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.