of the far-famed Rip Van Winkle. Dutch blood floweth in
their veins, and their names, appearance, manners, are all Dutch, and
Dutch only. The majority of them are engaged in tilling the soil, and as
they seem to be satisfied with a bare competency, the peacefulness of
their lives is only equalled by their ignorance of books and the world
at large. The height of their ambition is to enjoy a frolic, and what
civilized people understand by that term, they designate a Bee. Not only
have they their wedding and funeral bees, but they commemorate their
agricultural labors with a bee, and of these the corn planting bee,
which I am about to describe, is a specimen.

A certain old Dutchman of my acquaintance had so long neglected the
field where he intended to plant his corn, that he found it necessary to
retrieve his reputation by getting up a bee. He therefore immediately
issued his invitations, and at two o’clock on the appointed day, about
seventy of his neighbors, including men and women, made their appearance
at his dwelling, each one of them furnished with a hoe and a small bag
to carry the seed. After supplying his guests with all they wanted in
the way of _spiritual_ drink, my friend gave the signal, and shouldering
a large hoe, started off for the field of action, closely followed by
his neighbors, who fell to work quite lustily. The field was large, but
as the laborers were numerous, it was entirely planted at least two
hours before sunset, when the party was disbanded, with the express
understanding resting upon their minds that they should invite their
children to the dance, which was to take place in the evening at the
bee-giver’s residence.

The house of my farmer friend having been originally built for a tavern,
it happened to contain a large ball-room, and on this occasion it was
stripped of its beds and bedding, and the walls thereof decked from top
to bottom with green branches and an occasional tallow candle, and
conspicuous at one end of the hall was a refreshment establishment, well
supplied with pies, gingerbread, molasses candy and sugars, and with an
abundance of _colored alcohols_. The number of young men and women who
came together on this occasion was about one hundred, and while they
were trimming for the approaching dance, the musician, a long-legged,
huge and bony Dutchman, was tuning a rusty fiddle. The thirty minutes
occupied by him in this interesting business were employed by the male
portion of the guests in “wetting their whistles.” The dresses worn on
this occasion were eminently rustic and unique. Those of the gentlemen,
for the most part, were made of coarse gray cloth, similar to that worn
by the residents on Blackwell’s Island, while the ladies were arrayed in
white cotton dresses, trimmed with scarlet ribbon. Pumps being out of
vogue, cowhide boots were worn by the former and calf brogans by the
latter.

All things being now ready, a terribly loud screech came from the poor
little fiddle, and the clattering of heels commenced, shaking the
building to its very foundation. “On with the dance, let joy be
unconfined,” seemed to be the motto of all present, and from the start,
there seemed to be a strife between the male and female dancers as to
who should leap the highest and make the most noise. Desperate were the
efforts of the musician, as he toiled away upon his instrument, keeping
_discord_ with his heels; and every unusual wail of the fiddle was the
forerunner of a shower of sweat, which came rolling off the fiddler’s
face to the floor. And then the joyous delirium of the musician was
communicated to the dancers, and as the dance proceeded, their efforts
became still more desperate; the women wildly threw back their hair, and
many of the men took off their coats, and rolled up their shirt sleeves,
for the purpose of keeping cool. In spite of every effort, however, the
faces of the dancers became quite red with the rare excitement, and the
hall was filled with a kind of heated fog, in which the first
“breakdown” of the evening concluded.

Then followed the refreshment scene. The men drank whisky and smoked
cigars, while the women feasted on mince pies, drank small beer, and
sucked molasses candy. Some of the smaller men or boys, who were too
lazy to dance, sneaked off into an out-of-the-way room, for the purpose
of pitching pennies, while a few couples, who were victims to the tender
passion, retired to some cozy nook to bask unobserved in each other’s
smiles.

But now the screeching fiddle is again heard above the murmur of talking
and laughing voices, and another rush is made for the sanded floor.
Another dance is then enjoyed, differing from the one already described
only in its increased extravagance. After sawing away for a long time as
if for dear life, the musician is politely requested to play a new tune.
Promptly does he assent to the proposition; but having started on a
fresh key, he soon falls into the identical strain which had kept him
busy for the previous hour; so that the philosophic listener is
compelled to conclude either that the fiddler cannot play more than one
tune, or that he has a particular passion for the monotonous and
nameless one to which he so closely clings. And thus with many
indescribable variations does the ball continue throughout the entire
night.

I did not venture to trip the “light fantastic toe” on the occasion in
question, but my enjoyment as a calm spectator was very amusing and
decidedly original. Never before had I seen a greater amount of labor
performed by men and women in the same time. I left this interesting
assembly about midnight, fully satisfied with what I had seen and heard,
but I was afterwards told that I missed more than “half the fun.”

When the music was loudest, so it appears, and the frenzy of the dance
at its climax, a select party of Dutch gentlemen were suddenly seized
with an appetite for some more substantial food than any that had yet
been given them. They held a consultation on the important subject, and
finally agreed to ransack the garret and cellar of their host for the
purpose of satisfying their natural desires. In the former place they
found a good supply of dried beef, and in the latter, a few loaves of
bread and a jar of rich cream, upon which they regaled themselves
without favor, but with some fear. The giver of the bee subsequently
discovered what had been done, and though somewhat more than “three
sheets in the wind,” slyly sent for a pair of constables, who soon made
their appearance, and arrested the thieving guests, who were held to
bail in the sum of fifty dollars each. I was also informed that the
dance was kept up until six o’clock in the morning, and that the
appearance of my friend’s establishment and the condition of his guests
at seven o’clock were ridiculous in the extreme. A small, proportion of
the bee-party only had succeeded in starting for home, so that the
number who from excess of drinking and undue fatigue had retired to
repose, was not far from three score and ten. The sleeping
accommodations of the host were limited, and the consequence was that
his guests had to shift for themselves as they best could. The floors of
every room in the house, including the pantries, were literally covered
with men and women,—some of them moaning with a severe headache, some
breathing audibly in a deep sleep, and others snoring in the loudest and
most approved style. By twelve o’clock the interesting company had
stolen off to their several homes, and the corn planting bee, among the
Catskills, was at an end.

                              CHAPTER IV.

    Lake Horicon—Sketches of its scenery—Information for
    anglers—Sabbath Day Point—War memories—The insect city—Death
    of a deer—Rogers’ Slide—Diamond Island—The snake
    charmer—Snake stories—Night on Horicon.

                                               _Lyman’s Tavern, June._

If circumstances alone could make one poetical, then might you expect
from me, on this occasion, a paper of rare excellence and beauty. My
sketch-book is my desk; my canopy from the sunshine, an elm tree; the
carpet under my feet, a rich green sprinkled with flowers; the music in
my ear of singing birds; and the prospect before me, north, east, and
south, the tranquil bosom of Lake George, with its islands and
surrounding mountains; whose waters, directly at my side, are alive with
many kinds of fish, sporting together on a bed of sand. Yes, the
far-famed Lake George is my subject; but in what I write, I shall not
use that title,—for I do not like the idea of christening what belongs
to us with the name of an English monarch, however much his memory
deserves to be respected. Shall it be Lake St. Sacrament, then? No! for
that was given to it by the Pope, and the French nation. Horicon—a
musical and appropriate word, meaning pure water, and given to it by the
poor Indian—is the name which rightfully belongs to the lake which is
now my theme.

