I commence this letter in the language of Leather-Stocking: “You know
the Catskills, lad, for you must have seen them on your left, as you
followed the river up from York, looking as blue as a piece of clear
sky, and holding the clouds on their tops, as the smoke curls over the
head of an Indian chief at a council-fire.” Yes, everybody is acquainted
with the name of these mountains, but few with their peculiarities of
scenery. They are situated about eight miles from the Hudson, rise to an
average elevation of thirty-eight hundred feet, and running in a
straight line from north to south, cover a space of some twenty-five
miles. The fertile valley on the east is as beautiful as heart could
desire, watered by the Catskill, Plauterkill, and Esopus Creeks,
inhabited by a sturdy Dutch yeomanry, and is the mother of those three
most flourishing towns, Catskill, Saugerties, and Kingston. The upland
on the west, for some thirty miles, is rugged, dreary, and thinly
settled, but the winding valley of Schoharie, beyond, is possessed of a
thousand charms peculiarly American. The mountains themselves are
covered with dense forests, abounding in cliffs and waterfalls, and for
the most part untrodden by the footsteps of men. Looking at them from
the Hudson, the eye is attracted by two deep hollows, which are called
“cloves.” That one nearest to the Mountain House, Catskill Clove, is
distinguished for a remarkable fall, which is familiar to the world
through the pen of Bryant and the pencil of Cole; but it is fast filling
up with habitations of improvement, while the other, Plauterkill Clove,
though yet possessing much of its original glory, is certain of the same
destiny. The clove whence issues the Esopus is among the Shandaken
mountains, and is not visible from the Hudson.
My nominal residence at the present time is at the mouth of Plauterkill
Clove. I came into the country to study,—to forget the busy world, and
give myself up entirely to the hallowing influences of nature, and oh,
how many “mysteries sublime,” has she revealed to me in my journeyings
among the dear, dear Catskills!
To the west, and only half a mile from, my abode, are the beautiful
mountains, whose graceful outlines fade away to the north, like the
waves of the sea when covered with a _visible_ atmosphere. The nearest,
and to me most beloved of these, is called South Peak. It is nearly four
thousand feet in height, and covered from base to summit by one vast
forest of trees, varying from eighty to a hundred feet. Like most of its
brethren, it is a perfectly wild and uncultivated wilderness, richly
abounding in all the interesting features of mountain scenery. Like a
corner stone, it stands at the junction of the northern and western
ranges of the Catskills, and as its huge form looms up against the
evening sky, it inspires one with awe, as if it were the ruler of the
world; and yet I have learned to love it as a friend. Its name, its
image, and every tree, and shrub, and vine, which spring from its rocky
bosom, can never be forgotten. I have reflected upon it when reposing in
the noontide sunshine, or enveloped in clouds, when holding communion
with the most holy night, when trembling under the influence of a
thunder-storm, or encircled by a rainbow. It has filled my soul with
images of beauty and sublimity, and made me feel the omnipotence of God.
A day and night has it just been my privilege to spend on this mountain,
accompanied by a friend. We started at an early hour yesterday morning,
equipped in our brown fustians, and laden with well-filled knapsacks,
one of us with a hatchet in his belt, and the other with a brace of
pistols. We were bound to the extreme summit of the peak, where we
intended to spend the night, see the rising of the sun, and return at
our leisure on the following day. But when I tell you, my friend, that
our course lay right up the almost perpendicular side of the mountain,
where was no path save that formed by a torrent or a bear, you will
readily believe it was somewhat rare and wild. But this was what we
delighted in, so we shouted “Excelsior,” and commenced the ascent. The
air was excessively sultry, and the very first effort we made caused the
perspiration to start most profusely; upward, upward, was our
course,—now climbing through a tangled thicket, or under the spray of a
cascade, and then again supporting ourselves by the roots of saplings,
or scrambling under a fallen tree,—now, like the samphire gatherer,
scaling a precipice, and then again clambering over a rock, or
“shinning” up a hemlock tree, to reach a desired point. Our first halt
was made at a singular spot called “Hunter’s Hole,” which is a spacious
cavern or pit, forty feet deep and twenty wide, and approached only by a
crack in the mountain sufficiently large to admit a man. There is a
