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[Illustration: CHARLES LANMAN.
AUTHOR OF ADVENTURES OF AN ANGLER IN AMERICA]
ADVENTURES OF AN ANGLER IN CANADA, NOVA SCOTIA AND THE UNITED STATES.
by
CHARLES LANMAN.
London:
Richard Bentley, New Burlington Street.
Publisher in Ordinary to Her Majesty.
1848.
LONDON:
Printed by Schulze & Co., 13, Poland Street.
TO
SOLOMON T. NICOLL, ESQ.
My dear Sir,
To you, in testimony of my friendship, I inscribe this little Volume.
On a pleasant morning in May last, I awoke from a piscatorial dream,
haunted by the idea, that I must spend a portion of the approaching
summer in the indulgence of my passion for angling. Relinquishing my
editorial labours for a time, I performed a pilgrimage, which has
resulted in the production of this Volume. I hope it may entertain those
of my friends and the public, who have heretofore received my literary
efforts with favour. The work will be found to contain a record of
Adventures in the Valleys of the Hudson, St. Lawrence and St. John, and
along some of the rivers of New England.
Truly your friend,
Charles Lanman.
NEW-YORK, 1847.
ILLUSTRATIONS.
CATSKILL MOUNTAINS _Page_ 2
LAKE HORICON 53
RUINS OF FORT TICONDEROGA 117
FRANCONIA NOTCH 138
FALLS OF MONTMORENCY 162
CAPE TRINITY ON THE SAGUENAY 180
FALLS OF THE ST. JOHN 242
ROBERT EGGER’S FARM ON THE AROOSTOOK 250
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
The Catskill Mountains—South Peak Mountain—A thunder
storm—Midnight on the Mountains—Sunrise—Plauterkill
Clove—Peter Hummel—Trout fishing—Stony Clove—The
Kauterskill Fall—The Mountain House—The Mountain Lake PAGE 1
CHAPTER II.
A Spring Day—The Sky—The Mountains—The Streams—The Woods—The Open
Fields—Domestic Animals—Poetry—The Poultry-yard 29
CHAPTER III.
A corn-planting Bee 43
CHAPTER IV.
Lake Horicon—Sketches of its scenery—Information for
anglers—Sabbath-day Point—War memories—The Turret
City—Death of a deer—Roger’s Slide—Diamond Island—The
snake-charmer—Snake stories—Night on the Horicon 50
CHAPTER V.
The Scaroon Country—Scaroon Lake—Pike Fishing by Torch-light—Trout
Fishing—Lyndsey’s Tavern—Paradox Lake 69
CHAPTER VI.
The Adirondac Mountains—Trout Fishing in the Boreas River—A night
in the woods—Moose Lake—Lake Delia—Mount Tahawas—Lakes
Sanford and Henderson—The McIntyre Iron Works 80
CHAPTER VII.
John Cheney, the Adirondac hunter, and some of his exploits 100
CHAPTER VIII.
Burlington—Lake Champlain—Distinguished Men 115
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 130
CHAPTER X.
Montreal 148
CHAPTER XI.
Quebec 155
CHAPTER XII.
A sail down the St. Lawrence—Sword-Fish—Chasing a Whale 164
CHAPTER XIII.
The Saguenay River—Chicoutimi—Storm Picture—Hudson’s Bay
Company—Eminent Merchant—The Mountaineer
Indians—Tadousac—Ruin of a Jesuit Establishment 173
CHAPTER XIV.
The Salmon—Salmon Adventures 187
CHAPTER XV.
Seal-hunting on the St. Lawrence—The white Porpoise 204
CHAPTER XVI.
The Esquimaux Indians of Labrador 212
CHAPTER XVII.
The Habitans of Canada 218
CHAPTER XVIII.
The Grand Portage into New Brunswick—Lake Timiscouta—The Madawaska
River 225
CHAPTER XIX.
The Acadians 232
CHAPTER XX.
Sail down the Madawaska—The Falls of the St. John 238
CHAPTER XXI.
The Hermit of Aroostook 244
CHAPTER XXII.
The River St. John 266
CHAPTER XXIII.
The Penobscot River 272
CHAPTER XXIV.
Moosehead Lake—The River Kennebeck 278
CHAPTER XXV.
