The Catskill Mountains—South Peak Mountain—A thunder storm—Midnight
on the mountains—Sunrise—Plauterkill Clove—Peter
Hummel—Trout fishing—Stony Clove—The Kauterskill Fall—The
Mountain House—The Mountain Lake.
Plauterkill Clove, May.
I commence this chapter in the language of Leather Stocking:—“You
know the Catskills, lad, for you must have seen
them on your left, as you followed the river up from York,
looking as blue as a piece of clear sky, and holding the clouds
on their tops, as the smoke curls over the head of an Indian
chief at a council-fire.” Yes, everybody is acquainted with
the names of these mountains, but few with their peculiarities
of scenery. They are situated about eight miles from
the Hudson, rise to an average elevation of about thirty-five
hundred feet, and running in a straight line from north to
south, cover a space of some twenty-five miles. The fertile
valley on the east is as beautiful as heart could desire; it is
watered by the Kauterskill, Plauterkill and Esopus creeks,
inhabited by a sturdy Dutch yeomanry, and is the agricultural
mother of Catskill, Saugerties and Kingston. The upland on
the west for about forty miles is rugged, dreary and thinly settled,
but the winding valley of Schoharie beyond is possessed
of many charms peculiarly American. The mountains themselves
are covered with dense forests abounding in cliffs and
waterfalls, and for the most part untrodden by the footsteps
of man. Looking at them from the Hudson, the eye is attracted
by two deep hollows, which are called “Cloves.”
The one nearest to the Mountain House, Kauterskill Clove,
is distinguished for a remarkable fall, which has been made
familiar to the world by the pen of Bryant and the pencil of
Cole; but this Clove is rapidly filling up with human habitations;
while the other, Plauterkill Clove, though yet possessing
much of its original glory, is certain of the same destiny.
The gorge whence issues the Esopus, is among the Shandaken
mountains, and not visible from the Hudson.
My nominal residence, at the present time, is at the mouth
of Plauterkill Clove. To the west, and only half a mile
from my abode, are the beautiful mountains, whose outlines
fade away to the north, like the waves of the sea when
covered with a visible atmosphere. The nearest, and to me
the most beloved of these, is called South Peak. It is nearly
four thousand feet high, and covered from base to summit
with one vast forest of trees, varying from eighty to an hundred
feet in height. Like its brethren, it is a wild and uncultivated
wilderness, abounding in all the interesting features of
mountain scenery. Like a corner-stone, does it stand at the
junction of the northern and western ranges of the Catskills;
and as its huge form looms against the evening sky, it inspires
one with awe, as if it were the ruler of the world:—yet I
have learned to love it as a friend. I have pondered upon
its impressive features when reposing in the noontide sunshine,
when enveloped in clouds, when holding communion
with the most holy night, and when trembling under the influence
of a thunder-storm and encircled by a rainbow. It
has filled my soul with images of beauty and sublimity, and
made me feel the omnipotence of God.
A day and a night was it lately my privilege to spend
upon this mountain, accompanied by a poet friend. We
started at an early hour, equipped in our brown fustians, and
laden with well-filled knapsacks—one with a hatchet in his
belt, and the other with a brace of pistols. We were bound
to the extreme summit of the peak, where we intended to
spend the night, witness the rising of the sun, and return at
our leisure on the following day. But when I tell my readers
that our course lay right up the almost perpendicular side
of the mountain, where there was no path save that formed
by a torrent or a bear, they will readily believe it was somewhat
rare and romantic. But this was what we delighted
in; so we shouted “excelsior!” and commenced the ascent.
The air was excessively sultry, and the very first effort we
made caused the perspiration to start most profusely. Upward,
upward was our course, now climbing through a tangled
thicket, or under the spray of a cascade, and then, again,
supporting ourselves by the roots of saplings, or scrambling
under a fallen tree;—now, like the samphire gatherer, scaling
a precipice, and then again clambering over a rock, or “shinning”
up a hemlock tree to reach a desired point.
Our first halt was made at a singular spot called “Hunter’s
Hole,” which is a spacious cavern or pit, forty feet deep,
and twenty wide, and approached only by a fissure in the mountain,
sufficiently large to admit a man. Connected with this
place is the following story. Many years ago, a farmer, residing
at the foot of the mountain, having missed a favorite dog,
and being anxious for his safety, called together his neighbors,
and offered a reward for the safe return of his canine friend.
Always ready to do a kind deed, a number of them started
in different directions for the hunt. A barking sound having
been heard to issue from this cavern, it was discovered, and
at the bottom of it the lost dog, which had probably fallen
therein while chasing a fox. “But how shall he be extricated
from this hole?” was the general inquiry of the now
assembled hunters. Not one of all the group would venture
to descend, under any circumstances; so that the poor animal
remained a prisoner for another night. But the next morning
he was released, and by none other than a brave boy,
the son of the farmer and playmate of the dog. A large
number of men were present on the occasion. A strong
rope was tied around the body of the child, and he was gently
lowered down. On reaching the bottom, and finding, by the
aid of his lamp, that he was in a “real nice place,” the little
rogue concluded to have some sport, whereupon he proceeded
to pull down more rope, until he had made a coil of two
hundred feet, which was bewildering enough to the crowd
above; but nothing happened to him during the adventure,
and the dog was rescued. The young hero having played
his trick so well, it was generally supposed, for a long
time after, that this cavern was two hundred feet deep,
and none were ever found sufficiently bold to enter in, even
after a beautiful fox. The bravery of the boy, however,
was the cause of his death, for he was cut down by a leaden
ball in the war of 1812.
The next remarkable place that we attained in ascending
South Peak, was the Bear Bank, where, in the depth of winter,
may be found an abundance of these charming creatures.
It is said that they have often been seen sunning themselves,
even from the hills east of the Hudson.
We were now upon a beetling precipice, three hundred
feet high, and under the shadow of a huge pine, we enjoyed
a slice of bread and pork, with a few drops of genuine
mountain dew. Instead of a dessert of strawberries and
cream, however, we were furnished by venerable dame Nature
with a thunder-storm. It was one that we had noticed
making a great commotion in the valley below. It had, probably,
discovered two bipeds going towards its home, the
sky, and seemed to have pursued us with a view of frightening
us back again. But, “knowing that Nature never did
betray the heart that loved her,” we awaited the thunder-storm’s
reply to our obstinate refusal to descend. The cloud
was yet below us, but its unseen herald, a strong east wind,
told us that the conflict had commenced. Presently, a peal
of thunder resounded through the vast profound, which caused
the mountain to tremble to its deep foundation. And then
followed another, and another, as the storm increased; and
the rain and hail poured down in floods. Thinking it more
safe to expose ourselves to the storm than remain under the
pine, we retreated without delay, when we were suddenly
enveloped in the heart of the cloud, only a few rods distant.
Then a stroke of lightning blinded us, and the towering forest
monarch was smitten to the earth. We were in the
midst of an unwritten epic poem about that time, but we
could not appreciate its beauties, for another peal of thunder,
and another stroke of lightning, attracted our whole attention.
Soon as these had passed, a terrible gale followed in their
wake, tumbling down piles of loose rocks, and bending to the
dust, as though in passion, the resisting forms of an army of
trees; and afterwards, a glorious rainbow spanned the mountain,
appearing like those distinguishing circles around the
temples of the Mighty and Holy, as portrayed by the painters
of old. The commotion lasted for an hour, when the region
of the Bear Bank became as serene as the slumber of a babe.
A spirit of silent prayer was brooding upon the earth and in
the air, and with a shadow of thoughtfulness at our hearts,
we resumed our upward march.
Our next halting place was upon a sort of peninsula called
the Eagle’s Nest, where, it is said, an Indian child was formerly
carried by one of those birds, and cruelly destroyed, and
whence the frantic mother, with the mangled body of her
babe, leaped into the terrible abyss below. From this point
we discovered a host of clouds assembled in council above
High Peak, as if discussing the parched condition of the
earth, and the speediest mode of affording relief to a still
greater extent than they had done; and far away to the west,
was another assembly of clouds, vying, like sporting children,
to outrun and overleap each other in their aerial amphitheatre.
After this we surmounted another point called Rattlesnake
Ledge. Here the rocks were literally covered with the white
bones of those reptiles, slaughtered by the hunter in by-gone
years, and we happened to see a pair of them that were
alive. One was about four feet long, and the other, which
was only half as large, seemed to be the offspring of the old
one, for, when discovered, they were playing together like
an affectionate mother with her tender child. Soon as we
appeared in their presence, the serpents immediately ceased
their sport, and in the twinkling of an eye coiled themselves
in the attitude of battle. The conflict was of short duration,
and to know the result you need only look into my cabinet
of curiosities.
Higher yet was it our lot to climb. We went a little out
of our course to obtain a bird’s-eye view of a mountain lake.
In its tranquil bosom the glowing evening sky and mountain
sides were vividly reflected, and the silence surrounding it
was so profound that we could almost hear the ripples made
by a solitary duck, as it swam from one shore to the other
in its utter loneliness. Very beautiful, indeed, was this picture,
and as I reflected upon it, I thought that as the Infant
of Bethlehem was tenderly protected by the parents who
watched over its slumbers, so was this exquisite lake cradled
and protected in the lap of the mountains.
One sight more did we behold before reaching the summit
of South Peak. It was the sunset hour, and on a jutting
cliff which commanded an immense view, our eyes were delighted
by the sight of a deer, standing still, and looking
down upon the silent void below, which was then covered
with a deep purple atmosphere, causing the prospect to resemble
the boundless ocean. It was the last of its race we
could not but fancy, bidding the human world good night,
previous to taking to its heathery couch in a nameless
ravine.
One effort more and the long-desired eminence was attained,
and we were a little nearer the evening star than we
had ever been before. It was now the hour of twilight, and
as we were about done over with fatigue, it was not long
before we had pitched our leafy tent, eaten some supper, and
yielded ourselves to the embrace of sleep, “dear mother of
fresh thoughts and joyous health!”
At midnight, a cooling breath of air having passed across
my face, I was awakened from a fearful dream, which left
me in a nervous and excited state of mind. A strange and
solemn gloom had taken possession of my spirit, which was
greatly enhanced by the doleful song of a neighboring hemlock
grove. Our encampment having been made a little
below the summit of the peak, and feeling anxious to behold
the prospect at that hour, from that point, I awakened my
companion, and we seated ourselves upon the topmost rock,
which was nearly bare of shrubs, but covered with a rich
moss, softer and more beautiful than the finest carpet. But
how can I describe the scene that burst upon our enraptured
vision? It was unlike anything I had ever seen before,
creating a lone, lost feeling, which I supposed could only be
realized by a wanderer in an uninhabited wilderness, or on
the ocean, a thousand leagues from home. Above, around
and beneath us, ay, far beneath us, were the cold bright
stars, and to the eastward the “young moon with the old
moon in her arms.” In the west were floating a little band
of pearly clouds, which I almost fancied to be winged chariots,
and that they were crowded with children, the absent
and loved of other years, who, in a frolic of blissful joy, were
out upon the fields of heaven. On one side of us reposed
the long broad valley of the Hudson, with its cities, towns,
villages, woods, hills and plains, whose crowded highway
was diminished to a narrow girdle of deep blue. Towards
the south, hill beyond hill, field beyond field receded to the
sky, occasionally enlivened by a peaceful lake. On our right
a multitudinous array of rugged mountains lay piled up,
apparently as impassable as the bottomless gulf. In the
north, old High Peak, King of the Catskills, bared his bosom
to the moonlight, as if demanding and expecting the homage
of the world. Strange and magnificent, indeed, was the prospect
from that mountain watch-tower, and it was with reluctance
that we turned away, as in duty bound, to slumber
until the dawn. The dawn! and now for a sunrise picture
among the mountains, with all the illusive performances of
the mists and clouds! He comes! he comes! “the king of
the bright days!” Now the crimson and golden clouds are
parting, and he bursts on the bewildered sight! One moment
more, and the whole earth rejoices in his beams, falling
alike as they do upon the prince and the peasant of every
land. And now, on either side and beneath the sun an array
of new-born clouds are gathering—like a band of cavaliers,
preparing to accompany their leader on a journey. Out of
the Atlantic have they just arisen; at noon, they will have
pitched their tents on the cerulean plains of heaven; and
when the hours of day are numbered, the far-off waters of
the Pacific will again receive them in its cool embrace.
Listen! was not that the roar of waves? Naught but the report
of thunder in the valley below. Are not the two oceans coming
together? See! we are on a rock in the midst of an illimitable
sea, and the tide is surely rising—rising rapidly! Strange!
it is still as death, and yet the oceans are covered with billows!
Lo! the naked masts of a ship, stranded on a lee
shore!—and yonder, as if a reef were hidden there to impede
their course, the waves are struggling in despair, now leaping
to the sky, and now plunging into a deep abyss! And
when they have passed the unseen enemy, how rapid and
beautiful are their various evolutions, as they hasten to the
more distant shore! Another look, and what a change!
The mists of morning are being exhaled by the rising sun,
already the world of waters is dispersed, and in the valley of
the Hudson, far, far away, are reposing all the enchanting
features of the green earth.
We descended the mountain by a circuitous route, that we
might enjoy the luxury of passing through Plauterkill Clove.
The same spring that gives rise to Schoharie Creek, which
is the principal tributary of the Mohawk, also gives rise to the
Plauterkill. In its very infancy, it begins to leap and laugh
with the gladness of a boy. From its source to the plain, the
distance is only two miles, and yet it has a fall of twenty-five
hundred feet; but the remainder of its course, until it reaches
the Esopus, is calm and picturesque, and on every side, and
at every turn, may be seen the farm-houses of a sturdy yeomanry.
The wild gorge or dell through which it passes, abounds
in waterfalls of surpassing beauty, varying from ten to a hundred
feet in height, whose rocks are green with the moss of
centuries, and whose brows are ever wreathed with the most
exquisite of vines and flowers. Here is the double leap,
with its almost fathomless pool, containing a hermit trout
that has laughed at the angler’s skill for a score of years;
the fall of the Mountain Spirit, haunted, as it is said, by the
disembodied spirit of an Indian girl, who lost her life here
while pursuing a phantom of the brain; and here is the
Blue-bell Fall, forever guarded by a multitudinous array of
those charming flowers. Caverns, too, and chasms are here,
dark, deep, chilly and damp; where the toad, the lizard and
snake, and strange families of insects, are perpetually multiplying,
and actually seeming to enjoy their loathsome lives;
and here is the Black Chasm, and the Devil’s Chamber, the
latter with a perpendicular wall of twice the height of old
Trinity, and with a wainscoting of pines and hemlocks which
have “braved a thousand years the battle and the breeze.”
Plauterkill Clove is an eddy of the great and tumultuous
world, and in itself a world of unwritten poetry, whose primitive
loveliness has not yet been disfigured by the influence
of Mammon. It has been consecrated by a brotherhood of
friends, well-tried and true, to the pure religion of Nature;
and after spending a summer-day therein, and then emerging
under the open sky, their feelings are always allied to those
of a pilgrim in a strange land, passing through the dreamy
twilight of an old cathedral.
But it is time that I should change my tune, as I desire to
record a few fishing adventures which I have lately experienced
among the Catskills. My first excursion was performed
along the margin of Sweetwater Brook, which flows
out of the lake already mentioned. My guide and companion
was a notorious hunter of this region, named Peter Hummel,
whose services I have engaged for all my future rambles
among the mountains. He is, decidedly, one of the wildest
and rarest characters I have ever known, and would be a
valuable acquisition to a menagerie. He was born in a little
hut at the foot of South Peak, is twenty-seven years of age,
and has never been to school a day in his life, nor, in his
travels towards civilization, further away from home than fifteen
miles. He was educated for a bark-gatherer, his father and
several brothers having always been in the business; but
Peter is averse to common-place labor, to anything, in fact,
that will bring money. When a boy of five years, he had
an inkling for the mountains, and once had wandered so far,
that he was found by his father in the den of an old bear,
playing with her cubs. To tramp among the mountains, with
a gun and dog, is Peter’s chief and only happiness. He is,
probably, one of the best specimens of a hunter now living;
and very few, I fancy, could have survived the dangers to
which he has exposed himself. As to his constitution, he
seems to be one of those iron mortals who never die with age
and infirmity, but who generally meet with a sudden death,
as if to recompense them for their heedlessness. But with
all his wildness and recklessness, Peter Hummel is as amiable
and kind-hearted a man as ever breathed. He is an original
wit withal, and shrewd and very laughable are many of
his speeches, and his stories are the cream of romance and
genuine mountain poetry.
But to my story. As usual, we started on our tramp at an
early hour, he with a trout-basket in his hand, containing
our dinner, and I with my sketch-book and a “pilgrim staff.”
After a tiresome ascent of three hours up the side of a mountain,
over ledges, and through gloomy ravines, we at last
reached the wished-for brook. All the day long were we
cheered by its happy song, as we descended; now leaping
from one deep pool to another, and now scrambling over
green-coated rocks, under and around fallen trees, and along
the damp, slippery sides of the mountains, until we reached
its mouth on a plain, watered by a charming river, and sprinkled
with the rustic residences of the Dutch yeomanry. We
were at home by sunset, having walked the distance of
twenty miles, and captured one hundred and fifty trout, the
most of which we distributed among the farm-houses in our
way, as we returned. The trout were quite small, varying
from three to eight ounces in weight, and of a dark-brown
color.
On another occasion, I had taken my sketch-book and
some fishing tackle, and gone up a mountain road to the banks
of Schoharie Creek, nominally for the purpose of sketching
a few trees. In the very first hole of the stream into which
I accidentally peered, I discovered a large trout, lying near
the bottom, just above a little bed of sand, whence rose the
bubbles of a spring. For some thirty minutes I watched the
fellow with a “yearning tenderness,” but as he appeared to
be so very happy, and I was in a kindred mood, I thought
that I would let him live. Presently, however, a beautiful
fly lighted on the water, which the greedy hermit swallowed
in a minute, and returned to his cool bed, with his conscience,
as I fancied, not one whit troubled by what he had done.
Involuntarily I began to unwind my line, and having cut a
pole, and repeated to myself something about “diamond cut
diamond,” I whipped on a red hackle, and passed it over
the pool. The rogue of a trout, however, saw me, and
scorned for a while to heed my line; but I coaxed and coaxed
until, at last, he darted for it, apparently out of mere spite.
Something similar to a miniature water-spout immediately
arose, and the monarch of the brook was in a fair way of
sharing the same fate which had befallen the innocent fly.
I learned a salutary lesson from this incident, and as I had
yielded to the temptation of the brook, I shouldered my
sketch-book with a strap, and descended the stream. At
noon, I reached a farm-house, where I craved something to
eat. A good dinner was given me, which was seasoned by
many questions, and some information concerning trout.
That afternoon, in company with a little boy, I visited a
neighboring stream, called the Roaring Kill, where I caught
one hundred and sixty fish. I then returned to the farm-house,
and spent the evening in conversation with my new
acquaintances. After breakfast, on the following morning, I
set out for home, and reached there about noon, having made
only two additions to my sketches. Long shall I remember
the evening spent with this family, and their hospitality towards
an entire stranger. A pleasant family was that night
added to my list of friends.
Another of my trouting pilgrimages was to a famous place
called Stony Clove, among the mountains of Shandaken.
It is a deep perpendicular cut or gorge between two mountains,
two thousand feet in depth, from twenty feet to four
hundred in width, and completely lined from base to summit
with luxuriant vegetation. It is watered by a narrow but
deep brook, which is so full of trout that some seven hundred
were captured by myself and two others in a single day.
When I tell my readers that this spot is only about one hundred
miles from New York, they will be surprised to learn
that in its immediate vicinity we saw no less than two bears,
one doe with two fawns, and other valuable game. In some
parts of this clove the sunshine never enters, and whole tons
of the purest ice may be found there throughout the year.
It is, indeed, a most lonely and desolate corner of the world,
and might be considered a fitting type of the valley of the
shadow of death; in single file did we have to pass through
that gorge, and in single file do the sons of men pass into the
grave. To spend one day there we had to encamp two
nights, and how we generally manage that affair I will mention
presently.
In returning from Stony Clove, we took a circuitous route,
and visited the Mountain House. We approached it by way
of the celebrated Catskill Falls, which I will describe in the
graphic language of Cooper, as my readers may not remember
the passage in his Pioneer. “Why, there’s a fall in the
hills, where the water of two little ponds, that lie near each
other, breaks out of their bounds, and runs over the rocks
into the valley. The stream is, may be, such a one as would
turn a mill, if so useless a thing was wanted in the wilderness.
But the hand that made that ‘Leap’ never made a
mill! Then the water comes croaking and winding among
the rocks, first so slow that a trout might swim in it, and
then starting and running, like any creature that wanted to
make a fair spring, till it gets to where the mountain divides,
like the cleft foot of a deer, leaving a deep hollow for the
brook to tumble into. The first pitch is nigh two hundred
feet, and the water looks like flakes of snow afore it touches
the bottom, and then gathers itself together again for a new
start, and, may be, flutters over fifty feet of flat rock, before
it falls for another hundred feet, when it jumps from shelf to
shelf, first running this way and that way, striving to get out
of the hollow, till it finally comes to the plain.”
Our party, on this occasion, consisted of three—Peter
Hummel, a bark-gatherer and myself. I had chosen these
fellows for the expedition, because of their friendship for me
and their willingness to go; and I resolved to give them a
“treat” at the “Grand Hotel,” which the natives of this region
look upon as a kind of paradise. You are aware, I
suppose, reader, that the Mountain House is an establishment
vying in its style of accommodations with the best of hotels.
Between it and the Hudson, there is, during the summer, a
semi-daily line of stages, and it is the transient resort of thousands,
who visit it for the novelty of its location as well as
for the surrounding scenery. The edifice itself stands on a
cliff, within a few feet of the edge, and commands a prospect
extending from Long Island Sound to the White Mountains.
The first time I visited this spot, I spent half the night at my
bed-room window, watching the fantastic performances of a
thunder-storm far below me, which made the building tremble
like a ship upon a reef, while the sky above was cloudless,
and studded with stars. Between this spot and South Peak,
“there’s the High Peak and the Round Top, which lay back,
like a father and mother among their children, seeing they
are far above all the other hills.”
But to proceed. Coarsely and comically dressed as we
were, we made a very unique appearance as we paraded into
the office of the hotel. I met a few acquaintances there to
whom I introduced my comrades, and in a short time each
one was spinning a mountain legend to a crowd of delighted
listeners. In due time I ushered them into the dining-hall,
where was enacted a scene which can be better imagined
than described; the fellows were completely out of their element,
and it was laughable in the extreme, to see them stare
and hear them talk, as the servants bountifully helped them to
the turtle soup, ice-cream, charlotte russe and other fashionable
dainties.
About the middle of the afternoon we commenced descending
the beautiful mountain-road leading towards the Hudson.
In the morning there had been a heavy shower, and a thousand
happy rills attended us with a song. A delightful nook
on this road is pointed out as the identical spot where Rip
Van Winkle slept away a score of his life. I reached home
in time to spend the twilight hour in my own room, musing
upon the much-loved mountains. I had but one companion,
and that was a whippoorwill, which nightly comes to my
window-sill, as if to tell me a tale of its love, or of the
woods and solitary wilderness.
But the most unique and interesting of my fishing adventures
remains to be described. I had heard a great deal about
the good fishing afforded by the lake already mentioned, and
I desired to visit it and spend a night upon its shore. Having
spoken to my friend Hummel, and invited a neighbor to
accompany us, whom the people had named “White Yankee,”
the noontide hour of a pleasant day found us on our
winding march: and such a grotesque appearance as we
made was exceedingly amusing. The group was mostly
animated when climbing the steep and rocky ravines which
we were compelled to pass through. There was Peter,
“long, lank, and lean,” and wild in his attire and countenance
as an eagle of the wilderness, with an axe in his hand,
and a huge knapsack on his back, containing our provisions
and utensils for cooking. Next to him followed White
Yankee, with three blankets lashed upon his back, a slouched
white hat on his head, and nearly half a pound of tobacco
in his mouth. Crooked-legged withal, and somewhat sickly
was this individual, and being wholly unaccustomed to this
kind of business, he went along groaning, grunting, and
sweating, as if he was “sent for and didn’t want to come.”
In the rear tottered along your humble friend, dear reader,
with a gun upon his shoulder, a powder-horn and shot-pouch
at his side, cowhide boots on his feet, and a cap on his head,
his beard half an inch long, and his flowing hair streaming in
the wind.
We reached our place of destination about five o’clock,
and halted under a large impending rock, which was to be
our sleeping place. We were emphatically under the “shadow
of a rock in a weary land.” Our first business was to
build a fire, which we did with about one cord of green and
dry wood. Eighty poles were then cut, to which we fastened
our lines. The old canoe in the lake was bailed out,
and, having baited our hooks with the minnows we had
brought with us, we planted the poles in about seven feet
of water all around the lake shore. We then prepared and ate
our supper, and awaited the coming on of night. During
this interval I learned from Peter the following particulars
concerning the lake. It was originally discovered by a
hunter named Shew. It is estimated to cover about fifty
acres, and in the centre to be more than two hundred feet in
depth. For my part, however, I do not believe it contains
over five acres, though the mountains which tower on every
side but one, are calculated to deceive the eye; but, as to its
depth, I could easily fancy it to be bottomless, for the water
is remarkably dark. To the number of trout in this lake
there seems to be no end. It is supposed they reach it,
when small, through Sweetwater Brook, when they increase
in size, and multiply. It also abounds in green and scarlet
lizards, which are a serious drawback to the pleasures of
the fastidious angler. I asked Peter many questions concerning
his adventures about the lake, and he told me that
the number of “harmless murders” he had committed here
was about three hundred. In one day he shot three deer;
at another time a dozen turkeys; at another twenty ducks;
one night an old bear; and again half-a-dozen coons; and
on one occasion annihilated a den of thirty-seven rattlesnakes.
At nine o’clock we lighted a torch, and went to examine
our lines; and it was my good fortune to haul out not less
than forty-one trout, weighing from one to two pounds
a-piece. These we put into a spring of very cold water,
which bubbled from the earth a few paces from our camping
place, and then retired to repose. Branches of hemlock
constituted our couch, and my station was between Peter
and White Yankee. Little did I dream, when I first saw
these two bipeds, that I should ever have them for my bed-fellows;
but who can tell what shall be on the morrow? My
friends were in the land of Nod in less than a dozen minutes
after we had retired; but it was difficult for me to go to
sleep in the midst of the wild scene which surrounded me.
There I lay, flat on my back, a stone and my cap for a pillow,
and wrapped in a blanket, with my nose exposed to the
chilly night air. And what pictures did my fancy conjure
up, as I looked upon the army of trunks around me, glistening
in the firelight. One moment they were a troop of
Indians from the spirit-land, come to revisit again the hunting-grounds
of their fathers, and weeping because the white
man had desecrated their soil; and again I fancied them to
be a congress of wild animals, assembled to try, execute,
and devour us, for the depredations our fellows had committed
upon their kind during the last one hundred years. By
and by a star peered out upon me from between the branches
of a tree, and my thoughts ascended heavenward. And now
my eyes twinkled and blinked in sympathy with the star,
and I was a dreamer.
An hour after the witching time of night, I was startled
from my sleep by a bellowing halloo from Peter, who said
it was time to examine the lines again. Had you heard the
echoes which were then awakened, far and near, you would
have thought yourself in enchanted land. But there were
living answers to that shout, for a frightened fox began to
bark, an owl commenced its horrible hootings, a partridge its
drumming, and a wolf its howl. There was not a breeze
stirring, and
“Naught was seen in the vault on high
But the moon and the stars and a cloudless sky,
And a river of white in the welkin blue.”
Peter and Yankee went out to haul in the trout, but I remained
on shore to attempt a drawing, by moonlight, of the
lake before me. The opposite side of the mountain, with
its dark tangled forests, was perfectly mirrored in the waters
below, the whole seeming as solid and variegated as a tablet
of Egyptian marble. The canoe with its inmates noiselessly
pursued its way, making the stillness more profound. In
the water at my feet I distinctly saw lizards sporting about,
and I could not but wonder why such reptiles were ever
created. I thought with the Ancient Mariner,
“A thousand slimy things lived on,
And so did I.”
Again did we retire to rest, slumbering until the break of
day. We then partook of a substantial trout breakfast,
gathered up our plunder, and with about one hundred handsome
trout, started for home.
The accidents we met with during the night were harmless,
though somewhat ridiculous. A paper of matches
which Peter carried in his breeches-pocket took fire, and
gave him such a scorching that he bellowed lustily;—while
Yankee, in his restless slumbers, rolled so near our watch-fire,
that he barely escaped with a corner of his blanket, the
remainder having been consumed. As for me I only fell into
the water among the lizards, while endeavoring to reach the
end of a log which extended into the lake. In descending
the mountain we shot three partridges, and confoundedly
frightened a fox, and by the middle of the afternoon were
quietly pursuing our several avocations among our fellow
men of the lower world.
