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that the terrors of winter when the fathomless
depths of snow buried the hills, and the giant
stalactites of ice sentinelled their narrow pas
ses, the “most onaccountable.” The good
old man had rambled among these mountains,
man and boy, for sixty years, and he had
watcned all their features, as a mother watch
es the sleeping smile of herchild. Heseemed
to grow young again as he discoursed to us
of the magnificent glory of the wild landscape,
when wrapped in its spotless robe of death;
and of the excitement of a passage of the
rude mountain paths, when thus covered with
the treacherous snow. He grew mirthful as
his thoughts reverted to the gay scenes of his
boyhood, when he had sped like lightning in
his swift sledge, with its cargo of laughing
damsels.
“You should see, 7 ’ said he, as in our walk,
we had arrived beneath the towering walls of
High Rocks, “you should see those thousand
rills, trickling down there so merrily from the
summit of the mountain, as they appear in
winter, in the shape of glittering icicles a
hundred feet in length !” and then pointing
to the cascade below the bridge, upon which
we were standing, “you should look upon
those waters, when bitter frosts have laid
their cold hands upon them, in the midst of
their frolic, and chilled them into their own
icy monuments, looking, in the moonlight,
like a spectral host!”
As our worthy guide thus discoursed,
though in more homely words, the fanciful
and sweet poem of Bryant, suggested by a
similar scene at the falls, visited in our last
chapter, was running in my head—
“ Midst preens and shades the Catterskill leaps
From cliffs where the wood-flower cling3;
All summer he moistens his verdant steeps,
With the sweet light spray of the mountain springs
—And he shakes the woods on the mountain side.
When they drip with the rains of autumn-tide.
“ But when in the forest, bare and old,
The blast of December calls,
lie builds in the starlight, clear and cold,
A palace of ice where his torrent falls,
With turret and arch and fret-work fair,
And pillars blue as the summer air.
“And the crescent moon high over the green,
From a sky of crimson shone,
On that icy palace whose towers were seen
To sparkle as if with stars of their own ;
While the water fell, with a hollow sound,
’Twixt the glistening pillars ranged around.”
The recitation of this beautiful poem turned
our converse upon its gifted author, and the
additional charms with which his genius had
invested this and other portions of the Cat
skills.
Then, from the poet, they sped very natu
rally to the painter, and in gratitude for the
pure pleasures which the glorious works of
each had afforded us, we linked the names of
Bryant and Cole in the same blessing. The
one is still with us, to receive the humble
homage of our thanks; but the other alas! it
can no more reach. At the time of our walk,
not one short year ago, Cole was rambling
among these hills, with the firm and elastic
step of young and vigorous manhood, learning
new lessons of truth and beauty from the
loved scenes which had so long inspired his
pencil. Mr. Bryant in his eloquent eulogy*
upon the life and character of his departed
friend, thus gives voice to the sad feelings of
loss which the untimely death of Cole must
excite in the soul of every lover of Nature, as
he roams through these now deserted shades.
“We might imagine a sound of lament for
him whom we have lost, in the voices of the
streams and in the sighs of the wind among
the groves; and an aspect of sorrow in earth's
solitary places; we might dream that the con
scious valleys miss his accustomed visits, and
that the autumnal glories of the woods are
paler because of his departure. But the sor
row of this occasion is too grave for such fan
cies. Let me say, however, that we feel that
much is taken away from the charm of na
ture when such a man departs. To us who
remain, the region of the Catskills, where he
*A Funeral oration, occasioned by the Death of
Thomas Cole, delivered before the National Acade
my of Design, by William Cullen Bryant-New
York, May 4, 1848.
§©lDlfiasM
wandered and studied and sketched, and
wrought his sketches into such glorious crea
tions, is saddened by a certain desolate feel
ing when we behold it or think of it. The
mind that we knew as abroad in those scenes
of grandeur and beauty, and which gave them
a higher interest in our eyes, has passed from
earth, and we see that something of power
and greatness is withdrawn from the sublime
mountain-tops, and the broad forests and the
rushing waterfalls.”
The remains of the great artist were laid in
the village church-yard at Catskili. We
could wish that a tomb were erected to his
memory upon someone of the proud moun
tain-peaks, to which the lovers of Nature
might do fit pilgrimage.
But it is time that we continue our journey.
The least toilsome portion over and thd
towering ridge before us, so much work was
required of hands and feet, that it was neces
sary to allow our tongues a respite. Hgh
Peak is one of the most elevated points of the
Catskills, and is not to be ascended without
labor. To us, however, it was a labor of
love, since we had been assured that the
crown once gained, we should be able, by
climbing a tree, to see “all creation.” In the
extent of the toil required, we had, however,
as the event proved, (not counted without our
host , for he was a party to the result.) but
we had fallen short in our estimate; since our
dinner, which we had ordered to be ready for
us at 5 P. M.—short-sighted mortals as we
were —was dreadfully cold when we were
ready to partake of it, on our return to the
village at night-fall only.
