Class _ES_3j_S2. Tc\6o Book ^J-UJ^) In the IVilderness. CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER, AUTHOR OF "my SUMMER IN A GARDEN," "BACKLOG STUDIES,' " SAUNTERINGS," ETC. \ y> • \ :> ' \. ', •> . > BOSTON: HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY. .16 \^ oo Copyright, 1878, BY CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER, «• *€••<< , .TJWEW f yj ^OJJRJH IMPRESSION ,v^ T^ Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. 5. A* Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company. OOJSTTENTS. EN THE WILDERNESS. L How I KILLED A BeAB 5 n. Lost in the Woods • « • . 21 III. A Fight with a Trout . • • • . 41 IV. A-HuKcrrNG op the Deeb • • • • 54 V. A Chakacteb Study 82 VI. Camping Out ,124 VII. A Wilderness Romance 147 VITI. What Some People call Pleasure . . 168 HOW SPRING CAME IN NEW ENGLAND . 197 '74. How Spring came in New England By a Readeb of " '93' 199 3 IN THE WILDEEIsrESS. I. HOW I KILLED A BEAR. O many conflicting accounts have ap- peared about m}" casual encounter with an Adirondack bear last summer, that in justice to the public, to myself, and to the bear, it is necessary to make a plain statement of the facts. Besides, it is so seldom I have occasion to kill a bear, that the celebration of the exploit may be excused. The encounter was unpremeditated on both sides. I was not hunting for a bear, and I have no reason to suppose that a bear was look- ing for me. The fact is, that we were both out blackberr^ing, and met by chance, — the usual way. There is among the Adirondack visitors IN THE WILDERNESS. always a great deal of conversation about bears, — a general expression of the wish to see one in the woods, and much speculation as to how a person would act if he or she chanced to meet one. But bears are scarce and timid, and ap- pear only to a favored few. It was a warm day in August, just the sort of day when an adventure of any kind seemed impossible. But it occurred to the housekeepers at our cottage — there were four of them — to send me to the clearing, on the mountain back of the house, to pick blackberries. It was rather a series of small clearings, running up into the forest, much overgrown with bushes and briers, and not unromantic. Cows pastured there, pene- trating tlirough the leafy passages from one open- ing to another, and browsing among the bushes. I was kindly furnished with a six-quart pail, and told not to be gone long. Not from any predatory instinct, but to save appearances, I took a gun. It adds to the manly aspect of a person with a tin paU if he also parries a gun. It was possible I might start up a BOW I KILLED A BEAR. partridge ; though how I was to hit him, if he started up instead of standing still, puzzled me. Many people use a shot-gun for partridges. 1 prefer the rifle : it makes a clean job of death, and does not prematurely stuff the bird with globules of lead. The rifle was a Sharp's, carry- ing a ball cartridge (ten to the pound), — an ex- cellent weapon belonging to a friend of mine, who had intended, for a good many years back, to kill a deer with it. He could hit a tree with it — if the wind did not blow, and the atmosphere was just right, and the tree was not too far off — nearly every time. Of course, the tree must have some size. Needless to say that I was at that time no sportsman. Years ago I killed a robin under the most humiliating circumstances. The bird was in a low cherry-tree. I loaded a big shot-gun pretty full, crept up under the tree, rested the gun on the fence, with the muzzle more than ten feet from the bu'd, shut both eyes, and pulled the trigger. When I got up to see what had happened, the robin was scattered about under the tree in more than a thousand piecea IN TEE WILDERNESS. no one of which was big enough to enable a naturalist to decide from it to what species ift belonged. This disgusted me with the life of a sportsman. I mention the incident to show, that, although I went blackberrying armed, there was not much inequahty between me and the bear. In this blackberry-patch bears had been seen. The summer before, our colored cook, accom- panied by a little girl of the vicinage, was pick- ing berries there one day, when a bear came out of the woods, and walked towards them. The girl took to her heels, and escaped. Aunt Chloe was paralyzed with terror. Instead of attempt- ing to run, she sat down on the ground where she was standing, and began to weep and scream, giving herself up for lost. The bear was bewil- dered by this conduct. He approached and looked at her; he walked around and surveyed her. Probably he had never seen a colored per- son before, and did not know whether she would agree with him : at any rate, after watching her f ft w moments, he turned about, and went into the Coiest. This is an authentic mstance of the deli HOW I KILLED A BEAR. cate consideration of a bear, and is much more remarkable than the forbearance towards the African slave of the well-known lion, because the bear had no thorn in his foot. When I had climbed the hill, I set up my rifle against a tree, and began picking berries, lured on from bush to bush by the black gleam of fruit (that always promises more in the distance than it reahzes when you reach it) ; penetrating farther and farther, through leaf-shaded cow-paths flecked with sunlight, into clearing after clearing. I could hear on all sides the tinkle of bells, the cracking of sticks, and the stamping of cattle that were taking refuge in the thicket from the flies. Occasionally, as I broke through a covert, I encountered a meek cow, who stared at me stupidly for a second, and then shambled ofl" into the brush. I became accustomed to this dumb society, and picked on in silence, attributing all the wood-noises to the cattle, thinking nothing vf any real bear. In point of fact, however, I was thinking all the time of a nice romantic bear, and as I picKed, was composing a story about a 10 IN THE WILDERNESS. generous she-bear who had lost her cub, and who seized a small girl in this very wood, carried hei tenderly off to a cave, and brought her up on bear's milk and hone3\ When the gii'l got big enough to run away, moved by her inherited in- stincts, she escaped, and came into the valley to her father's house (this part of the story was to be worked out, so that the child would know her father by some family resemblance, and have some language in which to address him), and told him where the bear lived. The father took his gun, and, guided by the unfeehng daughter, went into the woods and shot the bear, who never made any resistance, and only, when djing, turned reproachful e}' es upon her murderer. The moral of the tale was to be kindness to animals. I was in the midst of this tale, when I hap- pened to look some rods away to the other edge ^f the clearing, and there was a bear ! He W88 standing on his hind-legs, and doing just what I T7as doing, — picking blackberries. With one paw he bent down the bush, while with the other Ue clawed the berries into his mouth, — greet HOW I KILLED A BEAR. U ones and all. To say that I was astonished ia inside the mark. I suddenly discovered that I didn't want to see a bear, after all. At about the same moment the bear saw me, stopped eat- ing berries, and regarded me with a glad sur- prise. It is all very well to imagine what you would do under such circumstances. Probably you wouldn't do it : I didn't. The bear dropped down on his fore-feet, and came slowly towards me. Climbing a tree was of no use, with so good a climber in the rear. K I started to run, I had no doubt the bear would give chase ; and although a bear cannot iTin down hill as fast as he can run up hill, yet I felt that he could get over this rough, brush-tangled ground faster than I could. The bear was approaching. It suddenly oc- curred to me how I could divert his mind until I could fall back upon my military base. My paU was nearly full of excellent b>3rries, — much better than the bear could pick himself. I put the pai, on the ground, and slowly backed away from it, keeping my eye, as beast-tamers do, on the bear The ruse succeeded. 12 IN THE WILDERNESS . The bear came up to the berries, and stopped Not a(}custoined to eat out of a pail, he tipped \% over, and nosed about in the fruit, "gorming** (if there is such a word) it down, mixed with leaves and dirt, like a pig. The bear is a worse feeder than the pig. Whenever he disturbs a maple- sugar camp in the spring, he alwaj^s upsets the buckets of sirup, and tramples round in the sticky sweets, wasting more than he eats. The bear's manners are thoroughly disagreeable. As soon as my enemy's head was down, I started and ran. Somewhat out of breath, and shaky, I reached my faithful rifle. It was not a moment too soon. I heard the bear crashing through the brush after me. Enraged at my duplicity, he was now coming on with blood in his eye. I felt that the time of one of us was probably short. The rapidity of thought at such moments of peril is well known. I thought an octavo volume, had it illustrated and pubhshed, sold fifty thousand copies, and went to Europe on the proceeds, while that bear was loping acrosi ^e clearing. As I was cocking the gun, T made I Ir. S£lamcr*6 SSEritinffd. MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN. Illustrations by Darley. Square i6mo, $1.50. The Same. Riverside Aldine Series. i6mo, $1.00. SAUNTERINGS. " Little Classic " style. i8mo, $1.00. BACK- LOG STUDIES. Illustrated byHoppiN. Square i6mo, $1.25. Holiday Edition. With 12 Illustrations and 13 Chapter Heads by Edmund H. Garrett. i2mo, ^2.00. The Same. Riverside Aldine Series. i6mo, J.1.00. BADDECK, AND THAT SORT OF THING. " Little Clas- sic " style. iSmo, $1.00. MY WINTER ON THE NILE. Crown 8vo, $2.00. IN THE LEVANT. Crown 8vo, $2.00. New Holiday Editio7t. With Portrait and Photogravures. Crown 8vo, $3.00. BEING A BOY. Illustrated by "Champ." Square i6mo, $1.25. Holiday Edition. With an Introduction by Mr. Warner, and 32 full-page Illustrations from Photographs by Clifton Johnson. i2mo, $2.00. IN THE WILDERNESS. " Little Classic " style. iSmo, $1.00. A ROUNDABOUT JOURNEY. Crown 8vo, $1.50. ON HORSEBACK AND MEXICAN NOTES. i6mo, $1.25. WASHINGTON IRVING. In " American Men of Letters " Series. With Portrait. i6mo, $1.25. HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY, Boston and New York. now I KILLED A BEAK. IS B hasty and unsatisfactory review of my whole life. I noted, that, even in such a compulsory review, it is almost impossible to think of any good thing you have done. The sins come out uncommonly strong. I recollected a newspape subscription I had delayed paying years £nd years ago, until both editor and newspaper were dead, and which now never could be paid to all fternity. The bear was coming on. I tried to remember what I had read about encounters with bears. I couldn't recall an in- stance in which a man had run away from a bear in the woods and escaped, although I recalled plenty where the bear had run from the man and got off. I tried to think what is the best way to kill a bear with a gun, when you are not near enough to club him with the stock. My first thought was to fire at his head ; to plant the ball between his eyes : but this is a dangerous experi- ment. The bear's brain is very small : and, un ess you hit that, the bear does not mind a bulle^ H his head ; tJ\at is, not at the time. I remem* 14 IN THE WILDERNESS. oered that the instant death of the bear would follow a bullet planted just back of his fore-leg, and sent into his heart. This spot is also diffi- cult to reach, unless the bear stands off, side towards you, like a target. I finally determined to fii-e at him generally. The bear was coming on. The contest seemed to me very different from any thing at Creedmoor. I had carefully read the reports of the shooting there ; but it was not easy to apply the experience I had thus acquired. I hesitated whether I had better fire lying on my stomach ; or l}ing on my back, and resting the gun on my toes. But in neither position, I reflected, could I see the bear until he was upon me. The range was too short ; and the bear wouldn't wait for me to examine the thermometer, and note the directicn of the wind. Trial of the Creedmooi method J therefore, had to be abandoned; and 1 bitterly regretted that I had not read more ac- counts of offhand shooting. For the bear was coming on. 1 tiled to fix my last thoughts uj)on my family EOW I KILLED A BEAU. 15 A-s ray family is small, this was not difficult. Dread of displeasing my wife, or hurting her feelings, was uppermost in my mind. What would be her anxiety as hour after hour passed on, and I did not return ! What would the rest of the household think as the afternoon passed, and flo blackberries came ! What would be m}^ wife's mortification when the news was brought that her husband had been eaten by a bear ! I cannot imagine any thing more ignominious than to have a husband eaten by a bear. And this was not my onl}^ anxiety. The mind at such times is not under control. With the gravest fears the most whimsical ideas will occur. I looked beyond the mourning friends, and thought what kind of an epitaph they would be compelled to put upon the itone. Something like this : — HERE LIE THE REMAINS OF EATEN BY A BEAR Aug. 20, }877. It 18 a very unheroic and ev?n disagreeable 16 IN THE WILDERNESS. epitapb. That " eaten by a bear " is intolerable. It is grotesque. And then I thought what an inadequate language the English is for compact expression. It would not answer to put upon the stone simply " eaten ; " for that is indefinite, and requires explanation : it might mean eaten by a cannibal. This difficulty could not occur in the German, where essen signifies the act of feeding by a man, and fressen by a beast. How simple the thing would be in German ! — HIER LIEGT HOCHWOHLGEBOREN GEFRESSEN Aug. 20, 1877. That explains itself. The well-born one wiS eaten by a beast, and presumably by a bear, — an animal that has a bad reputation since the dsLjH of Elisha. The bear was coming on ; he had, m tact, come on. I judged that he could see the whites of wx eyes. All mj^ subsequent reflections were eon* tnsuid, I raised the gun, covered the bcar'i HOW I KILLED A BEA.^. 17 oreast with the sight, and let drive. Then I turned, and ran like a deer. I did not hear the bear pursuing. I looked back. The bear had kJtopped. He was lying down. I then remem- bered that the best thing to do after having fiied yoiu- gun is to reload it. I slipped in a charge, keeping my eyes on the bear. He never stirred.. X walked back suspiciously. There was a quiver in the hind-legs, but no other motion. Still he might be shamming: bears often sham. To make sure, I approached, and put a ball into his head. He didn't mind it now : he minded noth- ing. Death had come to him with a merciful suddenness. He was calm in death. In order that he might remain so, I blew his brains out, and then started for home. I had killed a bear ! Notivithsta-^ding my excitement, I managed to eauntei Into the house with an unconcerned air. There was a chorus of voices : — '' Where are your blackberries? *' *' Why were you gone so long? " " Where's your pail? " "I left the pail.*' 18 IN THE WILDERNESS. "Left the pail? What for?" " A bear wanted it.'' '*0h, nonsense! '* *' Well, the last I saw of it, a bear had it." " Oh, come ! You didn't really see a bear? '' '* Yes, but I did reaUy see a real bear." '* Did he run?" '* Yes : he ran after me." *' I don't believe a word of it. What did you dc?" *'0h! nothing particular — except kill the Dear." Cries of "Gammon!" "Don't believe it!" "Where's the bear?" "If you want to see the bear, you must go jp into the woods. I couldn't bring him down alone." Having satisfied the household that something extraordinary had occurred, and excited the post- humous fear of some of them for my own safety, I went down into the valley to get help. The great beai -hunter, who keeps one of the summer boarding-houses, received my story with a smilf HOW I KILLED A BEAR. 19 of incredulity ; and the incredulity spread to the lather inhabitants and to the boarders as soon as the story was known. However, as I insisted in all soberness, and offered to lead them to the bear, a party of forty or fifty people at last started off with me to bring the bear in. No- body believed there was any bear in the case ; but everybody who could get a gun carried one ; and we went into the woods armed with guns, pistols, pitcnforks, and sticks, against all contingencies or surprises, — a crowd made up mostly of scoff- ers and jeerers. But when I led the way to the fatal spot, and pointed out the bear, Ij^ng peacefully wrapped in his own skin, something lilie terror seized the boarders, and genuine excitement the natives. It was a no-mistake bear, by George ! and the hero of the fight — well, I will not insist upon that. But what a procession that was, carrjing the bear home ! and what a congregation was speedily gathere^I in the valley to see the bear ! Our best preacher up there uever drew any thing tike it on Sunday. 20 IN THE WILDERNESS. And I must say that my particular friends, who Vsrere sportsmen, behaved very well, on the whole. The}' didn't deny that it was a bear, although they said it was small for a bear. Mr. Deane, who is equall}' good with a rifle and a rod, admit- ted that it was a very fair shot. He is probably the best salmon-fisher in the United States, and he is an equally good hunter. I suppose there is no person in America who is more desirous to kill a moose than he. But he needlessl}^ re- marked, after he had examined the wound in the bear, that he had seen that kind of a shot made by a cow's horn. This sort of talk affected me not. When 1 Ivent to sleep that night, my last delicious thought rasj *' I've killed a bear ! " II. LOST IN THE WOODS. T ought to be said, by way of explana- tion, that my being lost in the wooda was not premeditated. Nothing could have been more informal. This apolog}^ can be necessary only to those who are familiar with the Adirondack literature. Any person not familiar with it would see the absurdity of one going to the Northern Wilderness with the deliberate pur- pose of writing about himself as a lost man. It may be true, that a book about this wild tract would not be recognized as complete without a ^st-man story in it ; since it is almost as easy for a stranger to get lost in the Adirondacks as in Boston. I merely desire to sa}^ that my ttnimporfjant adventure is not narrated in answer 21 22 IN THE WILDERNESS. to the popular demand, and I do not wish to be held responsible for its variation from the t}T3ica character of such experiences. We had been in camp a week, on the Upper Ausable Lake. This is a gem — emerald or tur- quoise as the light changes it — set in the virgin forest. It is not a large body of water, is ir- regulai in form, and about a mile and a half in length ; but in the sweep of its wooded shores, and the lovely contour of the lofty mountains that guard it, the lake is probably the most charming in America. Why the young ladies and gentlemen who camp there occasionally vex the days and nights with hooting, and singing sentimental songs, is a mystery even to the laughing loon. I left my companions there one Saturday morning, to return to Keene Valley, intending to fish down the Ausable River. The Upper Lake discharges itself into the Lower by a brook which winds through a mile and a half of swamp and woods. Out of the north end of the Lower Lake, whi3h is a huge sink in the mountains, and LOST IN THE WOODS. 23 mirrors the savage precipices, the Ausable breaks its rocky barriers, and flows through a wiki gorge, several miles, to the valley below. Be- tween the Lower Lake and the settlements is Rn extensive forest, traversed by a cart-path, admirably constructed of loose stones, roots of trees, decayed logs, slippery rocks, and mud. The gorge of the river forms its western bound a ry. I followed this caricature of a road a mile or more ; then gave my luggage to the guide to carry home, and struck off through the forest, by compass, to the river. I promised myself an exciting scramble down this httle-frequented canon, and a creel full of trout. There was no difficulty in finding the river, or in descending the steep precipice to its bed : getting into a scrape is usually the easiest part of it. The river is strewn with bowlders, big and little, through which the amber water rushes with an unceasing thunderous roar, now plunging down in white falls, then swirhng round in dark pools. The day, already past meridian, was delightful ; U least the blue strip of it T could see overhead 24 IN THE WILhERNESS. Better pools and rapids for trout never were, 1 thought, as I concealed myself behind a bowlder, find made the first cast. There is nothing like the thiill of expectation over the first throw in unfamiliar waters. Fishing is like gambling, in that failure only excites hope of a fortuiiate throw next time. There was no rise to the "leader" on the first cast, nor on the twenty- fii-st ; and I cautiously worked my way down stream, throwing right and left. When I had gone half a mile, my opinion of the character of the pools was unchanged : never were there such places for trout ; but the trout were out of their places. Perhaps they didn't care for the fly: some trout seem to be so unsophisticated as to prefer the worm. I replaced the fly with a baited hook : the worm squirmed ; the waters rushed and roared ; a cloud sailed across the blue : no trout rose to the lonesome opportunity. There IS a certain companionship in the presence of trout, especially when you can feel them flopping in your fish-basket; but it became evident that tticie were no trout in this wilderness, and s LOST IK THE WOODS. 25 Bense of isolation for the first time came over me There was no living thing near. The river ha«.1 by this time entered a deeper gorge ; walls ol rocks rose perpendicularly on either side, — pic turesque rocks, painted many colors by the oxido of iron. It was not possible to climb out of the gorge ; it was impossible to find a way by the side of the river; and getting dowfi the bed, over the falls, and through the flumes, was not easy, and consumed time. Was that thunder ? Very likely. But thunder- showers are always brewing in these mountain- fortresses, and it did not occur to me that there was any thing personal in it. Very soon, how- ever, the hole in the sky closed in, and the rain dashed down. It seemed a providential time to eat my luncheon ; and I took shelter under a scraggy pine that had rooted itself in the edge of the rocky slope. The shower soon passed, and I continued my journey, creeping over the slippery rocks, and continuing to show my confidence in the unresponsive trout. The way grew wilder Rnd more grewsome. The thunder began again, ^6 IN THE WILDERNESS. rolling along over the tops of the mountains, and reverberating in sharp concussions in the gorge : the lightning also darted down into the darkening passage, and then the rain. Every enlightened being, even if he is in a fisherman's dress of shirt and pantaloons, hates to get wet ; and I ignomin iously crept under the edge of a sloping bowlder. It was all very well at fii'st, until streams of water began to crawl along the face of the rock, and trickle down the back of my neck. This was re- fined misery, unheroic and humiliating, as suffer- ing always is when unaccompanied by resignation. A longer time than I knew was consumed in this and repeated efforts to wait for the slacken- ing and renewing storm to pass away. In the intervals of calm I still fished, and even de- scended to what a sportsman considers incredible baseness: I put a "sinker'' on my line. It la the practice of the country-folk, whose only object is to get fish, to use a good deal of bait, sink the hook to the bottom of the pools, and wait the slow appetite of the summer trout. I tiieil this also. I might as well have fished in i LOST IN THE WOODS. 27 pork-barrel. It is true, that, in one deep, black, round pool, I lured a small trout from the bottom, and deposited him in the creel; but it was an accident. Though I sat there in the awful silence (the roar of water and thunder only emphasized the stillness) full half an hour, I was not en- tom'aged by another nibble. Hope, however, did not die : I always expected to find the trout in the next flume ; and so I toiled slowly on, uncon- scious of the passing time. At each turn of the stream I expected to see the end, and at each turn I saw a long, narrow stretch of rocks and foaming water. Climbing out of the ravine was, in most places, simply impossible ; and I began to look with interest for a shde, where bushes rooted in the scant earth would enable me to scale the precipice. I did not doubt that I was nearly through the gorge. I could at length see the huge form of the Giant of the Valley, scarred with avalanches, at the end of the vista ; and it seemed not far off. But it kept its distance, aa onlj- a mountain can, while I stumbkid and sUd down the rocky way. The rain had now set iv is IN THE WILDERNESS. « with persistence, and suddenly I became aware that it was growing dark ; and I said to m3"self, " If you don't wish to spend the night in this hor- rible chasm, you'd better escape speedil3\" For- tunately I reached a place where the face of the precipice was bush-grown, and with considerable labor scrambled up it. Having no doubt that I was within half a mile, perhaps within a few rods, of the house above the entrance of the gorge, and that, in any event, I should fall into the cart-path in a few minutes, I struck boldly into the forest, congi-atulating myself on having escaped out of the river. So sure was I of my whereabouts, that I did not note the bend of the river, nor look at my com- pass. The one trout in my basket was no burden, and I stepped lightly out. The forest was of hard- wood, and open, except for a thick undergrowth of moose-bush. It was raining, — in fact, it had been raining, more or less, for a month, — and the woods were soaked, This moose-ljush is most annoying stuff to travel khrougji in a rain ; for the broad leaves slap ont LOST IN TEE WOODS. 