But it is time that I should turn from particulars to a general

description of the Scaroon Country.—Though this is an agricultural

region, the two principal articles of export are lumber and iron. Of the

former the principal varieties are pine, hemlock and spruce, and two

establishments for the manufacture of iron are abundantly supplied with

ore from the surrounding mountains. Potatoes of the finest quality

flourish here, also wheat and corn. The people are mostly Americans,

intelligent, virtuous and industrious, and are as comfortable and happy

as any in the State.

-----

[1] The word Schroon is bad English for the Indian word Scaroon, the

meaning of which is—“_child of the mountains_.” The river was

originally named by an Algonquin chief after a favorite daughter.

CHAPTER VI.

The Adirondac Mountains—Trout fishing in the Boreas River—A

night in the woods—Moose Lake—Lake Delia—The Newcomb

Farm—Mount Tahawus—The Indian Pass—Lakes Sanford and

Henderson—The McIntyre iron works.

_John Cheney’s Cabin, June._

The Adirondac Mountains are situated on the extreme head waters of the

Hudson, in the counties of Essex and Hamilton, and about forty miles

west of Lake Champlain. They vary from five hundred to five thousand

feet in height, and, with few exceptions, are covered with dense

forests. They lord it over the most extensive wilderness region in the

Empire State, and as I have recently performed a pilgrimage among them,

I now purpose to give an account of what I saw and heard during my

expedition.

The tourist who visits these mountains, finds it necessary to leave the

mail road near Lyndsey’s Tavern, on the Scaroon. If Fortune smiles upon

him, he will be able to hire a horse to take him in the interior, or

perhaps obtain a seat in a lumber wagon; but if not, he must try the

mettle of his legs. With regard to my own case, fortune was

non-committal; for while she compelled me to go on foot, she supplied me

with a pair of temporary companions, who were going into the interior to

see their friends, and have a few days’ sport in the way of fishing and

hunting. One of my friends (both of whom were young men), was a farmer,

who carried a rifle, and the other a travelling country musician, who

carried a fiddle. Our first day’s tramp took us about fifteen miles,

through a hilly, thickly wooded, and houseless wilderness, to the Boreas

River, where we found a ruined log shantee, in which we concluded to

spend the night. We reached this lonely spot at about three o’clock in

the afternoon; and having previously been told that the Boreas was

famous for trout, two of us started after a mess of fish, while the

fiddler was appointed to the office of wood-chopper to the expedition.

The Boreas at this point is about one hundred feet broad,—winds through

a woody valley, and is cold, rapid, and clear. The entire river does not

differ materially, as I understand, from the point alluded to, for it

waters an unknown wilderness. I bribed my farmer friend to _ascend_ the

river, and having pocketed a variety of flies, I started down the

stream. I proceeded near half a mile, when I came to a still water pool,

which seemed to be quite extensive, and very deep. At the head of it,

midway in the stream, was an immense boulder, which I succeeded in

surmounting, and whence I threw a red hackle for upwards of three hours.

I never saw trout jump more beautifully, and it was my rare luck to

basket thirty-four; twenty-one of which averaged three-quarters of a

pound, and the remaining thirteen were regular two-pounders. Satisfied

with my luck, I returned to the shantee, where I found my companions;

one of them sitting before a blazing fire and fiddling, and the other

busily employed in cleaning the trout he had taken.

In due time followed the principal event of the day, which consisted in

cooking and eating a wilderness supper. We had brought a supply of pork

and bread, and each one having prepared for himself a pair of wooden

forks, we proceeded to roast our trout and pork before a huge fire,

using the drippings of the latter for seasoning, and a leather cup of

water for our beverage. We spent the two following hours in smoking and

telling stories, and having made a bed of spruce boughs, and repaired

the rickety partition which divided one end of the cabin from the other

end, which was all open, we retired to repose! We had no blankets with

us, and an agreement was therefore entered into, that we should take

turns in replenishing the fire during the night. An awfully dark cloud

settled upon the wilderness, and by the music of the wind among the

hemlock trees, we were soon lulled into a deep slumber.

A short time after midnight, while dreaming of a certain pair of eyes in

the upper part of Broadway, I was awakened by a footstep on the outside

of the cabin. I brushed open my eyes, but could see nothing but the

faint glimmer of an expiring ember on the hearth. I held my breath, and

listened for the mysterious footstep; I heard it not, but something a

little more exciting,—the scratching of a huge paw upon our slender

door. In an exceedingly short time, I roused my bed-fellows, and told

them what I had heard. They thought it must be a wolf, and as we were

afraid to frighten him away, yet anxious to take his hide, it was

resolved that I should hold a match, and the farmer should fire his

rifle in the direction of the mysterious noise; which operation was duly

performed. A large pine torch was then lighted, the rifle reloaded, and

the heroes of the adventure marched into the _outer hall_ of the cabin,

where we found a few drops of blood, and the muddy tracks of what we

supposed to be a wild cat. The rifleman and myself then commissioned the

fiddler to make a fire, when we again threw ourselves upon the hemlock

couch.

The fiddler attended faithfully to his duty, and in less than twenty

minutes, he had kindled a tremendous blaze. The brilliant and laughing

flame had such an exhilarating influence upon his nerves, that he seized

his instrument and commenced playing, partly for the purpose of keeping

off the wild animals, but mostly for his own amusement. Then laying

aside his fiddle, he began to sing a variety of uncouth, as well as

plaintive songs, one of which was vague, but mournful in sentiment, and

more wild in melody, as I thought at the time, than anything I had ever

before heard. I could not find out by whom it was written, or what was

its exact import, but in the lonely place where we were sleeping, and at

that hour, it made a very deep impression on my mind.

The burden of the song was as follows, and was in keeping with the

picture which the minstrel, the firelight, and the rude cabin presented.

We parted in silence, we parted at night,

On the banks of that lonely river,

Where the shadowy trees their boughs unite,

We met, and we parted forever;—

The night bird sang, and the stars above

Told many a touching story

Of friends long passed to the mansions of rest,

Where the soul wears her mantle of glory.

We parted in silence; our cheeks were wet

By the tears that were past controlling;—

We vowed we would never, no never forget,

And those vows at the time were consoling;—

But the lips that echoed my vows

Are as cold as that lonely river;

The sparkling eye, the spirit’s shrine.

Has shrouded its fire forever.

And now on the midnight sky I look,

My eyes grow full with weeping,—

Each star to me is a sealed book,

Some tale of that loved one keeping.

We parted in silence, we parted in tears,

On the banks of that lonely river;

But the odor and bloom of by-gone years

Shall hang o’er its waters forever.

But sleep, the “dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health,” soon

folded the singer and his listener in her embrace, and with the rising

sun we entered upon the labors of another day. While the fiddler

prepared our breakfast, (out of the few trout which certain _beastly_

robbers had not stolen during the night,) the rifleman went out and

killed a large hare, and I took a sketch of the cabin where we had

lodged.

After breakfast, we shouldered our knapsacks, and started for the

Hudson. We struck this noble river at the embryo city of Tahawus, where

we found a log house and an unfinished saw-mill. Here we also discovered

a canoe, which we boarded, and navigated the stream to Lake Sanford.

This portion of the Hudson is not more than one hundred feet broad, but

quite deep and picturesque. On leaving our canoe, we made our way up a

mountain road, and after walking about four miles, came out upon an

elevated clearing, of some two hundred acres, in the centre of which was

a solitary log cabin with a retinue of out-houses, and this was the

famous Newcomb Farm.

The attractions of this spot are manifold, for it lies in the vicinity

of Moose Lake and Lake Delia, and commands the finest distant prospect

of the Adirondac mountains which has yet been discovered.

Moose Lake lies at the west of the farm, and about six miles distant. It

is embosomed among mountains, and the fountain head of the Cold River,

which empties into the St. Lawrence. In form it is so nearly round that

its entire shore may be seen at one view; the bottom is covered with

white sand, and the water is remarkably cold and clear. Considering its

size, it is said to contain more trout than any lake in this wilderness,

and it is also celebrated as a watering place for deer and moose. In

fishing from the shore, one of our party caught no less than forty

pounds of trout in about two hours. There were two varieties, and they

varied from one to two pounds in weight. Our guide to this lake, where

we encamped for one night, was Steuben Hewitt, the keeper of the Newcomb

Farm, who is quite a hunter. This woodsman got the notion into his head

that he must have a venison steak for his supper. We had already seen

some half dozen deer walking along the opposite margin of the lake, but

Steuben told us that he would wait until after dark to capture his game.

He also told us that the deer were in the habit of visiting the wilder

lakes of this region at night, for the purpose of escaping the

tormenting flies, and as he spoke so confidently of what he intended to

accomplish, we awaited his effort with a degree of anxiety. Soon as the

quiet night had fairly set in, he shipped himself on board a wooden

canoe, (a rickety affair, originally bequeathed to this lake by some

departed Indian,) in the bow of which was a fire jack, or torch holder.

Separating this machine from himself, as he sat in the centre of the

canoe, was a kind of screen made of bark, which was sufficiently

elevated to allow him to fire his gun from underneath; and in this

predicament, with a loaded rifle by his side, did he paddle into the

lake. After floating upon the water for an hour, in perfect silence, he

finally heard a splashing near the shore, and immediately lighting his

torch, he noiselessly proceeded in the direction of the sound, when he

discovered a beautiful deer, standing knee deep in the water, and

looking at him in stupefied silence. The poor creature could discover

nothing but the mysterious light, and while standing in the most

interesting attitude imaginable, the hunter raised his rifle, and shot

it through the heart. In half an hour from that time, the carcass of the

deer was hanging on a dry limb near our camp fire, and I was lecturing

the hard-hearted hunter on the cruelty of thus capturing the innocent

creatures of the forest. To all my remarks, however, he replied, “They

were given us for food, and it matters not how we kill them.”