Lake Horicon is one of the few objects in Nature which did not
disappoint me after reading the descriptions of travellers. I verily
believe that, in point of mere beauty, it has not its superior in the
world. Its length is thirty-four miles, and its width from two to four.
Its islands number about three hundred, and vary from ten feet to a mile
in length;—a great many of them are located in the centre of the lake,
at a place called the Narrows. It is completely surrounded with
mountains; the most prominent of which are, Black Mountain, on the east
of the Narrows, Tongue Mountain, directly opposite, and French Mountain,
at the southern extremity. The first is the most lofty, and remarkable
for its wildness, and the superb prospect therefrom; the second is also
wild and uninhabited, but distinguished for its dens of rattlesnakes;
and the latter is somewhat cultivated, but memorable for having been the
camping-ground of the French during the Revolutionary War. The whole
eastern border is yet a comparative wilderness; but along the western
shore are some respectable farms, and a good coach road from Caldwell to
Ticonderoga, which affords many admirable views of the sky-blue lake.
There are three public houses here which I can recommend: the Lake
House, for those who are fond of company—Lyman’s Tavern for the hunter
of scenery and lover of quiet—and Garfield’s House for the fisherman. A
nice little steamboat, commanded by a gentleman, passes through every
morning and evening, (excepting Sundays,) and though a convenient affair
to the traveller, it is an eyesore to the admirer of the wilderness.
Identified with this boat is an eccentric man named _Old Dick_, who
amuses the tourist, and collects an occasional shilling by exhibiting a
number of rattlesnakes. When, in addition to all these things, it is
remembered that Horicon is the centre of a region made classic by the
exploits of civilized and savage warfare, it can safely be pronounced
one of the most interesting portions of our country for the summer
tourist to visit. I have looked upon it from many a peak whence might be
seen almost every rood of its shore. I have sailed into every one of its
bays, and, like the pearl-diver, have repeatedly descended into its cold
blue chambers, so that I have learned to love it as a faithful and
well-tried friend. Since the day of my arrival here, I have kept a
journal of my adventures, and, as a memorial of Horicon, I will extract
therefrom, and embody in this chapter the following passages.

Six pencil sketches have I executed upon the lake to-day. One of them
was a view of the distant mountains, whose various outlines were
concentrated at one point, and whose color was of that delicate, dreamy
blue, created by a sunlight atmosphere, with the sun directly in front.
In the middle distance was a flock of islands, with a sail-boat in their
midst, and in the foreground a cluster of rocks, surmounted by a single
cedar, which appeared like the sentinel of a fortress. Another was of
the ruins of Fort George, with a background of dark-green mountains,
made quite desolate by a flock of sheep sleeping in one of its shady
moats. Another was of a rowing-race between two rival fishermen, at the
time they were only a dozen rods from the goal, and when every nerve of
their aged frames was strained to the utmost. Another was of a neat
log-cabin, on a quiet lawn near the water, at whose threshold a couple
of ragged, but beautiful children were playing with a large dog, while
from the chimney of the house ascended the blue smoke with a thousand
fantastic evolutions. Another was of a huge pine tree, which towered
conspicuously above its kindred on the mountain side, and seemed to me
an appropriate symbol of Webster in the midst of a vast concourse of his
fellow men. And the last was of a thunder-storm, driven away from the
mountain top by the mild radiance of a rainbow, which partly encircled
Horicon in a loving embrace.

I have been fishing to-day, and, while enduring some poor sport, indited
in my mind the following information, for the benefit of my piscatorial
friends. The days of trout-fishing in Lake Horicon are nearly at an end.
A few years ago, it abounded in salmon-trout, which were frequently
caught weighing twenty pounds. But their average weight, at the present
time, is not more than one pound and a half, and they are scarce even at
that. In taking them, you first have to obtain a sufficient quantity of
sapling bark to reach the bottom in sixty feet of water, to one end of
which must be fastened a stone, and to the other a stick of wood, which
designates your fishing-ground, and is called a buoy. A variety of more
common fish are then caught, such as suckers, perch, and eels, which are
cut up and deposited, some half a peck at a time, in the vicinity of the
buoy. In a few days the trout will begin to assemble, and so long as you
keep them well fed, a brace of them may be captured at any time during
the summer. But the fact is, this is only another way for “paying too
dear for the whistle.” The best angling, after all, is for the common
brook trout, which is a bolder biting fish, and better for the table
than the salmon trout. The cause of the great decrease in the large
trout of this lake, is this:—in the autumn, when they have sought the
shores for the purpose of spawning, the neighboring barbarians have been
accustomed to spear them by torch-light; and if the heartless business
does not soon cease, the result will be, that in a few years they will
be extinct. There are two other kinds of trout in the lake, however,
which yet afford good sport,—the silver trout, caught in the summer,
and the fall trout. But the black bass, upon the whole, is now mostly
valued by the fisherman. They are in their prime in the summer months.
They vary from one to five pounds in weight; are taken by trolling, and
with a drop line, and afford fine sport. Their haunts are along the
rocky shores, and it is often the case, that on a still day you may see
them from your boat, swimming about in herds where the water is twenty
feet deep. They have a queer fashion, when hooked, of leaping out of the
water, for the purpose of getting clear, and it is seldom that a novice
in the gentle art can keep them from succeeding. But, alas! their
numbers also are fast diminishing, by the same means and the same hands
that have killed the trout. My advice to those who come here exclusively
for the purpose of fishing is, to continue their journey to the sources
of the Hudson, Scaroon Lake, Long Lake, and Lake Pleasant; in whose
several waters there seems to be no end to every variety of trout, and
where may be found much wild and beautiful scenery. The angler of the
present day will be disappointed in Lake Horicon.

When issuing from the Narrows on your way down the Horicon, the most
attractive object, next to the mountains, is a strip of low, sandy land,
extending into the lake, called Sabbath Day Point. It was so christened
by Abercrombie, who encamped and spent the sabbath there, when on his
way to Ticonderoga, where he was so sadly defeated. I look upon it as
one of the most enchanting places in the world; but the pageant with
which it is associated was not only enchanting and beautiful, but
magnificent. Only look upon the picture. It is the sunset hour, and
before us, far up in the upper air, and companion of the evening star,
and a host of glowing clouds, rises the majestic form of Black Mountain,
enveloped in a mantle of rosy atmosphere. The bosom of the lake is
without a ripple, and every cliff, ravine and island has its counterpart
in the pure waters. A blast of martial music from drums, fifes, bagpipes
and bugle horns now falls upon the ear, and the immense procession comes
in sight; one thousand and thirty-five batteaux, containing an army of
seventeen thousand souls, headed by the brave Abercrombie and the red
cross of England,—the scarlet uniforms and glistening bayonets forming
a line of light against the darker background of the mountain. And
behind a log in the foreground is a crouching Indian runner, who, with
the speed of a hawk, will carry the tidings to the French nation, that
an army is coming—“numerous as the leaves upon the trees.” Far from the
strange scene fly the affrighted denizens of mountain and wave,—while
thousands of human hearts are beating happily at the prospect of
victory, whose bodies, in a few hours, will be food for the raven on the
plains of Ticonderoga.