story connected with it worth recording. Many years ago, a farmer,
residing at the foot of the mountain, having missed a favorite dog, and
being anxious for his safety, called together his neighbors, and offered
a reward for the safe return of his canine friend. Always ready to do a
kind deed, a number of his neighbors immediately started in different
directions for the hunt. A barking sound having issued from this cavern,
it was discovered, and, at the bottom of it, the lost dog, which had
probably fallen in while chasing a fox. “But how is he to be extricated
from this hole?” was the general inquiry of the assembled hunters. Not
one of all the group would venture to descend, under any circumstances;
so the poor animal remained a prisoner for another night. But the next
morning he was released, and by none other than a brave boy, the son of
the farmer, and playmate of the dog. A large number of men were present
on the occasion. A strong rope was tied around the body of the boy, and
he was gently lowered down. Having reached the bottom, and by the aid of
his lamp discovered that he was in a “real nice place,” the little rogue
thought he would have some sport; so he continued to pull down, more
rope, until he had made a coil of two hundred feet, which was
bewildering enough to the crowd above; but nothing happened to him, and
the dog was raised. The young hero having played his trick so well, it
was generally supposed, for a long time after, that this cavern was two
hundred feet in depth, and none were found sufficiently bold to venture
in. The bravery of the boy, however, was eventually the cause of his
death, for he was cut down by a cannon ball in the war of 1812.
The next remarkable place that we attained in our ascent was the Bear
Bank, where, in the winter, may ever be found an abundance of those
charming creatures. It is said that they have often, on a clear day,
been seen sunning themselves, even from as far as the Hudson. We were
now on a beetling precipice three hundred feet high, where, under the
shadow of a huge pine, we enjoyed a slice of bread and pork, without the
“fixens to match.” Instead of a dessert of strawberries and ice-cream,
we were furnished by venerable dame nature with a thunder-storm. It was
one that we had noticed making a great commotion in the valley below,
and which, having discovered two bipeds going toward its home, the sky,
seemed to have come up there to frighten us back again. But, “knowing
that nature never did betray the heart that loved her,” we awaited the
thunder-storm’s reply to our obstinate refusal to descend. The cloud was
yet below us, but its unseen herald, a strong east wind, told us that
the conflict had commenced. Presently a peal of thunder resounded
through the vast profound, which caused the mountain to tremble to its
deep foundation. And then followed another and another, as the storm
increased, and the rain and hail poured down in floods. Thinking it
safer to expose ourselves to the storm than remain under the pine, we
retreated without delay, when we were suddenly enveloped in the heart of
the cloud, only a few rods distant; a stroke of vivid lighting blinded
us, and the towering forest monarch, even upon his proud throne, was
smitten to the earth. We were in the midst of an unwritten epic poem
about that time, but we could not then appreciate its beauties, for
another peal of thunder, and another stroke of lightning, attracted our
whole attention. Soon as these had passed, a terrible gale followed in
their wake, tumbling down piles of loose rocks, and bending to the dust,
as if in passion, the resisting forms of an army of trees, and a
glorious rainbow spanned the mountain like that distinguishing circle
around the temples of the mighty and holy, as portrayed by the painters
of old. The commotion lasted for an hour, when the region of the Bear
Bank became as serene as the slumber of a babe. A spirit of silent and
holy prayer seemed to be brooding over that scene of marvellous
loveliness, and with a shadow of thoughtfulness at our hearts we resumed
our upward march.
The next place where we halted to get breath was upon a sort of
peninsula, called the Eagle’s Nest, where it is said an Indian child was
carried by one of those birds and cruelly destroyed, and whence the
frantic mother, with the mangled body of her babe, leaped into the
terrible abyss below. From this point we discovered a host of clouds
assembled in council above High Peak, as if discussing the parched
condition of the earth, and the speediest mode of affording relief to a
still greater extent than they had done; and far away to the west, was
another assembly of clouds, vieing, like sporting children, to outrun
and overleap each other in their aerial amphitheatre.