Lake Delia, through which you have to pass in going to Moose Lake, lies

about two miles west of the Newcomb Farm. It is four miles long, and

less than one mile in width, and completely surrounded with wood-crowned

hills. Near the central portion, this lake is quite narrow, and so

shallow that a rude bridge has been thrown across for the accommodation

of the Farm people. The water under this bridge is only about four feet

deep, and this was the only spot in the lake where I followed my

favorite recreation. I visited it on one occasion, with my companions,

late in the afternoon, when the wind was blowing, and we enjoyed rare

sport in angling for salmon trout, as well as a large species of common

trout. I do not know the number that we took, but I well remember that

we had more than we could conveniently carry. Usually, the salmon trout

are only taken in deep water, but in this, and in Moose Lake, they seem

to be as much at home in shallow as in deep water. On one occasion I

visited Lake Delia alone at an early hour in the morning. It so

happened, that I took a rifle along with me; and while quietly throwing

my fly on the old bridge, I had an opportunity of using the gun to some

purpose. My movements in that lonely place were so exceedingly still,

that even the wild animals were not disturbed by my presence; for while

I stood there, a large fat otter made his appearance, and when he came

within shooting distance, I gave him the contents of my gun, and he

disappeared. I related the adventure to my companions, on my return to

the farm, but they pronounced it a “fish story.” My veracity was

vindicated, however, for, on the following day, they discovered a dead

otter on the lake shore, and concluded that I had told the truth.

I must not conclude this chapter without giving my reader an additional

paragraph about the Newcomb Farm. My friend Steuben Hewitt’s nearest

neighbor is eight miles off, and as his family is small, it may be

supposed that he leads a retired life. One of the days that I spent at

his house, was quite an eventful one with him, for a town election was

held there. The electors met at nine o’clock, and the poll closed at

five; and as the number of votes polled was _seven_, it may well be

imagined that the excitement was intense. But with all its loneliness

the Newcomb Farm is well worth visiting, if for no other purpose than to

witness the panorama of mountains which it commands. On every side but

one may they be seen, fading away to mingle their deep blue with the

lighter hue of the sky, but the chief among them all is old Tahawus,

King of the Adirondacs. The country out of which this mountain rises, is

an imposing Alpine wilderness, and as it has long since been abandoned

by the red man, the solitude of its deep valleys and lonely lakes for

the most part, is now more impressive than that of the far off Rocky

Mountains. The meaning of the Indian word Tahawus is _sky piercer_ or

_sky splitter_; and faithfully describes the appearance of the mountain.

Its actual elevation above the level of the sea is five thousand four

hundred and sixty-seven feet, while that of Mount Washington, in New

Hampshire, is only six thousand two hundred and thirty-four, making a

difference of only seven hundred and sixty-seven feet in favor of

Washington. Though Tahawus is not quite so lofty as its New England

brother, yet its form is by far the most picturesque and imposing. Taken

together, they are the highest pair of mountains in the United States.

Before going one step further, I must allude to what I deem the folly of

a certain state geologist, in attempting to name the prominent peaks of

the Adirondac Mountains after a brotherhood of living men. If he is to

have his way in this matter, the beautiful name of Tahawus will be

superseded by that of Marcy, and several of Tahawus’ brethren are

hereafter to be known as Mounts Seward, Wright and Young. Now if this

business is not supremely ridiculous, I must confess that I do not know

the meaning of that word. A pretty idea, indeed, to scatter to the winds

the ancient poetry of the poor Indian, and perpetuate in its place the

names of living politicians. For my part, I agree most decidedly with

the older inhabitants of the Adirondac wilderness, who look with obvious

indifference upon the attempted usurpation of the geologist already

mentioned.

For nine months in the year old Tahawus is covered with a crown of snow,

but there are spots among its fastnesses where you may gather ice and

snow even in the dog days. The base of this mountain is covered with a

luxuriant forest of pine, spruce and hemlock, while the summit is

clothed in a net-work of creeping trees, and almost destitute of the

green which should characterize them. In ascending its sides when near

the summit, you are impressed with the idea that your pathway may be

smooth; but as you proceed, you are constantly annoyed by pitfalls, into

which your legs are foolishly poking themselves, to the great annoyance

of your back bone and other portions of your body which are naturally

straight.

I ascended Tahawus, as a matter of course, and in making the trip I

travelled some twenty miles on foot and through the pathless woods,

employing for the same the better part of two days. My companion on this

expedition was John Cheney, (of whom I have something to write

hereafter,) and as he did not consider it prudent to spend the night on

the summit, we only spent about one hour gazing upon the panorama from

the top, and then descended about half way down the mountain where we

built our watch fire. The view from Tahawus is rather unique. It looks

down upon what appears to be an uninhabited wilderness, with mountains,

fading to the sky in every direction, and where, on a clear day, you may

count not less than twenty-four lakes, including Champlain, Horicon,

Long Lake and Lake Pleasant.

While trying to go to sleep on the night in question, as I lay by the

side of my friend Cheney, he gave me an account of the manner in which

certain distinguished gentlemen have ascended Mount Tahawus, for it must

be known that he officiates as the guide of all travellers in this wild

region. Among those to whom he alluded were Ingham and Cole the artists,

and Hoffman and Headley the travellers. He told me that Mr. Ingham

fainted a number of times in making the ascent, but became so excited

with all that he saw, he determined to persevere, and finally succeeded

in accomplishing the difficult task. Mr. Hoffman, he said, in spite of

his lameness, would not be persuaded by words that he could not reach

the summit; and when he finally discovered that this task was utterly

beyond his accomplishment, his disappointment seemed to have no bounds.

The night that I spent on Tahawus was not distinguished by any event

more remarkable than a regular built rain-storm. Our canopy was composed

of hemlock branches, and our only covering was a blanket. The storm did

not set in until about midnight, and my first intimation of its approach

was the falling of rain drops directly into my ear, as I snugged up to

my bed-fellow for the purpose of keeping warm. Desperate, indeed, were

the efforts I made to forget my condition in sleep, as the rain fell

more abundantly, and drenched me, as well as my companion, to the very

skin. The thunder bellowed as if in the enjoyment of a very happy

frolic, and the lightning seemed determined to root up a few trees in

our immediate vicinity, as if for the purpose of giving us more room.

Finally Cheney rose from his pillow, (which was a log of wood,) and

proposed that we should quaff a little brandy, to keep us from catching

cold, which we did, and then made another attempt to reach the land of

Nod. * * * At the break of day we were awakened from a short but

refreshing sleep, by the singing of birds, and when the cheerful

moonlight had reached the bottom of the ravines, we were enjoying a

comfortable breakfast in the cabin of my friend.

The principal attractions associated with Tahawus, are the Indian Pass,

the Adirondac Lakes, the Adirondac iron works, and the mighty hunter of

the Adirondacs, John Cheney. The Pass, so called, is only an

old-fashioned notch between the mountains. On one side is a

perpendicular precipice, rising to the height of eleven hundred feet;

and, on the other, a wood-covered mountain, ascending far up into the

sky, at an angle of forty-five degrees. Through this pass flows a tiny

rivulet, over which the rocks are so thickly piled, as frequently to

form pitfalls that measure from ten to thirty feet in depth.—Some of

these holes are never destitute of ice, and are cool and comfortable

even at midsummer. The Pass is nearly half a mile in length, and, at one

point, certain immense boulders have come together and formed a cavern,

which is called the “meeting house,” and is, perhaps, capable of

containing one thousand people. The rock on either side of the Pass is a

gray granite, and its only inhabitants are eagles, which are quite

abundant, and occupy the most conspicuous crag in the notch.

The two principal lakes which gem the Adirondac wilderness, are named

Sanford and Henderson, after the two gentlemen who first purchased land

upon their borders. The former is five miles in length, and the latter

somewhat less than three, both of them varying in width from half a mile

to a mile and a half. The mountains which swoop down to their bosoms are

covered with forest, and abound in a great variety of large game. There

is not, to my knowledge, a single habitation on either of the lakes, and

the only smoke ever seen to ascend from their lonely recesses, comes

from the watch-fire of the hunter, or the encampment of surveyors and

tourists.—The water of these lakes is cold and deep, and moderately

supplied with salmon trout. Lake Henderson is admirably situated for the

exciting sport of deer hunting, and though it contains two or three

canoes, cannot be entered from the West Branch of the Hudson without

making a portage. Through Lake Sanford, however, the Hudson takes a

direct course, and there is nothing to impede the passage of a small

boat to within a mile of the iron works, which are located in a valley

between the two lakes. The fact is, during the summer there is quite an

extensive business done on Lake Sanford, in the way of “bringing in”

merchandize, and “carrying out” the produce of the forge. It was my

misfortune to make the inward passage of the lake in company with two

ignorant Irishmen. Their boat was small, heavily laden, very tottleish

and leaky. This was my only chance; and on taking my seat with a

palpitating heart, I made an express bargain with the men, that they

should keep along the shore on their way up. They assented to my wishes,

but immediately pulled for the very centre of the lake. I remonstrated,

but they told me there was no danger. The boat was now rapidly filling

with water, and though one was bailing with all his might, the rascals

were determined not to accede to my wishes. The conclusion of the matter

was that our shallop became water-logged, and on finally reaching the

shore, the merchandize was greatly damaged, and I was just about as wet

as I was angry at the miserable creatures, whose obstinacy had not only

greatly injured their employers, but also endangered my own plunder as

well as my life.

The iron works alluded to above, are located in a narrow valley, and in

the immediate vicinity of Lake Henderson, at a place called McIntyre.

Some time in the year 1830, a couple of Scottish gentlemen, named

Henderson and McIntyre, purchased a large tract of wild land lying in

this portion of New York. In the summer following, they passed through

this wilderness on an exploring expedition, and with the assistance of

their Indian guide, discovered that the bed of the valley in question

was literally blocked up with iron ore. On making farther

investigations, they found that the whole rocky region about them was

composed of valuable mineral, and they subsequently established a

regular-built iron establishment, which has been in operation ever

since. A gentleman named Robinson afterwards purchased an interest in

the concern, and it is now carried on by him and Mr. McIntyre, though

the principal stockholders are the wife and son of Mr. Henderson,

deceased.