A Fishing Party on the Thames—Watch Hill—Night Adventures 291
CHAPTER XXVI.
A week in a Fishing Smack—Fisherman—A beautiful morning
at sea—A day at Nantucket—Wreck of a ship—Night
on the Sound 308
ADVENTURES
OF AN
ANGLER.
CHAPTER I.
The Catskill Mountains—South Peak Mountain—A thunder storm—Midnight on
the Mountains—Sunrise—Plauterkill Clove—Peter Hummel—Trout fishing—Stony
Clove—The Kauterskill Fall—The Mountain House—The Mountain Lake.
Plauterkill Clove. May.
I commence this chapter in the language of Leather-Stocking: “You know
the Catskills, lad, for you must have seen them on your left, as you
followed the river up from York, looking as blue as a piece of clear
sky, and holding the clouds on their tops, as the smoke curls over the
head of an Indian chief at a council-fire.” Yes, every body is
acquainted with the names of these mountains, but few with their
peculiarities of scenery. They are situated about eight miles from the
Hudson, rise to an average elevation of thirty-five hundred feet, and
running in a straight line from north to south, cover a space of some
twenty-five miles. The fertile valley on the east is as beautiful as
heart could desire; it is watered by the Kauterskill, Plauterkill and
Esopus Creeks, inhabited by a sturdy Dutch yeomanry, and is the
agricultural mother of Catskill, Saugerties and Kingston. The upland on
the west, for about forty miles, is rugged, dreary, and thinly settled;
but the winding valley of Schoharie beyond, is possessed of many charms
peculiarly American. The mountains themselves are covered with dense
forests, abounding in cliffs and waterfalls, and for the most part
untrodden by the footsteps of men. Looking at them from the Hudson, the
eye is attracted by two deep hollows, which are called “Cloves.”
[Illustration: CATSKILL MOUNTAINS.]
The one nearest to the Mountain House, Kauterskill Clove, is
distinguished for a remarkable fall, which has been made familiar to the
world by the pen of Bryant and the pencil of Cole; but this Clove is
rapidly filling up with human habitations; while the other, Plauterkill
Clove, though yet possessing much of its original glory, is certain of
the same destiny. The gorge whence issues the Esopus, is among the
Shaudaken mountains, and not visible from the Hudson.
My nominal residence, at the present time, is at the mouth of
Plauterkill Clove. To the west, and only half a mile from my abode, are
the beautiful mountains, whose outlines fade away to the north, like the
waves of the sea when covered with a _visible_ atmosphere. The nearest,
and to me the most beloved of these, is called South Peak. It is nearly
four thousand feet high, and covered from base to summit with one vast
forest of trees, varying from eighty to a hundred feet in height. Like
its brethren, it is a wild and uncultivated wilderness, abounding in all
the interesting features of mountain scenery. Like a corner stone does
it stand at the junction of the northern and western ranges of the
Catskills, and as its huge form looms against the evening sky, it
inspires one with awe, as if it were the ruler of the world: and yet, I
have learned to love it as a friend. I have pondered upon its impressive
features, when reposing in the noon-tide sunshine, when enveloped in
clouds, when holding communion with the most holy night, and when
trembling under the influence of a thunder-storm, and encircled by a
rainbow. It has filled my soul with images of beauty and sublimity, and
made me feel the omnipotence of God.
A day and night was it lately my privilege to spend upon this mountain,
accompanied by a poet-friend. We started at an early hour, equipped in
our brown fustians, and laden with well-filled knapsacks, one with a
hatchet in his belt, and the other with a brace of pistols. We were
bound to the extreme summit of the peak, where we intended to spend the
night, witness the rising of the sun, and return at our leisure on the
following day. But when I tell you, 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 romantic. But this was what we delighted in; so we shouted
“Excelsior,” and commenced the ascent. The air was excessively sultry,
and the very first effort we made, caused the perspiration to start most
profusely. Upward, upward was our course; now climbing through a tangled
thicket, or under the spray of a cascade, and then again supporting
ourselves by the roots of saplings or scrambling under a fallen tree;
now, like the samphire gatherer, scaling a precipice; and then again
clambering over a rock, or “shinning” up a hemlock tree, to reach a
desired point.