Before we diverged from the beaten track,
Uncle Joe had the forethought to deposit his
coat at a little hut upon the road, and we all
regretted, soon after, that we had been less
provident; when, despite the coolness of the
morning, our unaccustomed exercise com
pelled us to wear them upon our arms instead
of our backs. Fortunately, after the journey
of another mile, we reached a spot where a
little rill leaped over a precipice. Here we
paused to rest, and to relieve our extreme
thirst. My companions long amused them
selves in vain efforts to topple into the valley
below, a huge fiat rock which overhung the
chasm. When they at last succeeded in mis
placing it, they, to their horror, exposed a
large rattlesnake which had lain coiled up
beneath it. As they started back, Uncle Joe
quietly and successfully assailed the ugly
reptile with his staff, remarking simply, as he
cut the long row of rattles from the tail of
the great defunct, “’tis most onaccountable!”
Many snakes of this and other species are
to be found throughout these mountains, but
in all my rambles, even in the wildest and
most gloomy nooks, I have luckily escaped
them. On one occasion, to be sure, when
clambering a steep bank, I was about to grasp
at a twig which jutted from a rock over my
head, 1 suddenly observed that it was encir
cled by one of these quiet people. The ce
lerity with w r hich I withdrew my hand, only
rolled me a little too hastily to the foot of the
bank, and gave me the trouble of doing my
w r ork over again. At another time, when
climbing up the side of a cascade, while the
spray blinded my eyes, the glare of a copper
head, from the rock which I wished to reach,
startled me head over heels into the basin of
the fall; since I was in for it, I hung my
soaked wardrobe to dry in the sun, and con
verted my involuntary ducking into a quiet,
orthodox bath. These trifling incidents ex
haust my budget of snake adventure, but oth
ers may be blessed with a larger experience;
for walking up the clove in early morning,
before the travel of the Jay has commenced,
I have often seen the tracks of scores of
snakes of all sizes, left on the dust of the!
road, from their passage of the previous night, 1
from the ridge on one side, to the stream on
the other. Their marks were more pleasing!
to me than a sight of the gentlemen them
selves; for, although I hold them in very
high esteem, I always prefer their “card” to
their company.
Midway up the steep, where the foliage
was less dense than usual, we caught a glo
rious glimpse of distant landscape. This vis
ta afforded us one of the very purest scenic
passages upon which my eyes have ever rest
ed. The Mountain-House and its lakes glit
tered in the sun, like toys far below us; and
the winding Hudson in the remote orient, was
; but a thread of silvery light drawn across the
I spreading valley. Long as we tarried here,
we regretted afterwards, that we had not still
prolonged our stay, for, as the sequel will
show, we found no lovelier spot in all that
long day’s travel. As we came to the top of
ridge after ridge, and still saw higher points
above, we almost despaired of ever gaining
the summit of the mountain. But at length,
by dint of toil, of stumbling over decayed
trees, swinging ourselves up a steep by the
aid of overhanging branches, and of clamber
ing over and crawling through the yawning
crevices of rude rocks, we were enabled to
shout “Eureka!'’ on the very apex of the
proud old Peak!
But alas! alas! when our object was ac
complished, our only reward was the con
sciousness of duty discharged ; for so thick
were the forest leaves, that, look which way
we would, our vision was everywhere ob
structed. We knew that “all creation,” as
we had been told, was spread out below us,
but that knowledge was merely a Tantalus
cup, while it was hidden so effectually from
our view. We recollected the supreme alter
native of “climbing a tree;” but then, too,
we remembered not only the ten miles we had
walked, but the ten others still to be trudged
over in our return —and we Kit ourselves j
much too tired to venture upon any rash ex
ploit. Our feelings at that critical moment,
might be happily expressed by a slight parody
of some lines in the soliloquy of Hamlet’s ;
uncle—
“ What then 1 What rests J
Try what the tree-tops can! What can they not 1
And yet, what can they when one cannot climb up?”
Here was a quandary! After lugging our
selves and our sketch-books to “the height
of this great argument,” not a glimpse could
we get of all the marvellous beauties around
us. Something, however, we were deter
mined to draw, by way of memento of the
visit. As good luck would have it, our eyes
unanimously fell upon the picturesque figure
of Uncle Joe, as he gracefully reclined upon
a moss-grown bank, quietly smoking his pipe
with his chapeau by his side, to say nothing
of a suspicious looking flask, which would
have excited the curiosity of a Temperance
society —his cravat enjoying a private game
of “hide and seek,” in his pocket, and his
coat reposing miles behind on the road, and
his pants, modesty hidden in the vasty deep
of his high-top boots. As our worthy guide
thus mused, with the elegant abandon of an
Adonis, our eyes were riveted upon him, and,
again to use the speech of the Danish King,
we thought “all may yet be well!” Uncle
Joe was a doomed man —sacrificed upon the
altar of the picturesque, and of “high art!”
