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PRICE 12J CENTS.
CATSKILL
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i	---
[/CHARLES L. BEACH, PROPRIETOR.
The sketches in the following pages sufficiently describe the natural at-
tractions at, and about this place. For the information of strangers, the propri-
etor begs leave to say, that within the last two years he has torn down the old
house referred to by the tourists, and erected a far better, larger and more conve-
nient building for the entertainment of his guests. No exertion or expense has
been spared to render the Mountain House an agreeable retreat to those who
seek health, pleasure, or retirement from business.
It is a building of one hundred and fifty feet front, with a wing of one
hundred and thirty feet, and both three stories high* A splendid colonade ex-
tends along the whole front of the main building. It is hoped and believed
that its accommodations will be found at least equal to those of any other
fashionable establishment in the country.
Catskill landing is distant one hundred and twenty miles from New-York,
and thirty-six from Albany. The “floating palaces” of the Hudson land
here daily. The morning boat from New-York at about two o’clock P. M.
and the morning boat from Albany at about half-past nine o’clock A. M. An
afternoon mail boat from each city also lands: the one from Albany at seven
P. M. and the one from New-York at one A. M. Besides these, a boat leaves
This well known resort is open for the reception of visiters during
the season of fashionable travel.
[See page 3 of Cover.THE
op
THE CATSKILL MOUNTAINS.
NOTE BY THE COMPILER.
The matter in the following pages has been collected and published
in this form for the information and amusement of the lovers of natural
scenery. It is hoped that the collection will be acceptable to all such.
If it should aid in directing public attention to one of the most beautiful
spots upon the continent, and thus induce a love for American scenery,
instead of the rage for trans-Atlantic, now so prevalent, the object of the
publication tvill have been attained.CONTENTS
Page
Extract from Cooper’s Pioneers,................................. .	*	.	3
Rip Van Winkle—a posthumous writing of Diedrich Knickerbocker,	...	4
Sunrise upon the Catskills,............................................ .12
Extract from the “ Ollapodiana ” papers of Willis Gaylord Clark,.......................12
Extract from “Impressions of America, during 1833-35,”—by Tyrone Power, Esq. .	.16
The Catskill Mountains—by N. P. Willis,...................................... 17
Catskill Mountain House—by Park Benjamin,...................................... .	.18
Pine Orchard House, from “Retrospect of Western Travel,”—by Miss Martineau, .	.	19
The Catterskill Falls—by William C. Bryant, .	............................ . 22
The Fourth at Pine Orchard—by Mrs. Ellett, ............................................23
A September Trip to Catskill—from the American Monthly Magazine, 1737,	.	.	.28
Catskill Mountain House,	...................................... 31
Winter Scene on the Catskills,.........................................................34
The Falls of Kaaterskill in Winter—by Thomas Cole,.....................................36
Extracts from “ A Visit to the Catskills,”—published in the Atlantic Souvenir, 1828, .	.38THE SCENERY
OP
THE CATSKILL MOUNTAINS
EXTRACT FROM COOPER’S “PIONEERS,”
Vol. 2, pp. 105-109.
“I nave travelled the woods for fifty-three
years,” said Leather-Stocking, “ and have made
them my home for more than forty, and I can
say that I have met but one place that was
more to my liking; and that was only to eye-
sight, and not for hunting or fishing
“ And where was that ?” asked Edwards.
“ Where! why up on the Catskills. I used
often to go up into the mountains after wolves’
skins, and bears; once they brought me to get
them a stuffed painter; and so I often went.
There’s a place in them hills that I used to
climb to when I wanted to see the carryings on
of the world, that would well pay any man for
a barked shin or a torn moccasin. You know
the Catskills, lad, for you must have seen them
on your left, as you followed the river up from
York, looking as blue as a piece of clear sky,
and holding the clouds on their tops, as the
smoke curls over the head of an Indian chief at
a council fire. Well, there’s the High-peak and
the Round-top, which lay back, like a father
and mother among their children, seeing they
are far above all the other hills. But the place
I mean is next to the river, where one of the
ridges juts out a little from the rest, and where
the rocks fall for the best part of a thousand
feet, so much up and down, that a man standing
on their edges is fool enough to think he can
jump from top to bottom.”
“ What see you when you get there f* ask-
ed Edwards.
“ Creation!” said Natty, dropping the end of
his rod into the water, and sweeping one hand
around him in a circle, “ all creation, lad. I was
on that hill when Yaugh an burnt Sopus, in the
last war, and I seen the vessels come out
of the Highlands as plainly as I can see that
lime-scow rowing into the Susquehanna, though
one was twenty times further from me than the
other. The river was in sight for seventy miles
under my feet, looking like a curled shaving,
though it was eight long miles to its banks. I
saw the hills in the Hampshire grants, the high
lands of the river, and all that God had done or
man could do, as far as the eye could reach—
you know that the Indians named me for my
sight, lad—and from the flat on the top of that
mountain, I have often found the place where
Albany stands; and as for Sopus! the day the
royal troops burnt the town, the smoke seemed
so nigh that I thought I could hear the screeches
of the women.”
“ It must have been worth the toil to meet
with such a glorious view.”
“ If being the best part of a mile in the air,
and having men’s farms and houses at your feet,
with rivers looking like ribands, and mountains
bigger than the ‘ Vision ’ seeming to be hay-
stacks of green grass under you, gives any
satisfaction to a man, I can recommend the spot.
When I first came into the woods to live, I used
to have weak spells, and I felt lonesome; and
then I would go into the Catskills and spend a
few days on that hill, to look at the ways of
man; but it’s now many a year since I felt any
such longings, and I’m getting too old for these
rugged rocks. But there’s a place, a short two
miles back of that very hill, that in late times
I relished better than the mountains; for it was
more kivered by the trees, and more nateral.”
“ And where was that ?” inquired Edwards,
whose curiosity was strongly excited by the
simple description of the hunter.
“ Why, there’s a fall in the hills, where the
water of two little oonds that lie near each4
RIP VAN WINKLE.
other breaks out of their bounds, and runs over
the rocks into the valley. The stream is, may
be, such a one as would turn a mill, if so useless
a thing was wanted in the wilderness. But the
hand that made that4 Leap’ never made a mill!
There the water comes crooking and winding
among the rocks, first so slow that a trout
could swim in it, and then starting and running
just like any creater that wanted to make a far
spring, till it gets to where the mountain divides
like the cleft hoof of a deer, leaving a deep hol-
low for the brook to tumble into. The first
pitch is nigh two hundred feet, and the water
looks like flakes of driven snow afore it touches
the bottom; and there the stream gathers itself
together again for a new start, and may be flut-
ters over fifty feet of flat rock, before it falls
for another hundred, when it jumps about from
shelf to shelf, first turning this-a-way and then
turning that-a-way, striving to get out of the hol-
low, till it finally comes to the plain.”
44 I have never heard of this spot before 1” ex-
claimed Edwards; “ it is not mentioned in the
books.”
“ I never read a book in my life,” said Leather-
Stocking; and how should man who has lived
in towns and schools know any thing about the
wonders of the woods! No, no> lad; there has
that little stream of water been playing among
them hills since He made the world, and not a
dozen white men have ever laid eyes upon it.
The rock sweeps like mason-work, in a half-
round, on both sides of the fall, and shelves
over the bottom for fifty feet; so that when Fve
been sitting at the foot of the first pitch, and my
hounds have run into the caverns behind the
sheet of water, they’ve looked no bigger than
so many rabbits. To my judgment, lad, it’s the
best piece of work that I’ve met with in the
woods; and none know how often the hand of
God is seen in a wilderness, but them that rove
it for a man’s life.”
44 What becomes of the water ? in which direc-
tion does it run? is it a tributary of the Delaware?”
44 Anan !” said Natty.	^
44 Does the water run into the Delaware ?”
44 No, no it’s a drop for the old Hudson: and
a merry time it has till it gets down off the
mountain. I’ve sat on the shelving rock many
a long hour, boy, and watched the bubbles as
they shot by me, and thought how long it
would be before that very water which seemed
made for the wilderness, would be under the
bottom of a vessel, and tossing in the salt sea.
It is a spot to make a man solemnise. You
can see right down into the valley that lies to
the east of the High-peak, where, in the fall of
the year, thousands of acres of woods are before
your eyes, in the deep hollow, and along the side
of the mountain, painted like ten thousand rain-
bows, by no hand of man, though not without
the ordering of God’s providence.”
44 Why you are eloquent, Leather-Stocking,”
exclaimed the youth.
From Irving’s Sketch Book, Vol. 1. p. 45.
RIP YAN WINKLE.
A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER.
By Woden, God of Saxons,
From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday.
Truth is a thing that ever I will keep
Unto thylke day in which I creep into
My sepulchre—	Cartwright.
Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson
must remember the Kaatskill mountains. They
are a dismembered branch of the great Appala-
chian family, and are seen away to the west of
the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lord-
ing it over the surrounding country. Every
change of season, every change of weather, in-
deed, every hour of the day, produces some
change in the magic hues and shapes of these
mountains; and they are regarded by all the
good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers.
When the weather is fair and settled, they are
clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold
outlines bn the clear evening sky; but some-RIP VAN WINKLE.
5
times, when the test of the landscape is cloud-
less, they will gather a hood of gray vapors
about their summits, which, in the last rays of
the setting sun will glow and light up like a
crown of glory.
At the foot of these fairy mountains the
voyager may have descried the light smoke
curling up from a village, whose shingle roofs
gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints
of the upland melt away-into the fresh green
of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of
great antiquity, having been founded by some
of the Dutch colonists in the early times of the
province, just about the beginning of the go-
vernment of the good Peter Stuyvesant, (may
he rest in peace!) and there were some of the
houses of the original settlers standing within a
few years, built of small yellow bricks brought
from Holland, having latticed windows and ga-
ble fronts, surmounted with weathercocks.
In that same village, and in one of these
very houses, (which, to tell the precise truth,
was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten,) there
lived many years since, while the country was
yet a province of Great Britain, a simple good-
natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle.
He was a descendant of the Van Winkles
who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days
of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to
the siege of Christina. He inherited, however,
but little of the martial character of his ances-
tors. I have observed that he was a simple
good-natured man; he was moreover a kind
neighbor, and an obedient hen-pecked husband.
Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be
owing that meekness of spirit which gained him
such universal popularity; for those men are
most apt to be obsequious and conciliating
abroad, who are under the discipline of shrews
at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are render-
ed pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of
domestic tribulation, and a curtain lecture is
worth all the sermons in the world for teaching
the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A
termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects
be considered a tolerable blessing; and if so,
Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed.
Certain it is, that he was a great favorite
among all the good wives of the village, who, as
usual with the amiable sex, took his part in all
family squabbles, and never failed, whenever
they talked those matters over in their evening
gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van
Winkle. The children of the village, too, would
shout with joy whenever he approached. He
assisted at their sports, made their playthings,
taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and
told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and
Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the
village, he was surrounded by a troop of them,
hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back,
and playing a thousand tricks on him wi*th impu-
nity ; and not a dog would bark at him through-
out the neighborhood.
The great error in Rip’s composition was an
insuperable aversion to all kinds of profitable
labor. It could not be from want of assiduity
or perseverance; for he would set on a wet rock
with a rod as long and heavy. as a Tartar’s
lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even
though he should not be encouraged by a single
nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece on his
shoulder for hours together, trudging through
woods and swamps, and up hill and down dale,
to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He
would never refuse to assist a neighbor even
in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at
all country frolics for husking Indian corn, or
building stone fences. The women of the vil-
lage, too, used to employ him to run their er-
rands, and to do such little odd jobs as their less
obliging husbands would not do for them;—in
a word, Rip was ready to attend to anybody’s
business but his own; but as to doing family
duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found it
impossible.
In fact he declared it was of no use to work
on his farm; it was the most pestilent little
piece of ground in the whole country; every
thing about it went wrong, and would go wrong
in spite of him. His fences were continually
falling to pieces; his cow would either go astray
or get among the cabbages; weeds were sure
to grow quicker in his fields than any where
else; the rain always made a point of setting in
just as he had some out-door work to do; so
that his patrimonial estate had dwindled away
under his management, acre by acre, until there
was little more left than a mere patch of Indian
com and potatoes, yet it was the worst condi-
tioned farm in the neighborhood.
His children, too, were as ragged and wild
as if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip,
an urchin begotten in his own likeness, promis-
ed to inherit the habits, with the old clothes of
his father. He was generally seen trooping
like a colt at his mother’s heels, equipped in a
pair of his father’s cast-off galligaskins, which
he had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a
I fine lady does her train in bad weather.RIP VAN WINKLE.

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those
happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions,
who take the world easy, eat white bread or
brown, whichever can be got with least thought
or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny
than work for a pound. If left to himself, he
would have whistled life away in perfect con-
tentment ; but his wife kept continually dinning
in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness,
and the ruin he was bringing on his family.
Morning, noon and night, her tongue was
incessantly going, and every thing he said or
did was sure to produce a torrent of household
eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying
to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent
use, had grown into a habit. He shrugged his
shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but
said nothing. This, however, always provoked
■a fresh volley from his wife, so that he was fain
to draw off his forces, and take to the outside
of the house—the only side which, in truth,
belongs to a henpecked husband.
Rip’s sole domestic adherent was his dog
Wolf, who was as much henpecked as his mas-
ter ; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as
companions in idleness, and even looked upon
Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his mas-
ter’s going so often astray. True it is, in all points
of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as
courageous an animal as ever scoured the
woods—but what courage can withstand the
everduring and all-besetting terrors of a wo-
man’s tongue ? The moment Wolf entered
the house his crest fell, his tail drooped to the
ground, or curled between his legs, he sneaked
about with a gallows air, casting many a side-
long glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the
least flourish of a broomstick or ladle he would
fly to the door with yelping precipitation.
Times grew worse and w^orse with Rip Van
Winkle, as years of matrimony rolled on: a
tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp
tongue is the only edge tool that grows keener
with constant use. For a long while he used
to console himself, when driven from home, by
frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the
sages, philosophers, and other idle personages
of the village, which held its sessions on a
bench before a small inn, designated by a rubi-
cund portrait of his majesty George the Third.
Here they used to sit in the shade, of a long
lazy summer’s day, talking listlessly over village
gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about
nothing. But it would have been worth any
statesman’s money to have heard the profound
discussions which sometimes took place, when
by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands
from some passing traveller. How solemnly
they would listen to the contents, as drawled by
Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dap-
per learned little man, who was not to be
daunted by the most gigantic word in the dic-
tionary ; and how sagely they would deliberate
upon public events some months after they had
taken place.
The opinions of this junto were completely
controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of
the village, and landlord of the inn, at the door
of which he took his seat from morning till
night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun,
and keep in the shade of a large tree; so that
the neighbors could tell the hour by his move-
ments as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true,
he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his
pipe incessantly. His adherants, however, (for
every great man has his adherents,) perfectly
understood him, and knew how to gather his
opinions. When any thing that was read or
related displeased him, he was observed to
smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth
short, frequent and angry puffs; but when
pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and
tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds,
and sometimes taking the pipe from his mouth,
and letting the fragrant vapor curl about his
nose, would gravely nod his head in token of
perfect approbation.
From even this strong hold the unlucky Rip
was at length routed by his termagant wife, who
would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity
of the assemblage, and call the members all to
nought; nor was that august personage, Ni-
cholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring
tongue of this terrible virago, who charged him
outright with encouraging her husband in habits
of idleness.
Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to dis-
pair, and his only alternative to escape from the
labor of the farm and the clamor of his wife,
was to take gun in hand, and stroll away into
the woods. Here he would sometimes seat
himself at the foot of a tree, and share the con-
tents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he
sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecu-
tion. “ Poor Wolf,” he would say, “ thy mistress
leads thee a dog’s life of it; but never mind,
my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a
friend to stand by thee!” Wolf would wag
his tail, look wistfully in his master’s face,
and if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe heRIP VAN WINKLE.
7
reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart.
In a long ramble of the kind, on a fine au-
tumnal day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled
to one of the highest parts of the Kaatskill
mountains. He was after his favorite sport of
squirrel-shooting, and the still solitudes had
echoed and re-echoed with the reports of his
gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late
in the afternoon, on a green knoll covered with
mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a
precipice. From an opening between the trees
he could overlook all the lower country for
many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a
distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him,
moving on its silent but majestic course, with
the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a
lagging bark here and there sleeping on its
glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the
blue highlands.
On the other side he looked down into a
deep mountain glen, wild, lonely and shagged,
the bottom filled with fragments from the im-
pending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflect-
ed rays of the setting sun* For some time Rip
lay musing on this scene; evening was gradu-
ally advancing; the mountains began to throw
their long blue shadows over the valleys; he
saw that it would be dark long before he could
reach the village; and he heaved a heavy sigh
when he thought of encountering the terrors of
Dame Van Winkle.
As he was about to descend he heard a
voice from a distance, hallooing, “ Rip Van
Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!” He looked around
but could see nothing but a crow winging its
solitary flight across the mountain. He thought
his fancy must have deceived him, and turned
again to descend, when he heard the same cry
ring through the still evening air; “ Rip Van
Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!”—at the same time
Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low
growl, skulked to his master’s side, looking
fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt a
vague apprehension stealing over him : he look-
ed anxiously in the same direction, and perceived
a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks,
and bending under the weight of something he
carried on his back. He was surprised to see
any human being in this lonely and unfrequent-
ed place, but supposing it to be some one of the
neighborhood in need of his assistance, he has-
tened down to yield it.
* The glen here described is passed by the visitor to the
Mountain House during the first mile of ascent in climbing
the mountain. It begins near the gate and ends at the
“ Shanty.”
On nearer approach, he was still more sur-
prised at the singularity of the stranger’s appear-
ance. He was a short square-built old fellow,
with thick brushy hair, and a grizzled beard.
His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion—a
cloth jerkin strapped round the waist—several
pair of breeches, the outer one of ample volume,
decorated with rows of buttons down the sides,
and bunches at the knees. He bore on his
shoulders a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor,
and made signs for Rip to approach and assist
him with the load. Though rather shy and
distrustful of this new acquaintance, Rip com-
plied with his usual alacrity, and mutually re-
lieving each other, they clambered up a narrow
gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain
torrent. As they ascended Rip every now and
then heard long rolling peals, like distant thun-
der, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine,
or rather cleft between lofty rocks, toward
which their rugged path conducted. He paused
for an instant, but supposing it to be the mutter-
ing of one of those transient thunder-showers
which often take place in mountain heights, he
proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they
came to a hollow, like a small amphitheatre,
surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over
the banks of which impending trees shot their
branches, so that you only caught glimpses of
the azure sky and the bright evening cloud.