29 ^— ' ■n the face, and sop him with wet. The way prew every moment more dingy. The heavy clouds above the thick fohage brought night on prematurely. It was decidedly premature to a near-sighted man, whose glasses the rain rendered useless : such a person ought to be at home early. On leaving the river-bank I had borne to the left, so as to be sure to strike either the clearing or the road, and not wander off into the measureless forest. I confidently pursued this, course, and went gayly on by the left flank. That I did not come to any opening or path, only showed that I had shghtly mistaken the distance : I was going in the right direction. I was so certain of this, that I quickened my pace, and got up with alacrity every time I tima- bled down amid the shppery leaves and catch- ing roots, and hurried on. And I kept to the left. It even occurred to me that I was turning to the left so much, that I might come back to the river again. It grew more dusky, and rained more violently ; but there was nothing alarming ^ the situation, since I knew exactly wheie I 30 IN THE WILDERNESS, w^as. It was a little mortifjdng that I had miS" calculated the distance : yet, so far was I from feehng any uneasiness about this, that I quick- ened my pace again, and, before I knew it, was in a full run ; that is, as full a run as a person can indulge in in the dusk, with so many trees in the way. No nervousness, but simply a reason- able desire to get there. I desired to look upon myself as the person " not lost, but gone before." As time passed, and darkness fell, and no clear- ing or road appeared, I ran a little faster. It didn't seem possible that the people had moved, or the road been changed ; and yet I was sure of my direction. I went on with an energy in- creased by the ridiculousness of the situation, the danger that an experienced woodsman was in of getting home late for supper ; the lateness of the meal being nothing to the gibes of the un- lost. How long I kept this course, and how far 1 went on, I do not know ; but suddenly I Btumbled against an ill-placed tree, and sat down on tlie soaked ground, a tiifle out of breath. It then occurred to me that I had better verify my LOST IN THE WOODS. 31 course by the compass. There was scarcety light enough to distinguish the black end of the needle. To my amazement, the compass, which was made near Greenwich, was wrong. Allowing for the natural variation of the needle, it was absurdly wrong. It made out that I was going south when I was going north. It intimated, that, in- stead of turning to the left, I had been making a circuit to the right. According to the compass, the Lord only knew where I was. The inchnation of persons in the woods to travel in a ckcle is unexplained. I suppose it arises from the sympathy of the legs with the brain. Most people reason in a circle : their minds go round and round, always in the same track. For the last half-hour I had been saying over a sentence that started itself: "I wonder where that road is ! " I had said it over till it had lost all meaning. I kept going round on it ; and yet I could not believe that my body had been travelling in a circle. Not being able to recognize any tracks, I have no evidence that I had so travelled, except *^he general tastimony of lost men. 32 IN TEE WILDERNESS. The compass annoyed me. I've known ex* pirrienced guides utterly discredit it. It couldn't be that I was to turn about, and go the way T had come. Nevertheless, I said to mjself^ '' You'd better keep a cool head, my boy, or you are in for a night of it. Better listen to science than to spunk." And I resolved to heed the impartial needle. I was a little weary of the rough tramping : but it was necessary to be mov- ing; for, with wet clothes and the night air, I was decidedly chilly. I turned towards the north, and shpped and stumbled along. A more un- inviting forest to pass the night in I never saw. Every thing was soaked. If I became exhausted, it would be necessary to build a fire ; and, as I wallied on, I couldn't find a dry bit of wood. Even if a little punk were discovered in a rotten log, I had no hatchet to cut fuel. I thought it all over calmly. I had the usual three matches in my pocket. I knew exactly what would hap- pen if I tried to build a fii-e. The first match would prove to be wet. The second match, when struck, would shine and smell, and fizz a little LOST IN THE WOODS. 33 and then go out. There would be only one match left. Death would ensue if it failed. 7 should get close to the log, crawl under m}^ hat, strike the match, see it catch, flicker, almost go out (the reader painfully excited by this time) , blaze up, nearly expire, and finally fire the punk, — thank God! And I said to myself, "The public don't want any more of this thing : it is played out. Either have a box of matches, or let the first one catch fire." In this gloomy mood I plunged along. The prospect was cheerless ; for, apart from the com- fort that a fire would give, it is necessary, at night, to keep off the wild beasts. I fancied I could hear the tread of the stealthy brutes fol- lowing their prey. But there was one source of profound satisfaction, — the catamount had been killed. Mr. Colvin, the triangulating surveyor of tlie Adirondacks, killed him in his last official report to the State. Whether he despatched him with a theodolite or a barometer does not mat- ter : he is officially dead, and none of the travel- leis can kill him any more. Yet he has serv#w1 shem a good turn 54 IN THE WILDERNESS. I knew that catamount well. One night when WG lay in the bogs of the South Beaver Meadow, under a canopy of mosquitoes, the sereae mid- night was parted by a wild and human-like cry from a neighboring mountain. ^' That's a cat/ said the guide. I felt in a moment that it was the voice of " modern cultchah." "Modern cul- ture," says Mr. Joseph Cook in a most impres- sive period, — " modern culture is a child crying in the wilderness, and with no voice but a cry." That describes the catamount exactly. The next da}", when we ascended the mountain, we came upon the traces of this brute, — a spot where he had stood and cried in the night ; and I confess that my hair rose with the consciousness of his recent presence, as it is said to do when u spirit passes by. Whatever consolation the absence of cats mount in a dark, drenched, and howhng wilder- ness can impart, that I experienced ; but I thought what a satire upon my present condition was modern culture, with its plain thinking and high li\ing ! It was impossible to get much sat LOST IN THE WOODS. 35 isfaction out of the real and the ideal, — the me Rnd the not-me. At this time what impressed me most was the absurdity of mj position k)oked at in the light of modern civilization and all my advantages and acquirements. It seemed pilifiil that society could do absolutely nothing for me. It was, in fact, humiliating to reflect that it would now be profitable to exchange all my possessions for the woods instinct of the most unlettered guide. I began to doubt the value of the '^ culture " that blunts the natural instincts. It began to be a question whether I could hold out to walli all night ; for I must travel, or perish. And now I imagined that a spectre was walking by my side. This was Famine. To be sure, I had only recently eaten a hearty luncheon : but the pangs of hunger got hold on me when I thought that I should have no supper, no break- fast ; and, as the procession of unattainable meals stretched before me, I grew hungrier and hun- grier. I could feel that I was becoming gaunt, and wasting awa}^ : already I seemed to be ema- nated. It is astonishing how speedily a jocund, 56 IN THE WILDERNESS. well- conditioned human being can be trans formed into a spectacle of poverty and want Lose a man in the woods, drench him, tear his pantaloons, get Ms imagination running on his lost supper and the cheerful fireside that is ex- pecting him, and he wiU become haggard in an hour. I am not dwelling upon these things tc excite the reader's sjTnpathy, but onty to advise him, if he contemplates an adventure of this kind, to provide himself with matches, kindling- wood, something more to eat than one raw trout, and not to select a rainy night for it. Nature is so pitiless, so unresponsive, to a per- son in trouble ! I had read of the soothing com- panionship of the forest, the pleasure of the pathless woods. But I thought, as I stumbled along in the dismal actuaht}^, that, if I ever got out of it, I would write a letter to the news- papers, exposing the whole thing. Theie is an impassive, stolid brutality about the woods, tiiat has never been enough insisted on. I tried to keep my mind fixed upon the fact of man's £Ur periority to Nature ; his ability to dominate and LOST IN THE WOODS. outwit her. My situation was an amusing satire on this theory. I fancied that I coi Jd feel a sneer in the woods at my detected conceit. There was something personal in it. The downpour of tlie rain and the shpperiness of the ground were ele- ments of discomfort ; but there was, beside? these, a kind of terror in the very character of the forest itself. I think this arose not more from its immensitj^ than from the kind of stolidity to which I have alluded. It seemed to me that it would be a sort of rehef to kick the trees. I don't wonder that the bears fall to, occasionally, And scratch the bark off the great pines and maples, tearing it angrily away. One must have some vent to his feelings. It is a common expe- rience of people lost in the woods to lose their heads ; and even the woodsmen themselves are not tree from this panic when some accident hag thrown them out of their reckoning. Fright un- settles the judgment: the oppressive silence of the woods is a vacuum in which the mind goes Rstray. It's a hoUow sham, this pantheism, J Bdd ; being " one with Nature "' is all himabug: 58 IN THE WILDERNESS. I should like to see somebod}^ Man, to be sure, Is of very little account, and soon gets be^'ond his depth ; but the society of the least human being is better than this gigantic indifference. The *' rapture on the lonely shore " is agreeable only when you know 3^ou can at any moment go home. I liad now given up aU expectation of finding the road, and was steering my way as well as I could northward towards the valley. In my haste I made slow progress. Probably the distance I travelled was short, and the time consumed not long ; but I seemed to be adding mile to mile, and hour to hour. I had time to re\iew the incidents of the Russo-Turkish war, and to forecast the entire Eastern question ; I outhned the characters of all my companions left in camp, and sketched in a sort of comedy the sympathetic and dispar- aging observations they would make on my ad- venture ; I repeated something like a thousand times, without contradiction, "What a fool yon were to lea/e the river ! " I stopped twenty times, thinking I heard its loud roar, always deceive*? by the wind in the tree-tops ; I began to enter LOST IN THE WOODS. 39 tain serious doubts about the compass, — when suddenly I became aware that I was no longer on level ground : I was descending a slope ; I was iiotually in a ravine. In a moment more I was in a brook newly formed by the rain. " Thank Heaven ! '* I cried : " this I shall follow, whatevc" conscience or the compass saj^s." In this region, all streams go, sooner or later, into the valle3^ This ravine, this stream, no doubt, led to the river. I splashed and tumbled along down it in mud and water. Down hill we went together, the fall showing that I must have wandered to high ground. When I guessed that I must be close to the river, I suddenly stepj^ed into mud up to my ankles. It was the road, — running, of course, the wrong way, but still the blessed road. It was a mere canal of liquid mud ; but man had made it, and it would take me home. I was at least three miles from the point I supposed I was near at sunset, and I had before me a toilsome rralli of six or seven miles, most of the way in a ditch ; but it is truth to say that I enjoyed every step of it. I was safe ; I knew where I was ; and 40 IN THE WILDERNESS. I could have walked till morning. The mind had again got the upper hand of the body, and began to plume itself on its superiority : it was even disposed to doubt whether it had been ''lost" ataU. III. A FIGHT WITH A TROUT. ROUT-FISHING in the Adirondacks would be a more attractive pastime than it is, but for the popular notion of its danger. The trout is a retiring and harmless animal, except when he is aroused, and forced into a combat ; and then his agility, fierceness, and vindictiveness become apparent. No one who has studied the excellent pictures represent- ing men in an open boat, exposed to the assaults of long, enraged trout flying at them through the open air with open mouth, ever ventures with his rod upon the lonely lakes of the forest without a certain terror, or ever reads of the exploits of daring fishermen without a feeling of admiration for their heroism. Most of then- adventures are 41 42 IN THE WILDERNESS. thi'illing, and all of them are, in narration, more or less unjust to the trout : in fact, the object of them seems to be to exhibit, at the expense of the trout, the shrewdness, the skill, and the mus- c\ilar power of the sportsman. My own simple Btory has few of these recommendations. We had built our bark camp one summer, and were staging on one of the popular lakes of the Saranac region. It would be a veiy pretty re- gion if it were not so flat, if the margins of the lakes had not been flooded b}" dams at the outlets, — which have killed the trees, and left a rim of ghastly dead-wood like the 6wamps of the under-world pictured by Dore^s bizaiTe pen- cil, — and if the pianos at the hotels were in tune. It would be an excellent sporting-region also (for there is water enough) if the fish commissioners would stock the waters, and if pre^^ous hunter s had not pulled all the hair and skin off fi'om the deer's tails. Formerly sportsmen had a habit of catching the deer by the tails, and of being dragged in mere wantonness round and round Qie shores. It is well known, that, if j'ou seize A FIGHT WITH A TROUT. 43 R deer by this " holt," the skin will slip off like the peel fi'om a banana. This reprehensible prac- tice was carried so far, that the traveller is now hourly pained by the sight of peeled-tail deer mournfully sneaking about the wood. We had been hearing, for weeks, of a smaia lake in the heart of the virgin forest, some ten miles from our camp, which was alive with trout, unsophisticated, hungry trout : the inlet to it was described as stiff with them. In my imagination I saw them lying there in ranks and rows, each a foot long, three tiers deep, a sohd mass. The lake had never been visited, except hj stray sable-hunters in the winter, and was known as the Unknown Pond. I determined to explore it ; fully expecting, however, that it would prove to be a delusion, as such mysterious haunts of the trout usually are. Confiding my purpose to liuke, we secretly made our preparations, and stole away from the shanty one morning at day break. Each of us canied a boat, a pair of ?:lankets, a sack of bread, pork, and maple- Bugar ; while I had my case of rods, creel, and U IN THE WILDERNESS. book of flies, and Luke had an axe and the kitchen utensils. We think nothing of loads of this sort in the woods. Five miles through a tamarack-swamp brought us to the inlet of Unknown Pond, upon which we embarked our fleet, and paddled down its vagrant waters. They were at first sluggish, winding among triste fir-trees, but gradually developed a strong current. At the end of three miles a loud roar ahead warned us that we were approaching rapids, falls, and cascades. We paused. The danger was unknown. We had our choice of shouldering our loads and making a detour through the woods, or of *' shooting the rapids.** Naturally we chose the more dangerous course. Shooting the rapids has often been described, and I will not repeat the description here. It is needless to say that I drove my frail bark through the boihng rapids, over the successive water-falls, amid rocks and nclous eddies, and landed, half a mile below mth whitened hair and a boat half full of water : tnd that the guide was upset, and boat, contents, ftDd man were strewn along the shora A FIGHT WITH A TROUT. 45 mi • — ■ < — I — — After this common experience we went quick .j* on om* journey, and, a couple of hours before sundown, reached the lake. If I live to my dying-day, I never shall forget its appearance. The lake is almost an exact circle, about a quar- ter of a mile in diameter. The forest about it Was untouched by axe, and unldlled by artificial flooding. The azure water had a perfect setting of evergreens, in which all the shades of tho fir, the balsam, the pine, and the spruce, were perfectly blended ; and at intervals on the shore in the emerald rim blazed the ruby of the car- dinal-flower. It was at once e\'id®nt that the unruffled waters had never been vexed by the keel of a boat. But what chiefly attracted my attention, and amused me, was the boiling of the water, the bubbling and breaking, as if the lake were a vast kettle, with a fire underneath, A t}TO would have been astonished at this com- mon phenomenon; but sportsmen will at once understand me when I say that the water boiled with the breaking trout. I studied the surface lor some time to see upon what sort of flies 46 IN THE WILDERNESS. tliey were feeding, in order to suit my cast to their appetites ; buo they seemed to be at play rather than feeding, leaping high in the air in graceful curves, and tumbhng about each other as "we see them in the Adirondack pictures. ]fc is well known that no person who regards Lis reputation will ever kill a trout with any thing but a fly. It requires some training on the part of the trout to take to this method. The uncultivated, unsophisticated trout in unfre- quented waters prefers the bait; and the rural people, whose sole object in going a-fishing ap- pears to be to catch fish, indulge them in their primitive taste for the worm. No sportsman, however, will use any thing but a fly, except he happens to be alone. While Luke launched my boat, and arranged his seat in the stern, I prepared my rod and line. The rod is a bamboo, weighing seven ounces, which has to be spliced with a winding of silk thi-ead every time it is used. This is a Vedious process ; but, by fastening the joints ir this way, a uniform spring is secured in the rod A FIGHT WITH A TROUT. 47 No one devoted to high art would think of using a socket joint. My hue was forty yards of un- twisted sill? upon a multipljing reel. The "lead- er" (I am very particular about my leaders) had been made to order from a domestic animal with which I had been acquainted. The fisher- man requu-es as good a catgut as the vioUnist. The interior of the house-cat, it is well known, is exceedingly sensitive ; but it may not be so well known that the reason why some cats leave the room in distress when a piano-forte is played is because the two instruments are not in the same key, and the vibrations of the chords of the one are in discord with the catgut of the other. On six feet of this superior article I fixed three artificial flies, — a simple brown hackle, a gi'ay body with scarlet wings, and one of my own invention, which I thought would be new to the moat experienced fly-catcher. The trout-fly dona not resemble any known species of insect. It 'is a "conventionalized" creation, as we say of Dmamentation. The theory is, that, fly-fishing being a high art, the flv must not be a tame 48 IN THE WILDERNESS. Imitation of nature, but an artistic suggestion of it. It requires an artist to construct one ; and not every bungler can take a bit of red flannel, a f)eacock's feather, a flash of tinsel thread, a cock's plume, a section of a hen's wing, and fabricate a tiny object that will not look like any fly, but still will suggest the universal con* ventional ^y. I took my stand in the centre of the tipsy boat ; and Luke shoved off, and slowly paddled towards some lily-pads, while I began casting, unlimbering my tools, as it were. The fish had all disappeared. I got out, perhaps, fifty feet of line, with no response, and gradually in- creased it to one hundred. It is not difiScult to learn to cast ; but it is difficult to learn not to snap off the flies at every throw. Of this, how- ever, we will not speak. I continued casting for Bome moments, until I became satisfied that there had been a miscalculation. Either the trout were too green to know what I was at, ot they were dissatisfied with my offers. I reeled !n, and changed the flies (that is, the fly that wai A FIGHT WITH A TROUT. 4S not snapped off). After studjing the color of the sky, of the water, and of the fohage, and the moderated light of the afternoon, I put on a series of beguilers, all of a subdued brilliancy, in harmony with the approach of evening. At the second cast, which was a short one, I saw a splash where the leader fell, and gave an excited jerk. The next instant I perceived the game, and did not need the unfeigned " dam ** of Luke to convince me that I had snatched his felt hat from his head, and deposited it among the lilies. Discouraged by this, we whMed about, and pad- dled over to the inlet, where a little ripple was visible in the tinted light. At the very first cast I saw that the hour had come. Three trout Leaped into the air. The danger of this ma- aceu\Te all fishermen understand. It is one of Uie commonest in the woods : three heavy trout talring hold at once, rushing in different direc- tions, smash the tackle into flinders. I evaded this <^atch, and threw again. I recall the mo- nent, A hennit thrush, on the tip of a balsam. Uttered his long, hqoid, evening note. nappeD- 50 m THE WILDERNESS. ing to look over my shoulder, I saw the peak of Marcy gleam ros}^ in the sky (I can't help it that Marcy is fifty miles off, and cannot be seen from this region : these incidental touches are always used) . The hundred feet of silk swished tlirough the air, and the tail-fly fell as lightly on the water as a three-cent-piece (which no slamming wil' give the weight of a ten) drops upon the contri- bution-plate. Instantly there was a rush, a swu'l. I struck, and " Got him, by — ! *' Never mind what Luke said I got him b}^ ' ' Out on a fly ! " continued that irreverent guide ; but I told him to back water, and make for the centre of the lake. The trout, as soon as he felt the prick of the hook, was off like a shot, and took out the whole of the line with a rapidity that made it smoke. " Give him the butt ! " shouted Luke. It is the usual remark in such an emergency. I gave him the butt ; and, recognizing the fact and my spirit, the trout at once sank to the bottom, and bulked. It is the most dangerous mood of $ Jrout ; for you cannot tell what he will do next We reeled up a little, and waited five minutes for A FIGHT WITH A TROUT. 51 him to reflect. A tightening of the line enraged him, .'ind he soon developed his tactics. Coming to the siu-face, he made straight for the boat faster than I could reel in, and e^identl}^ with hostile intentions. " Look out for him ! '' cried Luke as he came fl}ing in the air. I evaded him b}' dropping flat in the bottom of the boat ; and, when I picked my traps up, he was spinning across the lake as if he had a new idea : but the line was still fast. He did not run far. I gave him the butt again ; a thing he seemed to hate, even as a gift. In a moment the evil-minded fish, lashing the water in his rage, was coming back again, making straight for the boat as oefore. Luke, who was used to these en- counters, having read of them in the writings of travellers he had accompanied, raised his paddle iu self-defence. The trout left the water about ten feet from the boat, and came direct^ at mo mth fiery eyes, his speckled sides flashing like a uieteor. I dodged as he whisked by with a ricious slap of his bifurcatea tail, and nearly ap»et the boat. The line was of course slack : 32 IN THE WILDERNESS. and the danger was that he would entaagle it about me, and cany away a leg. This was evi- dently his game ; but I untangled it, and only lost a breast-button or two by the swiftly-moving string. The trout plunged into the water with a hissing sound, and went away again with all the line on the reel. More butt ; more indignation on the part of the captive. The contest had now been going on for half an hour, and I was get- ting exhausted. We had been back and forth across the lake, and round and round the lake. What I feared was, that the trout would start up the inlet, and wreck us in the bushes. But he had a new fanc}^, and began the execution of a manoemTC which I had never read of. Instead of coming straight towards me, he took a large circle, swimming* rapidly, and gradually contract- iiig his orbit. I reeled in, and kept my eye on him. Round and round he went, narrowing his eii'cle. I began to suspect the game ; which was, to twist my head off. When he had reduced the radius of his circle to about twenty-five feet, he itruck a tremendous pace through the water. Ii A FIGHT WITH A TROUT. 