A spring day—The sky—The mountains—The streams—The woods—The
open fields—Domestic animals—Poetry—The poultry yard.
Plauterkill Clove, May.
May is near its close, and I am still in the valley of the
Hudson. Spring is indeed come again, and this, for the
present year, has been its day of triumph. The moment I
awoke, at dawn, this morning, I knew by intuition that it
would be so, and I bounded from my couch like a startled
deer, impatient for the cool delicious air. Spring is upon
the earth once more, and a new life is given me of enjoyment
and hope. The year is in its childhood, and my
heart clings to it with a sympathy that I feel must be immortal
and divine. What I have done to-day I cannot tell.
I only know that my body has been tremulous with feeling,
and my eyes almost blinded with seeing. Every hour has
been fraught with a new emotion of delight, and presented
to my vision numberless pictures of surpassing beauty. I
have held communion with the sky, the mountains, the
streams, the woods, and the fields; and these, if you please,
shall be the themes of my present chapter.
The sky! it has been of as deep an azure and as serene
as ever canopied the world. It seemed as if you could look
through it into the illimitable home of the angels—could
almost behold the glory which surrounds the Invisible.
Three clouds alone have attracted my attention. One was
the offspring of the dawn, and encircled by a rim of gold;
the next was the daughter of noon, and white as the driven
snow, and the last, of evening, and robed in deepest crimson.
Wayward and coquettish creatures were these clouds! their
chief ambition seemed to be to display their charms to the
best advantage, as if conscious of their loveliness; and, at
sunset, when the light lay pillowed on the mountains, it was
a joyous sight to see them, side by side, like three sweet
sisters, as they were, going home. Each one was anxious
to favor the world with its own last smile, and by their
changing places so often, you would have thought they
were all unwilling to depart. But they were the ministers
of the sun, and he would not tarry for them; and while he
beckoned them to follow on, the evening star took his station
in the sky, and bade them depart; and when I looked
again, they were gone. Never more, thought I, will those
clouds be a source of joy to a human heart. And in this
respect, also, they seemed to me to be the emblems of those
beautiful but thoughtless maidens, who spend the flower of
youth trifling with the affections of all whom they have the
power to fascinate.
The mountains! in honor of the season which has just
clothed them in the richest green, they have, this day, displayed
every one of their varied and interesting charms. At
noon, as I lay under the shadow of a tree, watching them
“with a look made of all sweet accord,” my face was freshened
by a breeze. It appeared to come from the summit of
South Peak, and to be the voice of the Catskills. I listened,
and these were the words which echoed through my ear.
“Of all the seasons, oh Spring! thou art the most beloved,
and, to us, always the most welcome. Joy and gladness
ever attend thy coming, for we know that the ‘winter is
past, the rains are over and gone, the time of the singing
of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our
land.’ And we know, too, that from thy hands flow unnumbered
blessings. Thou softenest the earth, that the husbandman
may sow his seed, which shall yield him a thousand
fold at the harvest. Thou releasest the rivers from their icy
fetters, that the wings of commerce may be unfurled once
more. Thou givest food to the cattle upon a thousand hills,
that they, in their turn, may furnish man with necessary food,
and also assist him in his domestic labors. Thou coverest
the earth with a garniture of freshest loveliness, that the
senses of man may be gratified, and his thoughts directed to
Him who hath created all things, and pronounced them good.
And, finally, thou art the hope of the year, and thine admonitions,
which are of the future, have a tendency to emancipate
the thoughts of man from this world, and the troubles
which may surround him here, and fix them upon that
clime where an everlasting spring abides.” “The voice
in my dreaming ear melted away,” and I heard the roaring
of the streams, as they fretted their way down the rocky
steeps.
The streams! such “trumpets” as they have blown to-day
would, I am afraid, have caused Mr. Wordsworth to
exclaim:
“The cataracts—make a devilish noise up yonder!”
The fact is, as “all the earth is gay,” and all the springs
among the mountains are “giving themselves up to jollity,”
the streams are full to overflowing, and rush along with a
“vindictive looseness,” because of the burden they have to
bear. The falls and cascades, which make such exquisite
pictures in the summer months, are now fearful to behold,
for, in their anger, every now and then they toss some giant
tree into an abyss of foam, which makes one tremble with
fear. But after the streams have left the mountains, and are
running through the bottom lands, they still appear to be
displeased with something, and at every turn they take, delve
into the “bowels of the harmless earth,” making it dangerous
for the angler to approach too near, but rendering the
haunt of the trout more spacious and commodious than before.
The streams are about the only things I cannot praise to-day,
and I hope it will not rain for a month to come, if this is
the way they intend to act whenever we have a number of
delightful showers.
The woods! A goodly portion of the day have I spent
in one of their most secret recesses. I went with Shakspeare
under my arm; but I could not read any more than fly, so
I stretched myself at full length on a huge log, and kept a
sharp look-out for anything that might send me a waking
dream. The brotherhood of trees clustered around me, laden
with leaves just bursting into full maturity, and possessing
that delicate and peculiar green which lasts but a single day,
and never returns. A fitful breeze swept through them, so
that ever and anon I fancied a gushing fountain to be near,
or that a company of ladies fair was come to visit me, and
that I heard the rustle of their silken kirtles. And now my
eyes rested on a tree that was entirely leafless, and almost
without a limb. Instead of grass at its foot, was a heap of
dry leaves, and not a bush or a vine grew anywhere near it;
but around its neighbors they grew in great abundance. It
seemed branded with a curse; alone, forsaken of its own,
and despised by all. Can this, thought I, be an emblem of
any human being? Strange that it should be, but it is nevertheless
too true. Only one week ago, I saw a poor miserable
maniac, bound hand and foot, driven from “home and
all its treasures,” and carried to a dark, damp prison-house
in a neighboring town. I can be reconciled to the mystery
of a poisonous reptile’s existence; but it is very hard to understand
for what good purpose a maniac is created. Another
object I noticed, was a little tree about five feet high,
completely covered with blossoms of a gaudy hue. At first,
I tried to gather something poetical out of this thing, but
with all my endeavors I could not. It caused me a real
hearty laugh, as the idea expanded, for it reminded me of a
certain maiden lady of my acquaintance, who is old, stunted,
very fond of tall men, and always strutting among her fellows
under a weight of jewelry. But oh! what beautiful
flowers did I notice in that shady grove, whose whispering
filled me with delight! Their names? I cannot tell them
to you, fair reader—they ought to have no names, any more
than a cloud, or a foam-bell on the river. Some were blue,
some white, some purple, and some scarlet. There were
little parties of them on every side, and as the wind swayed
their delicate stems, I could not but fancy they were living
creatures; the personified thoughts, perhaps, of happy and
innocent children. Occasionally, too, I noticed a sort of
straggler peeping at me from beside a hillock of moss, or
from under the branches of a fallen tree, as if surprised at
my temerity in entering its secluded haunt. Birds, also, were
around me in that green-wood sanctuary, singing their hymns
of praise to the Father of Mercies for the return of spring.
The nests of the females being already built, they had nothing
to do but be happy, anticipating the time when they themselves
should be the “dealers-out of some small blessings”
to their helpless broods. As to their mates, they were about
as independent, restless, and noisy as might be expected, very
much as any rational man would be who was the husband
of a young and beautiful wife.
But the open fields to-day have superabounded with pictures
to please and instruct the mind. I know not where to
begin to describe them. Shall it be at the very threshold of
our farm-house? Well, then, only look at those lilac trees in
the garden, actually top-heavy with purple and white flowering
pyramids. The old farmer has just cut a number of large
branches, and given them to his little daughter to carry to
her mother, who will distribute them between the mantle-piece,
the table, and the fire-place of the family sitting-room.
But what ambrosial odor is that which now salutes the senses!
It comes not from the variegated corner of the garden, where
the tulip, the violet, the hyacinth, the bluebell and the lily
of the valley are vying to outstrip each other in their attire;
nor from the clover-covered lawn, besprinkled with buttercups,
strawberry blossoms, and honeysuckles, but from the
orchard, every one of whose trees are completely covered
with snow-white blossoms. And from their numberless
petals emanates the murmur of bees as they are busy extracting
the luscious honey. What an abundance of fruit—of
apples, cherries, peaches and pears, do these sweet blossoms
promise! But next week there may be a bitter frost; and
this is the lesson which my heart learns. Now that I am in
the spring-time of life, my hopes, in numbers and beauty, are
like the blossoms of trees, and I know not but that they may
even on the morrow be withered by the chilly breath of the
grave. But let us loiter farther on. The western slope of
this gentle hill is equally divided, and of two different shades
of green; one is planted with rye and the other with wheat.
The eastern slope of the hill has lately been loosened by the
plough, and is of a sombre color, but to my eyes not less
pleasing than the green. And this view is enlivened with
figures besides—for a farmer and two boys are planting corn,
the latter opening the beds with their hoes and the former
dropping in the seed (which he carries in a bag slung at his
side), and covering it with his foot. And now, fluttering over
their heads is a roguish bobolink, scolding about something
in their wake; at a respectful distance, and hopping along
the ground, are a number of robins, and on the nearest fence
a meadow-lark and bluebird are “holding on for a bite.”
But there is no end to these rural pictures, so I will just take
my reader into this neighboring meadow-pasture, thence
into the poultry-yard at home, and conclude my present rhapsody.
Here we are, then, in the midst of various domestic animals.
Yonder a couple of black colts are chasing each
other in play, while their venerable mother (for they are
brothers, though not twins) is standing a little way off,
watching their antics, and twisting about her ears, as she
remembers the happy days of her own colt-hood. Here are
some half dozen hearty cows, lying down and grazing, each
one with a “pledge of affection” sporting about her. There
are six or eight oxen, eating away as fast as they can, while
one who seems to be a sentinel, occasionally rolls up his eye
to see if the farmer is coming to renew his song of “haw!
gee! gee! haw!” Under the shadows of that old oak is a
flock of sheep, with their lambs bounding beside them, as to
the “tabor’s sound;” but to me there comes no “thought of
grief” at the sight, wherein I must be suffered to disagree
with Wordsworth, to whom I have already alluded once or
twice, and whose celebrated and most wonderful ode has
been echoing in my heart all the day long. Some of the
lines in it are appropriate to the day, the charms of which I
am attempting to make you feel, reader, and you will oblige
me by conning and inwardly digesting the following fragments
of a whole and yet really complete poem:—
“The sunshine is a glorious birth.”
“The winds come to me from the fields of sleep.”
“And the babe leaps up on his mother’s arm.”
“Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own.”
“Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight
Heavy as fate, and deep almost as life.”
“O joy, that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
That nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive.”
“To me the meanest flower that blooms, can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.”
Strange that a man, after dwelling upon such poetry, should
be willing to go into a poultry yard. But why not? I
would rather do this willingly than be compelled, as I have
been, and may be again, to hear a man say, after reading to
him Wordsworth’s great Ode, “Why! of what use is such
stuff? what does it prove? will it furnish a man with bread
and butter? will it make the pot boil?” The people of the
poultry-yard have been in such glee to-day, and contributed
so much to the gladness of the day, that I must pay them a
passing tribute. In the first place, our old gobbler, with his
retinue of turkey wives, has been at the point of bursting
with pride ever since sunrise. If the Grand Sultan of Turkey,
(who must be the father of all turkeys,) cuts the same
kind of capers in the presence of his hundred ladies, Turkey
must be a great country for lean people to “laugh and grow
fat.” Our gobbler is a feathered personification of Jack Falstaff,
possessing his prominent trait of cowardice to perfection.
I flourished a red handkerchief in his face this morning, and,
by the way he strutted round and gobbled, you would have
thought he was going to devour you. About ten minutes
after this, I threw down a handful of corn, which was intended
for his particular palate. While he was busy picking
it up, a certain cock stepped alongside, and commenced
picking too. The intruder, having got in the way of the
gobbler, was suddenly pushed aside; whereupon the gentleman
with spurs chuckled and “showed fight;” but the gobbler
for a moment heeded him not. This the cock could not
bear, so he pounced upon his enemy, and whipped him without
mercy, until the coward and fool ran away, with his long
train of affectionate wives following behind.
The cocks, hens and chickens which have figured in the
yard to-day, would more than number a hundred; and such
cackling, crowing, chuckling, and crying as they have made,
was anything but a “concord of sweet sounds.” But the
creatures have been happy, and it was therefore a pleasure
to look at them. A young hen, this morning, made her first
appearance with a large brood of chickens, yellow as gold,
and this caused quite a sensation among the feathered husbands
generally. The mother, as she rambled about, seemed
to say, by her pompous air, to her daughterless friends—“Ar’n’t
they beautiful? don’t you wish you had a few?”
It was also very funny to see with what looks of astonishment
the youthful cocks surveyed these “infant phenomenons.”
As to our ducks, and geese, and guinea-hens,
they have minded their business very well—the two former
paddling about the creek and mud-puddles, and the latter,
“between meals,” roaming at large through the orchard and
garden, altogether the most beautiful and rational of the feathered
tribes.
A mountaineer, who is to take this queer record to the
post-office, is waiting for me below, and I must close,—hoping
that the country pictures I have endeavored to sketch,
may have a tendency to make you feel a portion of that joy
which has characterized this delightful Spring Day.
Plauterkill Clove, May.
The people who inhabit that section of country lying between
the Catskill Mountains and the Hudson River, are
undoubtedly the legitimate descendants of the far-famed Rip
Van Winkle. Dutch blood floweth in their veins, and their
names, appearance, manners, are all Dutch, and Dutch only.
The majority of them are engaged in tilling the soil, and as
they seem to be satisfied with a bare competency, the peacefulness
of their lives is only equalled by their ignorance of
books and the world at large. The height of their ambition
is to enjoy a frolic, and what civilized people understand by
that term, they designate a Bee. Not only have they their
wedding and funeral bees, but they commemorate their
agricultural labors with a bee, and of these the corn planting
bee, which I am about to describe, is a specimen.
A certain old Dutchman of my acquaintance had so long
neglected the field where he intended to plant his corn, that
he found it necessary to retrieve his reputation by getting up
a bee. He therefore immediately issued his invitations, and
at two o’clock on the appointed day, about seventy of his
neighbors, including men and women, made their appearance
at his dwelling, each one of them furnished with a hoe
and a small bag to carry the seed. After supplying his guests
with all they wanted in the way of spiritual drink, my friend
gave the signal, and shouldering a large hoe, started off for
the field of action, closely followed by his neighbors, who
fell to work quite lustily. The field was large, but as the
laborers were numerous, it was entirely planted at least two
hours before sunset, when the party was disbanded, with the
express understanding resting upon their minds that they
should invite their children to the dance, which was to take
place in the evening at the bee-giver’s residence.
The house of my farmer friend having been originally
built for a tavern, it happened to contain a large ball-room,
and on this occasion it was stripped of its beds and bedding,
and the walls thereof decked from top to bottom with green
branches and an occasional tallow candle, and conspicuous
at one end of the hall was a refreshment establishment, well
supplied with pies, gingerbread, molasses candy and sugars,
and with an abundance of colored alcohols. The number of
young men and women who came together on this occasion
was about one hundred, and while they were trimming for
the approaching dance, the musician, a long-legged, huge and
bony Dutchman, was tuning a rusty fiddle. The thirty
minutes occupied by him in this interesting business were
employed by the male portion of the guests in “wetting their
whistles.” The dresses worn on this occasion were eminently
rustic and unique. Those of the gentlemen, for the
most part, were made of coarse gray cloth, similar to that
worn by the residents on Blackwell’s Island, while the ladies
were arrayed in white cotton dresses, trimmed with scarlet
ribbon. Pumps being out of vogue, cowhide boots were
worn by the former and calf brogans by the latter.
All things being now ready, a terribly loud screech came
from the poor little fiddle, and the clattering of heels commenced,
shaking the building to its very foundation. “On with
the dance, let joy be unconfined,” seemed to be the motto of
all present, and from the start, there seemed to be a strife
between the male and female dancers as to who should leap
the highest and make the most noise. Desperate were the
efforts of the musician, as he toiled away upon his instrument,
keeping discord with his heels; and every unusual
wail of the fiddle was the forerunner of a shower of sweat,
which came rolling off the fiddler’s face to the floor. And
then the joyous delirium of the musician was communicated
to the dancers, and as the dance proceeded, their efforts became
still more desperate; the women wildly threw back
their hair, and many of the men took off their coats, and
rolled up their shirt sleeves, for the purpose of keeping cool.
In spite of every effort, however, the faces of the dancers
became quite red with the rare excitement, and the hall was
filled with a kind of heated fog, in which the first “breakdown”
of the evening concluded.
Then followed the refreshment scene. The men drank
whisky and smoked cigars, while the women feasted on
mince pies, drank small beer, and sucked molasses candy.
Some of the smaller men or boys, who were too lazy to
dance, sneaked off into an out-of-the-way room, for the purpose
of pitching pennies, while a few couples, who were
victims to the tender passion, retired to some cozy nook to
bask unobserved in each other’s smiles.
But now the screeching fiddle is again heard above the
murmur of talking and laughing voices, and another rush is
made for the sanded floor. Another dance is then enjoyed,
differing from the one already described only in its increased
extravagance. After sawing away for a long time as if for
dear life, the musician is politely requested to play a new
tune. Promptly does he assent to the proposition; but having
started on a fresh key, he soon falls into the identical strain
which had kept him busy for the previous hour; so that the
philosophic listener is compelled to conclude either that the
fiddler cannot play more than one tune, or that he has a
particular passion for the monotonous and nameless one to
which he so closely clings. And thus with many indescribable
variations does the ball continue throughout the entire
night.
I did not venture to trip the “light fantastic toe” on the
occasion in question, but my enjoyment as a calm spectator
was very amusing and decidedly original. Never before had
I seen a greater amount of labor performed by men and
women in the same time. I left this interesting assembly
about midnight, fully satisfied with what I had seen and
heard, but I was afterwards told that I missed more than
“half the fun.”
When the music was loudest, so it appears, and the frenzy
of the dance at its climax, a select party of Dutch gentlemen
were suddenly seized with an appetite for some more substantial
food than any that had yet been given them. They
held a consultation on the important subject, and finally agreed
to ransack the garret and cellar of their host for the purpose
of satisfying their natural desires. In the former place they
found a good supply of dried beef, and in the latter, a few
loaves of bread and a jar of rich cream, upon which they
regaled themselves without favor, but with some fear. The
giver of the bee subsequently discovered what had been done,
and though somewhat more than “three sheets in the wind,”
slyly sent for a pair of constables, who soon made their
appearance, and arrested the thieving guests, who were held
to bail in the sum of fifty dollars each. I was also informed
that the dance was kept up until six o’clock in the morning,
and that the appearance of my friend’s establishment and
the condition of his guests at seven o’clock were ridiculous in
the extreme. A small, proportion of the bee-party only had
succeeded in starting for home, so that the number who from
excess of drinking and undue fatigue had retired to repose,
was not far from three score and ten. The sleeping accommodations
of the host were limited, and the consequence
was that his guests had to shift for themselves as they best
could. The floors of every room in the house, including
the pantries, were literally covered with men and women,—some
of them moaning with a severe headache, some breathing
audibly in a deep sleep, and others snoring in the loudest
and most approved style. By twelve o’clock the interesting
company had stolen off to their several homes, and the corn
planting bee, among the Catskills, was at an end.
Lake Horicon—Sketches of its scenery—Information for anglers—Sabbath
Day Point—War memories—The insect city—Death of a deer—Rogers’
Slide—Diamond Island—The snake charmer—Snake stories—Night
on Horicon.
Lyman’s Tavern, June.
If circumstances alone could make one poetical, then
might you expect from me, on this occasion, a paper of rare
excellence and beauty. My sketch-book is my desk; my
canopy from the sunshine, an elm tree; the carpet under my
feet, a rich green sprinkled with flowers; the music in my
ear of singing birds; and the prospect before me, north, east,
and south, the tranquil bosom of Lake George, with its
islands and surrounding mountains; whose waters, directly at
my side, are alive with many kinds of fish, sporting together
on a bed of sand. Yes, the far-famed Lake George is my
subject; but in what I write, I shall not use that title,—for
I do not like the idea of christening what belongs to us with
the name of an English monarch, however much his memory
deserves to be respected. Shall it be Lake St. Sacrament,
then? No! for that was given to it by the Pope, and the
French nation. Horicon—a musical and appropriate word,
meaning pure water, and given to it by the poor Indian—is
the name which rightfully belongs to the lake which is now
my theme.
Lake Horicon is one of the few objects in Nature which
did not disappoint me after reading the descriptions of travellers.
I verily believe that, in point of mere beauty, it has
not its superior in the world. Its length is thirty-four miles,
and its width from two to four. Its islands number about
three hundred, and vary from ten feet to a mile in length;—a
great many of them are located in the centre of the lake,
at a place called the Narrows. It is completely surrounded
with mountains; the most prominent of which are, Black
Mountain, on the east of the Narrows, Tongue Mountain, directly
opposite, and French Mountain, at the southern extremity.
The first is the most lofty, and remarkable for its wildness,
and the superb prospect therefrom; the second is also
wild and uninhabited, but distinguished for its dens of
rattlesnakes; and the latter is somewhat cultivated, but memorable
for having been the camping-ground of the French during
the Revolutionary War. The whole eastern border is yet a
comparative wilderness; but along the western shore are
some respectable farms, and a good coach road from Caldwell
to Ticonderoga, which affords many admirable views
of the sky-blue lake. There are three public houses here
which I can recommend: the Lake House, for those who
are fond of company—Lyman’s Tavern for the hunter of
scenery and lover of quiet—and Garfield’s House for the
fisherman. A nice little steamboat, commanded by a gentleman,
passes through every morning and evening, (excepting
Sundays,) and though a convenient affair to the traveller, it
is an eyesore to the admirer of the wilderness. Identified
with this boat is an eccentric man named Old Dick, who
amuses the tourist, and collects an occasional shilling by
exhibiting a number of rattlesnakes. When, in addition to all
these things, it is remembered that Horicon is the centre of
a region made classic by the exploits of civilized and savage
warfare, it can safely be pronounced one of the most interesting
portions of our country for the summer tourist to
visit. I have looked upon it from many a peak whence might
be seen almost every rood of its shore. I have sailed into
every one of its bays, and, like the pearl-diver, have repeatedly
descended into its cold blue chambers, so that I
have learned to love it as a faithful and well-tried friend.
Since the day of my arrival here, I have kept a journal of
my adventures, and, as a memorial of Horicon, I will extract
therefrom, and embody in this chapter the following passages.
Six pencil sketches have I executed upon the lake to-day.
One of them was a view of the distant mountains, whose
various outlines were concentrated at one point, and whose
color was of that delicate, dreamy blue, created by a sunlight
atmosphere, with the sun directly in front. In the middle
distance was a flock of islands, with a sail-boat in their
midst, and in the foreground a cluster of rocks, surmounted
by a single cedar, which appeared like the sentinel of a
fortress. Another was of the ruins of Fort George, with a
background of dark-green mountains, made quite desolate by
a flock of sheep sleeping in one of its shady moats. Another
was of a rowing-race between two rival fishermen, at
the time they were only a dozen rods from the goal, and
when every nerve of their aged frames was strained to the
utmost. Another was of a neat log-cabin, on a quiet lawn
near the water, at whose threshold a couple of ragged, but
beautiful children were playing with a large dog, while from
the chimney of the house ascended the blue smoke with a
thousand fantastic evolutions. Another was of a huge pine
tree, which towered conspicuously above its kindred on the
mountain side, and seemed to me an appropriate symbol of
Webster in the midst of a vast concourse of his fellow men.
And the last was of a thunder-storm, driven away from the
mountain top by the mild radiance of a rainbow, which
partly encircled Horicon in a loving embrace.
I have been fishing to-day, and, while enduring some poor
sport, indited in my mind the following information, for the
benefit of my piscatorial friends. The days of trout-fishing
in Lake Horicon are nearly at an end. A few years ago, it
abounded in salmon-trout, which were frequently caught
weighing twenty pounds. But their average weight, at the
present time, is not more than one pound and a half, and
they are scarce even at that. In taking them, you first have
to obtain a sufficient quantity of sapling bark to reach the
bottom in sixty feet of water, to one end of which must be
fastened a stone, and to the other a stick of wood, which
designates your fishing-ground, and is called a buoy. A variety
of more common fish are then caught, such as suckers,
perch, and eels, which are cut up and deposited, some half a
peck at a time, in the vicinity of the buoy. In a few days
the trout will begin to assemble, and so long as you keep
them well fed, a brace of them may be captured at any time
during the summer. But the fact is, this is only another
way for “paying too dear for the whistle.” The best angling,
after all, is for the common brook trout, which is a
bolder biting fish, and better for the table than the salmon
trout. The cause of the great decrease in the large trout of
this lake, is this:—in the autumn, when they have sought the
shores for the purpose of spawning, the neighboring barbarians
have been accustomed to spear them by torch-light;
and if the heartless business does not soon cease, the result
will be, that in a few years they will be extinct. There are
two other kinds of trout in the lake, however, which yet
afford good sport,—the silver trout, caught in the summer,
and the fall trout. But the black bass, upon the whole, is
now mostly valued by the fisherman. They are in their
prime in the summer months. They vary from one to five
pounds in weight; are taken by trolling, and with a drop
line, and afford fine sport. Their haunts are along the rocky
shores, and it is often the case, that on a still day you may see
them from your boat, swimming about in herds where the
water is twenty feet deep. They have a queer fashion, when
hooked, of leaping out of the water, for the purpose of getting
clear, and it is seldom that a novice in the gentle art can
keep them from succeeding. But, alas! their numbers also
are fast diminishing, by the same means and the same hands
that have killed the trout. My advice to those who come
here exclusively for the purpose of fishing is, to continue their
journey to the sources of the Hudson, Scaroon Lake, Long
Lake, and Lake Pleasant; in whose several waters there seems
to be no end to every variety of trout, and where may be found
much wild and beautiful scenery. The angler of the present
day will be disappointed in Lake Horicon.
When issuing from the Narrows on your way down the
Horicon, the most attractive object, next to the mountains, is
a strip of low, sandy land, extending into the lake, called
Sabbath Day Point. It was so christened by Abercrombie,
who encamped and spent the sabbath there, when on his
way to Ticonderoga, where he was so sadly defeated. I
look upon it as one of the most enchanting places in the
world; but the pageant with which it is associated was not
only enchanting and beautiful, but magnificent. Only look
upon the picture. It is the sunset hour, and before us, far
up in the upper air, and companion of the evening star, and a
host of glowing clouds, rises the majestic form of Black Mountain,
enveloped in a mantle of rosy atmosphere. The bosom
of the lake is without a ripple, and every cliff, ravine and
island has its counterpart in the pure waters. A blast of martial
music from drums, fifes, bagpipes and bugle horns now
falls upon the ear, and the immense procession comes in
sight; one thousand and thirty-five batteaux, containing an
army of seventeen thousand souls, headed by the brave Abercrombie
and the red cross of England,—the scarlet uniforms
and glistening bayonets forming a line of light against the
darker background of the mountain. And behind a log in
the foreground is a crouching Indian runner, who, with the
speed of a hawk, will carry the tidings to the French nation,
that an army is coming—“numerous as the leaves upon the
trees.” Far from the strange scene fly the affrighted denizens
of mountain and wave,—while thousands of human
hearts are beating happily at the prospect of victory, whose
bodies, in a few hours, will be food for the raven on the plains
of Ticonderoga.
A goodly portion of this day have I been musing upon the
olden times, while rambling about Fort George, and Fort
William Henry. Long and with peculiar interest did I linger
about the spot near the latter, where were cruelly massacred
the followers of Monroe, at which time Montcalm linked his
name to the title of a heartless Frenchman, and the name of
Webb became identified with all that is justly despised by
the human heart. I profess myself to be an enemy to wrong
and outrage of every kind, and yet a lover and defender of
the Indian race; but when I picked up one after another the
flinty heads of arrows, which were mementos of an awful
butchery, my spirit revolted against the red man, and for a
moment I felt a desire to condemn him. Yes, I will condemn
that particular band of murderers, but I cannot but defend
the race. Cruel and treacherous they were, I will allow,
but do we not forget the treatment they ever met with from
the while man? The most righteous of battles have ever
been fought for the sake of sires and wives and children,
and for what else did the poor Indian fight, when driven from
the home of his youth into an unknown wilderness, to become
thereafter a by-word and a reproach among the nations?
“Indians,” said we, “we would have your lands, and if you
will not be satisfied with the gewgaws we proffer, our powder
and balls will teach you that power is but another name for
right.” And this is the principle that has guided the white
man ever since in his warfare against the aborigines of our
country. I cannot believe that we shall ever be a happy
and prosperous people until the King of kings shall have
forgiven us for having, with a yoke of tyranny, almost annihilated
an hundred nations.