A goodly portion of this day have I been musing upon the olden times,
while rambling about Fort George, and Fort William Henry. Long and with
peculiar interest did I linger about the spot near the latter, where
were cruelly massacred the followers of Monroe, at which time Montcalm
linked his name to the title of a heartless Frenchman, and the name of
Webb became identified with all that is justly despised by the human
heart. I profess myself to be an enemy to wrong and outrage of every
kind, and yet a lover and defender of the Indian race; but when I picked
up one after another the flinty heads of arrows, which were mementos of
an awful butchery, my spirit revolted against the red man, and for a
moment I felt a desire to condemn him. Yes, I will condemn that
particular band of murderers, but I cannot but defend the race. Cruel
and treacherous they were, I will allow, but do we not forget the
treatment they ever met with from the while man? The most righteous of
battles have ever been fought for the sake of sires and wives and
children, and for what else did the poor Indian fight, when driven from
the home of his youth into an unknown wilderness, to become thereafter a
by-word and a reproach among the nations? “Indians,” said we, “we would
have your lands, and if you will not be satisfied with the gewgaws we
proffer, our powder and balls will teach you that power is but another
name for right.” And this is the principle that has guided the white man
ever since in his warfare against the aborigines of our country. I
cannot believe that we shall ever be a happy and prosperous people until
the King of kings shall have forgiven us for having, with a yoke of
tyranny, almost annihilated an hundred nations.

A portion of this afternoon I whiled away on a little island, which
attracted my attention by its charming variety of foliage. It is not
more than one hundred feet across at the widest part, and is encircled
by a yellow sand bank, and shielded by a regiment of variegated rocks.
But what could I find there to interest me, it may be inquired? My
answer is this. This island, hidden in one of the bays of Horicon, is an
insect city, and more populous than was Rome in the days of her glory.
There the honeybee has his oaken tower, the wasp and humble-bee their
grassy nests, the spider his den, the butterfly his hammock, the
grasshopper his domain, the beetle and cricket and hornet their decayed
stump, and the toiling ant her palace of sand. There they were born,
there they flourish and multiply, and there they die, symbolizing the
career and destiny of man. I was a “distinguished stranger” in that
city, and I must confess that it gratified my ambition to be welcomed
with such manifestations of regard as the inhabitants thought proper to
bestow. My approach was heralded by the song of a kingly bee; and when I
had thrown myself upon a mossy bank, multitudes of people gathered
round, and, with their eyes intently fixed upon me, stood still, and let
“expressive silence muse my praise.” To the “natives,” I was
emphatically a source of astonishment, and as I wished to gather
instruction from the incident, I wondered in my heart whether I would be
a _happier_ man if my presence in a human city should create a kindred
excitement. At any rate it would be a “great excitement on a small
capital.”

While quietly eating my dinner this noon in the shady recess of an
island near Black Mountain, I was startled by the yell of a pack of
hounds coming down one of its ravines. I knew that the chase was after a
deer, so I waited in breathless anxiety for his appearance, and five
minutes had hardly elapsed before I discovered a noble buck at bay on
the extreme summit of a bluff which extended into the lake. There were
five dogs yelping about him, but the “antlered monarch” fought them like
a hero. His hoof was the most dangerous weapon he could wield, and it
seemed to me that the earth actually trembled every time that he struck
at his enemies. Presently, to my great joy, one of the hounds was
killed, and another so disabled, that he retired from the contest. But
the hunters made their appearance, and I knew that the scene would soon
come to a tragic close, and when the buck beheld them, I could not but
believe that over his face a “tablet of _agonizing_ thoughts was
traced,” for he fell upon his knees, then made a sudden wheel, and with
a frightful bound, as a ball passed through his heart, cleared the rock
and fell into the lake below. The waters closed over him, and methought
that the waves of Horicon and the leaves of the forest murmured a
requiem above the grave of the wilderness king. I turned away and partly
resolved that I would never again have a dog for my friend, or respect
the character of a hunter, but then I looked into the crystal waters of
the lake, and thought of the _beam_ in my own eye, and stood convicted
of a kindred cruelty.

One of the most singular precipices overlooking Horicon is about five
miles from the outlet, and known as Rogers’ Slide. It is some four
hundred feet high, and at one point not a fissure or sprig can be
discovered to mar the polished surface of the rock till it reaches the
water. Once on a time in the winter, the said Rogers was pursued by a
band of Indians to this spot, when, after throwing down his knapsack he
carefully retraced the steps of his snow-shoes for a short distance, and
descending the hill by a circuitous route, continued his course across
the frozen lake. The Indians, on coming to the jumping-off place,
discovered their enemy on the icy plain; but when they saw the neglected
knapsack below, and no signs of returning footsteps where they stood,
they thought the devil was in the man, and gave up the pursuit.

The most famous, and one of the most beautiful islands in this lake, is
Diamond Island, so called from the fact that it abounds in crystalized
quartz. It is half a mile in length, but the last place which would be
thought of as the scene of a battle. It is memorable for the attack made
by the Americans on the British, who had a garrison there, during the
Revolution. The American detachment was commanded by Col. Brown, and
being elated with his recent triumphs on Lake Champlain, he resolved to
attack Diamond Island. The battle was bloody, and the British fought
like brave men “long and well;” the Americans were defeated, and this
misfortune was followed by the sufferings of a most painful retreat over
the almost impassable mountains between the Lake and what is now
Whitehall. While wandering about the island it was a difficult matter
for me to realize that it had ever resounded with the roar of cannon,
the dismal wail of war, and the shout of victory. That spot is now
covered with woods, whose shadowy groves are the abode of a thousand
birds, forever singing a song of peace or love, as if to condemn the
ambition and cruelty of man.

In the vicinity of French Mountain is an island celebrated as the
burial-place of a rattlesnake hunter, named Belden. From all that I can
learn, he must have been a strange mortal indeed. His birth-place and
early history were alike unknown. When he first made his appearance at
this lake, his only companions were a brotherhood of rattlesnakes, by
exhibiting which he professed to have obtained his living; and it is
said that, during the remainder of his life, he acquired a handsome sum
of money by selling the oil and gall of his favorite reptile. And I have
recently been told that the present market price of a fat snake, when
dead, is not less than half a dollar. Another mode peculiar to old
Belden for making money, was to suffer himself to be bitten, at some
tavern, after which he would return to his cabin to apply the remedy,
when he would come forth again just as good as new. But he was not
always to be a solemn trifler. For a week had the old man been missing,
and on a pleasant August morning, his body was found on the island
alluded to, sadly mutilated and bloated, and it was certain that he had
died actually surrounded with rattlesnakes. His death bed became his
grave, and rattlesnakes were his only watchers;—thus endeth the story
of his life.

But this reminds me of two little adventures. The other day as I was
seated near the edge of a sand bar, near the mouth of a brook, sketching
a group of trees and the sunset clouds beyond, I was startled by an
immense black snake, that landed at my side, and pursued its way
directly under my legs, upon which my drawing-book was resting. Owing to
my perfect silence, the creature had probably looked upon me as a mere
stump. But what was my surprise a few moments after, when re-seated in
the same place, to find another snake, and that a large spotted adder,
passing along the same track the former had pursued. The first fright
had almost disabled me from using the pencil, but when the second came,
I gave a lusty yell, and forgetful of the fine arts, started for home on
the keen run.