53 Hrould be false modesty in a sportsman to say that 1 ^a§ not equal to the occasion. Instead of turning round with him, as he expected, I stepped to the bow, braced myself, and let the boat swing. Round went the fish, and round we went like a top. I saw a line of Mount Marcj^s all round the horizon; the rosy tint in the west made a broad band of pink along the sky above the tree-tops ; the evening star was a perfect circle of light, a hoop of gold in the heavens. We whiiied and reeled, and reeled and whirled. I was willing to give the malicious beast butt and line, and all, if he would only go the other way for a change. When I came to myself, Luke was gaffing the trout at the boat-side. After we had got him in and dressed him, he weighed three-quarters of a pound. Fish always lose by being '' got ill and dressed." It is best to weigh them while they are in the water. The only really large one I ev3r caught got away with my leader when I first itrack him. He weighed cen. pounds. IV. A-HUNTING OF THE DEER. F ci\41ization owes a debt of gratitude to the self-sacrificing sportsmen who have cleared the Adirondack regions of cata- mounts and savage trout, what shall be said of the army which has so nobly relieved them of the terror of the deer? The deer-slayers have some- what celebrated their exploits in print ; but I think that justice has never been done them. The American deer in the wilderness, left to himself, leads a comparatively harmless but rather stupid hfe, with only such excitement as his own timid fancy raises. It was ver}- seldom that one of his tribe was e^ten b}^ the North- American tiger. For a wild animal he is very elomestic, simple in his tastes, regular in his A-IIUNTING OF THE DEER. 55 habits, affectionate in his family. Unfortunately for his repose, his haunch is as tender as his heart. Of all wild creatures he is one of the most graceful in action, and he poses with the skiU of an experienced model. I have seen the goats on Mount PenteUcus scatter at the approach of a stranger, climb to the sharp points of pra jecting rocks, and attitudinize in the most self- conscious manner, strilving at once those pictur- esque postures against the sky with which Oriental pictures have made us and them familiar. But the whole proceeding was theatrical. Greece is the home of art, and it is rare to find any thing there natural and unstudied. I presume that these goats have no nonsense about them when they are alone with the goat-herds, any more than the goat-herds have, except when they come to pose in the studio ; but the long ages of culture, the presence always to the eye of the best models and the forms of immortal beauty, the heroic friezes of the Temple of Theseus, the marble pro- cessions of sacrificial animals, have had a steady ftiouiding, educating influence equal to a society 56 IN THE WILDERNESS. of decorative art upon the people and the animalft «^ho have dwelt in this artistic atmosphere. The Attic goat has become an artificially artistic being ; though of course he is not now what he was, as a poser, in the days of Potycletus. There is opportunity for a very instructive essay by Mr. E. A. Freeman on the decadence of the Attic goat under the influence of the Ottoman Turk. The American deer, in the free atmosphere of our country, and as yet untouched by our deco- rative art, is without self-consciousness, and all his attitudes are free and unstudied. The favor- ite position of the deer — his fore-feet in the shallow margin of the lake, among the lilj^-pads, his antlers thrown back and his nose in the air at the moment he hears the stealthy breaking of a twig in the forest — is still spirited and graceful, and wholly unaffected by the pictures of him which the artists have put upon canvas. Wherever you go in the Northern forest, you wiU find deer-paths. So plainly marked and well-trodden are the}^, that it is easy to mistake Ihem for trails made by hunters ; but he who i'HUNTING OF THE DEER, 67 follows one of them is soon in difficulties. He may find himself climbing through cedar- thickets an almost inaccessible cliff, or immersed in the intricacies of a marsh. The "run," in one di- rection, will lead to water ; but, in the other, it climbs the highest hills, to which the deer retires, for safety and repose, in impenetrable thickets The hunters, in winter, find them congregated in " yards," where they can be surrounded and shot as easily as our troops shoot Comanche women and children in their winter villages. These little paths are full of pit-faUs among the roots and stones ; and, nimble as the deer is, he some- times breaks one of his slender legs in them. Yet he knows how to treat himself without a Burgeon. I knew of a tame deer in a settlement in the edge of the forest who had the misfortune to break her leg. She immediately disappeared with a delicacy rare in an invalid, and was not seen for two weeks. Her friends had given her up, supposing that she had dragged herself away into the depths of the woods , and died of staiTa- Uon; when one day she retuined, cured of 58 IN THE WILDERNESS. lameness, but thin as a virgin shadow. She had the sense to shun the doctor ; to he down in some safe place, and patiently wait for her leg to heal. I have observed in many of the more refined animals this sort of shyness, and reluctance to give trouble, which excite our admiration when noticed in mankind. The deer is called a timid animal, and taunted with possessing courage only when he is '' at bay ; " the stag will fight when he can no longer flee ; and the doe will defend her j'outg in the face of murderous enemies. The deer gets httle credit for this eleventh-hour bravery. But I think, that, in any truly Chiistian condition of society, the deer would not be conspicuous for cowardice. I suppose that if the American girl, even as she is described in foreign romances, were pursued by bull-dogs, and fired at from, behind fences every time she ventured out- doors, she would become timid, and reluctant to go abroad. When that golden era comes whict the poets think is behind us, and the prophets de ^lai'c is aljout to be ushered in by the opening of A-nUNTING OF THE DEER. 59 the ''vials,'' and the kiUing of everybody who doea not believe as those nations believe which have the most cannon ; when we all live in real con- cord, —perhaps the gentle-hearted deer will be respected, and will find that men are not more savage to the weak than are the cougars and panthers. If the little spotted fawn can think, It must seem to her a queer world in which the advent of innocence is hailed by the baling of fierce hounds and the '' ping " of the rifle. Hunting the deer in the Adirondacks is con- ducted in the most manly fashion. There are several methods, and in none of them is a fair chance to the deer considered. A favorite meth- od with the natives is practised in winter, and is caUed by them " stiU hunting." My idea of still hunting is for one man to go alone into the forest, look about for a deer, put his wits fairly against the wits of the keen-scented animal, and kill his d^.er, or get lost in the attempt. There seems to be a sort of fairness about this. It is private assassination, tempered with a little un- certainty about finding your man. The stiU hunt- 60 IN THE WILDERNESS. ing of the natives has all the romance and danger attending the slaughter of sheep in an abattoir. As the snow gets deep, many deer congregate^ in tlie depths of the forest, and keep a place trodden down, which gi'ows larger as thej tramp down the snow in search of food. In time this refuge becomes a sort of "yard,'* surrounded by unbroken snow-banks. The hunt- ers then make their way to this retreat on snow- shoes, and from the top of the banks pick off the deer at leisure with their rifles, and haul them awa}^ to market, until the enclosure is pretty much emptied. This is one of the sm'est methods of exterminating the deer ; it is also one of the most merciful ; and, being the plan adopted by our government for civilizing the Indian, it ought to be popular. The only people who object to it are the summer sportsmen. They naturally want some pleasure out of the death of the deer. Some of our best sportsmen, who desire to protract the pleasure of sla3ing deer through as many seasons as possible, object to the practice :>f the hunters, who make it their chief businesj A-HUNTINO OF THE DEER. C>\ to slaughter as many deer in a camping -season as they can. Their own rule, they say, i? to kill a deer only when they need venison to es-t. Their excuse is specious. What right have these soph- ists to put themselves into a desert place, out of the reach of pro^vdsions, and then ground a right to slay deer on their own improvidence? If it is necessary for these people to have any thing to eat, which I doubt, it is not necessary that they should have the luxury of venison. One of the most picturesque methods of hunt- ing the poor deer is called "floating." The person, with murder in his heart, chooses a cloudy night, seats himself, rifle in hand, in a canoe, which is noiselessly paddled by the guide, and explores the shore of the lake or the dark inlet. In the bow of the boat is a light in a "jack," the rrys of which are shielded from the boat and its occupants. A deer comes down tc feed upon the hly-pads. The boat approaches him. He looks up, and stands a moment, terri- fied or fascinated by the bright flames. In that Qioment the sportsman is supposed to shoot tb« 62 IN THE WILDERNESS. deer. As an historical fact, his hand usually shakes, so that he misses the animal, or only wounds him ; and the stag limps away to die after daj^s of suffering. Usually, however, the hunters remain out all night, get stiff from cold and the cramped position in the boat, and, when they return in the morning to camp, cloud their future existence by the assertion that they " heard a big buck" moving along the shore, but the people in camp made so much noise that he was frightened off. By all odds, the favorite and prevalent mode is hunting with dogs. The dogs do the hunting, the men the killing. The hounds are sent into the forest to rouse the deer, and drive him from his cover. They climb the mountains, strike the trails, and go bajing and yelping on the track of the poor beast. The deer have their estab- Ushed run-ways, a? I said ; and, when they are disturbed in their retreat, they are certain to attempt to escape by following one which in- \ariably leads to gome lake or stream. AU tha* fbe hunter has to do is to seat himself bv one o/ A-HUNTING OF THE DEER. 63 these run-ways, or sit in a boat on the lake, and wait the coming of the pursued deer. Tho frightened beast, fleeing from the unreasoning brutality of the hounds, will often seek the open country, with a mistaken confidence in thti hu- manity of man. To kill a deer when he suddenly passes one on a run-way demands presence of mind, and quickness of aim : to shoot him from the boat, after he has plunged panting into the lake, requires the rare ability to hit a moving object the size of a deer's head a few rods dis- tant. Either exploit is sufficient to make a hero of a common man. To paddle up to the swim- ming deer, and cut his throat, is a sure means of getting venison, and has its charms for some. Even women, and doctors of divinity, have en- joyed this exquisite pleasure. It cannot be denied that we are so constituted by a wise Creator as to feel a deMght in kilhng a wild animal which we do not experience m killing a tame one. The pleasurable excitement of a deer- hunt has never, I beheve, been regarded from the deer'a point of view I hap^vn to be in a position 64 m THE WILDERNESS. by reason of a lucky Adirondack experience, to present it in that light. I am sorry if this intro- duction to mj^ little story has seemed long to the reader : it is too late now to skip it ; but he can recoup himself by omitting the story. Early on the morning of the 23d of August, 1877, a doe was feeding on Basin Mountain. The night had been warm and showery, and the morning opened in an undecided way. The wind was southerly: it is what the deer call a dog- wind, ha\ang come to know quite weU the meaning of ''a southerly wind and a cloud}' sky.'* The sole companion of the doe was her only child, a charming little fawn, whose brown coat was just beginning to be mottled with the beautiful spots which make this young creature as lovely as the gazelle. The buck, its father had been that night on a long tramp across the mountain to Clear Pond, and had not yet re- turned : he went ostensibly to feed on the sue. culent lily-pads there. '' He feedeth among the lilies until the day break and the shadows flee away, and he should be here by this hour ; bif A-HUNTING OF THE DLJJR. he Cometh not/* she said, "leaping upon the mountains , skipping upon the hills . ' ' Clear Pond «vas too far off for the young mother to go with her fawn for a night's pleasure. It was a fashion- able watering-place at this season among the deer; and the doe may have remembered, not without uneasiness, the moonlight meetings of a frivolous society there. But the buck did not come : he was very likely sleeping under one of the ledges on Tight Nippin. Was he alone? "I charge you, by the roes and by the hinds of the field, that ye stir not nor awake my love till he please.*' The doe was feeding, daintily cropping the tender leaves of the young shoots, and turning from time to time to regard her offspring. The fawn had taken his morning meal, and now lay curled up on a bed of moss, watching contented- ly, with his large, soft brown eyes, every move- ment of his mother. The great eyes followed her with an alert entreaty ; and, if the mother 8tei:)ped a pace or two farther away in feeding, the fawn made a I ilf movement, as if to rise ani 66 IN THE WILDERWESS. follow her. You see, she was his sole depend- ence in all the world. But he was quickl}' re-as- sured when she turned her gaze on him ; and if, in alarm, he uttered a plaintive cr^^, she bounded to him at once, and, with every demonstration of affection, licked his mottled skin till it shone again. It was a pretty picture, — maternal love on the one part, and happy trust on the other. The doe was a beauty, and would have been so con- sidered anj^where, as graceful and winning a creature as the sun that day shone on, — slender limbs, not too heavy flanks, round body, and aristocratic head, with small ears, and luminous, intelligent, affectionate eyes. How alert, nipple, free, she was ! What untaught grace in every movement ! What a charming pose when she lifted her head, and turned it to regard her child ! You would have had a companion-picture, if j'ou had seen, as I saw that morning, a baby kicking about among the dry pine-needles on a ledge above the Ausable, in the valley below, wliile it» roung raotJier sat near, with an easel befoie hor A-HUNTING OF TUlL DEER. O? touching in the color of a reluctant landscape, giving a quick look at the sky and the outline of the Twin Mountains, and bestowing every third glance upon the laughing boy, — art in its in fancy. The doe lifted her head a little with a quick motion, and turned her ear to the south. Had Bhe heard something ? Probably it was only the south wind in the balsams. There was silence all about in the forest. If the doe had heard any thing, it was one of the distant noises of the world. There are in the woods occasional moan- ings, premonitions of change, which are inaudi- ble to the dull ears of men, but which, I have no doubt, the forest-folk hear and understand. If the doe's suspicions were excited for an instant, they were gone as soon. With an affectionate glance at her fawn, she continued picking up her breakfast. But suddenly she started, head erect, eyes ducted, a tremor in her limbs. She took a step ; Bhe turned her head to the south; she listened Uitently. There was s sound, — a distant, pro IN tllE wilderness. longed note, bell-toned, pervading the woods, shak mg the air in smooth vibrations. It was repeated. The doe had no doubt now. She shook like the sensitive mimosa when a footstep approaches. It was the baling of a hound ! It was far off, — fit the foot of the mountain, "time enough Ixj fly; time enough to put miles between her and the hound, before he should come upon her fresh trail; time enough to escape away thi'ough the dense forest, and hide in the recesses of Panther Gorge ; yes, time enough. But there was the fawn. The cry of the hound was repeated, more distinct this time. The mother instinct! vel}^ bounded away a few paces. The fawn started up with an anxious bleat : the doe turned ; she came back ; she couldn't leave it. She bent over it, and licked it, and seemed to say, '' Come, my child: we are pursued: we must go.'* She walked away towards the west, and the Uttle thing skipped after her. It was slow going foi the slender legs, over the fallen logs, and through Ihe rasping bushes. The doe bounded in ad- vance, and waited : the fawn scrambled after hex A-HUNTING OF THE DEER. 69 Blipping and tumbling along, very groggy jat oii its legs, and whining a good deal because its mother kept alwaj'S moving away from it. The fawn evidently did not hear the hound : the httle innocent would even have looked sweetly at the dog, and tried to make friends with it, if the brute had been rushing upon him. By all the means at her command the doe urged her 3'Oung one on ; but it was slow work. She might have been a mile away while they were making a few rods. Whenever the fawn caught up, he was quite content to frisk about. He wanted more breakfast, for one thing ; and his mother wouldn't stand stiU. She moved on continually ; and his weak legs were tangled in the roots of the narrow deer-path. Shortly came a sound that threw the doe into a panic of terror, — a short, sharp yelp, followed by a prolonged howl, caught up and re-eohoed by other biijdngs iilong the mountain- side. The doe knew what that meant. One hound had caught ber trail, and the whole pack responded to the " new-halloo / The danger was certain now 70 m THE WILDERNESS. it was near. She could not crawl on in thia wa}' : the dogs would soon be upon them. She turned again for flight : the fawn, scrambhng after her, tumbled over, and bleated piteously. The bapng, emphasized now by the yelp of cer- tainty, came nearer. Flight with the fawn was impossible. The doe retm'ned and stood by it, head erect, and nostrils distended. She stood perfectly still, but trembling. Perhaps she was thinldng. The fawn took advantage of the situa- tion, and began to draw his luncheon ration. The doe seemed to have made up her mind. She let him finish. The fawn, ha^dng taken all he wanted, laj^ down contented^, and the doe licked him for a moment. Then, with the swiftness of a bird, she dashed away, and in a moment was lost in the forest. She went in the du*ection of the hounds. -According to all human calculations, she waa going into the jaws of death. So she was : all aimian calculations are selfish. She kept straight on, hearing the bapng every moment more dis» Unetl}'. She descended the slope of the inoui> A-mJNTING OF TEE DEER. 71 tain until she reached the more open forest of hard- wood. It was freer going here, and tho cry of the pack echoed more resoundingly in the great spaces. She was going due east, when '[judging by the sound, the hounds were not far off, though they were still hidden by a ridge) she turned short away to the norths and kept on at a good pace. In five minutes more she heard the sharp, exultant yelp of discovery, and then the deep-mouthed howl of pursuit. The hounds had struck her trail where she turned, and the fawn was safe. The doe was in good running condition, the ground was not bad, and she felt the exhilaration of the chase. For the moment, fear left her, and she bounded on with the exaltation of triumph. For a quarter of an hour she went on at a slap- ping pace, clearing the moose-bushes with bound after bound, fl}ing over the fallen logs, pausing neither for brook nor ravine. The baying of the hounds grew fainter behind her. "Rut she struck ft bad piece of going, a dead-wood slash. It was marvellous to see her skiia over it, leaping -among 72 IN THE WILDERNESS. its intricacies, and not breaking her slender legs. No other living animal could do it. But it waa killing work. She began to pant fearfully ; she lost ground. The baling of the hounds was nea:- er. She climbed the hard-wood hill at a slower gait ; but, once on more level, free ground, hei breath came back to her, and she stretched awaj; with new courage, and maybe a sort of contempt of her heavy pursuers. After running at high speed perhaps half a mile farther, it occurred to her that it would be safe now to turn to the west, and, by a wide circuit, seek her fawn. But, at the moment, she heard a sound that chilled her heart. It was the cry of a hound to the west of her. The crafty brute had made the circuit of the slash, and cut off her retreat. There was nothing to do but to keep on ; and on she went, still to the north, with the noise of the pack behind her. In five minutes n?cre she had passed into a hillside clearing. Cows and young steers were grazing there. She heard a tinkle of bells. Below her, down the giountain-slope, were other clearings, broken b| A-EUNTING OF THE DEER. 73 patches of woods. Fences intervened ; and a mile or two down lay the valley, the shining Ausable, and the peaceful farm-houses. That way also her hereditary enemies were. Not a merciful heart in all that lovely valley. She hesitated : it was only for an instant. She must cross the Slide- brook Valley if possible, and gain the mountain opposite. She bounded on ; she stopped. What was that? From the valley ahead came the cry of a searching hound. All the devils were loose this morning. Every way was closed but one, and that led straight down the mountain to the cluster of houses. Conspicuous among them was a slender white wooden spire. The doe did not know that it was the spire of a Christian chapel. But perhaps she thought that human pity dwelt there, and would be more merciful than the teeth of the hounds. " The hounds are baying on my track: O white man I will you send me back? " In a panic, frightened animals will always fle6 10 human-kmd from the danger of more savage 74 IN THE WILDERNESS. foes. They always make a mistake in doin j so Perhaps the trait is the survival of an era of peace on earth ; j)erhaps it is a prophecy of the golden age of the future. The business of this age is murder, — the slaughter of animals, the slaughter of fellow-men, by the wholesale. Hila- rious poets who have never fired a gun wri'^e hunting-songs, — Ti-ra-la : and good bishops write war-songs, — Ave the Czar! The hunted doe went down the " open,'' clear ing the fences splendidly, fl}ing along the stony path. It was a beautiful sight. But consider what a shot it was ! If the deer, now, could only have been caught ! No doubt there were tender- hearted people in the valley who would have spared her life, shut her up in a stable, and petted her. Was there one who would have let her go back to her waiting fawn ? It is the busi ness of civilization to tame or kill. The doe went on. She left the saw-mill on lohn's Brook to her right; she turned into a wood-path. As she approached Slide Brook, she *aw a boy standing by a tree with a raised rifle. A-HUNTING OF THE DEER. 73 The dogs were not in sight ; but she could hear them coming down the hill. There was no time for hesitation. With a tremendous bm-st of speed she cleared the stream, and, as she touched the bank, heard the " ping" of a rifle-bullet in the air above her. The cruel sound gave wings to the poor thing. In a moment more she was in the opening : she leaped into the travelled road. Which way ? Below her in the wood was a load of hay : a man and a boy, with pitchforks in their hands, were running towards her. She turned south, and flew along the street. The town was up. Women and children ran to the doors and windows ; men snatched their rifles ; shots were fired; at the big boarding-houses, the summer boarders, who never have any thing to do, came out and cheered j a camp-stool was thrown from a veranda. Some young fellows shooting at a mark in the meadow saw the flying deer, and popped away at her ; but they were accustomed to a mark that stood still. It was all so sudden ! There were twenty people who were just going to shoot hei ; when the doe leaped the road 76 IN THE WILDERNESS. fence, and went away across a marsh toward the foot-hills. It was a fearful gantlet to run. But nobody except the deer considered it in that hght. Everybody told what he was just going to do; everybody who had seen the performance was a kind of hero, — everybody except the deer. For days and days it was the subject of conversa- tion; and the summer boarders kept their guns at hand, expecting another deer would come to be shot at. The doe went away to the foot-hills, going now slower, and evidently fatigued, if not frightened half to death. Nothing is so appalhng to a re- cluse as half a mile of summer boarders. As the deer entered the thin woods, she saw a rabble f^f people start across the meadow in pursuit. By this time, the dogs, panting, and loUing out their tongues, came swinging along, keeping the trail, like stupids, and consequently losing gi'ound when the deer doubled. But, when the doe had got into the timber, she heard the savage brutes howhng across the meadow. (It is well enough, perhaps to say that nobody offered to shoot the dogs.) A-EUNTING OF THE DEER. 71 The courage of the panting fugitive was not gone : she was game to the tip of her high-bred ears. But the fearful pace at which she had just been going told on her. Her legs trembled, and her heart beat hke a trip-hammer. She slowed her speed perforce, but still fled industriously up the right bank of the stream. When she had gone a couple of miles, and the dogs were evi- dently gaining again, she crossed the broad, deep brook, chmbed the steep left bank, and fled on in the direction of the Mount-Marcy trail. The fording of the river threw the hounds off for a time. She knew, by their uncertain yelping up and down the opposite bank, that she had a httle respite : she used it, however, to push on unti^ the baling was faint in her ears ; and then she dropped, exhausted, upon the ground. This rest, brief as it was, saved her life. Roused again by the baling pack, she leaped for- ward with better speed, though without that keen feeling of exhilarating flight that she had in the morning. It was stiU a race for life ; but the odda rere in her favor, she thought. She did not ap* 78 IN THE WILDERNESS. predate the dogged persistence of the hounds, nor had any inspiration told her that the race is not to the swift. She was a little confused in her mind where to go ; but an instinct kept her course to the left, and consequently farther away from her fawn. Going now slower, and now faster, as the pursuit seemed more distant or nearer, she kept to the south-west, crossed the stream again, left Panther Gorge on her right, and ran on by Haj^stack and Skj-light in the direction of the Upper Ausable Pond. I do not know her exact course through this maze of mountains, swamps, ravines, and frightful wildernesses. I only know that the poor thing worked her way along pain- fully, with sinking heart and unsteady limbs, l^ing down " dead beat'* at intervals, and then spurred on by the cry of the remorseless dogs, until, late in the afternoon, she staggered down the shoulder of Bartlett, and stood upon the shore of the lake. If she could put that piece of water between her and her pursuers, she would be safe Had she strength to swim it? At her first step into the water she saw a sigh»r A-miNTING OF THE DEER. 70 that sent her back with a bound. There was a boat mid-lake : two men were in it. One was rowing : the other had a gun in his hand. They were looking towards her : they had seen her. (She did not know that they had heard the bay- ing of hounds on the mountains, and had been Ijdng in wait for her an hour.) What should she do ? The hounds were drawing near. No escape that way, even if she could still run. With only a moment's hesitation she plunged into the lake, and struck obhquely across. Her tired legs could not propel the tii'ed body rapidly. She saw the boat headed for her. She turned toward the cen- tre of the lake. The boat turned. She couki near the rattle of the oar-locks. It was gaining on her. Then there was a silence. Then there was a splash of the water just ahead of her, fol- lowed by a roar round the lake, the words " Con- fcamd it all!" and a rattle of the oars again. The doe saw the boat nearing her. She turned iiTesolutel}^ to the shore whence she came : the dogs were lapping the water, and howling there She turned again to the jentre of the lake. BO IN THE WILDERNESS. The brave, pretty creature was quite exhausted now. In a moment more, with a rush of water, the boat was on her, and the man at the oars had leaned over and caught her by the tail. " Knock her on the head with that paddle ! '* he shouted to the gentleman in the stern. The gentleman was a gentleman, with a kind, smooth-shaven face, and might have been a min- ister of some sort of everlasting gospel. He took the paddle in his hand. Just then the doe turned her head, and looked at him with her great, appealing eyes. " I can't do it ! my soul, I can't do it ! ** and he dropped the paddle. "Oh, let her go ! '* " Let H. go ! " was the only response of the guide as he slung the deer round, whipped out his hunting-knife, and made a pass that seveied her jugular. And the gentleman ate that night of the veni Bon. The buck returned about the middle of the afternoon. The fawn was bleating piteously^ A-HUNTING OF THE DEER. 81 hungry and lonesome. The buck was surprised. He looked about in the forest. He took a circuit, and came back. His doe was nowhere to be seen. He looked down at the fawn in a helpless sort of way. The fawn appealed for his supper. The buck had nothing whatever to give his child, — nothing but his sj^mpathy. If he said any thing, this is what he said : " I'm the head of this family ; but, really, this is a novel case. I've noth- ing whatever for 3'ou. I don't know what to do. I've the feelings of a father ; but you can't live on them. Let us travel." The buck walked away : the little one toddle^ after him. They disappeared in the forest. V. A CHARACTER STUDY. HERE has been a lively inquiry after the primeval man. Wanted, a man who would satisf}^ the conditions of the miocene environment, and 3'et would be good enough for an ancestor. We are not particular about our ancestors, if they are sufficiently re- mote ; but we must have something. Failing to apprehend the primeval man, science has sought the primitive man where he exists as a survival in present savage races. He is, at best, only a mushroom growth of the recent period (came in, probabl}', with the general raft of mammalian fauna) ; but he possesses 3'et some rudimentary traits that may be studied. It is a good mental exercise to try to fix the A CHARACTER STUDY. 