Our first halt was made at a singular spot called Hunter’s Hole, which
is a spacious cavern or pit, forty feet deep and twenty wide, and
approached only by a fissure in the mountain, sufficiently large to
admit a man. Connected with this place, is the following story.
Many years ago, a farmer, residing at the foot of the mountain, having
missed a favourite dog, and being anxious for his safety, called
together his neighbours and offered a reward for the safe return of his
canine friend. Always ready to do a kind deed, a number of them started
in different directions for the hunt. A barking sound having been heard
to issue from this cavern, it discovered that the lost dog was at the
bottom, where he had most probably fallen while chasing a fox. “But how
shall he be extricated from this hole?” was the general enquiry of the
now-assembled hunters. Not one of all the group would venture to descend
under any circumstances; so that the poor animal remained a prisoner for
another night. But the next morning he was released, and by none other
than a brave boy, the son of the farmer, and playmate of the dog. A
large number of men were present on the occasion. A strong rope was tied
around the body of the child, and he was gently lowered down. On
reaching the bottom, and finding by the aid of his lamp, that he was in
a “real nice place,” the little rogue concluded to have some sport;
whereupon he proceeded to pull down more rope, until he had made a coil
of two hundred feet, which was bewildering enough to the crowd above;
but nothing happened to him during the adventure, and the dog was
rescued. The young hero having played his trick so well, it was
generally supposed, for a long time after, that this cavern was two
hundred feet deep, and none were ever found sufficiently bold to enter
in, even after a fox. The bravery of the boy, however, was eventually
the cause of his death, for he was cut down by a leaden ball in the war
of 1812.
The next remarkable place that we attained in ascending South Peak, was
the Bear Bank, where, in the depth of winter may be found an abundance
of these charming creatures. It is said, that they have often been seen
sunning themselves, even from the hills east of the Hudson. We were now
under a beetling precipice, three hundred feet high, and there, under
the shadow of a huge pine, we enjoyed a slice of bread and pork, with a
few drops of the genuine mountain dew.
Instead of a dessert of strawberries and cream, however, we were
furnished, by venerable dame Nature, with a thunder-storm. It was one
that we had noticed making a great commotion in the valley below. It had
probably discovered two bipeds going towards its home, the sky, and
seemed to have pursued us with a view of frightening us back again. But
“knowing that nature never did betray the heart that loved her,” we
awaited the thunderstorm’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; then, a stroke of lightning
blinded us, and the towering forest monarch was smitten to the earth. We
were in the midst of an unwritten epic poem about that time, but we
could not appreciate its beauties, for another peal of thunder, and
another stroke of lightning attracted our whole attention. Soon as these
had passed, a terrible gale followed in their wake, tumbling down piles
of loose rocks, and bending to the dust, as if in passion, the resisting
forms of an army of trees; and afterwards a glorious rainbow spanned the
mountain, appearing like those distinguishing circles around the temples
of the mighty and holy, as portrayed by the painters of old. The
commotion lasted for one hour, when the region of the Bear Bank became
as serene as the slumber of a babe. A spirit of silent prayer was
brooding upon the earth and in the air; and with a shadow of
thoughtfulness at our hearts, we resumed our upward march.
Our next halting place was upon a sort of peninsula, called the Eagle’s
Nest, where, it is said, an Indian child was formerly carried by one of
those birds, and cruelly destroyed, and whence the frantic mother, with
the mangled body of her babe, leaped into the terrible abyss below. From
this point, we discovered a host of clouds assembled in council above
High Peak, as if discussing the parched condition of the earth, and the
speediest mode of affording relief to a still greater extent than they
had done; and far away to the west, was another assembly of clouds,
vieing like sportive children, to outrun and overleap each other in
their aerial amphitheatre.
After this, we surmounted another point called Rattlesnake Ledge. Here
the rocks were literally covered with the white bones of those reptiles,
slaughtered by the hunter in by-gone years, and we happened to see a
pair of them that were alive. One was about four feet long, and the
other, which was only about half as large, seemed to be the offspring of
the old one, for, when discovered, they were playing together like an
affectionate mother with her tender child. Soon as we appeared in their
presence, the serpents immediately ceased their sports, and in the
twinkling of an eye they coiled themselves in the attitude of battle.