At another time when returning from a fishing excursion, in a boat
accompanied by a couple of “green-horns,” we discovered on the water,
near Tongue Mountain, an immense rattlesnake with his head turned
towards us. As the oarsman in the bow of the boat struck at him with his
oar, the snake coiled round it, and the fool was in the very act of
dropping the devilish thing in my lap. I had heard the creature rattle,
and not knowing what I did, as he hung suspended over me, overboard I
went, and did not look behind until I had reached the land. The
consequence was, that for one while I was perfectly disgusted even with
Lake Horicon, and resolved to leave it without delay. The snake was
killed without doing any harm, however, but such a blowing up as I gave
the green-horn actually made his hair stand straight with fear.

One more snake story, and I will conclude: On the north side of Black
Mountain is a cluster of some half dozen houses, in a vale, which spot
is called the Bosom, but from what cause I do not know. The presiding
geniuses of the place are a band of girls, weighing two hundred pounds
apiece, who farm it with their fathers for a living, but whose principal
_amusement_ is rattlesnake hunting. Their favorite play-ground is the
notorious cliff on Tongue Mountain, where they go with naked feet
(rowing their own boats across the lake), and pull out by their tails
from the rocks the pretty playthings, and, snapping them to death, they
lay them away in a basket as trophies of their skill. I was told that in
one day last year they killed the incredible number of eleven hundred.
What delicious wives would these Horicon ladies make. Since the Florida
Indians have been driven from their country by blood-hounds, would it
not be a good idea for Congress to secure the services of these amazons
for the purpose of exterminating the rattlesnakes upon our mountains.
This latter movement would be the most ridiculous, but the inhumanity of
the former is without a parallel.

A clear and tranquil summer night, and I am alone on the pebbly beach of
this paragon of lakes. The countless hosts of heaven are beaming upon me
with a silent joy, and more impressive and holy than a poet’s dream are
the surrounding mountains, as they stand reflected in the unruffled
waters. Listen! what sound is that so like the wail of a spirit? Only a
loon, the lonely night-watcher of Horicon, whose melancholy moan, as it
breaks the profound stillness, carries my fancy back to the olden Indian
times, ere the white man had crossed the ocean. All these mountains and
this beautiful lake were then the heritage of a brave and noble-hearted
people, who made war only upon the denizens of the forest, whose lives
were peaceful as a dream, and whose manly forms, decorated with the
plumes of the eagle, the feathers of the scarlet bird, and the robe of
the bounding stag, tended but to make the scenery of the wilderness
beautiful as an earthly Eden. Here was the quiet wigwam village, and
there the secluded abode of the thoughtful chief. Here, unmolested, the
Indian child played with the spotted fawn, and the “Indian lover wooed
his dusky mate;” here the Indian hunter, in the “sunset of his life,”
watched with holy awe the sunset in the west, and here the ancient
Indian prophetess sung her uncouth but religious chant. Gone—all, all
gone—and the desolate creature of the waves, now pealing forth another
wail, seems the only memorial that they have left behind. There—my
recent aspirations are all quelled, I can walk no further
to-night;—there is a sadness in my soul, and I must seek my home. It is
such a blessed night, it seems almost sinful that a blight should rest
on the spirit of man; yet on mine a gloom will sometimes fall, nor can I
tell whence the cloud that makes me wretched.

                               CHAPTER V.

    The Scaroon country—Scaroon Lake Pike fishing by
    torchlight—Trout fishing—Lyndsay’s Tavern—Paradox Lake.

                                             _Lyndsay’s Tavern, June._

Emptying into the Hudson River, about fifteen miles north of Glen’s
Falls, is quite a large stream, sometimes called the East Branch of the
Hudson, but generally known as Scaroon River.[1] Its extreme length is
not far from fifty miles. It is a clear, cold, and rapid stream, winds
through a mountainous country, and has rather a deep channel. The valley
through which it runs is somewhat cultivated, but the mountains which
frown upon it on either side, are covered with dense forests. The valley
of the Scaroon abounds in beautiful lakes and brooks; and as I have
explored them pretty thoroughly during the past week, I will now record
the result of my observations.

The most prominent pictorial feature of this region is Scaroon Lake,
through which the river of that name forms a channel. It is ten miles in
length and averages about one in width. Excepting a little hamlet at its
head, and two or three farms at the southern extremity, it is yet
surrounded with a wilderness of mountains. The waters thereof are deep
and clear, and well supplied with fish, of which the salmon trout and
pike are the most valuable. The trout are more abundant here than in
Lake George, but owing to the prevailing custom of spearing them in the
autumn, they are rapidly becoming extinct. I made a desperate effort to
capture one as a specimen, but without success, though I was told that
they varied in weight from ten to fifteen pounds. My efforts, however,
in taking pike were more encouraging. But, before giving my experience,
I must mention an interesting fact in natural history. Previous to the
year 1840, Scaroon Lake was not known to contain a single pike, but
during that year, some half dozen males and females were brought from
Lake Champlain and deposited therein, since which time they have
multiplied so rapidly as to be quite abundant, not only in Scaroon Lake,
but in all the neighboring waters, and as they are frequently taken
weighing some twenty pounds, the fact seems to be established that this
fish grows quite rapidly, and is not of slow growth, as many naturalists
have supposed.

But to my pike story. A number of lumbermen were going out for the
purpose of taking pike by torch-light, and I was fortunate enough to
secure a seat in one of the three flat boats which contained the
fishermen. It was a superb night, and the lake was without a ripple. Our
torches were made of “fat pine,” as it is here called, and my polite
friends taking it for granted that I was a novice in the spearing
business, they cunningly awarded to me the dullest spear in their
possession, and gave me the poorest position in the boat. I said nothing
to all this, but inwardly resolved that I would give them a salutary
lesson, if possible. I fished from nine until twelve o’clock, and then
left my friends to continue the sport. The entire number of pike taken,
as I found out in the morning, was thirteen, and as fortune would have
it, four of this number were captured by myself, in spite of my poor
spear. I did not take the largest fish, which weighed eighteen pounds,
but the greatest number, with which success I was fully satisfied.—The
effect of my good luck was unexpected to my companions, but gratifying
to me, for there was afterwards a strife between them as to who should
show me the most attention in the way of piloting me about the country.
This little adventure taught me the importance of understanding even the
vagabond art of spearing.

The event of that night, however, which afforded me the purest
enjoyment, was the witnessing of a moonlight scene, immediately after
leaving the lake shore for the inn, where I was tarrying. Before me, in
wild and solemn beauty, lay the southern portion of the Scaroon, on
whose bosom were gliding the spearmen, holding high above their heads
their huge torches, which threw a spectral glare, not only upon the
water, but upon the swarthy forms watching for their prey. Just at this
moment, an immense cloud of fog broke away, and directly above the
summit of the opposite mountain, the clear, full moon made its
appearance, and a thousand fantastic figures, born of the fog, were
pictured in the sky, and appeared extremely brilliant under the
effulgence of the ruling planet; while the zenith of sky was of a deep
blue, cloudless, but completely spangled with stars. And what greatly
added to the magic of the scene, was the dismal scream of a loon, which
came to my ear from a remote portion of the lake, yet covered with a
heavy fog.

Rising from the western margin of Scaroon Lake, is quite a lofty
mountain, which was once painted by Thomas Cole, and by him named
Scaroon Mountain. There is nothing particularly imposing about it, but
it commands an uncommonly fine prospect of the surrounding country. When
I first came in sight of this mountain, it struck me as an old
acquaintance, and I reined in my horse for the purpose of investigating
its features. Before I resumed my course, I concluded that I was
standing on the very spot whence the artist had taken his original
sketch of the scene, by which circumstance I was convinced of the
fidelity of his pencil.