During the whole time, Rip and his companion
had labored on in silence; for though the for-
mer marvelled greatly what could be the object
of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild moun-
tain, yet there was something strange and in-
comprehensible about the unknown, that inspir-
ed awe, and checked familiarity.
On entering the amphitheatre new objects
of wonder presented themselves. On a level
spot in the centre was a company of odd-looking
personages playing at nine-pins. They were
dressed in a quaint outlandish fashion: some
wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long
knives in their belts, and most of them had
enormous breeches, of similar style with that of
the guide’s. Their visages, too, were peculiar;
one had a large head, broad face, and small pig-
gish eyes; the face of another seemed to con-
sist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a
white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red
cock’s tail. They all had beards, *of various
shapes and colors. There was one who seem-
ed to be the commander. He was a stout old
gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance;
he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger,s
RIP VAN WINKLE.
high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings,
and high-heeled shoes with roses m them. The
whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an
old Flemish painting, in the parlor of Dominie
Van Schaick, the village parson, and which had
been brought over from Holland at the time of
the settlemeut.
, What? seemed particularly odd to Rip, was,
that though these folks were evidently amusing
themselves, yet they maintained the gravdst
faces, the most mysterious silence, and were
withal the most melancholy party of pleasure
he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted
the stillness of the scene but the noise of the
balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed
along the mountains like rumbling peals of
thunder.
As Rip and his companion approached them
they suddenly desisted from their play, and star-
ed at him with such a fixed statue-like gaze,
and such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre counte-
nances, that his heart turned within him, and
his knees smote together. His companion now
emptied the contents of the keg into large fla-
gons, and made signs to him to wait upon the
company. He obeyed with fear and trembling;
they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and
then returned to their game.
By degrees Rip’s awe and apprehension sub-
sided. He even ventured, when no eye was
fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he
found had much of the flavor of excellent Hol-
lands. He was. naturally a thirsty soul, and
was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One
taste provoked another, and he reiterated his
visits to the flagon so often, that at length his
senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his
head, his head gradually declined, and he fell
into a deep sleep.
On waking he found himself on the green
knoll from whence he had first seen the old man
of the glen. He rubbed his eyes—it was a
bright sunny morning. The birds were hopping
and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle
was wheeling aloft and breasting the pure,
mountain breeze. “ Surely,” thought Rip, 44 I
have not slept here all night.” He recalled the
occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange
man with the keg of liquor—the mountain ravine
—the wild retreat among the rocks—the wo-be-
gone parly at nine-pins—the flagon—44Oh! that
wicked flagon !” thought Rip, “ what excuse
shall I make to Dame Van Winkle ?”
He looked round for his gun, but in place of
the clean well-oiled fowling piece, he found an
old fire-lock lying by him, the barrel encrusted
with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock
worm eaten. He now suspected that the grave
roysters of the mountain had put a trick upon
him, and having dosed him with liquor, had
robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disap-
peared, but he might have strayed away after a
squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him,
and shouted his name, but all in vain; the echoes
repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was
to be seen.
He determined to revisit the scene of the
last evening’s gambol, and if he met with any
of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As
he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the
joints, and wanting in his usual activity.44 These
mountain beds do not agree with me,” thought
Rip,44 and if this frolic should lay me up with a
fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time
with Dame Van Winkle.” With some difficulty
he got down into the glen; he found the gully
up which he and his companion had ascended
the preceding evening; but to his astonishment
a mountain stream was now foaming down it,
leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen
with babbling murmurs. He, however, made
shift to scramble up its sides, working his toil-
some way through thickets of birch, sassafras,
and witch-hazel; and sometimes tripped up or
entangled by the wild grape vines that twisted
their coils and tendrils from tree to tree, and
spread a kind of network in his path.
At length he reached to where the ravine
had opened through the cliffs to the amphithea-
tre; but no traces of such opening remained..
The rocks presented a high impenetrable wall,
over which the torrent came tumbling in a sheet
of feathery foam, and fell into a broad deep
basin, black from the shadows of the surround-
ing forest. Here, then, poor Rip wTas brought
to a stand. He again called and whistled after
his dog: he was only answered by the cawing
of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air
about a dry tree that overhung a sunny preci-
pice ; and who, secure in their elevation, seem-
ed to look down and scoff at the poor man’s
perplexities. What was to be done ? The
morning was passing away, and Rip felt famish-
ed for want of his breakfast. He grieved to
give up his dog and gun; he dreaded to meet
his wife; but it would not do to starve among
the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered
the rusty firelock, and, with a heart full of trou- •
ble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward.
As he approached the village he met a num-RIP VAN WINKLE.
9
ber of people, but none whom he knew, which
somewhat surprised him, for he had thought him-
self acquainted with every one in the country
round. Their dress, too, was of a different
fashion from that to which he was accustom-
ed. They all stared at him with equal marks of
surprise, and whenever they cast eyes upon
him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant
recurrence of this gesture induced Rip, involun-
tarily, to do the same, when, to his astonishment,
he found his heard had grown a foot long!
He had now entered the skirts of the village.
A troop of strange children ran at his heels,
hooting after him, and pointing at his grey beard.
The dogs, too, not one of which he recognised
for an old acquaintance, barked at him as he
passed. The very village was altered: it was
larger and more populous. There were rows of
houses which he had never seen before, and those
which had been his familiar haunts had disap-
peared. Strange names were over the doors—
strange faces at the windows—every thing was
strange. His mind now misgave him; he began
to doubt whether both he and the world around
him were not bewitched. Surely this was his
native village, which he had left but a day before.
There stood the Kaatskill mountains—there ran
the silver Hudson at a distance—there was every
hill and dale precisely as it had always been—
Rip was sorely perplexed; “ That flagon last night,”
thought he, “ has addled my poor head sadly!
It was with some difficulty that he found the
way to his own house, which he approached with
silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the
shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the
house gone to decay—the roof fallen in, the win-
dows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A
half-starved dog, that looked like Wolf, was
skulking about it. Rip called him by name, but
the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on.
This was an unkind cut indeed.—“ My very dog,”
sighed poor Rip, “ has forgotten me!”
He entered the house, which, to tell the truth,
Dame Van Winkle had always kept in neat order.
It was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandon-
ed. This desolateness overcame all his connubial
fears—he called loudly for his wife and children
—'the lonely chambers rang for a moment with his
1 oice, and then all again was silence.
He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old
fesort, the village inn—but it too was gone. A
large rickety wooden building stood in its place,
with great gaping windows, some of them broken,
and mended with old hats and petticoats, and
over the door was painted, “ The Union Hotel, by
Jonathan Doolittle.” Instead of the great tree
that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of
yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole?
with something on the top that looked like a red
night-cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on
which was a singular assemblage of stars and
stripes—all this was strange and incomprehensi-
ble. He recognised on the sign, however, the
ruby face of King George, under which he had
smoked so many a peaceful pipe, but even this
was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat
was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword
was held in the hand instead of a sceptre, the
head was decorated with a cocked hat, and un-
derneath was painted in large characters, Gene-
ral Washington.
There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about
the door, but none that Rip recollected. The
very character of the people seemed changed.
There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone
about it, instead of the accustomed phlem and
drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for the
sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double
chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of to-
bacco smoke, instead of idle speeches; or Van
Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the con-
tents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these,
a lean bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets
full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently
about rights of citizens—election—members of
Congress—liberty—Bunker’s hill—heroes of se-
venty-six—and other words that were a perfect
Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.
The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled
beard, his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress,
and the army of women and children that had
gathered at his heels, soon attracted the atten-
tion of the tavern politicians. They crowded
round him, eyeing him from head to foot, with
great curiosity. The orator bustled up to him,
and drawing him partly aside, inquired, “ on
which side he voted ?” Rip stared in vacant stu-
pidity. Another short but busy little fellow pul-
led him by the arm, and rising on tiptoe, inquir-
ed in his ear, “ whether he was Federal or Demo-
crat.” Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend
the question; when a knowing, self-important old
gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way
through the crowd, putting them to the right and
left with his elbows as he passed, and planting
himself before Van Winkle, with one arm a-kim-
bo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes
and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very
soul, demanded in austere tone, “what brought
him to the election with a gun on his shoulder,10
RIP VAN WINKLE.
and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant to
breed a riot in the village?”
“ Alas! gentlemen,” cried Rip, somewhat dis-
mayed “lama poor quiet man, a native of the
place, and a loyal subject of the King, God bless
him!”
Here a general shout burst from the bystand-
ers—“ A tory! a tory! a spy! a refugee! hustle
him! away with him!” It was with great difficul-
ty that the self-important man in the cocked hat
restored order; and having assumed a tenfold
austerity of brow, demanded again of the un-
known culprit, what he came there for, and whom
he was seeking. ■ The poor man humbly assured
him that he meant no harm, but merely came
there in search of some of his neighbors, who
used to keep about the tavern.
“Well—who are they?—name them,”
Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquir-
ed, “Where’s Nicholas Vedder?”
There was a silence for a little while, when
an old man replied, in a thin piping voice, “ Ni-
cholas Vedder? why he is dead and gone these
eighteen years! There was a wooden tomb-stone
in the church-yard that used to tell all about him,
but that’s rotten and gone too.”
“Where’s Brom Dutcher?”
“ Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning
of the war; some say he was killed at the storm-
ing of Stoney-Point—others say he was drowned
in the squall, at the foot of Antony’s Nose. I
don’t know—he never came back again.”
“Where’s Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?”
“ He went off to the wars too, was a great
militia general, and is now in Congress.”
Rip’s heart died away at hearing of these sad
changes in his home and friends, and finding him-
self thus alone in the world. Every answer puz-
zled him, too, by treating of such enormous
lapses of time, and of matters which he could
not understand; war—Congress—Stoney-Point!
—he had no courage to ask after any more
friends, but cried out in despair, “ Does nobody
here know Rip Van Winkle ?”
“Oh, Rip Van Winkle!” exclaimed two or
three, “ Oh, to be sure! that’s Rip Van Winkle
yonder, leaning against the tree.”
Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart
of himself as he went up the mountain; appa-
rently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor
fellow was now completely confounded. He
doubted his own identity, and whether he was
himself or another man. In the midst of his be-
wilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded
who he was, and what was his name ?
“ God knows,” exclaimed he at his wit’s end
“ I’m not myself—I’m somebody else—that’s me
yonder—no—that’s somebody else, got into my
shoes—I was myself last night, but I fell asleep
on the mountain, and they’ve changed my gun,
and every thing’s changed, and I’m changed, and
I can’t tell what’s my name, or who I am!”
The by-standers began now to look at each
other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their fin-
gers against their foreheads. There was a whisper,
also, about securing the gun, and keeping the
old fellow from doing mischief; at the very sug-
gestion of which, the self-important man with the
cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At
this critical moment a fresh comely woman pass-
ed through the throng to get a peep at the gray-
bearded man. She had a chubby child in her
arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to
cry. “ Hush, Rip,” cried she, “ hush, you little
fool; the old man won’t hurt you.” The name of
the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her
voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his
mind. “ What is your name, my good woman ?”
asked he.
“Judith Gardenier.”
“ And your father’s name ?”
“ Ah, poor man, his name was Rip Van Winkle;
it’s twenty years since he went away from home
with his gun, and never has been heard of since
—his dog came home without him; but whether
he shot himself, or was carried away by the In-
dians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little
girl.”
Rip had but one question more to ask; but
he put it with a faltering voice:
“Where’s your mother?”
Oh, she too had died but a short time since:
she broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a
New-England pedlar.
There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this
intelligence. The honest man could contain him-
self no longer. He caught his daughter and her
child in his arms. “ I am your father!” cried he—
“Young Rip Van Winkle once—old Rip Van
Winkle now!—Does nobody know poor Rip
Van Winkle!”
All stood amazed, until an old woman, tot-
tering out from among the crowd, put her hand
to her brow, and peering under it in his face for
a moment, exclaimed, “ Sure enough! it is Rip
Van Winkle—it is himself. Welcome home again,
old neighbor—Why, where have you been these
twenty long years ?”
Rip’s story was soon told, for the whole twen-
ty years had been to him but as one night. TheKIP VAN WINKLE.
11
neighbors stared when they heard it; some were
seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues
in their cheeks; and the self-important man in
the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over,
had returned to the field, screwed down the cor-'
ners of his mouth, and shook his head—upon
which there was a general shaking of the head
throughout the assemblage.
It was determined, however, to take the opi-
nion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen
slowly advancing up the road. He was a descen-
dant of the historian of that name, who wrote
one of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter
was the most ancient inhabitant of the village,
and well versed in all the wonderful events and
traditions of the neighborhood. He recollected
Rip at once, and corroborated his story in the
most satisfactory manner. He assured the com-
pany that it was a fact, handed down from his
ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill moun-
tains had always been haunted by strange beings.
That it was affirmed, that the great Hendrick
Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and
country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty
years, with his crew of the Half-moon, being per-
mitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his en-
terprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river
and the great city called by his name. That his
father had once seen them in their old Dutch
dresses playing at nine-pins in a hollow of the
mountain; and that he himself had heard, one
summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like
distant peals of thunder.
To make a long story short, the company
broke up, and returned to the more important
concerns of the election. Rip’s daughter took
him home to live with her; she had a snug, well-
furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer for a
husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the
urchins that used to climb upon his back. As to
Rip’s son and heir, who was the ditto of himself,
seen leaning against the tree, he was employed
to work on the farm; but evinced a hereditary
disposition to attend to any thing else but his
business.
Rip now resumed his old walks and habits;
he soon found many of his former cronies,
though all rather the worse for the wear and tear
of time; and preferred making friends among the
rising generation, with whom he soon grew into
great favor.
Having nothing to do at home, and being
arrived at that happy age when a man can do
nothing with impunity, he took his place onc6
more on the bench, at the inn door, and was re-
verenced as one of the patriarchs of the village,
and a chronicle of the old times “ before the war.”
It was some time before he could get into the
regular track of gossip, or could be made to com-
prehend the strange events that had taken place
during his torpor. How that there had been a
revolutionary war—that the country had thrown
off the yoke of old England—and that, instead of
being a subject of his majesty George the Third,
he was now a free citizen of the United States.
Rip, in fact, was no politician; the changes of
states and empires made but little impression on
him; but there was one species of despotism un-
der which he had long groaned, and that was—
petticoat government. Happily, that was at an
end; he had got his neck out of the yoke of ma-
trimony, and could go in and out whenever he
pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame
Van Winkle. Whenever her name was mention-
ed, however, he shook his head, shrugged his
shoulders, and cast up his eyes; which might pass
either for an expression of resignation to his fate,
or joy at his deliverance.
He used to tell his story to every stranger
that arrived at Mr. Doolittle’s hotel. He was ob-
served, at first, to vary on some points every time
he told it, which was doubtless owing to his hav-
ing so recently awaked. It at last settled down
precisely to the tale I have related, and not a
man, woman, or child in the neighborhood, but
knew it by heart. Some always pretended to
doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had
been out of his head, and that this was one point
on which he always remained flighty. The old
Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally
gave it full credit. Even to this day, they never
hear a thunder-storm of a summer afternoon
about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hud-
son and his crew are at their game of nine-pins;
and it is a common wish of all henpecked hus-
bands in the neighborhood, when life hangs heavy
on their hands, that they might have a quieting
draught out of Rip Van Winkle’s flagon.From the Knickerbocker, September Number, 1839.
SUNRISE UPON THE CATSKILLS.
The sultry air lies listless o’er the plain,
Nor longer cools the city’s burning walls;
All things that live, upon the land and main,
Pant for the breeze, to life and joy that calls;
While I, impatient of its fervid sleep
In lowly vale, seek for its stirring breath on mountain steep.
For'there it dies not ever; but on wings
Of the soft fleecy cloud it loves to bear,
From pure blue depths of heaven, from which it springs,
Coolness to brows, oppressed with heat and care,
And music to the woods, making the nooks
Of leaves to join the concert of the mountain brooks.
Then rouse ye up, its kind approach to greet,
With sunrise on the mountain tops, and stay,
To mark how all that’s glorious, fair and sweet,
Comes forth revealed by the bright god of day;
And as upon the magic scene you gaze,
It seems his own creation strikes you with amaze.
Long ere he deigns to gild the proudest heads
Of earth’s bold mountains, he removes the pall
Of night from his high course in heaven, and spreads
Gay, gorgeous hues on clouds, that seem not all
In joy at his bright presence, but to mourn
In saddened livery, toward the moon’s pale hour.
Behold he comes!—majestic, calm, serene,
From his glad visit to vast empires, where
He poured his genial warmth, and glorious shone,
Unsullied by the deeds of darkness there;
The battle-strife has knitted not his brow,
Nor stained his charriot wheels, that roll on clouds of snow 1
As we from this proud height, the earth behc’d
Ushered into his presence; and the flash
Of his first beams, reveals, in outline bold,
The distant hills imprinted at one dash,
In dark reliefj upon the glowing sky,
To fade there through each shade of blue, till evening die.
We see the very motion of the world,
That seems to bow in solemn awe profound,
Before its God; with clouds for incense hurled.
And for an altar, boundless space around;
While silver streams a holy vestment make,
And hollow winds through forests wild the organ peal awake
Just worship!—for behold the glory spread
Around his throne, as he ascends in heaven!
Rich, gorgeous clouds for canopy o’er head,
And deep blue boundless skies for pathway given j
While, like a carpet o’er the plain, his rays
Pellucid, shed around a soft vermillion haze,
*	*	*	*	*
* * * *
The solemn stillness calms my restless mind.
As it goes forth; I see the swelling sail,
But hear no dash of waters, and I find
No sound from steeple gleaming in the vale;
E’en the green tree-tops, stirred beneath my feet,
By winds, mine ears with their low murmurs scarcely greet,
*	*	*	*	*
* * * *
S. D. D.
Catskill Mountain House.
EXTRACT FROM
THE “ OLLAPODIANA ” PAPERS OF WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK.
Commencing at page 207 of his “ Literary Remains.”
You would scarcely think, arrived at Kaats-
kill Landing, on the Hudson, that just before
you enter the coach which conveys you to the
mountain, that any extraordinary prospect was
about to open upon your vision. True, as when
on the water, the great cloud Presence looms
afar, yet there is a long level country between
it and you; and it is too early in the day to
drink in the grandeur of the scene. You are
content with watching the complex operations of
that aquatic and equestrian mystery, a horse-
boat, which plies from the humble tavern at the
water’s edge to the other shore of the Hudson.