After this, we surmounted another lofty cliff, celebrated for
rattlesnakes. Here the rocks were literally covered with the white bones
of these reptiles, slaughtered by the hunter in by-gone years, and we
saw a couple that were alive. One was about four feet long, and the
other half this size, which seemed to be the offspring of the old one,
for, when discovered, they were playing together, like an affectionate
mother with her tender child. Strange, that even in creatures, the sight
of which begets in man only abhorrence and fear, should be found one of
the first and most cherished principles of humanity! The law of love is
indeed universal. Soon as we appeared the sport ceased, and the venomous
creatures, in the twinkling of an eye, coiled themselves up in the
attitude of battle. But the conflict was of short duration, and to know
the result you need only look into my cabinet of curiosities.
Higher up yet was it our lot to climb. We went a little out of our
course to obtain a bird’s-eye view of Shew’s Lake. In its tranquil bosom
the glowing evening sky was perfectly reflected, and the silence
surrounding it so profound, that we could almost hear the ripples made
by a solitary wild duck, as it swam from one shore to the other in its
utter loneliness. And the thought entered my mind, that, as the infant
of Bethlehem was tenderly protected by the parents who watched over its
slumbers, so was this exquisite lake cradled and protected in the lap of
the mountains.
One sight more did we behold before reaching the summit. It was the
sunset hour, and on a jutting cliff, which commanded an immense view,
our eyes were delighted by a solitary deer, standing still, and looking
down upon the silent void below, which was then covered with a deep
purple atmosphere, causing the prospect to resemble the boundless ocean.
It was the last of its race, we could not but fancy, bidding the human
world good night, previous to seeking its heathery couch in a nameless
ravine.
Such are some of the scenes we enjoyed in our ascent. One effort more
and the long-desired eminence was attained, which was a little nearer
the evening star than we had ever been before. It was now the shadowy
hour of twilight, and as we were about done over with fatigue, it was
not long before we had pitched our leafy tent, eaten some supper,
offered up a prayer, and yielded ourselves to the embrace of sleep,
“dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health.”
At midnight, a cooling breath of air having passed across my face, I was
awakened from a fearful dream, which left me in a nervous and excited
state of mind. A strange and solemn gloom had taken possession of my
spirit, which was enhanced by the melancholy song of a neighboring
hemlock grove. Our encampment having been made a little below the summit
of the peak, and feeling anxious to behold the prospect at that hour
from that point, I arose, without awaking my companion, and seated
myself on the topmost rock, which was bare of trees and shrubs, and
covered by a rich moss, softer and more beautiful than a Turkey carpet.
But oh, how can I describe the scene that burst upon my enraptured
vision? It was unlike anything I had ever seen before, creating a “lone,
lost feeling,” which I supposed could only be realized by a wanderer in
the heart of an uninhabited wilderness, or on the ocean a thousand
leagues from land. Above, around, and beneath me, ay, far beneath me,
were the cold, bright stars, and to the east, the “old moon with the
young moon in her arms.” In the west were floating a little band of
pearly clouds, which I fancied to be winged chariots from the city of
the living God, and that they were crowded with children, the absent and
loved of other years, who, in a frolic of blissful joy, were out upon
the fields of heaven. On my left reposed the long, broad valley of the
Hudson, with its cities, towns, villages, woods, hills, and plains,
whose crowded highway was diminished to a narrow girdle of deep blue. To
the south, hill beyond hill, field beyond field, receded to the sky,
occasionally enlivened by a peaceful lake. On my right, a multitudinous
array of rugged mountains lay piled up, apparently as impassable as the
bottomless pit. To the north, the king of the Catskills bared his bosom
to the moonlight, as if demanding and expecting the homage of the world.
Such was the scene that surrounded me at that witching hour of the
night, and think you, that it did not animate my spirit with new life,
and expand my love for the invisible Creator of all? Oh, yes, and I
longed for the timbrel of Miriam, or the harp of David, that I might
sing aloud this song of praise,—“Praise the Lord, O my soul, and all
that is within me, bless his holy name. Praise him, O earth, for he hath
crowned thee with blessings numberless as the sands of ocean. Praise
him, ye children of men, for he healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth
up their wounds. Praise him, all ye starry hosts of heaven, for he
telleth your numbers and calleth you names. Praise him, ye heaven of
heavens, for he commanded and ye were created. Praise ye him, all ye his
angels, for he hath crowned you with immortality. Let everything that
hath breath sing praises unto the Lord forever, for his manifold and
infinite attributes.” The song ended, the weight upon my spirit was
departed, and I sought my couch once more, and slumbered until the dawn.