The largest island in Scaroon Lake lies near the northern extremity, and
studs the water like an emerald on a field of blue. It was purchased,
some years ago, by a gentleman of New York, named Keland, who has built
a summer residence upon it, for the accommodation of himself and
friends.

Emptying into the Scaroon River, just below the lake, is a superb
mountain stream, known as Trout Brook. It is thirty feet wide, twelve
miles long, and comes rushing down the mountains, forming a thousand
waterfalls and pools, and filling its narrow valley with an everlasting
roar of music. Not only is it distinguished for the quality and number
of its trout, but it possesses one attraction which will pay the tourist
for the weary tramp he must undergo to explore its remote recesses. I
allude to what the people about here call “the Stone Bridge.” At this
point, the wild and dashing stream has formed a channel directly through
the solid mountains, so that, in fishing down, the angler suddenly finds
himself standing upon a pile of dry stones. The extent of this natural
bridge is not more than twenty or, perhaps, thirty feet, but the wonder
is, that the unseen channel is sufficiently large to admit the passage
of the largest logs which the lumbermen float down the stream. I might
also add, that at the foot of this bridge is one of the finest pools
imaginable. It is, perhaps, one hundred feet long, and so very deep that
the clear water appears quite black. This is the finest spot in the
whole brook for trout, and my luck there may be described as follows: I
had basketed no less than nine half-pounders, when my fly was suddenly
seized, and my snell snapped in twain by the fierceness of his leaps.
The consequence of that defeat was, that I resolved to capture the
trout, if I had to remain there all night. I then ransacked the mountain
side for a living bait, and, with the aid of my companion, succeeded in
capturing a small mouse, and just as the twilight was coming on, I tied
the little fellow to my hook, and threw him on the water. He swam across
in fine style, but when he reached the centre of the pool, a large trout
leaped completely out of his element, and in descending, seized the
mouse, and the result was, that I broke my rod, but caught the trout,
and though the mouse was seriously injured, I had the pleasure of again
giving him his liberty.

The largest trout that I killed weighed nearly a pound, and though he
was the cause of my receiving a ducking, he afforded me some sport, and
gave me a new idea. When I first hooked him, I stood on the very margin
of the stream, knee deep in a bog, and just as I was about to basket
him, he gave a sudden leap, cleared himself, and fell into the water.
Quick as thought I made an effort to rescue him, but in doing so, lost
my balance, and was playing the part of a turtle in a tub of water. I
then became poetical, and thought it “would never do to give it up so,”
and after waiting some fifteen minutes, I returned and tried for the
lost trout again. I threw my fly some twenty feet above the place where
I had tumbled in, and recaptured the identical fish which I had lost. I
recognized him by his having a torn and bleeding mouth. This
circumstance convinced me that trout, like many of the sons of men, have
short memories, and also that the individual in question was a perfect
Richelieu or General Taylor in his way, for he seemed to know no such
word as fail. As to the trout that I did not capture, I verily believe
that he must have weighed two pounds; but as he was, probably, a
superstitious gentleman, he thought it the better part of valor,
somewhat like Santa Anna, to treat the steel of his enemy with contempt.

The brook of which I have been speaking, is only twenty-five miles from
Lake Horicon, and unquestionably one of the best streams for the angler
in the Scaroon valley. The Trout Brook Pavilion, at the mouth of it,
kept by one Lockwood, is a comfortable inn; and his right hand man,
named Kipp, is a very fine fellow and a genuine angler.

Speaking of the above friends, reminds me of another, a fine man, named
Lyndsey, who keepeth a tavern, about ten miles north of Scaroon Lake.
His dwelling is delightfully situated in the centre of a deep valley,
and is a nice and convenient place to stop at, for those who are fond of
fishing, and admire romantic scenery. His family, including his wife,
two daughters and one son, not only know how to make their friends
comfortable, but they seem to have a passion for doing kind deeds.
During my stay at this place, I had the pleasure of witnessing a most
interesting game, which seems to be peculiar to this part of the
country. It was played with the common ball and by one hundred sturdy
farmers. Previous to the time alluded to, fifty Scaroon players had
challenged an equal number of players from a neighboring village named
Moriah. The conditions were that the defeated party should pay for a
dinner to be given by my friend Lyndsey. They commenced playing at nine
o’clock, and the game was ended in about three hours, the Scaroon, party
having won by about ten counts in five hundred. The majority of the
players varied from thirty to thirty-five years of age, though some of
the most expert of them were verging upon sixty years. They played with
the impetuosity of school boys, and there were some admirable feats
performed in the way of knocking and catching the ball. Some of the men
could number their acres by thousands, and all of them were accustomed
to severe labor, and yet they thought it absolutely necessary to
participate occasionally in this manly and fatiguing sport. The dinner
passed off in fine style, and was spiced by many agricultural anecdotes,
and as the sun was setting, the parties separated in the best of spirits
and returned to their several homes.

For fear that I should forget my duty, I would now introduce to my
reader a sheet of water embosomed among these mountains, which glories
in the name of Lake Paradox. How it came by that queer title, I was not
able to learn, but this I know, that it is one of the most beautiful
lakes I have ever seen. It is five miles long, and surrounded with
uncultivated mountains, excepting at its foot, where opens a beautiful
plain, highly cultivated and dotted with a variety of rude but
exceedingly comfortable farm houses. The shores of Lake Paradox are
rocky, the water deep and clear, abounding in fish, and the lines of the
mountains are picturesque to an uncommon degree.

But it is time that I should turn from particulars to a general
description of the Scaroon Country.—Though this is an agricultural
region, the two principal articles of export are lumber and iron. Of the
former the principal varieties are pine, hemlock and spruce, and two
establishments for the manufacture of iron are abundantly supplied with
ore from the surrounding mountains. Potatoes of the finest quality
flourish here, also wheat and corn. The people are mostly Americans,
intelligent, virtuous and industrious, and are as comfortable and happy
as any in the State.

-----

[1] The word Schroon is bad English for the Indian word Scaroon, the
meaning of which is—“_child of the mountains_.” The river was
originally named by an Algonquin chief after a favorite daughter.

                              CHAPTER VI.

    The Adirondac Mountains—Trout fishing in the Boreas River—A
    night in the woods—Moose Lake—Lake Delia—The Newcomb
    Farm—Mount Tahawus—The Indian Pass—Lakes Sanford and
    Henderson—The McIntyre iron works.

                                          _John Cheney’s Cabin, June._

The Adirondac Mountains are situated on the extreme head waters of the
Hudson, in the counties of Essex and Hamilton, and about forty miles
west of Lake Champlain. They vary from five hundred to five thousand
feet in height, and, with few exceptions, are covered with dense
forests. They lord it over the most extensive wilderness region in the
Empire State, and as I have recently performed a pilgrimage among them,
I now purpose to give an account of what I saw and heard during my
expedition.