The animals give a consumptive wheeze, as they
start, stretching out their long necks, indulging
in faint recollections of that happy juvenescence,
when they wasted the hours of their colthood in
pastures of clover, and moving with a kind of
unambitious sprawl, as if they cared but little
whether they stood or fell; a turn of mind which
induces them to stir their forward legs more
glibly than those in the opposite quarter, quick-
ening the former from pride, and “ contracting
the latter from motives of decency.” This is
said to be their philosophy; and they act upon it
with a religious devotion, “ worthy a better
cause.”
As you move along from the landing, by
pleasant and quiet waiters, and through scenes
of pastoral tranquillity, you seem to be threading
a road which leads through a peaceful and varie-
gated plain. You lose the memory of the high-
OLLAPODIANA PAPERS
13
lands and the river, in the thought that you are
taking a journey into a country as level as the
lowliest land in Jersey. Sometimes the moun-
tains, as you turn a point of the road, appear
afar; but “are they clouds, or are they not]”
By the mass, you shall hardly tell. Meantime,
you are a pZcrin-traveller, a quiet man. All at
once you are wheeled upon a vernal theatre,
some five or six miles in width, at whose ex-
tremity the bases of the Kaatskills ’gin to rise.
How impressive the westering sunshine, sifting
itself down the mighty ravines and hollows, and
tinting the far-off summits with aerial light!
How majestic yet soft the gradations from the
ponderous grandeur of the formation; up, up to
the giddy and delicate shadowings, which dimly
veil and sanctify their tops, as “ sacristies of na-
ture,” where the cedar rocks to the wind, and the
screaming eagle snaps his mandibles, as he
sweeps a circuit of miles with one full impulse
of his glorious wing! Contrasting the rough-
ness of the basis with the printed beauty of the
iris-hued and skiey ultimatum, I could not but
deem that the bard of “ Thanatopsis ” had well
applied to the Kaatskills those happy lines
wherein he apostrophizes the famous heights of
Europe:
“ Your peaks are beautiful, ye Appenines,
“ In the soft light of your serenest skies;
“ From the broad highland region, dark with pines,
“ Fair as the hills of paradise, ye rise!”
Be not to eager, as you take the first stage
of the mountain, to look about you; especially,
be not anxious to look afar. Now and then, it
is true, as the coach turns, you cannot choose
but see a landscape to the south and east, far-
ther off than you ever saw one before, broken up
into a thousand vistas; but look you at them
with a sleepy, sidelong eye, to the end that you
may finally receive from the Platform the full
glory of the final view. In the meantime, there
is enough directly about you to employ all your
eyes, if you had the ocular endowments of an
Argus. Huge rocks, that might have been sent
from waning Titans, decked with moss, over-
hung with rugged shrubbery, and cooling the
springs that trickle from beneath them, gloom
beside the way; vast chasms, which your coach
shall sometimes seem to overhang, yawn on the
left; the pine and cedar-scented air comes freely
and sweetly from the brown bosom of the
woods; until, one high ascent attained, a level
for a while succeeds, and your smoking horses
rest, while, with expanding nostril, you drink in
the rarer and yet rarer air; a stillness like the
peace of Eden, (broken only by the whisper ol
leaves, the faint chant of embowered birds, or
the distant notes that come “ mellowed and min-
gling from the vale below,”) hangs at the portal
of your ear. It is a time to be still, to be con-
templative; to hear no voice but your own
ejaculations, or those of one who will share and
heighten your enjoyment, by partaking it in
peace, and as one with you, yet alone.
Passing the ravine, where the immortal Rip
Van Winkle played his game of nine-pins with
the wizards of that neighborhood, and quaffed
huge draughts of those bewildering flagons
which made him sleep for years, I flung myself
impatiently from the “ quarter-deck ” of the pos-
tillion whose place I had shared; I grasped that
goodly globe of gold and ivory which heads my
customary cane—the present of“ My Hon. friend ”
S------—, and which once drew into itself the
sustenance of life from that hallowed mound
which guards the dust of Washington, and
pushed gaily on, determined to pause not until
my weary feet stood on the Platform. The road
was smooth and good; the air refreshing and
pure, beyond description. The lungs play there
without an effort; it is a luxury to breathe.
How holy was the stillness! Not a sound in*
vaded the solemn air; it was like inhaling the
sanctity of the empyrean. The forest tops soon
began to stir as with a mighty wind. I looked,
and on both sides of the road there were trees
whose branches had been broken, as if by the
wings of some rushing tempest. It was the
havoc of winter snows.
There is a wonderful deception in the approach
to the Mountain House, which, when disco-
vered, will strike the traveller with amazement.
At one point of the road, where the mansion
which is to terminate your pilgrimage heaves its
white form in view, (you have seen it from the
river for nearly half a day,) it seems not farther
than a hundred rods, and hangs apparently on
the verge of a stupendous crag over your head;
the road turns again, it is out of sight, and the
summits, near its locus in quo, are nearly three
miles off. The effect is wonderful. The moun-
tain is growing upon you.
I continued to ascend, slowly, but with pa-
tient steps, and with a flow of spirit which I can
not describe. Looking occasionally to the east,
I saw a line of such parti-colored clouds, (as then
I deemed them,) yellow, green and purple, sil-14
OF WILLIS GrAYLORD CLARK.
ver-laced and violet-bordered, that it meseemed
I never viewed the like kaleidoscopic present-
ments. All this time, I wondered that I had
seen no land for many a weary mile.
Hill after hill, mere ridges of the mountain,
was attained; summit after summit surmounted;
and yet it seemed to me that the house was as
far off as ever. Finally it appeared, and a-nigh;
to me the “ earth’s one sanctuary.” I reached it;
my name was on the book; the queries of the
publican, as to “how many coach-loads were
behind,” (symptoms of a yearning for the al-
mighty dollar, even in this holy of nature’s ho-
lies,) were answered, and I stood on the Platform.
Good Reader! expect me not to describe the
indescribable. I feel now, while memory is busy
in my brain, in the silence of my library, calling
up that vision to my mind, much as I did when I
leaned upon my staff before that omnipotent pic-
ture, and looked abroad upon its GoD-written
magnitude. It was a vast and changeful, a ma-
jestic, an interminable landscape; a fairy, grand,
and delicately-colored scene, with rivers for its
lines of reflections; with highlands and the vales
of States for its shadowings, and far-off moun-
tains for its frame, Those parti-colored and va-
rying clouds I fancied I had seen as I ascended,
were but portions of the scene. All colors of
the rainbow; all softness of harvest-field, and
forest, and distant cities, and the towns that sim-
ply dotted the Hudson; and far beyond where
that noble river, diminished to a brooklet, rolled
its waters, there opened mountain after moun-
tain, vale after vale, State after State, heaved
against the horizon, to the north-east and south,
in impressive and sublime confusion; while still
beyond, in undulating ridges, filled with all hues
of light and shade, coquetting with the cloud,
rolled the rock-ribbed and ancient frame of this
dim diorama! As the sun went down, the houses
and cities diminished to dots; the evening guns
of the national anniversary came booming up from
the valley of the Hudson; the bonfires blazed
along the peaks of distant mountains, and from
the suburbs of countless villages along the river;
while in the dim twilight,
“ From coast to coast, and from town to town,
“ You could see all the white sails gleaming down.”
The- steam-boats, hastening to and fro, vomited
their fires upon the air, and the circuit of unnum-
bered miles sent up its sights and sounds, from
the region below, over which the vast shadows
of the mountains were stealing.
Just before the sun dropped behind the west,
his slant beams poured over the south mountain,
and fell upon a wide sea of feathery clouds,
which were sweeping midway along its form,
obscuring the vale below. I sought an eminence
in the neighborhood, and with the sun at my
back, saw a giant form depicted in a misty halo
on the clouds below. He was identified, insub-
stantial but extensive Shape! I stretched forth
my hand, and the giant spectre waved his sha-
dowy arm over the whole county of Dutchess,
through the misty atmosphere; while just at his
supernatural coat-tail, a shower of light played
upon the highlands, verging toward West Point,
on the river, which are to the eye, from the
Mountain House, level slips of shore, that seem
scarce so gross as knolls of the smallest size.
Of the grandeur of the Kaatskills at sunrise;
of the patriotic blazon which our bonfire made
on the Fourth, at evening; of the Falls, and cer-
tain pecuniary trickeries connected with their
grim majesty, and a general digest of the stu-
pendous scene, shall these not be discoursed
hereafter, and in truthful wise ? Yea, reader,
verily, and from the note-book of thine, faithful
to the end,	* Ollapod.
November, 1837.
We parted, my good reader, last at the
Kaatskills—no ? “ It was a summer’s evening
and with my shadow on the mountain mist, I
ween, vanished in your thoughts the memory of
me. Well, that was natural. A hazy, dream-
like idea of my whereabout may have haunted
you for a moment—but it passed. I can not
allow you to escape so easily. “ Lend us the
loan” of your eye, for some twenty minutes:
and if you are a home-bred and untravelled per-
son, ’tis likely, as the valet says in Cinderella,
that “ I may chance to make you stare!”
In discoursing of the territorial wonderments
in question, which have been moulded by the
hand of the Almighty, I cannot suppose that
you who read my reveries will look with a com-
pact, imaginative eye upon that which has forced
its huge radius upon my own extended vision.
I ask you, howbeit, to take my arm, and step
forth with me from the piazza of the Mountain
House. It is night. A few stars are peering
from a dim azure field of western sky; the high-
soaring breeze, the breath of* heaven, makes a
stilly music in the neighboring pines; the meek
crest of Dian rolls along the blue depths of etherOLLAPODIANA PAPERS.
15
tinting with silver lines the half dun, half fleecy
clouds; they who are in the parlors make “ con-
siderable ” noise; there is an individual at the
end of the portico discussing his quadruple julep,
and another devotedly sucking the end of a cane,
as if it were full of mother’s milk; he hummeth
also an air from II Pirata, and wonders, in the
simplicity of his heart, “ why the devil that there
steam-boat from Albany does n’t begin to show
its lights down on the Hudson.” His companion
of the glass, however, is intent on the renewal
thereof. Calling to him the chief “ help ” of the
place, he says. “Is that other antifogmatic
ready V9
“No, sir.”
“Well, now, person* what’s the reason?
What was my last observation ? Says I to you,
says I, ‘Make me a fourth of them beverages;’
and moreover, I added, ‘ Just you keep doing.so;
be constantly making them, till the order is coun-
termanded.’ Give us another; go! vanish !—
‘ diappear and appear.’ ”
The obsequious servant went; and returning
with the desired draught, observed probably for
the thousandth time: “ There!’ that’s what I call
the true currency; them’s the ginooyne mint
drops; ha—ha—ha!”—these separate divisions
of his laughter coming out of his mouth at inter-
vals of about half a minute each.
There is a bench near the verge of the Plat-
form where, when you sit at evening, the hollow-
sounding air comes up from the vast vale below,
like the restless murmurs of the ocean. Anchor
yourself here for a while, reader, with me. It
being the evening of the national anniversary, a
few patriotic individuals are extremely busy in
piling up a huge pyramid of dried pine branches,
barrels covered with tar, and kegs of spirits, to a
height of some fifteen or twenty feet—perhaps
higher. A bonfire is premeditated. You shall
see anon how the flames will rise. The prepa-
rations are completed; the fire is applied. Hear
how it crackles and hisses! Slowly but spite-
fully it mounts from limb to limb, and from one
combustible to another, until the whole welkin
is a-blaze, and shaking as with thunder! It is a
beautiful sight. The gush of unwonted radiance
rolls in effulgent surges adowU the vale. How
the owl hoots with surprise at the interrupting
light! Bird of wisdom, it is the Fourth! and
you may well add your voice to swell the choral
honors of the time. How the tall old pines,
withered by the biting scathe of Eld, rise to the
view, afar and near; white shafts, bottomed in
darkness and standing like the serried spears of
an innumerable army! The groups around the
beacon are gathered together, but are forced to
enlarge the circle of their acquaintance, by the
growing intensity of the increasing blaze. Some
of them, being ladies, their white robes waving
in the mountain breeze, and the light shining full
upon them, present, you observe, a beautiful ap-
pearance. The pale pillars of the portico flash
fitfully into view, now seen and gone, like co-
lumns of mist. The swarthy African who kin-
dled the fire, regards it with perspiring face and
grinning ivories; and lo! the man who hath
mastered the quintupled glass of metamorphosed
eau-de-vie, standing by the towering pile of flame,
and, reaching his hand on high, he smiteth there-
with his sinister pap, with a most hollow sound;
the knell, as it were of his departing reason. In
short, he is making an oration!
Listen to those voiceful currents of air, tra-
versing the vast profound below the Platform!
What a mighty circumference do they sweep!
Over how many towns, and dwellings, and
streams, and incommunicable woods! Murmurs
of the dark, sources and awakeners of sublime
imagination, swell from afar. You have thoughts
of eternity and power here, which shall haunt
you evermore. But we must be early stirrers in
the morning. Let us to bed.
You can lie on your pillow at the Kaatskill
House, and see the god of day look upon *you
from behind the pinnacles of the White Moun-
tains in New Hampshire, hundreds of miles away.
Noble prospect! As the great Orb heaves up in
ineffable grandeur, he seems rising from beneath
you, and you fancy that you have attained an
elevation where may be seen the motion of the
world. No intervening land to limit the view,
you seem suspended in mid-air, without one ob-
stacle to check the eye. The scene is indescrib-
able. The chequered and interminable vale,
sprinkled with groves, and lakes, and towns, and
streams; the mountains afar off, swelling tumul-
tuously heavenward, like waves of the ocean,
some incarnadined with radiance, others purpled
in shade; all these, to use the language of an
auctioneer’s advertisement, “ are too tedious to
mention, but may be seen on the premises.” I
know of but one picture which will give the
reader an idea of this ethereal spot. It was the
view which the angel Michael was polite enough,
one summer morning, to point out to Adam, from
the highest hill of Paradise:IMPRESSIONS OF AMERICA.
16
“His eye might there command wherever stood
City of old or modem fame, the seat
Of mightiest empire, from the destined walls
Of Cambalu, seat of Cathalan Can,
And Sarmachand by Oxus, Temir’s throne,
To Paquin of Sinsean Icings; and thence
To Agra and Lahor of great Mogul
Down to the golden Chersonese; or where
The Persian in Ecbatan sat, or since
In Hizpahan; or where the Russian Ksar
In Mosco: or the Sultan in Bizance,
Turcliestan bora; nor could his eye not ken
The empire of Negus, to his utmost port,
Erocco; and the less maritime kings
Mombaza, and Quiloa, and Melind,
And Sofala, thought Ophir, to the realm
Of Congo and Angola, farthest south;
Or thence from Niger flood to Atlas’ mount,
The kingdoms of Almanzor, Fez, and Suz,
Morocco, and Algier, and Tremizen;
On Europe thence, and where Rome was to sway
The world; in spirit perhaps he also saw
Rich Mexico, the seat of Montezume,
(And Texas too, great Houston’s seat—who knows?)
And Cusco in Peru, the richer seat
Of Atabalipa; and yet unspoiled
Guiana, whose great city Geyro’ns sons
Calls El Dorado.”
It looks to be a perilous enterprise to de-
scend the Kaatskills. You feel, as you com-
mence the “ facilis descensus,” (what an unhack-
neyed phrase, to be sure!) very much the sort
of sensation probably experienced by Parachute
Cocking, whose end was so shocking. The
wheels of the coach are shod with the prepara-
tion of iron slippers, which are essential to a
*\old up; and as you bowl and grate along, with
with wilderness-chasms and a brawling stream
mayhap on one hand, and horrid masses of stone
seemingly ready to tumble upon you on the
other; the far plain stretching like the sea be-
neath you, in the mists of the morning; your
emotions are fidgetty. You are not afraid—not
you, indeed! Catch you at such folly! No;
but you wish most devoutly that you were some
nine miles down, notwithstanding, and are look-
ing eagerly for that consummation.
We paused just long enough at the base of
the mountain to water the cattle, and hear a bit
of choice grammar from the landlord; a burly,
big individual, “ careless of the objective case,”
and studious of ease, in bags of tow-cloth, (trow-
sers by courtesy,) and a roundabout of the same
material; the knees of the unmentionables ap-
parently greened by kneeling humbly at the lac-
tiferous udder of his only cow, day by day. He
addressed “ the gentlemen that driv’ us down
“ Well, Josh, I seen them rackets /”
“ Wa’ n’t they almighty bright?” was the in-
quisitive reply.
This short colloquy had reference to a train
of fire-works which were set off the evening
before at the Mountain House; long snaky
trails of light, flashing in their zigzag course
through the darkness. It was beautiful to see
those fiery sentences written fitfully on the sky,
fading one by one, like some Hebrew character,
some Nebuchadnezzar scroll, in the dark pro-
found, and showing, as the rocket fell and faded,
that beneath the* lowest deep to which it des-
cended, there was one yet lov/er still, to which it
swept “ plumb-down, a shower of fire.”
We presently rolled away, and were soon
drawn up in front of the Hudson and the horse-
boat, at the landing. The same unfortunate ani-
mals were peering forth from that aquatic ve-
hicle ; one of them dropping his hairy lip, with
a melancholy expression, and the other stre-
nuously endeavoring to remove a wisp of straw
which had found a lodgment on his nose. The
effort, however, was vain; his physical energies
sank under the task; he gave it up, and was
soon under way for the opposite shore, with his
four-legged fellow traveller, and three bipeds,
who were smoking segars.
EXTRACTS FROM
“ IMPRESSIONS OF AMERICA, DURING 1833-35,”
BY TYRONE POWER, Esq.
“ A stage was in waiting at the landing place,
which quickly took us to the town; where we
took a carriage directly to the Mountain House,
which we had marked from the river as the morn-
ing sun lighted it up, looking like a white dove
oot raised against the dark hill side.
I will say nothing of our winding roekv
road, or of the glimpses we now and then had of
the nether world, which “momentarily grew
less,” as, whilst halting for breath, we curiously
peeped through the leafy skreen, flying from the
faded leaf and drooping flower of scorching sum-
mer, and finding ourselves once more surround-
ed by all the lovely evidences of early spring. IIMPRESSIONS OF AMERICA.
walked more than half way, and never felt less
weary than when I rested on the natural plat-
form, which, thrust from the hill-side, forms a
stand whence may he worshipped one of the
most glorious prospects ever given by the crea-
tor to man’s admiration.