A portion of this afternoon I whiled away on a little island,
which attracted my attention by its charming variety of
foliage. It is not more than one hundred feet across at the
widest part, and is encircled by a yellow sand bank, and
shielded by a regiment of variegated rocks. But what could
I find there to interest me, it may be inquired? My answer
is this. This island, hidden in one of the bays of Horicon,
is an insect city, and more populous than was Rome in the
days of her glory. There the honeybee has his oaken tower,
the wasp and humble-bee their grassy nests, the spider his
den, the butterfly his hammock, the grasshopper his domain,
the beetle and cricket and hornet their decayed stump, and
the toiling ant her palace of sand. There they were born, there
they flourish and multiply, and there they die, symbolizing the
career and destiny of man. I was a “distinguished stranger”
in that city, and I must confess that it gratified my ambition
to be welcomed with such manifestations of regard as the
inhabitants thought proper to bestow. My approach was
heralded by the song of a kingly bee; and when I had thrown
myself upon a mossy bank, multitudes of people gathered
round, and, with their eyes intently fixed upon me, stood
still, and let “expressive silence muse my praise.” To the
“natives,” I was emphatically a source of astonishment, and
as I wished to gather instruction from the incident, I wondered
in my heart whether I would be a happier man if my presence
in a human city should create a kindred excitement. At
any rate it would be a “great excitement on a small capital.”
While quietly eating my dinner this noon in the shady
recess of an island near Black Mountain, I was startled by
the yell of a pack of hounds coming down one of its ravines.
I knew that the chase was after a deer, so I waited in breathless
anxiety for his appearance, and five minutes had hardly
elapsed before I discovered a noble buck at bay on the extreme
summit of a bluff which extended into the lake. There
were five dogs yelping about him, but the “antlered monarch”
fought them like a hero. His hoof was the most dangerous
weapon he could wield, and it seemed to me that the earth
actually trembled every time that he struck at his enemies.
Presently, to my great joy, one of the hounds was killed, and
another so disabled, that he retired from the contest. But
the hunters made their appearance, and I knew that the
scene would soon come to a tragic close, and when the buck
beheld them, I could not but believe that over his face a
“tablet of agonizing thoughts was traced,” for he fell upon
his knees, then made a sudden wheel, and with a frightful
bound, as a ball passed through his heart, cleared the rock
and fell into the lake below. The waters closed over him,
and methought that the waves of Horicon and the leaves of
the forest murmured a requiem above the grave of the wilderness
king. I turned away and partly resolved that I
would never again have a dog for my friend, or respect the
character of a hunter, but then I looked into the crystal waters
of the lake, and thought of the beam in my own eye, and
stood convicted of a kindred cruelty.
One of the most singular precipices overlooking Horicon
is about five miles from the outlet, and known as Rogers’
Slide. It is some four hundred feet high, and at one point
not a fissure or sprig can be discovered to mar the polished
surface of the rock till it reaches the water. Once on a time
in the winter, the said Rogers was pursued by a band of
Indians to this spot, when, after throwing down his knapsack
he carefully retraced the steps of his snow-shoes for a short
distance, and descending the hill by a circuitous route, continued
his course across the frozen lake. The Indians, on
coming to the jumping-off place, discovered their enemy on
the icy plain; but when they saw the neglected knapsack
below, and no signs of returning footsteps where they stood,
they thought the devil was in the man, and gave up the
pursuit.
The most famous, and one of the most beautiful islands in
this lake, is Diamond Island, so called from the fact that it
abounds in crystalized quartz. It is half a mile in length,
but the last place which would be thought of as the scene of
a battle. It is memorable for the attack made by the Americans
on the British, who had a garrison there, during the
Revolution. The American detachment was commanded by
Col. Brown, and being elated with his recent triumphs on
Lake Champlain, he resolved to attack Diamond Island. The
battle was bloody, and the British fought like brave men
“long and well;” the Americans were defeated, and this
misfortune was followed by the sufferings of a most painful
retreat over the almost impassable mountains between the
Lake and what is now Whitehall. While wandering about
the island it was a difficult matter for me to realize that it
had ever resounded with the roar of cannon, the dismal wail
of war, and the shout of victory. That spot is now covered
with woods, whose shadowy groves are the abode of a thousand
birds, forever singing a song of peace or love, as if to
condemn the ambition and cruelty of man.
In the vicinity of French Mountain is an island celebrated
as the burial-place of a rattlesnake hunter, named Belden.
From all that I can learn, he must have been a strange mortal
indeed. His birth-place and early history were alike unknown.
When he first made his appearance at this lake,
his only companions were a brotherhood of rattlesnakes, by
exhibiting which he professed to have obtained his living; and
it is said that, during the remainder of his life, he acquired
a handsome sum of money by selling the oil and gall of his
favorite reptile. And I have recently been told that the present
market price of a fat snake, when dead, is not less than
half a dollar. Another mode peculiar to old Belden for
making money, was to suffer himself to be bitten, at some
tavern, after which he would return to his cabin to apply the
remedy, when he would come forth again just as good as new.
But he was not always to be a solemn trifler. For a week
had the old man been missing, and on a pleasant August
morning, his body was found on the island alluded to, sadly
mutilated and bloated, and it was certain that he had died
actually surrounded with rattlesnakes. His death bed became
his grave, and rattlesnakes were his only watchers;—thus
endeth the story of his life.
But this reminds me of two little adventures. The other
day as I was seated near the edge of a sand bar, near the
mouth of a brook, sketching a group of trees and the sunset
clouds beyond, I was startled by an immense black snake,
that landed at my side, and pursued its way directly under
my legs, upon which my drawing-book was resting. Owing
to my perfect silence, the creature had probably looked upon
me as a mere stump. But what was my surprise a few moments
after, when re-seated in the same place, to find another
snake, and that a large spotted adder, passing along the same
track the former had pursued. The first fright had almost
disabled me from using the pencil, but when the second came,
I gave a lusty yell, and forgetful of the fine arts, started for
home on the keen run.
At another time when returning from a fishing excursion,
in a boat accompanied by a couple of “green-horns,” we
discovered on the water, near Tongue Mountain, an immense
rattlesnake with his head turned towards us. As the oarsman
in the bow of the boat struck at him with his oar, the
snake coiled round it, and the fool was in the very act of dropping
the devilish thing in my lap. I had heard the creature
rattle, and not knowing what I did, as he hung suspended
over me, overboard I went, and did not look behind until I
had reached the land. The consequence was, that for one
while I was perfectly disgusted even with Lake Horicon,
and resolved to leave it without delay. The snake was killed
without doing any harm, however, but such a blowing up as
I gave the green-horn actually made his hair stand straight
with fear.
One more snake story, and I will conclude: On the north
side of Black Mountain is a cluster of some half dozen
houses, in a vale, which spot is called the Bosom, but from
what cause I do not know. The presiding geniuses of the
place are a band of girls, weighing two hundred pounds
apiece, who farm it with their fathers for a living, but whose
principal amusement is rattlesnake hunting. Their favorite
play-ground is the notorious cliff on Tongue Mountain, where
they go with naked feet (rowing their own boats across the
lake), and pull out by their tails from the rocks the pretty
playthings, and, snapping them to death, they lay them away
in a basket as trophies of their skill. I was told that in one
day last year they killed the incredible number of eleven
hundred. What delicious wives would these Horicon ladies
make. Since the Florida Indians have been driven from their
country by blood-hounds, would it not be a good idea for
Congress to secure the services of these amazons for the
purpose of exterminating the rattlesnakes upon our mountains.
This latter movement would be the most ridiculous,
but the inhumanity of the former is without a parallel.
A clear and tranquil summer night, and I am alone on the
pebbly beach of this paragon of lakes. The countless hosts of
heaven are beaming upon me with a silent joy, and more
impressive and holy than a poet’s dream are the surrounding
mountains, as they stand reflected in the unruffled waters.
Listen! what sound is that so like the wail of a spirit? Only
a loon, the lonely night-watcher of Horicon, whose melancholy
moan, as it breaks the profound stillness, carries my
fancy back to the olden Indian times, ere the white man
had crossed the ocean. All these mountains and this beautiful
lake were then the heritage of a brave and noble-hearted
people, who made war only upon the denizens of the forest,
whose lives were peaceful as a dream, and whose manly
forms, decorated with the plumes of the eagle, the feathers
of the scarlet bird, and the robe of the bounding stag,
tended but to make the scenery of the wilderness beautiful as
an earthly Eden. Here was the quiet wigwam village, and
there the secluded abode of the thoughtful chief. Here,
unmolested, the Indian child played with the spotted fawn,
and the “Indian lover wooed his dusky mate;” here the
Indian hunter, in the “sunset of his life,” watched with holy
awe the sunset in the west, and here the ancient Indian
prophetess sung her uncouth but religious chant. Gone—all,
all gone—and the desolate creature of the waves, now pealing
forth another wail, seems the only memorial that they have
left behind. There—my recent aspirations are all quelled,
I can walk no further to-night;—there is a sadness in my
soul, and I must seek my home. It is such a blessed night,
it seems almost sinful that a blight should rest on the spirit
of man; yet on mine a gloom will sometimes fall, nor can I
tell whence the cloud that makes me wretched.
The Scaroon country—Scaroon Lake Pike fishing by torchlight—Trout
fishing—Lyndsay’s Tavern—Paradox Lake.
Lyndsay’s Tavern, June.
Emptying into the Hudson River, about fifteen miles north
of Glen’s Falls, is quite a large stream, sometimes called the
East Branch of the Hudson, but generally known as Scaroon
River.[1] Its extreme length is not far from fifty miles. It
is a clear, cold, and rapid stream, winds through a mountainous
country, and has rather a deep channel. The valley
through which it runs is somewhat cultivated, but the mountains
which frown upon it on either side, are covered with
dense forests. The valley of the Scaroon abounds in beautiful
lakes and brooks; and as I have explored them pretty
thoroughly during the past week, I will now record the result
of my observations.
The most prominent pictorial feature of this region is
Scaroon Lake, through which the river of that name forms a
channel. It is ten miles in length and averages about one in
width. Excepting a little hamlet at its head, and two or
three farms at the southern extremity, it is yet surrounded
with a wilderness of mountains. The waters thereof are
deep and clear, and well supplied with fish, of which the
salmon trout and pike are the most valuable. The trout are
more abundant here than in Lake George, but owing to the
prevailing custom of spearing them in the autumn, they are
rapidly becoming extinct. I made a desperate effort to
capture one as a specimen, but without success, though I
was told that they varied in weight from ten to fifteen pounds.
My efforts, however, in taking pike were more encouraging.
But, before giving my experience, I must mention an interesting
fact in natural history. Previous to the year 1840,
Scaroon Lake was not known to contain a single pike, but
during that year, some half dozen males and females were
brought from Lake Champlain and deposited therein, since
which time they have multiplied so rapidly as to be quite
abundant, not only in Scaroon Lake, but in all the neighboring
waters, and as they are frequently taken weighing some
twenty pounds, the fact seems to be established that this fish
grows quite rapidly, and is not of slow growth, as many
naturalists have supposed.
But to my pike story. A number of lumbermen were
going out for the purpose of taking pike by torch-light, and I
was fortunate enough to secure a seat in one of the three flat
boats which contained the fishermen. It was a superb night,
and the lake was without a ripple. Our torches were made
of “fat pine,” as it is here called, and my polite friends taking
it for granted that I was a novice in the spearing business,
they cunningly awarded to me the dullest spear in their
possession, and gave me the poorest position in the boat. I
said nothing to all this, but inwardly resolved that I would
give them a salutary lesson, if possible. I fished from nine
until twelve o’clock, and then left my friends to continue the
sport. The entire number of pike taken, as I found out in the
morning, was thirteen, and as fortune would have it, four of
this number were captured by myself, in spite of my poor
spear. I did not take the largest fish, which weighed eighteen
pounds, but the greatest number, with which success I was
fully satisfied.—The effect of my good luck was unexpected
to my companions, but gratifying to me, for there was afterwards
a strife between them as to who should show me the
most attention in the way of piloting me about the country.
This little adventure taught me the importance of understanding
even the vagabond art of spearing.
The event of that night, however, which afforded me the
purest enjoyment, was the witnessing of a moonlight scene,
immediately after leaving the lake shore for the inn, where
I was tarrying. Before me, in wild and solemn beauty, lay
the southern portion of the Scaroon, on whose bosom were
gliding the spearmen, holding high above their heads their
huge torches, which threw a spectral glare, not only upon
the water, but upon the swarthy forms watching for their
prey. Just at this moment, an immense cloud of fog broke
away, and directly above the summit of the opposite mountain,
the clear, full moon made its appearance, and a thousand
fantastic figures, born of the fog, were pictured in the
sky, and appeared extremely brilliant under the effulgence
of the ruling planet; while the zenith of sky was of a deep
blue, cloudless, but completely spangled with stars. And
what greatly added to the magic of the scene, was the dismal
scream of a loon, which came to my ear from a remote
portion of the lake, yet covered with a heavy fog.
Rising from the western margin of Scaroon Lake, is quite
a lofty mountain, which was once painted by Thomas Cole,
and by him named Scaroon Mountain. There is nothing
particularly imposing about it, but it commands an uncommonly
fine prospect of the surrounding country. When I
first came in sight of this mountain, it struck me as an old
acquaintance, and I reined in my horse for the purpose of
investigating its features. Before I resumed my course, I
concluded that I was standing on the very spot whence
the artist had taken his original sketch of the scene, by
which circumstance I was convinced of the fidelity of his
pencil.
The largest island in Scaroon Lake lies near the northern
extremity, and studs the water like an emerald on a field of
blue. It was purchased, some years ago, by a gentleman of
New York, named Keland, who has built a summer residence
upon it, for the accommodation of himself and friends.
Emptying into the Scaroon River, just below the lake, is
a superb mountain stream, known as Trout Brook. It is
thirty feet wide, twelve miles long, and comes rushing down
the mountains, forming a thousand waterfalls and pools, and
filling its narrow valley with an everlasting roar of music.
Not only is it distinguished for the quality and number of its
trout, but it possesses one attraction which will pay the
tourist for the weary tramp he must undergo to explore its
remote recesses. I allude to what the people about here call
“the Stone Bridge.” At this point, the wild and dashing
stream has formed a channel directly through the solid mountains,
so that, in fishing down, the angler suddenly finds himself
standing upon a pile of dry stones. The extent of this
natural bridge is not more than twenty or, perhaps, thirty
feet, but the wonder is, that the unseen channel is sufficiently
large to admit the passage of the largest logs which the lumbermen
float down the stream. I might also add, that at the
foot of this bridge is one of the finest pools imaginable. It is,
perhaps, one hundred feet long, and so very deep that the clear
water appears quite black. This is the finest spot in the whole
brook for trout, and my luck there may be described as follows:
I had basketed no less than nine half-pounders, when my fly
was suddenly seized, and my snell snapped in twain by the
fierceness of his leaps. The consequence of that defeat was, that
I resolved to capture the trout, if I had to remain there all night.
I then ransacked the mountain side for a living bait, and,
with the aid of my companion, succeeded in capturing a
small mouse, and just as the twilight was coming on, I tied
the little fellow to my hook, and threw him on the water.
He swam across in fine style, but when he reached the centre
of the pool, a large trout leaped completely out of his
element, and in descending, seized the mouse, and the result
was, that I broke my rod, but caught the trout, and though
the mouse was seriously injured, I had the pleasure of again
giving him his liberty.
The largest trout that I killed weighed nearly a pound, and
though he was the cause of my receiving a ducking, he afforded
me some sport, and gave me a new idea. When I
first hooked him, I stood on the very margin of the stream,
knee deep in a bog, and just as I was about to basket him,
he gave a sudden leap, cleared himself, and fell into the water.
Quick as thought I made an effort to rescue him, but
in doing so, lost my balance, and was playing the part of a
turtle in a tub of water. I then became poetical, and thought
it “would never do to give it up so,” and after waiting some
fifteen minutes, I returned and tried for the lost trout again.
I threw my fly some twenty feet above the place where I
had tumbled in, and recaptured the identical fish which I
had lost. I recognized him by his having a torn and bleeding
mouth. This circumstance convinced me that trout, like
many of the sons of men, have short memories, and also
that the individual in question was a perfect Richelieu or
General Taylor in his way, for he seemed to know no such
word as fail. As to the trout that I did not capture, I verily
believe that he must have weighed two pounds; but as he
was, probably, a superstitious gentleman, he thought it the
better part of valor, somewhat like Santa Anna, to treat the
steel of his enemy with contempt.
The brook of which I have been speaking, is only twenty-five
miles from Lake Horicon, and unquestionably one of
the best streams for the angler in the Scaroon valley. The
Trout Brook Pavilion, at the mouth of it, kept by one Lockwood,
is a comfortable inn; and his right hand man, named
Kipp, is a very fine fellow and a genuine angler.
Speaking of the above friends, reminds me of another, a
fine man, named Lyndsey, who keepeth a tavern, about ten
miles north of Scaroon Lake. His dwelling is delightfully
situated in the centre of a deep valley, and is a nice and
convenient place to stop at, for those who are fond of fishing,
and admire romantic scenery. His family, including his wife,
two daughters and one son, not only know how to make their
friends comfortable, but they seem to have a passion for
doing kind deeds. During my stay at this place, I had the
pleasure of witnessing a most interesting game, which seems
to be peculiar to this part of the country. It was played
with the common ball and by one hundred sturdy farmers.
Previous to the time alluded to, fifty Scaroon players had
challenged an equal number of players from a neighboring
village named Moriah. The conditions were that the defeated
party should pay for a dinner to be given by my friend
Lyndsey. They commenced playing at nine o’clock, and the
game was ended in about three hours, the Scaroon, party having
won by about ten counts in five hundred. The majority
of the players varied from thirty to thirty-five years of age,
though some of the most expert of them were verging upon
sixty years. They played with the impetuosity of school
boys, and there were some admirable feats performed in the
way of knocking and catching the ball. Some of the men
could number their acres by thousands, and all of them were
accustomed to severe labor, and yet they thought it absolutely
necessary to participate occasionally in this manly and
fatiguing sport. The dinner passed off in fine style, and
was spiced by many agricultural anecdotes, and as the sun
was setting, the parties separated in the best of spirits and
returned to their several homes.
For fear that I should forget my duty, I would now introduce
to my reader a sheet of water embosomed among these
mountains, which glories in the name of Lake Paradox.
How it came by that queer title, I was not able to learn, but
this I know, that it is one of the most beautiful lakes I have
ever seen. It is five miles long, and surrounded with uncultivated
mountains, excepting at its foot, where opens a beautiful
plain, highly cultivated and dotted with a variety of rude
but exceedingly comfortable farm houses. The shores of
Lake Paradox are rocky, the water deep and clear, abounding
in fish, and the lines of the mountains are picturesque to
an uncommon degree.
But it is time that I should turn from particulars to a general
description of the Scaroon Country.—Though this is an
agricultural region, the two principal articles of export are
lumber and iron. Of the former the principal varieties
are pine, hemlock and spruce, and two establishments for
the manufacture of iron are abundantly supplied with ore
from the surrounding mountains. Potatoes of the finest quality
flourish here, also wheat and corn. The people are mostly
Americans, intelligent, virtuous and industrious, and are as
comfortable and happy as any in the State.
|
|
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.
|
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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:—
“M. Phillibert and the intendant were on bad terms, but,
under the system then existing, the merchant knew that it
was in vain for him to seek redress in the colony, and determining
at some future period to prefer his complaint in
France, he contented himself with placing the figure of a
sleeping dog, in front of his house, with the following lines
beneath it, in allusion to his situation with his powerful
enemy:
“Je suis un chien qui ronge l’os,
En le rongeant je prends mon repos—
Un terme viendra qui n’est pas venu
Que je mordrai qui m’aura mordu.”
“This allegorical language was, however, too plain for
Mons. Bigot to misunderstand it. A man so powerful easily
found an instrument to avenge the insult, and M. Phillibert
received, as the reward of his verse, the sword of an officer
of the garrison through his back, when descending the Lower
Town Hill. The murderer was permitted to leave the colony
unmolested, and was transferred to a regiment stationed in the
East Indies. Thither he was pursued by a brother of the deceased,
who had first sought him in Canada, when he arrived
here to settle his brother’s affairs. The parties, it is related,
met in the public street of Pondicherry, drew their swords,
and, after a severe conflict, the assassin met a more honorable
fate than his crime deserved, and died by the hand of his
antagonist.”
I know not that there are any other curiosities in Quebec
really worth mentioning, and I willingly turn to its natural
attractions. The fortress itself is undoubtedly one of, if not
the most formidable on the continent; but I fell in love with
it on account of its observatory features. To ramble over
its commanding ramparts, without knowing, or caring to know
a solitary individual, has been to me an agreeable and unique
source of entertainment. At one time I leaned upon the balustrade,
and looked down upon the Lower Town. It was
near the hour of noon. Horses and carriages, men, women
and children, were hurrying through the narrow streets, and
ships were in the docks discharging their cargoes. I looked
down upon all these things at a single glance, and yet the
only noise I heard was a hum of business. Even the loud
clear shout of the sailor, as he tugged away at the mast-head
of his ship, could hardly be heard stealing upward on the
air. Doves were flying about, high above the roofs; but they
were so far below my point of vision, that I could not hear
the beating of their wings.
But the finest prospect that I have enjoyed in this city was
from the summit of the Signal House, which looms above
the citadel. I visited this spot just as the sun was setting,
and everything was enveloped in a golden atmosphere. Beneath
me lay the city, gradually lulling itself to repose; on
the west, far as the eye could reach, faded away the valley
of the upper St. Lawrence; towards the north, winding its
way between high and well-cultivated hills, was the river St.
Charles; towards the eastward, rolling onwards, in its sublimity
like an ocean, across the continent, was the flood of the
lower St. Lawrence, whitened by more than a hundred sails;
and towards the south reposed a picturesque country of hills
and dales, beyond which I could just discern some of the
mountain peaks of my own dear “Father Land.” Strange and
beautiful beyond compare was the entire panorama, and how
was its influence upon me deepened, as a strain of martial
music broke upon the silent air, and then melted into my
very heart! I knew not whence it came, or who were the
musicians, but I “blessed them unaware,” and as my vision
again wandered over the far-off hills, I was quite happy.
The population of Quebec is estimated at thirty thousand,
and the variety is as great as in Montreal. A large proportion
of the people whom you see parading the streets are
soldiers, and chief among them I would mention the Scotch
Highlanders, who are a noble set of men, and dress in handsome
style.
Quebec, upon the whole, is a remarkable place, and well
worth visiting. The environs of the city are also interesting;
and a ride to the Falls of Montmorency, seven miles down
the river, and back again by an interior road, will abundantly
repay the tourist for all the trouble and expense to which he
may be subjected.
A sail down the St. Lawrence—Sword-fish chasing a whale.
Tadousac, June.
I have not visited Canada for the purpose of examining
her cities, and studying the character of her people, but solely
with a view of hunting up some new scenery, and having a
little sport in the way of salmon fishing. I am writing this
chapter at the mouth of probably the most remarkable river
in North America. But before entering upon a description
of my sojourn here, it is meet, I ween, that I should give
you an account of my journey down the St. Lawrence.
On reaching Quebec, I was informed that there was no regular
mode of conveyance down the great river, and that I
should have to take passage in a transient ship or schooner,
which would land me at my desired haven. This intelligence
had a tendency to dampen my spirits, and I had to
content myself with sauntering about the citadel city. Among
the places I visited was the fish market, where it was my
good fortune to find a small smack which had brought a load
of fresh salmon to market, and was on the point of returning
to the Saguenay for another cargo. In less than thirty
minutes after I saw him, I had struck a bargain with the
skipper, transferred my luggage on board the smack, and
was on my way to a region which was to me unknown.
We hoisted sail at twelve o’clock, and were favored by a
stiff westerly breeze. Everything, in fact, connected with
the voyage was beautifully accidental, and I had “a glorious
time.” In the first place, our craft was just the thing—schooner-rigged,
a fast sailer, and perfectly safe. The skipper—named
Belland—was a warm-hearted and intelligent
Frenchman, whose entire crew consisted of one boy. The
day was superb, and the scenery of the river appeared to me
more like the work of enchantment than nature.
The appearance of Quebec, from the eastward, is imposing
in the extreme. Standing as it does upon a lofty bluff,
its massive ramparts and tin-covered roofs, domes, and
cupolas suggest the idea of immense power and opulence.
Just below the city, the St. Lawrence spreads out to the
width of three or four miles, while from the margin of either
shore fades away a continued succession of hills, which vary
from five hundred to fifteen hundred feet in height. Those
upon the north shore are the highest, and both sides of the
river, for a distance of some twenty miles below the city,
are plentifully sprinkled with the white cottages of the Canadian
peasantry. As you proceed, however, the river gradually
widens, the hills upon the north shore become more lofty,
reaching the elevation of two thousand feet; and, while you
only occasionally discover a farm house upon their summits,
the southern shore continues to bear the appearance of a
settled country, where the spire of a Catholic church is frequently
seen looming above a cluster of rural residences. In
descending the river, the first pictorial feature which attracts
attention is the Fall of Montmorency, pouring the waters of
a noble tributary immediately into the St. Lawrence. Just
below this fall the river is divided by the island of Orleans,
which measures about twenty miles in length, and five in
breadth. It is partly covered with forest, and partly cultivated;
and, though the shores are rather low, it contains a number
of points which are a hundred feet high. At the eastern termination
of this island is the parish of St. Lawrent, a remarkably
tidy French village, whose inhabitants are said to be as
simple in their manners, as they are virtuous, and ignorant of
the world at large. On a smaller island, which lies some thirty
miles below Quebec, and directly opposite a noble cape called
Tourment, is located the quarantine station for the shipping of
the river; and when I passed this spot, I counted no less than
forty-five ships at anchor, nearly all of which were freighted
with foreign paupers, who were then dying of the ship fever,
at the rate of one hundred and fifty individuals per day.
I might here mention that the vessels usually seen on this part
of the St. Lawrence are merchant ships and brigs, which are
chiefly and extensively employed in the lumber and timber
trade. Another island in this portion of the St. Lawrence,
which attracts attention from its peculiar sylvan beauty, is
called Goose Island, and owned by a sisterhood of Nuns, who
have cultivated it extensively. The eastern portion of it is
covered with forest; the channels on either side are not far
from ten miles wide, and it is distant from Quebec about
fifty miles.
We landed here at sunset; and while my companions were
building a watch-fire, and cooking a supper of fish, pork and
onions, I amused myself by taking sundry observations. I
found the vegetation of the island quite luxuriant, the common
hard woods of the north prevailing, but its foundation seemed
to be composed of two distinct species of slate stone. Both
varieties were of the finest grain, and while one was of a
rich Indian red, the other was a deep blue. This portion of
the St. Lawrence is a good deal blocked up by extensive
reefs, composed of these identical slate stones, and at one
point they extend so nearly across the river as to render ship
navigation extremely dangerous. On subsequently examining
the high hills on the north shore, I found them to be of
solid granite, veined with red marble and extensive beds of
quartz, and covered with a stunted forest of pine and hemlock.
But this geological dissertation is keeping my pen
from describing a night picture which it was my privilege to
witness on this beautiful but badly-named island, where, for
sundry reasons, we concluded to spend the night.
Our supper was ended, and the skipper had paid his last visit
to the little craft, and, with his boy, had smoked himself to
sleep by our camp fire. The sky was without a cloud, but
studded with stars, and the breeze which kissed my cheek
was soft and pleasant as the breath of one we dearly love.
I had seated myself upon a rock, with my face turned towards
the north, when my attention was attracted by a column of
light, which shot upward to the zenith behind the distant
mountains. The broad expanse of the St. Lawrence was
without a ripple, and the mountains, together with the column
of light and the unnumbered stars, were distinctly mirrored
in its bosom. While looking upon this scene, the idea struck
me that the moon was about to rise, but I soon saw a crimson
glow stealing up the sky, and knew that I was looking
upon the fantastic performances of the Northern Lights.
Broad, and of the purest white, were the many rays which
shot upward from behind the mountains, and at equal distances,
between the horizon and the zenith, were displayed
four arches of a purple hue, the uppermost one melting imperceptibly
in the deep blue sky. On again turning my eyes
upward, I discovered that the columns and arches had all
disappeared, and that the entire sky was covered with a crimson
color, which resembled a lake of liquid fire, tossed
into innumerable waves. Strange were my feelings as I
looked upon this scene, and thought of the unknown wilderness
before me, and of the Being whose ways are past finding
out, and who holdeth the entire world, with its cities, mountains,
rivers, and boundless wildernesses, in the hollow of
His hand. Long and intently did I gaze upon this wonder
of the North; and at the moment it was fading away, a wild
swan passed over my head, sailing towards Hudson’s Bay,
and as his lonely song echoed along the silent air, I retraced
my steps to the watch-fire and was soon a dreamer.