83 mind on the primitive man divested of all the Rttributes he has acquired in his struggles -VNith the other mammalian fauna. Fix the mind on an orange, the ordinary occupation of the meta- physician : talre from it (without eating it) odor, color, weighty form, substance, and peel ; then let the mind still dwell on it as an orange. Tlie experiment is perfectly successful; onl}^ at the end of it, you haven't any mind. Better still, consider the telephone : take away from it the metallic disk, and the magnetized iron, and the connecting wire, and then let the mind run abroad on the telephone. The mind won't come back. I have tried by this sort of process to get a conception of the primitive man. I let the mind roam away back over the vast geologic spaces, and sometimes fancy I see a dim image ^>f him stalking across the terrace epoch of the quaternary period. But this is an unsatisf3'ing pleasure. The best results are obtained by stud3dng the primitive man as he is left here and there in our era, a «ritness of what has been ,• and I find him moft H IN THE WILDERNESS. wO my mind in the Adirondack system of what geologists call the Champlain epoch. I suppose the primitive man is one who owes more to nature than to the forces of civihzation. What we seek in him are the primal and original traits, unmixed with the sophistications of society, and unimpaired by the refinements of an artificial culture. He would retain the primitive instincts, which are cultivated out of the ordinary, com- monplace man. I should expect to find him, by reason of an unrehnquished kinsjiip, enjopng a special communion with natm'e, — admitted to its mysteries, understanding its moods, and able to predict its vagaries. He would be a kind of test to us of what we have lost by our gregarious acquisitions. On the one hand, there would be the shai-pness of the senses, the keen instincts (which the fox and the beaver still possess) , the ability to find one's way in the pathless forest, to follow a trail, to cii'cumvent the wild denizens of llie woods ; and, on the other hand, there would be the philosophy of life which the primitive man, ?rith little external aid, would evolve fron A CHARACTER STUDY. 85 original observation and cogitation. It is our good fortune to know such a man ; but it is diffi cult to present him to a scientific and cavilhng generation. He emigrated from somewhat limited conditions in Vermont, at an earlj^ age, near'y half a century ago, and sought freedom for his natural development backward in the wilds of the Adirondacks. Sometimes it is a love of adven- ture and freedom that sends men out of the more civihzed conditions into the less ; sometimes it is a constitutional physical lassitude which leads them to prefer the rod to the hoe, the trap to the sickle, and the society of bears to town-meetings and taxes. I think that Old Mountain Phelps had merely the instincts of the primitive man, and never any hostile civilizing intent as to the wilderness into which he plunged. Why should he want to slash away the forest, and plough up the ancient mould, when it is infinitely pleasanter to roam about in the leafy solitudes, or sit upon a mossy log and listen to the chatter of birds and the stir of beasts? Are there not trout in the streams, gum exuding f»'om the spruce, sugar id 86 IN THE WILDERNESS. the maples, honey in the hollow trees, fur on the Babies, warmth in liickorj^-logs? Will not a few clays' planting and scratching in the "open" yield potatoes and rye? And, if there is steadier diet needed than venison and bear, is the pig an expensive animal ? If Old Phelps bowed to the prejudice or fashion of his age (since we have come out of the tertiary state of things), and reared a family, built a frame-house in a secluded nook by a cold spring, planted about it some apple-trees and a rudimentary garden, and in- stalled a group of flaming sunflowers by the door, I am cominced that it was a concession that did not touch his radical character ; that is to say, it did not impair his reluctance to spht oven-wood. He was a true citizen of the wilderness. Thoreau would have liked him, as he liked In- dians and woodchucks, and the smell of pine- foiests; and, if Old Phelps had seen Thoreau, he would probably have said to him. "Why cii uirth, Mr. Thoreau, don't jou. live accordin' to your preachin' ? " You might be misled by th* shaggy suggestion of Old Phelps's given name — A CnARACTER STUDY. 87 OrsoD — into the notion that he was a miglity hunter, with the fierce spirit of the Berserkers in his veins. Nothing could be farther from the buth. The hu'sute and grisly sound of Orson expresses only his entire affinity with the untamed and the natural, an uncouth but gentle passion for the freedom and wildness of the forest. Or- son Phelps has only those unconventional and humorous qualities of the bear which make the animal so beloved in hterature ; and one does not think of Old Phelps so much as a lover of nature, — to use the sentimental slang of the period, — as a part of nature itself. His appearance at the time when as a " guide '* he began to come into public notice fostered this impression, — a sturdy figure, with long bod}^ and short legs, clad in a woollen shii't and butternut-colored trousers repaired to the point of p)icturesqueness, his head surmounted by a limp, light-brown felt hat, frayed awa}^ at the top, so that his 3'ellowish hair grew out of it like gome nameless fern out of a pot. His tawny uair was long and tangled, matted now man^ 88 IN THE WILDERNESS. j^ears past the possibility of being entered by a comb. His featui-es were small and delicate, and set in the frame of a reddish beard, the razor having mowed away a clearing about the sensi- tive mouth, which was not seldom wi'eathed with a child-like and charming smile. Out of this hirsute eniironment looked the small gray eyes. Bet near together; eyes keen to observe, and quick to express change of thought ; eyes that made you believe instinct can grow into philo- sophic judgment. His feet and hands were of aristocratic smallness, although the latter were not worn away by ablutions ; in fact, they assisted his toilet to give you the impression that here was a man who had just come out of the ground, ► - a real son of the soil, whose appearance was partially explained by his humorous relation to Bonp. ^' Soap is a thing," he said, "that I Laiu't no kinder use for." His clothes seemed to have been put on him once for all, like the Dark of a tree, a long time ago. The observant %tranger was sure to be puzzled by the contras* Df this realistic and uncouth exterior with th« A CHARACTER STUDY. 89 Internal fineness, amounting to refinement and culture, that shone through it all. What com- munion had supplied the place of our artificia breeding to this man? Perhaps his most characteristic attitude was Bitting on a log, with a short pipe in his mouth. If ever man was formed to sit on a log, it was Old Phelps. He was essentially a contemplative person. WaUiing on a country road, or any- where in the " open," was irksome to him. He had a shambling, loose-jointed gait, not unlike that of the bear : his short legs bowed out, as if they had been more in the habit of climbing trees than of walking. On land, if we may use thai expression, he was something like a sailor ; but, once in the rugged trail or the unmarked route of his native forest, he was a different person, and few pedestrians could compete with him. The vulgar estimate of his contemporaries, thai reckoned Old Phelps "lazy,*' was simply a fail- ure to comprehend the conditions of his being. It is the unjustness of civilization that it sets up aniJbrra and artificial standards for all persons 90 IN THE WILDERNESS. The primitive man suffers by them much as the contemplative philosopher does, when one hap- pens to arrive in this bus}', fussy world. If the appearance of Old Phelps attracts at- tention, his voice, when first heard, invariably startles the listener. A small, high-pitched, half- qu2rulous voice, it easily rises into the shrillest falsetto ; and it has a quality in it that makes it audible in all the tempests of the forest, or the roar of rapids, hke the piping of a boatswain's whistle at sea in a gale. He has a wa}^ of letting it rise as his sentence goes on, or when he is opposed in argument, or wishes to mount above other voices in the conversation, until it dominates Gvary thing. Heard in the depths of the broods, quavering aloft, it is felt to be as much a part oi nature, an original force, as the north-west wind or the scream of the hen-hawk. When he is pot- t( ring about the camp-fire, trjing to hght his pipe with a twig held in the flame, he is w^t to begin some pliilosophical observation in a small, slow Btunibling voice, which seems about to end iu ilcfcal ; when he puts on some unsuspected force, A CHARACTER STUDY. 91 and the sentence ends in an insistent shriek. Horace Greeley had such a voice, and could regu- late it in the same manner. But Phelps's voice ia not seldom plaintive, as if touched by the dreamy sadness of the woods themselves. When Old Mountain Phelps was discovered, he was, as the reader has alread}^ guessed, not un- derstood by his contemporaries. His neighbors, farmers in the secluded valley, had many of them grown thrifty and prosperous, cultivating the fer- tile meadows, and vigorously attacking the tim bered mountains ; while Phelps, with not much more faculty of acquiring property than the roam- ing deer, had pursued the even tenor of the life in the forest on which he set out. They would have been surprised to be told that Old Phelps owned more of what makes the value of the Adirondacks than all of them put together , but it was true. This woodsman, this trapper, this hunter, this fisherman, this sitter on a log, and philosopher, was the real proprietor of thu region over which he was ready to guide the vtrangftr. It is true that he had not a monopoly 92 IN THE WILDERNESS. of its geography or its topography (though Ms knowledge was superior in these respects) ; there were other trapj^ers, and more deadly hunters, and as intrepid guides : but Old Phelps was the discoverer of the beauties and sublimities of the mountains ; and, when city strangers broke into the region, he monopolized the appreciation of these dehghts and wonders of nature. I suppose, that, in all that country, he alone had noticed the sunsets, and observ^ed the delightful processes of the seasons, taken pleasure in the woods for themselves, and climbed mountains solely for the sake of the prospect. He alone understood what was meant by "scenery.** In the eyes of his neighbors, who did not know that he was a poet and a philosopher, I dare say he appeared to be a slack provider, a rather shiftless trapper and fisherman ; and his passionate love of the forest and the mountains, if it was noticed, was ac- counted to him for idleness. When the appreci- ative tourist arrived, Phelps was ready, as guide, to open to him all the wonders of his possessions he, for the fii'st time, found an outlet for his en A CHARACTER STUDY. 93 thusiasm, and a response to his own passion It then became known what manner of man this was who had grown up here in the companionship of forests, mountains, and wild animals ; that these scenes had highly developed in him the lovo of beauty, the aesthetic sense, dehcacy of appre- ciation, refinement of feeling ; and that, in hie Bohtary wanderings and musings, the primitive man, self-taught, had evolved for himself a phi- losophy and a system of things. And it was s, sufficient system, so long as it was not disturbed by external scepticism. When the outer world came to him, perhaps he had about as much to give to it as to receive from it ; probably more, in his own estimation ; for there is no conceit like that of isolation. Phelps loved his mountains. He was the dis- coverer of Marcy, and caused the first trail to be cut to ii'.s summit, so that others could enjoy the noble V ews from its round and rocky top. To him it was, in nobie symmetry and beauty, tho ?hief mountain of the globe. To stand on it j^ave him, as he said, " a feeling of heaven up- 94 IN THE WILDERNESS. h'isted-ness.'* He heard with impatience that Mount Washington was a thousand feet higher, and he had a child-lil^e incredulity about the sor- passhig sublimity of the Alps. Praise of any other elevation he seemed to consider a slight to Mount Marcy, and did not wiUingly hear it, any more than a lover hears the laudation of the beauty of another woman than the one he loves. When he showed us scenery he loved, it made him melancholy to have us speak of scenery else- where that was finer. And yet there was this deUcacy about him, that he never over-praised what he brought us to see, any more than one would over-praise a friend of whom he was fond. I remember, that when for the first time, after a toilsome journey through the forest, the splendors of the Lower Ausable Pond broke upon our vision, — that low-ljing silver lake, imprisoned by the precipices which it reflected in its bosom. — he made no outward response to our burst of admiration : onl}' a quiet gleam of the ej'c showed the pT.easure our appreciation gave him. As som« Due said, it was as if his friend had been admh-ed. A CHARACTER STUDY. 95 — a friend about whom he was unwilling to say much himself, but well pleased to have others praise. Thus far, we have considered Old Phelps aa Bimply the product of the Adirondacks ; not so much a self-made man (as the doubtful phrase has it) as a natural growth amid primal forces. But our study is interrupted by another influence, which complicates the problem, but increases its interest. No scientific observer, so far as we know, has ever been able to watch the develop- ment of the primitive man, played upon and fashioned by the hebdomadal iteration of " Gree- ley's Weekly Tri-bune." Old Phelps educated by the woods is a fascinating study; educated by the woods and the Tri-bune, he is a phenome- non. No one at this day can reasonably con- ceive exactly what this newspaper was to such a mountain valley as Keene. K it was not a Providence, it was a Bible. It was no doubt owing to it that Democrats became as scarce aa moose in the Adirondacks. But it is not of its pohtical aspect that T s;>eak. I suppose that the 96 IN THE WILDERNESS. most cultivated and best informed portion of the earth's surface — the Western Reserve of Ohio, as free from conceit as it is from a suspicion that it lacks any thing — owes its pre-eminence solely to this comprehensive journal. It received from it every thing except a collegiate and a classi~ cal education, — things not to be desired, since they interfere with the self-manufacture of man. If Greek had been in this curriculum, its best known dictum would have been translated, ^'Make thyself." This journal carried to the community that fed on it not only a complete education in aU departments of human practice and theorizing, but the more valuable and satis- fying assurance that there was nothing more to be gleaned in the universe worth the attention of man. This panoplied its readers in completeness. Politics, literature, arts, sciences, universal broth- erhood and sisterhood, — nothing was omitted; neither the poetry of Tennyson, nor the philos- ophy of Margaret Fuller ; neither the virtues of association, nor of unbolted wheat. The lawi of poUtical economy and trade were laid down at A CHARACTER STUDY. 97 positively and clearly as the best way to bake beans, and the saving truth that the millennium would come, and come only when every foot of the earth was subsoiled. I do not say that Orson Phelps was the product of nature and the Tri-bune ; but he cannot be explained without considering these two factors. To him Greeley was the Tri-bune, and the Tri- bune was Greeley ; and yet I think he conceived of Horace Greeley as something greater than his newspaper, and perhaps capable of producing another journal equal to it in another part of the universe. At any rate, so completely did Phelps absorb this paper and this personahty, that he was popularly known as '' Greeley '* in the region where he lived. Perhaps a fancied resemblance of the two men in the popular mind had some- thing to do with this transfer of name. There is no doubt that Horace Greeley owed his vast in- fluence in the country to his genius, nor much doubt that he owed his popularity in the rural districts to James Gordon Bennett ; that is, to the personaht}^ of the man which the ingenious 98 IN THE WlLDERNEbS. Bennett impressed upon the country. That he despised the conventionalities of society, and was a sloven in his toilet, was firmly believed ; and the ]jelief endeared him to the hearts of the people. To them "the old white coat*' — an antique garment of unrenewed immortahty — was as much a subject of idolatry as the redlngote grise to the soldiers of the first Napoleon, who had seen it by the camp-fires on the Po and on the Borj'sthenes, and believed that he would come again in it to lead them against the enemies of France. The Greeley of the popular heart was clad as Bennett said he was clad. It was in vain, even pathetically in vain, that he pubhshed in his newspaper the full bill of his fashionable tailor (the fact that it was receipted maj^ have excited the animosity of some of his contemporaries) to show that he wore the best broadcloth, and that the folds of his trousers followed the city fasliion of falling outside his boots. If this revelation was beheved, it made no sort of impression in the country. The rural readers were not to be wheedled out of their cherished conception o* A CHARACTER STUDY. 98 whe personal appearance of the philosophei of the Tri-bune. That the Tri-bune taught Old Thelps to be more Phelps than he would have been without it was part of the independence-teaching mission of Greeley's paper. The subscribers were an army, in which every man was a general. And I am not surprised to find Old Phelps lately rising lo the audacity of criticising his exemplar. In some recently-pubhshed observations by Phelps upon the philosophy of reading is laid down this definition: " If ^ I understand the necessity or use of reading, it is to reproduce again what has been said or proclaimed before. Hence letters, characters, &c., are arranged in all the perfection they possibly can be, to show how certain lan- guage has been spoken by the original author. Now, to reproduce by reading, the reading should be so perfectly hke the original, that no caie standing out of sight could tell the reading from the first time the language was spoken,*' This is illustrated by the highest authority at hand ; "I have heard as gocd readers read, and i.GfC. 100 IN THE WILDERNESS. RS poor readers, as almost any one in this region If I Lave not heard as many, I have had a chance to hear nearly the extreme in variety. Horace Greeley ought to have been a good read- ei. Certainl}'' but few, if an}^, ever knew every word of the English language at a glance more readily than he did, or knew the meaning of every mark of punctuation more clearly ; but he could not read proper. ' But how do you know ? * says one. From the fact, I heard him in the same lecture dehver or produce remarks in his own particular way, that, if the}' had been pub- lished properly in print, a proper reader would have rei^roduced them again the same way. In the midst of those remarks IVIr. Greeley took up a paper, to reproduce by reading part of a speech that some one else had made ; and his reading did not sound much more like the man that first read or made the speech than the c^aiter of a nail-factory sounds like a weU-delivered speech Xow, the fault was not because Mr. Greeley did tot know how to read as well as almost any man Aat ever lived, if not quite : but in his youth hf A CHARACTER STUDY. IJl learned to read wrong ; and, as it is ten times harder to unlearn any thing than it is to learn it, he, like thousands of others, could never stop to unlearn it, but carried it on through his whole life." "Whether a reader would be thanked for repro- ducing one ?f Horace Greelej^'s lectures as he dehvered it is a question that cannot detain us here ; but the teaching that he ought to do so, I think, would please Mr. Greeley. The first driblets of professional tourists and summer boarders who arrived among the Adiron- dack Mountains a few years ago found Old Phelps the chief and best guide of the region Those who were eager to throw off the usages of civilization, and tramp and camp in the wilder- ness, could not but be well satisfied with the aborigmal appearance of this guide ; and when he led off into the woods, axe in hand, and a auge canvas sack upon his shoulders, they seemed to be following the Wandering Jew. The oou« tents of this sack would have furnished a modern Industrial exhibition, — provisions cooked and 102 IN THE WILDERNESS. raw, blankets, maple-sugar, tin-ware, clothing, pork, Incliau-meal, flour, coflee, tea, &c. Ptelpg was the ideal guide : he knew ever}^ foot of the pathless forest ; he knew all wood-craft, aU the signs of the weather, or, what is the same thing, how to make a Delphic prediction about it. He was fisheiman and hunter, and had been the comi'ade of sportsmen and explorers ; and his enthusiasm for the beauty and sublimity of the region, and for its untamable wildness, amounted to a passion. He loved his profession ; and yet it very soon appeared that he exercised it with reluctance for those who had neither ideahty, nor love for the woods. Their presence was a profa- nation amid the scenery he loved. To guide into his private and secret haunts a party that had no appreciation of their loveliness disgusted liim. It was a waste of his time to conduct flip- pant young men and giddy girls who made a noisy and irreverent lark of the expedition. And, for their part, they did not appreciate the benefit of being accompanied by a poet and a philoso* pher. They neither understood nor valued hit A CHARACTER STUDY. 103 special knowledge and his shrewd obsei-vations : jhey didn't even like his shiill voice ; his quaiDt talk bored them. It was true, that, at this period, Phelps had lost something of the activity of his youth ; and the habit of contemplative sit- ting on a log and talldng increased with the infirmities induced by the hard life of the woods- man. Perhaps he would rather talk, either about the woods-life or the various problems of exist- ence, than cut wood, or busy himself in the drudgery of the camp. His critics went so far as to say, '' Old Phelps is a fraud." They would have said the same of Socrates. Xantippe, who never appreciated the world in which Socrates hved, thought he was lazy. Probably Socrates could cook no better than Old Phelps, and no doubt went " gumming " about Athens with very ;iltle care of what was in the pot for dinner. If the sumiticr visitors measured Old Phelps, he also measured them by his own standards. He used to write out what he called " short-faced d^criptionn " of his comrades in the woods, •B-hich were cever so flattering as true. It was 104 IN THE WILDERNESS. curious to see how the various quahties which art esteemed in society appeared in his eyes, looked at merely in theu' relation to the hmited world he knew, and judged by their adaptation to the primitive life. It was a much subtler comparison than tliat of the ordinary guide, who rates his tra\eller by his ability to endure on a march, to carry a pack, use an oar, hit a mark, or sing a song. Phelps brought his people to a test of their naturalness and sincerity, tried by contact with the verities of the woods. If a person failed to appreciate the woods, Phelps had no opinion of him or his culture ; and j^et, although he was perfectly satianed with his own philosophy of life, worked out by close observation of nature and study of the Tri-bune. he was always eager for converse with superior minds, — with those who had the advantage of travel and much read- ing, and, above all, with those who had any origi« na]. '' speckerlation." Of all the society he was ever permitted to enjoy, I think he prized most that of Dr. Bushnell. The doctor enjoyed the quaint and first-hand observations of the oW A CHARACTER STUDY. 105 »\^oodsman, and Phelps found new worlds opea to him in the wide ranges of the doctor's mind. They talked by the hour upon all sorts of themes, — the growth of the tree, the habits of wilO. animals, the migration of seeds, the succession of oak and pine, not to mention theology, and the mysteries of the supernatural. I recall the bearing of Old Phelps, when, several years ago, he conducted a party to the summit of Mount Marcy by the way he had " bushed out.*' This was his mountain, and he had a peculiar sense of ownership in it. In a wa}^, it was holy ground ; and he would rather no one should go on it who did not feel its sanctity. Perhaps it was a sense of some divine relation in it that made him always speak of it as '' Mercy." To him this ridiculously dubbed Mount Marcy was always '' Mount 2vlercy.'' By a like effort to soften the personal offensiveness of the nomenclature of this region, he invariably spoke of Dix's Peak, one of the southern peaks of the range, t>.2 ■' Dixie. '* It was some time since Phelps hua- lelf had visited his mountaiiL ; and, as he pushed 106 IN THE WILDEllNESS. on through the miles of forest, we noticed a kind of eagerness in the old man, as of a lover going to a rendezvous. Along the foot of the moun- tain flows a clear trout-stream, secluded and un- disturbed in those awful sohtudes, which is the ''Mercy Brook" of the old woodsman. That day when he crossed it, in advance of his com- pany, he was heard to say in a low voice, as if greeting some object of which he was sh^^l}' fond, "So, little brook, do I meet you once more?" and when we were well up the mountain, and emerged fi-om the last stunted fringe of vegeta- tion upon the rock-bound slope, I saw Old Phelps, who was still foremost, cast himself upon the ground, and heard him cry, with an enthusiasm that was intended for no mortal ear, " I'm with you once again ! " His great passion very rarely found expression in any such theatrical burst. The bare summit that day was swept by a fier«e, cold wind, and lost in an occasional chilling cloud. Some of the party, exhausted by the climb, and shivering in the rude wind, wanted ik 5rc kindled and a cup of tea made, and though' A CHARACTER STUDY. 