The tourist who visits these mountains, finds it necessary to leave the
mail road near Lyndsey’s Tavern, on the Scaroon. If Fortune smiles upon
him, he will be able to hire a horse to take him in the interior, or
perhaps obtain a seat in a lumber wagon; but if not, he must try the
mettle of his legs. With regard to my own case, fortune was
non-committal; for while she compelled me to go on foot, she supplied me
with a pair of temporary companions, who were going into the interior to
see their friends, and have a few days’ sport in the way of fishing and
hunting. One of my friends (both of whom were young men), was a farmer,
who carried a rifle, and the other a travelling country musician, who
carried a fiddle. Our first day’s tramp took us about fifteen miles,
through a hilly, thickly wooded, and houseless wilderness, to the Boreas
River, where we found a ruined log shantee, in which we concluded to
spend the night. We reached this lonely spot at about three o’clock in
the afternoon; and having previously been told that the Boreas was
famous for trout, two of us started after a mess of fish, while the
fiddler was appointed to the office of wood-chopper to the expedition.
The Boreas at this point is about one hundred feet broad,—winds through
a woody valley, and is cold, rapid, and clear. The entire river does not
differ materially, as I understand, from the point alluded to, for it
waters an unknown wilderness. I bribed my farmer friend to _ascend_ the
river, and having pocketed a variety of flies, I started down the
stream. I proceeded near half a mile, when I came to a still water pool,
which seemed to be quite extensive, and very deep. At the head of it,
midway in the stream, was an immense boulder, which I succeeded in
surmounting, and whence I threw a red hackle for upwards of three hours.
I never saw trout jump more beautifully, and it was my rare luck to
basket thirty-four; twenty-one of which averaged three-quarters of a
pound, and the remaining thirteen were regular two-pounders. Satisfied
with my luck, I returned to the shantee, where I found my companions;
one of them sitting before a blazing fire and fiddling, and the other
busily employed in cleaning the trout he had taken.

In due time followed the principal event of the day, which consisted in
cooking and eating a wilderness supper. We had brought a supply of pork
and bread, and each one having prepared for himself a pair of wooden
forks, we proceeded to roast our trout and pork before a huge fire,
using the drippings of the latter for seasoning, and a leather cup of
water for our beverage. We spent the two following hours in smoking and
telling stories, and having made a bed of spruce boughs, and repaired
the rickety partition which divided one end of the cabin from the other
end, which was all open, we retired to repose! We had no blankets with
us, and an agreement was therefore entered into, that we should take
turns in replenishing the fire during the night. An awfully dark cloud
settled upon the wilderness, and by the music of the wind among the
hemlock trees, we were soon lulled into a deep slumber.

A short time after midnight, while dreaming of a certain pair of eyes in
the upper part of Broadway, I was awakened by a footstep on the outside
of the cabin. I brushed open my eyes, but could see nothing but the
faint glimmer of an expiring ember on the hearth. I held my breath, and
listened for the mysterious footstep; I heard it not, but something a
little more exciting,—the scratching of a huge paw upon our slender
door. In an exceedingly short time, I roused my bed-fellows, and told
them what I had heard. They thought it must be a wolf, and as we were
afraid to frighten him away, yet anxious to take his hide, it was
resolved that I should hold a match, and the farmer should fire his
rifle in the direction of the mysterious noise; which operation was duly
performed. A large pine torch was then lighted, the rifle reloaded, and
the heroes of the adventure marched into the _outer hall_ of the cabin,
where we found a few drops of blood, and the muddy tracks of what we
supposed to be a wild cat. The rifleman and myself then commissioned the
fiddler to make a fire, when we again threw ourselves upon the hemlock
couch.

The fiddler attended faithfully to his duty, and in less than twenty
minutes, he had kindled a tremendous blaze. The brilliant and laughing
flame had such an exhilarating influence upon his nerves, that he seized
his instrument and commenced playing, partly for the purpose of keeping
off the wild animals, but mostly for his own amusement. Then laying
aside his fiddle, he began to sing a variety of uncouth, as well as
plaintive songs, one of which was vague, but mournful in sentiment, and
more wild in melody, as I thought at the time, than anything I had ever
before heard. I could not find out by whom it was written, or what was
its exact import, but in the lonely place where we were sleeping, and at
that hour, it made a very deep impression on my mind.

The burden of the song was as follows, and was in keeping with the
picture which the minstrel, the firelight, and the rude cabin presented.

            We parted in silence, we parted at night,
            On the banks of that lonely river,
            Where the shadowy trees their boughs unite,
            We met, and we parted forever;—
            The night bird sang, and the stars above
            Told many a touching story
            Of friends long passed to the mansions of rest,
            Where the soul wears her mantle of glory.

            We parted in silence; our cheeks were wet
            By the tears that were past controlling;—
            We vowed we would never, no never forget,
            And those vows at the time were consoling;—
            But the lips that echoed my vows
            Are as cold as that lonely river;
            The sparkling eye, the spirit’s shrine.
            Has shrouded its fire forever.

            And now on the midnight sky I look,
            My eyes grow full with weeping,—
            Each star to me is a sealed book,
            Some tale of that loved one keeping.
            We parted in silence, we parted in tears,
            On the banks of that lonely river;
            But the odor and bloom of by-gone years
            Shall hang o’er its waters forever.

But sleep, the “dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health,” soon
folded the singer and his listener in her embrace, and with the rising
sun we entered upon the labors of another day. While the fiddler
prepared our breakfast, (out of the few trout which certain _beastly_
robbers had not stolen during the night,) the rifleman went out and
killed a large hare, and I took a sketch of the cabin where we had
lodged.

After breakfast, we shouldered our knapsacks, and started for the
Hudson. We struck this noble river at the embryo city of Tahawus, where
we found a log house and an unfinished saw-mill. Here we also discovered
a canoe, which we boarded, and navigated the stream to Lake Sanford.
This portion of the Hudson is not more than one hundred feet broad, but
quite deep and picturesque. On leaving our canoe, we made our way up a
mountain road, and after walking about four miles, came out upon an
elevated clearing, of some two hundred acres, in the centre of which was
a solitary log cabin with a retinue of out-houses, and this was the
famous Newcomb Farm.

The attractions of this spot are manifold, for it lies in the vicinity
of Moose Lake and Lake Delia, and commands the finest distant prospect
of the Adirondac mountains which has yet been discovered.

Moose Lake lies at the west of the farm, and about six miles distant. It
is embosomed among mountains, and the fountain head of the Cold River,
which empties into the St. Lawrence. In form it is so nearly round that
its entire shore may be seen at one view; the bottom is covered with
white sand, and the water is remarkably cold and clear. Considering its
size, it is said to contain more trout than any lake in this wilderness,
and it is also celebrated as a watering place for deer and moose. In
fishing from the shore, one of our party caught no less than forty
pounds of trout in about two hours. There were two varieties, and they
varied from one to two pounds in weight. Our guide to this lake, where
we encamped for one night, was Steuben Hewitt, the keeper of the Newcomb
Farm, who is quite a hunter. This woodsman got the notion into his head
that he must have a venison steak for his supper. We had already seen
some half dozen deer walking along the opposite margin of the lake, but
Steuben told us that he would wait until after dark to capture his game.
He also told us that the deer were in the habit of visiting the wilder
lakes of this region at night, for the purpose of escaping the
tormenting flies, and as he spoke so confidently of what he intended to
accomplish, we awaited his effort with a degree of anxiety. Soon as the
quiet night had fairly set in, he shipped himself on board a wooden
canoe, (a rickety affair, originally bequeathed to this lake by some
departed Indian,) in the bow of which was a fire jack, or torch holder.
Separating this machine from himself, as he sat in the centre of the
canoe, was a kind of screen made of bark, which was sufficiently
elevated to allow him to fire his gun from underneath; and in this
predicament, with a loaded rifle by his side, did he paddle into the
lake. After floating upon the water for an hour, in perfect silence, he
finally heard a splashing near the shore, and immediately lighting his
torch, he noiselessly proceeded in the direction of the sound, when he
discovered a beautiful deer, standing knee deep in the water, and
looking at him in stupefied silence. The poor creature could discover
nothing but the mysterious light, and while standing in the most
interesting attitude imaginable, the hunter raised his rifle, and shot
it through the heart. In half an hour from that time, the carcass of the
deer was hanging on a dry limb near our camp fire, and I was lecturing
the hard-hearted hunter on the cruelty of thus capturing the innocent
creatures of the forest. To all my remarks, however, he replied, “They
were given us for food, and it matters not how we kill them.”