The metal manufactured by this company is of the very best quality of

bar-iron; and an establishment is now in progress of erection at

Tahawus, twelve miles down the river, where a party of English gentlemen

intend to manufacture every variety of steel. The iron works give

employment to about one hundred and fifty men, whose wages vary from one

to four dollars per day. The society of the place, you may well imagine,

is decidedly original; but the prominent individual, and only remarkable

man who resides here, is John Cheney, the mighty hunter of the

Adirondacs. For an account of this man, the reader will please look into

the following chapter.

CHAPTER VII.

John Cheney, the Adirondac hunter—Some of his exploits.

_John Cheney’s Cabin, June._

John Cheney was born in New Hampshire, but spent his boyhood on the

shores of Lake Champlain, and has resided in the Adirondac wilderness

about thirteen years. He has a wife and one child, and lives in a

comfortable cabin in the wild village of McIntyre. His profession is

that of a hunter, and he is in the habit of spending about one-half of

his time in the woods. He is a remarkably amiable and intelligent man,

and as unlike the idea I had formed of him as possible. I expected from

all that I had heard, to see a huge, powerful, and hairy Nimrod; but,

instead of such, I found him small in stature, and bearing more the

appearance of a modest and thoughtful student.

The walls of his cosy little house, containing one principal room, are

ornamented with a large printed sheet of the Declaration of

Independence, and two engraved portraits of Washington and Jackson. Of

guns and pistols he has an abundant supply, and also a good stock of all

the conveniences for camping among the mountains. He keeps one cow,

which supplies his family with all the milk they need; but his favorite

animals are a couple of hunting dogs named Buck and Tiger.

As summer is not the time to accomplish much in the way of hunting, my

adventures with John Cheney have not been distinguished by any stirring

events; we have, however, enjoyed some rare sport in the way of fishing,

and obtained some glorious views from the mountain peaks of this region.

But the conversation of this famous Nimrod has interested me

exceedingly, and wherever we might be, under his own roof, or by the

side of our mountain watch-fires, I have kept him busy in recounting his

former adventures. I copied into my note-book nearly everything he said,

and now present my readers with a few extracts relating to his hunting

exploits. I shall use his own words as nearly as I can remember them.

* * * * *

“I was always fond of hunting, and the first animal I killed was a fox;

I was then ten years of age. Even from childhood, I was so in love with

the woods that I not only neglected school, but was constantly borrowing

a gun, or stealing the one belonging to my father, with which to follow

my favorite amusement. He found it a useless business to make a decent

boy of me, and in a fit of desperation he one day presented me with a

common fowling piece. I was the youngest of thirteen children, and was

always called the black sheep of the family. I have always enjoyed good

health, and am forty-seven years of age; but I have now passed my prime,

and don’t care about exposing myself to any useless dangers.

* * * * *

“You ask me if I ever hunt on Sunday; no, sir, I do not. I have always

been able to kill enough on week days to give me a comfortable living.

Since I came to live among the Adirondacs, I have killed _six hundred

deer, four hundred sable, nineteen moose, twenty-eight bears, six

wolves, seven wild cats, thirty otter, one panther and one beaver_.

* * * * *

“As to that beaver I was speaking about, it took me three years to

capture him, for he was an old fellow, and remarkably cunning. He was

the last, from all that I can learn, that was ever taken in the State.

One of the Long Lake Indians often attempted to trap him, but without

success; he usually found his trap sprung, but could never get a morsel

of the beaver’s tail; and so it was with me, too; but I finally fixed a

trap _under_ the water, near the entrance to his dam, and it so happened

that he one day stepped into it and was drowned.

* * * * *

“I was going to tell you something about my dogs, Buck and Tiger. I’ve

raised some fifty of these animals in my day, but I never owned such a

tormented smart one as that fellow Buck. I believe there’s a good deal

of the English mastiff in him, but a keener eye than he carries in his

head I never saw. Only look at that breast of his; did you ever see a

thicker or more solid one? He’s handsomely spotted, as you may see, but

some of the devilish Lake Pleasant Indians cut off his ears and tail

about a year ago, and he now looks rather odd. You may not believe it,

but I have seen a good many men who were not half as sensible as that

very dog. Whenever the fellow’s hungry he always seats himself at my

feet and gives three short barks, which is his way of telling me that he

would like some bread and meat. If the folks happen to be away from

home, and he feels a little sharp, he pays a regular visit to all the

houses in the village, and after playing with the children, barks for a

dry crust, which he always receives, and then comes back to his own

home. He’s quite a favorite among the children, and I’ve witnessed more

than one fight because some wicked little scamp had thrown a stone at

him. When I speak to him he understands me just as well as you do. I can

wake him out of a sound sleep, and by my saying, ‘Buck, go up and kiss

the baby,’ he will march directly to the cradle and lick the baby’s

face; and the way he watches that baby when it’s asleep, is perfectly

curious,—he’d tear you to pieces in three minutes if you were to try to

take it away. Buck is now four years old, and though he’s helped me to

kill several hundred deer, he never lost one for me yet. Whenever I go a

hunting, and don’t want him along, I have only to say, ‘Buck, you must

not go,’—and he remains quiet: there’s no use in chaining him, I tell

you, for he understands his business. This dog never starts after a deer

until I tell him to go, even if the deer is in sight. Why ’twas only the

other day that Tiger brought in a doe to Lake Colden, where the two had

a desperate fight within a hundred yards of the spot where Buck and

myself were seated. I wanted to try the metal of Tiger, and told Buck he

must not stir, though I went up to the doe to see what the result would

be between the fighters. Buck didn’t move out of his tracks, but the way

he howled for a little taste of blood was perfectly awful. I almost

thought the fellow would die in his agony. Buck is of great use to me,

when I am off hunting, in more ways than one. If I happen to be lost in

a snow storm, which is sometimes the case, I only have to tell him to go

home, and if I follow his tracks I am sure to come out in safety; and

when sleeping in the woods at night, I never have any other pillow than

Buck’s body. As to my black dog Tiger, he isn’t quite two years old yet,

but he’s going to make a great hunter. I am trying hard now-a-days to

break him of a very foolish habit of killing porcupines. Not only does

he attack every one he sees, but he goes out to hunt them, and often

comes home all covered with their quills. It was only the other day that

he came home with about twenty quills working their way into his snout.

It so happened, however, that they did not kill him, because he let me

pull them all out with a pair of pincers, and that too without budging

an inch. About the story people tell, that the porcupine _throws_ its

quills, I can tell you it’s no such thing,—it is only when the quills

touch the dog, that they come out and work their way through his body.

* * * * *

“As to deer hunting, I can tell you more stories in that line than you’d

care about hearing. They have several ways of killing them in this

quarter, and some of their ways are so infernal mean. I’m surprised that

there should be any deer left in the country. In the first place,

there’s the ‘still hunting’ fashion, when you lay in ambush near a salt

lick, and shoot the poor creatures when they’re not thinking of you. And

there’s the beastly manner of blinding them with a ‘torch light’ when

they come into the lakes to cool themselves, and get away from the

flies, during the warm nights of summer. Now I say, that no decent man

will take this advantage of wild game, unless he is in a starving

condition. The only manly way to kill deer is by ‘driving’ them, as I

do, with a couple of hounds.

“There isn’t a creature in this whole wilderness that I think so much of

as a deer. They are _so_ beautiful, with their bright eyes, graceful

necks, and sinewy legs; and they are so swift, and make such splendid

leaps when hard pressed; why, I’ve seen a buck jump from a cliff that

was forty feet high, and that, too, without injuring a hair. I wish I

could get my living without killing this beautiful animal!—but I must

live, and I suppose they were made to die. The cry of the deer, when in

the agonies of death, is the awfulest sound I ever heard;—I’d a good

deal rather hear the scream of the panther, provided I have a ball in my

pistol, and the pistol is in my hand. I wish they would never speak so.

“The time for taking deer is in the fall and winter. It’s a curious

fact, that when a deer is at all frightened, he cannot stand upon smooth

ice, while, at the same time, when not afraid of being caught, he will

not only walk, but actually trot across a lake as smooth as glass. It’s

a glorious sight to see them running down the mountains, with the dogs

howling behind; but I don’t think I ever saw a more beautiful race than

I once did on Lake Henderson, between a buck deer and my dog Buck, when

the lake was covered with a light fall of snow. I had put Buck upon a

fresh track, and was waiting for him on the lake shore. Presently, a

splendid deer bounded out of the woods upon the ice, and as the dog was

only a few paces off, he led the race directly across the lake. Away

they ran as if a hurricane was after them; crossed the lake, then back

again. Then they made another wheel, and having run to the extreme

southern point of the lake, again returned, when the deer’s wind gave

out, and the dog caught and threw the creature, into whose throat I soon

plunged my knife, and the race was ended.

“I never was so badly hurt in hunting any animal as I have been in

hunting deer. It was while chasing a buck on Cheney’s Lake, (which was

named after me by Mr. Henderson in commemoration of my escape,) that I

once shot myself in a very bad way. I was in a canoe, and had laid my

pistol down by my side, when, as I was pressing hard upon the animal, my

pistol slipped under me in some queer way, and went off, sending a ball

into my leg, just above the ankle, which came out just below the knee. I

knew something terrible had happened, and though I thought that I might

die, I was determined that the deer should die first; and I did succeed

in killing him before he reached the shore. But, soon as the excitement

was over, the pain I had felt before was increased a thousand-fold, and

I felt as if all the devils in hell were dragging at my leg, the weight

and the agony were so great. I had never suffered so before, and I

thought it strange. You may not believe it, but when that accident

happened, I was fourteen miles from home, and yet, even with that

used-up leg, I succeeded in reaching my home, where I was confined to my

bed from October until April. That was a great winter for hunting which

I missed; but my leg got entirely well, and is now as good as ever.