We saw the sun rise, as a matter of course, which event is described in
the following brief rhapsody: it will be more distinctly understood by
those who are familiar with the mountain.
He comes! he comes! the “king of the bright day!” The crimson and golden
clouds are parting, and he bursts on the bewildered sight! One moment
more, and the whole earth rejoices in his beams; and these are not more
welcome to the prince than the peasant, to the philosopher than the
idiot. All, alike, are made happy by the blessed sunshine. But look! on
either side and beneath the sun, what an array of new-born clouds are
gathering!—like a band of cavaliers, preparing to accompany their leader
on a journey. Out of the Atlantic have they just risen; at noon they
will have pitched their tents on the cerulean plains of heaven; and when
the hours of day are numbered, the far-off waters of the Pacific will
again receive them in its cool embrace. Hark! was not that the roar of
waves? No; naught but the report of thunder in the valley below. Can it
be? can it be? are the two oceans coming together? God have mercy upon
us! we are on a rock in the midst of an illimitable sea, and the tide is
rising—rapidly. Strange! it is still as death, and yet the oceans are
covered with billows. Lo! the naked masts of a Ship on fire! Now she is
gone, and from her grave ascends the emblem of her fate. Yonder, as if a
reef were hidden there to impede their course, the waves are struggling
in despair—now leaping to the very sky, and now plunging into a deep
abyss. And when they have passed the unseen enemy, how beautiful are
their various evolutions, as they hasten to the distant shore! Another
look, and what a change! The mists of morning are being exhaled by the
sun, already the world of waters is dispersed, and in the broad valley
of the Hudson, far, far beneath me, are reposing all the enchanting
features of the green earth.
We descended the mountain by a circuitous route, that we might enjoy the
luxury of passing through the Plauterkill Clove. The same spring that
gives rise to Schoharie Creek, which is a tributary of the Mohawk, also
gives rise to this wild mountain stream. In its very infancy it begins
to leap and laugh with the gladness of a boy. From its source to my
dwelling-place the distance is only two miles, and yet it has a fall of
twenty-five hundred feet; but the remainder of its course, until it
reaches the Esopus creek, is calm and peaceful, and on every side and at
every turn is protected by the farm-houses of a sturdy yeomanry. The
wild gorge or dell, through which it passes, abounds in waterfalls of
surpassing beauty, varying from ten to a hundred and fifty feet in
height, whose rocks are green with the moss of centuries, and whose
brows are ever wreathed with the most exquisite of vines and flowers.
There’s the Double Leap, with its almost fathomless pool, containing a
hermit trout that has laughed at the angler’s skill for a score of
years; the Mountain Spirit, haunted by the disembodied spirit of an
Indian girl, who lost her life there while pursuing a phantom of the
brain; and the Blue Bell Fall, which is forever guarded by a
multitudinous array of those charming flowers. Caverns, too, and chasms
are there, dark, deep, chilly, and damp, where the toad, the lizard and
snake, and strange families of insects, are perpetually multiplying and
actually seeming to enjoy their loathsome lives; the Black Chasm, the
Gray Chasm, and the Devil’s Chamber, with perpendicular walls of twice
the height of a tall mast, and with a wainscoting of pines and hemlocks,
that have “braved a thousand years the battle and the breeze.”
Plauterkill Clove is an eddy of the great and tumultuous world, and in
itself a world of unwritten poetry, whose primitive loveliness has not
yet been disfigured by the influences of mammon, and God grant that it
may continue so forever. It is endeared to my heart for being a favorite
haunt of solitude, and for having been consecrated by a brotherhood of
friends to the pure religion of nature; and they always enter there as
into a holy sanctuary. You may imagine, then, my friend, what was our
mode of descending through the dell, and as to our feelings as we
emerged under the open sky, they were allied to those of a pilgrim in a
strange land, passing through the dim twilight of a dream-like
cathedral. And now we stood upon a ledge whence could be obtained a view
of the dear old mountain we were leaving behind, and as we contemplated
its graceful lines and delicate hues of blueish green, we could not but
admire, in the abstract, the sublimity and solemnity of its admonitions
as a preacher, its faithfulness as a friend, and the grandeur of its
conceptions as a poet. We reached home about noon, thankful to God for
the love of nature which he has so deeply implanted in our hearts, and,
as we hope, happier and better men.