107 this Mie guide's business. Fire and tea were far enough from his thought. He had withdraw! himself quite apart, and wrapped in a ragged blanket, still and silent as the rock he stood on, was gazing out upon the wilderness of peaks. The view from Marcy is peculiar. It is without softness or relief. The narrow valleys are only dark shadows ; the lakes are bits of broken mir- ror. From horizon to horizon there is a tumultu- ous sea of biUows turned to stone. You stand upon the highest billow ; you command the situa- tion ; you have surprised Nature in a high creative act ; the mighty primal energy has only just be- come repose. This was a supreme hour to Old Phelps. Tea! I beheve the boys succeeded in 'iindhng a fire ; but the enthusiastic stoic had no reason to complain of want of appreciation in the rest of the party. When we were descending, he told us, with mingled humor and scorn, of a party of ladies he once led to the top of the mountain on a still day, who began immediately to tails about the fashions ! As he related tlie scene, stopping and facing us in the trail, nis mild, far- i08 IN TEE WILDERNESS in eves came to the front, and his voice rose with his language to a kind of scream. " Why, there they were, right before the great- est view they ever saw, talkin' about the fashions! '* Impossible to convey the accent of contempt in which he pronounced the word "fashions," and then added, with a sort of regretful bitter* ness, — ** I was a great mind to come down, and leave 'em there." In common with the Greeks, Old Phelps per- sonified the woods, mountains, and streams. They had not only personality, but distinctions of sex. It was something beyond the characteriza- tion of the hunter, which appeared, for instance, when he related a fight with a panther, in such expressions as, "Then Mr. Panther thought he would see what he could do," &c. He was in "imaginative sjnnpathy" with aU wild things. The afternoon we descended Marcy, we went vvfay to the west, through the primeval forests toward Avalanche and Golden, and followed th« A CHARACTER STUDY. 109 course of the charming Opalescent. When we reached the leaping stream, Phelps exclaimed, — "Here's little Miss Opalescent ! '* *' Why don't you say Mr. Opalescent?" some one asked. ''Oh, she's too pretty!" Ana too pretty she was, with her foam- white and rainbow dress, and her downfalls, and fountain-like uprising. A be- witching young person we found her all that sum- mer afternoon. This sylph-like person had little in conunou with a monstrous lady whose adventures in the wilderness Phelps was fond of relating. She was built something on the plan of the mountains, and her ambition to explore was equal to her size. Phelps and the other guides once suc- ceeded in raising her to the top of Marcy ; but the feat of getting a hogshead of molasses up there would have been easier. In attempting to give us an idea of her magnitude that n gAt, as we sat in the forest camp, Phelps hesitated a moment, while he cast his eye around tlie woods ; '* Waal, there ain't no tree \ " 110 IN THE WILDERNESS. It is only by recalling fragmentary remarks and incidents that I can put the reader in pos- session of the peculiarities of mj^ subject; and this involves the wrenching of things out of theii natural order and continuity, and introducing them abruptly, — an abruptness illustrated by the remark of "Old Man Hoskins'* (which Phelps liked to quote) , when one day he suddenly slipped down a bank into a thicket, and seated himself in a wasps' nest: "I hain't no business here; but here I be!" The first time we went into camp on the Upper Ausable Pond, which has been justly celebrated as the most prettily set sheet of water in the re- gion, we were disposed to build our shant}^ on the south side, so that we could have in full view the Gothics and that lovehest of mountain con- tours. To our surprise, Old Phelps, whose senti- mental weakness for these mountains we knew, opposed this. His favorite camping-ground was on the north side, — a pretty site in itself, but with no special view. In order to enjoy the lovely mountains, we should be obliged to row out int« A CHARACTER STUDY. Ill the lake : we wanted them alwa3^s before om ejxs, — at sunrise and sunset, and in the bli^ze of noon. With dehberate speech, as if weighing om- arguments and disposing of them, he repKed, "Waal, now, them Gothics ain't the kinder eoener}^ jou want ter Jiog down ! *' It was on quiet Sunda3^s in the woods, or in talks by the camp-fire, that Phelps came out as the philosopher, and commonly contributed the light of his observations . Unfortunate marriages . and marriages in general, were, on one occasion, the subject of discussion ; and a good deal of darkness had been cast on it by various speakers ; when Phelps suddenly piped up, from a log where he had sat silent, almost invisible, in the shadow and smoke, — '* Waal, now, when you've said all there is to be biid, marriage is mostly for disciphne.'* DiscipUne, certainl}^, the old man had, m one Yiay or another; and years of solitary com- muning in the forest had given him, perhaps, a childlike insight into spiritual concerns. YvTieth- er he had formulated any c^'eed or what faith he 112 IN THE WILDERNESS. had, I never knew. Keene Valley had a reputa* tion of not ripening Christians any more success frilly than maize, the season there being short; and on our first visit it was said to contain but one Bible Christian, though I think an accurate census disclosed three. Old Phelps, who some- times made abrupt remarks in trying situations, was not included in this census ; but he was the disciple of supernaturahsm in a most charming form. I have heard of his opening his inmost thoughts to a lady, one Sunday, after a noble sermon of Robertson's had been read in the cathedral stillness of the forest. His experience was entirely first-hand, and related with uncon- sciousness that it was not common to all. There was nothing of the mystic or the sentimentalist, only a vivid realism, in that nearness of God of which he spoke, — "as near sometimes as those trees,'* — and of the holy voice, that, in a 'time of irward struggle, had seemed to him to come from the depths of the forest, saying, " Poor loui, I am the way.'* In later years there was a *' revival " in Keent A CHARACTER STUDY. 113 Valley, the result of which was a number of young " converts/' whom Phelps seemed to re- gard as a veteran might raw recruits, and to have his doubts what sort of soldiers they would make. " Waal, Jimmy," he said to one of them, *^ you've kindled a pretty good fire with hght wood. That's what we do of a dark night in the woods, you know ; but we do it just so as we can look around and find the solid wood: so now put on your solid wood." In the Sunday Bible-classes of the period Phelps was a perpetual anxiety to the others, who followed closely the printed lessons, and beheld with alarm his discursive efforts to get into freer air and light. His remarks were the most refreshing part of the exercises, but were outside of the safe path into which the others thought it necessary to win him from his " speckerlations." The class were one day on the v^ses concerning "God's word" being " ^\Titten on the heart," and were keeping close to the shore, under the guidance of "Barnes's Notes," when Old Phelps made a dive to the bottom, and remarked thatheh-ad " thought 114 IN THE WILDERNESS. a good deal about the expression, ^ God's word written on the heart,' and had been asking him- self how that was to be done ; anc suddenly il occurred to him (having been much interested lately in watching the work of a photographer), that, when a photograph is going to be taken, all that has to be done is to put the object in posi- tion, and the sun makes the picture ; and so he rather thought that all we had got to do was to put our hearts in place, and God would do the writin'." Phelps's theology, like his science, is first-hand. In the woods, one day, taUi ran on the Trinity as being nowhere asserted as a doctrine in the Bible and some one suggested that the attempt to pack these great and fluent mysteries into one word must always be more or less unsatisfactory. '*re-es," droned Phelps: "I never could see much speckerlation in that expression the Trinity. Why, the^^'d a good deal better say Legion.** Tlie sentiment of the man about nature, or hw poetic sensibihty, was frequently not to be (US' tf-Dguished fi'om a natural reho^ion, and was alway A CHARACTER STUDY. 115 tinged with the clevoutness of Wordsworth's i^erse. Climbing slowly one day up the Bal- con}^, — he was more than usually calm and slow, - — he espied an exquisite fragile flower in tha crevice of a rock, in a very lonely spot. "It seems as if," he said, or rather dreamed out, — "it seems as if the Creator had kept some- thing just to look at himself." To a lady whom he had taken to Chapel Pond (a retu'ed but rather uninteresting spot) , and who expressed a little disappointment at its tameness, saying, "Why, Mr. Phelps, the principal charm of this place seems to be its loneliness," — "Yes," he replied in gentle and lingering tones, " and its nativeness. It lies here just where it was born." Rest and quiet had infinite attractions for him. A secluded opening in the woods was a "calm epot." He told of seeing once, or rather being i«, a circular rainbow. He stood on Indian Head, overlooking the Lower Lake, so that he saw the wMe bow in the sky v-nd the lake, and seemed to H6 IN THE WILDERNESS. be in the midst of it ; " only at one place there was an indentation in it, where it rested on the lake, just enough to keep it from rolling off.'' This "resting" of the sphere seemed to give liim great comfort. One Indian-summer morning in October, some ladies found the old man sitting on his doorstep, smoking a short i)ipe. He gave no sign of rec" ognition of their approach, except a twinkle of the eye, being evidently quite in harmony with the peaceful day. They stood there a full minute before he opened his mouth : then he did not rise, but slowly took his pipe from his mouth, and said in a dreamy way, pointing towards the brook, — "Do 3'ou see that tree?" indicating a maple almost denuded of leaves, which lay like a j^ellow garment cast at its feet. " I've been watching that tree all the morning. There hain't been a breath of wind : but for hom-s the leaves have been falling, faUing, just as you see them now ; and at last it's pretty much bare." And after a pause, p(;nsively : " Waal, I suppose its hour hac A CHARACTER STUDY. Ill This contemplative habit of Old Phelps !9 •wholly unappreciated by his neighbors •, but it has been indulged in no inconsiderable part of his life. Kising after a time, he said, " Now 1 want you to go with me and see my golden city I've tallied so much about." He led the way to a Irll-outlook, when suddenly, emerging from the forest, the spectators saw revealed the winding valley and its stream. He said quietly, " There is my golden city." Far below, at their feet, they saw that vast assemblage of birches and " popples," yellow as gold in the brooding noon- day, and slender spires rising out of the glowing mass. Without another word, Phelps sat a long time in silent content : it was to him, as Bunyan says, " a place deskous to be in." Is this philosopher contented with what life has brought him ? Speaking of money one day, when we had asked him if he should do dLfferentl3^ if he had his life to Mve over again, he said, '' Yes, but not about money. To have had hours such fts I have had in these mountains, and with such D-cn as Dr. Bushnell and Dr. Shaw and Mr 113 AV THE WILDERNESS. Twlchell, and others I could name, is worth all the money the world could give/' He read cbd,r« acter very well, and took in accurately the boy natm-e. "Tom" (an irrepressible, rather over- done specimen) , — " Tom's a nice kind of a boy ; but he's got to come up against a snubbin'-post one ol these da^^s." — "Boys!" he once said: " you can't git boys to take any kinder notice of scenery. I never yet saw a boy that would look a second time at a sunset. Now, a girl willso?ne- times; but even then it's instantaneous, — comes and goes like the sunset. As for me," still speak- ing of scenery, "these mountains about here, that I see every da}^, are no more to me, in one sense, than a man's farm is to him. What mostly interests me now is when I see some new freak or shape in tjie face of Nature." In literati-re it may be said that Old Phelps prefers the best in the very limited range that has been open to him. Tennyson is his favorite among poets ; an affinity explained by the fact that they are both lotos-eaters. Speaking of a tectur^-yoom talk of lilr, Beecher's which he haa A VHARACTER STUDY \\% read, he said, " It filled my cup about as full as I callerlate to have it : there was a good deal of truth .n it, and some poetry ; waal, and a little spice too. We've got to have the spice, you know.'' Ho admired, for different reasons, a lecture by Greeley that he once heard, into which bo much knowledge of various kinds was crowded, that he said he " made a reg'lar gobble of it." He was not without discrimination, which he ex- ercised upon the local preaching when nothing better offered. Of one sermon he said, "The man began way back at the creation, and just preached right along down; and he didn't saj nothing, after all. It just seemed to me as if hehef. It was only human nature that the jaded Frenchman of the regency should run away to the New World, and live in a forest-hut with an Indian squaw ; although he found little satisfao- tion in his act of heroism, unless it was talked about at Versailles. When our trampers come, late in the after- iKK)n, to the bank of a lovely lake where they 132 IN THE WILDERNESS. pui-pose to enter the primitive life, every thing is waiting for them in virgin expectation. There ia % httle promontor}^ jutting into the lake, and sloping down to a sandj^ beach, on which the waters idly lapse, and shoals of red-fins and shiners come to greet the stranger ; the forest is untouched by the axe ; the tender gi-een sweeps the water's edge ; ranks of slender fira are marshalled by the shore ; clumps of white- birch stems shine in satin purity among the ever- gi'eens ; the boles of giant spruces, maples, and oaks, hfting high their crowns of foliage, stretch away in endless galleries and arcades ; through the shifting leaves the sunshine falls upon the brown earth ; overhead are fragments of blue sky ; under the boughs and in chance openings appear the bluer lake and the outhne of the gracious mountains. The discoverers of this paradise, which they have entered to destroy, note the babbling of the brook that flows close at hand ; they hear the splash of the leaping fish tiiey listen to the sweet, metallic song of the eveoing thrush, and the chatter of the rea CAMPING OUT. 133 BqtiiiTel, who angrily challenges their right to be there. But the moment of sentiment passes. This party has come here to eat and to sleep, and not to encourage Nature in her poetic atti- tudinizing. The spot for a shanty is selected. This side shall be its opening, towards the lake ; and in front of it the fire, so that the smoke shall drift into the hut, and discourage the mosquitoes ; yonder shall be the cook's fire and the path to the spring. The whole colony bestu' themselves in the foundation of a new home, — an enterprise that has all the fascination, and none of the danger, of a veritable new settlement in the wil- derness. The axes of the guides resound in the echoing spaces ; great trunks fall with a crash ; vistas are opened towards the lake and the moun- tains. The spot for the shanty is cleared of underbrush ; forked stakes are driven into the gi'ound, cross-pieces are laid on them, and polea sloping back to the ground. In an incredible space of time there is the skeleton of a house, Vhich is entuely open in front. The roof anq 134 IN THE WILDERNESS. Bides must be covered. For this pm-pose the truDks of great spruces are skinned. The woa.l- man rims the bark near the foot of the tree, aid again six feet above, and slashes it perpendicu- larly ; then, with a blunt stick, he crowds off this thick hide exactl}" as an ox is sldnned. It needs but a few of these skins to cover the roof; and they make a perfectly water-tight roof, except when it rains. Meantime, busy hands have gathered boughs of the spruce and the feathery balsam, and shingled the ground underneath the shanty for a bed. It is an aromatic bed : in theory it is elastic and consohng. Upon it are spread the blanlvets. The sleepers, of all sexes and ages, are to he there in a row, their feet to the fire, and their heads under the edge of the sloping roof. Nothing could be better contrived. The fire is in front : it is not a fii-e, but a confla- gration — a vast heap of green ^ogs set on fire — of pitch, and split dead-wood, and crackling bal- earns, raging and roaring. B}' the time twihght falls, the cook has prepared supper. Every thing &as been cooked in a tin pail and a skillet,— CAMPING OUT. 135 potatoes, tea, pork, mutton, slapjacks. You wonder how every thing could have been prepared in so Itw utensils. When jom eat, the wonder ceases : every thing might have been cooked in one pail. It is a noble meal ; and nobly is it disposed of by these amateur savages, sitting about upon logs and roots of trees. Never were there such potatoes, never beans that seemed to have more of the bean in them, never such cmly pork, never trout with more Indian-meal on them, never mutton more distinctly sheepy ; and the tea, drunk out of a tin cup, with a lump of maple-sugar dissolved in it, — it is the sort of tea that takes hold, lifts the hair, and disposes the drinker to anecdote and hilariousness. There is no deception about it : it tastes of tannin and spruce acd creosote. Every thing, in short, has the flavor of the wilderness and a free life. It is idyllic. And yet, with all our sentimentalit}^, there is nothing feeble about the cooking. The Blapjacks are a solid job of work, made to last, and not go to pieces in a person's stomach like a trivial bun : we might record on them, in cunei- i36 IN THE WILDERNESS. forn: characters, our incipient civilization; and future generations would doubtless turn them up as Acadian bricks. Good, robust victuals are what the primitive man wants. Darkness falls suddenly. Outside the ring of light from our conflagration the woods are black. There is a tremendous impression of isolation and lonesomeness in our situation. We are the prisoners of the night. The woods never seemed so vast and mj'sterious. The trees are gigantic. There are noises that we do not understand, — m3'sterious winds passing overhead, and rambhng in the great galleries, tree-trunks grinding against each other, undefinable stirs and uneasinesses. The shapes of those who pass into the dimness are outhned in monstrous proportions. The spectres, seated about in the glare of the fire, tiUi about appearances and presentiments and rehgion. The guides cheer the night with bear* fights, and catamount encounters, and frozen-to- death experiences, and simple tales of gi-eat prolixity and no po^jit, and jokes of primitive Uicidit}'. "We hear catamounts, and the stealthy CAMPING OUT, 131 tread of things in the leaves, and the hooting of owls, and, when the moon rises, the laughter of the loon. Every thing is strange, spectral, fasci- nating. By and by we get our positions in the shanty for the night, and arrange the row of sleepers. The shanty has become a smoke-house b}^ thia time : waves of smoke roll into it from the fire. It is only by lying down, and getting the head well under the eaves, that one can breathe. No one can find her " things ; " nobody has a pillow. At length the row is laid out, with the solemn protestation of intention to sleep. The wind, shifting, drives away the smoke. Good- night is said a hundred times ; positions are re-adjusted, more last words, new shifting about, final re- marks ; it is all so comfortable and romantic ; and then silence. Silence continues for a minute. The fire flashes up ; all the row of heads is lifted up simultaneously to watch it ; showers of sparks sail aloft into the blue night ; the vast vault of greenery is a fairy spectacle. How the spa.ka mount and twinkle and disappear Jike tropical 188 IN THE WILDERNESS, fire-flies, and all the leaves murmur, and clap their hands ! Some of the sparks do not go out •. we see them flaming in the sk}^ when the flame of the fire has died down. Well, good-night, good-night. More folding of the arms to sleep ; more grumbling about the hardness of a hand- bag, or the insufficiency of a pocket-handkerchief, for a pillow. Good-night. Was that a remark? — something about a root, a stub in the ground sticking into the back. " You couldn't he along a hair?" — "Well, no: here's another stub." It needs but a moment for the conversation to become general, — about roots under the shoulder, stubs in the back, a ridge on which it is impos- sible for the sleeper to balance, the non-elasticity of boughs, the hardness of the ground, the heat, .he smoke, the chilly air. Subjects of remarks multiply. The whole camp is awake, and chat- tering hke an a^dary. The owl is also awake ; bat the guides who are asleep outside make more noise than the owls. Water is wanted, and ia hand ed about in a dipper. Everybody is yawn- ing ; everybody is now determined to go to sleef CAMPING OUT. 139 \i good earnest. A last good-night. There ia 4n appalling silence. It is interrupted in the aiost natm-al way in the world. Somebody has ^ot the start, and gone to sleep. He proclaims Che fact. He seems to have been brought up on the seashore, and to know how to make all the deep-toned noises of the restless ocean. He is also like a war-horse ; or, it is suggested, lilie a saw-horse. How malignantly he snorts, and breaks off short, and at once begins again in another key ! One head is raised after another. "Who is that?" " Somebody punch him.'* " Turn him over." " Keason with him." The sleeper is turned over. The turn was a mistake. He was before, it appears, on his most agreeable side. The «amp rises in indignation. The sleeper sits up lu bewilderment. Before he tan go off again, two or three others have pre- ceded him. They are all ahke. You never can judge what a person is when he is awake. There %1'e here half a dozen distui'bers of the peace wbo 140 IN THE WILDERNESS. Bhoiild be put in solitary confinement. At mid- night, when a philosopher crawls out to sit on a log by the fire, and smoke a pipe, a duet in tenor and mezzo-soprano is going on in the shanty, with a chorus always coming in at the wrong time. Those who are not asleep want to know why the smoker doesn't go to bed. He is requested to get some water, to throw on another log, to see what time it is, to note whether it looks hke rain. A buzz of conversation arises. She is sm-e she heard something behind the shanty. He says it is all nonsense. " Perhaps, however, it might be a mouse." * ' Merc}^ ! Ai-e there mice ? ' ' ''Plent3^" '' Then that's what I heard nibbhng by my head. I sha'n't sleep a wink ! Do they bite? " "No, they nibble; scarcely ever take a full bite out.'* " It's hoiTid ! " Towards morning it grows chilly; the guides have hit the fire go out ; the blankets will slip '.lown. Anxietj^ begins to be expressed about th« dawn. CAMPING OUT 141 '* What time does the sun rise? " " Awful early. Did you sleep? *' " Not a wink. And 3"0u? " " In spots. I'm going to dig up this root as Boon as it is light enough." " See that mist on the lake, and the light just coming on the Gothics ! I'd no idea it was so cold : all the first part of the night I was roasted." " What were they tallying about all night? " When the party crawls out to the early break- fast, after it has washed its faces in the lake, it is disorganized, but cheerful. Nobody admits much sleep ; but everybody is refreshed, and de- clares it dehghtful. It is the fresh air all night that invigorates ; or maj^be it is the tea, or the slapjacks. The guides have erected a table of spruce bark, wiiu benches at the sides ; so that breakfast is taken in form. It is served on tin p!at«3s and oak chips. After breakfast begins the day's work. It may be a mountain-climbing ex- pedition, or rowing and angling in the lake, or fishing for trout in some stream two or three miles distant. Nobody can stir far from camp without 142 m THE WILDERNESS, It guide. Hammocks are swung, bowers are built, novel-reading begins, worsted work ap- pears, cards are shuffled and dealt. The day passes in absolute freedom from responsibility to one's self. At night, when the expeditions re- tiu*n, the cam]3 resumes its animation. Adven- tures are recounted, every statement of the narrator being disputed and argued. Everybody Las become an adept in wood-craft ; but nobody credits his neighbor with like instinct. Society getting resolved into its elements, confidence is gone. Whilst the hilarious party are at supper, a drop or two of rain falls. The head guide is appealed to. Is it going to rain? He says it does rain. But will it be a rainy night? The guide goes down to the lake, looks at the sk}", and concludes, that, if the wind shifts a p'int more, there is no telling what sort of weather we shall have. Mean- time the drops patter thicker on the leaves over^ head, and the leaves, in turn, pass the water down to the table ; the sky darkens ; the wind rises ; there is a kind of shiver in the woods ; and W6 CAMPING OUT. 143 fccud away into the shanty, taking the remains of our supper, and eating it as best we can. The rain increases. The fire sputters and fumes. All the troes are dripping, dripping, and the ground is wet. We cannot step out-doors without get- ting a drenching. Like sheep, we are penned in the little hut, where no one can stand erect. The rain swirls into the open front, and wets the bottom of the blankets. The smoke drives in. We curl up, and enjoy ourselves. The guides at length conclude that it is going to be damp. The dismal situation sets us all into good spirits ; and it is later than the night before when we crawl under our blankets, sure this time of a sound sleep, lulled by the storm and the rain re- sounding on the bark roof. How much better off we are than many a shelterless wretch ! We are us Hnug as dry herrings. At the moment, how- ever, of dropping off to sleep, somebody unfortu- nately notes a drop of water on his face ; this is followed by another drop ; in an instant a stream is established. He moves his head to a diy place. Scarcely has he done so, when he feels a damp- Hi IN THE WILDERNESS. ness in his back. Reaching his hand outside, he finds a puddle of water soaking through his blacJiet. By this time, somebody inquii-es if it is possible that the roof leaks. One man has a stream of water under him ; another says it is coming into his ear. The roof appears to be a discriminating sieve. Those who are dry see no need of such a fuss. The man in the corner spreads his umbrella, and the protective measure is resented by his neighbor. In the darkness there is recrimination. One of the guides, who is summoned, suggests that the rubber blankets be passed out, and spread over the roof. The in- mates dislike the proposal, saying that a shower- bath is no worse than a tub-bath. The rain con- tinues to soak down. The fii-e is only half alive. The bedding is damp. Some sit up, if they can find a dry spot to sit on, and smoke. Heartlosa observ^ations are made. A few sleep. And the night wears on. The morning oj^ens cheerlesSk The sky is still leaking, and so is the shanty. The guides bring in a half-cooked breakfast. The roof is patched up. There are reviving signs of CAMPING OUT, 145 breaking away, delusive signs that create mo mentaiy exhilaration. Even if the storm clears, the woods are soaked. There is no chance of B'.irring. The world is only ten feet square. This life, without responsibility or clean clothes, may continue as long as the reader desu-es. There are those who would like to live in this free fashion forever, taking rain and sun as heaven pleases ; and there are some souls so constituted that they cannot exist more than three days with- out their worldly baggage. Taldng the party altogether, from one cause or another it is likely to strike camp sooner than was intended. And the stricken camp is a melancholy sight. The woods have been despoiled ; the stumps are ugly ; the bushes are scorched; the pine-leaf-strewn ear.h is trodden into mire ; the landing looks Mke a cattle-ford ; the ground is littered with all the unsightly debris of a hand-io-hand hfe ; the dis- mantled shanty is a shabby object ; the charred aid blackened logs, where the fire blazed, sug- gest the extinction of family life. Man has ^rrought his usual wrong upon Nature, and he can 146 IN THE WILDERNESS. save his self-respect only by moving to virgin forests. And move to them he will, the next season, if not this. For he who has once experienced the fascination of the woods-life never escapes its en- ticement : in the memory nothing remains but its charm. VII. A WILDERNESS ROMANCE. T the south end of Keene Valley, in the Adirondacks, stands Noon Mark, a shapely peak thirty-five hundred feet above the sea, which, with the aid of the sun, tells the Keene people when it is time to eat dinner. From its summit you look south into a vast wilderness basin, a great stretch of forest little trodden, and out of whose bosom 3'ou can hear from the heights on a still day the loud murmur of the Boquet. This basin of unbroken green rises away to the south and south-east into the rocky heights of Dix's Peak and Nipple Top, — the latter a local name which neither the mountain nor the fastidious tourist is able to shake off. Indeed, so long as the mountain 147 148 IN THE WILDERNESS. keeps its present shape as seen from the south- ern lowlands, it cannot get on without this name. These two mountains, which belong to the great sj'stem of which Marc}' is the giant centre^ and are iii the neighborhood of five thousand feet high, on the southern outposts of the great mountains, form the gate-posts of the pass into the south country. This opening between them is called Hunter's Pass. It is the most elevated and one of the wildest of the mountain passes. Its summit is thirtj'-five hundred feet high. In former 3'ears it is presumed the hunters occa- sionally followed the game through ; but latterly it is rare to find a guide who has been that way, and the tin-can and paper-collar tourists have not 3'et made it a runwa3\ This seclusion is due not to an}^ inherent difficulty of travel, but to the fact that it lies a httle out of the way. We went through it last summer ; making our way into the jaws from the foot of the great eUdes on Dix, keeping along the ragged spurs of the mountain through the virgin forest. Th« pass is narrow, walled in on each side by preci A WILDERNESS ROMANCE. 