* * * * *

“The most savage animal that I hunt for among these mountains, is the

moose, or caraboo, as I have heard some people call them. They’re quite

plenty in the region of Long Lake and Lake Pleasant; and if the hunter

don’t understand their ways, he’ll be likely to get killed before he

thinks of his danger. The moose is the largest animal of the deer kind,

or, in fact, of any kind that we find in this part of the country. His

horns are very large, and usually look like a pair of crab-apple trees.

He has a long head, long legs, and makes a great noise when he travels;

his flesh is considered first rate, for he feeds upon grass, and the

tender buds of the moose maple. He is a rapid traveller, and hard to

tire out. In winter they run in herds; and when the snow is deep, they

generally live in one particular place in the woods which we call a

‘yard.’ The crack time for killing them is the winter, when we can

travel on the snow with our braided snow shoes.

“I once killed two moose before nine o’clock in the morning. I had been

out a hunting for two days, in the winter, and when night came on, I had

to camp out near the foot of old Tahawus. When I got up in the morning,

and was about to start for home, I discovered a yard, where lay a couple

of bull moose. I don’t know what they were thinking about, but just as

soon as they saw me, they jumped up, and made directly towards the place

where I was standing. I couldn’t get clear of their ugly feet without

running, so I put for a large dead tree that had blown over, and walking

to the butt end of it, which was some ten feet high, looked down in

safety upon the devils. They seemed to be very mad about something, and

did everything they could to get at me, by running around; and I

remember they ran together, as if they had been yoked. I waited for a

good chance to shoot, and when I got it, fired a ball clear through one

of the animals, into the shoulder of the second. The first one dropped

dead as a door nail, but the other took to his heels, and after going

about fifty rods, concluded to lie down. I then came up to him, keeping

my dogs back for the purpose of sticking him, when he jumped up again,

and put after me like lightning. I ran to a big stump, and after I had

fairly fixed myself, I loaded again, and again fired, when the fellow

tumbled in the snow quite dead. He was eight feet high, and a perfect

roarer.

* * * * *

“Another animal that we sometimes find pretty plenty in these woods, is

the big gray wolf; they are savage fellows, and dangerous to meet with

when angry. On getting up early one winter morning, I noticed, in the

back part of my garden, what I thought to be a wolf track. I got my gun,

called for my dogs, and started on the hunt. I found the fellow in his

den among the mountains. I kindled a fire, and smoked him out. I then

chased him for about two miles, when he came to bay. He was a big

fellow, and my dogs were afraid to clinch in;—dogs hate a wolf worse

than any other animal. I found I had a fair chance, so I fired at the

creature; but my gun missed fire. The wolf then attacked me, and in

striking him with my gun, I broke it all to pieces. I was in a bad fix,

I tell you, but I immediately threw myself on my back, with my snow

shoes above me, when the wolf jumped right on to my body, and, probably,

would have killed me, had it not been for my dog Buck, who worried the

wolf so badly, that the devil left me, to fight the dog. While they were

fighting with all their might, I jumped up, took the barrel of my gun,

and settled it right into the brain of the savage animal. That was the

largest wolf ever killed in this wilderness.

* * * * *

“One of the hardest fights I ever had in these woods was with a black

bear. I was coming from a winter hunt. The snow was very deep, and I had

on my snow shoes. It so happened, as I was coming down a certain

mountain, the snow suddenly gave way under me, and I fell into the hole

or winter quarters of one of the blackest and largest bears I ever saw.

The fellow was quite as much frightened as I was, and he scampered out

of the den in a great hurry. I was very tired, and had only one dog with

me at the time, but I put after him. I had three several battles with

him, and in one of these he struck my hand with such force as to send my

gun at least twenty or thirty feet from where we stood. I finally

managed to kill the rascal, however, but not until he had almost

destroyed the life of my dog. That was a noble dog; but in that battle

he received his death-wound. He couldn’t walk at the time, and though I

was nine miles from home, I took him up in my arms and brought him; but

with all my nursing I could not get him up again, for he died at the end

of a few weeks. That dog was one of the best friends I ever had.

* * * * *

“But the most dangerous animal in this country is the yellow panther or

painter. They are not very plenty, and so tormented cunning that it is

very seldom you can kill one. They are very ugly, but don’t often attack

a man unless cornered or wounded. They look and act very much like a

cat, only that they are very large; I never killed but one, and his body

was five feet long, and his tail between three and four. At night their

eyes look like balls of fire, and when they are after game they make a

hissing noise, which is very dreadful to hear. Their scream is also very

terrible, and I never saw the man who was anxious to hear it more than

once. They are seldom hunted as a matter of business, but usually killed

by accident.

“The panther I once killed, I came across in this manner. I was out on

Lake Henderson with two men, catching fish through the ice, when we saw

two wolves come on to the ice in great haste, looking and acting as if

they had been pursued. I proposed to the men that we should all go and

kill them if we could. They wanted to fish, or were a little afraid, so

I took my gun and started after the game. I followed them some distance,

when, as they were scaling a ledge, they were attacked by a big panther,

and a bloody fight took place. From the appearance of the animals, I

supposed that they had met before, which was the cause why the wolves

came upon the lake. During the scuffle between the animals, it is a

singular fact that they all three tumbled off the precipice and fell

through the air about one hundred feet. The wolves jumped up and ran

away, while the panther started in another direction. I followed his

track, and after travelling a number of hours, overtook him, and managed

to shoot him through the shoulder. He then got into a tree, and as he

was lashing his tail and getting ready to pounce upon me, I gave him

another ball, and he fell to the earth with a crash, and was quite dead.

I then went to the lake and got the men to help me home with my booty.”

CHAPTER VIII.

Burlington—Lake Champlain—Distinguished men.

_Burlington, June._

Of all the towns which I have seen, Burlington, in Vermont, is decidedly

one of the most beautiful. It stands on the shore of Lake Champlain, and

from the water to its eastern extremity is a regular elevation, which

rises to the height of some three hundred feet. Its streets are broad

and regularly laid out; the generality of its buildings elegant, and its

inhabitants well educated, refined and wealthy. My visit here is now

about to close, and I cannot but follow the impulses of my heart, by

giving my reader a brief account of its principal picturesque

attractions, and some information concerning a few of its public men.

As a matter of course, my first subject is Lake Champlain. In

approaching it from the south, and particularly from Horicon, one is apt

to form a wrong opinion of its picturesque features; but you cannot pass

through it without being lavish in its praise. It extends, in a straight

line from south to north, somewhat over an hundred miles, and lies

between the States of New York and Vermont. It is the gateway between

the country on the St. Lawrence, and that on the Hudson, and it is,

therefore, extensively navigated by vessels and steamboats. It is

surrounded with flourishing villages, whose population is generally made

up of New Englanders and Canadians. Its width varies from half a mile to

thirteen; but its waters are muddy, excepting in the vicinity of

Burlington. Its islands are not numerous, but one of them, Grand Isle,

is sufficiently large to support four villages. Its scenery may be

denominated bold; on the west are the Adirondac Mountains, and at some

distance on the east, the beautiful Green Mountains, whose glorious

_commanders_ are Mansfield Mountain and the Camel’s Hump. Owing to the

width of the lake at Burlington, and the beauty of the western

mountains, the sunsets that are here visible, are exceedingly superb.

The classic associations of this lake are uncommonly interesting. Here

are the moss-covered ruins of Ticonderoga and Crown Point, whose present

occupants are the snake, the lizard and toad. Leaden and iron balls,

broken bayonets, and English flints have I picked up on their ramparts,

which I cannot look upon without thinking of death-struggles and the

horrible shout of war. And there, too, is Plattsburgh, in whose waters

Commodore McDonough vindicated the honor of the Stars and Stripes of

Freedom. As to the fishing of this lake, I have but a word to say.

Excepting trout, almost every variety of fresh water fish is found here

in abundance; but the water is not pure, which is ever a serious

drawback to my enjoyment in wetting the line. Lake Champlain received

its name from a French nobleman who discovered it in 1609, and who died

at Quebec in 1635.

The associations I am now to speak of are of a personal character; and

the first of the three names before me is that of Joseph Torrey, the

present Professor of Moral and Intellectual Philosophy in the University

of Vermont. As a citizen, he is one of the most amiable and beloved of

men. As one of the faculty of the university, he occupies a high rank,

and is a particular favorite with all his students. A pleasing evidence

of the latter fact I noticed a few days since, when it was reported

among the students that the Professor had returned from a visit to the

Springs for his health. I was in company with some half-dozen of them at

the time, and these are the remarks they made. “How is his health?” “I

hope he has improved!” “Now shall I be happy—for ever since he went

away, the recitation room has been a cheerless place to me.” “Now shall

I be advised as to my essay!” “Now shall my poem be corrected!” “Now in

my trouble shall I have the sympathies of a true friend!” Much more

meaning is contained in these simple phrases than what meets the eye.

Surely, if any man is to be envied, it is he who has a place in the

affections of all who know him. As a scholar, too, Professor Torrey

occupies an exalted station, as will be proven to the world in due time.