The conflict was of short duration, and to know the result you need only
look into my cabinet of curiosities.
Higher yet was it our lot to climb. We went a little out of our course
to obtain a bird’s-eye view of a mountain lake. In its tranquil bosom
the glowing evening sky and mountain sides were vividly reflected, and
the silence surrounding it was so profound, that we could almost hear
the ripples made by a solitary duck, as it swam from one shore to the
other in its utter loneliness. Very beautiful, indeed, was this picture;
and as I reflected upon it, I thought that, as the Infant of Bethlehem
was tenderly protected by the parents who watched over its slumbers, so
was this exquisite lake cradled and protected in the lap of the
mountains.
One sight more did we behold before reaching the summit of South Peak.
It was the sunset hour, and on a jutting cliff, which commanded an
immense view, our eyes were delighted by the sight of a deer, standing
still, and looking down upon the silent void below, which was then
covered with a deep purple atmosphere, causing the prospect to resemble
the boundless ocean. It was the last of its race, we could not but
fancy, bidding the human world good night, previous to seeking its
heathery couch in a nameless ravine.
One effort more, and the long-desired eminence was attained; and we were
a little nearer the evening star than we had ever been before. It was
now the hour of twilight, and as we were about done over with fatigue,
it was not long before we had pitched our leafy tent, eaten some supper,
and yielded ourselves to the embrace of sleep,
“Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health.”
At midnight, a cooling breath of air having passed across my face, I was
awakened from a fearful dream, which left me in a nervous and excited
state of mind. A strange and solemn gloom had taken possession of my
spirit, which was greatly enhanced by the doleful song of a neighbouring
hemlock grove. Our encampment having been made a little below the summit
of the Peak, and feeling anxious to behold the prospect at that hour
from that point, I awakened my companion, and we seated ourselves upon
the topmost rock, which was nearly bare of shrubs, but covered with a
rich moss, softer and more beautiful than the finest carpet.
But how can I describe the scene that burst upon our enraptured vision.
It was unlike anything I had ever seen before, creating a lone, lost
feeling, which I supposed could only be realized by a wanderer in an
uninhabited wilderness, or on the ocean, a thousand leagues from home.
Above, around, and beneath us—ay, far beneath us—were the cold, bright
stars, and to the eastward, the “young moon with the old moon in her
arms.” In the west were floating a little band of pearly clouds, which I
almost fancied to be winged chariots, and that they were crowded with
children, the absent and loved of other years, who, in a frolic of
blissful joy, were out upon the fields of heaven. On one side of us
reposed the long, broad valley of the Hudson, with its cities, towns,
villages, woods, hills, and plains, whose crowded highway was diminished
to a narrow girdle of deep blue. Towards the south, hill beyond hill,
field beyond field, receded to the sky, occasionally enlivened by a
peaceful lake. On our right, a multitudinous array of rugged mountains
lay piled up, apparently as impassable as the bottomless gulf. To the
north, Old High Peak, king of the Catskills, bared his bosom to the
moonlight, as if demanding and expecting the homage of the world.
Strange and magnificent, indeed, was the prospect from that mountain
watch-tower; and it was with reluctance that we turned away, as in duty
bound, to slumber until the dawn.
The dawn! And now for a sunrise picture among the mountains, with all
the illusive performances of the mists and clouds. He comes! he comes!
the “king of the bright days!”
Now the crimson and golden clouds are parting, and he bursts on the
bewildered sight. One moment more, and the whole earth rejoices in his
beams, falling alike, as they do, upon the prince and the peasant of
every land. And now, on either side and beneath the sun, an array of
new-born clouds are gathering, like a band of cavaliers, preparing to
accompany their leader on a journey. Out of the Atlantic have they just
arisen; at noon they will have pitched their tents on the cerulean
plains of heaven; and when the hours of day are numbered, the far-off
waters of the Pacific will again receive them in its cool embrace.
Listen! was not that the roar of waves? Naught but the report of thunder
in the valley below. Are not the two oceans coming together? See! we are
on a rock, in the midst of an illimitable sea, and the tide is surely
rising—rising rapidly! Strange! it is still as death, and yet the oceans
are covered with billows. Lo! the naked masts of a ship, stranded on a
lee-shore; and yonder, as if a reef were hidden there to impede their
course, the waves are struggling in despair, now leaping to the sky, and
now plunging into a deep abyss! And when they have passed the unseen
enemy, how rapid and beautiful are their various evolutions, as they
hasten to the more distant shore.