149 pices of granite, and blocked up with bowlders and fallen trees, and beset with pitfalls in the roads ingeniously covered with fair-seeming moss. When the climber occasionally loses Bight of a leg in one of these treacherous holes, and feels a cold sensation in his foot, he learns that he has dipped into the sources of the Bo- quet, which emerges lower down into falls and rapids, and, recruited by creeping tributaries, goes brawling through the forest basin, and at last comes out an amiable and boat-bearing stream in the valley of Elizabeth Town. From the summit another rivulet trickles away to the south, and finds its way through a frightful tama- rack swamp, and through woods scarred by ruth- less lumbering, to Mud Pond, a quiet body of water, with a ghastl}^ fringe of dead trees, upon which people of grand intentions and weak vocabulary are trpng to fix the name of Elk Lake. The descent of the pass on that side is ■jrecipitous and exciting. The way is in the stream itself; and a considerable portion of the J.'stance we swung ourselves down the faces of 150 IN THE WILDERNESS. considerable falls, and tumbled down cascades. The descent, however, was made easy b^ the fact tliat it rained, and ever}^ footstep was peld- ing and slipper}'. Why sane people, often church-members respectably connected, will sub- ject themselves to this sort of treatment, — be wet to the skin, bruised by the rocks, and flung about among the bushes and dead wood until the most necessary part of their apparel hangs in shreds, — is one of the delightful mysteries of these woods. I suspect that every man is at heart a roving animal, and likes, at intervals, to revert to the condition of the bear and the catamount. There is no trail through Hunter's Pass, which, as I have intimated, is the least fre- quented portion of this wilderness. Yet we were surprised to find a well-beaten path a con- siderable portion of the way and wherever a path is possible. It was not a mere deer's runway : these are found ever3'where in the mountains. It is trodden by other and larger animals, and (S, no doiibt, the highway of beasts. It bear* A WILDERNESS ROMANCE. 151 marks of having been so for a long period, and probably a period long ago. Large animals are not common in these woods now, and you seldom meet any thing fiercer than the timid deer and the gentle bear. But in days gone by Hunter's Pass was the highway of the whole caravan of animals who were continually going backwards and forwards, in the aimless, roaming way that beasts have, between Mud Pond and the Boquet Basin. I think I can see now the procession of them between the heights of Dix and Nipple Top ; the elk and the moose shambling along, cropping the twigs ; the heavy bear lounging by with his exploring nose ; the frightened deer trembhng at every twig that snapped beneath his little hoofs, intent on the hly-pads of the pond ; the raccoon and the hedgehog, sidUng along ; and the velvet-footed panther, insouciant and conscienceless, scenting the path with a curious glow in his eye, or crouching in an over- hanging tree ready to drop into the procession at the right moment. Nignt and day, 3^ear after fear, I see them going by, watched by the red 152 IN THE WILDERNESS. fox and the comfortably clad sable, and grinned at by the black cat, — the innocent, the \icious, the timid and the savage, the shy and the bold, the chattering slanderer and the screaming prowler, the industrious and the peaceful, the tree-top critic and the crawling biter, — just as it is elsewhere. It makes me blush for my species when I thinly of it. This charming society is nearly extinct now : of the larger ani- mals there only remain the bear, who minds his own business more thoroughly than any person I know, and the deer, who would like to be friendly with men, but whose winning face and gentle ways are no protection from the savageness of man, and who is treated with the same unpitjing destruction as the snarhng catamount. I have road in history that the amiable natives of His- paniola fared no better at the hands of the brutal Spaniards than the fierce and warlike Caribs. As society is at present constituted in Christian eountri^, I would rather for my own security be Ik cougar than a fawn. There is not much of romantic interest Id the 4 WILDERNESS ROMANCE. 153 Adirondacks. Out of the books of daring trav- ellers, nothing. I do not know that the Keene Valley has any history. The mountains always Btood here, and the Au Sable, flowing now in shallows and now in rippKng reaches over the sands and pebbles, has for ages filled the air with continuous and soothing sounds. Before the Vermonters broke into it some three-quarters of a century ago, and made meadows of its bottoms and sugar-camps of its fringing woods, I suppose the red Indian lived here in his usual discomfort, and was as restless as his successors, the summer boarders. But the streams were full of trout then, and the moose and the elk left their broad tracks on the sands of the river. But of the Indian there is no trace. There is a mound in the valley, much like a Tel in the country of Bashan beyond the Jordan, that may have been built by some pre-historic race, and may contain treasure and the seated figure of u preserved chieftain on his slow way to Paradise,. What the gentle and acco.nphsned race of the Mound- Builders should want in this savage region wliere 154 7.V THE WILDERNESS. '.he frost kills the early potatoes and stunts the scanty oats, I do not know. I have seen no trace of them., except this Tel, and one other slight relic, which came to light last summer, and is not enough to found the history of a race upon. Some workingmen, getting stone from the hill- side on one of the httle plateaus, for a house- cellar, discovered, partl}^ embedded, a piece of pottery unique in this region. With the unerring instinct of workmen in regard to antiquities, they thrust a crowbar through it, and broke the bowl into several pieces. The joint fragments, how- ever, give us the form of the dish. It is a bowl about nine inches high and eight inches across, made of red clay, baked but not glazed. The bottom is round, the top flares into four corners, and the rim is '-udely but rather artistically orna- mented with criss-cross scratches made when the ciay was soft. The vessel is made of clay not found about here, and it is one that the Indiana formerly hving here could not form. Was it brought here by roving Indians who may have A WILDERNESS ROMANCE. 155 » ■ made an expedition to the Ohio ; was it passed from tribe to tribe ; or did it belong to a race that occupied the country before the Indian, and who have left traces of their civilized skill in pot- tery scattered all over the continent ? If I could establish the fact that this jar was made by a pre-historic race, we should then have four generations in this lovel}^ valley : — the amia- ble Pre-Historic people (whose gentle descend- ants were probably killed by the Spaniards in the West Indies) ; the Red Indians ; the Keene Flat- ers (from Vermont) ; and the Summer Boarders, to say nothing of the various races of animals who have been unable to live here since the ad' vent of the Summer Boarders, the valley 'ceing not productive enough to sustain both. This last incursion has been more destructive to the noble serenity of the forest than all the pre- ceding. But we are wandering from Hunter's Pass, The western walls of it are formed by the preci- pices of Nipple Fop, not so striking nor so bare as the great slides of Dix which glisten in the 156 IN THE WILDERNESS. Bun like silver, but rough and repelling, and con- sequently alluring. I have a great desire to Bcale them. I have alwaj^s had an unreasonable wish to explore the rough summit of this crabbed hill, which is too broken and jagged for pleasure and not high enough for glor3\ This desire was stimulated by a legend related hj our guide that night in the Mud Pond cabin. The guide had never been through the pass before ; although he was familiar with the region, and had ascended Nipple Top in the winter in pursuit of the sable. The story he told doesn't amount to much, — • none of the guides* stories do, faithfull}^ reported, — and I should not have believed it if I had not had a good deal of leisure on m.y hands at the time, and been of a willing mind, and I ma}^ say in rather of a starved condition as to any romance in this region. The guide said then — and he mentioned it casually, in reply to our inquiries about ascend- ing the mountain — that there was a cave high up among the precipices on the south-east side Df Nipple Top. He scarcely volunteered the A WILDERNESS ROMANCE. 151 Information, and witk seeming reluctance gave us any particulars about it. I always admire this art b}^ which the accomplished stor^^-teller lets his listener drag the reluctant tale of the marvel- lous from him, and makes j^ou in a manner re- sponsible for its improbability. If this is well managed, the listener is alwaj's eager to beheve a great deal more than the romancer seems willing to tell, and alwaj^s resents the assumed reserva- tions and doubts of the latter. There were strange reports about this cave when the old guide was a boy, and even then its very existence had become legendary. Nobody knew exactly where it was, but there was no doubt that it had been inhabited. Hunters in the forests south of Dix had seen a light late at night twinlding through the trees high up the mountain, and now and then a ruddy glare as from the flaring-up of a furnace. Settlers were few in the wilderness then, and all the inhabitants were well known. If the cave was inhabited, it must be by strangers, and by men who had somo lecret purpose in seeking this seclusion and 158 IN TEE WILDERNESS. eluding observation. If suspicious charactera were seen about Port Henr}-, or if any such landed from the steamers on the shore of Lake Champlain, it was impossible to identifj' tbem with these invaders who were never seen. Their not being seen did not, however, prevent the growth of the belief in their existence. Little indications and rumors, each trivial in itself, be- came a mass of testimony that could not be dis- posed of because of its very indefiniteness, but which appealed strongly to man's noblest faculty, his imagination, or credulit}^ The cave existed ; and it was inhabited by men who came and went on mj'sterious errands, and transacted their business by night. What this band of adventurers or desperadoes lived on, how they conveyed their food through the track- less woods to their high eyrie, and what could induce men to seek such a retreat, were questions discussed, but never settled. They might be ban- ditti ; but there was nothing to plunder in these savage wilds, and, in fact, robberies and raids either in the settlements of the hills or the did A WILDERNESS ROMANCE. 15S tant lake shore were unknown, lii another age, these might have been hermits, holy men who had retired from the world to feed the vanity of their godliness in a spot where they were subject neither to interruption nor comparison ; they would have had a shrine in the cave, and an image of the Blessed Virgin, with a lamp alwaj^s burning before it and sending out its mellow light over the savage waste. A more probable notion was that they were romantic Frenchmen who had grown weary of vice and refinement together, — possibly princes, expectants of the throne, Bour- bon remainders, named Williams or otherwise, unhatched eggs, so to speak, of kings, who had withdrawn out of observation to wait for the next turn-over in Paris. Frenchmen do suoh things. If they were not Frenchmen, they might be horse-thieves or criminals, escaped from justice or from the friendly state-prison of New York. This last supposition was, however, more violent than the others, or seems so to us in this day of grace. For what well-brought-up Ne^ V ork criminal would be so '.isane as to run awaV 160 IN THE WILDERNESS. _: — ____,.. . ■— ^ from his political friends the keepers, from the easily-had companionship of his pals outside, and from the society of his criminal law^-er, and, in short, to put himself into the depths of a wilder- ness out of which escape, when escape was desired, is a good deal more diflScult than it is out of the swarming jails of the Empire State? Besides, how foolish for a man, if he were a really hardened and professional criminal, having established connections and a regular business, to run away from the governor's pardon, which might have difficulty in finding him in the craggy bosom of Nipple Top ! This gang of men — there is some doubt whether they were accompanied by women — • gave little evidence in their appearance of being escaped criminals or expectant kings. Their movements were m^'sterious but not necessarily violent. If their occupation could have been discovered, that would have furnished a clew tc Iheir true character. But about this the strangers Were as close as mice. If anj^ thing could betray tUfsm, it was the steady light from the cavern, and A WILDERNESS ROMANCE. Ifil Its occasional ruddy flashing. This gave rise to the opinion, which was strengthened by a good many indications equally conclusive, that the cave was the resort of a gang of coiners and counter- feiters. Here they had their furnace, smelting- pots, and dies ; here they manufactured those spurious quarters and halves that their confidants, who were pardoned, were circulating, and which a few honest men were " nailing to the counter.*' This prosaic explanation of a romantic situa- tion satisfies all the requirements of the known facts, but the lively imagination at once rejects it as unworthy of the subject. I think the guide put it forward in order to have it rejected. The fact is, — at least, it has never been disproved, — these sL angers whose movements were veiled belonged to that dark and mysterious race whose presence anywhere on this continent is a nest-egg of romance or of terror. They were Spaniards! You need not say buccaneers, you need not say go^i-.Wnters, you need not saj swarthy adven turers even : it is enough to say Spaniards ! There is no tale of mystery and fanaticism and 162 IN TEE WILDERNESS. daring I would not believe if a Spaniard is the hero of it, and it is not necessary either that he Bhould have the high-sounding name of Bobadilla or Ojeda. Nobody, I suppose, would doubt this story if the cave were in the mountains of Hispaniola or in the Florida Keys. But a Spaniard in the Adirondacks does seem misplaced. Well, there would be no romance about it if he were not mis- placed. The Spaniard, anywhere out of Spain, has always been misplaced. What could draw him to this loggy and remote region ? There are two substances that will draw a Spaniard from any distance as certainly as sugar will draw wasps, — gold and silver. Does the reader begin to see light? There was a rumor that silver existed in these mountains. I do not know where the rumor came from, but it is necessary to account for the Spaniards in the cave. How long these greed3^ Spaniards occupied the cave on Mpple Top, is not known, nor how much silver they found, whether they found an}", or whether they secretlj^ took away all there was is A WILDERNESS ROMANCE. 163 the hills That they discovered silver in con- Biderable quantities, is a fair inference from the length of their residence in this mountain, and the extreme care the}^ took to guard their secret, and the mystery that enveloped all their move- ments. What they mined, they smelted m the cave and carried off with them. To my imagination nothing is more impressive than the presence in these savage wilds of these polished foreigners and accomplished metal- lurgists, far from the haunts of civilized man, leading a life of luxury and revelry in this almost inaccessible cavern. I can see them seated about their roaring fire, which revealed the rocky ribs of their den and sent a gleam over the dark forest, eating venison-pasty and cutting deep into the juicj^ haunch of the moose, quaffing deep liraughts of red wine from silver tankards, and then throwing themselves back upon divans, and lazily puffing the fragrant Havana. After a day of toil, what more natural, and what more prob- ftble for a Spaniard? Does the reader think these inferences not 164 IN THE WILDERNEiiiS. warranted hy the facts ? He does not know th€ facts. It is true that our guide had never him- self personally \4sited the cave, but he haa always intended to hunt it up. His information in regard to it comes from his father, who was a mightj^ hunter and trapper. In one of his expe- ditions over Nipple Top, he chanced upon the cave. The mouth was half concealed by under- growth. He entered, not without some appre- hension engendered by the legends which make it famous. I think he showed some boldness in venturing into such a place alone. I confess, that, before I went in, I should want to fire a GatUng gun into the mouth for a little while, in order to rout out the bears which usually dwell there. He went in, however. The entrance was low ; but the cave was spacious, not large, i»ut Dig enough, with a level floor and a vaulted ceiling. It had long been deserted, but that it was once the residence of highl}' civilized beings there could be no doubt. The dead brands in the centre were the remains of a fire that could not have been kindled by wild beasts, and the A WILDERNESS ROMANCE. 165 bones scattered about had been scientifically dissected and handled. There were also rem- nants of furniture and pieces of garments scat- tered about. At the farther end, in a fissure of the rock, were stones regularly built up, the remains of a larger fire, — and what the hunter did not doubt was the smelting-furnace of the Spaniards. He poked about in the ashes, but ound no silver. That had all been carried away. But what most provoked his wonder in this rude cave w£.s a chaii' ! This was not such a seat as a woodman might knock up with an axe, with rough body and a seat of woven splits, but a manufactured chair of commerce, and a chair, too, of an unusual pattern and some elegance. This chair itself was a mute witness of luxury and m3^stery. The chair itself might hare been accounted for, though I don't know how ; but upon the back of the chair hung, as if the owner had carelessly flung it there before going out an hour before, a man's waistcoat. This waistcoat Beemed to him of foreign make nnd pecuJiai 166 IN THE WILDERNESS. Btjie, but what endeared it to him was its row of metal buttons. These buttons were of silver ! I forget now whether he did not saj^ they were of silver coin, and that the coin was Spanish. But I am not certain about this latter fact, and I wish to cast no air of improbability over my narrative. This rich vestment the hunter carried away with him. This was all the plunder his expedition afforded. Yes : there was one other article, and, t© my mind, more significant than the vest of the hidalgo. This was a short and stout crowbar of iron ; not one of the long crow- bars that farmers use to pry up stones, but a short handy one, such as 3'ou would use in dig* ging silver-ore out of the cracks of rocks. This was the guide's simple story. T asked him what became of the vest and the buttons, and the bar of iron. The old man wore the vest until he wore it out ; and then he handed it over to the boys, and they wore it in turn till thej n^ore it out. The buttons were cut off, and kept fis curiosities. They were about the cabin, and Jie children had them to play with. The guid« A WILDERNESS ROMANCE. 167 distinctly remembers plajdng with them ; one of them he kept for a long time, and he didn't know but he could find it now, but he guessed it had disappeared. I regretted that he had not treasured this slender verification of an interest- ing romance, but he said in those daj's he never paid much attention to such things. Lately he lias turned the subject over, and is sorr}^ that his father wore out the vest and did not bring away the chair. It is his steady purpose to find the cave some time when he has leisure, and capture the chair, if it has not tumbled to pieces. But about the crowbar ? Oh ! that is all right. The guide has the bar at his house in Keene Valley, and has alwaj^s used it. I am happy to be able to confirm this story by saving that next day I saw the crowbar, and had it in my hand. It is short and thick, and the most interesting kind of crowbar. This evidence is enough for me. I intend in the course of this vacation to search for the cave ; and, if I find it, my readers shall know the truth about ii, if it destroys the only bit of romance connected with these mountains. VIII. WHAT SOME PEOPLE CALL PLEASURE. Y readers were promised an account of Spaniard's Cave on Nipple-Top Moun- tain in the Adirondacks, if such a cave exists, and could be found. There is none but negative e\idence that this is a mere cave of the imagination, the void fancy of a vacant hour ; but it is the dut}' of the historian to present the negative testimony of a fruitless expedition in search of it, made last summer. I beg leave to offer this in the simple language befitting all sincere exploits of a geographical character. The summit of Mpple-Top Mountain has been trodden by few white men of good character: it is in the heart of a hirsute wilderness ; it is itself a rough and unsocial pile of granite nearly 168 Tf/Zir SOME PEOPLE CALL PLEASURE. 169 h\Q thousand feet high, bristling with a stunted and unpleasant growth of firs and balsams, and there is no earthly reason why a pei^-son should go there. Therefore we went. In the party of three there was, of course, a chaplain. The guide was Old Mountain Phelps, who had made the ascent once before, but not from the north- west side, the direction from which we ap- proached it. The enthusiasm of this philoso- pher has grown with his years, and outlived his endurance : we carried our own knapsacks and supplies, therefore, and drew upon him for noth- ing but moral reflections and a general knowl- edge of the wilderness. Our first day's route was through the Gill-brook woods and up one of its branches to the head of Caribou Pass, which separates Nipj)le-Top from Colvin. It was about the first of September ; no rain had fallen for several weeks, and this heart of the forest was as dry as tinder ; a lighted match clropped anywhere would start a conflagration. This dryness has its advantages : the walking ia Improved ; the long heat has expressed all the i70 IN THE WILDERNESS. Bpicy odors of the cedars and balsams, and the woods are filled with a soothing . fragrance ; the waters of the streams, though scant and clear, are cold as ice ; the common forest chill is gone from the air. The afternoon was bright ; there was a feeling of exultation and adventure in stepping off into the open but pathless forest ; the great stems of deciduous trees were mottled with patches of sunlight, which brought out upon the variegated barks and mosses of the old trunks a thousand shifting hues. There is noth- ing like a primeval wood for color on a sunny daj^ The shades of green and brown are in- finite ; the dull red of the hemlock bark glows in the sun, the russet of the changing moose-bush becomes brilliant ; there are silvery openings here and there ; and everywhere the columns rise up to the canopy of tender green which sup- ports the intense blue sky and holds up a part of it from falling through in fragments to the fioor of the forest. Decorators can learn here how Nature dareo to put blue and green in juxtaposi tion : she has evidently the, secret of harmonizing all the colors. WHAT SOME PEOPLE CALL PLEASURE. 