He has never published anything but an occasional article for a review,

and the memoir of President Marsh, (who was his predecessor in the

university,) as contained in the admirable volume of his Remains, which

should occupy a conspicuous place in the library of every American

scholar and Christian. The memoir is, indeed, a rare specimen of that

kind of writing,—beautifully written, and pervaded by a spirit of

refinement that is delightful. But I was mostly interested in Mr. Torrey

as a man of taste in the Fine Arts. In everything but the mere

execution, he is a genuine artist, and long may I remember the counsels

of his experience and knowledge. A course of Lectures on the Arts forms

a portion of his instruction as Professor, and I trust that they will

eventually be published for the benefit of our country. He has also

translated from the German of Schelling, a most admirable discourse,

entitled “Relation of the Arts of Design to Nature;” a copy of which

ought to be in the possession of every young artist. Mr. Torrey has been

an extensive traveller in Europe, and being a lover, and an acute

observer of everything connected with literature and art, it is quite a

luxury to hear him expatiate upon “the wonders he has seen.” He also

examines everything with the eye of a philosopher, and his conclusions

are ever of practical utility. Not only can he analyze in a profound

manner the principles of metaphysical learning, but with the genuine

feelings of a poet, descant upon the triumphs of poetic genius, or point

out the mind-charms of a Claude or Titian. He is—but I will not say all

that I would, for fear that at our next meeting he would chide me for my

boyish personalities. Let me conclude, then, reader, with the advice,

that, if you ever chance to meet the Professor in your travels, you must

endeavor to secure an introduction, which I am sure you cannot but ever

remember with unfeigned pleasure.

John Henry Hopkins, D. D., Bishop of Vermont, is another of the

principal attractions of Burlington. The history of his life, the

expression of his countenance, and his general deportment all speak of

the “peace of God.” Considering the number and diversity of his

acquirements, I think him a very remarkable man. He is not only, in

point of character, well worthy of his exalted station as Bishop, but as

a theologian learned and eloquent to an uncommon degree. His

contributions to the world of letters are of rare value, as he has

published volumes entitled “Christianity Vindicated,” “The Primitive

Church,” “The Primitive Creed,” “The Church of Rome,” “British

Reformation,” and “Letters to the Clergy.” His style of writing is

persuasive, vigorous, and clear, and all his conclusions seem to have

been formed in full view of the Bible, which is a virtue well worth

noticing in these degenerate days. It is because of his honesty and

soundness, I suppose, that some of his own church are disaffected with

his straightforward conduct. Bishop Hopkins, as a divine, is of the same

school with the late Bishop White, and therefore among the most

eminently wise and good of his country.

The Bishop of Vermont is also a man of remarkable taste with regard to

Architecture, Music and Painting, in which departments, as an amateur,

he has done himself great credit. Not only did he plan and superintend

the building of an edifice for his recent school, but has published an

interesting book on Architecture, wherein he appears to be as much _at

home_ as if he were Christopher Wren. Knowing the market to be full of

sentimental nonsense in the way of songs, he composed, for the benefit

of his own children, a few with a moral tone, which he also set to

music, and are now published as a worthy tribute to his fine feelings

and the correctness of his ear. But he ranks still higher as a man of

taste in the capacity of Painter. The Vermont drawing-book, which he

published, is an evidence of his ability as a draftsman. The family

portraits which adorn his walls prove him to have an accurate eye for

color, and an uncommon knowledge of effect;—and his oil sketches of

scenes from nature give token of an ardent devotion to nature. But the

best, in my opinion, of all his artistical productions, is a picture

representing our “Saviour blessing little children.” Its conception,

grouping and execution are all of very great merit, and I am persuaded

will one day be looked upon with peculiar interest by the lovers and

judges of art in this country. Though done in water colors, and

considered by the artist as a mere sketch for a larger picture, there

are some heads in it that would have called forth a compliment even from

the lamented Allston. Would that he could be influenced to send it, for

exhibition, to our National Academy! And thus endeth my humble tribute

of applause to a gifted man.

I now come to the Hon. George P. Marsh, of whom, if I were to follow the

bent of my feelings, I could write a complete volume. Though yet in the

early prime of life, he is a sage in learning and wisdom. After leaving

college he settled in Burlington, where he has since resided, dividing

his time between his legal profession and the retirement of his study.

With a large and liberal heart, he possesses all the endearing and

interesting qualities which belong to the true and accomplished

gentleman. Like all truly great men, he is exceedingly retiring and

modest in his deportment, and one of that rare class who seem never

excited by the voice of fame. About four years ago, almost without his

knowledge, he was elected to a seat in the lower house of Congress,

where he at once began to make an impression as a statesman. Though few

have been his public speeches, they are remarkable for sound political

logic and the classic elegance of their language. As an orator, he is

not showy and passionate, but plain, forcible and earnest.

But it is in the walks of private life that Mr. Marsh is to be mostly

admired. His knowledge of the Fine Arts is probably more extensive than

that of any other man in this country, and his critical taste is equal

to his knowledge; but that department peculiarly his hobby, is

engraving. He has a passion for line engravings; and it is

unquestionably true, that his collection is the most valuable and

extensive in the Union. He is well acquainted with the history of this

art from the earliest period, and also with its various mechanical

ramifications. He is as familiar with the lives and peculiar styles of

the Painters and Engravers of antiquity, as with his household affairs;

and when he talks to you on his favorite theme, it is not to display his

learning, but to make you realize the exalted attributes and mission of

universal art.

As an author, Mr. Marsh has done but little in extent, but enough to

secure a seat beside such men as Edward Everett, with whom he has been

compared. He has published (among his numerous things of the kind) a

pamphlet, entitled “The Goths in New England,” which is a fine specimen

of chaste writing and beautiful thought; also another on the “History of

the Mechanic Arts,” which contains a great deal of rare and important

information. He has also written an “Icelandic Grammar” of 156 pages,

which created quite a sensation among the learned of Europe a few years

ago. As to his scholarship—it can be said of him that he is a _master_

in some twelve of the principal modern and ancient languages. He has not

learned them merely for the purpose of being considered a literary

prodigy, but to multiply his means of acquiring information, which

information is intended to accomplish some substantial end. He is not a

visionary, but a devoted lover of truth, whether it be in History,

Poetry, or the Arts.

But my chief object in speaking of this gentleman, was to introduce a

passing notice of his library, which is undoubtedly the most unique in

the country. The building itself, which stands near his dwelling, is of

brick, and arranged throughout with great taste. You enter it, as it was

often my privilege, and find yourself in a complete wilderness of

gorgeous books, and portfolios of engravings. Of books Mr. Marsh owns

some five thousand volumes. His collection of Scandinavian Literature is

supposed to be more complete than any out of the Northern Kingdoms. To

give you an idea of this literary treasure, I will mention a few of the

rarest specimens. In old Northern Literature, here may be found the

_Arna Magnæan_ editions of old Icelandic Sagas, all of those of _Suhm_,

all those of the Royal Society of Northern Antiquaries, and in fact all

those printed at Copenhagen and Stockholm, as well as in Iceland, with

scarcely an exception. This library also contains the great editions of

_Heimskringla_, the two _Eddas_, _Kongs-Skugg-Sjo_, _Konunga_,

_Styrilse_, the Scriptores Rerum Danicarum, Scriptores Rerum Svecicarum,

Dansk Magazin, and _two_ complete editions of _Olaus Magnus_, _Saxo

Grammaticus_, the works of Bartholinus, Torfaus, Schöning, Suhmm,

Pontoppidann, Grundtvig, Petersen, Rask, the _Aplantica_ of Rudbeck, the

great works of _Sjöborg_, Liljegren, Geijer, Cronholm and Strinnholm,

all the collections of Icelandic, Danish and Swedish laws, and almost

all the writers, ancient and modern, who have treated of the language,

literature, or history of the ancient Scandinavian race.

In modern Danish Literature, here may be found the works of Holberg,

Wessel, Ewald, Hejberg, Baggesen, Ochlenschlseger, Nyerup, Ingemann,

with other celebrated authors; in Swedish, those of Leopold Oxenstjerna,

Bellman, Franzen, Atterbom, Tegner, Frederika Bremer, and, indeed,

almost all the _belles-lettres_ authors of Sweden, the Transactions of

the Royal Academy of Science, (more than one hundred volumes,) those of

the Swedish Academy, and of the Royal Academy of Literature, and many

collections in documentary history, besides numerous other works.

In Spanish and Portuguese, besides many modern authors, here are

numerous old chronicles, such as the Madrid collection of old Spanish

Chronicles, in seven volumes 4to.; the Portuguese _Livros ineditos da

Historia Portugueza_, five volumes folio; Fernam Lopez, de Brito, Duarte

Nunez de Liam, Damiam de Goes, de Barros, Castanheda, Resende, Andrada,

Osorio; also, de Menezes, Mariana, and others of similar character. In

Italian, most of the best authors who have acquired a European

reputation; several hundred volumes of French works, including many of

the ancient chronicles; a fine collection in German, including many

editions of Reyneke de Vos, the Nibelungen, and other works of the

middle ages. In classical literature, good editions of the most

celebrated Greek and Latin authors; and in English, a choice selection

of the best authors, among which should be mentioned as rare, in this

country, Lord Berners’ Froissart, Roger Ascham, the writings of King

James I., John Smith’s Virginia (edition of 1624), Amadis de Gaul, and

Palmerin of England. In lexicography, the best dictionaries and grammars

in all the languages of Western Europe, and many biographical

dictionaries and other works of reference in various languages. Many

works, too, are here, on astrology, alchemy, witchcraft, and magic; and

a goodly number of works on the situation of Plato’s Atlantis and

Elysian Fields, such as Rudbeck’s Atlantica, Goropius Becanus, de Grave

République des Champs Elysées, and a host of others in every department

of learning, the mere mention of which would cause the bookworm a thrill

of delight.