That portion of the St. Lawrence extending between Goose
Island and the Saguenay is about twenty miles wide. The
spring tides rise and fall a distance of eighteen feet; the water
is salt, but clear and cold, and the channel very deep. Here
it was that I first saw the black seal, the white porpoise,
and the black whale. But speaking of whales, reminds me
of “a whaling” fish story. A short distance above the Saguenay
river, there shoots out into the St. Lawrence, to the
distance of about eight miles, a broad sand bank, which greatly
endangers the navigation. In descending the great river,
we had to double this cape, and it was at this place that I
first saw a whale. The fellow had been pursued by a sword-fish,
and when we discovered him, his head was turned
towards the beach, and he was moving with great rapidity,
occasionally performing a most fearful leap, and uttering a
sound that resembled the bellowing of a thousand bulls. The
whale must have been forty feet long, and his enemy nearly
twenty; and as they hurried on their course with great speed,
the sight was, indeed, terrible. Frantic with rage and pain,
it so happened that the more unwieldy individual forgot his
bearings, and in a very few minutes he was floundering
about on the sand bar, in about ten feet of water, when the
rascally sword immediately beat a retreat. After a while,
however, the whale concluded to rest himself, but as the
tide was going out, his intentions were soon changed, and
he began to roll himself about, and slap the water with his
tail for the purpose of getting clear. His efforts, in a short
time, proved successful, and when we last saw him, he was
in the deepest part of the river, moving rapidly towards the
gulf, and spouting up the water, as if congratulating himself
upon his narrow escape.
In about two hours after witnessing this incident, our boat
was moored at the mouth of the Saguenay; and of the comparatively
unknown wilderness which this stream waters,
my readers will find some information in the next chapter.
The Saguenay River—Storm picture—The Hudson’s Bay Company—Eminent
merchant—The Mountaineer Indians—Tadousac—Ruin of
a Jesuit establishment.
Tadousac, July.
About one hundred and fifty miles north of the St. Lawrence,
and on one of the trails leading to Hudson’s Bay, lies
a beautiful lake called St. John. It is about forty miles long,
and surrounded with a heavily timbered, and rather level
country. Its inlets are numerous, and twelve of them are
regular rivers. Its waters are clear, and abound in a great
variety of uncommonly fine fish. The principal outlet to this
lake is the Saguenay River, which takes a southerly direction,
and empties into the St. Lawrence. It is the largest tributary
of the great river, and unquestionably one of the most remarkable
on the continent. Its original Indian name was
Chicoutimi, signifying deep water; but the early Jesuit missionaries,
who have scattered their Saint-anic names over
this entire country, thought proper to give it the name which
it now bears, and the roundabout interpretation of which is,
Nose of the sack. This name suggests to the world that the
nose of St. John must have been a very long nose, and may
be looked upon as a unique specimen of French poetry.
The scenery of the Saguenay is wild and romantic to an
uncommon degree. The first half of its course averages half
a mile in width, and runs through an untrodden wilderness
of pine and spruce-covered hills; it abounds in waterfalls
and rapids, and is only navigable for the Indian canoe. A
few miles below the most southern fall on the river, is located
the village of Chicoutimi, where an extensive lumber business
is transacted, and the Hudson’s Bay Company have an important
post. The village has an ancient appearance, and
contains about five hundred inhabitants, chiefly Canadian
French. The only curiosity in the place is a rude Catholic
church, which is said to have been built by Jesuit missionaries
upwards of one hundred years ago. It occupies the centre
of a grassy lawn, surrounded with shrubbery, backed by
a cluster of wood-crowned hills, and commands a fine prospect,
not only of the Saguenay, but also of a spacious bay,
into which there empties a noble mountain stream, now
known as Chicoutimi River. In the belfry of this venerable
church hangs a clear-toned bell, with an inscription
upon it which the learning of Canada (with all its learned
and unnumbered priests,) has not yet been able to translate
or expound. But, great as is the mystery of this inscription,
it is less mysterious to my mind than are the motives of the
Romish Church in planting the cross in the remotest corners
of the earth, as well as in the mightiest of cities.
About ten miles south of Chicoutimi, there recedes from
the west bank of the Saguenay, to the distance of ten miles,
a beautiful expanse of water called Grand Bay. The original
name of this bay was “Ha, Ha,” descriptive of the
surprise which the French experienced when they first entered
it, supposing that it was the Saguenay, until their
shallop grounded on the north-western shore. At the head
thereof is another settlement, similar to Chicoutimi. Between
these two places the Saguenay is rather shallow, (when compared
with the remainder of its course,) and varies in width
from two and a half to three miles. The tides of the ocean
are observable as far north as Chicoutimi, and this entire section
of the river is navigable for ships of the largest class.
That portion of the Saguenay extending from Grand Bay
to the St. Lawrence, a distance of sixty miles, is greatly distinguished
for its wild and picturesque scenery. I know not
that I can better portray to my reader’s mind the peculiarity
of this river, than by the following method. Imagine, for a
moment, an extensive country of rocky and thinly-clad mountains,
suddenly separated by some convulsion of nature, so
as to form an almost bottomless chasm, varying from one to
two miles in width; and then imagine this chasm suddenly
half-filled with water, and that the moss of centuries has softened
the rugged walls on either side, and you will have a
pretty accurate idea of the Saguenay. The shores of this
river are composed principally of granite, and every bend
presents you with an imposing bluff, the majority of which
are eight hundred feet high, and many of them upwards of
fifteen hundred. And, generally speaking, these towering
bulwarks are not content to loom perpendicularly into the air,
but they must needs bend over, as if to look at their own savage
features reflected in the deep. Ay, and that word deep
but tells the simple truth; for the flood that rolls beneath is
black and cold as the bottomless pit. To speak without a
figure, and from actual measurement, I can state that many
portions of the Saguenay are one thousand feet deep; and
the shallowest parts not much less than one hundred. In
many places, too, the water is as deep five feet from the rocky
barriers as it is in the centre of the stream. The feelings
which filled my breast, and the thoughts which oppressed my
brain, as I paddled by these places in my canoe, were allied
to those which almost overwhelmed me when I first looked
upward from below the fall to the mighty flood of Niagara.
Awful beyond expression, I can assure you, is the sensation
which one experiences in sailing along the Saguenay, to raise
his eye heavenward, and behold hanging, directly over his
head, a mass of granite, apparently ready to totter and fall,
and weighing, perhaps, a million tons. Terrible and sublime,
beyond the imagery of the most daring poet, are these cliffs;
and while they proclaim the omnipotent power of God, they,
at the same time, whisper into the ear of man that he is but
as the moth which flutters in the noontide air. And yet, is it
not enough to fill the heart of man with holy pride and unbounded
love, to remember that the soul within him shall
have but commenced its existence, when all the mountains
of the world shall have been consumed as a scroll?
It is to the Saguenay that I am indebted for one of the
most imposing storm pictures that I ever witnessed. It had
been a most oppressive day, and, as I was passing up the
river at a late hour in the afternoon, a sudden gust of wind
came rushing down the stream, causing my Indian companion
to bow, as if in prayer, and then to urge our frail canoe towards
a little rocky island, upon which we immediately landed.
Soon as we had surmounted our refuge, the sky was overcast
with a pall of blackness, which completely enveloped
the cliffs on either side, and gave the roaring waters a death-like
hue. Then broke forth, from above our heads, the
heavy roar of thunder, and as it gradually increased in compass,
and became more threatening and impetuous, its volleys
were answered by a thousand echoes, which seemed to have
been startled from every crag in the wilderness, while flashes
of the most vivid lightning were constantly illuminating the
gloomy storm-made cavern which appeared before us. Down
upon his knees again fell my poor Indian comrade, and,
while I sat by his side, trembling with terror, the thought
actually flew into my mind that I was on the point of passing
the narrow gateway leading to hell. Soon, however, the
wind ceased to blow, the thunder to roar, and the lightning
to flash; and, in less than one hour after its commencement
the storm had subsided, and that portion of the Saguenay
was glowing beneath the crimson rays of the setting sun.
From what I have written, my reader may be impressed
with the idea that this river is incapable of yielding pleasurable
sensations. Sail along its shores, on a pleasant day,
when its cliffs are partly hidden in shadow, and covered with
a gauze-like atmosphere, and they will fill your heart with
images of beauty. Or, if you would enjoy a still greater
variety, let your thoughts flow away upon the blue smoke
which rises from an Indian encampment hidden in a dreamy-looking
cove; let your eye follow an eagle sweeping along
his airy pathway near the summit of the cliffs, or glance
across the watery plain, and see the silver salmon leaping by
hundreds into the air for their insect food. Here, too, you
may always discover a number of seals, bobbing their heads
out of water, as if watching your every movement; and, on
the other hand, a drove of white porpoises, rolling their huge
bodies along the waters, ever and anon spouting a shower of
liquid diamonds into the air. O yes, manifold, indeed, and
beautiful beyond compare, are the charms of the Saguenay.
Although my description of this river has, thus far, been of
a general character, I would not omit to mention, as perfect
gems of scenery, Trinity Point, Eternity Cape, The Tableau,
and Le Tête du Boule. The peculiarities of these
promontories are so well described by their very names, that
I shall refrain from attempting a particular description of my
own.
The wilderness through which this river runs is of such
a character that its shores can never be greatly changed in
their external appearance. Only a small proportion of its soil
can ever be brought under cultivation; and, as its forests
are a good deal stunted, its lumbering resources are far from
being inexhaustible. The wealth which it contains is probably
of a mineral character; and if the reports I hear are
correct, it abounds in iron ore. That it would yield an
abundance of fine marble, I am certain; for, in passing up
this stream, the observing eye will frequently fall upon a broad
vein of an article as pure as alabaster.
How is it, many people are led to inquire, that so little has
been known of the Saguenay country, until quite recently?
The question is easily solved. It is a portion of that vast
territory which has heretofore been under the partial jurisdiction
of the Hudson’s Bay Company. I say partially, for the
right of that powerful monopoly, as I understand the matter,
extended only to the protection and use of its wild animals;
but it has endeavored to convince the would-be settler that
it was the sole proprietor of the immense domain, and that
he had no right to live thereon. Its Posts on the Saguenay
and St. Lawrence, so far as collecting furs is concerned, are
a dead letter, and the journeys of its distinguished Governor
are hereafter to be confined to the extreme north.
The man who deserves the most credit for encroaching
upon the so-called possessions of the Hudson’s Bay Company,
and proving to the world that its power is not without
limit, is William Price, Esq., of Quebec. All the saw-mills
located on the Saguenay and the lower St. Lawrence were
established by him, and are now conducted at his expense. He
gives employment to some two or three thousand men, and
sends to England annually about one hundred ship loads of
lumber, in the shape of deals. He is a thorough-going business
man, and, did I not know the fact to be otherwise, I
should set him down (with regard to his enterprise), as a full-blooded
native of the Union. Many of the ships alluded to
ascend the Saguenay to obtain lumber, as far as Chicoutimi,
and it struck me as singularly paradoxical to see ships
winding up that river whose legitimate home would seem to
be the broad ocean. The current of the Saguenay flows, in
some places, at the rate of seven miles per hour, but when
there is any wind at all, it blows quite heavily directly from
the north or south, so that, with the assistance of the tide,
the upward bound ships or brigs manage to get along without
much difficulty. The only steamboat which navigates this
river is the Pocahontas, and is the property of Mr. Price.
She is commanded by a gentleman who understands his
business; and I can assure the lovers of scenery everywhere
that a sail up the Saguenay, in this steamer, would be an
event they could not easily forget. For the benefit of summer-tourists,
I would here mention the fact, that, for about
three months in the year, a Quebec steamer makes an occasional
trip to the mouth of the Saguenay, by way of the river
Du Loup, which is on the Canadian route to Halifax.
In speaking of the Saguenay, I must not omit to mention
its original proprietors, a tribe of Indians, who are known
as the Mountaineers. Of course it is the duty of my pen to
record the fact that, where once flourished a large nation of
brave and heroic warriors, there now exists a little band of
about one hundred families. Judging from what I have heard
and seen, the Mountaineers were once the very flower of this
northern wilderness, even as the Chippewas were once the
glory of the Lake Superior region. The Mountaineers of
the present day are sufficiently educated to speak a smattering
of French; but they know nothing of the true God, and
are as poor in spirit as they are indigent with regard to the
necessaries of life. The men of this nation are rather short,
but well-formed; and the women are beautiful. They are
proud in spirit, intelligent, and kind-hearted; and many of
them, it is pleasant to know, are no longer the victims of the
baneful “fire-water.” For this blessing they are indebted to
the Romish priesthood, which fact I record with great pleasure.
The Mountaineers are a particularly honest people,
and great friends to the stranger white man. They are also
distinguished for their expertness in hunting, and take pleasure
in recounting the exploits of their forefathers. And their
language, according to a Catholic missionary, Pierre de Roche,
is one of the oldest and purest Indian languages on the continent.
It abounds in Latin words, and is capable of being
regularly constructed and translated. The qualities, in fine,
which make the history of this people interesting, are manifold;
and it is sad to think of the rapidity with which they
are withering away, even as the leaves of a premature
autumn.
But it is time that I should give you a brief description of
Tadousac, where I have been spending a few days, and
whence I date my chapters. The meaning of that word is
a French corruption of the Indian word Saguenay. It is situated
directly at the mouth of the Saguenay, and commands
a fine prospect of that river, as well as of the St. Lawrence,
which, at this point, is nearly thirty miles in width. Immediately
at the base of the hill upon which the hamlet stands, is
a beautiful bay, hemmed in with mountains of solid rock. The
place is composed of houses belonging to an Indian trading-post,
and another dwelling, occupied by a worthy Scotchman,
named Ovington, who is a pilot by profession. The door
of my friend’s cabin is always open to the admission of the
tourist, and if others who may chance to stop here are as
kindly treated as I was, they will be disposed to thank their
stars. In front of the trading-post are planted a few cannon,
and directly beside them, at the present time, is a small Indian
encampment. In a rock-bound bay, about half a mile
north of my temporary residence, is an extensive lumbering
establishment, belonging to William Price. This spot is the
principal port of the Saguenay, and the one where belongs
the Pocahontas steamboat. About a dozen paces from the
table, where I am now writing, is the ruin of a Jesuit religious
establishment, which is considered the great curiosity of
this region. The appearance of the ruin is not imposing, as
you can discover nothing but the foundations upon which the
ancient edifice rested; but it is confidently affirmed that upon
this spot once stood the first stone and mortar building ever
erected on the continent of North America. And this statement
I am not disposed to question, for from the very centre
of the ruin has grown a cluster of pine trees, which must
have been exposed to the wintry blasts of at least two hundred
years. The fate, and the very names of those who first
pitched their tents in this wilderness, and here erected an altar
to the God of their fathers, are alike unknown. Who, who
can tell what shall be on the morrow?
The salmon—Several adventures.
Tadousac, July.
I intend to devote the present chapter to the acknowledged
king of all the finny tribes, the lithe, wild and beautiful salmon.
He pays an annual visit to all the tributaries of the
St. Lawrence lying between Quebec and Bic Island, (where
commences the Gulf of St. Lawrence,) but he is most abundant
on the north shore, and in those streams which are beyond
the jurisdiction of civilization. He usually makes his
first appearance about the twentieth of May, and continues
in season for two months. Nearly all the streams in this region
abound in waterfalls, but those are seldom found which
the salmon does not surmount in his “excelsior” pilgrimage;
and the stories related of his leaps are truly wonderful. It
is not often that he is found, man bound at the head of the
streams he may have ascended; but when thus found and
captured, his flesh is white, skin black, and his form, “long,
lank, and lean as is the ribbed sea-sand.” His weight is
commonly about fifteen pounds, but he is sometimes taken
weighing full forty pounds. The salmon is an important
article of export from this region, and is also extensively used
by the Indians. The common mode for taking them is with
a stationary net, which is set just on the margin of the river,
at low water. It is customary with the salmon to ascend the
St. Lawrence as near the shore as possible, and their running
time is when the tide is high; the consequence is, that they
enter the net at one tide, and are taken out at another; and
it is frequently the case, that upwards of three hundred are
taken at one time. The Indian mode for taking them is with
the spear, by torchlight. Two Indians generally enter a canoe,
and while one paddles it noiselessly along, the other
holds forth the light, (which attracts the attention of the fish,
and causes them to approach their enemy,) and pierces them
with the cruel spear. This mode of taking the salmon is to
be deprecated; but the savage must live, and possesses no
other means for catching them. It is but seldom that the Indian
takes more than a dozen during a single night, for he
cannot afford to waste the bounties which he receives from
Nature. For preserving the salmon, the Canadians have
three modes:—First, by putting them in salt for three days,
and then smoking them; secondly, by regularly salting them
down as you would mackerel; and, thirdly, by boiling and
then pickling them in vinegar. The Indians smoke them;
but only to a limited extent.
I must now give you some account of my experience in
the way of salmon-fishing with the fly, of which glorious
sport I have recently had an abundance. If, however, I
should indite a number of episodes, you will please remember
that “it is my way,” and that I deem it a privilege
of the angler to be as wayward in his discourse as are the
channels of his favorite mountain streams.
My first salmon expedition of the season was to the St.
Margaret River. I had two companions with me; one, an
accomplished fly-fisher of Quebec, and the other, the principal
man of Tadousac, a lumber manufacturer. We went in
a gig-boat belonging to the latter, and, having started at nine
o’clock, we reached our place of destination by twelve. We
found the river uncommonly high, and a little rily. We made
a desperate effort, however, and threw the line about three
hours, capturing four salmon, only one of which it was my
privilege to take. He was a handsome fellow, weighing seventeen
pounds, and in good condition; he afforded my companions
a good deal of fun, and placed me in a peculiar situation.
He had taken the hook when I was wading in swift
water up to my middle, and soon as he discovered his predicament,
he made a sudden wheel, and started down the stream.
My rod bent nearly double, and I saw that I must allow him
all the line he wanted; and having only three hundred feet
on my reel, I found it necessary to follow him with all speed.
In doing so, I lost my footing, and was swept by the current
against a pile of logs; meantime my reel was in the water,
and whizzing away at a tremendous rate. The log upon
which I depended happened to be in a balancing condition,
and, when I attempted to surmount it, it plunged into the current,
and floated down the stream, having your humble servant
astride of one end, and clinging to it with all his might.
Onward went the salmon, the log, and the fisherman. Finally
the log found its way into an eddy of the river, and, while
it was swinging about, as if out of mere deviltry, I left it, and
fortunately reached the shore. My life having been spared,
I was more anxious than ever to take the life of the salmon
which had caused my ducking, and so I held aloft the rod,
and continued down the stream, over an immense number of
logs and rocks, which seemed to have been placed there for
my especial botheration. On coming in sight of my fish, I
found him in still water, with his belly turned upward, and
completely drowned. I immediately drew him on a sand-bank
near by, and, while engaged in the reasonable employment
of drying my clothes, my brother fishermen came up
to congratulate me upon my success, but laughing, in the
mean time, most heartily. The lumber merchant said that
the log I had been riding belonged to him, and it was his intention
to charge me one shilling for my passage from the
rift where I had hooked the salmon, to the spot where I had
landed him, which was in full view of the Saguenay; and
my Quebec friend remarked, that he knew the people of Yankee-land
had a queer way of doing things, but he was not
acquainted with their peculiar mode of taking salmon. As
may be readily imagined, we retraced our steps back to the
log shanty where we had stopped, and, having carefully
stowed away our salmon, we laid aside our fishing tackle,
and made arrangements for a little sport of another kind.
The hamlet of St. Margaret, where we spent the night,
contains some eight or ten log shantees, which are occupied
by about twenty families, composed of Canadians, Indians,
and half-breeds. They obtain their living by “driving” logs,
and are as happy as they are ignorant. Anxious to see what
we could of society among this people, we sent forth a manifesto,
calling upon the citizens generally to attend a dance at
the cabin of a certain man whom we had engaged to give the
party, at our expense. Punctual to the appointed hour, the
assembly came together. Many of the men did not take the
trouble even to wash their hands, or to put on a coat before
coming to the party; but the women were neatly dressed
with blue and scarlet petticoats, over which were displayed
night-gowns of white cotton. The fiddler was an Indian,
and the dancing hall (some twelve feet square), was lighted
with a wooden lamp, supplied with seal oil. The dance
was without any particular method; and, when a gentleman
wished to trip the light fantastic toe he had only to station
himself on the floor, when one of his friends would select his
partner, and lead her up for his acceptance. The consequence
was, that, if a man wished to dance with any particular
lady, he was obliged to make a previous arrangement
with his leading-up friend. The fiddler not only furnished
all the music, but also performed a goodly portion of the dancing,—fiddling
and dancing at the same time. The supper
was laid on the table at ten o’clock, and consisted principally
of dried beaver tail, and cariboo meat, fried and boiled salmon,
(which was cooked out of doors, near the entrance to
the cabin,) rye bread, maple molasses, and tea.
The party broke up at twelve o’clock, when we retired to
the cabin, where we had secured lodgings, and it is an actual
fact that our sleeping room on that night was occupied, not
only by ourselves, but by two women, one man, and four
children, (divided into three beds,) all members of the same
family with whom we had succeeded in obtaining accommodations.
On the following morning we rose at an early hour,
and again tried our luck at salmon fishing, but only killed a
few trout, whereupon we boarded our gig, and started down
the romantic Saguenay, telling stories and singing songs.
Another river, in this region, which affords good salmon
fishing, is the Esquemain. It empties into the St. Lawrence,
about twenty miles east of Saguenay. It is a cold, clear and
rapid stream, abounding in rapids and deep pools. At its
mouth is located a saw-mill, but its water-works are so
managed as not to interfere with the salmon. The fish of
this stream ascend to a great distance, and, though rather
small, are exceedingly abundant. The best fishing in the
river is at the foot of the water-fall, which forms a sheet of
foam, about one mile above the mouth. My Quebec friend
accompanied me to this place, and though we only threw
the fly about six hours, (three in the evening and three in the
morning,) yet we killed thirteen salmon, without losing
a single line, and with the loss of only three flies. Owing
to the bushy shores of the stream, we were compelled to
fish standing upon boulders, located in its centre; and whenever
we hooked a fish, there was no alternative but to plunge
into the current, and trust to fortune. For some unaccountable
reason, (of course, it could not have been our fault,) we
lost more than half of those we hooked. But it was worth
a moderate fortune to see the magnificent leaps which the
fish performed, not only when they took the fly, but when
they attempted to escape. There was not one individual that
did not give us a race of at least half a mile. The largest
taken, during this expedition, was killed by my companion,
and caused more trouble than all his other prizes. Not only
did the fellow attempt to clear himself by stemming the foam
of a rapid, and rubbing his nose against a rock, to break the
hook, but he also swept himself completely round a large
boulder, poked his head into a net, and ran, with the speed
of lightning to the extreme end of his line. It took my
friend forty minutes to land this salmon, and I assure you
he was particularly pleased when he found that his fish
weighed one pound more than the largest I had taken. The
fact was our rods were almost precisely alike, in length and
strength, and as two countries were represented in our persons,
the strife between us was quite desperate. I will acknowledge
that the Canada gentleman took the largest
salmon, but the States angler took them in the greatest number.
Notwithstanding all the fine sport that we enjoyed on
the Esquemain, I am compelled to state that it was more
than counterbalanced by the sufferings we endured from the
black fly and musquetoe. The black fly is about half as large
as the common house fly, and, though it bites you only
in the day time, they are as abundant in the air as the sand
upon the sea shore, and venomous to an uncommon degree.
The musquetoe of this region is an uncommonly gaunt, long-legged,
and hungry creature, and his howl is peculiarly horrible.
We had been almost devoured by the black flies,
during the afternoon, and as soon as darkness came, we
secured a couple of beds in a Frenchman’s house, and, as
we tumbled in, congratulated ourselves upon a little comfortable
repose. It was an exceedingly sultry night, and though
we were both in a complete fever, from the fly poison circulating
in our veins, the heat excelled the fever, and our bodies
were literally in a melting condition. We endeavored to
find relief by lying upon the bare floor, with no covering but
a single sheet, and this arrangement might have answered,
had it not been for the flood of musquetoes which poured into
the room, as one of us happened to open a window to obtain
fresh air. Every spot on our bodies which the flies had left
untouched, was immediately settled upon by these devils in
miniature. They pierced the very sheets that covered us,
and sucked away at our blood without any mercy. Unwilling
to depart this life without one effort more to save it, we
then dressed ourselves, and sauntered into the open air. We
made our way towards a pile of lumber, near the saw-mill,
and without a particle of covering, endeavored to obtain a
little sleep; but the insect hounds soon found us out, and we
bolted for another place. Our course now lay towards the
rude bridge which spans the Esquemain, just above the mill.
Our intentions at the time, though not uttered aloud, I verily
believe were of a fearful character. On reaching the bridge,
however, a refreshing breeze sprung up, and we enjoyed a
brief respite from our savage enemies. We now congratulated
each other upon our good fortune, and had just concluded
to be quite happy, when we discovered a number of
Indians on the river, spearing salmon by torch light, and, as
it was after midnight, and the heathens were spearing on our
fishing ground, we mournfully concluded that our morning’s
sport was at an end. But while in the very midst of this
agreeable mood of mind, a lot of skylarking musquetoes discovered
our retreat, and we were again besieged. We now
endeavored to find relief on board the boat which had brought
us from the Saguenay; and here it was that we spent the
two last hours of that most miserable night. Though not
exactly in a fitting condition to throw the fly with any degree
of comfort, we made an effort after salmon in the morning,
and succeeded in killing a portion of the thirteen already
mentioned. That we enjoyed the good breakfast which we
had prepared for our especial benefit, and that we departed
from Esquemain as soon as possible, are facts which I consider
self-evident.
The mouth of the Saguenay, as I have before remarked,
is completely hemmed in with barriers of solid rock, and,
when the tide is flowing in from one of these points, first
rate salmon fishing may occasionally be enjoyed. I have
frequently had the pleasure of throwing the fly on the point in
question, and, on one occasion, was so carried away with the
sport, that I took no notice of the rising tide. It was near the
sunset hour, and on preparing for my departure home, I discovered
that I was completely surrounded with water, and
that my situation was momently becoming more dangerous.
The water was bitter cold, and turbulent, and the channel
which separated me from the main shore was upwards of a
hundred yards wide. I was more than half a mile from the
nearest dwelling, and could not see a single sail on the Saguenay,
or the still broader St. Lawrence, excepting a solitary
ship, which was ten leagues away. My predicament, I assure
you, was not to be envied. I could not entertain the
idea that I should lose my life; and, though I felt myself to
be in danger, my sensations were supremely ridiculous.
But something, I was persuaded, must be done, and that immediately;
and so I commenced throwing off my clothes
for a final effort to save my life. I had stripped off everything
but shirt and pantaloons, and to a flock of crows, which
were cawing above my head, I must have presented an interesting
picture. I thought of the famous swimming adventures
of Leander and Lord Byron, and, also, of the inconveniences
of being drowned, (as Charles Lamb did of being hanged,)
but just as I was about to make the important plunge, an
Indian in his canoe came gliding around a neighboring point,
and I was rescued, together with one salmon and some dozen
pounds of trout.
But I have not finished my story yet. On the night following
this incident I retired to bed in rather a sober mood, for
I could not banish the recollection of my narrow escape from
a ducking, if not from a watery grave. The consequence
was, that, in my dreams, I underwent ten times as much
mental suffering as I had actually endured. I dreamed that,
in scaling the rocks which lead to the point alluded to, I lost
my footing, and fell into the water. While in this condition,
drinking more salt water than I wanted, floundering about,
like a sick porpoise, gasping for breath, and uttering a most
doleful moan, I was suddenly awakened, and found my good
landlord at my side, tapping me on the shoulder, for the purpose
of summoning me—from the back of the nightmare
I had been riding.
As I may not have another opportunity of alluding to
this portion of the Saguenay, and the rocky point already
alluded to, I must give my reader another, and a remarkable
incident connected with them. Some years ago, the Hudson’s
Bay Company had in its employ, as clerk at Tadousac,
an intelligent and amiable young man, whose name was
McCray. For some unaccountable reason, he became deranged;
and, on one occasion, a cold and stormy winter
night, he took it into his head to cross the Saguenay upon the
floating ice, which was coming down at the time. When first
discovered, he was half way across the stream, and making
frightful leaps of ten and fifteen feet from one block of ice
to another. His friends followed in close pursuit, with a
boat, as soon as possible, but on reaching the opposite shore,
the unhappy man was not to be found. On the day following,
however, certain people, who were hunting for him in
the woods, discovered him, perched in the crotch of a tree,
almost frozen to death, and senseless as a clod of the valley.
He was taken home, the circulation of his blood restored,
and he is now an inmate of the Quebec Lunatic Asylum.
The mind of this worthy man was thought to be of a high
order; and it is certain that he possessed an extensive knowledge
of botany and geology. From remarks that escaped
him subsequently to the wonderful feat he performed, it is
supposed that, at the time of starting across the river, he was
thinking of a particular book which he wished to obtain, and
had been told could be purchased at Quebec, towards which
place (unattainable by land), he had set his face. It is worthy
of record that poor McCray is the only man that ever crossed
the deep and angry Saguenay on the ice, as it is never solidly
frozen; and it is almost certain that the feat he performed
can never be again repeated.
