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inns, a Methodist chapel, a school, a post-of
fice and a small woollen factory. The people
are poor, illiterate and rude. With the ex
ception of such gentry as the blacksmith, the
wagon maker, the shoemaker and tailor, they
are occupied in the factory already mention
ed, in neighboring saw-mills, tanneries, and
in the transportation of leather and lumber to
the river landings. In the vicinity are a few
better homesteads of small farms.
During my first day in Palenville, I had a
fair opportunity to form an estimate of the so
cial attractions of the settlement. I occupied
ihe parlor of the “Mountain Inn,” directly
over which was located the large village ball
room. This saloon was destined to be used
that evening for an exhibition of the “Cele
brated Wandering Piper,” Mr. * * * *, who,
asmis bill announced, had “ received all sorts
of commendatory medals from all sorts of so
cieties between Edinburg andNew-York, and
who would perform for that night only, when
the audience would be permitted to dance if
they pleased!” As it happened, the audience
did please. When by dusk all the beaux and
belles of the region round about were assem
bled at the inn, quadrille, jig and reel were
performed to my entire amusement, until the
timbers of the building creaked with frightful
heraldings. I selected the fairest of the group
for my partner in a country dance, and never
was I submitted to more salutary exercise.—
1 essayed, however, to show myself perfectly
au fait in all the manners and customs of
these rustic Romans; telegraphing all sorts
of eulogies to the dark eyes of my charmer,
and pouring the sweetest speeches into her
ear; until I had even reached the verge of
flirtation. The reader will account for this
temerity on my part, from the fact that pur
posing to spend no inconsiderable time in the
village, I felt it to be imperatively necessary
to get up sundry little penchants by way of
filling odd intervals and leisure hours. The
moon was shining brightly, while an aromat
ic atmosphere strongly wooed one to out-of
door rambles. As the dance ended, I com
pleted a couplet from Moore, and suggesting
to my dulcinea the usual fatigue and exhaus
tion attendant upon such exercise as she had
just undergone, recommended some refresh
ment, with perhaps a restorative stroll up the
Clove. She replied, that as for the walk, she
had a mighty sight of hark to pile up the next
day, in which task 1 was welcome to assist
her, if I was disposed to free-air exercise:
but in regard to the refreshments, she found
me a little more reasonable, and clearly im
plied her preference for a little gin and wa
ter !
Horror-stricken, 1 abandoned my purpose
of falling in love for that season; and I made
only one subsequent effort—in acceding to
the wish of one of the better sort of villagers,
to accompany him to the home of two Miss
es, whose skill as pianists, all spread far and
wide. This second effort completely annihi
lated all my platonic hopes. As I listened
to the strains of the instrument, my fancy
wandered back to Broadway—and 1 sighed
even for the “Music in Scudder’s balcony!”
Among those of the sterner sex, are to he
found here, as in most isolated settlements,
sundry “ characters”—odd old fellows, differ
ing. physically and intellectually, as widely
from each other as from all the outward
world. Such people as you never meet with
in cities, where fashion, continual association,
community of interests, and conventional
rule, form every man —from the precise cut
us his coat —the exact angle of incidence of his
beaver —and the expression of his physiog
nomy —after the same unvarying model.
That venerable personage, the “ oldest in
habitant,” is in Palenville —one of these ec
centric characters. He is an antique bache
lor ; —the hamlet bears his name, although he
is familiarly and poetically known as “Un
cle Joe.” He is a sensible and amiable man;
hut “most onaccountable 1 ' —a favorite cant
phrase of his —in many of his fancies. He
MunnasM
loses at dominoes—the popular amusement
here —and, in his peculiar nasal utterance,
thinks it “most onaccountable.” Uncle Bil
ly, another v.ilage lion of ‘whom I shall speak
anon, will continue to get drunk, despite his
family of thirteen children, and me at the
breast, which Uncle Joe considers, as he
has done for twenty years past, to be “ most
onaccountable!” If there is a long continu
ance of drv, or of wet weather, it is still, with
good Uncle Joe, “most onaccountable;” and
once when he undertook to pilot our party
over a short path to the Mountain-House,
and lost his way, he soon arrived at the con
solitary reflection, that it was “most onac
countable !”