Lake Delia, through which you have to pass in going to Moose Lake, lies
about two miles west of the Newcomb Farm. It is four miles long, and
less than one mile in width, and completely surrounded with wood-crowned
hills. Near the central portion, this lake is quite narrow, and so
shallow that a rude bridge has been thrown across for the accommodation
of the Farm people. The water under this bridge is only about four feet
deep, and this was the only spot in the lake where I followed my
favorite recreation. I visited it on one occasion, with my companions,
late in the afternoon, when the wind was blowing, and we enjoyed rare
sport in angling for salmon trout, as well as a large species of common
trout. I do not know the number that we took, but I well remember that
we had more than we could conveniently carry. Usually, the salmon trout
are only taken in deep water, but in this, and in Moose Lake, they seem
to be as much at home in shallow as in deep water. On one occasion I
visited Lake Delia alone at an early hour in the morning. It so
happened, that I took a rifle along with me; and while quietly throwing
my fly on the old bridge, I had an opportunity of using the gun to some
purpose. My movements in that lonely place were so exceedingly still,
that even the wild animals were not disturbed by my presence; for while
I stood there, a large fat otter made his appearance, and when he came
within shooting distance, I gave him the contents of my gun, and he
disappeared. I related the adventure to my companions, on my return to
the farm, but they pronounced it a “fish story.” My veracity was
vindicated, however, for, on the following day, they discovered a dead
otter on the lake shore, and concluded that I had told the truth.

I must not conclude this chapter without giving my reader an additional
paragraph about the Newcomb Farm. My friend Steuben Hewitt’s nearest
neighbor is eight miles off, and as his family is small, it may be
supposed that he leads a retired life. One of the days that I spent at
his house, was quite an eventful one with him, for a town election was
held there. The electors met at nine o’clock, and the poll closed at
five; and as the number of votes polled was _seven_, it may well be
imagined that the excitement was intense. But with all its loneliness
the Newcomb Farm is well worth visiting, if for no other purpose than to
witness the panorama of mountains which it commands. On every side but
one may they be seen, fading away to mingle their deep blue with the
lighter hue of the sky, but the chief among them all is old Tahawus,
King of the Adirondacs. The country out of which this mountain rises, is
an imposing Alpine wilderness, and as it has long since been abandoned
by the red man, the solitude of its deep valleys and lonely lakes for
the most part, is now more impressive than that of the far off Rocky
Mountains. The meaning of the Indian word Tahawus is _sky piercer_ or
_sky splitter_; and faithfully describes the appearance of the mountain.
Its actual elevation above the level of the sea is five thousand four
hundred and sixty-seven feet, while that of Mount Washington, in New
Hampshire, is only six thousand two hundred and thirty-four, making a
difference of only seven hundred and sixty-seven feet in favor of
Washington. Though Tahawus is not quite so lofty as its New England
brother, yet its form is by far the most picturesque and imposing. Taken
together, they are the highest pair of mountains in the United States.

Before going one step further, I must allude to what I deem the folly of
a certain state geologist, in attempting to name the prominent peaks of
the Adirondac Mountains after a brotherhood of living men. If he is to
have his way in this matter, the beautiful name of Tahawus will be
superseded by that of Marcy, and several of Tahawus’ brethren are
hereafter to be known as Mounts Seward, Wright and Young. Now if this
business is not supremely ridiculous, I must confess that I do not know
the meaning of that word. A pretty idea, indeed, to scatter to the winds
the ancient poetry of the poor Indian, and perpetuate in its place the
names of living politicians. For my part, I agree most decidedly with
the older inhabitants of the Adirondac wilderness, who look with obvious
indifference upon the attempted usurpation of the geologist already
mentioned.

For nine months in the year old Tahawus is covered with a crown of snow,
but there are spots among its fastnesses where you may gather ice and
snow even in the dog days. The base of this mountain is covered with a
luxuriant forest of pine, spruce and hemlock, while the summit is
clothed in a net-work of creeping trees, and almost destitute of the
green which should characterize them. In ascending its sides when near
the summit, you are impressed with the idea that your pathway may be
smooth; but as you proceed, you are constantly annoyed by pitfalls, into
which your legs are foolishly poking themselves, to the great annoyance
of your back bone and other portions of your body which are naturally
straight.

I ascended Tahawus, as a matter of course, and in making the trip I
travelled some twenty miles on foot and through the pathless woods,
employing for the same the better part of two days. My companion on this
expedition was John Cheney, (of whom I have something to write
hereafter,) and as he did not consider it prudent to spend the night on
the summit, we only spent about one hour gazing upon the panorama from
the top, and then descended about half way down the mountain where we
built our watch fire. The view from Tahawus is rather unique. It looks
down upon what appears to be an uninhabited wilderness, with mountains,
fading to the sky in every direction, and where, on a clear day, you may
count not less than twenty-four lakes, including Champlain, Horicon,
Long Lake and Lake Pleasant.

While trying to go to sleep on the night in question, as I lay by the
side of my friend Cheney, he gave me an account of the manner in which
certain distinguished gentlemen have ascended Mount Tahawus, for it must
be known that he officiates as the guide of all travellers in this wild
region. Among those to whom he alluded were Ingham and Cole the artists,
and Hoffman and Headley the travellers. He told me that Mr. Ingham
fainted a number of times in making the ascent, but became so excited
with all that he saw, he determined to persevere, and finally succeeded
in accomplishing the difficult task. Mr. Hoffman, he said, in spite of
his lameness, would not be persuaded by words that he could not reach
the summit; and when he finally discovered that this task was utterly
beyond his accomplishment, his disappointment seemed to have no bounds.

The night that I spent on Tahawus was not distinguished by any event
more remarkable than a regular built rain-storm. Our canopy was composed
of hemlock branches, and our only covering was a blanket. The storm did
not set in until about midnight, and my first intimation of its approach
was the falling of rain drops directly into my ear, as I snugged up to
my bed-fellow for the purpose of keeping warm. Desperate, indeed, were
the efforts I made to forget my condition in sleep, as the rain fell
more abundantly, and drenched me, as well as my companion, to the very
skin. The thunder bellowed as if in the enjoyment of a very happy
frolic, and the lightning seemed determined to root up a few trees in
our immediate vicinity, as if for the purpose of giving us more room.
Finally Cheney rose from his pillow, (which was a log of wood,) and
proposed that we should quaff a little brandy, to keep us from catching
cold, which we did, and then made another attempt to reach the land of
Nod.  *  *  *  At the break of day we were awakened from a short but
refreshing sleep, by the singing of birds, and when the cheerful
moonlight had reached the bottom of the ravines, we were enjoying a
comfortable breakfast in the cabin of my friend.