But to return to my piscatorial remarks. Next to the salmon,
the finest sporting fish of this region is the trout. Of
these I have seen two species,—the salmon and the common
trout. Of the former, I believe there is but one variety, but
that is an exceedingly fine fish for sport, or the table, and is
found in the lower tributaries of the St. Lawrence, from five
to fifteen pounds. They are taken chiefly in the salt water,
and possess a flavor which the trout of our western lakes do
not. Of the common trout, I have seen at least six varieties,
differing, however, only in color; for some are almost entirely
white, others brown, some blue, some green, some
black, and others yellow. These are taken everywhere in
the St. Lawrence, and in all its tributaries. Those of the
Saguenay are the largest, most abundant, and of the rarest
quality. Upon the whole, I am inclined to set this river
down as affording the finest trout-fishing that I have ever enjoyed,
not even excepting that which I have experienced at
the Falls of St. Mary, in Michigan. Almost every bay or
cove in the Saguenay is crowded with trout, and, generally
speaking, the rocks upon which you have to stand afford an
abundance of room to swing and drop the fly. In some of
the coves alluded to, I have frequently taken a dozen two-pound
trout during the single hour before sunset. Trout-fishing
in this region possesses a charm which the angler seldom
experiences in the rivers and lakes of the United States,
which consists in his uncertainty as to the character of his
prize before he has landed him, for it may be a common or
salmon trout, or a regular-built salmon, as these fish all swim
in the same water. It is reported of a celebrated angler of
Quebec, that he once spent a week on the Esquemain, and
captured within that time, seventy salmon, and upwards of a
hundred trout. This is a very large story, but I have faith
enough to believe it true.
And now for a few remarks upon the fish of the lower St.
Lawrence generally. Cod are taken to a very great extent,
and constitute an important article of commerce. Herring
and mackerel are abundant; also the halibut and sardine.
Shad are also taken, but not in sufficient quantities to export.
The lobster, flounder and oyster are also found in this river,
and, with a few unimportant exceptions, these are the only
fish that flourish in this portion of the great river. The sea
bass, the striped bass, the blue fish, and the black fish, for
which I should suppose these waters perfectly adapted, are
entirely unknown.
Seal hunting on the St. Lawrence—The white porpoise.
Tadousac, July.
Before breakfast this morning, I had the pleasure of taking
fifteen common trout, and the remainder of the day I
devoted to seal hunting. This animal is found in great abundance
in the St. Lawrence, and by the Indians, and a few
white people, is extensively hunted. There are several varieties
found in these waters, and the usual market price for
the oil and skin is five dollars. They vary in size from four
to eight feet, and are said to be good eating. Many people
make them a principal article of food; and while the Indians
use their skins for many purposes, they also light their cabins
with the oil. In sailing the river, they meet you at every
turn, and when I first saw one, I thought I was looking upon
a drowning man; for they only raise their heads out of
water, and thus sustain themselves with their feet, fins, pads,
flippers, or whatever you may call them. They live upon
fish, and in many of their habits, closely resemble the otter.
Their paws have five claws, joined together with a thick
skin; they somewhat resemble the dog, and have a bearded
snout like a cat, large bright eyes, and long sharp teeth.
They are a noisy animal, and when a number of them are
sunning themselves upon the sand, the screams they utter are
doleful in the extreme—somewhat resembling the cry of
children.
My first seal expedition was performed in company with
two professional hunters. We started from shore with a
yawl and a canoe, and made our course for a certain spot
in the St. Lawrence, where the waters of the Saguenay and
the flood tide came together, and caused a terrible commotion.
The canoe led the way, occupied by one man, who was supplied
with a harpoon, and a long line; while the other hunter
and myself came up in the rear, for the purpose of rescuing
the harpooner in case an accident should happen, and also for
the purpose of shipping the plunder. The seal seems to delight
in frequenting the deepest water and more turbulent
whirlpools, and the object of using a canoe is to steal upon
him in the most successful manner. We had not floated
about the eddy more than twenty minutes, before a large
black animal made his appearance, about ten feet from the
canoe; but, just as he was on the point of diving, the hunter
threw his harpoon, and gave him the line, to which was attached
a buoy. The poor creature floundered about at a
great rate, dove as far as he could towards the bottom, and
then leaped entirely out of the water; but the cruel spear
would not loosen its hold. Finally, after making every effort
to escape, and tinging the surrounding water with a crimson
hue, he gasped for breath a few times, and sunk to the end
of the rope, quite dead. We then pulled him to the side of
the boat, and with a gaff-hook secured him therein, and the
hunt was renewed. In this manner did my companions
capture no less than three seals before the hour of noon.
On one occasion, I noticed quite a large number of seals
sunning themselves upon a certain sandy point; and as I felt
an “itching palm” to obtain, with my own hands, the material
for a winter cap, I spent the afternoon in the enjoyment
of a “shooting frolic, all alone.” I borrowed a rifle of one
of my friends, and, having passed over to the sandy point in
a canoe, I secreted myself in the midst of some rocks, and
awaited the game. I had remained quiet but a short time,
when a huge black seal made its appearance, scrambling up
the beach, where he kept a sharp look-out for anything that
might do him harm. I admired the apparent intelligence of
the creature, as he dragged his clumsy and legless body along
the ground, and almost regretted that he was doomed to die.
True to my ridiculous nature, however, I finally concluded
to leave him unmolested for the present, hoping that he would
soon be accompanied by one of his fellow-seals, and that I
should have a chance of killing a pair. I was not disappointed,
and you will therefore please consider me in full
view of one of the finest marks imaginable, and in the attitude
of firing. Crack went the rifle, but my shot had only
the effect of temporarily rousing the animals, and I proceeded
to reload my gun, wondering at the cause of my missing, and
feeling somewhat dissatisfied with matters and things in general.
Again was it my privilege to fire, and I saw a stick
fly into the air about thirty feet on the left of my game.
The animals were, of course, not at all injured, but just
enough frightened to turn their faces towards the water, into
which they shortly plunged, and entirely disappeared. I returned
to my lodgings, honestly told my story, and was
laughed at for my pains and bad luck. It so happened, however,
that the owner of the gun imagined that something
might be the matter with the thing, and, on examination,
found that one of the sights had been accidentally knocked
from its original position, which circumstance had been the
“cause of my anguish;” and, though it restored to me my
good name as a marksman, it afforded me but little
satisfaction.
But, that my paper about seals may be worth sealing, I will
give you the history of an incident which illustrates the sagacity
of an Indian in killing his game. A Mik-mak hunter,
with his family, had reached the shore of the St. Lawrence,
hungry, and short of ammunition. On a large sand-bank
which lay before him, at a time when the tide was low, he
discovered an immense number of seals. He waited for the
tide to flow, and again to ebb, and as soon as the sand appeared
above the water, he hastened to the dry point in his
canoe, carrying only a hatchet as a weapon. On this spot
he immediately dug a hole, into which he crept, and covered
himself with a blanket. He then commenced uttering a cry
in imitation of the seal, and in a short time had collected
about him a very large number of those animals. He waited
patiently for the tide to retire so far that the animals would have
to travel at least a mile by land before reaching the water; and,
when the wished for moment arrived, he suddenly fell upon
the affrighted multitude, and with his tomahawk, succeeded in
slaughtering upwards of one hundred. To many, this may
appear to be an improbable story, but when it is remembered
that this amphibious animal is an exceedingly slow land traveller,
it will be readily believed. The manner in which our
hunter managed to save his game, was to tie them together
with bark, and when the tide rose tow them to the main
shore.
Since I have brought my reader upon the waters of the St.
Lawrence, I will not permit him to go ashore until I have
given him an account of another inhabitant of the deep which
is found in very great abundance, not only in this river, but
also in the Saguenay. I allude to the white porpoise. The
shape of this creature is similar to that of the whale, though of
a pure white color, and usually only about fifteen feet in
length. They are exceedingly fat, and yield an oil of the
best quality, while the skin is capable of being turned into
durable leather. They are extensively used as an article of
food; the fins and tail, when pickled, are considered a delicacy;
and their value is about twenty-five dollars a-piece.
They are far from being a shy fish; and, when sailing about
our vessel in large numbers, as is often the case, they present
a beautiful and unique appearance. For taking this fish, the
people of this region have two methods. The first is to use
a boat with a white bottom, behind which the fisherman
tows a small wooden porpoise, which is painted a dark slate
color, in imitation of the young of the species. With these
lures the porpoise is often brought into the immediate vicinity
of the harpoon, which is invariably thrown with fatal precision.
In this manner an expert man will often take three
or four fine prizes in a day. Another mode for taking these
creatures is by fencing them in. It appears that it is customary
for this fish to wander over the sand bars, at high
water, for the purpose of feeding. Profiting by this knowledge,
the fishermen enclose one of the sandy reefs with poles
set about three feet apart, and sometimes covering a square
mile. They leave an appropriate opening for the porpoises,
which are sure to enter at high water, and, owing to their
timidity, they are kept confined by the slender barrier until
the tide ebbs, when they are destroyed in great numbers with
very little trouble. It is reported that a party of fishermen,
some ninety miles above the Saguenay, once took one hundred
and forty porpoises at one tide; and it is also asserted
that in dividing the spoil the fishermen had a very bitter
quarrel, since which time, as the story goes, not a single
porpoise has ever been taken on the shoal in question.
The Esquimaux Indians of Labrador.
Tadousac, July.
The vast region of country lying on the north shore of
the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and extending to the eastward of
the Saguenay as far as Newfoundland, is generally known
under the name of Labrador. It is an exceedingly wild and
desolate region, and, excepting an occasional fishing hamlet
or a missionary station belonging to the worthy Moravians,
its only inhabitants are Indians. Of these the more famous
tribes are the Red Indians, (now almost extinct,) the Hunting
Indians, the Mic-Maks, and the Esquimaux. The latter nation
is by far the most numerous, and it is said that their
sway even extends to the coasts of Hudson’s Bay. They
are, at the same time, the wildest and most rude inhabitants
of this wilderness, and, in appearance, as well as manners
and customs, closely resemble the inhabitants of Greenland.
During one of my nautical expeditions down the St. Lawrence,
I chanced to be wind-bound for a couple of days at
the mouth of the nameless river on the north shore, where
I found a small encampment of Esquimaux Indians. The
principal man of the party was exceedingly aged, and the
only one who could convey his thoughts in any other language
than his own. He had mingled much with the French
fur-traders of the north, and the French fishermen of the
east, and possessed a smattering of their tongue. Seated by
the side of this good old man, in his lodge, with a moose
skin for a seat, a pack of miscellaneous furs to lean against,
and a rude seal-oil torch suspended over my head, I spent
many hours of one long-to-be-remembered night in questioning
him about his people. The substance of the information
I then collected, it is now my purpose to record; but it
should be remembered that I speak of the nation at large,
and not of any particular tribe.
According to my informant, the extent of the Esquimaux
nation is unknown, for they consider themselves as numerous
as the waves of the sea. Much has been done to give them
an education, and, though missionaries of the cross have
dwelt among them for about a century, yet the majority of
this people are, at the present time, in heathen darkness.
The men are chiefly employed in hunting and fishing, and
the domestic labor is all performed by the women. Their
clothes are made in the rudest manner imaginable, and
generally of the coarser skins which they secure in hunting.
They believe in a Supreme Being, who has a dwelling-place
in the earth, the air, and the ocean, and who is both good
and evil; and they also believe in the immortality of the soul,
which they describe as similar to air, which they cannot
feel. Their principal men are magicians and conjurors, distinguished,
as I infer from good reason, for their profligacy.
Whenever a man is sick, they attribute the cause to the
alleged fact that his soul has departed from his body, and he
is looked upon with contempt and pity. The first man who
came into the world sprang from the bosom of a beautiful
valley; in this valley he spent his infancy and childhood,
feeding upon berries; and having, on a certain occasion,
picked up a flower which drooped over one of his accustomed
paths, it immediately became changed into a girl
with flowing hair, who became his playmate, and afterwards
his wife, and was the mother of all living. They believe in
a heaven and a hell, and consider that the road to the former
is rugged and rocky, and that to the latter, level, and covered
with grass. Their ideas of astronomy are peculiar, for they
consider the sun, moon and stars as so many of their ancestors,
who have, for a great variety of reasons, been lifted
to the skies, and become celestial bodies. In accounting for
the two former, they relate that there was once a superb
festival given by the Esquimaux, in a glorious snow-palace
of the north, where were assembled all the young men and
maidens of the land. Among them was a remarkably brave
youth, who was in love with an exceedingly beautiful girl.
She, however, did not reciprocate this attachment, and endeavored,
by all the means in her power, to escape from his
caresses. To accomplish this end, she called upon the Great
Spirit to give her a pair of wings; and, having received them,
she flew into the air, and became the moon. The youth also
endeavored to obtain a pair of wings, and, after many months,
finally succeeded; and, on ascending to the sky, he became
the sun. The moon, they say, has a dwelling-place in the
west, and the sun another in the far east. They account for
thunder and lightning by giving the story of two women who
lived together in a wigwam, and, on one occasion, had a most
furious battle. During the affray, the cabin tumbled in upon
them, causing a tremendous noise, while the women were so
angry that their eyes flashed fire. Rain, they say, comes
from a river in the skies, which, from the great number of
people who sometimes bathe in it, overflows its banks, and
thus comes to the earth in showers.
When one of their friends has departed this life, they take
all his property and scatter it upon the ground, outside of his
cabin, to be purified by the air; but in the evening, they collect
it together again, and bury it by the side of his grave.
They think it wrong for the men to mourn for their friends,
and consider themselves defiled if they happen to touch the
body of the deceased, and the individual who usually performs
the office of undertaker, is considered unclean for many
days after fulfilling his duty. The women do all the wailing
and weeping, and during their mourning season, which corresponds
with the fame of the deceased, they abstain from
food, wear their hair in great disorder, and refrain from every
ablution. When a friendless man dies, his body is left upon
the hills to decay, as if he had been a beast. When their
children die, they bury the body of a dead dog in the same
grave, that the child may have a guide in his pathway to an
unknown land, to which they suppose all children go.
Polygamy, as such, among the Esquimaux, is practised
only to a limited extent; but married men and women are
not over-scrupulous in their love affairs. Unmarried women,
however, observe the rules of modesty with peculiar care,
and the maiden who suffers herself to be betrayed, is looked
upon with infamy. When a young man wishes to marry,
he first settles the matter with his intended, and then, having
asked and obtained her father’s permission, he sends two old
women to bring the lady to his lodge, and they are considered
one. The Esquimaux mother is fond of her children,
and never chastises them for any offence. Children are
taught to be dutiful to their parents, and until they marry
they always continue under the paternal roof.
The amusements of the Esquimaux do not differ, materially,
from those of the Indian tribes generally. The men are
fond of dancing, playing ball, and a species of dice game,
while the women know of no recreation but that of dancing
and singing.
And thus endeth my mite of information respecting one of
the most extensive aboriginal nations of the far north.
River du Loup, July.
Since dating my last chapter from the Saguenay, I have
completed my pilgrimage through Lower Canada; but before
leaving the province, I will give you the result of my observations
respecting some of its people. These are divided
into three classes—the descendants of the French colonists,
commonly called “Habitans,” the British settlers, and the
Indian tribes. The “Habitans,” of whom I am now to
speak, are the most numerous, and so peculiar in their appearance
and manners, as to attract the particular attention of
travellers. The men are usually tall and slender, of sinewy
build, and with a dark-brown complexion; the girls are black-eyed,
and disposed to be beautiful, while the women are always
dumpy, but good-looking. Their dress is similar to
that of the French peasantry; the men wear the old-fashioned
capot, on their heads every variety of fantastic caps and hats,
and, on their feet, a moccason made of cowhide; the women
wear jackets or mantelets, which are made of bright colors,
and, on their heads, either a cap or straw hat, made in the
gipsy-fashion. Occasionally, they make an effort to imitate
the English in their dress, and, at such times, invariably appear
ridiculous. As a class they are devoted, principally, to
agriculture; but as their opportunities for obtaining instruction
are exceedingly limited, their knowledge of the art of
husbandry is precisely what it was one hundred years ago.
They seem to be entirely destitute of enterprise, and tread
in the beaten steps of their fathers. They who live in the
vicinity of Montreal and Quebec, generally supply those markets
with vegetables; but those who reside in the more obscure
parts, seem to be quite satisfied if they can only manage
to raise enough off their farms for the purpose of carrying
them through the year. They are partial to rye bread,
and never consider it in a cooking condition until it has been
soured by age; and their standard dish, which they make use
of on all occasions, is a plain pea soup. The consequence is,
the pea is extensively cultivated. You seldom find a farmer
who is so poor as not to be able to sell from five to fifty
bushels of wheat, and this article he appropriates to the same
use that most people do their money. Their plough is distinguished
for its rudeness, and their farming implements,
generally, would not be creditable even to a barbarous people.
If an individual happens to have a stony field, the idea does
not enter his head that he might build a fence with those very
stones, and the consequence is, that he piles them in one immense
heap, in the centre of the field, and draws his rails a
distance, perhaps, of two miles. But with all their ignorance
of agriculture, the inhabitants are sufficiently careful to make
their little farms yield them all the necessaries they require,
particularly their clothing and shoes, their candles, soap, and
sugar. There are but few professional mechanics among
them, and the dwelling of the peasant is almost invariably
the production of his own individual labor. Their houses
are distinguished for pictorial beauty, always one story high,
and, generally, neatly white-washed. Their cattle are small,
and, owing to their neglect in feeding and protecting them,
are exceedingly poor. Their horses are nothing but ponies,
but distinguished for their toughness. The Habitans are
partial to the luxury of riding, and their common vehicle is
a rough two-wheeled cart, and, occasionally, a calash.
The establishment which I employed for travelling in the
settled parts of Canada, was a fair specimen of the class.
The cost of the horse (four feet and a half high), was twenty
dollars, and the cart (made entirely of wood), was four dollars.—My
coachman was a Habitan, and, in driving over a
hilly road, on a certain day, I had a fine opportunity for
studying the conflicting traits of character which distinguish
the race. Whenever he wanted his horse to go fast, he
pulled the reins with all his might, and continued to utter a
succession of horrible yells. He invariably ran his animal
up the hill, and deliberately walked him down. When angry
at his unoffending beast, he showered upon his head a variety
of oaths, which might be translated as follows: infernal hog,
black toad, and hellish dog; and yet when the animal was
about to drop to the ground from fatigue and heat, he would
caress him, and do everything in his power to restore the
animal, and ease his own conscience. I first employed this
man to bring me to this place, and said nothing about continuing
my journey. On ascertaining, however, that I was
bound further down the St. Lawrence, he volunteered his
services, and I employed him, although he had informed his
wife that he would positively return on the night of the day
he left her. I retained him in my employ for two days, and
was particularly struck with the anxiety he manifested concerning
the disappointment of his wife. He alluded to the
impropriety of his conduct at least a dozen times, and usually
added, “But you give me plenty money (it was only six dollars
for taking me forty miles), and I will buy something
pretty for my wife, which will make her very glad—I guess
she won’t be sorry.” I asked him what it was that he intended
to purchase, and his answer was, “some ribbon, a
pair of scissors, with some needles, and a calico dress.” Who
can deny that it is pleasant to study the sunshine of the
human heart “by which we live?”
The Habitans profess the Roman Catholic religion with
much zeal. Among them, I believe, may be found many
worthy Christians; but they manifest their religious devotion
in many peculiar ways. They are fond of social intercourse,
and spend a goodly portion of their time in visiting
each other. They reluctantly establish themselves beyond the
sound of a chapel bell, and I positively believe that they spend
more than half of their time in performing mass and horse
racing. The Sabbath is their great holiday, and always decidedly
the noisiest day in the week. Their general deportment,
however, is inoffensive, and often highly praiseworthy.
They are seldom guilty of committing atrocious crimes, and
do not often engage in the personal conflicts which are so
prevalent in the United States. They treat all men with
kindness, and in their language and manners, are remarkably
polite. The little girl, playing with her doll in her father’s
door, would think her conduct highly improper should she
omit to drop you a courtesy as you passed along; and even
the rude boy, when playing ball, or driving his team, invariably
takes off his hat to salute the traveller.
The Habitans are particularly fond of the river St. Lawrence,
and their settlements extend from Montreal, about two
hundred miles along the river on the north shore, and perhaps
three hundred and fifty miles on the southern shore. Their
principal roads run parallel with the river; are about half a
mile apart, and, generally, completely lined with rural
dwellings.
The political opinions of the Habitans are extremely liberal,
and not much in accordance with the spirit of Canadian institutions.
They hate England by nature, and the advice of
their priesthood, and scruple not to declare themselves actually
in love with what they call the American Government.
They complain that Englishmen treat them as if they were
slaves, while the people of the United States always hail them
as brothers. They are an unlettered race, but believe that
their condition would be much happier were they the subjects
of a President, instead of a Queen. That is a matter I consider
questionable.
The Grand Portage into New Brunswick—Lake Timiscouta—The
Madawaska river.
On the Madawaska, July.
The traveller who would go from Quebec to Halifax by
the recently established government route, will have to take
a steamer for one hundred and twenty miles down the great
river, and cross the Grand Portage road, which commences at
the river, Du Loup, and extends to lake Timiscouta, a distance
of thirty-six miles.
With the village of Du Loup I was well pleased. It contains
about twelve hundred inhabitants, and a more general
mixture of English, Scotch and French than is usually found
in the smaller towns of Canada. The place contains an
Episcopal church, which must be looked upon as a curiosity
in this Roman Catholic country, for it is the only one, I
believe, found eastward of Quebec. The situation of the village
is romantic to an uncommon degree. It commands an
extensive prospect of the St. Lawrence, which is here upwards
of twenty miles wide, and bounded, on the opposite
side, by a multitude of rugged mountains. The river is studded
with islands; and ships are constantly passing hither
and thither over the broad expanse; and when, from their great
distance, all these objects are constantly enveloped in a gauze-like
atmosphere, there is a magic influence in the scenery. The
principal attraction is a water-fall, about a mile in the rear
of the village. At this point the waters of the rapid and
beautiful Du Loup dance joyously over a rocky bed, until
they reach a picturesque precipice of perhaps eighty or a hundred
feet, over which they dash in a sheet of foam, and, after
forming an extensive and shadowy pool, glide onward,
through a pleasant meadow, until they mingle with the waters
of the St. Lawrence. But, as I intend to take you over
the Grand Portage, it is time that we should be off. The first
ten miles of this road are dotted with the box-looking houses
of the Canadian peasantry; but the rest of the route leads you
up mountains and down valleys as wild and desolate as when
first created. The principal trees of the forest are pine,
spruce and hemlock, and the foundation of the country seems
to be granite. This region is watered by many sparkling
streams, which contain trout in great abundance. The only
curiosity on the road is of a geological character, and struck
me as something remarkable. Crossing the road, and running
in a northerly direction, and extending to the width of
about two miles, is a singular bed of granite boulders. The
rocks are of every size and form, and while, from a portion
of them, rises a scanty vegetation, other portions are destitute
of even the common moss. In looking upon this region, the
idea struck me that I was passing through the bed of what once
was a mighty river, but whose fountains have become forever
dry. This is only one, however, of the unnumbered wonders
of the world which are constantly appearing to puzzle the
philosophy of man. In passing over the Grand Portage, the
traveller has to resort to a conveyance which presents a
striking contrast with the usual national works of her ladyship,
the Queen. It is the same establishment which conveys
the Royal Mail from Quebec to Halifax, and consists
of a common Canadian cart, a miserable Canadian pony,
and a yet more miserable Canadian driver. Such is the way
they order things in Canada, which, I fancy, is not exactly
the way they do in France. The Grand Portage road itself
is all that one could desire, and as there is a good deal of
summer and winter travelling upon it, it is surprising that
the Government cannot afford a more comfortable conveyance.
But this recently “Disputed Territory,” owing to nobody’s
fault but the actual settlers, seems to be destitute of everything
desirable, and I know not but we ought to rejoice that
Lord Ashburton concluded the late treaty in the manner he
did.
The eastern termination of the Grand Portage road is at
Lake Timiscouta, where is located a pleasant hamlet of Canadians,
and a picketed fort, which is now abandoned. The
views from this spot are unique and exceedingly beautiful,
particularly a western view of the lake, when glowing beneath
the rays of the setting sun. The Indian word Timiscouta
signifies the winding water, and accurately describes
the lake, which has a serpentine course, is twenty-four miles
long, and from two to three wide. Excepting the cluster of
houses already mentioned, there is not a single cabin on the
whole lake, and the surrounding mountains, which are perhaps
a thousand feet high, are the home of solitude and
silence. The only vessels that navigate the Lake are Indian
canoes, paddled by Canadians. Not only does the isolated
settlers depend upon them for the transportation of provisions,
but even the English nobleman, when travelling in this region,
finds it necessary to sit like a tailor in their straw-covered
bottoms.
The only outlet to Lake Timiscouta is the Madawaska
River, which is but a contraction of the same water, but reduced
to the width of a stone’s throw, and leading to the St.
John’s, a distance of some forty miles. The meaning of
Madawaska, as I am informed, is never frozen, and the river
obtained this name from the fact that certain portions, on account
of the current, are never ice-bound. The scenery of
the river is precisely similar to that of its parent lake, only
that it is a little cultivated. The waters of both are clear, but
not very deep or cold. They abound in fish, of which the
common trout, the perch, and pickerel (not pike), are the
more valuable varieties.
The manner in which I sailed through Timiscouta and
Madawaska, was exceedingly pleasant, if not peculiar and
ridiculous. My canoe was manned by a couple of barbarous
Canadians, and while they occupied the extreme stern
and bow, I was allowed the “largest liberty” in the body
thereof. It was an exceedingly hot day when I passed
through, and having stripped myself of nearly all my clothing,
I rolled about at my own sweet will, not only for the
purpose of keeping cool, but that I might do a good business
in the way of killing time. At one moment I was dipping
my feet and hands in the water, humming a lightsome tune
of yore, and anon sketching the portrait of a mountain or a
group of trees. Now I lay flat upon my back, and while I
watched the fantastic movements of the clouds, as they crossed
the blue of heaven, I attended to the comforts of the inner
man by sucking maple-sugar. Now I called upon the boat-men
to sing me a song, and, while they complied with my
request, I fixed myself in the poetical attitude of a Turk,
and smoked a cigar. At one time, we halted at a mountain
spring, to obtain a refreshing drink, and at another, the men
pulled up to some rocky point, that I might have the pleasure
of throwing the fly. Thus vagabondizing, “pleasantly
the days of Thalaba went by.”
My voyage down the Madawaska was not without a characteristic
incident. There was quite a fleet of canoes descending
at the same time, some of them laden with women
and babies, and some with furs, tin-kettles, and the knapsacks
of home-bound lumbermen. Two of the canoes were
managed by a Canadian and a Scotchman, who seemed to
cherish a deeply-rooted passion for racing. They paddled a
number of heats, and as they were alternately beaten, they
both, finally, became angry, and began to bet quite extravagantly.
The conclusion of the whole matter was that they
went ashore on a bushy point among the mountains, and
settled their difficulty by a “private fight.” They fought,
“like brave men, long and well,” and by the time one had a
tooth knocked out of his head, and the other had nearly lost
an eye, they separated, and quietly resumed their way.
These were the only wild animals that I saw in the Madawaska
wilderness.
Mouth of the Madawaska, July.
At the junction of the river Madawaska and St. John, and
extending for some miles down the latter, is a settlement of
about three hundred Acadians. How these people came by
the name they bear, I do not exactly understand, but of their
history, I remember the following particulars. In the year
1755, during the existence of the colonial difficulties between
England and France, there existed, in a remote section of
Nova Scotia, about fifteen thousand Acadians. Aristocratic
French blood flowed in their veins, and they were a peaceful
and industrious race of husbandmen. Even after the government
of England had become established in Canada, they
cherished a secret attachment for the laws of their native
country. But this was only a feeling, and they continued in
the peaceful cultivation of their lands. In process of time,
however, three titled Englishmen, named Lawrence, Boscawan
and Moysten, held a council and formed the hard-hearted
determination of driving this people from their homes,
and scattering them to the four quarters of the globe. Playing
the part of friends, this brotherhood of conquerors and
heroes sent word to the Acadians that they must all meet at
a certain place, on business which deeply concerned their
welfare. Not dreaming of their impending fate, the poor
Acadians met at the appointed place, and were there informed
of the fact that their houses and lands were forfeited, and
that they must leave the country to become wanderers in
strange and distant lands. They sued for mercy, but the
iron yoke of a Christian nation was laid more heavily upon
their necks, in answer to that prayer, and they were driven
from home and country, and as they sailed from shore, or
entered the wilderness, they saw in the distance, ascending to
Heaven, the smoke of all they had loved and lost. Those
who survived, found an asylum in the United States, and in
the more remote portions of the British empire, and when,
after the war, they were invited to return to their early homes,
only thirteen hundred were known to be in existence. It is
a remnant of this very people who, with their descendants,
are now the owners of the Madawaska settlement, and it is
in an Acadian dwelling that I am now penning this chapter.