Billy is a little wizen-faced, unsophistica
ted man, who has always contributed largely
to the population of the land, and to its alco
holic manufactures. He loves a glass of gin
as he does his life; nay, better, for he is fast
sacrificing the one to the other. He will, j
when compelled, labor industriously through
out the live-long day, and at night expend
the pittance he has earned at the bar of the
village inn. And yet Billy is an important
man, and not to be sneezed at. “ Ellick,” as
he is called, is an amiable youth, with a more
elevated mind and tone of manners than ma
ny of his compeers —and with a taste for lit
erature and the arts. In these points, finding
no sympathy around him, he is always ready
as cicerone to strangers, who may visit the
place. To the strolling Artist he is especial
ly attentive, holding his art, as he does, in
most exalted veneration. He makes some
pretensions himself—has drawn a little with
the pen, after the engravings in Webster’s
Spelling Book; and has even ventured so far
upon the use of colors, as to attempt the tint
ing of sundry lithographic prints of “Julia,”
“ My first Love,” and “ The Belle of the Vil
lage.” He piques himself upon his penman
ship, and sometimes teaches school in the
winter. He is of course the oracle of the vil
lage. To this list of worthies I must add
“ Ike,” a queer negro fellow, who, besides
being the only colored gentleman in town,
has the gift of psalmody, and whom, accom
panied by his fiddle, the traveller will not fail
often to hear in the bar-room of his inn.
I have thus presented the reader to my vil
lage friends, since they are all intimately as
sociated with my memories of the Kauters
kill.
The attention of the tourist will be contin
ually arrested, as he passes along the road
side, by the magical kaleidoscope pictures
presented at every step and turn; and yet
will he see but a small portion of the beau
ties of the Clove, if his rambles do not extend
beyond the beaten path. He must make a
thousand detours; and, especially, must lie
explore the varying course of the brook which
dashes and winds and leaps and murmurs
through the gorge. This lonely stream —the
Kauterskill—affords every variety of water
fall, fountain and brooklet; with shores of
the richest verdure, or the wildest and most
fearful rocky precipice. Eastward from the
village, half a mile, is one of the most per
fect scenes, in the way of a cascade, which I
ever hope to see. A minute’s walk from the I
high-road, through a dense copse-wood, will
bring you to an unexceptionable point of oh
servation. Seated upon a moss-grown rock, !
and shaded by overhanging boughs, you may
gaze upon the lovely landscape before you.
At your feet lies the deep basin of dark wa
ters, apparently reposing after their gallant 1
leap. The drooping branches of the luxuri
ant hemlock are toying with the bubbles upon
their surface. The cascade and its accompa
nying rocks fill the middle ground, exposing
beyond, the entire stretch of the mountain
ravine, until it is lost in the golden haze of
the setting sun. At this hour, too, the sun
light kisses only the tops of the rich foliage,
and sparkles upon the upper edge alone of
the falling water. Still further eastward are
other smaller, but scarcely less pleasing cas
cades and glimpses of valley and hill. The
chief points of interest, however, lie west
: waid of the village, and in the bed of the ra
v‘ ie. Only a few steps in this direction may
be found the picture which accompanies this
chapter. It is most attractive in the early
morning light; and I have often awaited here
the preparation of my matutinal repast. —
It may be regarded as the vignette, to the glo
rious volume which the Kauterskill Clove
opens to the eye and heart of the traveller.—
After the passage of a mile and a half you
reach the favorite point of “High Rocks,”
where the road turns at right angles, over a
rustic bridge—directly under which is a fall
of great extent and beauty. To be seen to
! advantage, the tourist must make a detour to
the right, after traversing the bridge. A
I grass-grown pathway will lead him safely
through bush and brake, and over and under
huge rocks, to a granite lounge, where I have,
for hours together, watched the gambols of
the joyous waters.
Beyond this, point the highway offers but
little of interest, excepting the noble pano
ramic views, continually revealed as you as
cend the ridge. The road may, however, be
still followed for two or three hundred yards,
when another descent to the stream will
place before you a second water-fall of an
entirely different character—yet not less beau
tiful than the one last observed. This cas
cade is generally called the “Dog-Hole.”—
One of my companions thinking it a rather
shabby cognomen, rebaptised it “ Trou du
Chien .” It is a perpendicular leap of some
sixty feet. The stream here is extremely
narrowed by the rocky banks, and falls over
an immense concave ledge, into a caldron
from which a fish even could scarcely emerge.
Unlike the previous scene, this spot opens no
distant vistas. I was once passing the day
here in sketching, undisturbed, but, by the
music of waters and the melody of birds,
when, as I finished my drawing and was ex
amining it with considerable satisfaction, I
was suddenly startled by an unusual and
neighboring noise. Recollecting that the
much dreaded snake moves more silently, I
ascribed it to the passage of cattle, or of a
dog—or even to the noisy amours of the
wind, and resumed my meditations. Again
I was startled, and this time was fully con
scious of some extraordinary presence—and,
looking up, I caught the wondering eye of
Uncle Joe, as gazing upon my picture, he
ejaculated,- “ ’Tis most onaccountable!”
“Is that you, Uncle Joe!” I exclaimed,
much relieved, “ I took you for a hear!”
