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10 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