But owing to their many misfortunes, (I would speak in
charity,) the Acadians have degenerated into a more ignorant
and miserable people than are the Canadian French, whom
they closely resemble in their appearance and customs.
They believe the people of Canada to be a nation of knaves,
and the people of Canada know them to be a half savage
community. Worshipping a miserable priesthood, is their
principal business; drinking and cheating their neighbors, their
principal amusement. They live by tilling the soil, and are
content if they can barely make the provision of one year
take them to the entrance of another. They are, at the same
time, passionate lovers of money, and have brought the
science of fleecing strangers to perfection. Some of them
by a life of meanness have succeeded in accumulating a respectable
property; but all the money they obtain is systematically
hoarded. It is reported of the principal man of
this place that he has in his house, at the present moment,
the sum of ten thousand dollars, in silver and gold, and yet
this man’s children are as ignorant of the alphabet as the
cattle upon the hills. But with all their ignorance, the Acadians
are a happy people, though it is the happiness of a mere
animal nature.
The scenery of this place, which does not seem to possess
a name, is quite agreeable, but its attractive features are of an
architectural character. The first is a block house, and the
second a Catholic church. The block house occupies the
summit of a commanding and rocky knoll, and was built at
a cost of near five thousand dollars, for the purpose of defending
this portion of New Brunswick, during the existence
of the late boundary difficulty. The edifice is built of stone
and timber, and may be described as a square box, placed
upon another and large one in a triangular fashion; the width
may be thirty feet, and the height one hundred and fifty. It
is well supplied with port holes, entered by a wooden flight
of stairs, and covered with a tin roof. It contains two stores,
besides a well-filled magazine. It is abundantly supplied
with guns and cannon, and almost every variety of shot, shells
and balls. It was once occupied by three military companies,
(about all that it would possibly hold;) but the only human
being who now has anything to do with it, is a worthy man,
who officiates as keeper. The panorama which this fortress
overlooks, is exceedingly picturesque, embracing both the
valley of the Madawaska and that of St. John, which fade
away amid a multitude of wild and uncultivated mountains.
When I first looked upon this block house, it struck me as
being a most ridiculous affair, but on further examination, I
became convinced that it could not be taken without the
shedding of much blood.
Of the church to which I alluded, I have only to remark
that it is a very small, and, apparently, a venerable structure,
built of wood, painted yellow, with a red steeple. It is
pleasantly located, amid a cluster of rude cabins, on the margin
of the St. John, and in the immediate vicinity of a race
course. It was my fate to spend a Sabbath in this Madawaska
settlement. As a matter of course, I attended church.
The congregation was large, and composed entirely of Acadians;
decked out in the most ridiculous gewgawish dresses
imaginable. I noticed nothing extraordinary on the occasion,
only that at the threshold of the church, was a kind of
stand, where a woman was selling sausages and small beer.
The services were read in Latin, and a sermon preached in
French, which contained nothing but the most common-place
advice, and that all of a secular character. At the conclusion
of the service, the male portion of the congregation
gradually collected together on the neighboring green, and
the afternoon was devoted to horse racing, the swiftest horse
belonging to the loudest talker, and heaviest stake planter,
and that man was—a disciple of the Pope, and the identical
priest whom I had heard preach in the morning. It will be
hard for you to believe this, but I have written the truth, as
well as my last line about the Acadian settlement on the
Madawaska.
Sail down the Madawaska—The Falls of the St. John.
Falls of the St. John, July.
In coming to this place, from the North, the traveller finds
it necessary to descend the river St. John in a canoe. The
distance from Madawaska is thirty-six miles, and the day
that I passed down was delightful in the extreme. My canoe
was only about fifteen feet long, but my voyageur was an
expert and faithful man, and we performed the trip without
the slightest accident.
The valley of this portion of the river is mountainous, and
its immediate banks vary from fifteen to thirty feet in height.
The water is very clear and rapid, but of a brownish color,
and quite warm, varying in depth from three to thirty feet,
and the width is about a quarter of a mile. That portion of
the stream (say some seventy miles of its source), which
belongs exclusively to the United States, runs through a fertile
and beautiful country, abounds in water-falls and rapids,
and is yet a wilderness. That portion which divides the
United States from New Brunswick is somewhat cultivated,
but principally by a French population. Owing to the fact
that the farms all face the river, and are very narrow, (but
extend back to the distance of two or three miles,) the houses
have all been erected immediately on the river, so that, to
the casual observer, the country might appear to be thickly
inhabited, which is far from being the case. The principal
business done on the river is the driving of logs and timber
for the market of St. John; and excepting the worthy and
hard-working lumbermen who toil in the forests, the people
are devoted to the tilling of their land, and are precisely
similar to the Acadians in their manners and customs, and
probably from the same stock. There is a miniature steamboat
on the river, but as the unnumbered canoes of the inhabitants
are engaged in a kind of opposition line, the fiery
little craft would seem to have a hard time. In navigating
the river the voyageurs paddle down stream, but use a pole in
ascending; and two smart men, gracefully swinging their
poles, and sending their little vessel rapidly against the current,
taken in connection with the pleasant scenery of the
river, present an agreeable and novel sight.
We started from Madawaska at four o’clock in the morning,
and having travelled some twenty miles, we thought we
would stop at the first nice-looking tavern on the shore, (for
about every other dwelling is well supplied with liquor, and,
consequently, considered a tavern,) for the purpose of obtaining
a breakfast. Carefully did we haul up our canoe, and
having knocked at the cabin door, were warmly welcomed
by a savage-looking man, whose face was completely besmeared
with dirt, and also by a dirty-looking woman, a couple
of dirty-legged girls, and a young boy. The only furniture
in the room was a bed, and a small cupboard, while the
fire-place was without a particle of fire. In one corner of
the room was a kind of bar, where the boy was in attendance,
and seemed to be the spokesman of the dwelling. We
asked him if we could have some breakfast, and he promptly
replied that we could.
“What can you give us?” was my next question.
“Anything you please,” replied the boy, in broken English.
“We’ll take some ham and eggs, then.”
“We haven’t any, only some eggs.”
“We’ll take some bread and milk.”
“We haven’t any bread, but plenty of milk.”
“Haven’t you any kind of meat?”
“No, plenty of Rum. What’ll you have?”
I could stand this no longer, and having expressed my displeasure
at the ignorance of the boy, and condemned his father
for pretending to keep a tavern, I gave the former a sixpence,
and took half a dozen eggs, with which we returned
to our canoe. While I was fixing my seat in the boat, and
commenting upon wilderness hospitality, my companion
amused himself by swallowing four of the purchased eggs
in a leather cup of brandy. In two hours after this little adventure,
our little canoe was moored above the Falls of the St.
John, and we were enjoying a first-rate breakfast, prepared
by the lady of a Mr. Russell, who keeps a comfortable house
of entertainment in this place.
After I had finished my cigar, and enjoyed a resting spell,
I pocketed my sketch-book, and spent the entire day examining
the scenery of the Falls. After making a broad and
beautiful sweep, the river St. John here makes a sudden turn,
and, becoming contracted to the width of about fifty yards,
the waters make a plunge of perhaps forty feet, which is
mostly in a solid mass, though rather disposed to form the
third of a circle from shore to shore. Below this pitch, and
extending for about two miles, is a continued succession of
falls, which make the entire descent upwards of eighty feet.
The water rushes through what might be termed a winding
chasm, whose walls are perhaps one hundred and fifty or
two hundred feet high, and perpendicular. Generally speaking,
the entire distance from the first fall to the last, presents
a perfect sheet of foam, though around every jutting point is
a black, and, apparently, bottomless pool, which, when I
peered into them, were quite alive with salmon, leaping into the
air, or swimming on the margin of the foam. On the western
side of the falls, to a great extent, the original forest has been
suffered to remain, and a walk through their shadowy recesses
is an uncommon treat; and on this side, also, is the ruin
of an old saw-mill, which, for a wonder, actually adds to the
picturesque beauty of the spot. On the eastern side of the
falls is a commanding hill, which has been stripped of its
forest, and now presents a stump field, of three hundred acres.
It is a desolate spot, but in strict keeping with the enterprise
of the province. The expense of clearing, or, rather, half
clearing, the hill in question, was six thousand dollars, and it
was the original intention of the mother government to erect
thereon an extensive fortress; but owing to the birth of a
sensible reflection, the idea was abandoned. The barracks
of the place, as they now exist, consist of two log houses,
which are occupied by a dozen sprigs of the British Army.
And thus endeth my account of the most picturesque spot
in New Brunswick, which, I doubt not, may hereafter become
a fashionable place of summer resort.
Mouth of the Aroostook, July.
I was on my way down the river St. John, in New Brunswick,
and having heard that the Aroostook (one of its principal
tributaries), was famous for its salmon and a picturesque
water-fall, I had taken up my quarters at a tavern near the
mouth of that stream, with a view of throwing the fly for a
few days, and adding to my stock of sketches. I arrived at
this place in the forenoon, and after depositing my luggage
in an upper room, and ordering a dinner, I proceeded to arrange
my tackle and pencils for an afternoon expedition.
This preparatory business I performed in the sitting-room of
the tavern, where there happened to be seated at the time,
and reading the New York Albion, an oddly-dressed, but
gentlemanly-looking man. In form, he was tall and slender,
appeared to be about fifty years of age, and there was such
an air of refinement in his appearance and manners that he
attracted my particular attention. I said nothing, however,
and quietly continued my snelling operations, until summoned
to dinner. While at the table, I sent for the landlord to inquire
about the stranger whom I had noticed, and his reply
was as follows:—“His name is Robert Egger; he is a
strange but good man, and lives the life of a recluse; his
house is above the fall, on the Aroostook, and about four
miles from here. He has been in this part of the country
for many years, but I seldom see him at my house, excepting
when he wants to read the news, put a letter in the office,
or purchase a bag of flour.”
With this intelligence I was quite delighted, for I fancied
that I had discovered a character, which eventually proved
to be the case. On returning to the room where the stranger
was seated, I introduced myself by offering him a cigar; and
while fixing my rod, asked him a few questions about the
surrounding country. His replies proved him to be an intelligent
man, and as he happened to express himself a lover
of the “gentle art,” I offered him the use of some fishing
tackle, and invited him to accompany me. He refused my
offer, but accepted my invitation, and we started for the
Aroostook. He officiated as my guide; and when we approached
the river, which was from two to five feet deep,
about one hundred yards wide, very rapid, and filled with
bridge piers in ruin, we jumped into a Frenchman’s canoe,
and were landed on the northern shore. Here we came into
a road which passed directly along the bank of the river; this
we followed for one mile, until we arrived at a flouring-mill,
located at the mouth of a large and very beautiful brook,
where the road made a sudden turn towards the north. Directly
opposite the mill, on the Aroostook side, was a narrow
and rapid rift, where, my friend told me, I was sure to hook
a salmon. I did not like the appearance of the place, but
took his advice and waded in. I tried my luck for some
thirty minutes, but could not tempt a single fish. This, my
friend did not understand; he said there were salmon there,
and thought that the fault was mine. I knew what he wanted,
and therefore handed him my rod, that he might try his fortune.
He fished for nearly half an hour, and then broke the
fly-tip of my rod. As I was cherishing an earnest desire to
take at least one salmon, under the fall, which I thought the
only likely place to succeed, and towards which I had set
my face, this little accident made me exceedingly nervous.
My friend attempted to console me by remarking, that, as it
was getting to be toward evening, we had better return to the
tavern, and take a fresh start in the morning. But this proposition
did not suit me at all, and I promptly said so. “Just
as you please,” replied my companion, and so we repaired
the rod, and continued up the river. Very rapid, with many
and deep pools, was this portion of the stream; and our
course along the shore, over logs and fallen trees, through
tangled underbrush, and around rocky points—was attended
with every imaginable difficulty, and so continued for at least
two miles. On coming in sight of the fall, however, I was
more than amply repaid for all my trouble, by the prospect
which there presented itself. It was, perhaps, one hour before
sunset, and there was a delightful atmosphere resting
upon the landscape. Directly before me, in the extreme distance,
and immediately under the crimson sun, was a narrow
rocky gorge, through which foamed the waters of the Aroostook,
over a precipice of some thirty feet; and just below
the fall, rose a perpendicular rock to the height of nearly a
hundred feet, dividing the stream into two channels. The
entire middle distance of the prospect was composed of a
broad and almost circular basin of very deep and dark water,
skirted mostly with a rocky shore, while directly across the
surface of this pool, winding down the stream, was a line of
foam, distinguishing the main channel; while the foreground
of this picture consisted of a gravelly beach, two bark wigwams,
several canoes, and some half dozen Indians, who
were enjoying their evening meal by the side of an expiring
fire.
We held a brief conversation with the Indians, and found
out that they had visited the basin for the purpose of spearing
salmon by torchlight; and while my companion sat down
in their midst to rest himself, I jumped into one of the canoes,
and paddled to the foot of the fall, to try one of my fancy
flies. I fished for about thirty minutes—caught one small
salmon—lost two very large ones, and returned to the Indian
camp, where I had previously concluded to spend the night,
provided my guide did not insist upon returning to the tavern
by moonlight. It so happened, however, that my interesting
plan was vetoed by my companion, who told me that his
dwelling was only a mile off, and that I must go and spend
the night with him. I willingly assented to this proposition,
and having picked up the salmon, we engaged the Indians to
ferry us across the basin, and proceeded on our way. Our
path was somewhat narrow, crooked, and intricate, and as I
listened to the roaring of the water-fall, and thought of the
mystery which hung over my companion, I could not but
wonder what I was about, and to what strange place I was
going.
In due time, however, we emerged from the woods, and
came out upon the side of a gentle hill, which sloped to the
margin of the Aroostook, and was sufficiently open to command
an extensive view of the river. Here my friend told
me to tarry a few moments, for he had a canoe hidden among
some willows, and wished to hunt it up, that we might re-cross
the river once more. I heard his words, but neglected
to assist him, for my whole attention was riveted by the
scene upon which I was gazing. The sober livery of twilight
had settled upon the world, and the flowing of the river
was so peaceful, that I could distinctly hear the hum of unnumbered
insects as they sported in the air. On the opposite
shore was a lofty forest-covered hill, and at the foot of it
a small clearing, in the centre of which stood a rude log
cabin—the dwelling-place of my friend. On my left, the
river presented the appearance of a lake: and apparently in
the centre of it were two of the most exquisitely foliaged
islands imaginable. The valley seemed completely hemmed
in with mountains, and these, together with a glowing sky,
were all distinctly mirrored in the sleeping waters. Charming
beyond compare was this evening landscape, and the holy
time “was quiet as a nun, breathless with adoration.” But
now my companion summoned me to a seat in the canoe,
and we passed over the stream in safety; he hauled up his
shallop, laid aside his paddle, and, slapping me on the shoulder,
led the way to his cabin, repeating, in a loud, clear voice,
the following words:
“Alone I live, between four hills;
Famed Roostook runs between:
At times, wild animals appear,
But men are seldom seen.”
On entering the hut, which was now quite dark, as it only
contained one window, my companion turned abruptly round,
and after making a frolicsome remark about my being in his
power, he exclaimed—“That poetry I repeated to you just
now was a home-spun article; but as you might fancy something
a little more civilized, I would say to you, my young
friend, in the language of Wordsworth’s Solitary,
‘This is my domain, my cell,
My hermitage, my cabin, what you will—
I love it better than a snail his house;
But now ye shall be feasted with our best.’ ”
Soon as these words had fallen from his lips, my friend proceeded
to collect some wood for a fire, and while I was left
to kindle the flame, he seized a tin-pail, and went after some
spring water, which, he said, was some distance off. In a few
moments, I produced a sufficient quantity of light to answer
my purpose, and then took occasion to survey the room, into
which I had been thus strangely introduced. Everything
about me seemed to be oddity itself. First was the huge fire-place,
rudely made of rough stones, and filled with ashes;
then the blackish appearance of the log walls around, and the
hemlock rafters above. In one corner stood a kind of wooden
box, filled with blankets, which answered the purpose of a
bed; and in front of the only window in the cabin was a
pine table on which stood an inkstand and some writing
paper, and under which sat a large gray cat, watching my
movements with a suspicious eye. In one place stood a
wooden chest, and a half-barrel of meal, and the only things
in the room to sit upon, were a couple of wooden chairs.
The crevices in the walls were stopped up with rags and clay,
and from various rafters depended bundles of mint, hemlock,
and other useful productions of the wood. A rusty old gun,
and a home-made fishing rod occupied one corner; and on
every side, resting upon wooden pegs, were numerous shelves,
of every size and form, which were appropriated to a variety
of uses. On one or two of them were the cooking utensils
of my friend; on another, a lot of smoky books; and on
others, a little of everything, from a box of salt or paper of
tea, down to a spool of thread or a paper of needles.
In a few moments my friend entered the cabin, and immediately
began to prepare our evening meal, which consisted
of bread, fried pork, and salmon, and a cup of tea. Plain
was our food, but it was as nicely cooked as if it had
been done by a pretty girl, instead of an old man, and the
comic pomposity with which every little matter was attended
to, afforded me much amusement. One thing I remember,
which struck me as particularly funny. My host was talking
about the conduct of Sir Robert Peel and the British
Parliament, and while in the midst of his discourse, opened
a trap-door leading to his cellar, and descended therein. I
knew not what he was after, and waited his reappearance
with some anxiety, when suddenly he bobbed up his ghost-like
head, resumed the thread of his remarks, and held forth
in one hand a huge piece of fat pork, and as he became excited
about the conduct of the Prime Minister, he occasionally
slapped the pork with the remaining hand, and then
shook it in the air, as if it had been one of the bloody Irishmen
to whom he was occasionally alluding. He reminded
me of Shakspeare’s grave-digger. I also remember, that, when
my friend was kneading his bread, the idea entered his head,
from some remark that I had dropped, that I did not comprehend
the meaning of a certain passage in Shakspeare; so
he immediately wiped one of his hands, leaned over for his
ragged copy of the mighty bard, and immediately settled the
question to our mutual satisfaction.
Supper being ended, I pulled out of my pocket a couple
of cigars which I had brought with me, and we then seated
ourselves comfortably before the fire, and entered into a systematic
conversation. The greater part of the talking was
done by my companion, and in the course of the evening, I
gathered the following particulars respecting his own history:
He told me he was a native of Hampshire, England, and
had spent his boyhood in the city of London, as a counting-house
clerk. He claimed a good name for his family, and
added that Mr. Jerdan, editor of the London Literary Gazette,
was his brother-in-law, having married his only sister.
He avowed himself about sixty years of age, and had been
a resident of New Brunswick ever since the year 1809. He
first came across the Atlantic as a government agent, for the
transaction of business connected with the Fur Trade; and
when he settled in the province, the whole country was an
untrodden wilderness. Since that time he had followed a
variety of employments, had acquired a competence, but lost
it through the rascality of friends. He told me he was a
widower, and that he had one son, who resided in Frederickton,
and was rapidly acquiring a reputation for his knowledge
of engineering. “It does my heart good to remember this
fact,” continued my friend, “and I do hope that my son will
not disgrace his family, as some people seem to think I have
done. The God-forsaken inhabitants of this region have a
habit of calling me a crazy old man. God be praised! I
know they overshoot the mark in that particular; if I have
lost my reason, I can tell the mocking world that I have endured
trouble enough to make even a philosopher a raving
maniac. By patient and unwearied toil, I have won two
small fortunes, but both of them were snatched away, and I
was left a beggar. The home government took pity on me,
and offered to make me a present of land, adding that I was
at liberty to make my own selection. I accepted their offer,
and selected five hundred acres on the Aroostook, making the
fall we visited this evening the centre of my domain. I duly
received a deed for the property, and having concluded that
my fellow-men were as tired of me as I was of them, I
bolted for the wilderness, and have lived here ever since.
Yes, sir, for twelve years have I been the only human inmate
of this rude cabin; I ought to except, however, ‘a lucid
interval’ of some nine months, which I spent in England,
about four years ago, visiting my friends and the favorite
haunts of my childhood. To enjoy even that little luxury,
I was compelled to sacrifice a portion of my land.”
“But why do you not sell your entire property,” I remarked,
“and take up your abode among men, where your
knowledge might be made available?”
“Knowledge, indeed!” replied the hermit philosopher;
“all that I possess, you might easily hide in the bowl of an
acorn. I do know enough to cast my eyes heavenward,
when crushed by misfortune, but the same knowledge was
possessed by the worm upon which I accidentally trod this
morning. What is man, at his best estate, but a worm?
But this is not answering your question. My only reason
for not selling this property is, that I cannot find a purchaser.
Most gladly would I jump at the chance, and then I would
mingle with my fellow-men, and endeavor to be of them.
Travellers, who sometimes pass through this region, tell me
that my property is worth $5000; I know it to be worth at
least that amount, but I should be glad to sell it for $3000,
and that, too, on a credit of ten years. The interest would,
indeed, be a meagre income, but I have schooled myself in
the ways of poverty; and though it once cost me $2000 to
carry me through a single year, I can tell you that my expenses
for the last five years have not averaged more than
twenty dollars, which I have had to obtain as best I could.
But you must not misunderstand me. The little clearing
which surrounds my rookery, contains six acres, and as I
cultivate them with all diligence, they keep me from actual
starvation.”
“But it strikes me, my dear sir, that you ask rather an extravagant
price for your uncultivated land?” I asked this
question with a view of obtaining some information in reference
to the valley of the Aroostook, and was not disappointed.
The reply of my friend was as follows:
“I can convince you that you are mistaken. In the first
place, the water privilege which my land covers, is acknowledged
to be the most valuable on the Aroostook, and I may
add that it is abundantly fertile. And then think of the
valley, at the very threshold of which I am located! It is
one of the most beautiful and luxuriant in this northern
wilderness; and the only thing against it, though I say it that
should not, is the fact that nearly five miles of its outlet belongs
to the English government, while the remainder belongs
to the United States. The whole of it ought to be yours;
but if it were, I would not live here a year; I am near enough
to you now; directly on the boundary line between your
country and mine. The Aroostook, I verily believe, is one
of the most important branches of the St. John. Its general
course is easterly, but it is exceedingly serpentine, and according
to some of your best surveyors, drains upwards of a
million acres of the best soil in Maine. Above my place,
there is hardly a spot that might not be navigated by a small
steamboat, and I believe the time is not far distant when your
enterprising Yankees will have a score of boats employed
here, in carrying their grain to market. Before that time
comes, however, you must dig a canal or build a railroad
around my beautiful water-fall, which, I am sure, could be
done for $20,000. An extensive lumbering business is now
carried on in the valley, but its future prosperity must depend
upon its agriculture. Already are its shores dotted with
well-cultivated farms, and every year is adding to their number,
and the rural beauty of those already in existence. The
soil of this valley is rich, and composed principally of what
is called alluvial (not interval) land, together with the quality
known as upland. In many portions, however, you will
find some of the most charming intervals in the world. The
trees of this region are similar to those of your northern
States. The staple crop of the Aroostook farmer is wheat.
Owing to the shortness of our seasons, corn does not arrive
at perfection, and its cultivation is neglected. Rye, barley,
and oats, all flourish here, but much more buckwheat is raised
than any other grain besides wheat. Grasses flourish here
in great perfection, and the farmer of Aroostook will yet
send to market immense quantities of cattle. As to the
climate, it is not so severe as is generally supposed. Snow
falls early, and continues late, which prevents the ground
from freezing very deep. And when summer comes, as you
may testify, the weather is sufficiently warm for every necessary
purpose. Now, sir, do you not think I have made
out a clear case?” I answered in the affirmative, and thanked
him for the information he had given me. Like Oliver Twist,
however, I was anxious for “more,” and therefore endeavored
to start him on another subject. In this laudable effort
I fully succeeded, and by merely expressing the opinion that
he must lead a very lonely life in this remote wilderness.
“Not at all, not at all,” replied my friend. “It is my
good fortune to belong to that class of men who depend upon
books, the works of nature, and themselves, for happiness, and
not upon a selfish and heartless world. As to my books, they
are not very abundant, nor are they bound in fancy morocco;
but the substance of them is of the right sort. Foremost
among them is the Bible, which tells even a poor devil like
me that he is a man. Perfect in their generation are the
truths of this glorious old Book; they have an important
bearing upon everything; and they should be studied and
cherished with jealous care. But the earth-born men, with
whom I hold daily communion, are the mighty Shakspeare,
the splendid Gibbon, the good and loving brother poets
Thomson and Wordsworth, the gifted but wayward Burns,
the elegant and witty Addison, and the ponderous Johnson.
These are the minds which always afford me solid satisfaction.
As to the immense herd who keep the printing presses
of the present day constantly employed, I know nothing
about them, and care still less. And now as to the pleasures
which are brought to me by the revolving seasons. They
are indeed manifold, and it is pleasant to remember that
‘Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.’ The
hills which surround my cabin I look upon as familiar
friends; not only when crowned with a wreath of snow, but
when rejoicing in their summer bloom; and a more peaceful
and heart-soothing stream can nowhere be found, than the
one which flows along by my door; and you know from experience
that it abounds in the finest of salmon and trout. The
surrounding woods furnish me with game, but their greatest
treasures are the ten thousand beautiful birds, which make
melody in their little hearts, and afford me unalloyed pleasure
for at least one half the year. I seldom have occasion to
kill these feathered minstrels for food, and the consequence
is, whenever I go out into my fields to work, they gather
around me without fear, and often come so near, as to be in
my very way. The quail and the wren, the jay and the bluebird,
the mocking-bird, the partridge, the fish-hawk, the eagle,
and the crow, and also the swallow, the owl and whippoorwill,
all build their nests within a stone’s throw of my door,
and they know that the friendless old man will do them no
harm. And then what exquisite pleasure do I continually
enjoy in watching the ever-varying changes of the year!
First, when the primrose tells me that the rains are over
and gone, and I go forth in the refreshing sunshine to sow
my seeds; secondly, when the glorious summer is in its
prime, with its dewy mornings and lovely twilights; also in
the sober autumnal time, when I thoughtfully count the
leaves floating on the bosom of the stream; and then again
when the cold winds of winter are howling around my cabin,
and I sit in my pleasant solitude before a roaring fire, building
palaces in my mind, as I peer into the burning embers.
Yes, sir, I have learned to live without excitement, and to
depend upon myself for the companionship I need. I do,
indeed, occasionally steal out of my beautiful vale, and mingle
with my fellow men; but I always return perfectly contented
with my lot. After all, I do not believe that the world could
add greatly to my stock of happiness, even if I were a worshipper
of Mammon, a brawling politician, or a responsible
statesman.”
“But, Mr. Egger, it strikes me that your manner of life is
not in keeping with the Bible, for which you have expressed
so much reverence.”
“That may be true,” was the reply, “but I make no sanctimonious
pretensions. I do but little to promote the happiness
of my fellow-men, and I congratulate myself with the
idea that I do as little to make them miserable. The influence
of my example amounts to nothing, and I give no bread
to the poor, because I have none to give. But let us drop
the subject; I feel that your questions may so annoy me, that
I shall be compelled to abandon this glorious old wilderness,
and become a denizen of the busy and noisy world.”
A breach having thus been made in our discourse, I examined
my watch, and found it to be near twelve o’clock.
My companion took the hint, and immediately proceeded to
fix a sleeping place that would accommodate us both. This
was done by spreading the clothes of the wooden bedstead
upon the floor. While going through with this little operation,
he held high above his head a ragged old bed-quilt, and
asked me what I thought Queen Victoria would say, if she
had such an article to rest her royal limbs upon? He then
pointed to the particular spot which he wanted me to occupy,
giving as a reason for the request, that there was a hole on
the opposite side of his mansion, where toads, rats, and
weasels were frequently in the habit of entering, and he was
afraid that they might annoy me, though he had never been
disturbed by their nocturnal visits. This information appeared
to me somewhat peculiar, but did not prevent me
from undressing myself to lie down. When about half through
this business, however, I was actually compelled to take a
seat on account of a laughing fit brought upon me by one
or two stories, which my host related for my special benefit.
What a strange man, indeed! thought I, and making another
effort, I tumbled into bed. In the mean time, my companion
had stripped himself of everything but his shirt, and in spite
of the frailty of his “spindle shanks,” was throwing himself
into the attitudes for which Kemble was distinguished, whose
acting he had often witnessed in olden times. I was already
quite exhausted with excess of laughter, and I verily believed
that the queer antics of the anchorite and philosopher would
be the death of me. But I felt that I must go to sleep, and,
in self-defence, partly covered my head with the end of a
quilt, and almost swore that I would not be disturbed again.
I did not swear, however, and was consequently again disturbed.