In the department of Art, Mr. Marsh possesses the Musée Français, Musée

Royal, (proof before letters,) Liber Veritatis, Houghton Gallery,

Florence Gallery, Publications of Dilettanti Society, and many other

illustrated works and collections of engravings; the works of Bartsch,

Ottley, Mengs, Visconti, Winchelmann, and other writers on the history

and theory of Art; old illustrated works, among which are the original

editions of Teuerdanck and Der Weiss Kunig; and many thousand steel

engravings, including many originals by Albert Dürer, Luke of Leyden,

Lucas Cranach, Aldegreuer, Wierx, the Sadelers Nauteuil, (among others

the celebrated Louis XIV., size of life, and a proof of the Cadet à la

Perle, by Masson,) Edelink, Drevet, Marc Antonio, and other old

engravers of the Italian school; Callot, Ostade, Rembrandt, (including a

most superb impression of the Christ Healing the Sick, the Hundred

Guilder Piece, and the Portrait of Renier Ansloo,) Waterloo, Woollett,

Sharp, Strange, Earlom, Wille, Ficquet Schmidt, Longhi, and Morghen; in

short, nearly all the works of all the great masters in chalcography

from the time of Dürer to the present day. It were folly for me to

praise these various works, and I have alluded to them merely for the

purpose of letting you know something of the taste and possessions of

Mr. Marsh. His library is one of the most delightful places it has ever

been my fortune to visit, and the day that I became acquainted with the

man, I cannot but consider as an era in my life. Morning, noon and

evening did I linger with the master-spirits of olden time, collected in

his library, and though I often stood in mute admiration of their

genius, I was compelled to shed a tear, as I thought of the destiny as a

writer which will probably be mine. Thank God, there is no such thing as

_ambition_ in that blessed world above the stars, which I hope to

attain,—no ambition to harass the soul,—for, then will it be free to

revel, and forever, in its holy and godlike conceptions. But a truce to

this strain of thought, and also to the Lions of Burlington, of whom I

now take my leave with a respectful bow.

CHAPTER IX.

Stage coach—The Winooski—The Green Mountains—The ruined

dwelling—The White Mountains—The Flume—A deep pool—The Old

Man of the Mountain—The Basin—Franconia Notch—View of the

mountains—Mount Washington—The Notch Valley.

_In a Stage Coach.—June._

Three loud knocks upon my bed-room door awakened me from “a deep dream

of peace.” “The Eastern stage is ready,” said my landlord as he handed

me a light. Whereupon, in less than five minutes after the hour of

three, I was on my way to the White Mountains, inditing on the tablet of

my memory the following disjointed stage-coach rhapsody.

A fine coach, fourteen passengers, and six superb horses. My seat is on

the outside and my eyes on the alert for anything of peculiar interest

which I may meet with in my journey. Now do the beautiful Green

Mountains meet my view. The day is breaking, and lo! upon either side of

me, and like two leaders of an army, rise the peaks of Mansfield

Mountains and the Camel’s Hump. Around the former the cloud-spirits of

early morning are picturing the fantastic poetry of the sky; while just

above the summit of the other may be seen the new moon and the morning

star, waiting for the sun to come, like two sweet human sisters for the

smiles and kisses of a returning father. And now, as the sunbeams glide

along the earth, we are in the solitude of the mountains, and the

awakened mist-creatures are ascending from the cool and shady nooks in

the deep ravines.

Young Dana’s description of a ship under full sail is very fine, but it

does not possess the living beauty of that picture now before me, in

those six bay horses, straining every nerve to eclipse the morning

breeze. Hold your breath, for the road is hard and smooth as marble, and

the extended nostrils of those matchless steeds speak of a noble pride

within. There, the race is done, the victory theirs, and now, as they

trot steadily along, what music in the champing of those bits, and the

striking of those iron-bound hoofs! Of all the soulless animals on

earth, none do I love so dearly as the horse—I sometimes am inclined to

think that they have souls. I respect a noble horse more than I do some

men. Horses are the Indian chiefs of the brute creation.

The Winooski, along whose banks runs the most picturesque stage route in

Vermont, is an uncommonly interesting stream, rapid, clear, and cold. It

is remarkable for its falls and narrow passes, where perpendicular rocks

of a hundred feet or more frown upon its solitary pools. Its chief

pictorial attraction is the cataract at Waterbury, a deep and jagged

chasm in the granite mountain, whose horrors are greatly increased by

the sight and smothered howl of an avalanche of pure white foam. On its

banks and forty miles from its outlet near Burlington, is situated

Montpelier, the capital of Vermont. It is a compact town, mostly built

upon two streets, and completely hemmed in by rich and cultivated

mountains. Its chief attraction to my mind, however, during my short

stay, was a pair of deep black eyes, only half visible under their

drooping lids.

During one of my rambles near Montpelier, I discovered an isolated and

abandoned dwelling, which stands upon a little plot of green, in the lap

of the forest near the top of a mountain. I entered its deserted

chambers and spent a long time musing upon its solemn admonitions. The

cellar had become the home of lizards and toads. The spider and cricket

were masters of the hearth, where once had been spun the mountain legend

by an old man to the only child of his widowed son. They were, as I am

told, the last of a long line which once flourished in Britain, and with

them their name would pass into forgetfulness. Only the years of a

single generation have elapsed since then, but the dwellers of yonder

mountain are sleeping in the grave. And is this passing record of their

existence the only inheritance they have left behind? Most true; but

would it have been _better_ for them, or for us, had they bequeathed to

the world a noted name or immense possessions? What is our life?

The route between Montpelier and Danville lies along the Winooski, and

is not less beautiful than that down the river. Its chief picture is

Marshfield Waterfall. While at Montpelier a pleasure ride was got up by

some of my friends, and as they were bound to the East, and I was

honored with an invitation, I sent on my baggage and joined them, so

that the monotony of my journey was considerably relieved. We had our

fishing-rods with us, and having stopped at the fall, we caught a fine

mess of trout, which we had cooked for dinner at the next tavern on our

way,—and our dessert was fine singing from the ladies, and good stories

from the lips of Senator Phelps, who was of the party, and is celebrated

for his conversational powers. For further particulars concerning that

expedition, I would refer my reader to that pair of eyes which I just

now mentioned as having beamed upon me with a bewitching brilliancy. But

alas! the dear creature is already—excuse me, I cannot, I will not

speak the hateful word. The lucky fellow ought to carry a liberal and

kind soul hereafter, if he has never done so before.

At cock-crowing this morning I was again in my seat outside of the

stage-coach, anxiously waiting for the mists to evaporate in the East.

The sun proved to be my friend, and as soon as he appeared, they

vanished like a frightened troop, and he was marching up the sky in the

plenitude of his glory. And then, for the first time, did my vision rest

upon the White Mountains, as they reposed in the distance, like a mighty

herd of camels in the solitude of the desert. In the charming valley of

the Connecticut we only tarried about ten minutes, but long enough for

me to hear the mower whet his scythe, the “lark sing loud and high,” and

the pleasant tinkle of a cow bell far away in the broad meadow. While

there I took a sketch, wherein I introduced the father of New England

rivers, and the bald peak of Mount Lafayette, with the storm-inflicted

scar upon its brow. A noble monument is yonder mountain to the memory of

a noble man.

While breakfasting at Littleton this morning, I came to the conclusion

to leave my baggage and visit Franconia. I jumped into the stage, and

after a very pleasant ride of seventeen miles, found myself far _into_

the Notch, in the midst of whose scenery I am to repose this night. I

reached here in time to enjoy an early dinner with “mine host;” after

which I sallied forth to examine the wonders of the place, but I was so

delighted with everything around that I did not take time to make a

single sketch. I saw the Flume, and was astonished. It is a chasm in the

mountain, thirty feet wide, about a hundred deep, and some two thousand

long, and as regular in its shape as if it had been cut by the hand of

man. Bridging its centre is a rock of many tons weight, which one would

suppose could only have been hurled there from the heavens. Through its

centre flows a little brook, which soon passes over a succession of

rocky slides, and which are almost as smooth and white as marble. And to

cap the climax, this Flume is the centre of as perfect and holy a

wilderness of scenery as could be imagined.

I have also seen (what should be the pride of the Merrimack, as it is

upon one of its tributaries), the most superb pool in this whole

country. The fall above it is not remarkable, but the forest-covered

rocks on either side, and the pool itself are wonderfully fine. In the

first place, you must remember that the waters of this whole region are

cold as ice, and very clear. The pool forms a circle of about one

hundred feet in diameter, and is said to be fifty feet in depth. Owing

to the fall it is the “head-quarters” of the trout, which are found all

along the stream in great abundance. After I had completed a drawing, I

laid aside my pencils and fixed my fishing-rod. I threw the line _only_

about two hours, and caught forty-five trout. Among them was the

great-grandfather of all trout, as I thought at the time;—he was

seventeen inches long, and weighed two pounds and one ounce.

The Old Man of the Mountain is another of the lions of this place. It is

a cone-shaped mountain, (at the foot of which is a small lake,) upon

whose top are some rocks, which have a resemblance to the profile of an

old man. It is really a very curious affair. There the old fellow

stands, as he has stood perhaps for centuries, “looking the whole world

in the face.” I wonder if the thunder never frightens him! and does the

lightning play around his brow without making him wink? His business

there, I suppose, is to protect the “ungranted lands” of New Hampshire,

or keep Isaac Hill from lecturing the White Mountains on Locofocoism. He

need not trouble himself as to the first fear, for they could not be

deeded even to a bear; and as to the second, I don’t believe the

mountains could ever be persuaded to vote for the acquisition of new

territory. Every plant upon them speaks of freedom, and in their

fastnesses does the eagle find a home; their banner symbols are the

stars and stripes, and therefore they must be Whigs.

And another curiosity which everybody goes to see, is called the

Basin—an exquisite little spot—fit for the abode of a very angel. It

is formed in the solid rock, and though twenty feet in depth, you can

see a sixpence at the bottom—it is so wonderfully clear. But the wild

beauties of this Notch, unknown to fame, are charming beyond compare.

There goes the midnight warning of the clock, and I must retire. Would

that my dreams might be of yonder star, now beaming with intense

brightness above the dark outline of the nearest mountain!