The principal attractions associated with Tahawus, are the Indian Pass,
the Adirondac Lakes, the Adirondac iron works, and the mighty hunter of
the Adirondacs, John Cheney. The Pass, so called, is only an
old-fashioned notch between the mountains. On one side is a
perpendicular precipice, rising to the height of eleven hundred feet;
and, on the other, a wood-covered mountain, ascending far up into the
sky, at an angle of forty-five degrees. Through this pass flows a tiny
rivulet, over which the rocks are so thickly piled, as frequently to
form pitfalls that measure from ten to thirty feet in depth.—Some of
these holes are never destitute of ice, and are cool and comfortable
even at midsummer. The Pass is nearly half a mile in length, and, at one
point, certain immense boulders have come together and formed a cavern,
which is called the “meeting house,” and is, perhaps, capable of
containing one thousand people. The rock on either side of the Pass is a
gray granite, and its only inhabitants are eagles, which are quite
abundant, and occupy the most conspicuous crag in the notch.

The two principal lakes which gem the Adirondac wilderness, are named
Sanford and Henderson, after the two gentlemen who first purchased land
upon their borders. The former is five miles in length, and the latter
somewhat less than three, both of them varying in width from half a mile
to a mile and a half. The mountains which swoop down to their bosoms are
covered with forest, and abound in a great variety of large game. There
is not, to my knowledge, a single habitation on either of the lakes, and
the only smoke ever seen to ascend from their lonely recesses, comes
from the watch-fire of the hunter, or the encampment of surveyors and
tourists.—The water of these lakes is cold and deep, and moderately
supplied with salmon trout. Lake Henderson is admirably situated for the
exciting sport of deer hunting, and though it contains two or three
canoes, cannot be entered from the West Branch of the Hudson without
making a portage. Through Lake Sanford, however, the Hudson takes a
direct course, and there is nothing to impede the passage of a small
boat to within a mile of the iron works, which are located in a valley
between the two lakes. The fact is, during the summer there is quite an
extensive business done on Lake Sanford, in the way of “bringing in”
merchandize, and “carrying out” the produce of the forge. It was my
misfortune to make the inward passage of the lake in company with two
ignorant Irishmen. Their boat was small, heavily laden, very tottleish
and leaky. This was my only chance; and on taking my seat with a
palpitating heart, I made an express bargain with the men, that they
should keep along the shore on their way up. They assented to my wishes,
but immediately pulled for the very centre of the lake. I remonstrated,
but they told me there was no danger. The boat was now rapidly filling
with water, and though one was bailing with all his might, the rascals
were determined not to accede to my wishes. The conclusion of the matter
was that our shallop became water-logged, and on finally reaching the
shore, the merchandize was greatly damaged, and I was just about as wet
as I was angry at the miserable creatures, whose obstinacy had not only
greatly injured their employers, but also endangered my own plunder as
well as my life.

The iron works alluded to above, are located in a narrow valley, and in
the immediate vicinity of Lake Henderson, at a place called McIntyre.
Some time in the year 1830, a couple of Scottish gentlemen, named
Henderson and McIntyre, purchased a large tract of wild land lying in
this portion of New York. In the summer following, they passed through
this wilderness on an exploring expedition, and with the assistance of
their Indian guide, discovered that the bed of the valley in question
was literally blocked up with iron ore. On making farther
investigations, they found that the whole rocky region about them was
composed of valuable mineral, and they subsequently established a
regular-built iron establishment, which has been in operation ever
since. A gentleman named Robinson afterwards purchased an interest in
the concern, and it is now carried on by him and Mr. McIntyre, though
the principal stockholders are the wife and son of Mr. Henderson,
deceased.

The metal manufactured by this company is of the very best quality of
bar-iron; and an establishment is now in progress of erection at
Tahawus, twelve miles down the river, where a party of English gentlemen
intend to manufacture every variety of steel. The iron works give
employment to about one hundred and fifty men, whose wages vary from one
to four dollars per day. The society of the place, you may well imagine,
is decidedly original; but the prominent individual, and only remarkable
man who resides here, is John Cheney, the mighty hunter of the
Adirondacs. For an account of this man, the reader will please look into
the following chapter.

                              CHAPTER VII.

        John Cheney, the Adirondac hunter—Some of his exploits.
                                          _John Cheney’s Cabin, June._

John Cheney was born in New Hampshire, but spent his boyhood on the
shores of Lake Champlain, and has resided in the Adirondac wilderness
about thirteen years. He has a wife and one child, and lives in a
comfortable cabin in the wild village of McIntyre. His profession is
that of a hunter, and he is in the habit of spending about one-half of
his time in the woods. He is a remarkably amiable and intelligent man,
and as unlike the idea I had formed of him as possible. I expected from
all that I had heard, to see a huge, powerful, and hairy Nimrod; but,
instead of such, I found him small in stature, and bearing more the
appearance of a modest and thoughtful student.

The walls of his cosy little house, containing one principal room, are
ornamented with a large printed sheet of the Declaration of
Independence, and two engraved portraits of Washington and Jackson. Of
guns and pistols he has an abundant supply, and also a good stock of all
the conveniences for camping among the mountains. He keeps one cow,
which supplies his family with all the milk they need; but his favorite
animals are a couple of hunting dogs named Buck and Tiger.

As summer is not the time to accomplish much in the way of hunting, my
adventures with John Cheney have not been distinguished by any stirring
events; we have, however, enjoyed some rare sport in the way of fishing,
and obtained some glorious views from the mountain peaks of this region.
But the conversation of this famous Nimrod has interested me
exceedingly, and wherever we might be, under his own roof, or by the
side of our mountain watch-fires, I have kept him busy in recounting his
former adventures. I copied into my note-book nearly everything he said,
and now present my readers with a few extracts relating to his hunting
exploits. I shall use his own words as nearly as I can remember them.

“I was always fond of hunting, and the first animal I killed was a fox;
I was then ten years of age. Even from childhood, I was so in love with
the woods that I not only neglected school, but was constantly borrowing
a gun, or stealing the one belonging to my father, with which to follow
my favorite amusement. He found it a useless business to make a decent
boy of me, and in a fit of desperation he one day presented me with a
common fowling piece. I was the youngest of thirteen children, and was
always called the black sheep of the family. I have always enjoyed good
health, and am forty-seven years of age; but I have now passed my prime,
and don’t care about exposing myself to any useless dangers.

“You ask me if I ever hunt on Sunday; no, sir, I do not. I have always
been able to kill enough on week days to give me a comfortable living.
Since I came to live among the Adirondacs, I have killed _six hundred
deer, four hundred sable, nineteen moose, twenty-eight bears, six
wolves, seven wild cats, thirty otter, one panther and one beaver_.

“As to that beaver I was speaking about, it took me three years to
capture him, for he was an old fellow, and remarkably cunning. He was
the last, from all that I can learn, that was ever taken in the State.
One of the Long Lake Indians often attempted to trap him, but without
success; he usually found his trap sprung, but could never get a morsel