I had just fixed my head upon the pillow, as I
thought, for the last time, when I was startled by a tremendous
yell proceeding from without the cabin. I rushed out of
the house as if the old Harry himself had been after me,
and beheld my spare and venerable friend sitting upon a
stump, gazing upon the rising moon, and listening to the
distant howl of a wolf, with one of his feet dangling to and
fro like the pendulum of a clock. “Wasn’t that a musical
yell, my boy?” were the first words spoken by the hermit
mad-cap; and then he went on to point out all the finer features
of the scene spread out before us. Silently flowed the
stream, grand and sublime looked the mountains, clear and
very blue the sky, spirit-like the moon and stars, and above
the neighboring water-fall ascended a column of spray, which
was fast melting into a snowy cloud. After enjoying this
picture for a reasonable time, my companion then proposed
that we should enjoy a swim in the river, to which arrangement
I assented, even as did the wedding-guest of Coleridge
to the command of the Ancient Mariner. Our bath ended,
we returned to the cabin, and in the course of half an hour,
the hermit and the stranger were side by side in the arms of
sleep.
On opening my eyes in the morning, the pleasant sunshine
was flooding the floor through the open door, and my friend,
who had risen without disturbing me, was frying some trout
which he had just taken in the stream. I arose, rolled up
the bed, and prepared myself for breakfast, which was particularly
relished by the giver and the receiver. I spent the
forenoon rambling about the estate of my old friend, and enjoying
the surrounding scenery; I then proposed to him that
he should go down and be my guest at the tavern on the St.
John for a day or two, which invitation was accepted. On
my return, I took a sketch of the secluded vale where stands
the cottage of my friend, also a profile of his own handsome
face, and a view of his water-fall. The time of my departure
having arrived, I left my friend with a heavy heart, for my
distant city-home, while he returned to his solitary cottage
among the mountains.
Woodstock, July.
I have recently performed a pilgrimage along the valley
of the Lower St. John, and as I am about to leave the river,
it is meet that I should give my reader a record of my observations.
The distance from the Falls of St. John to the
city of that name, is two hundred and twenty miles. The
width of the river varies from a quarter of a mile to two
miles, and the depth from two to forty feet. That portion
lying north of Frederickton abounds in rapids and shallows,
and is navigated only by flat-bottomed boats, which are taken
up stream by horse power, but descend with the current.
Here, for the most part, the shores are mountainous, and only
partly cultivated, with high and picturesque banks; the lowest
portion, however, is of a level character, and presents the
appearance of an ancient and highly cultivated country, and
is navigated by steamboats, and the common sail-craft of the
country. The soil all along the shores is good, but seems
better adapted for grass than wheat, and I can see no good
reason for its not becoming greatly distinguished as a grazing
country.
The river is not distinguished for any pictorial feature,
(though it abounds in beautiful landscapes,) excepting a place
called the Narrows, situated at the southern extremity. At
this point the stream is not more than five hundred yards
wide, and as it is bounded on either side by a high rocky barrier,
the current ordinarily passes through with great rapidity.
The tides of the ocean ascend about thirty miles, and it is
only when the tide is high that the point in question can be
navigated. Though these Narrows are a great annoyance to
the navigator, by the lover of the picturesque they are highly
esteemed.—Not only are they beautiful in themselves, but,
owing to the peculiarity of the place, it is frequently the case,
that the broad expanse of water above it is covered with a
fleet of sloops, schooners, steamboats, towboats, and timber
crafts, which present a peculiar and agreeable panorama.
The river abounds with salmon and shad, and the former,
though rather small, may be taken by the angler in the principal
tributaries. They are not sufficiently abundant, however,
to constitute an important article of commerce, and the
common modes of taking them are with the spear and the
drift net.
The principal towns on the St. John are, Woodstock,
French Village, Frederickton and St. John. The first of
these is one hundred and fifty miles from the mouth, and
though a ragged, yet an interesting village. So far as its natural
productions are concerned, I am disposed to compliment
this province in the highest terms; but I must say, that the
ignorance, idleness, and gouging character of its common people,
have made me quite willing to take my departure therefrom.
The expenses of travelling are enormous. Stage
fares average about twelve cents per mile, and if you happen
to spend a week at a miserable country tavern, you will have
to pay two dollars per day for board. With a few exceptions,
there is hardly a country tavern in the province, where the
traveller is not in danger of being robbed. It was my good
fortune to be robbed only twice, but I was particularly fortunate.
This is rather severe, but I am driven to talk in this
strain, though I would not be understood as reflecting upon
the better classes of the province.
The stage route from the Grand Falls to St. John passes
through Woodstock, but the distance from this place to the
American town of Houlton is ten miles, and in this direction
there is also an established stage route to Bangor.
The next place on the St. John of any note is French
Village. It usually contains a thousand souls—most of them
Indians. They live in frame and log houses, and though
they pretend to do some farming, they are chiefly engaged in
hunting and fishing. They are a good-looking race, speak
English fluently, and are the followers of a Catholic priest,
who lives among them, and officiates in a small chapel which
was built by the Jesuits at an early day. This society is
said to be one of the most wealthy in the province. The
chief of the village is one Louis Beir. He lives in a very
comfortable and well-furnished house, is rather a handsome
man, dresses in a half-savage manner, and while he offers
his visitor a comfortable chair, he invariably seats himself
upon the floor in the true Indian fashion.
Frederickton is at the head of the steamboat navigation,
and distant from St. John eighty miles. Between these two
places there runs a morning and evening boat, and the summer
travel is quite extensive. Frederickton contains about
eight thousand inhabitants, composed, principally, of Irish,
Scotch and English. It contains three principal streets, running
north and south, and some half dozen handsome public
buildings, including an Episcopal church, after the Tuscan
order, a court house and a college. The town is situated
on a level plain, and its suburbs are made exceeding beautiful
by the number of rural residences which attract the eye in
every direction. The elm and poplar both seem to flourish
here, and add much to the picturesqueness of the place and
vicinity. The business of Frederickton is only of a second-rate
character, and it has become what it is, merely from the
fact that it has heretofore been the seat of government. This
fact has also had a tendency to collect a good society in the
place, and its “ton,” though in a small way, have been disposed
to cut quite a dash. The “mother Parliament,” I believe,
has recently removed the seat of government to St.
John, and the lovers of Frederickton are sorry and a little
angry.
The city of St. John stands at the mouth of the river of
that name, and is also laved by the waters of the Bay of
Fundy. I hate cities, but suppose that I must stop a moment
in the one alluded to. It is a business place, planted among
rocks, contains some twenty thousand inhabitants, (two-thirds
of whom are Irish,) and in this port, at the present time, is
moored a fleet of two hundred ships. Its public buildings
are numerous, the finest of which are the court house, an
Episcopal church of the Doric order, another after the Gothic,
and a Presbyterian church after the Corinthian order.
The city is defended by a fortress, which presents a handsome
appearance as you approach the port. The merchants
of the place are chiefly employed in the square timber trade,
and have, heretofore, done an extensive business. This trade,
however, I am inclined to believe, is rapidly running out.
On the opposite side of the St. John River is a picturesque
point or hill, which is called Carlton Hill. It is surmounted
by a massive block-house, and commands an extensive view
of the Bay of Fundy, the spring tides of which rise to the
height of sixty feet, and when coming in, make a terrible
roar.
Off the Coast of Maine, July.
One week ago I was fighting with musquetoes and flies,
on the head waters of the Penobscot, and now that I am
upon the ocean once more, I fancy that my feelings are allied
to those of an old moose that I lately saw standing in a mountain
lake, with the water up to his chin. The noble river
which I have mentioned, is all my fancy painted it, and in
spite of its insect inhabitants, I shall ever remember it with
pleasure.
The length of this stream from the mouth of its bay to
where its principal branches come together, is about one
hundred and forty miles; from this junction, to the fountain
head of the west branch, the distance is supposed to be one
hundred and fifty miles, while the east branch is probably
only one hundred miles in length. Both of these streams
rise in the midst of a mountain wilderness, looming above
which is old Kathaden, the loftiest mountain in Maine, and
elder brother to Mount Washington, in New Hampshire.
The mountain is distant from Moosehead Lake only about
twenty miles, but it towers into the sky so grandly, that
nearly all the people who inhabit the northern part of Maine
look upon it as a familiar friend. The two branches of the
Penobscot run through a mountainous region, both of them
abounding in rapids, though the west branch contains a number
of picturesque falls. The soil of this region, generally
speaking, is good, but remains in its original wildness.
Its stationary inhabitants are few and far between; but it
gives employment to about three thousand lumbermen. They
spend the winter wielding the axe in the forests, and the
spring and summer in driving down the stream logs which
they have prepared for the saw-mills, which are mostly
located on the lower part of the Penobscot. Nine months
in the year they labor without ceasing, but usually appropriate
to themselves a play spell of three months, which is
the entire autumn. They are a young and powerfully built
race of men, mostly New Englanders, generally unmarried,
and, though rude in their manner, and intemperate, are quite
intelligent. They seem to have a passion for their wild and
toilsome life, and, judging from their dresses, I should think
possess a fine eye for the comic and fantastic. The entire
apparel of an individual usually consists of a pair of gray
pantaloons and two red flannel shirts, a pair of long boots,
and a woollen covering for the head, and all these things are
worn at one and the same time. The head-covering alluded
to, when first purchased, is what might be called a hat, but
the wearers invariably take particular pains to transform the
article into such queer shapes as to render it indescribable.
Sometimes they take the crown and tie it in the shape of a
fool’s cap, and sometimes they trim the rims with a jack
knife into many different fashions. Their wages vary from
twenty to thirty dollars per month, and they are chiefly employed
by the lumber merchants of Bangor, who furnish
them with necessary supplies.
The Penobscot, I suppose, is unquestionably the most
fruitful lumber river in the United States, and its pine and
hemlock forests seem yet to be inexhaustible; and the State
of Maine is indebted to the lumber business for many of its
beautiful cities and towns.
From the Forks of the Penobscot to Bangor, the distance
is about sixty miles. This portion of the river is nearly a
quarter of a mile wide. The banks are rather low and level,
and somewhat cultivated. The water is deep and clear, and
the current strong. Generally speaking, the scenery of the
river is not remarkable, and were it not for the numerous
islands, it might be considered tame, by the lover of a mountain
land. The islands alluded to, however, are exceedingly
beautiful. Covered as they are with venerable elms, and
containing no underbrush, but a continuous plot of green,
they have all the appearance of cultivated parks. The stage
route from Woodstock, after reaching the Penobscot, continues
along the eastern bank, and as the coaches are comfortable,
and the horses good, the ride is quite pleasant.
The principal village, of which there are four, is Old Town.
It is a busy little place, and the present termination of a railroad
from Bangor, which is twelve miles distant. Directly
opposite Old Town is a small island, where resides a remnant
of the Penobscot Indians. They number some four
hundred souls, and are just sufficiently civilized to lead a very
miserable sort of life.
I come now to speak of Bangor. It is a well built, and
handsome city, eighty miles from the ocean, and contains
about eight thousand inhabitants. It is at the head of tide
water navigation, and has a good harbor, where I counted,
from one point, nearly two hundred sails. The principal
article of trade is lumber, which is distinguished for its good
qualities. All the heaviest merchants are engaged in the
lumber trade, and almost everybody deals in it to a limited
extent. A few thousand shingles will pay your tailor for a
coat, a few loads of plank will settle your account with the
butcher, and bundles of clap-boards are gladly received by
the grocer, in exchange for his sugar and tea.
With the people of Bangor I was very much pleased.
Their manners and habits are stamped with the true New
England character; they mind their own business, and are
distinguished for their intelligence, virtue and hospitality.
When I reached this place, my beard was more than half as
long as that of the Wandering Jew, and it took me nearly a
whole day to forget the bad French which I had acquired in
Canada and New Brunswick, and transform myself into the
semblance of a civilized man. I had been in the woods for
so long a time, that I seized the first paper I saw to find out
whether I had forgotten to read. You may readily imagine,
therefore, what a refreshing effect the appearance and conversation
of intelligent people had upon my feelings. But
the class of citizens who made the deepest impression upon
me, were the children of Bangor. I met them at every corner,
and heard their happy voices in every dwelling, and a
more perfectly beautiful race of creatures I never before saw
in any city.
The distance from Bangor to the ocean is eighty miles.
For twenty miles, the river averages three quarters of a mile
in width, when it gradually widens into an expansive bay or
gulf. The water is deep, always covered with vessels, and
abounds in salmon, which are taken only with the net. The
shores are hilly and well cultivated, and the towns of Bucksport,
Frankfort, Belfast, and Thomaston, as you pass them,
present each a thriving and pleasant appearance.
Moosehead Lake and the Kennebeck River.
Portland, August.
Moosehead Lake is the largest and the wildest in New
England. It lies in the central portion of the State of Maine,
and distant from the ocean about one hundred and fifty miles.
Its length is fifty miles, and its width from five to fifteen.
It is embosomed among a brotherhood of mountains, whose
highest peak hath been christened with the beautiful name
of Kathaden. All of them, from base to summit, are covered
with a dense forest, in which the pine is by far the most
abundant. It is the grand centre of a vast wilderness region,
whose principal denizens are wild beasts. During the summer
months, its tranquil waters remain in unbroken solitude,
unless some scenery-hunting pilgrim, like myself, happens to
steal along its shores in his birchen canoe. But in the winter,
the case is very different, for then, all along its borders, may
be heard the sound of the axe, wielded by a thousand men.
Then it is that an immense quantity of logs are cut, which
are manufactured into lumber at the extensive mills down
the Kennebeck, which is the only outlet of the lake.
A winter at Moosehead must be attended with much that
is rare, and wild, and exciting, not only to the wealthy proprietor
who has a hundred men to superintend, but even to
the toiling chopper himself. Look at a single specimen of
the gladdening scenes enacted in that forest world. It is an
awful night, the winds wailing, the snow falling, and the forests
making a moan. Before you is a spacious, but rudely
built log cabin, almost covered with snow. But now, above
the shriek of the storm, and the howl of the wolf, you hear
a long, loud shout, from a score of human mouths. You
enter the cabin, and lo, a merry band of noble men, some
lying on a buffalo-robe, and some seated upon a log, while
the huge fire before them reveals every feature and wrinkle
of their countenances, and makes a picture of the richest
coloring. Now the call is for a song, and a young man sings
a song of Scotland, which is his native land; a mug of cider
then goes round, after which an old pioneer clears his throat
for a hunting legend of the times of old; now the cunning
jest is heard, and peals of hearty laughter shake the building;
and now a soul-stirring speech is delivered in favor of Henry
Clay. The fire-place is again replenished, when, with a
happy and contented mind, each woodman retires to his couch,
to sleep, and to dream of his wife and children, or of the
buxom damsel whom he loves.
The number of logs which these men cut in a single winter,
is almost incredible, and the business of conveying them to the
lake upon the snow gives employment to a great many additional
men and their oxen. The consequence is, that large quantities
of flour, potatoes, pork, and hay, are consumed; and as
these things are mostly supplied by the farmers of the Kennebeck,
winter is the busiest season of the year throughout the
region. When the lake is released from its icy fetters in
the spring, a new feature of the logging business comes into
operation, which is called rafting. A large raft contains
about eighteen thousand logs, and covers a space of some
ten acres. In towing them to the Kennebeck, a small steamboat
is employed, which, when seen from the summit of a
hill, looks like a living creature struggling with a mighty
incubus. But the most picturesque thing connected with
this business is a floating log-cabin, called a Raft House,
which ever attends a raft on its way to the river. During
the summer, as before stated, Moosehead Lake is a perfect
solitude, for the “log-chopper” has become a “log driver” on
the Kennebeck—the little steamer having been moored in
its sheltering bay, near the tavern at the south end of the
lake, and the toiling oxen been permitted to enjoy their summer
sabbath on the farm of their master.
The islands of Moosehead Lake, of any size, are only four:
Moose and Deer Islands at the southern extremity, Sugar
Island in the large eastern bay, and Farm Island in a north-western
direction from that. All of these are covered with
beautiful groves, but the time is not far distant when they
will be cultivated farms. Trout are the principal fish that
flourish in its waters, and maybe caught at anytime in great
abundance. And thereby hangs a fish story.
It was the sunset hour, and with one of my companions,
I had gone to a rocky ledge for the purpose of trying my luck.
Our bait was squirrel meat, and I was the first to throw the
line. It had hardly reached the water, before I had the
pleasure of striking and securing a two pound trout. This
threw my friend into a perfect fever of excitement, so that
he was everlastingly slow in cutting up the squirrel; and it
may be readily supposed that I was somewhat excited myself;
so I grabbed the animal out of his hands, and in less than a
“jiffy,” and with my teeth, made a number of good baits.
The conclusion of the whole matter was, that in less than
forty minutes we had caught nearly seventy pounds of salmon
trout. But the fish of Moosehead are not to be compared
with those of Horicon in point of delicacy, though
they are very large, and very abundant. The reason of this
is, that its waters are not remarkably clear, and a good deal
of its bottom is muddy. Moose River, which is the principal
tributary of the Lake, is a narrow, deep, and picturesque
stream, where may be caught the common trout, weighing
from one to five pounds.
In this portion of Maine every variety of forest game may
be found; but the principal kinds are the gray wolf, the black
bear, the deer, and the moose. Winter is the appropriate
season for their capture, when they afford a deal of sport to
the hunter, and furnish a variety of food to the forest laborers.
Deer are so very plenty, that a certain resident told me, that,
in the deep snow of last winter, he caught some dozen of
them alive, and having cut a slit in their ears, let them go,
that they might recount to their kindred their marvellous
escape. But the homeliest animal, the most abundant, and
the best for eating, is the moose. I did not kill one, but
spent a night with an old hunter who did. During the warm
summer night, these animals, for the purpose of getting clear
of the black fly, are in the habit of taking to the water, where,
with nothing but their heads in sight, they remain for hours.
It was the evening of one of those cloudless nights whose
memory can never die. We were alone far up the Moose
River, and it seemed to me, “we were the first that ever
burst into that forest sea.” On board a swan-like birch canoe
we embarked, and with our rifles ready, we carefully and
silently descended the stream. How can I describe the
lovely pictures that we passed? Now we peered into an
ink-black recess in the centre of a group of elms, where a
thousand fire-flies were revelling in joy;—and now a solitary
duck shot out into the stream from its hidden home, behind
a fallen and decayed tree; now we watched the stars mirrored
in the sleeping waves, and now we listened to the hoot of
the owl, the drum of the partridge, the song of a distant
water-fall, or the leap of a robber-trout. It was not far from
midnight when my companion whispered, “Hush, hush!”
and pointed to a dim spot some hundred yards below. The
first chance was allotted me, so I took the best aim I could,
and fired. I heard the ball skip along the water, and on
coming near, found my mark to be only a smooth rock.
Two hours more passed on, one small moose was killed,
and at day-break we were in our cabin fast asleep.
The principal outlet of Moosehead Lake is the Kennebeck,
which now “demands my song.” It is the second river in
Maine, and one of the most beautiful I have ever seen. Instead
of watering a wilderness, as I had supposed, all along
its valley, for over a hundred miles, are fertile and extensive
farms, with here and there a thriving village, inhabited by an
intelligent and industrious people. Its principal tributary is
Dead River, and the spot at the junction of the two is called
the Forks. The cultivated region stops here, and between
this point and Moosehead, the distance is about twenty-five
miles, and this portion is yet a forest wilderness.
The principal attraction at the Forks is a capital tavern,
kept by one Burnham, who is a capital fellow to guide the
lover of Nature, or the trout fisherman, to Moxy Fall or
Nameless Lake, which are in the immediate vicinity. The
mountains about here are quite lofty, and exceedingly picturesque,
abounding in the maple, the oak, the pine and hemlock.
Emptying into the Kennebeck, a few miles north of
the Forks, is a superb mountain stream, named Moxy, after
an Indian who was there drowned many years ago. Winding
for a long distance among wild ravines, and eternally
singing to the woods a trumpet song, it finally makes a sudden
plunge into a chasm more than a hundred feet in depth.
The perpendicular rocks on either side rise to an immense
height, their tops crowned with a “peculiar diadem of trees,”
and their crevices filled up with dark-green verdure, whence
occasionally issues, hanging gracefully in the air, beautiful
festoons of the ivy, and clusters of the mountain bluebell.
The depth of the pool was never told, and its waters wash
against the granite walls in a perpetual gloom. On one
occasion I visited it when there was a high freshet, and saw
what I could hardly have believed from a description. I
stood on an elevated point, in front of the Fall, when my
eyes rested upon an immense log, some sixty feet long, coming
down the foaming stream with all the fury of a maddened
steed; presently it reached the precipice,—then cleaved its
airy pathway down into the hell of waters,—was completely
out of sight for at least two minutes; then, like a creature endowed
with life, it shot upward again, clear out of the water,
made another less desperate plunge, and quietly pursued its
course into the Kennebeck.
In speaking of Nameless Lake, it is necessary that I should
be a little egotistical. It is a fairy-like sheet of pure water
in the heart of the mountain wilderness, only about a mile
in length, but full of trout. The proprietor was of the party
that accompanied me on my first visit. While approaching
it, the remark was made that it was yet without a name;
when it was agreed that it should be christened after that
individual who should on that day throw the most successful
fly. As fortune would have it, the honor was awarded to
me; and on a guide-board in the forest, three miles from
Burnham’s, may be seen the figure of a hand, and the words
“Lake Lanman.” There stands my written name, exposed
“to the peltings of the pitiless storm;” and in a few years,
at the longest, it will be washed away, and the tree which
supports it be mingling with the dust. Will it be even thus
with the memory of my name?
Not to attempt a description of the scenery of the Kennebeck,
which could be faithfully given only by the pictures of a Cole
or Durand, I will take my readers down its beautiful valley,
and tell them what I know respecting its beautiful villages.
The first in order is Bingham, situated on a fertile “interval,”
surrounded with picturesque hills, charming and quiet
as a summer day, and containing within the jurisdiction of
its town an uncommonly fine farm, belonging to a Mr. Parlin,
who manufactures large quantities of maple sugar.
Solon is the next village in the Kennebeck valley, remarkable
for nothing but Caritunk Falls, which are twenty feet
high, and run through a gorge fifty feet wide. Here I saw
some twenty men “driving” the logs that had been lodged
all along the river when it was low. It is a laborious life
which these men lead, but they receive good pay, and meet
with many interesting adventures. They generally have the
soul to enjoy fine scenery, and therefore demand the respect
of the intelligent traveller.
Anson, though in the valley of the Kennebeck, is situated
on Seven Mile Brook, and is a flourishing business place.
From its neighboring hills may be seen the sky-piercing
peaks of Mount Blue, Saddleback, Bigelow and Mount Abraham,
which are the guardian spirits of Maine. The town is
distinguished for its agricultural enterprise, and the abundance
of its wheat, having actually produced more than is reported
from any other town in the State.
Norridgwock, so named by the Kennebeck Indians, because,
when fighting with their enemies at this place, they
could find no-ridge-to-walk upon, which was a desirable object.
It is a charming little village, and associated with a
celebrated Indian chief named Bomazeen, and also with a
Jesuit missionary, whose name I do not remember. Not far
from here is a picturesque fall, also a picturesque bend of the
Kennebeck, where empties Sandy River, upon which are
many extensive farms.
Skowhegan is a thriving village, where there are fine falls,
which I could never look upon without thinking of the famous
Glen’s Falls in New York, of which they are a perfect
counterpart, though on a smaller scale. Many and very
dear to me are my recollections of its “choice bits” of scenery,
of the fine singing I there heard, of the acquaintances
there formed, and of the pleasant literary communings which
were mine in company with one of the best and most intellectual
of women, and who has, for many years, been my
“guide, counselor, and friend.”
Waterville, the next town on the river, is the seat of a
Baptist college, and the head of navigation on account of
the Ticonic Falls. It is the centre of an extensive farming
district, which fact, together with the literary taste of its people,
makes it an uncommonly interesting place.
Augusta, the capital of the State, is also on the Kennebeck,
and with its State House and other state buildings, its admirably
conducted hotels, its commanding churches, its large
bridge, and pleasant residences, is one of the most picturesque
and interesting towns in the whole of New England.
Hallowell, two miles below Augusta, was once a great
place for business, and is still a very pleasant town, though
unable to compete with its rival the capital. In my mind,
it is chiefly associated with some fine people, and particularly
with three beautiful sisters, who are great lovers of poetry,
and accomplished musicians.
Gardiner, further down, is a tremendous place for saw-mills;
and lumbering I look upon as one of the surest kinds
of business. It contains the handsomest church-building in
the state, and a number of fine residences belonging to its
wealthy citizens, of which that one belonging to Mr. Gardiner
(after whom the place was named), is the finest.
Bath is the next and most southern town on the Kennebeck;
it is quite a large place, where there is a great deal of
shipping done, and is now in a flourishing condition. The
sail down the river from here is a most delightful one, for
the eye revels on a continual succession of pleasant farms,
quiet headlands, solitary islands, and vessels of every kind
passing up and down the stream. Even to the present day,
the Kennebeck abounds in salmon, which are caught with
nets from the first of May till midsummer. To take them
with the hook is fine sport, indeed, and for the manner in
which I conquered a solitary individual, I refer my reader to
a certain passage in Scrope on Salmon Fishing. Few are
the rivers that I love more than the Kennebeck, and very
dear to me are its manifold associations.
I date this chapter from Portland, which is a thriving city
of twenty thousand inhabitants, and interesting to the lovers
of literature as being the native place of Prof. Longfellow,
Mrs. Seba Smith, and John Neal.
A fishing party on the Thames—Watch Hill—Night adventures.
Norwich, Conn., August.
A few mornings ago, just as the sun had risen above the
eastern hills, which look down upon the Thames at Norwich,
the prettiest sail-boat of the place left her moorings, and with
a pleasant northerly breeze started for the Sound. Her
passengers consisted of six gentlemen, all equipped in their
sporting jackets, and furnished with fishing tackle, and their
place of destination was Watch Hill, which is a point of land
in Rhode Island, extending into the Atlantic, a few miles
from Stonington. We were on a fishing frolic, as a matter
of course, and a happier company, I ween, were never yet
afloat, for the sport of a morning breeze. What with the
story, the jest, the iced lemonade and exquisite cigar, the
minutes glided by as swiftly and unobserved as the tiny waves
around us. Now we met a solitary fisherman, towing for
bass, and as we hailed him with a friendly shout, and passed
by, he began to talk in an under tone, and his voice did not
die away until we had turned a point. What would I not
give for an accurate record of that old man’s life! Anon, we
witnessed the soothing picture of a well-conducted farm, with
its green-girt cottage, spacious barns, neat and flowing fields,
and its horses and oxen, cows, sheep, hogs, and poultry.
Now we saw some noble men, such as Vernet delighted to
paint, hauling the seine, and, as the “fruit of all their toil”
were thrown upon the sand, their flipping forms reflected
back the sunlight, reminding us of—anything the reader may
be pleased to imagine. Now, we were overtaken and tossed
about by a steamer bound to New Haven; and then we
sailed in company with a boat, a sloop, and schooner;
meeting others, beating up, from Boston, New York, and
Philadelphia. And the termination of this pleasing panorama
was composed of Gale’s Ferry, the commanding town, fort,
and monument of Groton, together with the city of New
London, among whose anchored shipping floated the saucy
Revenue Cutter, and at whose docks were chained a goodly
number of storm-beaten whalers.
Having taken in “our stores,” and obtained from the fish-market
a basket of bait, we again hoisted sail, “bound first
to Commit Rock,” and “binding” ourselves to capture all of
the watery enemy which might tempt the power or the dexterity
of our arms.
When about three miles from New London, all eyes were
attracted by a beautiful craft on our lee, laden with a party
of ladies and gentlemen. “They’re going towards a reef!”
exclaimed our captain; and no sooner had the words escaped
his lips, than the stranger struck, and stove a hole through
her bottom. We were just in time to save the party from a
watery grave; and when we had landed them in safety on
the beach, we were well repaid for our trouble by the
consciousness of having done a good act, and by the thankful
words and benignant smiles of the ladies fair. A dozen
minutes more and we were within oar’s length of the fishing
rock. “All ashore, that’s coming!” shouted our mate as
he stood on the rock, when we all leaped out, and plenty of
line being given her, the boat swung to, and “like a cradled
thing at rest,” floated upon the waves. Then commenced
the sport. The breeze was refreshing, and the breath of the
salt sea-foam buoyed up our spirits to a higher pitch, and
gave new vigor to our sinews. The youngest of the party
was the first who threw his hook, which was snapped in the
twinkling of an eye. Another trial, and a four-pound blackfish
lay extended upon the rock. Another, and another, and
another, until fourscore, even-numbered, came following after.