The distance from Knight’s tavern to the western outlet of Franconia

Notch is eight miles. The eastern stage was to pass through about the

middle of the afternoon, so that after eating my breakfast I started on,

intending to enjoy a walk between the mountains. With the conceptions

and feelings that were with me then, I should have been willing to die,

for I was very happy. Now as I sat upon a stone to sketch a mass of

foliage, a little red squirrel came within five feet of me, and

commenced a terrible chattering, as if his lady-love had given him the

“mitten,” and he was blowing out against the whole female sex; and now

an old partridge with a score of children came tripping along the

shadowy road, almost within my reach, and so fearless of my presence,

that I would not have harmed one of them for a crown. Both of them were

exceedingly simple pictures, and yet they afforded me a world of

pleasure. I thought of the favorite haunts of these dear creatures,—the

hollow tree,—the bed of dry leaves,—the cool spring,—the mossy yellow

log,—the rocky ledges overgrown with moss,—the gurgling brooklet

stealing through the trees, with its fairy water-falls in a green shadow

and its spots of vivid sunlight,—and of a thousand other kindred gems

in the wonderful gallery of Nature. And now as I walked onward, peering

into the gloomy recesses of the forest on either side, or fixed my eyes

upon the blue sky with a few white clouds floating in their glory, many

of my favorite songs were remembered, and in a style _peculiarly_ my

own, I poured them upon the air, which were answered by unnumbered

mountain echoes. Nothing had they to do with the place or with each

other, but like the pictures around me, they were a divine food for my

soul—so that I was in the enjoyment of a heavenly feast. Now, as I

looked through the opening trees, I saw an eagle floating above the

summit of a mighty cliff,—now, with the speed of a falling star,

descending far into the leafy depths, and then, slowly but surely

ascending, until hidden from view by a passing cloud. Fly on, proud

bird, glorious symbol of my country’s freedom! What a godlike life is

thine! Thou art the “sultan of the sky,” and from thy craggy home

forever lookest upon the abodes of man with indifference and scorn. The

war-whoop of the savage, the roar of artillery on the bloody

battle-field, and the loud boom of the ocean cannon, have fallen upon

thy ear, and thou hast listened, utterly heedless as to whom belonged

the victory. What strength and power are in thy pinions! traversing in

an hour a wider space

“Than yonder gallant ship, with all her sails

Wooing the winds, can cross from morn till eve!”

When thy hunger-shriek echoes through the wilderness, with terror does

the wild animal seek his den, for thy talons are of iron and thine eyes

of fire. But what is thy message to the sun? Far, far into the zenith

art thou gone, forever gone—emblem of a mighty hope that once was mine.

My thoughts were upon the earth once more, and my feet upon a hill out

of the woods, whence might be seen the long broad valley of the

Amonoosack melting into that of the Connecticut. Long and intently did I

gaze upon the landscape, with its unnumbered farm-houses, reposing in

the sunlight, and surmounted by pyramids of light-blue smoke; and also

upon the cattle grazing on a thousand hills. Presently I heard the

rattling wheels of the stage-coach,—one more look over the charming

valley,—and I was in my seat beside the coachman.

In view of the foregoing and forthcoming facts, I cannot but conclude

that I am a most lucky fellow. My ride from Franconia to Littleton was

attended with this interesting circumstance. A very pretty young lady,

who was in the stage, found it necessary to change her seat to the

outside on account of the confinement within. Of course, I welcomed her

to my side with unalloyed pleasure. The scenery was fine, but what does

my reader suppose I cared for that, as I sat there talking in a most

eloquent strain to my companion, with my right arm around her waist to

keep her from falling? That conduct of mine may appear “shocking” to

those who have “never travelled,” but it was not only an act of

politeness, but of absolute necessity. Neither, as my patient’s smile

told me, “was it bad to take.” And how delightful it was to have her

cling to me, and hear the beating of her heart, as the driver swung his

whip and ran his horses down the hills! Animal Magnetism is, indeed, a

great invention—and I am a believer in it so far as the touch of a

beautiful woman is concerned.

Away, away—thoughts of the human world! for I am entering into the

heart of the White Mountains. Ah me! how can I describe these glorious

hierarchs of New England! How solemnly do they raise their rugged peaks

to Heaven! Now, in token of their royalty, crowned with a diadem of

clouds; and now with every one of their cliffs gleaming in the sunlight

like the pictures of a dream! For ages have they held communion with the

mysteries of the midnight sky. The earliest beams of the morning have

bathed them in living light, and theirs, too, have been the kisses of

departing day. Man and his empires have arisen and decayed; but they

have remained unchanged, a perpetual mockery. Upon their summits Time

has never claimed dominion. There, as of old, does the eagle teach her

brood to fly, and there does the wild bear prowl after his prey. There

do the waterfalls still leap and shout on their way to the dells below,

even as when the tired Indian hunter, some hundred ages agone, bent him

to quaff the liquid element. There, still, does the rank grass rustle in

the breeze, and the pine and cedar and hemlock take part in the howling

of the gale. Upon man alone falls the heavy curse of time; Nature has

never sinned, therefore is her glory immortal.

As is well known, the highest of these mountains was christened after

our beloved Washington, and with it, as with him, are associated the

names of Jefferson, Madison and Adams. Its height is said to be six

thousand and eight hundred feet above the sea, but owing to its

situation in the _centre_ of a brotherhood of hills, it does not

_appear_ to be so grand an object as South Peak Mountain among the

Catskills. Its summit, like most of its companions, is destitute of

vegetation, and therefore more desolate and monotonous. It is somewhat

of an undertaking to ascend Mount Washington, though the trip is

performed on horseback; but if the weather is clear, the traveller will

be well repaid for his labor. The painter will be pleased with the views

he may command in ascending the route from Crawford’s, which abounds in

the wildest and most diversified charms of mountain scenery. But the

prospect from the summit of Washington will mostly excite the soul of

the poet. Not so much on account of what he will behold, but for the

_breathless feeling_ which will make him deem himself for a moment to be

an angel or a God. And there, more than ever, if he is a Christian, will

he desire to be alone, so as to anticipate the bliss of Heaven by a holy

communication with the Invisible.

I spent a night upon this mountain, and my first view of the prospect

was at break of day, when, as Milton says,

“——morn her rosy steps in the eastern clime

Advancing, sow’d the earth with orient pearls,”

and,

“Waked by the circling hours with rosy hand

Unbarred the gates of light,”

or when, in the language of Shakspeare,

“The gray-eyed morn smiled on the frowning night,

Checkering the eastern clouds with streaks of light.”

Wonderfully vast and strangely indistinct and dreamy was the scene

spread out on every side. To the west lay the superb Connecticut, with

its fertile valley reposing in the gloom of night, while to the east,

the ocean-bounded prospect, just bursting into the life of light, was

faintly relieved by Winnipiseogee and Sebago lakes, and like rockets

along the earth, wandered away the Merrimack, the Saco and the

Androscoggin, to their ocean home,—the whole forming an _epic

landscape_, such as we seldom behold excepting in our sleep. Heavens!

with what exquisite delight did I gaze upon the scene, as in the eyes of

truth and fancy it expanded before my mind. Yonder, in one of a hundred

villages, a young wife, with her first-born child at her side, was in

the midst of her morning dream; and there, the pilgrim of fourscore

years was lying on his couch in a fitful slumber, as the pains of age

creeped through his frame. There, on the Atlantic shore, the fisherman

in the sheltering bay, hoisted anchor and spread his sail for the

sea;—and there the life-star of the lighthouse was extinguished, again

at its stated time to appear with increased brilliancy. In reality,

there was an ocean of mountains all around me; but in the dim light of

the hour, and as I looked _down_ upon them, it seemed to me that I stood

in the centre of a plain, boundless as the universe; and though I could

not see them, I felt that I was in a region of spirits, and that the

summit of the mount was holy ground. But the morning was advancing, the

rising mists obscured my vision, and, as I did not wish to have that

day-break picture dissipated from my mind, I mounted my faithful horse,

and with a solemn awe at heart descended the mountain.

The ride from the Notch House, kept by the celebrated hunter named

Crawford, through the Notch Valley some twelve miles long, is

magnificent. First is the Gap itself, only some twenty feet in width,

and overhung with jagged rocks of wondrous height; and then the tiny

spring, alive with trout, which gives birth to the untamed Saco. A few

more downward steps, and you are in full view of a bluff, whose

storm-scathed brow seems to prop the very heavens,—its gray shadows

strongly contrasting with the deep blue sky. A little further on, and

you find yourself in an amphitheatre of mountains, whose summits and

sides are barren and desolate, where the storms of a thousand years have

exhausted their fury. Downward still and further on, and you come to the

memorable Wiley cottage, whose inhabitants perished in the avalanche or

slide of 1826. The storm had been unceasing for some days upon the

surrounding country, and the dwellers of the cottage were startled at

midnight by the falling earth. They fled—and were buried in an instant,

and up to the present time, only one of the seven bodies has ever been

found. As it then stood, the dwelling still stands——a monument of

mysterious escape, as well as of the incomprehensible decrees of

Providence. The Saco river, which runs through the valley, was lifted

from its original bed, and forced into a new channel. The whole place,

which but a short time before was a “beautiful and verdant opening amid

the surrounding rudeness and deep shadow, is now like a stretch of

desolate sea-shore after a tempest,—full of wrecks, buried in sand and

rocks, crushed and ground to atoms.”

After witnessing so much of the grand and gloomy, I was glad to retrace

my course to a less dreary country. My _last_ view of Mount Washington

and its lordly companions was the most _beautiful_. The sun was near his

setting, and the whole sky was covered with a glow of richest yellow and

crimson, while to the eastward hung two immense copper-colored clouds

just touching the outline of the mountains; and through the hazy

atmosphere, the mountains themselves looked cloud-like, but with more of

the bright blue of heaven upon them. In the extensive middle distance

faded away wood-crowned hills; and in the foreground reposed an

exquisite little farm, with the husbandman’s happy abode, almost hidden

by groups of elms; and the simple figures, only a few paces off, of a

little girl sitting on a stone, with a bunch of summer flowers in her

hand, and a basket of berries and a dog at her side. One more yearning

gaze upon the dear old mountains, and I resumed my pilgrimage towards

the north.

CHAPTER X.

Montreal.