“Oh, no!” said he, “thereaintmany bears
in these mountains now, and they never dis
turb a body. When they hear a man com
ing they always bear away! he, he, he ! ’tis
most onaccountable !”
In this connection, the reader will perhaps
bear with me while I barelv hint, at a little
•f •
bear incident which occurred upon the occa
j sion of a visit I once made, with a compan
j ion, to the “ North Mountain.” This portion
j of ihe Catskills is a favorite lair of these an
imals, and, if searched for, they may be found
here at all seasons. We had been duly in
formed of this fact; as, also, of a habit they
have of leaving marks of their passage, in
! the shape of up-turned stones. My compan
ion kept a sharp eye upon all the rocks in
our path, and seemed to be in great fear of
encountering one of these black gentry. It
so happened that in returning we lost our
way; and the better to re-find it, we agreed
to search, each in a different direction—be
ing careful, however, not to lose one anoth
er. lat length discovered the path, and my
fancy was so much enlivened by my good
fortune, that it suggested to me a little play
upon the fears of my friend. 1 exerted my
strength, successfully, to overturn a number
of the largest stones around me, and then
joyfully announcing my success, I pointed,
with an affected shudder, to the freshly dis
turbed rocks. B*** turned pale with fright,
and, grasping me by the arm, actually pulled
me along the path. I intimated to him,
pointing to my sketch-box, that, with such a
load, it. would he impossible for me to pro
ceed so fast. Taking the hint, he added my
burden to his own, and thus relieved me to
the end of the journey. When he came to a
“realizingsense” of the nature of the rase
played upifli him, which I very triumphantly
laid bare to his imagination, he vowed never
again, under any circumstan.ce whatever, to
carry my box; and, at the same time, sen
tenced me to a fine of a pitcher of the very
best milk punch, which the borough of Pa
lenville would afford! Finding it, as I have
already stated, utterly impracticable to fall in
love, we were reduced to the terrible alterna
tive of imbibing milk punch, during our stay
in the Clove.
But, to resume our topography,—leaving
the Dog-Hole, it is necessary, in order to fol
low the creek, to regain the road —and just as
well to keep it until you arrive at a settle
ment called Hunter, where is located a very
large tanning establishment. These tanne
ries are numerous in the Catskills; and the
business affords employment and bread to very
many persons. The great abundance of the
hemlock, which supplies the necessary bark,
gives extraordinary facilities for the business.
In Prattsville, some thirty miles west of the
Clove, is one of the most extensive tanneries
in the land. This feature of the county is
not at all calculated to win the love of hun
ters of the picturesque. It destroys the beau
ty of many a fair landscape—discolors the
pure waters —and, what is worse than all,
drives the fish from the streams! Think of
the sacrilege 1 The bright tinted trout offered
up upon the ignoble altar of calf's skin and
sheep skin and cow skin! It boots nothing
to protest against the infamy, or “O! ye gods
and little fishes!”—l would summons the
shade of my venerated friend Walton, to turn
up its nose, with mine, at the shameful inno
vation.
Let us turn our backs then, indignantly
and hurriedly upon Hunter, and again jump
from rock to rock, from log to log, in our
voyage up the bed of the creek. The stream
which now flows in from the ravine, on the
right, has but a few minutes since, danced
over a precipice of nearly two hundred feet.
It comes from the lakes near the Mountain
House, and has played its role at the celebra
ted falls of the Katterskill. A romantic path
leads up that dark-looking glen,through which
it has flowed, to mingle with the waters of
the stream we are exploring. That path,
which we will travel anon, conducts to the
summit of the great Falls, and onward, by
the lakes, to the Mountain House. We find
innumerable obstacles, as we continue our
toilsome walk, but are well re-paid by the
endless variety of scene which opens upon
our delighted gaze. At length, with infinite
labor, we approach the end of our course,
which leaves us at the base of “ Little Falls, ’’
scarcely second to the more favorite one of
which I have just spoken, simply because
they are less accessible, and consequently
less known. The summit of Little Fqjls is
on a level with the table lands at the head
of the Clove. It is extremely difficult to gain
this summit; and since another journey,
which I purpose making, in a subsequent
chapter, will place us there without exer
tion, I shall turn about and at once regain
the “ Mountain Inn.” Every traveller will
find himself disposed to follow this itineracy,
for the approach of evening, by the time he
shall have reached Little Falls, will whisper
loudly of dinner and of rest.
Plauterkill Clove, the second of the two
great gorges of the Catskills, is five miles
to the southward of Palenville. It is scarce
ly less fruitful in the picturesque than the
Kauterskill, and retains far more of the na
tive luxuriance and wildness of nature. The