In the cool shade we stood here, and from
this eyry looked upon the silver line drawn
through the vast rich valley far below, doubtful
of its being the broad Hudson, upon whose bo-
som we had so lately floated in a huge vessel
crowded with passengers; for this vessel we
searched in vain; but, by the aid of a telescope,
made out one of the same kind, which appeared
to flit along like some fairy skiff on a pantomi-
mic lake made all radient with gold and pearl.
How delightful were the sensations atten-
dant upon a first repose in this changed climate,
enhanced as these were by the remembrance of
the broiling we had so recently endured! I never
remember to have risen with feelings more elas-
tic, or in higher spirits, than I did after my first
night’s rest upon the mountain.
*	*	*	*	*	*	*
* * * * * *
A ride of some three miles brought us as
close as might be to the spot, (the Falls,) and a
walk of as many hundred yards presented to
view a scene as well suited for a witch’s festival
as any spot in the old world.
*	*	*	*	*	*	*
With two others, I decided upon walking
IT
back, and pleasant it is to walk through these
quiet wild wood-paths, where the chirps of the
birds and the nestle of the leaves alone break in
upon the repose. These mountains are every-
where thickly clothed with wood, save only the
platform where the house is built; dear abound
on the lower ridges, and the bear yet finds am-
ple cover here. A number of these animals are
killed every season by an indefatigable old Nim-
rod who lives in the valley beneath, and who
breeds some very fine dogs to this sport.
I did promise unto myself that during the
coming November I would return up here, for
the purpose of seeing Bruin baited in his proper
lair; but regret to say my plan was frustrated.
It must be an exciting chase to rouse the lord of
this wild mountain forest on a sunny morning,
with the first hoar frost yet crisping the feathery
pines; and to hear the deep-mouthed hounds giv-
ing tongue where an hundred echoes wait to bay
the fierce challenge back, and to hear the sharp
crack of the rifle rattle through the thin air.
Or, whilst resting upon some crag under the
blue sunny sky, to watch the sea of cold clouds
tumbling about far below, and think that they
o’er canopy a region lower still, about which
one’s fellows are at the moment creeping with
red noses and watery eyes, or rubbing their fro-
zen fingers over anthracite stoves, utterly uncon-
scious, poor devils 1 that
*« The sun, when obscured by the clouds yet above,
“ Shines not the less bright, though unseen.*'
THE CATSKILL MOUNTAINS,
BY N. P. WILLIS.
From the New Mirror, September 9, 1843.
At this elevation you may wear woollen and
sleep under blankets in midsummer; and that is
a pleasant temperature where much hard work is
to be done in the way of pleasure-hunting. No
place so agreeable as Catskill, after one has been
par-boiled in the city. New-York is at the other
end of that long thread of a river, running away
south from the base of the mountain; and you
may change your climate in so brief a transit,
that the most enslaved broker in Wall-street
may have half his home on Catskill. The cool
woods, the small silver lakes, the falls, the moun-
tain-tops, are all delicious haunts for the idler-
away of the hot months * and, to the credit of
our taste, it may be said they are fully improved
—Catskill is a “ resort.”
From the Mountain House the busy and all-
glorious Hudson is seen winding half its silver
length—towns, villas, and white spires, sparkling
on the shores, and snowy sails and gaily-painted
steamers specking its bosom. It is a constant
diorama of the most lively beauty; and the tra-
veller, as he looks down upon it, sighs to make
it a home. Yet a smaller and less-frequented
stream would best fulfil desires born of a sigh.
There is either no seclusion on the Hudson, or
there is so much that the conveniences of life
are difficult to obtain. Where the steamers come18
CATSKILL, MOUNTAIN HOUSE.
to shore (twenty a day, with each from one to
seven hundred passengers) it is certainly far
from secluded enough; yet, away from the land-
ing-places, servants find your house too lonely,
and your table, without unreasonable expense
and trouble, is precarious and poor. These mean
and menus plaisirs reach, after all, the very cita-
del of philosophy. Who can live without a cook
or a chambermaid, and dine seven days in a week
on veal, consoling himself with the beauties of
a river side %
On the smaller rivers these evils are some-
what ameliorated; for in the rural and uncorrupt
villages of the interior you may find servants
born on the spot, and content to live in the neigh-
borhood. The market is better, too, and the so-
ciety less exposed to the evils that result from
too easy an access to the metropolis. No place
can be rural, in all the virtues of the phrase,
where a steamer will take the villager to the city
between noon and night, and bring him back be-
tween midnight and morning. There is a subur-
ban look and character about all the villages on
the Hudson which seems out of place among
such scenery. They are suburbs; in fact, steam
has destroyed the distance between them and
the city.
The Mountain House on the Catskill, it
should be remarked, is a luxurious hotel. How
the proprietor can have dragged up, and keeps
dragging up, so many superfluities from the river
level to the eagle’s nest, excites your wonder. It
is the more strange, because in climbing a moun-
tain the feeling is natural that you leave such en-
ervating indulgences below.
The mountain-top is too near heaven. It
should Jbe a monastery to lodge in so high—
a St. Gothard, or a Vallambrosa. But here
you may choose between Hermitages, “ white ”
or “ red ” Burgundias, Madeiras, French dishes,
and French dances, as if you had descended up-
on Capua.
From the New World.
CATSKILL MOUNTAIN HOUSE, BY PARK BENJAMIN.
July, 1843.
’Tis pleasant, for a while to leave the heated
pavements and the garbaged atmosphere of our
ever-bustling noisy city; to bid adieu to the con-
tinued rumbling and rattling of all the various
vehicles that the worried horses are destined to
drag in merciless labor to and fro the city’s
length; to shun the charcoal vender’s unearthly
guttural; the cries of the newspaper urchins,
more varied in tone than the gamut’s self; to flee
from patients, clients, patrons, and all the con-
stant never-varying avocations that tend to harass
and perplex the lives of toiling citizens; and
perch one’s self upon some mountainous eleva-
tion, where nature’s calmness changes the cur-
rent of our thoughts, and turns them from the
real and artificial miseries of humanity. On such
a spot we can enjoy an inward elevation partak-
ing of the beauty and serenity of the scene,
and indulge the mind in instructive reflections
upon the past, the present, and the future. There
are those, however, to whom nature is alike, in
whatever form presented, whose grovelling souls
are inaccessible to inspiration. Business, to such
an one, is his country, his family, his friends, and
his religion; in fact the very essence of his be-
ing and wealth is his idol. In him the “ accursed
thirst for gold ” is a disease, a monomania, a soli-
tary idea that fills his brain to overflowing, like
the opium eater, who is ever restless until he
feels the inspirating drug; this apology of a ra-
tional being is ever miserable when his mind is
not engaged upon calculations of profit and loss.
He sleeps beside his counting-room. His meals
are bolted in the cellar beneath. He never eats
or masticates, but like the anaconda, swallows
whole the food that he has not time to chew.
%
$$$$$*
But enough of such a being. The spot where-
on I write would be desecrated by his presence.
It would seem that the great Creator of the
universe had built up this mighty eminence, that
man might know His power, and feeling his own
insignificance, despise and shun the vanities and
hollow-heartedness of life. Here the belief is
taught that there is but one religion and one
great family of mankind. Station yourself up-
on that projecting rock that hangs in such terrific
altitude over the immense space beneath, but at-
tempt not to give utterance to your feelings—
language could not express them. Have youPINE ORCHARD HOUSE.
19
ever stood upon a vessel’s deck, lashed to her for
security, amid the howling tempest’s rage, the
winds driving her into the sea’s deep chasms,
and suspending her on the lofty pinnacle of the
waves, the lightning’s flashes brightening the
surrounding horrors, and showing by its vivid
glares the peril of your situation ? Have you
ever known the mightiness of the tempest’s an-
gry mood at such a moment, and felt how ut-
terly inadequate is speech ? If so, then stand
upon this high-poised rock and learn, that it is
not the awfully sublime alone that seals the
lips, but that nature in her calmest mood can
subdue the mind to silence.
The checkered scene below lies like the
loveliest meadow, in variegated patchwork. Hills
have disappeared here and there, apparently
within a narrow lane, a mite is seen. It is the
vehicle of some sturdy farmer, drawn by his
well fed span, measuring with rapid pace the
broad highway leading to the distant village,
whose diminished spires decorate the landscape’.
Observe that quiet stream attenuated to a brook.
One bound would carry you to its opposite
bank—were it what it seems—and by that bound
you would leap the noble Hudson. See that tiny
cloud—smaller than the puff just issuing from
your Havanna—as it rises from the river’s sur-
face. That speck beneath is speeding on its way
with a velocity that gladdens its living freight of
anxious travellers, and yet to the eye it moves
not. Those far-off mountains, rising from the ho-
rizon in varied obscure shapes and heights, belong
to other states. The fleeting clouds in graceful
movement pass beneath you, dragging their
lengthened shadows over the colored plain, un-
til nature’s curtain, being drawn, shuts out the
view. And now the whole becomes one vast fic-
titious sea, placing you in feeling near the
ocean’s level, and relieving for a moment the
nervous throbs the dizzy height occasioned.
Soon the clouds disperse, and separating in
changing forms, the quiet region underneath lies
again before you in all its beautiful and glorious
sublimity. Such is nature’s tableaux. Why was
creation formed with features so imposing, but
for man’s great benefit, that he might learn the
power and majesty of the Omnipotent!
Come, then, ye multitudes of uneducated
mortals, and from this great book store your
minds with deep reflections, leading to wisdom
and to happiness.
FROM “ RETROSPECT OF WESTERN TRAVEL,” BY HARRIET MARTINEAU.
Vol. 1. page 57, &c.
PINE ORCHARD HOUSE.
“ But the new glory mixes with the heaven
And earth. Man, once descried, imprints for ever
His presence on all lifeless things; the winds
Are henceforth voices, wailing or a shout,
A querulous mutter or a quick gay laugh;
Never a senseless gust now man is bom.
The herded pines commune, and have deep thoughts,
A secret they assemble to discuss
When the sun drops behind their trunks which glare
Like grates of hell; the peerless cup afloat
Of the lake-lily is an urn some nymph
Swims bearing high above her head.
#*****«•
The morn has enterprise ; deep quiet droops
With evening; triumph when the sun takes rest;
Voluptuous transport when the corn-fields ripen
Beneath a warm moon, like a happy face:
And this to fill us With regard for man,
Deep apprehension of his passing worth.”—Paracelsus, Part V*
However widely European travellers have I to agree in their love of the Hudson. The pens
differed about other things in America, all seem | of all tourists dwell on its scenery, and their20
PINE ORCHARD HOUSE.
affections linger about it like the magic lights
which seem to have this river in their peculiar
charge. Yet very few travellers have seen its
noblest wonder. I may be singular; but I own
that I was more moved by what I saw from the
Mountain House than by Niagara itself.
What is this Mountain House ? this Pine
Orchard House ? many will ask ; for its name is
hot to be found in most books of American tra-
vels. “ What is that white speck V* I myself
asked, when staying at Tivoli, on the east bank
of the Hudson, opposite to the Catskills, whose
shadowy surface was perpetually tempting the
eye. That white speck, visible to most eyes
only when bright sunshine was upon it, was the
Mountain House; a hotel built for the accom-
modation of hardy travellers who may desire to
obtain that complete view of the valley of the
Hudson which can be had nowhere else. I
made up my mind to go; and the next year I
went, on leaving Dr. Hosack’s. I think I had
rather have missed the Hawk’s Nest, the Prairies,
the Mississippi, and even Niagara than this.
The steamboat in which we left Hyde Park
landed us at Catskill (thirty-one miles) at a little
after three in the afternoon. Stages were wait-
ing to convey passengers to the Mountain House,
and we were off in a few minutes, expecting to
perform the ascending journey of twelve miles
in a little more than four hours. We had the
same horses all the way, and therefore set off at
a moderate pace, though the road was for some
time level, intersecting rich bottoms, and passing
flourishing farm-houses, where the men were
milking, and the women looked up from their
work in the piazzas as we passed. Haymaking
was going on in the fields, which appeared to
hang above us at first, but on which we after-
ward looked down from such a height that the
haycocks were scarcely distinguishable. It was
the 25th of July, and a very hot day for the sea-
son. The roads were parched up, and every
exposed thing that one handled on board the
steamboat or in the stage made one flinch from
the burning sensation. The panting horses, one
of them bleeding at the mouth, stopped to drink
at a house at the foot of the ascent; and we
wonedred how, exhausted as they seemed, they
would drag us up the mountain. We did not
calculate on the change of temperature which we
were soon to experience.
The mountain laurel conveyed by association
the first impression of coolness. Sheep were
browsing among the shrubs, apparently enjoying
the shelter of the covert. We scrambled through
deep shade for three or four miles, heavy show-
ers passing over us, and gusts of wind bowing
the tree-tops, and sending a shiver through us,
partly from the sudden chillness, and partly from
expectation and awe of the breezy solitude. On
turning a sharp angle of the steep road, at a
great elevation, we stopped in a damp green
nook, where there was an arrangement of hollow
trees to serve for water-troughs. While the
horses were drinking the gusts parted the trees
to the left, and exposed to me a vast extent of
country lying below, checkered with light and
shadow, This was the moment in which a lady
in the stage said, with a yawn, “ I hope we shall
find something at the top to pay us for all this.”
Truly the philosophy of recompense seems to be
little understood. In moral affairs people seem
to expect recompense for privileges, as when
children, grown and ungrown, are told that they
will be rewarded for doing their duty; and here
was a lady hoping for recompense for being car-
ried up a glorious mountain-side, in ease, cool-
ness, leisure and society all at once. If it was
recompense for the evil of inborn ennui that she
wanted, she was not likely to find it where she
was going to look for it.
After another level reach of road and an-
other scrambling ascent I saw something on the
rocky platform above our heads, like (to compare
great things with small) an illumined fairy palace
perched among the clouds in opera scenery; a
large building, whose numerous window-lights
marked out its figure from amid the thunder-
clouds and black twilight which overshadowed
it. It was now half-past eight o’clock, and a
stormy evening. Everything was chill, and we
were glad of lights and tea in the first place.
After tea I went out upon the platform in
front of the house, having been warned not to
go too near the edge, so as to fall an unmeasur-
ed depth into the forest below. I sat upon the
edge as a security against stepping over una-
wares. The stars were bright overhead, and
had conquered half the sky, giving promise of
what we ardently desired, a fine morrow. Over
the other half the mass of thunder-clouds was. I
supposed, heaped together, for I could at first
discern nothing of the campaign which I knew
must be stretched below. Suddenly and from
that moment incessantly, gushes of red lightning
poured out from the cloudy canopy, revealing
not merely the horizon, but the course of the
river, in all its windings through the valley.
This thread of river, thus illuminated, looked
like a flash of lightning caught by some strongPINE ORCHARD HOUSE.
21
hand and laid along in the valley. All the princi-
pal features of the landscape might, no doubt,
have been discerned by this sulphurous light;
but my whole attention was absorbed by the
river, which seemed to come out of the darkness
like an apparition at the summons of my impa-
tient will. It could be borne only for a short
time ; this dazzling, bewildering alteration of
glare and blackness, of vast reality and nothing-
ness. I was soon glad to draw back from the
precipice and seek the candlelight within.
The next day was Sunday. I shall never
forget, if I live to a hundred, how the world lay
at my feet one Sunday morning. I rose very
early, and looked abroad from my window, two
stories above the platform. A dense fog, exact-
ly level with my eyes, as it appeared, roofed in
the whole plain of the earth; a dusky firmament
in which the stars had hidden themselves for the
day. Such is the account which an antediluvian
spectator would probably have given of it. This
solid firmament had spaces in it, however, through
which gushes of sunlight were poured, lighting
up the spires of white churches, and clusters of
farm buildings, too small to be otherwise distin-
guished ; and especially the river, with its sloops
floating like motes in the sunbeam. The firma-
ment rose and melted, or parted off into the
likeness of snowy sky mountains, and left the
cool Sabbath to brood brightly over the land.
What human interest sanctifies a bird’s-eye
view! I suppose this is its peculiar charm, for
its charm is found to deepen in proportion to the
growth of mind. To an infant, a campaign of
a hundred miles is not so much as a yard square
of gay carpet. To the rustic it is less bewitch-
ing than a paddock with two cows. To the phi-
losopher, what is it not ? As he casts his eye
over its glittering towns, its scattered hamlets,
its secluded homes, its mountain ranges, church
spires and untrodden forests, it is a picture of
life; an epitome of the human universe; the
complete volume of moral philosophy, for which
he has sought in vain in all libraries. On the left
horizon are the Green Mountains of Vermont, and
at the right extremity sparkles the Atlantic. Be-
neath lies the forest where the deer are hiding and
the birds rejoicing in song. Beyond the river he
sees spread the rich plains of Connecticut; there
where a blue expanse lies beyond the triple
range of hills, are the churches of religious Mas-
sachusetts sending up their Sabbath psalms •
praise which he is too high to* hear, while God is
not. The fields and waters seem to him to-day
no more truly property than the skies which
shine down upon them ; and to think how some
below are busying their thoughts this Sabbath-
day about how they shall hedge in another field,
or multiply thier flocks on yonder meadows, gives
him a taste of the same pity which Jesus felt in
his solitude when his followers were contending
about which should be the greatest. It seems
strange to him now that man should call any-
thing his but the power which is in him, and
which can create somewhat more vast and beau-
tiful than all that this horizon encloses. Here
he gains the conviction, to be never again shaken,
that all that is real is ideal; that the joys and
sorrows of men do not spring up out of the
ground, or fly abroad on the wings of the wind,
or come showered down from the sky; that
good cannot be hedged in, nor evil barred out,
even that light does not reach the spirit through
the eye alone, nor wisdom through the medium
of sound or silence only. He becomes of one
mind with the spiritual Berkeley, that the face
of nature itself, the very picture of woods, and
streams, and meadows, is a hieroglyphic writing
in the spirit itself, of which the retina is no inter-
preter. The proof is just below him, (at least it
came under my eye,) in the lady (not American)
who, after glancing over the landscape, brings
her chair into the piazza, and, turning her back
to the campaign, and her face to the wooden
walls of the hotel, begins the study, this Sunday
morning, of her lapful of newspapers. What a
sermon is thus preached to him at this moment
from a very hackneyed text! To him that hath
much; that hath the eye, and ear, and wealth of
the spirit, shall more be given; even a replenish-
ing of this spiritual life from that which to others
is formless and dumb; while from him that hath
little, who trusts in that which lies about him
rather than in that which lives within him, shall
be taken away, by natural decline, the power of
perceiving and enjoying what is within his own
domain. To him who is already enriched with
large divine and human revelations this scene is,
for all its stillness, musical with divine and hu-
man speech; while one who has been deafened
by the din of worldly affairs can hear nothing in
this mountain solitude.