Another look, and what a change! The mists of morning are being exhaled
by the risen sun; already the world of waters is dispersed, and in the
valley of the Hudson, far far away, are reposing all the enchanting
features of the green earth.
We descended the mountain by a circuitous route, that we might enjoy the
luxury of passing through Plauterkill Clove. The same spring that gives
rise to Schoharie Creek, which is the principal tributary of the Mohawk,
also gives rise to the Plauterkill. In its very infancy it begins to
leap and laugh with the gladness of a boy. From its source to the plain,
the distance is only two miles, and yet it has a fall of twenty-five
hundred feet; but the remainder of its course, until it reaches the
Esopus, is calm and picturesque; and on every side, and at every turn,
may be seen the farm-houses of a sturdy yeomanry.
The wild gorge, or dell, through which it passes, abounds in waterfalls
of surpassing beauty, varying from ten to a hundred feet in height,
whose rocks are green with the moss of centuries, and whose brows are
ever wreathed with the most exquisite of vines and flowers. Here is the
Double Leap, with its almost fathomless pool, containing a hermit trout,
that has laughed at the angler’s skill for a score of years; the Fall of
the Mountain Spirit, haunted, as it is said, by the disembodied spirit
of an Indian girl, who lost her life here, while pursuing a phantom of
the brain; and here is the Blue Bell Fall, for ever guarded by a
multitudinous array of those charming flowers. Caverns, too, and chasms
are here, dark, deep, chilly, and damp, where the toad, the lizard, and
snake, and strange families of insects, are perpetually multiplying, and
actually seeming to enjoy their loathsome lives; and here is the Black
Chasm and the Devil’s Chamber, the latter with perpendicular walls,
twice the height of Old Trinity, and with a wainscoting of pines and
hemlocks, which have “braved a thousand years the battle and the
breeze.” Plauterkill Clove is an eddy of the great and tumultuous world,
and in itself a world of unwritten poetry, whose primitive loveliness
has not yet been disfigured by the influence of Mammon. It has been
consecrated by a brotherhood of friends, well tried and true, to the
pure religion of nature; and after spending a summer day therein, and
then emerging under the open sky, their feelings are always allied to
those of a pilgrim in a strange land, passing through the dreamy
twilight of an old cathedral.
But it is time that I should change my tune, as I desire to record a few
fishing adventures, which I have lately experienced among the Catskills.
My first excursion was performed along the margin of Sweetwater Brook,
which flows out of the lake already mentioned. My guide and companion
was a notorious hunter of this region, named Peter Hummel, whose
services I have engaged for all my future rambles among the mountains.
He is decidedly one of the wildest and rarest characters I have ever
known, and would be a valuable acquisition to a menagerie. He was born
in a little hut, at the foot of South Peak, is twenty-seven years of
age, and has never been to school a day in his life, or, in his travels
towards civilization, further away from home than fifteen miles. He was
educated for a bark-gatherer, his father and several brothers having
always been in the business; but Peter is averse to common-place labour,
to anything, in fact, that will bring money.
When a boy of five years, he had an inkling for the mountains, and once
had wandered so far, that he was found by his father, in the den of an
old bear, playing with her cubs. To tramp among the mountains, with gun
and dog, is Peter’s chief and only happiness. He is probably one of the
best specimens of a hunter now living; and very few, I fancy, could have
survived the dangers to which he has exposed himself. As to his
constitution, he seems to be one of those iron mortals, who never die
with age and infirmity, but who generally meet with a sudden death, as
if to recompense them for their heedlessness. But with all his wildness
and recklessness, Peter Hummel is as amiable and kind-hearted a man as
ever breathed. He is an original wit, withal, and shrewd and very
laughable are many of his speeches; and his stories are the cream of
romance and genuine mountain poetry.