171 The wa}^ as we ascended, was not all through open woods ; dense masses of firs were ©wcoun- tered, jagged spurs were to be crossed, and the going became at length so slow and toilsome that we took to the rocky bed of a stream, where bowlders and flumes and cascades offered us suflScient variety. The deeper we penetrated, the greater the sense of savageness and solitude ; in the silence of these hidden places one seems to approach the beginning of things. We emerged from the defile into an open basin, formed by the curved side of the mountain, and stood silent before a waterfall coming down out of the sky in the centre of the curve. I do not know any thing exactly like this fall, which some poetical explorer has named the Fairy-Ladder Falls. It appears to have a height of something like a hundred and fifty feet, and the water falls obliquely across the face of the cliff from left to right in short steps, which in the moonlight might seem like a veritable ladder for fairies. Our impression of its height was confirmed by elimbing the very steep slope at its side sojae 172 IN THE WILDERNESS. three or four hundred feet. At the top we found the stream flowing over a broad bed of rock, like a street in the wilderness, slanting up still towards the sky, and bordered b}^ low firs and balsams, and bowlders completely covered with moss. It was above the world and open to the sky. On account of the tindery condition of the woods we made our fire on the natural pavement, and selected a smooth place for our bed near by on the flat rock, with a pool of limpid water at the foot. This granite couch we covered with the dry and springy moss, which we stripped off in heavy fleeces a foot thick from the bowlders. First, however, we fed upon the fruit that was ofl*ered us. Over these hills of moss ran an ex- quisite vine with a tiny, ovate, green leaf, bear- ng small, delicate berries, oblong and white as wax, having a faint flavor of wintergreen and the slightest acid taste, the very essence of the wilderness ; fairy food, no doubt, and too refined for palates accustomed \o coarser viands. There Oiust exist somewhere sinless women who could WHAT SOME PEOPLE CALL PLEASURE, 173 eat these berries without being reminded of the lost purity and delicacy of the primeval senses. Every year I doubt not this stainless berry ripens here, and is unplucked by an}^ knight of tlie Holy Grail who is worthy to eat it, and keeps aMv^e, in the prodigality of nature, the tradition of the unperverted conditions of taste before the fall. We ate these berries, I am bound to say, with a sense of guilty enjoyment, as if they had been a sort of shew-bread of the wilderness, though I cannot answer for the chaplain, who is by virtue of his oflSce a little nearer to these mysteries of nature than I. This plant belongs to the heath family, and is first cousin to the blueberr}^ and cranberry. It is commonly called the creeping snowberry, but I like better its official title of chio^enes, — the snow-born. Our mossy resting-place was named the Bridal Chamber Camp, in the vEnthusiasm of the hour, after darkness fell upon the woods and the stars came out. We were two thousand five hundred feet above the common world. We lay, as if were, on a shelf in the sky, with a basin of 174 IN THE WILDERNESS. illimitable forests below us and dim mountain- passes in the far horizon. And as we lay there courting sleep which the blinking stars refused to shower down, our phi- losopher discoursed to us of the principle of fire, which he holds, with the ancients, to be an inde- pendent element that comes and goes in a mys- terious manner, as we see flame spring up and vanish, and is in some way vital and indestructi- ble, and has a mysterious relation to the source of all things. "That flame," he says, "you have put out, but where has it gone?" We could not say, nor whether it is any thing like the spirit of a man which is here for a little hour, and then vanishes away. Our own philosophy of the correlation of forces found no sort of favor at that elevation, and we went to sleep leaving the principle of fire in the apostolic category of " any other creature." At dayhght we were astir ; and, having pressed the principle of fire into our service to make a pot of tea, we carefully extinguished it or sent it into another place, and addressed ourselves tc WEAT SOME PEOPLE CALL PLEASURE. 175 the climb of something over two thousand feet. The arduous labor of scaling an Alpine peak has a compensating glory ; but the dead lift of our bodies up Nipple-Top had no stimulus of this sort. It is simply hard work, for which the strained muscles only get the approbation of the individual conscience that drives them to the task. The pleasure of such an ascent is difficult to ex- plain on the spot, and I suspect consists not so much in positive enjoyment as in the dehght the mind experiences in tyrannizing over the body. I do not object to the elevation of this mountain, nor to the uncommonly steep grade by which it attains it, but only to the other obstacles thrown in the way of the climber. All the slopes of Nipple-Top are hirsute and jagged to the last degree. Granite ledges interpose ; granite bowl- der? seem to have been dumped over the sides T«itL no more attempt at arrangement than in a rip-rap wall ; the slashes and windfalls of a cen- tury present here and there an almost impenetra- ble chevalier des cirln^es; and the steep sides bristle with a mass of think balsams, with dead, 176 IN THE WILDERNESS. " ■ -<— a protruding spikes, as un^ieldiDg as iron stakes. The mountain has had its own way forever, anhe vision of a second, snatched away in the rolling fog. The i:>lay had just begun. Before we could turn, there was the gorge of Caribou Pass, savage and dark, visible to the bottom. Th^ opening shut as suddenly ; and tnen, looking i78 IN THE WILDERNESS. over the clouds, miles away we saw the peaceful farms of the Au Sable Valley, and in a moment more the plateau of North Elba and the sentinel mountains about the grave of John Brown. These glimpses were as fleeting as thought, and instantly we were again isolated in the sea of mist. The expectation of these sudden strokes of sublimity kept us exultingty on the alert ; and yet it was a blow of surprise when the curtain was swiftly withdrawn on the west, and the long ridge of Colvin, seemingly within a stone's throw, heaved up like an island out of the ocean, and was the next moment ingulfed. We waited longer for Dix to show its shapely peak and its glistening sides of rock gashed b}- ava- lanches. The fantastic clouds, torn and stream- ing, hurried up from the south in haste as if to a witch's rendezvous, hiding and disclosing the great summit in their flight. The mist boiled up from the valley, whirled over the summit where we stood, and plunged again into the depths. Objects were forming and disappearing, shifting ftnd dancing, now in sun and now gone in fog WHAT SOME PEOPLE CALL PLEASURE. 179 and in the elemeatal whirl we felt that we were *' assisting" in an original process of creation. The sun strove, and his very striving called up new vapors ; the wind rent away the clouds, and brought new masses to surge about us ; and the spectacle to right and left, above and below, changed with incredible swiftness. Such glory of abyss and summit, of color and form and transformation, is seldom granted to mortal eyes. For an hour we watched it until our vast moun- tain was revealed in all its bulk, its long spurs, its abysses and its savagery, and the great ba- sins of wilderness with their shining lakes, and the giant peaks of the region, were one by one disclosed, and hidden and again tranquil in the sunshine. Where was the cave? There was ample sur- face in which to look for it. If we could have flitted about, like the hawks that came circling round, over tlie steep slopes, the long spurs, the jagged precipices, I have no doubt we should have found it. But moving about on this moun- tain is not a holiday pastime ; and we were chiefly •80 IN THE WILDERNESS. tnxious to discover a practicable mode of descent into 'the great wilderness basin on the south ^ which we must traverse that afternoon before reaching the hospitable shant}- on Mud Pond. It was enough for us to have discovered the general whereabouts of the Spanish Cave, and we left the fixing of its exact position to future explorers. The spur we chose for our escape looked Bmooth in the distance ; but we found it bristling with obstructions, dead balsams set thickly to- gether, slashes of fallen timber, and every man- ner of woody chaos ; and when at length we swung and tumbled off the ledge to the general slope, we exchanged only for more disagreeable going. The slope for a couple of thousand feet was steep enough ; but it was formed of granite rocks all moss-covered, so that the footing could not be determined, and at short intervals we nearl}' went out of sight in holes under the treacherous carpeting. Add to this that stems of great trees were laid longitudinally and trans versely and criss-cross over and among the rocks, WHAT SOME PEOPLE CALL PLEASURE. 181 Rnd the reader can see that a good deal of work needs to be done to make this a practicable high- way for any thing but a squirrel. We had had no water since our daylight break- fast : our lunch on the mountain had been moist- ened only by the fog. Our thirst began to be that of Tantalus, because we could hear the water running deep down among the rocks, but we could not come at it. The imagination drank the living stream, and we realized anew what delusive food the imagination furnishes in an actual strait. A good deal of the crime of this world, I am convinced, is the direct result of the unlicensed play of the imagination in adverse circumstances. This reflection had nothing to do with our actual situation ; for we added to our imagination patience, and to our patience long- suflering, and probably all the Christian virtues would have been developed in us if the descent had been long enough. Before we reached the bottom of Caribou Pass, the water burst out from the rocks in a jlear stream that was as cold aa Ice. Shortly after, we struck the roaring brook 182 IN THE WILDERNESS. that issues from the Pass to the south. It is a Btream full of character, not navigable even for trout in the upper part, but a succession of falls, cascades, flumes, and pools, that would dehght an artist. It is not an eas}^ bed for ixwy thing except water to descend ; and before wo reached the level reaches, where the stream flows with a murmurous noise through open woods, one of our party began to show signs of exhaustion. This was Old Phelps, whose appetite had failed the day before, — his imagination being in better working order than his stomach : he had eaten little that da}', and his legs became so groggy that he was obhged to rest at short intervals. Here was a situation ! The afternoon was wear- ing awa)^ We had six or seven miles of un- known wilderness to traverse, a portion of it ewampy, in which a progress of more than a mile an hour is difficult, and the condition of the guide compelled even a slower march. What shoul(J we do in that lonesome solitude if the guide became disabled? We couldn't carry hina out could we find our own way out to gel WHAT SOME PEOPLE CALL PLEASURE. 188 assistance? The guide himself had never been there before ; and although he knew the general direction of our point of egress, and was en- tirely adequate to extricate himseif from any position in the woods, his knowledge was of that occult sort possessed by woodsmen which it is impossible to communicate. Our object was to strike a trail that led from the Au Sable Pond, the other side of the mountain-range, to an inlet on Mud Pond. We knew that if we travelled south-westward far enough we must strike that trail, but how far? No one could tell. If we reached that trail, and found a boat at the inlet, there would be only a row of a couple of miles to the house at the foot of the lake. If no boat was there, then we must circle the lake three or four miles farther through a cedar-swamp, with no trail in particular. The prospect was not pleasing. We were short of supplies, for we had not expected to pass that night in the woot^s. The pleasure of the excursion began to develop itself. We stumbled on in the general direction 184 IN THE WILDERNESS. marked out, through a forest that began to seem endless as hour after hour passed, compelled as we were to make long detours over the ridges of the foot-hills to avoid the swamp, which sent out from the border of the lake long tongues into the firm ground. The guide became more ill at every Btep, and needed frequent halts and long rests. Food he could not eat ; and tea, water, and even brandy, he rejected. Again and again the old philosopher, enfeebled by excessive exertion and illness, would collapse in a heap on the ground, an almost comical picture of despair, while we stood and waited the waning of the da}^, anc'. peered forward in vain for any sign of an open country. At every brook we encountered, we suggested a halt for the night, while it was still light enough to select a camping-place, but the plucky old man wouldn't hear of it: the trail might be only a quarter of a mile ahead, and we crawled on again at a snail's pace. His honor as a guide seemed to be at stake ; and, besides, he confessed to a notion that his end was near and he didn't want to die like a dog in the woods WHAT SOME PEOPLE CALL PLEASURE. And yet,, if this was his last jovrney, it seemed not an inappropriate ending for the old woods- man to lie down and give up the ghost in the midst of the untamed forest and the solemn silences he felt most at home in. There is a popular theory, held by civilians, that a soldier likes to die in battle. I suppose it is as true that a woodsman would like to "pass in his chips," — the figure seems to be inevitable,— struck down by illness and exposure, in the forest soUtude, with heaven in sight and a tree-root for his pillow. The guide seemed really to fear that, if we did not get out of the woods that night, he would never go out ; and, yielding to his dogged resolu- tion, we kept on in search of the trail, although the gathering of dusk over the ground warned us that we might easily cross the trail without recog- nizing it. We were travelling by the light in the upper sky, and by the forms of the tree-stems, ivhich every moment grew dimmer. At last the end came. We had just felt our way over what geemtid to be a little run of water, when the old .86 IN THE WILDERNESS. man sunk down, remarking, "I might as well die here as anywhere," and was silent. Suddenl}^ night fell like a blanket on us. We could neither sec the guide nor each other. We became at once conscious that miles of night on all sides shut us in. The sky was clouded over : there wasn't a gleam of light to show us where to step. Our first thought was to build a fire, which would drive back the thick darkness into the woods, and boil some water for our tea. But it was too dark to use the axe. We scraped together leaves and twigs to make a blaze, and, as this failed, such dead sticks as we could find by groping about. The fire was only a temporary affair, but it sufficed to boil a can of water. The water we obtained by feeling about the stones of the little run for an opening big enough to dip our cup in. The supppr to be prepared was fortunately sim- ple. It consisted of a decoction of tea and other leaves which had got into the pail, and a part of a loaf of bread. A loaf of bread which has been carried m a knapsack for a couple of days bruised and handled and hacked at with a hunt WHAT SOME PEOPLE CALL PLEASURE. 187 » . II ■ mg-knife, becomes an uninteresting object. But we ate of it with thankfulness, washed it doTMi with hot fluid, and bitterly thought of the mor- row. Would our old friend survive the night? Would he be in any condition to travel in the morning? How were we to get out with him or without him ? The old man lay silent in the bushes out of sight, and desired only to be let alone. We tried to tempt him with the offer of a piece of toast: it was no temptation. Tea we thought would revive him : he refused it. A drink of brandy would certainly quicken his life : he couldn't touch it. We were at the end of our resources. He seemed to think, that if he were at home, and could get a bit of fried bacon, or a piece of pie, he should be all right. We knew no more how to doctor him, than if he had been a sick bear. He withdrew within himself, i oiled himself up, so to speak, in his primitive habits, find waited for the healing power of nature, before our feeble fire disappeared, we smoothed K 'evel place near it for Phelps to lie on, and got 188 IN THE WILDERNESS. him over to it. But it didn't suit : it was too open. In fact, at the moment some drops of rain fell. Rain was quite outside of our pro- gramme for the night. But the guide had an in- stinct about it ; and, while we were groping about some yards distant for a place where we could lie down, he crawled away into the darkness, and curled himself up amid the roots of a gigantic pine, ver}^ much as a bear would do, I suppose, with his back against the trunk, and there passed the night comparatively dry and comfortable ; but of this we knew nothing till morning, and had to trust to the assurance of a voice out of the darkness that he was all right. Our own bed where we spread our blanketfi was excellent in one respect, — there was no danger of tumbling cut of it. At first the rain pattered gently on the leaves overhead, and we congratulated ourselves on the snugness of our situation. There was something cheerful about this free life. We contrasted our condition with that of tired invalids who were tossing on downj beds, and wooing sleep in vain. Nothing was sa WHAT SOME PEOPLE CALL PLEASURE. 189 wholesome and invigorating as this bivouac la the forest. But, somehow, sleep did not come. The rain had ceased to patter, and began to fall mth a steady determination, a sort of soak, soak, all about us. In fact, it roared on the rubber blanket, and beat in our faces. The wind began to stir a Httle, and there was a moaning on high. Not contented with dripping, the rain was driven into our faces. Another suspicious circumstance was noticed. Little rills of water got established along the sides under the blankets, cold, undenia- ble streams, that interfered with drowsiness. Pools of water settled on the bed ; and the chap- lain had a habit of moving suddenly, and letting a quart or two inside, and down my neck. It began to be evident that we and our bed were probably the wettest objects in the woods. The rubber was an excellent catch-all. There was no trouble about ventilation, but we found that we had established our quarters without any provis- ion for drainage. There was not exactly a wUd tempest abroad ; but there was a degree of liveli- ness in the thrashing limbs and the creaking of 190 IN THE WILDERNESS. the tree-branches which rubbed against each other, and the pouring rain increased in volume and power of penetration. Sleep was quite out of the question, with so much to distract our attention. In fine, our misery became so perfect that we both broke out into loud and sarcastic laughtci over the absurdity of our situation. We had subjected ourselves to all this forlornness simply for pleasure. Whether Old Phelps was still in existence, we couldn't tell : we could get no response from him. With da3'light, if he con- tinued ill and could not move, our situation would be little improved. Our supplies were gone^ we lay in a pond, a deluge of water was pouring down on us. This was summer recrea- tion. The whole thing was so excessivel}^ absurd tJiat we laughed again, louder than ever. We lad plent}^ of this sort of amusement. Suddenly through the night we heard a sort of veply that siaited us bolt upright. This was a prolonged squawk. It was like the voice of no beast or bird with which we were famihar. At ^st it was distant ; but it rapidly approached WHAT SOME PEOPLE CALL PLEASURE. 191 tearing through the night and apparently through the tree-tops, like the harsh cry of a web-footed bird with a snarl in it ; in fact, as I said, a squawk. It came close to us, and then turned, and as rapidly as it came fled away through the forest, and we lost the unearthly noise far up the mountain- slope. " What was tJiat, Phelps? " we cried out. But no response came ; and we wondered if his spirit had been rent away, or if some evil genius had sought it, and then, bajffled by his serene and phil- osophic spirit, had shot off into the void in rage and disappointment. The night had no other adventure. The moon at length coming up behind the clouds lent a spectral aspect to the forest, and deceived us for a time into the notion that day was at hand ; but the rain never ceased, and we lay wishful and fvaiting, with no item of solid misery wanting that we could conceive. Day was slow a-coming, and didn't amount to much when it came, so heavy were the clouds ; but the rain slg/^k^ned. We crawled out of oui 192 IN THE WILDERNESS. water-cure "pack," and sought the guide. To our infinite relief he announced himself not onl;^ alive, but in a going condition. I looked at my watch. It had stopped at five o'clock. I poured the water out of it, and shook it ; but, not being constructed on the hydrauUc principle, it refused to go. Some hours later we encountered a hunts- man, from whom I procured some gun-grease, witli this I filled the watch, and heated it in by the fire. This is a most effectual waj' of treating a delicate Genevan timepiece. The light disclosed fully the suspected fact that our bed had been made in a shght depres- sion : the under rubber blanket spread m this had prevented the rain from soaking into the ground, and we had been Ipng in what was in fact a well -contrived bath-tub. While Old Phelps was pulhng himself together, and we were wring- ing some gallons of water out of our blankets, we questioned the old man about the " squawk," and what bird was possessed of such a voice It was not a bird at all, he said, but a cat, the black-cat of the woods, larger than the domestifi WHAT SOME PEOPLE CALL PLEASURE. 193 mimal, and an ugly custoner, who is fond of fish, ftnd carries a pelt that is worth two or three dol- lars in the market. Occasionally he blunders into a sable-trap ; and he is altogether hateful in his ways, and has the most uncultivated voice that is heard in the woods. We shall remember him as one of the least pleasant phantoms of that cheer- ful night when we lay in the storm, fearing any moment the advent to one of us of the grimmest messenger. We rolled up and shouldered our wet belong- ings, and, before the shades had j^et lifted from the saturated bushes, pursued our march. It was a relief to be again in motion, although our progress was slow, and it was a question every rod whether the guide could go on. We had the day before us ; but if we did not find a boat at the inlet a day might not suffice, in the weak con- dition of the guide, to extricate us from our rid: culous position. There was nothing heroic in it ; we had no object : it was merel}', as it must appear by this time, a pleasure-excursion, and we aiight be lost or perish in it without reward and 194 IN THE WILDERNESS. with little sjTiipatliy. We had something like an hour and a half of stumbling through the swamp, when suddenly we stood in the little trail ! Slight as it was, it appeared to us a very Broadway to Paradise, if broad ways ever lead thither. Phelps haUed it, and sank down in it like one reprieved from death. But the boat? Lea-sdng him, we quickly ran a quarter of a mile down to the inlet. The boat was there. Our shout to the guide would have roused him out of a death-slumber. He came down the trail with the agility of an aged deer : never was so glad a sound in his ear, he said, as that shout. It was in a very jubilant mood that we emptied the boat of water, pushed off, shipped the clumsy oars, and bent to the two- mile row through the black waters of the wind- ing, desolate channel, and over the lake, whose dark waves were tossed a httle in the morning breeze. The trunks of dead trees stand about this lake, and .all its shores are ragged with |.hastly drift-wood ; but it was open to the sky Biid although the heavy clouds still obscured al ttie mountain-ranges we had a sense of escapt WHAT SOME PEOPLE CALL PLEASURE. 195 and freedom that almost made the melancholy Bcene lovely. How lightly past hardship sits upon us ! All fche misery of the night vanished, as if it had not been, in the shelter of the log cabin at Mud Pond, with dry clothes that fitted us as the skin of the bear fits him in the spring, a noble break- fast, a toasting fire, solicitude about our comfort, judicious sympathy with our suffering, and will* mgness to hear the now growing tale of our adventure. Then came, in a day of absolute idleness, while the showers came and went, and the mountains appeared and disappeared in sun and storm, that perfect physical enjoyment which consists in a feeling of strength without any inclination to use it, and in a delicious languor i^hich is too enjoyable to be surrendered to sleeps HOW SPRING CAME IN NEW ENGLAND. HOW SPEING CAME IN NEW ENGLAND. BY A READER OF "'93." EW ENGLAND is the battle-ground of the seasons. It is La Vendee. To conquer it is only to begin the fight. When it is completely subdued, what kind of weather have you? None whatever. What is this New England ? A country ? No : a camp. It is alternately invaded by the hyper- borean legions and by the wilting sirens of the tropics. Icicles hang always on its northern heights ; its seacoasts are fringed with mosquitoes. There is for a third of the year a contest between the icy air of the pole and the warm wind of the gulf. The result of this is a compromise: the 199 200 HOW SPRING CAME IN NEW ENGLAND, compromise is called Thaw. It is the norma. condition in New England. The New-Englander is a person who is always just about to be warm and comfortable. This is the stuff of which heroes and mart^Ts are made. A person thor- oughlj^ heated or frozen is good for nothing. Look at the Bongos. Examine (on the map) the Dog-Rib nation. The New-Englander, by in- cessant activity, hopes to get warm. Edwards made his theology. Thank God, New England is not in Paris ! Hudson's Ba}^, Labrador, Grinnell's Land, a whole zone of ice and walruses, make it un- pleasant for New England. This icy cover, like the hd of a pot, is alwaj^s suspended over it : when it shuts down, that is winter. This wouk be intolerable, were it not for the Gulf Stream. The Gulf Stream is a benign, liquid force, flow- ing from under the ribs of the equator, — a white knight of the South going up to battle the giant of the Nortli. The two meet in New England and have it out there. This is the theory; but, in fact, the Gulf BOW SPRING CAME IN NEW ENGLAND. 