The march of the day over the valley was
glorious, and I was grieved to have to leave my
window for an expedition a few miles off How-
ever, the expedition was a good preparation for
the return to my window. The little nooks of
the road, crowded with bilberries, cherries, and
Alpine plants, and the quiet tarn, studded with
golden water-lilies, were a wholesome contrast22
THE CATTERSKILL FALLS.
to the grandeur of what we had left behind us.
On returning, we found dinner awaiting us,
and also a party of friends out of Massachusetts,
with whom we passed the afternoon, climbing
higher and higher among the pines, ferns, and
blue-berries of the mountain, to get wider and
wider views. They told me that I saw Albany,
but I was by no means sure of it. This large
city lay in the landscape like an ant-hill in a mea-
dow. Long before sunset I was at my window
again, watching the gradual lengthening of the
shadows and purpling of the landscape. It was
more beautiful than the sunrise of this morning,
and less so than that of the morrow. Of this
last I shall give no description, for I would not
weary others with what is most sacred to me.
Suffice it that it gave me a vivid idea of the pro-
cess of creation, from the moment when all was
without form and void, to that when light was
commanded, and there was light. Here, again,
I was humbled by seeing what such things are
to some who watch in vain for what they are
not made to see.. A gentleman and lady in the
hotel intended to have left the place on Sunday.
Having overslept that morning’s sunrise, and
arrived too late for that on Saturday, they were
persuaded to stay till Monday noon; and I was
pleased, on rising at four on Monday morning,
to see that they were in the piazza below, with
a telescope. We met at breakfast, all faint with
hunger, of course.
“ Well, Miss M.” said the gentleman, discon-
tentedly, “ I suppose you were disappointed in
the sunrise.”
“ No, I was not.”
“ Why, do you think the sun was any hand-
somer here than at New-York ?”
I made no answer; for what could one say ?
But he drove me by questions to tell what I ex-
pected to see in the sun.
“ I did not expect to see the sun green or
blue.”
“ What did you expect, then ?”
I was obliged to explain that it was the effect
of the sun on the landscape that I had been
looking for.
“ Upon the landscape ! Oh! but we saw that
yesterday.”
The gentleman was perfectly serious; quite
earnest in all this. When we were departing, a
foreign tourist was heard to complain of the
high charges! High charges! As if we were
to be supplied for nothing on a perch where the
wonder is if any but the young ravens get fed ]
When I considered what a drawback it is in visit-
ing mountain-tops that one is driven down again
almost immediately by one’s bodily wants, I was
ready to thank the people devoutly for harboring
us on any terms, so that we might think out our
thoughts, and compose our emotions, and take
our fill of that portion of our universal and eter-
nal inheritance.
THE CATTERSKILL FALLS,
BY WILLIAM C. BRYANT.
Midst greens and shades the Catterskill leaps
From clifts where the wood-flower clings;
All summer he moistens his verdant steeps
With the sweet light spray of the mountain springs;
And he shakes the woods on the mountain side,
When they drip with the rains of autumn tide.
But when, in the forest bare and old,
The blast of December calls,
He builds, in the starlight clear and cold,
A place of ice where his torrent falls,
With turret, and arch, and fretwork fair,
And pillars blue as the summer air.
For whom are those glorious chambers wrought,
In the cold and cloudless night?
Is there neither spirit nor motion of thought
In forms so lovely and hues so bright?
Hear what the grey-haired woodmen tell
Of this wild stream and its rocky dell.
’Twas here a youth of dreamy mood,
A hundred winters ago,
Had wandered over the mighty wood,
Where the panther’s track was fresh on the snow;
And keen were the winds that came to stir
The long dark boughs of the hemlock fir.
Too gentle of mien he seemed, and fair,
For a child of those rugged steeps;
His home lay low in the valley, where
The kingly Hudson rolls to the deeps;
But he wore the hunter’s frock that day,
And a slender gun on his shoulder lay.
And here he paused, and against the trunk
Of a tall grey linden leant,
When the broad clear orb of the sun had sunk
From his path in the frosty firmament,
And over the round dark edge of the hill
A cold green light was quivering still.THE FOURTH AT PINE ORCHARD.
23
And the crescent moon, high over the. green,
From a sky of crimson shone,
On that icy palace, where towers were seen
To sparkle as if with stars of their own;
While the water fell with a hollow sound
’Twixt the glistening pillars ranged around.
Is that a being of life that moves
Where the crystal battlements rise ?
A maiden, watching the moon she loves,
At the twilight hour, with pensive eyes ?
Was that a garment which seemed to gleam
Betwixt the eye and the falling stream ?
*Tis only the torrent tumbling o’er,
In the midst of those glassy walls,
Gushing, and plunging, and beating the floor
Of the rocky basin in which it falls:
’Tis only the torrent—but why that start ?
Why gazes the youth with a throbbing heart ?
He thinks no more of his home afar,
Where his sire and sister wait;
He heeds no longer how star after star
Looks forth on the night, as the' hour grows late,
He heeds not the snow-wreath, lifted and cast
From a thousand boughs by the rising blast.
His thoughts are alone of those who dwell
In the halls of frost and snow,
Who pass where the crystal domes upswell
From the alabaster floors below,
Where the frost-trees bourgeon with leaf and spray,
And frost gems scatter a silvery day.
And oh that those glorious haunts were mine!
He speaks, and throughout the glen
Their shadows swim in the faint moonshine,
And take a ghastly likeness of men,
As if the slain by the wintry storms
Came forth to the air in their earthly forms.
There pass the chasers of seal and whale,
With their weapons quaint and grim,
And bands of warriors in glimmering mail,
And herdsmen and hunters huge of limb—
There are naked arms, with bow and spear,
And furry gauntlets the carbine rear.
There are mothers—and oh, how sadly their eyes
On their children’s white brows restl
There are youthful lovers—the maiden lies
In a seeming sleep on the chosen breast ;
There are fair wan women with moon struck air,
The snow-stars Seeking their long loose hair.
They eye him not as they pass along,	'
But his hair stands up with dread
When he feels that he moves with that phantom throng,
Till those icy turrets are over his head,
And the torrent’s roar, as they enter, seems
Like a drowsy murmur heard in dreams.
The glittering threshold is scarcely passed
When there gathers and wraps him round
A thick white twilight, sullen and vast,
In which there is neiher form nor sound;
The phantoms, the glory, vanish all.
With the dying voice of the waterfall.
Slow passes the darkness of that trance,
And the youth now faintly sees
Huge shadows and gushes of light that dance
On a rugged ceiling of unhewn trees,
And walls where the skins of beasts are hung,
And rifles glitter, on antlers strung.
On a couch of shaggy skins he lies:
As he strives to raise his head
Hard featured woodmen, with kindly eyes
Come round him and smooth his furry bed,
And bid him rest, for the evening star
Is scarcely set, and the day is far.
They had found at eve the dreaming one
By the base of that fly steep, •
When over his stiffening limbs begun
The deadly slumber of frost to creep;
And they cherished the pale and breathless form
Till the stagnant blood ran free and warm.
THE FOURTH AT PINE ORCHARD,
BY MRS. ELLETT.
CATSKILL MOUNTAIN HOUSE.
How shall we escape the fourth of July?
How shall we fly from the clamors of indepen-
dence—doubly horrible in the crowded city—the
crackers, torpedoes and guns; the firing of can-
non and ringing of hells; the throngings and yel-
ling and huzzas; the flags and processions and
exhibitions; the blazing fire-works that scare
night from her gentle office? There are hun-
dreds of places in the vicinity of New-York,
whither hundreds flock every day, and the steam-
boats and rail-cars offer means of transportation
every hour; but they are within ear, alas! of the
booming and ringing; and there will be no dark-
ness within sight of the illuminations! Where
can we go “ beyond Independence”—we asked—
as earnestly as the wicked backwoodsman wish-
ed he could fly w beyond the Sabbath!” In good
truth, it were to be wished that our patriotic
fathers had been considerate enough not to se-
lect the very hottest day of the year for their im-24
THE FOURTH AT
mortal declaration! But then one of the greatest
philosophers I ever knew, said, men have no
energy or resolution but when the thermometer
is at ninety degrees.
But how to escape—for every village and
town in the Union is smitten with the like na-
tional enthusiasm. “ Have you been at the Cats-
kill Mountain House ?” asked a friend inciden-
tally; “ our party is going to-morrow”—and the
important question was decided. The morning
of the third we set off in the Empire steamer.
This is the largest boat in the world, being a
sixteenth of a mile in length—and has engines
of six hundred horse power. Its cabins are mag-
nificent, and it has a noble range of state-rooms
on the upper deck, where travellers can be as
quiet as in a drawing-room. After dinner we
landed at Catskill, at three in the afternoon.
Stages were ready to receive the passengers;
and bestowing ourselves therein, we turned from
the village, crossed a fine wide stream called the
Catskill, and entered upon a country enchanting
enough to fill with rapture one long unaccustom-
ed to such varieties of scenery. Here were rich
valleys sprinkled with cottages and watered by
winding streams, whose course could be traced
far off by the luxuriance of the shrubbery on
their banks; there were cultivated fields, and
green meadows, and impervious woods; and
land now gently undulating, now broken into
steep ascents and startlingideclivities. Occasion-
ally the road wound along a precipice, just steep
and high enough to be perilous and pleasant.
The vivid green of the foliage every where, and
the verdure of the meadows was most refreshing
to an eye accustomed of late to the barren
wastes of southern pine-lands. Here and there
you pass a picturesque dell; one of them is filled
with the sound of a distant waterfall, doubtless
worth a pilgrimage to see; and frequently you
are arrested by the tiny voice of some adventu-
rous rill, flinging itself impetuously down the hill-
side, and hastening to its burial in the valley’s
depths. The range of mountains now rises high
and misty before you; anon you skirt a gloomy
and fathomless valley, perfectly dark with ver-
dure. This is the Sleepy Hollow, commemorat-
ed by Irving. I looked to see a Rip Van Win-
kle emerge from its shades. It is said that one
of the oldest settlers in the region actually re-
members a strange person of that name; doubt-
less an inveterate sleeper, whose habits suggest-
ed a legend. Rolling on with the merciless ve-
locity of stage-coaches, we came to the spot
where the steep ascent commences; and here I
PINE ORCHARD.
was fain, with many others, to alight and walk-
dreading that in the climbing process No. 1 might
chance to fall back on No. 2—No. 2 on No. 3—
and so on. However, none but an habitual cow-
ard like myself need fear such a catastrophe; as
the vehicles are strongly built, and provided each
with a pointed bar of iron that would effectually
prevent any retrograde motion. The winding
road, closely embowered with foliage, is here pic-
turesque in the extreme. Almost every town *
brings some new beauty to view; and the woods
are white with the blossoms of the mountain
laurel, of which our party bore away numerous
trophies. The precipice on the right overhangs
the road, but the rocks are concealed by a bright
mantle of green. The mountain towers into still
grander elevation as you ascend it, and is fast
darkening with the shadows of evening, though
the plain still lies in sunshine. Suddenly a turn
places you in sight of the house, which is the
termination of your journey. It is seen directly
overhead, perched on the very brink of the
frowning precipice, like the eagle’s or the lam-
mergeyer’s nest, or some feudal castle on its foe-
defying height. This, indeed, it would resemble,
were it of gray stone, instead of being built of
wood, and painted white. Nevertheless, its
snowy whiteness contrasts perhaps the more
beautifully with the green woods from the
bosom of which it seems to rise, and with the
mountainous back ground. The road by which
that elevation is gained is very tortuous, so that
a considerable space must be passed over before
you come to the plateau on which the house
stands. This plain lies in an amphitheatre be-
tween two mountains. It is called Pine Orchard,
because it was formerly covered with a growth
of small pines, which are now removed, having
been sacrificed to enhance the beauty of the
spot, and encourage the growth of clover and
grass, that fills the open space between the beds
of solid rock. The “Mountain House” is a
large and irregular building, having been built in
different parts at different times. The more re-
cent portion was erected in 1824. It is spacious
enough to accommodate a very large number of
guests; having double and triple rows of goodly
dormitories, all of a better size, and more com-
fortably furnished, than the sleeping rooms usu-
ally appropriated to travellers at the fashionable
watering places. The drawing-rooms are spa-
cious; the principal one consisting of three large
saloons opening into each other, or rather form-
ing one. The dining-room is large enough for a
feudal banquetting hall, its effect being increased25
THE FOURTH AT
by a range of pillars for the whole length down
the centre; and these pillars are wreathed with
evergreens, while between the numerous win-
dows stand hemlock or cedar trees during the
season, quite in baronial taste. As far as I know,
this style of embellishment is unique; it is cer-
tainly very picturesque.
The evening shadows now stretch over the
entire plain, and the quiet of the scene, after the
day’s bustle, invites to sweet repose, which the
guests are fain to seek, after the good appetites
created by the drive of twelve miles, and the
fresh mountain air, have been satisfied by the ex-
cellent supper provided by Mr. Beach, the enter-
prising landlord. Here is an almost wasteful
profusion of strawberries, and the other fruits of
the season, freshly picked by the mountaineers,
with cream and butter that does ample justice to
the rich pasturage of this region.
In the morning, go to the front, and what a
scene presents itself! The “House” stands on
the table rock, a few yards from the sheer verge
—an elevation of eighteen hundred feet above
the apparent plain, and twenty-seven hundred
above the level of the river. There is a narrow
strip of green just in front, under the long and
capacious piazza, beautifully ornamented with
young fir and cedar trees, and a variety of shrubs.
Then comes a strip of bare rock, overlooking the
awful abyss.
A sea of woods is at your feet, but so far
below, that the large hills seem but slight heav-
ings of the green billowy mass; before you lies
a vast landscape, stretching far as the eye can
take in the picture; a map of earth with its
fields, its meadows, its forests, and its villages
and cities scattered in the distance; its streams
and lakes diminished, like the dwellings of man,
into insignificance. Through the midst winds
the sweeping river, the mighty Hudson, lessened
to a rill; or it might be likened to a riband laid
over a ground of green. Still further on are the
swelling uplands, and then far along the horizon,
mountains piled on mountains, melting into the
distance, rising range above range till the last
and loftiest fades into the blue of the sky. Over
this magnificent panorama the morning sun
pours a misty radiance, half veiling, yet adding
to its beauty, and tinting the Hudson with silver.
Here and there the bright river is dotted with
sails, and sometimes a steamboat could be seen
winding its apparently slow way along. The
clouds that fling their fitful shadows over the
country below are on a level with us dwellers
of the air; the golden patches that occupy the
PINE ORCHARD.
higher regions of atmosphere seem but a few
feet above us, and we beyond their sphere,
standing in mid air, looking down on so unrival-
led a picture, to thank Heaven for the glory and
beauty of earth—even the birds seldom soar
higher than our feet; the resting-place of the
songster, whose flight can no longer be traced
from the plain, is still far below us. We seem
like the bell immortalized by Schiller—
“ In Heaven’8 pavilion hung on high,
“ The neighbors of the rolling thunder,
“ The limits of the star-world nigh.”
After contemplating this gorgeous scene, this
still life of the busy world till lost in admiration,
and listening to the ceaseless but faint roar sent
up from the forest, like the chime of the eternal
ocean, the next thing you will do will be to take
a carriage to the Catskill Falls, distant about
three miles. The road is rough, wild and rocky,
but beautifully picturesque. The mountains
forming the back-ground of this scene are half-
covered with shadows from the clouds, which
present the appearance of gorges on their sides,
and are continually changing their form, and
shifting as the breezes blow. The highest peak
is said to be four thousand three hundred feet
above the level of the river.- They are distin-
guished by various names, such as Round Top,
Indian’s Head, &c. On the road, which is wind-
ing, and embowered by close woods, you cross
a small mountain stream that soon expands into
a perfect gem of a lake, quite embosomed in the
circling hills, covered with a growth of straight,
giant-like pines, rising range above range to the
summits, where the tallest stand in relief against
the sky. At a distance of more than a quarter
of a mile from the Falls, you alight from the
carriages, and walk along the romantic road, ad-
miring at every step, or stopping to gather the
abundant variety of wild flowers. The beauty
of this woodland path baffles all description. It
conducts to the Pavilion, situated at the top of
the fall, and directly overhanging the abyss. On
the end of the platform you are close upon the
water, hastening to precipitate itself over the
rock on which you stand, and tumbling into the
wildest ravine ever poet dreamed of. The height
of this fall is one hundred and eighty feet; a
second just below is eighty feet, but from the
height it seems a mere step the playful stream is
taking, to dash itself in rapids a little farther on,
and then be lost to sight in the thick foliage
overgrowing the bottom of the gorge. Three
mountains here intersect each other; and the
overlapping of their sides conceal the bed of the26
THE FOURTH AT PINE ORCHARD.
stream,, so buried that a sea of woods alone is
visible. You descend by a path in the woods,
and by staircases fixed in the “ precipitous, black
jagged rocks.” The view from different points
of the ravine, and the perpendicular wall forming
its sides, is both splendid and sublime. When
about half-way from the bottom of the first fall,
the path turns aside, and enters a spacious ca-
vern, wholly behind the falling sheet. The sides
and roof are of solid gray rock, and the roof pro-
jects seventy feet, though in some places it is so
low that it cannot be passed under without
stooping. The path is consequently sheltered,
though but a foot in width—a mere shelf on the
verge of a precipice, so narrow as to be quite in-
visible to those without. It is somewhat “ on
the plan” of that to Termination Rock behind
the falling ocean at Niagara, and really gives an
idea of that stupendous place, barring the thun-
ders and the world of waters. A fine view is
here obtained of the falling sheet, which appears
much larger and broader; while the sides of the
ravine, and the dense forest seen through the
showery curtain, present a scene beautiful be-
yond description. Having emerged on the other
side, you descend quite to the bottom, and cross
the chafed stream by stepping on fragments of
rock. Here is a noble view; and the quantity
of water is suddenly increased by opening the
dam above, so that its roar fills the gorge. Again
you descend by the steep path, and a succession
of staircases, fifty feet below the foot of fall se-
cond, and cross near a small but furious rapid.