But to my story. As usual, we started on our tramp at an early hour, he
with a trout-basket in his hand, containing our dinner, and I with my
sketch-book and a “pilgrim staff.” After a tiresome ascent of three
hours, up a mountain path, over ledges and through gloomy ravines, we at
last reached the wished-for brook. All the day long were we cheered by
its happy song, as we descended, now leaping from one deep pool to
another, and now scrambling over green-coated rocks, under and around
fallen trees, and along the damp, slippery sides of the mountain, until
we reached its mouth on a plain, watered by a charming river, and
sprinkled with the rustic residences of the Dutch yeomanry. We were at
home by sunset, having walked the distance of twenty miles, and captured
one hundred and fifty trout, the most of which we distributed among the
farm-houses in our way, as we returned. The trout were small, varying
from three to eight ounces in weight, and of a dark brown colour.
On another occasion, I had taken my sketch-book and some fishing-tackle,
and gone up a mountain road to the banks of Schoharie Creek, nominally
for the purpose of sketching a few trees. In the very first hole of the
stream into which I accidentally peered, I discovered a large trout
lying near the bottom, just above a little bed of sand, whence rose the
bubbles of a spring. For some thirty minutes I watched the fellow with a
“yearning tenderness;” but as he appeared to be so very happy, and I was
in a kindred mood, I thought that I would let him live. Presently,
however, a beautiful fly lighted on the water, which the greedy hermit
swallowed in a minute, and returned to his cool bed with his conscience,
as I fancied, not one whit troubled by what he had done. Involuntarily I
began to unwind my line; and having cut a pole, and repeated to myself
something about “diamond cut diamond,” I whipped on a red hackle and
passed it over the pool. The rogue of a trout, however, saw me, and
scorned for awhile to heed my lure. But I coaxed and coaxed, until at
last he darted for it, apparently out of mere spite. Something similar
to a miniature water-spout immediately arose, and the monarch of the
brook was in a fair way of sharing the same fate which had befallen the
innocent fly. I learned a salutary lesson from this incident, and as I
had yielded to the temptation of the brook, I shouldered my sketch-book
and descended the stream. At noon I reached a farm-house, where I craved
something to eat. A good dinner was given me, which was seasoned by many
questions, and some information, concerning trout. That afternoon, in
company with a little boy, I visited a neighbouring stream, called the
Roaring Kill, where I caught one hundred and sixty fish. I then returned
to the farm-house, and spent the evening in conversation with my new
acquaintances. After breakfast, on the following morning, I set out for
home, and reached there about noon, having made only two additions to my
sketches. Long shall I remember the evening spent with this family, and
their hospitality towards an entire stranger. A pleasant family was that
night added to my list of friends.
Another of my trouting pilgrimages was to a famous place, called Stony
Clove, among the mountains of Shaudaken. It is a deep perpendicular cut,
or gorge, between two mountains, two thousand feet in depth, from twenty
feet to four hundred in width, and completely lined, from base to
summit, with luxuriant vegetation. It is watered by a narrow but deep
brook, which is so full of trout, that some seven hundred were captured
by myself and two others in a single day. When I tell you that this spot
is only about one hundred miles from New York, you will be surprised to
learn, that in its immediate vicinity we saw no less than two bears, one
doe with two fawns, and other valuable game.
In some parts of this Clove the sunshine never enters, and whole tons of
the purest ice may be found there throughout the year. It is, indeed, a
most lonely and desolate corner of the world, and might be considered a
fitting type of the Valley of the Shadow of Death; in single file did we
have to pass through it, and in single file do the sons of men pass into
the grave. To spend one day there, we had to encamp two nights; and how
we generally manage that affair I will mention presently.
In returning from Stony Clove, we took a circuitous route, and visited
the Mountain House. We approached it by the way of the celebrated
Kauterskill Fall, which I will describe to you in the graphic language
of Cooper, as you may not remember the passage in his “Pioneer.” “Why
there’s a fall in the hills, where the water of two little ponds, that
lie near each other, breaks out of their bounds, and runs over the rocks
into the valley. The stream is, may be, such a one as would turn a mill,
if so useless a thing was wanted in the wilderness. _But the Hand that
made that ‘Leap’ never made a mill!_ There the water comes croaking and
winding among the rocks, first so slow that a trout might swim in it,
and then starting and running, just like any creature that wanted to
make a fair spring, till it gets to where the mountain divides, like the
cleft foot of a deer, leaving a deep hollow for the brook to tumble
into. The first pitch is nigh two hundred feet, and the water looks like
flakes of snow afore it touches the bottom, and then gathers itself
together again for a new start, and, may be, flutters over fifty feet of
flat rock, before it falls for another hundred, where it jumps from
shelf to shelf, first running this way and that way, striving to get out
of the hollow, till it finally comes to the plain.”