Tired of the sport, two of the party entered the boat, and
hoisted sail for a little cruize. Half an hour had elapsed,
when the steady breeze changed into a frightful gale, capsizing
within hailing distance a fishing boat with two old men
in it. Hanging on, as they were, to the keel of the boat,
(which, having no ballast, could not sink,) their situation was
extremely dangerous, as there was not a vessel within two
miles. The poor men beckoned to us to help them; but as
our boat was gone, we could not do so, which of course we
much regretted. For one long, long hour did they thus hang,
“midway betwixt life and death,” exposed to the danger of
being washed away by the remorseless surge, or swallowed
up, as we were afterwards told, by a couple of sharks, which
were kept away only by the hand of Providence. This incident
tended to cool our ardor for fishing, and as we were
satisfied with that day’s luck, we put up our gear, during
which time the boat arrived, and we embarked for the Hill.
We made one short turn, however, towards the boat which
had picked up the fishermen, as we were anxious to tell them
why we did not come to their relief. We then tacked about,
and the last words we heard from our companions were:
“Thank you—thank you—God bless you all,” and until we
had passed a league beyond Fisher’s Island, our little vessel
“carried a most beautiful bone between her teeth.”
At sunset we moored our little boat on the eastern shore of
Paucatuck Bay. On ascending to the Watch Hill hotel, we
found it to be a large, well-furnished house, and our host to
be a fat and jolly Falstaff-ish sort of man, just suited to his
station. At seven o’clock we sat down to a first-rate blackfish
supper, then smoked a cigar, and while my companions
resorted to the ten-pin alley, I buttoned up my pea-jacket,
and sallied forth on an “exploring expedition.” As I stood
on the highest point of the peninsula, facing the south, I
found that the lighthouse stood directly before me, on the
extreme point, that a smooth beach faded away on either side,
the left hand one being washed by the Atlantic, and that on
the right by the waters of Fisher Island Bay, and that the
dreary hills in my rear were dotted by an occasional dwelling.
The breeze had died away, and the bright, full moon
was in the cloudless sky. Many sails were in the offing,
passing by and being passed by the Providence and Stonington
steamboats bound to New York. The scenery around
me, and the loveliness of the sky, with its galaxy of stars,
caused me to forget myself, and I wandered far away upon
the shore—alone, in the awful presence of the great Atlantic
Ocean. No sounds fell upon my ear, save the muffled roar
of the ground swell, and the faint whispers of the tiny waves
as they melted upon the sand. I traced my name, and beside
it that of another, a being beauteous, for whose cabinet
of curiosities I gathered many a round, smooth pebble, and
many a delicate sea-shell. I wandered on, now gazing with
wonder and admiration into the cerulean vault of Heaven, or
into the still deeper blue of the mighty sea; and now singing
with a loud voice one of the sacred songs of the sweet singer
of Israel. Now, a thousand images of surpassing loveliness
darted across my vision, as I thought of God—of an eternal
life in heaven—and of love, divine and human; and then
there came a weight upon my spirit, as I remembered the
powers of darkness, the destiny of the condemned, and the
miseries engendered by our evil passions. One moment I
deemed myself immortal, released forever from the contaminating
influence of sin, and then I thought of the valley of
death, and trembled. In that communion with the mysteries
of the universe, strongly blended as they were, I felt that I
could wander on without fatigue, until the whole earth should
be trodden by my pilgrim feet. But the chilly air and the
fading night warned me to retrace my steps, and in an hour
I had reached my home.
When the sun rose from his ocean-bed on the following
morning, surrounded by a magnificent array of clouds, I was
up, and busily engaged preparing for a day’s fishing,—first,
and before breakfast, for bluefish, then for blackfish, and
lastly for bass. While my companions were asleep, I went
out with an old fisherman, and by breakfast time had captured
thirty bluefish, weighing about two pounds a piece. The
manner of catching these is to tow for them with a long line,
the bait being a piece of ivory attached to a strong hook.
They are a very active and powerful fish, and when hooked,
make a great fuss, skipping and leaping out of the water.
At nine o’clock our party were at anchor on a reef about
one mile off, and for the space of about two hours we hauled
in the blackfish as fast as possible, many of them weighing
eight to ten pounds apiece. For them, you must have a small
straight hook, and for bait, lobsters or crabs. A broiled
blackfish, when rightly cooked, is considered one of the best
of salt-water delicacies.
But the rarest of all fishing is that of catching bass, and a
first-rate specimen I was permitted to enjoy. About eleven
o’clock, I jumped into the surf-boat of an old fisherman,
requesting him to pull for the best bass ground with which
he was acquainted. In the mean time my friends had obtained
a large boat, and were going to follow us. The spot
having been reached, we let our boat float, wherever the
tide and wind impelled it, and began to throw over our lines,
using for bait the skin of an eel six inches long. Those in
the neighboring boat had fine luck, as they thought, having
caught some dozen five-pounders, and they seemed to be
perfectly transported because nearly an hour had passed and
I had caught nothing. In their glee they raised a tremendous
shout, but before it had fairly died away, my line was
suddenly straightened, and I knew that I had a prize. Now
it cut the water like a streak of lightning, although there
were two hundred feet out, and as the fish returned I still
kept it taut; and after playing with him for about forty
minutes, I succeeded in drowning him, then hauled up gradually,
and with my boat hook landed him in the boat safe and
sound. The length of that striped bass was four feet two
inches, and his weight, before cleaned, fifty-eight pounds.
You can easily imagine the chop-fallen appearance of my
brother fishermen, when they found out that “the race is
not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong.” At
three o’clock in the afternoon, a piece of that fish tended to
gratify the appetite which had been excited by his capture.
Satisfied with our piscatorial sports, we concluded to spend
the rest of the day quietly gathering shells upon the beach;
but causes of excitement were still around us. No sooner
had we reached the water’s edge, than we discovered a group
of hardy men standing on a little knoll, in earnest conversation,
while some of them were pointing towards the sea. “To
the boat! to the boat!” suddenly shouted their leader, when
they all descended with the speed of Swiss mountaineers,
and on reaching a boat which had been made ready, they
pushed her into the surf, and three of them jumped in, and
thus commenced the interesting scene of hauling the seine.
There was something new and romantic to us in the thought,
that the keen and intelligent eye of man could even penetrate
into the deep, so far as to designate the course of travel of
the tribes of the sea. And when the seine was drawn, it
was a glorious and thrilling sight to see those fishermen tugging
at the lines, or leap into the surf, which sometimes completely
covered them, to secure the tens of thousands of fish
which they had caught. There were a grace and beauty
about the whole scene, which made me long for the genius
of a Mount or Edmonds.
A little before sunset, I was again strolling along the shore,
when the following incident occurred. You will please
return with me to the spot. Yonder, on that fisherman’s
stake, a little sparrow has just alighted, facing the main. It
has been lured away from the green bowers of home by the
music of the sea, and is now gazing, perhaps with feelings
kindred to my own, upon this most magnificent structure of
the Almighty hand. See! it spreads its wing, and is now
darting towards the water—fearless and free. Ah! it has
gone too near! for the spray moistens its plumes! There—there
it goes, frightened back to its native woodland. That
little bird, so far as its power and importance are concerned,
seems to me a fit emblem of the mind of man, and this great
ocean an appropriate symbol of the mind of God.
The achievements of the human mind “have their passing
paragraphs of praise, and are forgotten.” Man may point to
the Pyramids of Egypt, which are the admiration of the world,
and exclaim, “Behold the symbol of my power and importance!”
But most impotent is the boast. Those mighty
mysteries stand in the solitude of the desert, and the glory of
their destiny is fulfilled in casting a temporary shadow over
the tent of the wandering Arab.
The achievements of the Almighty mind are beyond the
comprehension of man, and lasting as his own eternity. The
spacious firmament, with its suns, and moons, and stars; our
globe, with its oceans, and mountains, and rivers; the regularly
revolving seasons; and the still, small voice continually
ascending from universal nature, all proclaim the power and
goodness of their great original. And everything which God
has created, from the nameless insect to the world of waters,
which is the highway of nations, was created for good, was
created to accomplish some omnipotent end. As this ocean
is measureless and fathomless, so is it an emblem, beautiful
but faint, of that wonderful Being, whose throne is above the
milky-way, and who is himself from everlasting to everlasting.
But see, there is a heavy cloud rising in the west, the
breeze is freshening, flocks of wild ducks are flying inland,
and the upper air is ringing with the shrill whistle of the
bold and wild sea-gull, whose home is the boundless sea;
therefore, as my dear friend Noble has somewhere written,
“the shortest homeward track’s the best.”
Still in the present tense would I continue. The witching
hour of midnight has again returned. A cold rain-storm has
just passed over, the moon is again the mistress of a cloudless
sky, but the wind is still raging in all its fury.
“I view the ships that come and go,
Looking so like to living things.
O! ’tis a proud and gallant show
Of bright and broad-spread wings,
Making it light around them, as they keep
Their course right onward through the unsounded deep.”
Dana.
God be with them and their brave and gallant crews. But,
again:
“Where the far-off sand-bars lift
Their backs in long and narrow line,
The breakers shout, and leap, and shift,
And send the sparkling brine
Into the air; then rush to mimic strife;
Glad creatures of the sea, and full of life!”—Ibid.
But I must stop quoting poetry, for as “a thing of beauty
is a joy forever,” I should be forever writing about the sea.
Heavens! what a terrible song is the ocean singing, with
his long white hair streaming in the wind! The waving,
splashing, wailing, dashing, howling, rushing, and moaning
of the waves is a glorious lullaby, and a fit prelude to a dream
of the sea.
At an early hour on the following day, we embarked for
home, but a sorry time did we have of it, for the winds were
very lazy. We were ten hours going the distance of twenty-two
miles. It was now sunset, and we were becalmed off
Gale’s Ferry. Ashore we went, resolved to await the coming
of the Sag Harbor steamboat, which usually arrived about
nine o’clock, and by which we were, finally, taken in tow.
Snugly seated in our boat, and going at the rate of eighteen
miles, we were congratulating ourselves upon an early arrival
home, and had already begun to divide our fish. But, alas,
at this moment the painter broke; the steamer, unconscious
of our fate, still sped onward, while we sheered off towards
the shore, almost disgusted with human life in general—for
our boat was large, and we had but one oar. But what matter?
We were a jolly set, and the way we gave three cheers,
as a prelude to the song of “Begone Dull Care,” must have
been startling to the thousand sleeping echoes of hill, forest,
river and glen.
Having crept along at snails’ pace about one mile, we concluded
to land, and, if possible, obtain a place to sleep, and
something to eat; for not having had a regular dinner, and
not a mouthful of supper, we were half starved. With clubs
in our hands, to keep off hobgoblins and bull-dogs, we
wended our way towards a neighboring farm-house, where
we knocked for admittance. Pretty soon, a great gawky-looking
head stuck itself out of an upper window, to which
we made known our heartfelt desires, receiving, in return, the
following answer:—“My wife is sick—hain’t got any bread—you
can go in the barn to sleep if you want to;” and we
turned reluctantly away, troubled with a feeling very nearly
allied to anger. “Come, let’s go off in this direction,” exclaimed
one of the party, “and I’ll introduce you to my old
friend, Captain Somebody;”—and away we posted, two by
two, across a new-mown field. Presently, our two leaders
were awe-stricken by the sudden appearance of something
white, which seemed to be rising out of the earth, beside a
cluster of bushes, and the way they wheeled about, and ran
for the river, (accompanied by their fellows, whose fright was
merely sympathetic,) was “a caution” to all unbelievers in
ghosts and other midnight spectres.
At last we halted to gain a little breath; an explanation was
made; and our captain forthwith resolved to investigate the
matter. He now took the lead, and on coming to the mysterious
spot, discovered an old blind white horse, who had
been awakened by a noise, and, following the instinct of his
nature, had risen from his lair, to be better prepared for danger.
I doubt whether the echoes are yet silent, which were
caused by the loud and long peals of laughter which resounded
to the sky. Being in a strange land, without chart or compass,
we could not find the mortal dwelling-place of Captain
Somebody, and so we changed our course of travel.
We stopped at another house, farther on, but to save our
lives we could not obtain an interview, although we entered
the hen-coop, and set the hens and roosters a cackling and
crowing—the pig-pen, and set the hogs a squealing—while a
large dog and two puppies did their best to increase and prolong
the mighty chorus. If our farmer friend did not deem
himself transported to Bedlam, about that time, we imagine
that nothing on earth would have the power to give him such
a dream. Our ill-luck made us almost desperate, and so we
returned to the boat, resolved to row the whole distance home,
could we but find an extra oar.
It was now eleven o’clock, and the only things that seemed
to smile upon us were the ten thousand stars, studding the
clear, blue firmament. Anon, a twinkling light beamed upon
our vision; and, as we approached, we found it to proceed
from a little hut on an island, where the Thames lamplighter
and his boy were accustomed to pass the night, after their
work was done. Having again concluded to land, we received
a hearty welcome, as the host proved to be an old acquaintance
of our captain and mate. “Have you anything
to eat?” was almost the first question of every tongue. “No,
nothing but this barrel of crackers, and some cheese,” exclaimed
the man of light. “And we,” shouted one of our
crew, “have plenty of fish,—can’t we have a chowder?”
“Ay, ay; a chowder, a chowder it shall be!” were the words
which rang aloud to the very heavens. A wherry was dispatched
to the main-land, to the well-known habitation of the
old fisherman, for the necessary iron pot and bowls, and for
the potatoes and onions, which were dug for the occasion;
also for the pork, the pepper, and salt; all which, added to
our biscuit and blackfish, nicely cleaned and prepared, constituted
a chowder of the very first water. There was one
addition to our company, in the person of the old fisherman;
and our appearance, as we were seated in a circle on the
floor, each with a bowl of thick hot soup in his hands, constituted
a picture rich and rare. After we were done, it was
acknowledged by all, that a better meal had never been enjoyed
by mortal man. In about thirty minutes from this
time, the odd one of the company bade us “good night,”
and the midnight brotherhood resigned themselves to sleep.
The last sounds I heard, before closing my eyes, were caused
by the regular opposition steamboats from New York, as they
shot ahead almost as “swift as an arrow from a shivering
bow.”
The first faint streak of daylight found us on board our
boat, homeward bound, wafted on by a pleasant southerly
breeze. At the usual hour, we were all seated at our respective
breakfast tables, relating our adventures of the excursion
just ended.
A week in a fishing smack—Fishermen—A beautiful morning at sea—A
day at Nantucket—Wreck of a ship—Night on the Sound—Safe
arrival.
Norwich, Conn., August.
On a pleasant Monday morning I started from Norwich,
bound to New London, and from thence to any other portion
of the world where I might have some sport in the way of
salt water fishing. In less than an hour after landing from
the steamboat, I had boarded the handsome smack Orleans,
Captain Keeney, and by dint of much persuasion, secured a
berth on board to accompany him on a fishing voyage. In
addition to my previous preparation, I had only to purchase
a Guernsey shirt and tarpaulin; and by the time I was regularly
equipped, the sails were hoisted, and we were on our
course for Nantucket. An intimate acquaintance was soon
formed between myself and crew, which consisted of the
master, two sailors, and the cook. The whole time that I
spent in their company was six days, as I reached home on
the following Saturday evening. The incidents that I met
with were somewhat new, as a matter of course, and I employed
a few moments of every evening, during my absence,
in briefly recording the events of the past day; and that
medley I now put together as a literary chowder.
Monday Evening. My observations to-day have been
limited to our little vessel, in consequence of a dense fog,
which drenched us to the skin, and seems likely to continue
us in this state of preservation. I have obtained some information,
however, concerning the character of an interesting
class of men, which may be new to you. Smack-fishermen
are a brave, hardy, honest, and simple-hearted race, and, as
my captain tells me, spend nine-tenths of their time “rocked
in the cradle of the deep.” Their vessels, or smacks, are
generally of about forty tons burden; the number of those
which supply New York and Boston with fish is said to be
near a thousand, and they are all at home anywhere on the
coast between the Kennebeck and the Delaware. Of the perils
which these fishermen endure, and the privations they suffer,
how little is known or thought by the great world at large!
Yet I believe there is as much genuine happiness in their
lives, as in those of any other class. Their fathers were
fishermen before them, and as they themselves have mostly
been born within hearing of the surf, they look upon the unsounded
deep as their fitting home, their only home, and
would not part with it for a palace or a crown. Four is the
usual number of a smack’s crew, and the master is invariably
called a skipper. Most of them are worthy husbands and
fathers, whose families are snugly harbored in some convenient
seaport, with enough and to spare of the good things
of life. They are a jovial set of men, hailing each other
upon the ocean as friends, and meeting upon land as
brothers. Each skipper thinks his craft the handsomest and
swiftest that floats, and very exciting are the races they sometimes
run. Their affection for their own vessel is like that
of the Arab for his steed, and like the Arab, too, they have
been known even to weep over the grave of their darling
and their pride.
The kinds of fish which they mostly bring to market are
shad, salmon, lobsters, mackerel, cod, bluefish, haddock, blackfish,
paugies, bass, and halibut. The first three are generally
purchased of local fishermen, but all the rest are caught by
themselves. The haunts of the blackfish are rocky reefs,
those of the bass and bluefish in the vicinity of sandy shoals
or tide rips, and those of the remainder in about fifteen
fathoms water. These are the varieties they capture by
way of business, but when in a frolicsome mood, they frequently
attack a sword-fish, a shark, or black whale; soul-thrilling,
indeed, and laughable withal, are the yarns they spin
concerning these exploits.
As to their mode of living, while at sea, it is just what it
should be, and what they would have it, although it would
be “positively shocking” to a Bond Street gentleman of leisure.
But they always possess a good appetite, which is
what money cannot purchase, and without which the greatest
delicacy in the world would be insipid or loathsome. Fish,
sea-biscuit, corn-beef and pork, potatoes, onions, and pancakes,
constitute their provisions, and what besides these
would a reasonable man desire? It is with a mixture of
some of these, that a chowder is concocted, and where can
anything more delicious be found, even at the tables of the
Astor and American? And with these ingredients, moreover,
they manage very well to keep body and soul together,
unless a storm on a rock-bound coast happens to make a
sudden separation.
I have just been on deck, and must say that I resume my
pen with a heavier heart. The fog has not dispersed in the
least, a regular gale of wind is blowing from the north, and
the waves, seemingly in a revengeful mood, are tossing our
bark about, as if the skipper, like the Ancient Mariner, had
shot another albatros. But like a fearless man, as he is, he
stands at the helm, watching the sails with a steady eye, and
the men with their storm-jackets on are standing by, muttering
something about the coming darkness, and a reef somewhere
on our lee. Never before have I so distinctly understood
the force of the Psalmist’s simile, when he compares
a wave to a drunken man reeling to and fro. Both have it
in their power to cause a mighty mischief, and both become
exhausted and perish,—one upon a sandy beach, and the
other, sweeping over the peninsula of time, finds a grave
on the shore of oblivion. Heavens! how the wind whistles,
and the waters roar! Ay, but a still small voice salutes my
ear, and I lay me down to sleep, with a prayer upon my lips,
and a feeling of security at my heart, as I place implicit confidence
in Him who holdeth the ocean in the hollow of his
hand.
Tuesday Evening. I was awakened out of a deep sleep
this morning by the following salutation from the skipper, as
he patted me on the shoulder. “It’s a beautiful morning,
and you ought to be up;—the fog is gone, and the wind is
down; won’t you come up and take the helm awhile, so
that the boys and I may obtain a little sleep before reaching
the fishing-ground, which will be about ten o’clock?” I was
delighted to accept the invitation, and in a very short time
the sailors were asleep, and I in my new station, proud as a
king, and happy as a sinless boy. And O that I could describe
the scene that fascinated my eyes as I lay there upon
the deck, with one hand resting on the rudder, and my other
hand grasping a Claude glass! I felt as I once felt before,
when standing on the famous precipice of Niagara, that then,
more than ever, I desired God to be my friend. I also felt,
that, if the world did not demand the feeble services of my
life, I should wish to remain upon the ocean forever, provided
I could have “one fair being for my minister.” More earnestly
than ever did I long for a complete mastery of the pictorial
art. The fact of being out sight of land, where the blue
element announced that the ocean was soundless, filled my
soul with that “lone, lost feeling,” which is supposed to be
the eagle’s, when journeying to the zenith of the sky. The
sun had just risen above the waves, and the whole eastern
portion of the heavens was flooded with the most exquisite
coloring I ever beheld,—from the deepest crimson to the
faintest and most delicate purple, from the darkest yellow to
an almost invisible green; and all blended, too, in myriad
forms of marvellous loveliness. A reflection of this scene
was also visible in the remaining quarters of the horizon.
Around me the illimitable deep, whose bosom is studded with
many a gallant and glittering ship,
——that have the plain
Of ocean for their own domain.
The waves are lulling themselves to rest, and a balmy
breeze is wandering by, as if seeking its old grandfather, who
kicked up the grand rumpus last night; whereby I learn, that
the offspring of a “rough and stormy sire,” are sometimes
very beautiful and affectionate to the children of men. But
look! even the dwellers in the sea and of the sea are participating
in the hilarity of this bright summer morning! Here,
a school of herring are skipping along like a frolicsome
party of vagabonds as they are,—and yonder a shark has
leaped out of the water, to display the symmetry of his form
and the largeness of his jaw, and looking as if he thought,
“that land-lubber would make me a first rate breakfast;”
there, a lot of porpoises are playing “leap-frog,” or some
other outlandish game; and, a little beyond them, a gentleman
sword-fish is swaggering along to parts unknown, to
fight a duel in cold blood with some equally cold-blooded
native of the Atlantic; and now, a flock of gulls are cleaving
their course to the south, to the floating body perhaps of a
drowned mariner, which their sagacity has discovered a league
or two away:—and now, again, I notice a flock of petrels,
hastening onward to where the winds blow and the waves are
white. Such are the pictures I beheld in my brief period of
command. It may have been but fancy, but I thought my
little vessel was trying to eclipse her former beauty and her
former speed. One thing I know, that she “walked the
water like a thing of life.” I fancied, too, that I was the
identical last man whom Campbell saw in his vision, and
that I was then bound to the haven of eternal rest. But my
shipmates returning from the land of Nod, and a certain
clamor within my own body having caught my ear, I became
convinced that to break my fast would make me happier than
anything else just at that time, and I was soon as contented
as an alderman at five P. M. About two hours after this, we
reached our fishing-place, which was twenty miles east of
Nantucket. We then lowered the jib and topsail, and having
luffed and fastened the mainsheet, so that the smack could
easily float, we hauled out our lines and commenced fishing,
baiting our hooks with clams, of which we had some ten
bushels on board. Cod fishing (for we were on a codding
cruize) is rather dull sport; it is, in fact, what I would call
hard labor. In six hours we had caught all the skipper
wanted, or that the well would hold, so we made sail again,
bound to New York; and at supper-time the deck of our
smack was as clean and dry as if it had never been pressed
save by the feet of ladies. At sunset, however, a fierce
southerly wind sprang up, so that we were compelled to
make a harbor; and just as I am closing this record, we are
anchoring off Nantucket, with a score of storm-beaten whalers
on our starboard bow.
Wednesday Evening. The weather to-day has been quite
threatening, and the skipper thought it best to remain at our
moorings; but with me the day has not been devoid of interest;
for, in my sailor garb, I have been strolling about the
town, studying the great and solemn drama of life, while
playfully acting a subordinate part myself. This morning,
as it happened, I went into the public graveyard, and spent
an hour conning over the rude inscriptions to the memory of
the departed. In that city of the dead I saw a number of
the living walking to and fro, but there was one who attracted
my particular attention. He was a sailor, and was seated upon
an unmarked mound, with his feet resting upon a smaller
one beside it, his head reclined upon one hand, while the
other was occasionally passed across his face, as if wiping
away a tear. I hailed him with a few kind questions, and
my answer was the following brief tale:—
“Yes, sir, four years ago I shipped aboard that whaler,
yonder, leaving behind me, in a sweet little cottage of my
own, a mother, a wife, and an only boy. They were all in
the enjoyment of good health, and happy; and, when we
were under sail, and I saw from the mast-head how kindly
they waved their handkerchiefs beside my door, I, too, was
happy, even in my hour of grief. Since that time I have
circumnavigated the globe, and every rare curiosity I could
obtain, was intended for my darling ones at home. Last
Saturday our ship returned, when I landed, flew to my
dwelling, and found it locked. The flagging in my yard attracted
my notice, and I thought it strange that the rank grass
had been suffered to grow over it so thickly. The old minister
passed by my gate, and running to him with extended
hand, I inquired for my family. ‘Oh, Mr. B.,’ said he,
‘you must bless the Lord;—he gave them to you, and he
hath taken them away.’ And as the thought stole into my
brain, my suffering, sir, was intense, and I longed to die.
And there they are, my wife and darling child, and, a step or
two beyond, my dear old mother. Peace to their memories!”
Such is the simple story I heard in the Nantucket graveyard,
and I have pondered much upon the world of woe
which must have been hidden in the breast of that old mariner.
After dinner to-day, I strolled into the company of some
fishermen who were going after bass and bluefish, and in a
short time I had captured, with my own hands, two big bass
and some dozen bluefish—which I packed in ice as a present
to some New York friends.
At my present time of writing, which is near ten o’clock
at night, we are weighing anchor, and the skipper tells me
we shall be in New York by to-morrow’s sunset. An hour
before coming on board this evening, I lounged into a sailor
boarding-house, and mingled as freely with a company of
whalemen there, as if I had ever been a bonâ fide member
of the craft. I heard a great deal that interested me, and
was sorry that I could not remain longer. There were some
in that company lately arrived from every portion of the
world, and yet they were engaged in the same business, and
had journeyed on the same mighty highway of nations.
One was descanting upon the coral islands of the torrid
zone; another upon the ice-mountains of the Arctic Sea; a
third was describing the coast of California; and another the
waters that lave the eastern shore of Asia. The more I
listened to these men, the more did the immensity of ocean
expand before my mind, and in the same proportion was I
led to wonder at the wisdom of the Almighty.
I have just been on deck, and find that we are on the way
to our desired haven, wafted by a steady and pleasant breeze.
Our course is between Martha’s Vineyard and Rhode Island,
which is a route studded with islands and seaports, that now
appear in the cool starlight like the pictures of a dream.
Thursday Evening. Instead of coming through the
Sound last night, we headed our vessel outside of Long Island,
and after a delightful sail, have realized our skipper’s
promise, for we are now floating beside the market in New
York. The reason assigned for taking the outside course
was, that the fish would keep better, on account of the greater
coldness of the water. Nothing of peculiar interest has
happened to us to-day, except the meeting with a wreck off
Sandy Hook. It was the hull of a large ship, whose name
we could not discern. It had a very old appearance, and
from the moss and sea-weed that covered it, we supposed it
must have been afloat for many months, the plaything of the
waves. “Man marks the earth with ruin,” but who is it
that scatters such splendid ruins upon the ocean? And a
thousand remorseless surges echo back the answer: “To us
belong the glory of those deeds.” If that wreck had language,
what a strange, eventful history would it reveal! Its
themes would be,—home and all its treasures lost; the sea,
and all its dangers; the soul, and all its agonies; the heart,
and all its sufferings. But when we multiply all this as fast
as time is multiplying it, we cannot but realize the idea, that
human life is but a probationary state, and that sorrow and
sighing are our earthly inheritance.
Friday Evening. After portioning out my fish this morning,
and sending them to my friends, I put on my usual dress,
and having obtained a six hours’ furlough, set off towards
Broadway, where, between the reading rooms and the studios
of a few artists, I managed to spend my time quite pleasantly.
At noon, we embarked for home, and had a delightful time,
passing through the East River, and that pleasing panorama
from the city to the Sound never appeared more beautiful.
It is now quite late, and I have been on deck all the evening
alone. In a thoughtful mood I fixed my eyes upon the
stars, and my spirits were saddened by the continual murmur
of the sea. Of what avail, thought I, is all this excitement?
Why was I created, and what, O what is my destiny? Is it to
sail for a few brief years longer upon the ocean of life, and,
when the death-tempest overtakes me, to pass away unloved
and unremembered by a single human heart? If not an
honored name, can I not leave behind me an humble memory
that will be cherished by a few, a very few, to whom I have
laid bare my innermost soul, when I was younger than I am
now and a hundred-fold more happy? What! O night! what
is my destiny?
Saturday Evening. We anchored off New London to-day,
in time for me to take the evening steamer for Norwich.
When I parted with my “shipmates,” I shook each one affectionately
by the hand, and thought that I might travel
many years without finding a brotherhood of nobler men.
I reached home as the eight o’clock bells were ringing, and
was reminded that another week of precious time was forever
gone. That it must be remembered as an unprofitable
one, I cannot believe, for I feel that my soul has been enlarged
and my heart humbled, by listening to the teachings of the
mighty deep.
THE END.
TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Missing quotes and printer errors have been corrected including:
a missing paragraph break; missing periods; and commas for periods.
Inconsistencies in the use of hyphenated words have been
maintained including: waterfall, water-fall, water-falls, and
waterfalls; torch light, torch-light, and torchlight; and, apiece
and a-piece.
Author spellings of words such as "Shakspeare" are maintained.
[The end of A Tour to the River Saguenay, in Lower Canada,
by Charles Lanman.]