From the large flat rock here [it is maintained
to be the very rock on which Rip Van Winkle
slept his long sleep—but there are different opi-
nions as to the fact, and doubtless as many
claimants exist for the sleeping-place of that
worthy, as for the birth-place of Homer] you
obtain the finest view of all. It is three hundred
and ten feet belowx the Pavilion. The whole
castellated amphitheatre is before you; and a
succession of falls, with a wall of foliage and
rocks on either side, ascending far upward, so as
to shut out all but a narrow strip of blue sky,
seen overhead, and just above the top of fall
first. Over this opening golden patches of
clouds are sailing, and seem almost to rest upon
it. Once more the quantity of water is increas-
ed; the falls swell to larger volume, and the
clouds of sunny spray rise and fill the amphi-
theatre ; then melt away as before, while the fall
assumes its former thread-like appearance. The
people walking within the cavern, just visible
through the spray, look spectral enough, espe-
cially as they seem to have some secret of their
own for clinging to the rocky wall, no path being
apparent. It would require but little stretch of
imagination to suppose them children of the
mist, or genii of the waterfall, particularly that
light, fragile figure, whose floating white robe
contrasts so wildly with the dark mass behind
her. What a scene for deeds of romance and
heroism! I warrant me many a declaration has
been made in that thrilling spot; and would ad-
vise any fair lady who would bring a hesitating
lover to confession, to lead him hither for the in-
spiration he needs. Some instances of success
on both sides, I could mention; and could relate
one or two romantic tales, but they must be
postponed to another occasion. Below, for a
little way, the eye can follow the stream; and
our guide told us that a quarter of a mile further
were other small falls. The path is wild and
rough along the stream, but would doubtless
well reward the exploration. You ascend by
the same way, winding through the cavern to the
Pavilion, where the American flag, and the re-
ports of a gun or two reverberating among the
mountains, somewhat startlingly reminded us of
the Fourth; not so keenly, however, as to de-
stroy the enchantment of this “spirit-stirring
nook.” The sound of a bugle in the distant
forest restored the poetry of the scene at once,
notwithstanding the presence of numbers of
country people in their holiday attire—shirt-
sleeves—the costume of the American peasan-
try. To add a little incident in character, one of
our party hooked up with an umbrella from the
bushes a manuscript, illustrating the beauties of
the scene in very blank verse.
Returning by the carriages over the same
road, the gorgeous still-life view from the table-
rock awaited us; the ocean landscape; the dis-
tant river silvered by the sunshine; the moun-
tains melting into ether.
Visiters at Catskill mountain do not usually
give themselves time to see even what they do
see to the best advantage. Many of them remain
but a single day; paying only a hurried visit to
the falls, and neglecting many other scenes
almost equal in interest. There are numerous
lovely walks in the vicinity, chief among which
are those upon the South and North mountain;
and the beautiful lake in the immediate neigh-
borhood of the House is said to abound in fish,
affording amusement to those fond of the sport,
with boats for rowing or sailing-parties. There
is said also to be an ice-glen some miles distant,
into the depths of which the sun never pene-THE FOURTH AT PINE ORCHARD.
27
trates, and where ice may be found deposited by
all the winters since the creation.
The walk upon North mountain I found par-
ticularly interesting. For some distance you
follow the winding road, through woods certain-
ly richer than ever grew on such a height before,
with a great deal of impervious underwood, em-
bellished with wild flowers. The moss grows
here in such abundance as every where to attract
attention. At the falls it partially covers the
rock beside the cavern, and is of the most vivid
green. Near the foot of the lake is a mass of
rock, twelve or fifteen feet in height, perfectly
covered with gray lichen. The boulders on the
mountain are almost hidden by the ancient-look-
ing shroud; and the various growths might form
a study for the naturalist. Leaving the road for
the mountain path, you begin the ascent, and
skirt the frowning precipice, where a single false
step would be destruction. Far, far below is the
same extensive, billowy verdure—the primitive
forest. Now you climb a rude staircase of piled
stones, then wind through the deep woods,
where wanderers would infallibly be lost without
a guide, and where the guide himself finds it
hard to thread the tangled maze. Several points
where a fine view may be seen claim your atten-
tion, as now and then you come forth on the
rocky verge; but the cry is still “ onward,” and,
like all others of the human race who never
weary of pursuing a promised good, you perse-
vere till the actual summit, by toil and trouble,
is reached at last. And splendid is the reward!
So vast is the height on which you stand, that
the “ Mountain House,” with its lakes, itself ap-
pears upon a plain. In clear weather the view
is almost boundless, including Albany on one
hand, the Highlands on the other; but just then
I witnessed a still grander phenomenon, realizing
the beauty of Halleck’s lines descriptive of Wee-
hawk—
“ Clouds slumbering at his feet, and the clear blue
** Of summer’s sky in beauty bending o’er him.”
The clouds were not exactly slumbering, but
rolling in heavy masses below us, shrouding
completely the more distant portions of the land-
scape, while a thick mist rendered indistinct the
scene immediately beneath. I cannot say we were
altogether in the enjoyment of “ the clear blue of
summer’s sky;” for the top of the mountain just
behind us was enveloped in clouds, and only here
and there narrow strips of the sky could be dis-
cerned ; but we were “ mickle better aff ” than the
seeming plain, on which a fierce rain was evi-
dently pouring. Ere long, however, and while
storm and darkness yet brooded on the regions
below, the mists rolled away from the summit
and melted at the presence of the sun, the hea-
Vens looked forth blue and clear as ever, and the
rain-drops on the trees glanced in the pure sun-
shine. Then the vapory veil beneath us wras
rent and rolled back; part of the landscape re-
joiced once more in the living light! The sun
pierced the dark curtain beyond; it was lifted,
and gradually withdrawn ;* the glancing river and
the distant mountains came into bright view
once more; and ere long no trace of the storm
could be found, save in the dense masses of
cloud that mingled with the mountains on the
farthest verge of the horizon.
I would not have missed this spectacle, new
and surpassingly glorious as it was, for the
world. But one even more striking can be seen,
I am told, during a sudden thunder-shower. The
clouds then fill the lower regions of the atmos-
phere, and roll dense and dark beneath, like
ocean-waves tossed by the blast; the lightning
leaps from space to space, and the. thunder peals
wildly around, while “ the dweller in air ” sees
naught above him but a blue sunbright sky.
The clearing up of a storm seen under these
circumstances must be sublime beyond imagina-
tion, and well worth a journey to the Mountain
House expressly to see.
Some of our party regretted that the house
had not been built on the table-rock of North
mountain; but the difficulty of access, and the
impossibility of coming up with stages, would,
in such a case, have limited the number of visi-
ters'to a few. The present location is the most
eligible in every respect.
After the descent our guide directed us to a
rocky footpath, instead of the winding road to
the house. It required some toil and climbing,
but well repaid the exertion.
The ascent to the South mountain is equally
beautiful. The path leads from the plateau to
the left up the steep acclivity, through a wild
forest, less tangled, however, than the other,
where huge boulders, gray with moss, are piled
fantastically around; some poised on a single
edge, and looking as if the slightest force would
precipitate them downward to crush the woods
in their path; some without apparent founda-
tion, resting on points unseen, and presenting
shallow but extensive caverns, the probable
abode of reptiles, and green with rank moisture.
Trees grow on their sides and in the clefts, and
you wonder whence their nourishment is deriv-
ed ; they seem, in truth, to have a partiality for28
A SEPTEMBER TRIP TO CATSKILL.
the rugged soil, and frequently send their roots
far down the rock to seek the humid earth. The
fir, the cedar, and silver pine, so much more
beautiful than the southern pine, abound here,
with a vast variety of deciduous trees. The in-
numerable crevices are filled with green moss.
The ascent becomes yet more steep, and pre-
sently you enter a narrow rift, from which the
party, one by one, emerge above, and seem as if
ascending out of the earth. The shadow of the
overhanging clifls renders this spot ever cool and
fresh, even in the hottest part of the summer-day.
On the summit are three points usually visited
by travellers, from which a gorgeous view may
be obtained. On one the huge fragment of rock
is, to all appearance, entirely separated from the
mountain; it is really, however, fast united be-
low, or it would, long ere this, have plunged from
its place into the abyss. I must not forget to
mention that there is a plateau on both these
mountains covered with short pines, which has
obtained the name of Pine Orchard. The pio-
neer who erected the first building on the moun-
tain pointed out to us the spot where he slept,
wrapt in his great coat, under a rocky shelter,
the first night he passed in this neighborhood.
From the third and highest point the view is
the best. Here, besides the dark ridge of forest
and the ocean landscape, a new range of moun-
tains can be discerned far southward, and several
towns on the Hudson.
There is a beautiful drive in the vicinity, en-
joyed by few among the visiters to the Mountain
House, which, however, should be neglected by
none. It is on what is called the Clove road,
leading through a cleft in the mountain south-
ward. Descending by the travelled road three
or four miles, passing the weird valley of Sleepy
Hollow, where, in a dreamy nook, under the
towering mountains, you will find the picture of
old Rip at his waking, hung up as a sign to a
rude-looking house of refreshment; and pursu-
ing the road a little beyond the toll-gate, you
turn aside to the right, and follow the road along
the foot of the precipice on which the house
stands. Ere long you turn again to the right,
and presently find yourself in a mountain defile*
where surprise and delight at the wondrous scene
accompany you on every step onward. The
mountains rise abruptly on either side almost to
the clouds; the primeval forest is around you;
and the depths of the gorge, which is sometimes
narrow and cavernous, are filled by a bawling
mountain stream, the same Cauterskille that takes
the leap down the falls above. For two or three
miles this scene of beauty and grandeur, varying
every moment, meets your eye; now the stream
runs over its bed of rocks, now dashes wildly in
rapids, now runs smoothly for a space; while the
road winds on its verge, sometimes far above it,
sometimes descending nearly to its level. After
passing through the cleft you ascend the moun-
tain and return to the house, having made a cir-
cuit of twelve miles.
To those who have leisure for enjoyment of
country air and scenery, and for exploring the
wild and numerous beauties of this region, I
would recommend a residence of weeks at Pine
Orchard. The mountain is fresh and invigor-
ating, and always cool in the sultriest season.
The rapid succession of visiters, presenting new
faces every day, is rather an objection to those
who have a taste for the society of watering-
places; but I see no reason why the Castkill
Mountain-House should not, when its resources
are better known, be a place of fashionable re-
sort, during all the hot season, for summer tra-
vellers.	e. F. E.
A SEPTEMBER TRIP TO CATSKILL.
FROM THE AMERICAN MONTHLY MAGAZINE, 1837.
Grand exceedingly are the hills of Catskill,
and noble supporters to the blue dome that sits
so lightly on their architrave. Absorbing be-
yond belief is an undisturbed contemplation of
the forests that cover their valleys. You feel
as if the curtain of time was raised, and you
looked upon eternity. Sweet beyond parallel
is the map of the valley of the Hudson as you
look down from the table-rock in front of the
Mountain House, and dally with the topmost
tendrils of the hemlock that finds root a hundred
and fifty feet below you. Fantastic beyondA SEPTEMBER TRIP TO CATSKILL.
29
conception are the gossamer veils that wreath
and circle around the rugged brow of the hill at
your left, now clasping his old forehead with its
misty coronal, then lifting, with the sportive
grace of a fay, its vapory circlet far above the
discarded object of its late caresses, until weary
of its upward flight, it sinks drooping and deject-
ed into the valley beneath.
* * * * * * *
* * * * * *
Started for the Mountain House, we made
our first halt at Van Bergen’s, the spot where I
suppose the Royal George had once supplied
the wherewithal to moisten the husky effects of
the pipe of the immortal sleeper; and the old
pine tree, by the side of the spring, against
which Rip used to rest his gun as he scooped up
the clear waters of his mountain well, was a
fluted column of the same dimensions of some
dozen others that ranged on the side walk as
supporters to the piazzas of the rival hotels.
“ Un tres petit chien cela,” said the gentleman
opposite me to his fair companion, as he pointed
to a diminutive specimen of the canine genus
that was flying and yelping, tail couchant, from
the broom-stick attacks of an enraged woman in
the opposite shop door. That shop was built
upon the very spot that was once shaded by
“ the Oak.” May the Lord forgive the sacrile-
gious heedlessness of my countrymen!
The sun had advanced somewhat in the Occi-
dent as we passed through the brickyards that
skirt the borders of the town, and after a half
hour’s drive we alighted at Balt Bloom’s hotel.
I had never been far westward, but I imagined
the scene presented was worthy a soil a thou-
sand miles nearer the setting sun.
Two strapping youths were standing at the
entrance of the tavern in an animated discussion
about the “ cornin’ election,” and as the elder of
the two dropped the butt of his gun upon the
broad toe of his boot, and thrust both arms half
way to the elbow into the side pockets of his
velveteen hunting-coat* (his right arm forming a
circular rest for the barrel,) I observed the
strong expression of vexation on his counte-
nance as he lamented “ that the chap who could
fill a game bag like that which hung by the side
of his companion, could vote for the Petticoat
candidate,” as he* was pleased to style the Hero I
of Tippicanoe. He turned as he saw strangers
coming, and while one foot was resting upon
the primitive floor of the bar-room, he brought
his rifle to a sight, and with his left eye closed
as if ready for aim, he turned his head around to
the bar when the other discovered the object ot
its search.
“ Balt Bloom,” said the sportsman, “ what’ll
you take for a shot at that cock that’s struttin’
yonder as big as any member of Congress ?”
“ Three shillin’,” sung out a shrill, sharp voice
from an inner apartment. It sounded like the
echo of one of Dame Van Winkle’s highest
notes, that had been wandering among these
hills since the day its owner had been called to
torment the shades of poor Rip and his dog.
“Crack,” answered the rifle almost as shrilly.
“ He’s as dead as Julius Caesar,” coolly re-
marked the sportsman, as he chased some coins
about his pocket to pay for this cheap gratifica-
tion of his vanity as a shot at a hundred yards.
* * * * * * *
* * * * * *
The wave-like sound of the gong floated up-
ward from hall to hall through the Mountain
House, and our party of three were all that
answered it (the season had closed) in doing
honor to the creature comforts that paid tribute
to the keen mountain air that had assailed our
appetites.
When the last egg had disappeared I found
leisure to take a peep at the appointments of the
place.
A solitary lamp glimmered on the table, and
its feeble rays made the gloom which hovered
around the columns that supported the immense
apartment but more shadowey. The couple
opposite me were one in every sense, save cor-
poreally ; therefore the darkness of Tartarus
would have been sunshine to them. For myself,
the leaden gloom was oppressive. The ebon
statue at the head of the table stood so motion-
less that I shuddered. A sense of loneliness—
a desolate retreat of the heart—the eye moistens
if you think of your hearthstone—an indescrib-
able something we have all felt some time or
other, crept over me. I courted the friendly
companionship of a fire that was blazing in the
drawing-room, but the wind moaned piteously
around the peaks of the pine orchard in their
attempts to keep off the dyer from its coronal;
but a return spark of the sensation was fanned
by the sighing breeze, and the solitude of the
immense apartment gave it a shrine to bum
upon. Who has not felt this at midnight, when30
A SEPTEMBER TRIP TO CATSKILL.
the only tenant of such a place as the Mountain
House, a solitary communicant with its unbrok-
en stillness ?
He imagines that he is the last represents
tive of his race, and the sensation sweeps over
the cords of his heart like the faint breeze upon
the loosened strings of an JEolean harp. It whis-
pers sadly; one does not feel this if he has the
fellowship of nature, though the throb of his
own bosom may have been the first that ever
broke upon the virgin silence of the place. He
feels that God is the architect, and lives himself
a worshipper in
“ That Cathedral boundless as our wonder,
“ Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply ;
“ Its choir the winds and waves, its organ, thunder,
“ Its dome, the sky.”
*	jfc	*	*	*	*	*
[The writer’s description of the prospect is omitted.]
It was a breezy September day that smil-
ingly escorted us to the “ Falls of the Kauters-
kill.” We stood upon the extremity of the
scaffolding that has been erected for the use of
the visiters and the profit of its owner, and
while listening to the lullaby of the Fall, which
sent its gentle music up from the pool into which
the tiny brooklet fell, we looked down upon -the
sea of foliage that waved before us. As far as
the eye could reach, until it blended with the
horizon, lay the interminable forest. The first
breath of autumn had whispered the warning of
its wintry monitor, and the golden dye of the
alchymist mingled with the gorgeous coloring
of an autumnal sun-set. It was an hour to
dream in, and the imagination of the young wife
who leaned upon the arm of her husband, settled
upon the wings of a golden vapor that slumber-
ed within ten feet of her, and, mounting in its
serial car, pursued its flight four thousand miles
from the spot where she stood.
% * * * #	* *
* * * * % *
The effect produced by every waterfall upon
the beholder varies with the time, season and
attendant circumstances, more than one will
suppose when considering their distinctly mark-
ed character. With Niagara, though at all times
the spirit is bowed down with the awe which its
grandeur imposes, this is as true as with the
smallest cascade in the land; and for years after,
even while the thunders from the eternal organ
of the former are sounding in our ears, a ludi-
crous scene at a breakfast-table may ever be as-
sociated with the memory of its sublimity. The
Kauterskill, upon that bright evening, (and the
comparison was not far-fetched,) I likened to a
stately queen, upon whose face sorrow had left
the traces of its visitation. I doffed my hat to
the waterfall in most respectful admiration; but
the glen, the crimson and the orange leaf float-
ing in the pool, subdued me, and the first whis-
perings of the season breathed a melancholy
story of their fall.
From the table-rock we went under the* fall,
sheltered by a rocky ceiling, upon whose dome
the moss of centuries had collected a verdant
livery; and, while protected by this adamantine
roof, another opportunity was offered for a sur-
vey of that unrivalled forest, with its foreground
guarded by a bow of rotary crystal, whose organ
was fitting music for this mountain cathedral.
Opposite our first position, we could look from
the first to the second fall, which throws itself
eighty feet into the ravine below, and listen to
the deep murmurs of the river as it rolled away
in the secrecy of its leafy shield. A sunbeam
never danced upon its ripple, so sheltered is it.
Contemplative reader! Go to Catskill in
September, when the mountain air will give you
an appetite for the creature comforts of the
Mountain House; when you will not be jostled
by the unthinking crowd, who go there because
it is fashionable; when the deep verdure of its
woods is relieved by a rainbow here and there;
and when, if you will not complain of,the com-
pany, I will gree.t you a welcome at the table-
rock.	G. E. L.CATSKILL MOUNTAIN HOUSE.
It is not to be presumed that every thing has been described, connected with this interesting place. The
chance visiter only sees what arises while he is there. It requires many visits to see one half of the
natural wonders. The following, it is supposed, are worthy of notice; though only a stray leaf from
a private journal.—Editor.