Our party, on this occasion, consisted of three, Peter Hummel, a
bark-gatherer, and myself. I had chosen these fellows for the
expedition, because of their friendship for me and their willingness to
go, and I resolved to give them a “treat” at the “Grand Hotel,” which
the natives of this region look upon as a kind of paradise. The reader
is no doubt aware, that the Mountain House is an establishment vieing in
its style of accommodation with the best of hotels.
Between it and the Hudson there is, during the summer, a semi-daily line
of stages; and it is the transient resort of thousands, who visit it for
the novelty of its situation, as well as for the surrounding scenery.
The edifice itself stands on a cliff, within a few feet of the edge, and
commands a prospect extending from Long Island Sound to the White
Mountains. The first time I visited the spot, I spent half the night at
my bed-room window, watching the fantastic performances of a
thunder-storm far below me, which made the building tremble like a ship
upon a reef, while the sky above was cloudless, and studded with stars.
Between this spot and South Peak, “there’s the High Peak and the Round
Top which lay back, like a father and mother among their children,
seeing they are far above all the other hills.”
But to proceed. Coarsely and comically dressed as we were, we made a
very unique appearance as we paraded into the office of the hotel. I met
a few acquaintances there, to whom I introduced my comrades; and in a
short time each one was spinning a mountain legend to a crowd of
delighted listeners. In due time, I ushered them into the dining-hall,
where a scene was enacted which can be better imagined than described;
the fellows were completely out of their element, and it was laughable
in the extreme to see them stare, and hear them talk, as the servants
bountifully helped them to the turtle-soup, ice-cream, charlotte-russe,
and other fashionable dainties.
About the middle of the afternoon we commenced descending the beautiful
mountain road leading towards the Hudson. In the morning there had been
a heavy shower, and a thousand happy rills attended us with a song. A
delightful nook on this road is pointed out as the identical spot where
Rip Van Winkle slept away a score of his life. I reached home in time to
spend the twilight hour in my own room, musing upon the much-loved
mountains. I had but one companion, and that was a whip-poor-will, which
nightly comes to my window-sill, as if to tell me a tale of its love, or
of the woods and solitary wilderness.
But the most unique and interesting of my fishing adventures remains to
be described. I had heard a great deal about the good fishing afforded
by the lake already mentioned, and I desired to visit it, and spend a
night upon its shore. Having spoken to my friend Hummel, and invited a
neighbour to accompany us, whom the people have named “White Yankee,”
the noontide hour of a pleasant day found us on our winding march; and
such a grotesque appearance as we made, was exceedingly amusing. The
group was mostly animated when climbing the steep and rocky ravines
which we were compelled to pass through. There was Peter, “long, lank
and lean,” and wild in his attire and countenance as an eagle of the
wilderness, with an axe in his hand, and a huge knapsack on his back,
containing our provisions and utensils for cooking. Next to him followed
White Yankee, with three blankets lashed upon his back, a slouched white
hat on his head, and nearly a half pound of tobacco in his mouth.
Crooked legged withal, and somewhat sickly was this individual, and
being wholly unaccustomed to this kind of business, he went along
groaning, grunting, and fuming, as if he was “sent for, and _didn’t
want_ to come.” In the rear trotted along your humble friend, with a gun
upon his shoulder, a powder-horn and shot-pouch at his side, cow-hide
boots on his feet, and a cap on his head—his beard half an inch long,
and his flowing hair streaming in the wind.