As we enjoined upon him the most statuesque
quiet, our pencils were in our hands, trans
ferring his undying charms to the spotless
page; until assailed by one in the van, by a
second in his flank, and his rear worried by
a third—he soon fell a victim to black lead,
and was triumphantly carried at the point of
the pencil.
1 bus provided witli the reminiscences of
High Peak, we commenced the descent of the
mountain, a little more rapidly than we went
up. While hurrying down the steep declev
ity, Uncle Joe, who lead the file, overturned
a hornet’s nest, but the speed at which he
was moving, placed him beyond the reach oi
the vengeful insects, by the time they were
fairly aroused. He shouted the alarm, but
too late to save my companion who next fol
lowed, from the fury of the angry horde.—
Those behind, hastily avoided the fatal track
and escaped. While we were quizzing our
brother traveller upon his swelled eye, inci
dent to the warm reception given him by the
hornets, Uncle Joe fell over a prostrate tree,
and bruised his back. Very soon after, an
other slipped upon a mossy rock and dam
aged his ancle, while I, to save myself from a
like fate, stupidly grasped at a thorn-bush,
and lacerated my hands. Condoling with
each other, we hobbled along—one with his
hand over his smarting eye, another, trying
to straighten his dorsal latitudes, a third limp
ing, and 1 with my digits wrapped in a white
cambric. To add to our pleasure, we lost
our way, and after wandering hither and
thither very much bewildered, finally came
out upon the road, two or three miles further
from the village than where we had left it.
As some compensation, however, for our un
necessary toil, the detour brought up to the top
of the beautiful cascade of “ Little Falls,” men
tioned in my first chapter. From this point 1
made a sketch of thegorgeof the Kauterskill,
with the distant glimpse of the valley of the
Hudson, and the Taghcanic hills beyond.—
We afterwards reached Palenviile with some
difficulty, but no adventure, and thus ended
our memorable visit to the famous “High
Peak.”
One day yet remained to me in the Cat
skills, and 1 determined to devote it toajaunt
to the “Stony Clove," —a deep gorge in the
Western chain of these hills, more generally
known as the Shandaken Mountains. To
reach it, from Palenville, it is necessary to
journey some ten miles through the Kauter
skiil, to the vicinage of the thriving little vil
lage of Hunter. It was from this place that
I had received an invitation to join a small
merry-making, that very night, and 1 pur
posed, after devoting the day to the wilder
ness, to accept the card for the evening party,
since 1 could do it all so conveniently and
economically. The invitation came through
a valued friend of other days, .hut whom I
had lost sight of for several years. He was
passing some time at the Mountain House,
and hearing of my whereabouts, had des
patched a courier to me with his greetings.
Arrived at Hunter, with my host, in the
early morning, we left our vehicle and pro
ceeded to make the traverse of the clove on
toot. A carriage road has recently been cut
through, but is yet in such rough condition
that to walk is far less fatiguing than to
ride. ,
As I am a truthful tourist, holding all the
veracious gentlemen of the Mungo Park
school in most pious ahhorence, 1 must can
didly confess that I was greatly disappointed
by my excursion. This gorge had been de
scribed to me as one of sublime beauty; so
narrow as scarcely to almit of the passage of
more than a single file of voyagers; with
such stupendous and perpendicular walls of
mountain, as to exclu le the faintest beam of
sun-light, while 7 ceand snow were to be seen
there at all seasons of the year.
I thought it, on the contrary, compared with
other regions of the Catsk 11s, exceedingly
monotonous and uninteresting. To be sure,
the road recently constructe 1 has somewhat
hurt its beauty; hut the hills, though lofty,
recede on either side at no more acute angle
than hills are generally in the habit of doing.
We had indeed completely traversed the gorge
and reached the opposite side, while we were
vainly expecting every moment to “see the
elephant.” Our disappointment in finding less
grandeur and sublimity than we had been led
to expect, was soothed by numberless pass
ages of a gentler character. We lingered long
upon the borders of a fairy lake which we en
countered widway in our walk; and while I
transfered to my sketch-book some glorious
old hemlocks and beaches and maples, my
guide drew many a shining trout from the
pebbly brooklet which courses the valley.—
In the matter of ice, too—we found plenty of
it, though in such deep holes that we were
unable to reach it.
When we regained our hotel at Hunter, I