We arrived at “the House” in a most un-
favorable time for seeing any thing, and were
strongly tempted to return immediately. It was
just that kind of sky which below gives the
“ blues.” The dreary, dense mist that enveloped
the entire range, was mournful; and, as the
wind blew from the north-east, there was no
prospect of the sky being cleared till the New-
foundland banks had exchanged these vapoury
sheets for a robe of sunshine. The cloud was
as damp as clouds are any where that I have
known. I have beard of Lapland fogs, and had
felt Scotch mists, but this was equal to any of
these for its penetrating quality. Starch and
gum shrunk into mournful, skin-like jlaccidity;
and to use the inelegant expression of a fellow
visiter, whose sobriquet was “ Tom,” “ Kate’s
ringlets were no more like seraph’s locks than
old Bay’s tail.”
It was in vain that we fled from the outside
of the house to the inside, as the cloud went
with the air, and a perfect vacuum was impos-
sible. Chairs, tables, mantel-pieces, stood in
dewey beads, and even the beds had that sticky
touch you feel at the “ Ocean House ” after two
days stormy weather. Though there was a con-
stant fire kept up in the parlor, it did not, to
us, the “ new arrived,” exhibit that bliss which a
kindled hearth presents to the youthful imagina-
tion anticipating the marriage-day.
Still, notwithstanding those gloomy signs,
the group that was gathered round the fire was
a pleasant party. There was first a middle-aged
man with an intelligent face, who looked quietly
up from his book at us; and next him sat a lady
who was knitting; and there was a young lady
with a clear glad eye, smiling at the frolics of a
young man who was teazing two children. I
found out that this was a party from Boston, im-
proving a “ vacation.”
A lugubrious looking man here stepped up,
and with the most rueful looking countenance
declared, that “ This was awful! I came here,”
said he, “a week ago, all the way from Cape
Cod, for the sole object of getting a look, and
here I have seen nothing; and to be laughed at
in the bargain.” “ I shall not back,” said “ Tom,”
“ without my story. I have seen something worth
telling.” “And pray what shall you tell them
that you saw ?” said the sad man; “ except across
the dinner-table; and scarcely that far, if I may
guess from your good judgment on cookery.”
“Why,” said “Tom,” with perfect nonchalance,
“ I shall tell them, I have seen the greatest fog
that I have ever seen in my life!” “And, my
dear sir,” said the gentleman with the book,
“ you can now preach from that text,4 All bap-
tized in the cloud;’ ” 44 Or that other one,” said
the lady,44 being compassed about with so great
a cloud of witnesses.”
Now thought I, there may be more in this
darkness than was dreamed of in my first philo-
sophy. I will remain, and perhaps I may catch
some of the inspiration from this happy family
After dinner general contentment prevailed
even the gloomy man smiled; and I found my
self trying to solve the question, whether the air
though thick and misty, was not light at this
height, and consequently more congenial to
cheerfulness of mind. But I was disturbed in
my cogitations by a buzz among the guests near
the door; and all I could hear was that'the house
was 44 going past on the outside.” A waiter was
quieting an old lady by telling her that all was
quite firm at the foundations, for it was built on
a rock.
We were all on the piazza in a few minutes,
and there, sure enough, was the perfect image
of the vast building, plainly impressed upon a
thicker cloud than the general envelope that had
covered us. It was a great mass of vapor, mov-
ing from north to south, directly in front, and
only about two hundred feet from us, which re-
flected the light of the sun, now beginning to
appear in the west, from its bosom, like a mirror,
in which the noble Corinthian pillars, which form
tbt front of the building, were expanded like
some palace built by the Titans for the enter-
tainment of their antediluvian guests. I had read
of Catherine of Russia’s famous palace of ice,
all glittering with the gorgeousness that now
beautifies the Kremlin; and how frequently that
is produced, as emblematic of human glory; but
here was something that more than recalled my
early impressions of Alladin’s lamp, or of the
magician’s wand.
The visionary illusion was moving with the
cloud, and ere long we saw one pillar disappear,CASTS&ILL MOUNTAIN HOUSE.
£2
then another. We, ourselves, who were ex-
panded to Brobdignags in size, saw the gulf into
which we were to enter and be lost. I almost
shivered when my turn came, but there was no
eluding my fate; one side of my face was veiled,
and in a few moments the whole had passed like
a dream. An instant before, and we were the
inhabitants of a “gorgeous palace,” but it was
the “ baseless fabric of a vision,” and now, there
was left “ not a wreck behind.”
After tea, and the lamps lit, the different sets
were seen discussing the events of that day; and
it would fill a book to report the half of the real-
ly interesting conversations that were held. The
book man was lecturing upon optics, and show-
ing “Kate” how the laws of light were.to be
understood, on reflection and refraction; and how
these effects were produced this afternoon by
the rays striking a certain angle of incidence;
all of which was Greek to me. “ But,” said the
bright girl, “ have not such sights as these for-
merly had great effects upon the superstitious
mind?” “O yes,” said the father, “what the
Scotch call the second sight was no doubt occa-
sioned by some remarkable visions seen among
the hills of Caledonia; and battles have been
seen in the air in ancient times. You remem-
ber something of this kind in our own revolu-
tion before one engagement.” “Yes, Monmouth.
But do you think, father, that all these appear-
ances in the air are produced by the same
causes V’ “ All by natural laws, my child, differ-
ently modified. The most interesting is that of
the Brocken, in the Hartz mountains; and that
other in the Faro of Messina, where, when the
sun shines from a certain point at the back of the
city, his incident ray forms an angle towards the
sea of Riggio; and above that, in the vapoury
air, may be seen the city, just as this house was
seen this afternoon.”
“ Uncle,” said “ Kate,” “ tell us what you were
thinking of during that wonderful vision.” “ O
yes,” said the mother, “ you have travelled, bro-
ther, in the old world, and can enlighten
“ My story has a moral to it,” said the clergy-
man, for I found he was one. “ The mysterious-
ly grand temple we have beheld in the cloud
has brought to my mind the fleeting nature of
all earthly temples. When I first saw the Par-
thenon at Athens, looking out on the Aegean sea
from the highest point of the Acropolis, I said,
there is man’s finest workmanship passing, after
it has stood 2000 years. Again, I saw on Calton
hill, Edinburgh, how the proud Scotchman at-
tempted to imitate their ancient models and
failed. Their Parthenon is already like a ruin.
And here on a higher eminence still, stands a
building that, at a distance, rivals both in appear-
ance, till you come near and find that it is but
wood, and shall pass away sooner than either of
those I have referred to. But to-day, as if in
mockery of all earthly greatness, we have seen
an airy Parthenon passing by us like a dream.
Truly
“This world is all a fleeting show,
“ For man’s illusion given."
“ Time for bed,” said the quiet mother, and
the whole family rose and I was left to muse
alone.
There was nothing to be seen next day; and
the greater part was spent in hope of conjuring
up something before it was done. A thousand
questions were put to the major domo about
the weather. How long this would last; and
what they might expect before night. He al-
ways put them off with pleasant words.
About 3 o’clock I heard the cry of a rain-
bow! a rainbow! and on looking down towards
the river I perceived that the right limb of a
large bow was already formed. It gradually
took its proper shape, until its colors came all
out in their completeness. The shower was fall-
ing on the river; and supposing that to be the
cord, the extent must have been twenty miles in
length, with a span in proportion. It was such a
token as Noah saw from Arrarat, rising on the
plain of Shinar.
It was interesting to listen to the remarks of
the spectators—moralizing—poetizing, and phi-
losophizing. A young wife and mother stood
next me, rapt in admiration, and asked of her
material husband, if he did not think “that would
make a noble gateway for the4 house made with-
out hands,’ that we saw yesterday.” “Umph!”
said the careful father, “pick up your raisins
there, you little fool. What is that you said,
my dear, about gate posts.” “ Oh see,” said the
really enraptured wife, “wThat a gem is there.
See! see! the sun is tinting that cloud with
gold, till it looks like a throne in the heavens.”
The deep solemn voice of the grave man was
repeating in an under tone, “ And there was a
rainbow round about the throne, in sight like
unto an emerald. And the city had twelve gates,
and every several gate was one pearl.” “Tom”
was not behind the rest with his word. The idea
of that being an entrance to the palace of yester-
day, caught his fancy, and he was repeating with
variations—CATSKILL MOUNTAIN HOUSE.
33
* Still seem as in my infant days,
“ A glorious gateway given,
“ For happy spirits to alight,
“ Between the earth and heaven.”
The shower passed to the eastward, and the
great bow fell flat upon the black surface, and
did appear like a fallen arch, the remnant of
departed glory.
I must take for granted that the ride to the
falls and the general features of the region are
known; but this day was remarkable for new
objects of interest to me.
Standing on the south-west point, after going
round below the cascade, I became drenched and
almost suffocated with the steam, which rose
through the air so thick that I could not see
across the boiling caldron, and was glad to stand
still and take breath. So much rain had fallen
for a week, the torrent was greater than I had
ever seen it before. It seemed that I was stand-
ing within the crater of a volcano, deep and fear-
ful. After steadying my feet and my head, my
eyes caught the iris of a rainbow of uncommon
brilliancy. At first I was inclined to believe my-
self under some visual delusion, and that in my
eagerness to retain the image of what I had al-
ready seen that day, that this was but the spec-
trum of that other rainbow. But as I looked up
I saw the sun reflected from millions of prisms,
hung on every tree and blade of grass around.
And from the point where I stood, round to the
opposite side of the gulf, there was one solid
mass of variegated glory. It seemed to be one
jewel, upon which I might have, walked with
ease. After the first surprise, I discovered that
I stood within the rays of this brightness. Was
it presumption in me to feel enraptured, with the
bow of promise around my head, and the rock of
ages beneath my feet ? Blessed emblem of hope
and immortality!
The sun had now gained the full ascendancy
in the heavens, and his setting gave us the hope
of a bright morning, and we retired to rest to-
night, congratulating ourselves on the wonder-
ful things we had seen this day.
A low tap at the door next to mine,—and
the sweet voice of “ Kate,”—saying, “ Be sure,
and waken me, uncle, to see the sun rise,” caused
me to make haste to sleep, that I might also rise,
and “ Hail the glorious king of day rejoicing in
the east.”
In the dark of the morning I heard gentle
feet going through the long passages, and, afraid
of being late, I hastened to the east side of the
house, where the greater part of the guests were
before me; and after looking at the sky, and
then at the spectators, I thought of the Psalmist’s
words, “ I wait for thee, as they that wait for the
eyelids of the morning.”
Except a few scattered clouds the dawn was
purer than the crystal, for it was unassociated
with any material thing. It brought all the beau-
tiful things of this world to remembrance. An
infant’s eyes opening for the first time on a world
of sin. The cactus in full flower, with its purple
and azure mingling.
Two small clouds, half way up the sky, to-
wards the north-east, caught the earliest tints of
glory: then, higher up, another became so white
that it was at last painful to look at. In my
eagerness to see all and catch the first glance of
the sun himself, my eyes were dazzled so that I
was almost blinded. It was therefore a great re-
lief to hear a voice cry out from one of the win-
dows, Look below! look below!
And we all looked, but the whole scene was
unutterably grand. The sea! the sea! many
voices said at once. From the verge of the cliff,
as far as the eye could reach, it was rolling va-
por ; the waves rose and fell in hills and deep
valleys. Coming on like the tide and retiring;
and I caught myself involuntarily listening for
the dash of the surge. But the silence was
alarming. The sea so measureless; so disturbed
to the eye; so near, and yet so speechless to the
ear. It was not a dead sea, for it moved; but it
was the movement of oblivion. How melancholy
to think on the thousands of buried homes,
wrapt in that cold cheerless sheet; and we up
here, basking in the beams of heaven’s own
brightness.
I was beginning to draw a contrast between
heaven and earth, when I heard “Tom” crying
out, “He is coming! he is coming!” “Hush/”
said his uncle, and you would have heard a
whisper now. Even the mercurial “ Tom ” was
awed by the appearance. All was quiet but
one very egotist, who wished us to look and lis-
ten to him, in preference to the rising sun.
The two clouds nearest the east had become
solid gold, we thought nothing could be brighter,
till a moment after the king himself appeared.
It was as if the helmet of a conqueror had risen
on the top of a hill; but there he was himself!
unexcelled. His actual presence produced a sud-
den tremor, and tears gushed plentifully at the
sight.
We had now time to look beneath, and al-
ready there was an evident movement, as if some
great commotion was taking place beneath, at
the centre. But it was the sun now making him-34
CATSKILL MOUNTAIN HOUSE.
self felt, like the Spirit of God moving on the
face of chaos, when he said “ Let there he light,
and there was light.” We were waiting for the
“ dry land” to appear.
The vapory mass began to move more rapid-
ly, and assume every fantastic shape that the
imagination gave it.
Monstrous giants rose, ruled, and departed
like the despots of antiquity. Ossian, before his
blindness, must have beheld the like, ere he de-
scribed Fingal’s combat with the misty demon.
And so did Milton doubtless, while “holy light”
entered his early eye; when from the “ Alpine
heights” he saw the celestial and infernal armies,
as here, deploying, then closing, then recoiling in
terrific fury.
“ Uncle,” said the sensitive girl, “ tell me what
you see there.” “ O child, child, I see, I see what
is unspeakable. There is Tophet sending forth
its smoke; look at that yawning gulf, was ever
any thing so capacious; and there beyond is
Mount Sinai hidden in awful darkness.” ff Yes,
brother,” said the mother, “ but look up higher,
and tell me what you think of those clouds that
have become separated from the rest, and that
are now already tinged with heaven’s gold.” “ O,
it was in such a chariot as that my master as-
cended, when a cloud received him out of their
sight;” and the solemn man wept like a child.
In about an hour from sunrise the several fleeces
had been lifted up from the earth, till the hills
with which I was familiar became apparent, but
still huge and awful. And there the river ran
dark, in the mist, like the mysterious Styx of the
region of Pluto; and as the clouds passed over
it they seemed to be fleets of departed nations
who were there navigating their shadowy barks,
joyless and hopeless. What a contrast between
that gloomy region and the rich panorama that
is spread out here at noon. Then that river re-
minds one of the “ river of life, clear as crystal,”
and of that world, when the veil of mystery will
be removed, and we shall look no more through
a glass darkly.
WINTER SCENE ON THE CATSKILLS.
The following sketch taken from Vol. 2nd of American Scenery, edited by N. P. Willis, is an interest-
ing description of the appearance of these mountains at a season when pleasure travellers
never visit them.
The great proportion of evergreen trees,
shrubs and creepers in the American mountains,
make the winter scenery less dreary than would
be first imagined; but even the nakedness of the
deciduous trees is not long observable. The first
snow clothes them in a dress so feathery and
graceful, that, like a change in the costume of
beauty, it seems lovelier than the one put off;
and the constant renewal of its freshness and
delicacy goes on with a variety and novelty,
which is scarce dreamed of by those who see
snow only in cities, or in countries where it is
rare.
The roads, in so mountainous a region as the
Catskills, are in winter not only difficult but
dangerous. The following extracts from a sleigh-
ride in a more level part of the country will
serve to give an idea of it.
As we got farther on, the new snow became
deeper. The occasional farm houses were almost
wholly buried, the black chimney alone appear-
ing above the ridgy drifts; while the tops of the
doors and windows lay below the level of the
trodden road, from which a descending passage
was cut to the threshold, like the entrance to a
cave in the earth. The fences were quite invisi-
ble. The fruit-trees looked diminished to shrub-
beries of snow-flowers, their trunks buried under
the visible surface, and their branches loaded
with the still falling flakes, till they bent beneath
the burden. Nothing was abroad, for nothing
could stir out of the road without danger of be-
ing lost; and we dreaded to meet even a single
sleigh, lest, in turning out, the horses should
“ slump ” beyond their depth in the untrodden
drifts. The poor animals began to labor severe-
ly, and sank every step over their knees in the
clogging and wool-like substance; and the long
and cumbrous sleigh rose and fell in the deep
pits like a boat in a heavy sea. It seemed' im-
possible to get on. Twice we brought up with
a terrible plunge^ and stood suddenly still; for
the runners had stuck in too deep for the strength
of the horses; and with the snow shovels, whichWINTER SCENE ON THE CATSKILLS.
35
formed a part of the furniture of the vehicle, we
dug them from their concrete beds. Our pro-
gress was reduced at length to scarce a mile in
the hour, and we began to have apprehensions
that our team would give out between the post-
houses. Fortunately it was still warm, for the
numbness of cold would have paralyzed our
already flagging exertions.
We had reached the summit of a long hill
with the greatest difficulty. The poor beasts
stood panting and reeking with sweat; the run-
ners of the sleigh were clogged with hard cakes
of snow, and the air was close and dispiriting.
We came to a stand still, with the vehicle lying
over almost on its side; and I stepped out to
speak to the driver and look forward. It was a
discouraging prospect; a long deep valley lay
before us, closed at the distance of a couple of
miles by another steep hill, through a cleft in
the top lay our way. We could not even dis-
tinguish the line of the road between. Gur
disheartened animals stood at this moment bu-
ried to their breasts; and to get forward with-
out rearing at every step, seemed impossible.
The driver sat on his box, looking uneasily down
into the valley. It was one undulating ocean
of snow—not a sign of human habitation to be
seen—and even the trees indistinguishable from
the general mass by their whitened and overla-
den branches. The storm had ceased, but the
usual sharp cold that succeeds a warm fall of
snow had not yet lightened the clamminess of
the new-fallen flakes, and they clung around the
foot like clay, rendering every step a toil.
We heaved out of the pit into which the
sleigh had settled, and for the first mile it was
down hill, and we got on with comparitive ease.
The sky was by this time almost bare, a dark
slaty mass of clouds alone settling on the hori-
zon in the quarter of the wind; while the sun,
as powerless as moonlight, poured with dazzling
splendor on the snow; and the gusts came
keen and bitter across the sparkling waste,
rimming the nostrils as if with bands of steel,
and penetrating to the innermost nerve with
their pungent iciness. No protection seemed
of any avail. The whole surface of the body
ached as if it were laid against a slab of ice.
The throat clothed instinctively, and contracted
its unpleasant respiration. The body and limbs
drew irresistibly together, to economise, like a
hedge-hog, the exposed surface. The hands and
feet felt transmuted to lead; and across the fore-
head, below the pressure of the cap, there was a
binding and oppressive ache, as if a bar of frosty
iron had been let into the skull. The mind
meantime seemed freezing up; unwillingness
to stir, and inability to think of anything but the
cold, becoming every instant more decided.