_Montreal, June._

With some things in Montreal I have been pleased, but with others a good

deal dissatisfied. The appearance which it presents from every point of

view is imposing in the extreme. Its numerous church towers and

extensive blocks of stores, its extensive shipping and noble stone

wharves, combine to give one an idea of great wealth and liberality. On

first riding to my hotel I was struck with the cleanliness of its

streets, and, on being shown to my room, I was convinced that the hotel

itself (Donegana’s) was of the first water. The city abounds in public

buildings, which are usually built of limestone, and it extends along

the river St. Lawrence about three miles. The streets, in the older

parts of the town, are as picturesque and narrow as those of the more

ancient cities of the Old World, but in the modern portions they are

quite regular and comfortable. The principal street is _Notre Dame_,

which always presents, on a pleasant clay, a gay, and elegant

appearance.

Generally speaking, its churches are below mediocrity, but it has one

architectural lion worth mentioning—the Catholic cathedral. It faces a

square called _Place d’Armes_, and presents an imposing appearance. It

is built of stone, and said to be after the Norman-Gothic order of

architecture; but I should think it a mixture of a dozen _dis-orders_.

Its extreme length is 225 feet, breadth 135, and its height 72 feet. It

also has two towers, which measure 220 feet to their summit. The windows

in these towers are closed with coarse boards, and yet it cost $400,000.

The ground floor is covered with pews capable of seating 8000 people,

while the aisles and galleries might hold 2000 more. The galleries are

supported by _wooden_ pillars, which reminded me of a New York barber’s

sign. The interior has a naked and doleful appearance; the large window

above the altar is wretchedly painted; the altar itself is loaded with

gewgaws; and of the many paintings which meet you in every direction

there is not one for which I would pay ten dollars. The organ resembles

a bird-house, and the music perpetrated there every day in the year

would jar upon the ear of even an American Indian. And when it is

remembered that this church was built by one of the wealthiest

corporations on the Continent, it is utterly impossible to entertain a

feeling of charity towards the founders thereof.

The population of Montreal is now estimated at forty thousand, one-half

of whom are Roman Catholics, one fourth Protestants, and the remainder

nothing in particular. By this statement it will be readily seen that

the establishments of the Catholics must be the most abundant. Nunneries

are consequently quite numerous, some of them well endowed, and, to

those who have a passion for such affairs, must be exceedingly

interesting.

But I wish to mention one or two additional specimens of architecture.

The market of Montreal is built of stone, located near the river, and

remarkably spacious and convenient in all its arrangements. It eclipses

anything of the kind that we can boast of in the States. The only

monument of any note in the city is a Doric column, surmounted with a

statue, and erected in honor of Lord Nelson. The entire column is

seventy feet high, and gives an air of elegance to that portion of Notre

Dame where it stands. On the four sides of the pedestal are pictorial

representations, in alto relievo, representing Nelson in some of his

memorable battles. It was erected by the British inhabitants of Montreal

at a cost of near six thousand dollars.

One of the most striking peculiarities of this city is the fact that

everybody has to live, walk and sleep at the point of a bayonet.

Military quarters are stationed in various portions of the city, and

soldiers meet you at every corner, marching to and fro, invariably

puffed up with ignorance and vanity. The last woman, I am sorry to say,

who has become an outcast from society, attributes her misfortune to a

soldier; the officers, however, who rule these military slaves, are,

generally, well educated and agreeable gentlemen. But these are not

without their faults, and, if I might be allowed the expression, I would

add, that they appear supremely ridiculous whenever they march into a

church, on the Sabbath, with their swords dangling between their legs,

and looking down upon the praying congregation in all the “pomp and

circumstance of war.”

The people whom you meet in the streets of Montreal seem to come from

almost every nation in the world. Now it may be the immensely pompous

Englishman, who represents some wilderness district in Parliament; and

now it may be the cunning Scotchman, or a half-famished Irishman.

Sometimes it is the speculating American, or the humble and industrious

Jew; the gay and polite Habitan, or a group of wandering Indians from

the far north. The better class of Montreal people (so called by a

fashionable world), are the British settlers, or, rather, the English

population. Generally speaking, they are highly intelligent, and

somewhat arbitrary in expressing their opinions; but they entertain

hospitable feelings towards strangers. They boast of their mother

country, as if her glory and power were omnipotent; and an occasional

individual may be found who will not scruple to insult an American if he

happens to defend his own. In religion, they are generally

Episcopalians; they hate the Habitan, look with contempt upon the poor

Irish, and address their brethren of Scotland with a patronizing air.

They drink immense quantities of wine, and those who happen to be the

illiterate members of the Provincial Parliament, think themselves the

greatest people on earth.

The island upon which Montreal is located, is seventy miles in

circumference, and was once (if not now), the property of an order of

Catholic priesthood. In the rear of the city rises a noble hill, called

Mount Royal, from which it derives its name. The hill itself is thickly

wooded; but the surrounding country is exceedingly fertile, and studded

with elegant country-seats, and the rural abodes of the peasantry. A

ride around the Mount, on a pleasant day, is one of the most delightful

imaginable, commanding a view of Montreal and the St. Lawrence valley

which is grand beyond compare.

To appreciate the unique features of Montreal, it is necessary that you

should be there on the Sabbath, the gala-day of the Catholics. Then it

is that the peasantry flock into the city from all directions, and, when

they are pouring into the huge cathedral by thousands, dressed in a

thousand fantastic fashions, cracking their jokes, and laughing as they

move along, the entire scene is apt to fill one with peculiar feelings.

It _was_ beautiful to look at; but the thought struck me that I should

hate to live in the shadow of that cathedral forever. But if you chance

to take a walk in the suburbs, on a Sabbath afternoon, you will notice

much that cannot but afford you real satisfaction. You will find almost

every cottage a fit subject for a picture; and the flocks of

neatly-dressed, happy, and polite children playing along the roads,

together with frequent groups of sober men, sitting in a porch, and the

occasional image of a beautiful girl, or contented mother leaning out of

a window,—all these things, I say, constitute a charm which is not met

with everywhere. But enough; Montreal is a tine city, and I trust that

it will yet be my fortune to visit it again, and see more of its

polished society.

CHAPTER XI.

Quebec.

_Quebec, June._

I came from Montreal to this city in the day time, and, consequently,

had an opportunity of examining this portion of the St. Lawrence. The

river opposite Montreal runs at the rate of six miles per hour, and is

two miles wide; it preserves this breadth for about sixty miles, and

then expands into the beautiful and emerald-looking lake of St. Peter,

after which it varies from one to five in width until it reaches Quebec,

which is distant from Montreal one hundred and eighty miles. Above St.

Peter the shores vary from five to fifteen feet in height, but below the

lake they gradually become more elevated until they measure some three

hundred feet in the vicinity of Quebec. The country between the two

Canadian cities is well cultivated, and on either side may be seen a

continued succession of rural cottages.

Our steamer approached Quebec at the sunset hour, and I must say that I

have never witnessed a more superb prospect than was presented by the

lofty citadel city, the contracted St. Lawrence, the opposite headland

called Point Levi, and the far distant land which I knew to be Cape

Tourment. A stiff breeze was blowing at the time, and some twenty ships

were sailing to and fro, while we had to make our way into port by

winding between and around some three hundred ships which were at

anchor.

I have seen much in this goodly city which has made a deep impression on

my mind. The promontory called Cape Diamond upon which it stands, is

formed by the junction of the St. Charles and St. Lawrence rivers, and

rises to the height of three hundred and fifty feet above the water. The

city is built from the water’s edge along the base of the cliff, and

from thence, in a circuitous manner, ascends to the very border of the

citadel and ramparts. There is but one street leading from the lower to

the upper town, and that is narrow and very steep, and the gateway is

defended by a number of large cannon. The city is remarkably irregular,

and, as many of the buildings are quite ancient, its appearance is

picturesque and romantic. The fortifications cover an area of forty

acres, and beneath them are many spacious and gloomy vaults for the

reception of ammunition and stores during a time of war.—Receding into

the interior, from the very brow of the fortress, are the plains of

Abraham, which are covered with a rich green sod, and planted with

unnumbered cannon. Their historical associations are numerous, and, as

they would fill a chapter in themselves, I will refrain from dwelling

upon them, at this time.

The religious establishments of Quebec are quite numerous, and belong

mostly to the Roman Catholics: like those of Montreal, they are quite

ancient and well endowed; but they did not interest me, and I am sure my

description of them would not interest my reader. As a matter of course,

I visited the French Cathedral. It seems to be as old as the hills, and

yet all the windows of the principal tower are roughly boarded up. On

entering the edifice, which is crowded with gilded ornaments, I could

not fix my eye upon a single object which suggested the idea of

richness. The sculpture, the paintings, and even the gilding, are all

without merit; and what greatly added to my disgust was, that I could

not obtain a civil answer from a single one of the many boorish men and

boys who were fussing about the church.

In the front of an extensive promenade, just below the citadel, stands

the monument erected to the memory of Montcalm and Wolfe. The gentleman

who contributed the largest sum for its erection was Lord Dalhousie. It

is a handsome obelisk, and was designed by a military gentleman named

Young. The _principal_ inscription on the column is characteristic of

the English nation, and is what a shrewd Yankee would call “a puff of

Dalhousie”—even though it be chiselled in Latin. The annoying effect of

this inscription, however, is counteracted by another, which is also in

Latin, and very beautiful. It was composed by J. C. Fisher, Esq.,

founder of the Quebec Gazette, and is as follows:

“Military virtue gave them a common death,

History a common fame,

Posterity a common monument.”

The Golden dog is another curiosity which will attract the attention of

the visitor to Quebec. It is the figure of a dog, rudely sculptured in

relievo, and richly gilded, which stands above the entrance of an

ancient house, which was built by M. Phillibert, a merchant of this

city, in the time of M. Bigot, the last intendant under the French

government. Connected with it is the following curious story, which I

copy from an old record:—