We reached our place of destination about five o’clock, and halted under
a large impending rock, which was to be our sleeping place. We were
emphatically under the “shadow of a rock, in a weary land.” Our first
business was to build a fire, which we did with about one cord of green
and dry wood. Eighty poles were then cut, to which we fastened our
lines. The old canoe in the lake was bailed out, and having baited our
hooks with the minnows we had brought with us, we planted the poles in
about seven feet water, all around the lake shore. We then prepared and
ate our supper, and awaited the coming on of night. During this
interval, I learned the following particulars concerning the lake. It
was originally discovered by a hunter, named Shew. It is estimated to
cover about fifty acres, and in the centre, to be more than two hundred
feet in depth. For my part, however, I do not believe it contains over
five acres, though the mountains which tower on every side but one, are
calculated to deceive the eye; but, as to its depth, I could easily
fancy it to be bottomless, for the water is remarkably dark. To the
number of trout in this lake there seems to be no end. It is supposed
they reach it, when small, through Sweetwater Brook, when they increase
in size, and multiply. It also abounds in green and scarlet lizards,
which are a serious drawback to the pleasures of the fastidious angler.
I asked Peter many questions concerning his adventures about the lake,
and he told me that the number of “harmless murders” he had committed
here was about three hundred. In one day, he shot three deer; at another
time, a dozen turkeys; at another, twenty ducks; one night, an old bear;
and again, half a dozen coons; and, on one occasion, annihilated a den
of thirty-seven rattlesnakes.
At nine o’clock, we lighted a torch and went to examine our lines; and
it was my good fortune to haul out not less than forty-one trout,
weighing from one to two pounds a-piece. These, we put into a spring of
very cold water, which bubbled from the earth a few paces from our
camping place, and then retired to repose. Branches of hemlock
constituted our couch, and my station was between Peter and White
Yankee. Little did I dream, when I first saw these two bipeds, that I
should ever have them for my bed-fellows; but who can tell what shall be
on the morrow? My friends were in the land of Nod in less than a dozen
minutes after we had retired; but it was hard for me to go to sleep in
the midst of the wild scene which surrounded me. There I lay, flat on my
back, a stone and my cap for a pillow, and wrapt in a blanket, with my
nose exposed to the chilly night air. And what pictures did my fancy
conjure up, as I looked upon the army of trunks around me, glistening in
the fire-light! One moment they were a troop of Indians from the
spirit-land, come to revisit again the hunting grounds of their fathers,
and weeping because the white man had desecrated their soil; and again,
I fancied them to be a congress of wild animals, assembled to try,
execute, and devour us, for the depredations our fellows had committed
upon their kind during the last one hundred years. By and by, a star
peered upon me from between the branches of a tree, and my thoughts
ascended heavenward. And now, my eyes twinkled and blinked in sympathy
with the star, and I was a dreamer.
An hour after the witching time of night, I was startled from my sleep
by a bellowing halloo from Peter, who said it was time to examine the
lines again. Had you heard the echoes which were then awakened, far and
near, you would have thought yourself in enchanted land. But there were
living answers to that shout, for a frightened fox began to bark, an owl
commenced its horrible hootings, a partridge its drumming, and a wolf
its howl. There was not a breeze stirring, and
“Nought was seen, in the vault on high,
But the moon, and the stars, and a cloudless sky,
And a river of white in the welkin blue.”
Peter and Yankee went out to haul in the trout, but I remained on shore
to attempt a drawing, by moonlight, of the lake before me. The opposite
side of the mountain, with its dark tangled forest, was perfectly
mirrored in the waters below, the whole seeming as solid and variegated
as a tablet of Egyptian marble. The canoe with its inmates noiselessly
pursued its way, making the stillness more profound. In the water at my
feet I distinctly saw lizards sporting about, and I could not but wonder
why such reptiles were ever created. I thought, with the Ancient
Mariner,
“A thousand slimy things lived on,
And so did I.”
Again did we retire to rest, slumbering until the break of day. We then
partook of a substantial trout breakfast, gathered up our plunder, and
with about one hundred handsome trout started for home.
The accidents we met with during the night were harmless, though
somewhat ridiculous. A paper of matches, which Peter carried in his
breeches’ pocket, took fire, and gave him such a scorching that he
bellowed lustily. White Yankee, in his restless slumber, rolled so near
our watch-fire, that he barely escaped with one corner of his blanket,
the remainder having been consumed. As for me, I only fell into the
water among the lizards, while endeavouring to reach the end of a log,
which extended into the lake. In descending the mountain, we shot three
partridges, and confoundedly frightened a fox; and by the middle of the
afternoon, were quietly pursuing our usual avocations among our
fellow-men of the lower world.