From the bend of the valley our difficulties
became more serious. The drifts often lay across
the road like a wall, some feet above the headi
of the horses, and we had dug through one or
two, and had been once upset, and often near it,
before we came to the steepest part of the as-
cent. The horses had by this time begun to
feel the excitement of the rum given them by
the driver at the last halt, and bounded on
through the snow with continuous leaps, jerking
the sleigh after them with a violence that threat-
ened momentarily to break the traces. The
steam from their bodies froze instantly, and cov-
ered them with a coat-like hoar-frost; and spite
of their heat, and the unnatural and violent ex-
ertions they were making, it was evident by the
pricking of their ears, and the sudden crouch of
the body when a stronger blast swept over, that
the cold struck through even their hot and in-
toxicated blood.
We toiled up, leap after leap; and it seemed
miraculous to me that the now infuriated ani-
mals did not burst a blood-vessel, or crack a
sinew, with every one of those terrible springs.
The sleigh plunged on after them, stopping
dead and short at every other moment, and reel-
ing over the heavy drifts like a boat in a surging
sea. A finer crystallization had meanwhile taken
place upon the surface of the moist snow; and
the powdered particles flew almost invisibly on
the blasts of wind, filling the eyes and hair, and
cutting the skin with a sensation like the touch
of needle-points. The driver, and his maddened
but almost exhausted team, were blinded by the
glittering and whirling eddies; the cold grew
intenser every moment, the forward movement
gradually less and less; and when, with the very
last effort, apparently, we reached a spot on the
summit of the hill, which, from its exposed situ-
ation had been kept bare by the wind, the pa-
tient and persevering Whip, brought his horses
to a stand, and despaired, for the first time, of his
prospects of getting on.
[The description, which is too long to ex-
tract entire, details still severer difficulties; after
which the writer and driver mounted on the
leaders, and arrived, nearly dead with cold, at
the tavern. Such cold as is described here, how-
ever, is what is called “ an old fashioned spell,”
and occurs now but seldom.]From the New-York Evening Post of March 29, 1843.
THE FALLS OF KAATERSKILL IN WINTER,
BY THOMAS COLE.
Winter, hoary, stem and strong,
Sits the mountain crags among;
On his bleak and horrid throne,
Drift on drift the snow is piled
Into forms grotesque and wild.
Ice-ribbed precipices shed
A cold light round his grisly head ;
Clouds athwart his brows are bound,
Ever whirling round and round.
We have often heard that the Falls of Kaa-
terskill present an interesting spectacle in mid-
winter, but, despite our strong desire to visit
them, winter after winter has passed away with-
out the accomplishment of our wish, until a few
days ago, Feb. 27th, a party of ladies, who, to
do them justice, are generally more alive to the
beauties of nature than our gentlemen, invited
Mrs. C. and myself to join in this tour in search
of the (wintry) picturesque.
The preparation of our whole party was
short; but anticipated pleasure made us prompt.
The pantries were ransacked—cloaks, moccasins
and mittens were in great demand, and we were
soon glancing over the groaning snow. The
sleigh-bells rang in harmony with our spirits,
which, as usual, when we can break away from
our ordinary occupations with a clear conscience,
and breathe the fresh air, are light and gay.
On approaching the mountains we were
somewhat fearful that a snow-storm would put
an end to our journey; but it proved transitory,
and in truth, added to our enjoyment, for by
partially veiling the mountains, it gave them a
vast, visionary, and spectral appearance. The
sun which had been shorn of his beams, broke
forth in mild splendor just as we came in view
of the Mountain House, seated on the black
crags a few hundred feet above us. Leaving the
Mountain House to the left, we crossed the lesser
of the two mountain lakes; from its level breast,
now covered with snow, the mountains rose in
desolate grandeur, their steep sides bristling with
bare trees, or clad in sturdy evergreens; here
and there might be seen a silver birch, so pale
and wan that one might readily imagine that it
drew its aliment from the snow that rested round
its roots. The Clove valley, the lofty range of
the high peak and round top, which rise beyond,
as seen from the road between the Mountain
House and the Falls, are in summer grand ob-
jects ; but winter had given them a sterner cha-
racter. The mountains seemed more precipitous,
and the forms that embossed their sides more
clearly defined. The projecting mounds, the
rocky terraces, the shaggy clefts, down which the
courses of the torrents could be traced by the
gleaming ice, were exposed in the leafless forests
and clear air of winter; while across the grizzly
peaks the snowy sand was driving rapidly. There
is beauty, there is sublimity in the wintry aspect
of the mountains; but their beauty is touched
with melancholy, and their sublimity takes a
dreary tone.
Before speaking of the Kaaterskill Falls as
arrayed in their winter garb, it will be necessary,
in order to render ourselves intelligible to those
who have never visited them, to give a hasty
sketch of their appearance in summer.
There is a deep gorge in the midst of the
loftiest Catskills, which, at its upper end, is ter-
minated by a mighty wall of rock; as the spec-
tator approaches from below, he sees its craggy
and impending front rising to the height of three
hundred feet. This huge rampart is semi-circu-
lar. From the centre of the more distant or
central part of the semi-circle, like a gush of liv
ing light from Heaven, the cataract leaps, and
foaming into feathery spray, descends into r
rocky basin one hundred and eighty feet below
—thence the water flows over a platform forty
or fifty feet, and precipitates itself over another
rock eighty feet in height; then struggling and
foaming through the shattered fragments of the
mountains, and shadowed by fantastic trees, it
plunges into the gloomy depths of the valley
below. The stream is but a small one, except
when swollen by the rains and melted snows ofTHE FALLS OF KAATERSKILL IN WINTER.
spring and autumn; yet a thing of light and mo-
tion is at all times sufficient to give expression to
the scene, which is one of savage and silent
grandeur. But its semi-circular cavern or gallery
is, perhaps, the most remarkable feature of the
scene. This has been formed in the wall of rock
by the gradual crumbling away of a narrow
stratum of soft shell, that lies beneath gray rocks
of hardest texture. The gray rock now projects
sixty or seventy feet, and forms a stupendous
canopy, over which the cataract shoots; under-
neath it, if the ground were level, thousands of
men might stand. A narrow path, tolerably even,
but raised about twenty feet above the basin of
the waterfall, leads through the depth of this
arched gallery, which is about five hundred feet
long.
It is a singular, a wonderful scene, whether
viewed from above, where the stream leaps into
the tremendous gulf scooped into the very heart
of the huge mountain; or as seen from below
the second fall. The impending crags—the sha-
dowy depth of the cavern, across which darts
the cataract, that, broken into fleecy forms, is
tossed and swayed hither and thither by the
wayward wind—the sound of the water now
falling upon the ear in a loud roar, and now in
fitful, lower tones—the lonely voice—the soli-
tary song of the valley.
But to visit the scene in winter is a privilege
permitted to few, and to visit it this winter, when
the spectacle (if I may so call it) is more than
usually magnificent, and as the hunters say, more
complete than has been known for thirty years,
is indeed worthy a long pilgrimage. What a
contrast to its summer aspect! No leafy woods,
no blossoms, glittering in the sun, rejoice upon
the steeps around! Hoary winter
“ O’er forests wide has laid his hand,
“ And they are bare;
« They move and moan a spectral band,
“ Struck by despair.”
There are the overhanging rocks, the dark
browed cavern; but where the spangled cataract
fell, stands a gigantic tower of ice, reaching
from the basin of the waterfall to the very sum-
mit of the crags. From the jutting rocks that
form the canopy of which I have spoken, hang
festoons of glittering icicles. Not a drop of wa-
ter, not a gush of spray is to be seen, no sound
of many waters strikes the ear—not even as
of a gurgling rivulet or trickling rill—all is si-
lent and motionless as death; and did not the
curious eye perceive through two window-like
spaces of clear ice, the falling water, one would
be led to believe that all was bound in icy fet-
ters. But there falls the cataract, not imprisoned,
but shielded like a thing too delicate for the
blasts of winter to blow upon. It falls, too, as
in summer it falls, broken into myriads of dia-
monds, which group themselves as they descend,
into wedge-like forms, like wild fowl when tra-
versing the blue air. I have said that the tower,
or perforated column of ice reaches the whole
height of the first fall; its base rests on a field
of snow-covered ice spread over the basin and
rocky platform, that in some parts is broken into
miniature glaciers. Near the foot it is more than
thirty feet in diameter, but is somewhat narrower
above. It is in general of a milk-white color,
and curiously embossed with rich and fantastic
ornaments; about its base are numerous dome-
like forms, supported by groups of icicles. In
other parts are to be seen falling strands of
flowers, each flower ruffled by the breeze—these
were of the most transparent ice. This curious
frost-work reminded me of the tracery and icicle-
like ornament frequent in Saracenic architecture;
and I have no doubt that nature suggested such
ornament to the architect, as the most fitting for
halls where ever-flowing fountains cooled the
sultry air. Here and there, suspended from the
projecting rocks that form the eaves of the great
gallery, are groups and ranks of icicles of every
variety of size and number. Some of them are
twenty or thirty feet in length;—sparkling in tie
sunlight, they form a magnificent fringe.
The scene is striking from many points of
view; but one seemed superior to the rest. Neai
by and overhead hung a broad festoon of icicles
—a little further on another cluster of icicles of
great size, grouped with the columns all in full
sunlight, contrasting finely with the sombre cav-
ern behind. The icicles in this group appear to
be broken off midway some time ago, and from
their truncated ends numerous smaller icicles
depend—they look like gorgeous chandeliers, or
the richest pendants of a gothic cathedral—
wrought in crystal.
Beyond these icicles and the column is seen
a cluster of lesser columns and icicles, of pure
cerulean color—then come the broken rocks and
woods. The icy spears—^the majestic spears—
the impending rocks overhead—the wild valley
below with its contorted trees and drifted arrows
—the lofty mountains towering in the distance,
compose a “ wild and wondrous ” scene, where
the Ice-king
“Builds, in the starlight clear and cold,
“A palace of ice where his torrent falls,A VISIT TO THE CATSKILLS.
“ With turret and arch, and fretwork fair,
“And pillars blue as the summer air.”
We left the spot with lingering steps and
real regret, for in all probability we were never
to see these wintry glories again. The royal
architect builds but unstable structures, which,
like worldly virtues, quickly vanish in the full
light and fiery trial.
It may be asked by the curious* how the gi-
gantic cylinder of ice is formed round the water-
fall—the question is easily answered; the spray
first congeals in a circle round the foot of the
Fall, and as long as the frosts continue, this cir ■
cular wall keeps rising until it reaches the sum-
mit of the cataract, as is the case this winter;
but ordinarily, the column only rises part of the
way up. Even when imperfectly formed, it must
be strange to see the water shoot into the hollow
tube of ice fifty or one hundred feet high, and I
have no doubt it would amply repay any one foi
the fatigue and exposure to which he might be
subjected in his visit.
EXTRACTS FROM
“A VISIT TO THE CATSKILLS”
Published in the Atlantic Souvenir, 1828.
The traveller sprung from his seat into the
door way of Rip Van Winkle’s shanty, which
occupied a nook in that part of the mountain
to which the stage had arrived. A species of
wild cherry hung its ripe red fruit over a mass
of rock, variegated with lichens and moss,
through which the water of a clear spring trick-
led, and was collected in a long strip of bark;
by this rustic expedient it was conveyed to Rip’s
dwelling, and afforded an unfailing fountain.
The present Rip was not even a descendant of
the mountain sleeper, but could show the spot
from which the old man of the glen repeated
“ Rip Van Winkle,” and the very hollow where
Rip saw the “ company of odd-looking person-
ages playing at nine-pins.”
When the traveller had refreshed himself by
a draught from the cool fountain, he was con-
firmed in his resolution to “finish his journey
alone,” by an assurance that the distance to the
Pine Orchard was only two miles; but those
who have used their own limbs to bear them
over those miles, will attest that they are weari-
some ones. The road was so hedged on either
side by rocks, shrubs, pine trees and wild vines
forming a net-work almost impenetrable, that
there was no danger of wandering. The travel-
ler stopt occasionally to catch a glimpse of the
valley, through the openings in the foliage; or
to admire the mountain ash, brilliant with scarlet
clusters; he loved to gaze upon the fair face of
nature, but at length felt a strong desire to fix
his eye on the form which art has placed upon
the summit of the mountain. The windings of
the road brought him unexpectedly to the Pine
Orchard spot; and creation seemed presented in
one view, at least half the hemisphere of earth
appeared to be beneath him, varied with mourn
tain and valley, rugged hills, luxuriant fields,
towns, farm-houses, huts, mill-streams, and
creeks, (which in other lands would bear nobler
titles,) and the Hudson river, winding through
the whole extent. The mid-day- sun spread such
dazzling beams through the vast blue concave
above, that the vision of the gazer was almost
overpowered, and he turned his aching eyes, to
relieve them, upon that part of the mountain
which shuts out the prospect—there all was
wilderness. Without again venturing to do
more than cast a glance around, he mounted the
flight of steps which leads to the lofty portico
of the house; and the sudden transition from
the rudeness of mountain scenery, to the refine-
ments of an elegantly furnished apartnent, in
which, belles and beaux, decorated in the cos-
tumes of great cities, were amusing themselves,
was almost as unexpected as the extensive view
had been, when at first opened before him.”
* * * * * * *
[The traveller visits the Falls—]
And when a small boy presented himself
as a guide down the ravine, he followed with
indifference : he became, however, more animat-
ed, as he alternately slid over moss-coveredA VISIT TO THE CATSKILLS.
39
rocks, and stepped down rustic ladders, catching
for support at the almost worn-out branches
which hung over the descent. In strict obedi-
ence to the law of nature, he was intent upon
his steps, until he placed them in safety upon
the rock at the foot of the first cascade; there
he stood, it is to be fancied, in a graceful attitude,
for it was a motionless one, as he became al-
most entranced with again realizing in the wild
beauty of the scene, the animated description of
Leather-Stocking.
In the enthusiasm of the moment he repeat-
ed aloud, “ The first pitch is nigh two hundred
feet, and the water looks like flakes of driven
snow before it touches the bottom; and there
the stream gathers itself together again for a
new start, and, may be, flutters over fifty feet of
flat rock before it falls for another hundred,
when it jumps about from shelf to shelf, first
turning this way, and then turning that way,
striving to get out of the hollow, till it finally
comes to the plain.” The child who had guided
him stood listening, and bore his artless testimo-
ny to the truth of the description, by saying, “ So
it is, just like what you say.” A new object
now attracted the traveller, and he exclaimed as
he gazed at the cascade,
“ Beautiful! for on the verge,
“From side to side, beneath the glittering sun,
“ An Iris sits, amidst the unceasing shower.”
No assent was given by the still listening
guide, and in a few moments he disappeared.
The traveller now turned to the scene which
lay beneath him. The pathway of the skipping
stream was hedged by broken masses of rock,
which afforded themselves decorations, by hold-
ing earth in their crevices for the support of
large bunches of waving fern, and long stream-
ers of mountain vine. The earth on both sides
of the chasm seemed still to hold some of the
pines which belonged to it when the gap was
formed, but by such an uncertain tenure that
even an adventurous clamberer would hesitate
to seize for aid their bare projecting roots, lest
they should yield to his grasp, and carry him,
with the lofty trunks which they supported, to
the deep hollow below. A moving object ap-
peared at the bottom of the second cascade, and
the traveller might have fancied that he saw one
of Queen Mab’s subjects sporting over the mossy
stones, had he not known that our country has
not yet been favored with emigrations from
fairy land; and he was obliged to acknowledge
the earthly form of his mountain guide. Wea-
ried with standing, he now seated himself be-
neath the shelving rock, that spreads in a half
circle of fifty feet, and from which the water
takes its first leap. Stilled into a sense of his
own impotency, he breathed a praise to the
Almighty Being, who, by the union of his attri-
butes of mercy, wisdom and power, decks even
the wilderness in beauty.
* * * * * * *
MOONLIGHT SCENE.
“ Rest for an hour in his chamber prepared
him to move with quick step, when he heard a
voice exclaiming, ‘I do believe the moon is
rising.’ That was a sight not to be lost willing-
ly, and he placed himself upon a projection of
the rock near the house, that he might mark
each object as the mellow moonlight should dis-
place the gray veil. It was not a night when
the full orb was to rise in cloudless majesty, for
it was concealed by a dark mass, which no
doubt was lined with silver, but only the bright-
ening edgings were shown to mortals; he
watched impatiently for the moment when the
unobstructed light should give a new character
to the scene; when it did so, it realized more
than his fancy had ever pictured in a moonlight
prospect. The horizon was marked by the irre-
gular lines of hill and valley in the distance ;
the projections of the Catskills drew the view
to a half circle, but the only objects within it
that could be distinctly discerned were the lofty
hills and the noble Hudson; the light was not
strong enough to place in relief towns, farm-
houses or cottages. All nature seemed to sleep
beneath the soft beams, but voices from the por-
tico proved that some beings were awake, and
the traveller listened to the various sounds.
* To me,’ said a native of the Emerald Isle, ‘ the
Hudson looks like a strip of half whitened linen,
laid crooked over a great bleach ground.’ ‘ To
me,’ breathed a tone, in contrast, soft as that
which the harp of JEolus yields to zephyr,4 it re-
sembles h stream locked in the frosts of winter,
for the moonbeams seem to play upon a motion-
less surface.’ ”
*******
******
Let no American, (thought the traveller,)
leave his native land for enjoyment, when he
can view the rugged wildness of her mountains;
admire the beauty of her cultured plains, the
noble extent of her broad rivers, the expanse of
her lakes, and fearful grandeur of her cataracts;
or feel the rich blessings of her freedom.CATSKILL MOUNTAIN HOUSE.
New-York, at the foot of Liberty-street, every evening (except Saturday and
Sunday) at five o’clock for Catskill without landing, reaching the village
about daylight.
Splendid, commodious, and safe four-horse Post-coaches run to and from
the landing and the Mountain House, to meet the regular day boats. Extras
furnished at the Stage Office in Catskill at any time.
The distance from the landing to the House is twelve miles; about four
miles of which is a continuous ascent.
The road is an excellent turnpike, and there are no steeper grades upon
any part of it than are found upon any road in the country.
The coaches are all provided with brakes of improved construction, which
give the drivers complete control over the carriages, and render a descent in
them perfectly safe and easy. In proof of this it may be stated that since this
place was first visited, (more than twenty years ago,) thousands have gone and
returned in them, and not a single accident has ever occurred.
Indeed there is not a mountain in the>world whose summit can be reached
with the same ease, comfort and safety, and which, when attained, will afford
the visiter, amid the wilds of nature, such complete, ample, and satisfactory
accommodation.