201 Stream is mostly a delusion as to New England. For Ireland it is quite another thing. Potatoes ripen in Ireland before they are j)lanted in New England. That is the reason the Irish emigrate : they desire two crops the same year. The Gulf Stream gets shunted off from New England by the formation of the coast below : besides, it is too shallow to be of any service. Icebergs float down against its surface-current, and fill all the New-England air with the chill of death till June : after that the fogs drift down from New- foundland. There never was such a mockery as this Gulf Stream. It is like the English influ- ence on France, on Europe. Pitt was an ice- berg. Still New England survives. To what pur- pose? I say, as an example: the politician says, to produce "Poor Boys." Bah! The poor boy is an anachronism in civilization. He is no longer poor, and he is not a boy. In Tartary they would hang him for sucking all the asses' milk that belongs to the children : in New Eng land he has all the cream from the Public Cow 202 HOW SPRiyQ CAME IN NEW ENGLAND, VVTiat can you expect in a country where one knows not to-day what the weather will be to- morrow? Climate makes the man. Suppose he, too, dwells on the Channel Islands, where he haa all climates, and is superior to all. Perhaps he will become the prophet, the seer, of his age, as he is its Poet. The New-Englander is the man without a climate. Why is his country recog- nized? You won't find it on an}^ map of Paris. And 3'et Pans is the universe. Strange anom- oly ! The greater must include the less ; but how if the less leaks out ? This sometimes hap- pens. And 3'et there are phenomena in that country worth observing. One of them is the conduct of Nature from the 1st of March to the 1st of June, or, as some say, from the vernal equinox to the summer solstice. As Tourmalain remarked, " You'd better observe the unpleasant than to be blind." This was in 802. Tomrnalain ia dead; so is Gross Alain; so is little Pee -Wee: we shall all be dead before things get anj better. HOW SPRING CAME IN NEW ENGLAND. 203 That is the law. Without revolution there is nothing. What is revolution? It is turning Bociety over, and putting the best underground for a fertilizer. Thus only will things grow. What has this to do with New England? In the language of that flash of social hghtning, Beran- ger, " May the Devil fly away with me if I can Let us speak of the period in the year in New England when winter appears to hesitate. Ex- cept in the calendar, the action is ironical ; but it is stiU deceptive. The sun mounts high : it is above the horizon twelve hours at a time. The c>now gradually sneaks away in liquid repentance. One morning it is gone, except in shaded spots and close by the fences. From about the trunlis of the trees it has long departed : the tree is a living thing, and its growth repels it. The fence Is dead, driven into the earth in a rigid hue by man: the fence, in short, is dogma; icy pieju- jlice lingers near it. The snow has disappeared ; but the landscape ^ a ghastly sight, — bleached, dead. The treej e04 HOW SPRING CAME IN NEW ENGLAND. Bre stakes ; the grass is of no color ; and the bare soil is not brown with a healthful brown i life has gone out of it. Take up a piece of turf: it is a clod, without warmth, inanimate. Pull it in pieces : there is no hope in it : it is a part of the past ; it is the refuse of last j^ear. This is the condition to which winter has reduced the landscape. When the snow, which was a pall, is removed, you see how ghastl}^ it is. The face of the country is sodden. It needs now onlj^ the south wind to sweep over it, fuU of the damp breath of death ; and that begins to blow. No prospect would be more dreary. And yet the south wind fills credulous man with joy. He opens the window. He goes out, and catches cold. He is stirred b}^ the mysteri- ous coming of something. K there is sign of change nowhere else, we detect it in the news- paper. In sheltered corners of that truculent instiiiment for the diffusion of the prejudices of the few among the many begin to grow the violets of tender sentiment, the early greens of reaming. The poet feels the sap of the ne^ BOW SPRIXG CAME m NEW ENGLAND. 205 year before the marsh- willow. He blossoms in Edvance of the catkins. Man is greater than Nature. The poet is greater than man: he ia nature on two legs, — ambulatory. At first there is no appearance of conflict. The winter garrison seems to have withdrawn. The invading hosts of the South are entering without opposition. The hard ground softens ; the sun hes warm upon the southern bank, and water oozes from its base. If jou examine the buds of the lilac and the flowering shrubs, you cannot say that they are swelling ; but the var- nish with whicn they were coated in the fall to keep out the frost seems to be cracking. If the sugar-maple is hacked, it wiU bleed, — the pure white blood of Nature. At the close of a sunny day the western sky has a softened aspect: its color, we say, has wai-mth in it. On such a day you may meet a caterpillar on the footpath, and turn out for him. The house-fly thaws out ; a company of cheerful w^asps take possession of a chamber-window. It vS oppressive indoors at night, and the windon* 206 EOW SPRING CAME IN NEW ENOLANI). is raised. A flock of millers, born out of time, flutter in. It is most unusual weather for the season : it Is so every j'ear. The delusion la complete, when, on a mild evening, the tree- toads open their brittle-brattle chorus on the edge of the pond. The citizen asks his neighbor, *'Did 3^ou hear the frogs last night?" That seems to open the new world. One thinlis of his childhood and its innocence, and of his first loves. It fills one with sentiment and a tender longing, this voice of the tree-toad. Man is a strange being. Deaf to the prayers of friends, to the sermons and warnings of the church, to the calls of duty, to the pleadings of his better natm-e, he is touched by the tree-toad. The signs of the spring multiply. The passer in the street in the evening sees the maid-servant leaning on the arca-gai':e in sweet converse with some one lean- mg on the other side ; or in the park, which is stiL too damp for any thing but true ajffection, he sees her seated by the side of one wno is able to piotect her from the pohceman, and hears hei sigh, " How sweet it is to be with tliose we love to be with ! '' now SPRING CAME IN NEW ENGLAND, 207 All this is very well; but next morning the newspaper nips these early buds of sentiment. The telegraph announces, " Twenty feet of snow at Ogden, on the Pacific Road ; winds blowing a gale at Omaha, and snow still falling ; mercury frozen at Duluth ; storm-signals at Port Huron.' ' Where now are j^our tree-toads, your young love, your early season? Before noon it rains; by three o'clock it hails ; before night the bleak storm-cloud of the north-west envelops the sky ; a gale is raging, whMing about a tempest of snow. By morning the snow is drifted in banlis, and two feet deep on a level. Early in the seven- teenth century, Drebbel of Holland invented tlio weather-glass. Before that, men had suffered without knowing the degree of their suffering. A century later, Romer hit upon the idea of using mercury in a thermometer ; and Fahi'enheit instructed the instrument which adds a new because distinct terror to the weather. Science names and registers tht ills of life ; and yet it ia ft gain to know the names and habits of our ene* mies. It is with some satisfaction in our knowl- edge that we say the thermometer marks zero. 208 HOW SPRING CAME IN NEW ENGLAND, In fact, the wild beast called Winter, untameti has returned, and taken possession, of New Eng land. Nature, giving up her melting mood, has retired into dumbness and white stagnation. But we are wise. We say it is better to have it now than later. We have a conceit of understanding things. Extraordinary blindness ! The sun is in alliance with the earth. Between tne two the snow is uncomfortable. Compelled to go, it decides to go suddenl}^ The first day there is slush with rain ; the second da}', mud with hail ; the third day, a flood with sunshine. The thermometer declares that the temperature is delightful. Man shivers and sneezes. His neigh- bor dies of some disease newly named by science ; but he dies aU the same as if it hadn't been newly named. Science has not discovered any name that is not fatal. This is called the breaking-up of winter. Nature seems for some da3's to be in doubt, not exactly able to stand still, not daring to pu foiiJi an}' thing tender. Man says that the worsi HOW SPBmO CAME IN NEW ENGLAND. 209 Is over. If he should live a thousand years, he would be deceived every year. And this is called an age of scepticism. Man never believed in so many things as now : he never believed so much in himself. As to Nature, he knows her secrets : he can predict what she will do. He communi- cates with the next world by means of an alpha- bet which he has invented. He tallvs with souls at the other end of the spirit-wire. To be sure, neither of them says any thing ; but they talk. Is not that something ? He suspends the law of gravitation as to his own body — he has learned how to evade it — as tjTants suspend the legal writs of habeas corpus. When Gravitation asks for his body, she cannot have it. He sa3's of himself, "lam infalhble ; I am subhme." He believes aU these things. He is master of the elements. Shakspeare sends him a poem just made, and as good a poem as the man could mite himself. And yet this man — he goes out Df doors without his overcoat, catches cold, an(? 18 bui-ied in three lays. ' • On the 21 st of Janu- tiy,'* exclaimed Mercier, " all kings felt for the 210 HOW SPRING CAME IN NEW ENGLAND. backs of their necks.*' This might be said of all men in New England in the spring. This is the season that all the poets celebrate. Let us sappose that once, in Thessal}', there was a genial Bpring, and there was a poet who sang of it. All later poets have sung the same song. " Voila tout! " That is the root of poetrj-. Another delusion. We hear toward evening, high in air, the "conk'* of the wild-geese. Looking up, jou see the black specks of that adventui'ous triangle, winging along in rapid flight northward. Perhaps it takes a wide re- turning sweep, in doubt ; but it disappears in the north. There is no mistaking that sign. This unmusical " conli " is sweeter than the " ker- chunli ' ' of the bull-frog. Probably these bu'ds ai'e not idiots, and probably they turned back south again after spjing out the nakedness of the land ; but they have made their sign. Nest day there is a rumor that somebody has seen a blue-bird. This rumor, unhappily for the bud (which will freeze to death) , is confirmed. Ir jBss than thi'ee days everybody has seen a blue» HOW spri:n'g came in new England. 211 bii'd ; and favored people have heard a robin, or. rather the 3^ellow-breasted thrush, misnamed a robin in America. This is no doubt true : for angle-worms have been seen on the surface of the g:ound ; and, wherever there is any thing to eat, Uie. robin is promptly on hand. About this time you notice, in i^rotected, sunny spots, that the grass has a little color. But you say that it is the grass of last fall. It is very difficult to tell when the grass of last fall became the grass of this spring. It looks " warmed over." The green is rusty. The lilac-buds have certainly swollen a little, and so have those of the soft maple. In the rain the grass does not brighten as you think it ought to, and it is only when the lain turns to snow that 3'ou see any decided gi'een color by contrast with the white. The snow gradually covers every thing very quietty, how- ever. Winter comes back without the least noise or bustle, tireless, malicious, implacable. Neither party in the fight now makes much fuss over it ; and you might think that Natui-e had surrendere(' iitogether, if you did not find about this time 212 HOW SPRING CAME IN NEW ENGL ANT m the woods, on the edge of a snow-bank, tba modest blossoms of the trailing arbutus, shedding their delicious perfume. The bravest are alwa^^s the tenderest, says the poet. The season, in its blind way, is trjing to express itself. And it is assisted. There is a cheerful chatter In the trees. The blackbirds have come, and in numbers, households of them, i-illages of them, — communes, rather. They do not beheve in God, these blackbirds. They think they can take care of themselves. We shall see. Bat they are well informed. They arrived just as the last snow-bank melted. One cannot say now that there is not greenness in the grass ; not in the wide fields, to be sure, but on lawns and banks sloping south. The dark-spotted leaves of the dog-tooth \i6[&t begin to show. Even Fahrenheit's contrivance joins in the upward movement: the mercury has suddenly gODC up from thirty degrees to sixty-five degrees. It ia time for the ice-man. Ice has no sooner disap- peared than we desu'e it. There is a smile, if one may say so, in tlif HOW SPRING CAME IN NEW ENGLAND. 213 Miie sky, and there is softness in the south wind. The song- sparrow is singing in the apple-tree. Another bu'd-note is heard, — two long, musical whistles, liquid but metallic. A brown bu'd this one, darker than the song-sparrow, and without the latter 's hght stripes, and smaller, yet bigger than the queer little chipping-bu'd. He wants a familiar name, this sweet singer, who appears to be a sort of sparrow. He is such a contrast to the blue-jays, who have arrived in a passion, as usual, screaming and scolding, the elegant, spoiled beauties ! They wrangle from morning till night, these beautiful, high-tempered aristo- crats. Encouraged by the birds, by the bursting of the lilac-buds, by the peeping-up of the crocuses, by tradition, b}^ the sweet flutterings of a double hope, another sign appears. This is the Easter oonnets, most delightful flowers of the j^ear, smblems of innocence, hope, devotion. Alaa that they have to be worn under umbrellas, so aiuch thought, freshness, feehng, tenderness, nave gone into them! And a north-east storm 814 HOW SFEING CAME IN NEW ENGLAND. of rain, accompanied with haU, comes to crown all these virtues with that of self-sacrifice. The frail hat is offered up to the implacable season. In fact, Nature is not to be forestalled nor hur- ried in this way. Things cannot be pushed. Nature hesitates. The woman who does not hesitate in April is lost. The appearance of the bonnets is premature. The blackbirds see it. They assemble. For two daj^s they hold a noisy convention, with high debate, in the tree-tops Something is going to happen. Say, rather, the usual thing is about to occui . There is a wind called Auster, another called Eurus, another called Septentrio, another Me- ridies, besides Aquilo, Vulturnus, Africus. There are the eight great winds of the classical dictionary, — arsenal of mystery and terror and of the unknown, — besides the wind Eui'oaquilo of St. Luke. This is the wind that drives an apostle wishing to gain Crete upon the African Syrtis. If St. Luke had been tacking to get to Hyannis, this wind would have forced him into Holmes's Hole. The Euroaquilo is no respecter of persons. HOW SPRING CAME IN NEW ENGLAND. 215 These winds, and others unnamed and more terrible, ch'cle about New England. They form a ring about it : they he in wait on its borders, but only to si:)ring upon it and harry it. The}' follow each other in contracting circles, in whirl- winds, in maelstroms of the atmosphere : they meet and cross each other, all at a moment. This New England is set apart : it is the exer- cise-ground of the weather. Storms bred else- where come here full - gi'own : the}^ come in couples, in quartets, in choruses. If New Eng- land were not mostly rock, these winds would carry it off; but they would bring it all back again, as happens with the sandy portions. What sharp Eurus carries to Jersey, Africus ])ring3 back. When the air is not full of snow, it is full of dust. This is called one of the compensations of Nature. This is what happened after the convention of the blackbirds : A moaning south wind brought rain ; a south-west wind tm-ned the rain to snow ; what is called a zephyr, out of the west, drifted the snow; a north wind sfnt the mercury far 216 HOW SPUmG CAME IN NEW ENGLAND. below freezing. Salt added to snow increases the evaporation and the cold. This was the oflice of the north-east wind : it made the snoTV damp, and increased its bulk ; but then it rained a little, and froze, thawing at the same tine. The air was full of fog and snow and rain. And then the wind changed, went back round the cu'cle, reversing every thing, like dragging a cat by its tail. The mercur}^ approached zero. This was nothing uncommon. We know all these winds. We are famihar with the different "forms of water." All this was onty the prologue, the overture. If one might be permitted to speak scientifically, it was only the tuning of the instruments. The opera was to come, — the Flying Dutchman of the air. There is a wind called Euroclydon : it would be one of the Eumenides ; only they are women. It is ha'f-brother to the gigantic storm-wind of the equinox. The Euroclydon is not a wind : it is a monster. Its breath is frost. It has sno^ in its hair. It is something terrible. It peddles rheumatism, and plants consumption. HOW SPRING CAME IN NEW ENGLAND 211 The EurocljTlon knew just the moment to strike into the discord of the weather in New England. From its lair about Point Desolation, from the glaciers of the Greenland continent, sweexylng round the coast, leaving wi'ecks in its track, it marched right athwart the other conflicting winds, churning them into a fury, and inaugurat- ing chaos. It was the Marat of the elements. It was the revolution marching into the ' ' dreaded wood of La Sandraie." Let us sum it all up in one word : it was some- thing for which there is no name. Its track was destruction. On the sea it leaves wrecks. What does it leave on land ? Funerals. When it subsides. New England is prostrate. It has left its legacy: this legacy is coughs and patent medicines. This is an epic ; this is des- tiny. You think Providence is expelled out of New England ? Listen ! Two days after Euroctydon, I found in the i^oods the hepatica — earliest of wild wood flowers, evidently not intimidated by the wild work of the trmies trampling over New England — daring to 218 HOW SPRING CAME IN NEW ENGLAND. hold up its tender blossom. One could not but admire the quiet pertinacity of Nature. She had been painting the grass under the snow. In spots it was ^-ivid green. There was a mild rain, — mild, but chilly. The clouds gathered, a.d broke away in hght, fleec}^ masses. There was a softness on the hills. The birds suddenly were on every tree, glancing through the air, filling it with song, sometimes shaking rain-drops from their wings. The cat brings in one in his mouth. He thinks the season* has begun, and the game-laws are off. He is fond of Nature, this cat, as we all are : he wants to possess it. At four o'clock in the morning there is a gi*and dress-rehearsal of the birds. Not all the pieces of the orchestra have arrived ; but there are enough. The gi-ass-sparrow has come. This is certainly charming. The gardener comes to talk fibout seeds : he uncovers the strawberries and the grape-vines, salts the asparagus-bed, and plants the peas. You ask if he planted them with a shot-gun. In the shade there is stUl frost in the gix)und. Nature, in fact, stiU hesitates, HOW SPRING CAME IN NEW ENGLAND. 219 puts forth one hepatica at a time, and waits to see the result ; pushes up the grass slowl}^ per- haps draws it in at night. This indecision we call Spring. It becomes painful. It is lilie being on the rack for ninetj^ days, expecting every day a re- prieve. Men grow hardened to it, however. This is the order with man, — hope, surprise, bewilderment, disgust, facetiousness. The peo- ple in New England finally become facetious about spring. This is the last stage : it is the most dangerous. When a man has come to make a jest of misfortune, he is lost. "It bores me to die," said the jom-nalist Carra to the heads- man at the foot of the guillotine : " I would like to have seen the continuation." One is also interested to see how spring is going to turn out. A day of sun, of delusive bird-singing, sight of the mellow earth, — all these begin to beget lonfidence. The night, even, has been warm. JiJut what is this in the morning journal at breals:- fast? — " An area of low pressure is moving from the Tortugas north.'' You shudder. 220 HOW SPRING CAME IN NEW ENGLAND. What is this Low Pressure itself, — it? It is something frightful, low, crouching, creeping, advancing ; it is a foreboding ; it is misfortune by telegi'aph ; it is the " '93 '* of the atmosphere. This low pressure is a creation of Old Prob. What is that? Old Prob. is the new deit}^ of the Americans, greater than -^olus, more despotic than Sans-Culotte. The wind is his servitor, the lightning his messenger. He is a mystery made of six parts electricity, and one part "guess." This deity is worshipped b}^ the Americans ; his name is on every man's lips first in the morning ; he is the Frankenstein of modern science. Housed at Wasliington, his business is to direct the stoiTQS of the whole country upon New Eng- land, and to give notice in advance. This he does. Sometimes he sends the storm, and then gives notice. This is mere playfulness on his part : it is all one to him. His great power is ir the low pressure. On the Bexar plains of Texas, among the hilla vf the Presidio, along the Rio Grande, low press- ore is bred ; it is nursed also in the AtcJiafalayt now spumo came ay new England. 221 Bwamps of Louisiana ; it moves by the way of Thibodeaux and Bonnet Carre. The south- wiest •*«* a magazine of atmosj)heric disasters. Lou? pressure ma} be no worse than the others : it is better known, and is most used to inspire terror. It can be summoned any time also from the everglades of Florida, from the morasses of the Okeechobee. When the New-Englander sees this in his newspaper, he knows what it means. He has twenty-four hours' warning ; but what can he do ? Nothing but watch its certain advance by telegraph. He suffers in anticipation. That is what Old Prob. has brought about, — suffering by anticipation. This low pressure advances against the wind. The wind is from the north- east. Nothing could be more unpleasant than a north-east wind ? Wait till low pressure joins it. Together they make spring in New England. A north-east storm from the south-west ! — there »s no bitterer satire than this. It lasts three flays. After that the weather changes into some- tn ng winter-like. 222 HOW SPRING CAME IN NEW ENGLAND. A solitar}^ song-sparrow, without a note of joy, hops along the snow to the dining-room Tvindow, and, turning his httle head aside, looks up. He IS hungrj' and cold. Little Minnette, clasping her hands behind he.'- back, stands and looks at him, and saj's, ^'Po' birdie!'* Thej^ appear to understand each other. The sparrow gets his crumbs ; but he knows too much to let Minnette get hold of him. Neither of these little things could take care of itself in a New-England spring — not in the depths of it. This is what the father of Minnette, looking out of the window upon the wide waste of snow, and the evergreens bent to the ground with the weight of it, says, "It looks like the depths of spring." To this has man come : to his facetiousness has succeeded sarcasm. It is the first of May. Then follows a da}^ of bright sun and blue sky. The bu'ds open the morning with a lively chorus. In spite of Auster, EurocMon, low pressai*e and the government bureau, things have gone forward. By the roadside, where the snow has JQst melted, the grass is of the color of enjorald, HOW SPRING CAME IN NEW ENGLAND. 223 The heart leaps to see it. On the lawn there are twenty robins, lively, noisy, worm-seeking. Theii yellow breasts contrast with the tender green of the newly-springing clover and herd's-grass. If they would only stand still, we might thisk the dandelions had blossomed. On an evergreen- bough, looking at them, sits a graceful bird, whose back is bluer than the sky. There is a red tint on the tips of the boughs of the hard maple. With Nature, color is life. See, already, green, yellow, blue, red ! In a few days — is it not so? — through the green masses of the trees will flash the orange of the oriole, the scarlet of the tanager ; perhaps to-morrow. But, in fact, the next day opens a little sourly. It is almost clear overhead: but the clouds thicken on the horizon ; they look leaden ; they threaten rain. It certainly will rain: the air feels like rain, or snow. By noon it begins to Bnow, and ^ou hear the desolate cry of the phoebe-bird. It is a fine snow, gentle at first ; but it soon drives in swerving hues, for the wind 18 from the south-west, from the west, from the 224 now SPUING CAME IN NEW ENGLAND north-east, from the zenith (one of the ordinary winds of New England), from all points of the compass. The fine snow becomes rain ; it be- comes large snow ; it melts as it falls ; it freezes as it falls. At last a storm sets in, and night shuts down upon the bleak scene. During the night there is a change. It thun- ders' and lightens. Toward morning there is a brilliant display of aurora boreahs. TMs is a sign of colder weather. The gardener is in despair ; so is the sports- man. The trout take no pleasure in biting in such weather. Paragraphs appear in the news- papers, copied from the paper of last year, say- ing that this is the most severe spring in thirty years. Every one, in fact, believes that it is, and also that next year the spring will be early. Man is the most guUible of creatures. And with reason : he trusts his eyes, and not his instinct. Diuing this most sour weather of the year, the anemone blossoms ; and, almost immediately after, the fairy petcil. the spring beauty, the dog-tooth violet, and the true violet HOW SPRING CAME IN NEW ENGLAND. 225 £n clouds and fog, and rain and snow, and all discouragement, Nature pushes on her forces with progressive haste and rapidity. Before one is aware, all the lawns and meadows are deeply green, the trees are opening their tender leaves. In a burst of sunshine the cherry-trees are white, the Judas-tree is pink, the hawthorns give a sweet smell. The air is full of sweetness ; the world, of color. In the midst of a chilling ncoth-east storm the ground is strewed with the white-and-pink blos- soms from the apple-trees. The next day the mercury stands at eighty degrees. Summer has come. There was no Spring. The winter is over. You think so? Robes- pierre thought the Revolution was over in the beginning of his last Thermidor. He lost hm head after that. When the first buds are set, and the com is up, and the cucumbers have four leaves, a mali- cious frost steals down from the north and kills them in a night. 226 HOW SPRING CAME IN NEW ENGLAND. That is the last effort of spring. The mercury then mounts to ninet}' degrees. The season has been long, but, on the whole, successful. Many people sur\ive it. JUN 4 1904 BRENTANO'S I