I commence this letter in the language of Leather-Stocking: “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.” Yes, everybody is acquainted with the name of these mountains, but few with their peculiarities of scenery. They are situated about eight miles from the Hudson, rise to an average elevation of thirty-eight hundred feet, and running in a straight line from north to south, cover a space of some twenty-five miles. The fertile valley on the east is as beautiful as heart could desire, watered by the Catskill, Plauterkill, and Esopus Creeks, inhabited by a sturdy Dutch yeomanry, and is the mother of those three most flourishing towns, Catskill, Saugerties, and Kingston. The upland on the west, for some thirty miles, is rugged, dreary, and thinly settled, but the winding valley of Schoharie, beyond, is possessed of a thousand charms peculiarly American. The mountains themselves are covered with dense forests, abounding in cliffs and waterfalls, and for the most part untrodden by the footsteps of men. Looking at them from the Hudson, the eye is attracted by two deep hollows, which are called “cloves.” That one nearest to the Mountain House, Catskill Clove, is distinguished for a remarkable fall, which is familiar to the world through the pen of Bryant and the pencil of Cole; but it is fast filling up with habitations of improvement, while the other, Plauterkill Clove, though yet possessing much of its original glory, is certain of the same destiny. The clove whence issues the Esopus is among the Shandaken mountains, and is not visible from the Hudson.
My nominal residence at the present time is at the mouth of Plauterkill Clove. I came into the country to study,—to forget the busy world, and give myself up entirely to the hallowing influences of nature, and oh, how many “mysteries sublime,” has she revealed to me in my journeyings among the dear, dear Catskills!
To the west, and only half a mile from, my abode, are the beautiful mountains, whose graceful outlines fade away to the north, like the waves of the sea when covered with a visible atmosphere. The nearest, and to me most beloved of these, is called South Peak. It is nearly four thousand feet in height, and covered from base to summit by one vast forest of trees, varying from eighty to a hundred feet. Like most of its brethren, it is a perfectly wild and uncultivated wilderness, richly abounding in all the interesting features of mountain scenery. Like a corner stone, it stands at the junction of the northern and western ranges of the Catskills, and as its huge form looms up against the evening sky, it inspires one with awe, as if it were the ruler of the world; and yet I have learned to love it as a friend. Its name, its image, and every tree, and shrub, and vine, which spring from its rocky bosom, can never be forgotten. I have reflected upon it when reposing in the noontide sunshine, or enveloped in clouds, when holding communion with the most holy night, when trembling under the influence of a thunder-storm, or encircled by a rainbow. It has filled my soul with images of beauty and sublimity, and made me feel the omnipotence of God.
A day and night has it just been my privilege to spend on this mountain, accompanied by a friend. We started at an early hour yesterday morning, equipped in our brown fustians, and laden with well-filled knapsacks, one of us with a hatchet in his belt, and the other with a brace of pistols. We were bound to the extreme summit of the peak, where we intended to spend the night, see the rising of the sun, and return at our leisure on the following day. But when I tell you, my friend, that our course lay right up the almost perpendicular side of the mountain, where was no path save that formed by a torrent or a bear, you will readily believe it was somewhat rare and wild. But this was what we delighted in, so we shouted “Excelsior,” and commenced the ascent. The air was excessively sultry, and the very first effort we made caused the perspiration to start most profusely; upward, upward, was our course,—now climbing through a tangled thicket, or under the spray of a cascade, and then again supporting ourselves by the roots of saplings, or scrambling under a fallen tree,—now, like the samphire gatherer, scaling a precipice, and then again clambering over a rock, or “shinning” up a hemlock tree, to reach a desired point. Our first halt was made at a singular spot called “Hunter’s Hole,” which is a spacious cavern or pit, forty feet deep and twenty wide, and approached only by a crack in the mountain sufficiently large to admit a man. There is a story connected with it worth recording. Many years ago, a farmer, residing at the foot of the mountain, having missed a favorite dog, and being anxious for his safety, called together his neighbors, and offered a reward for the safe return of his canine friend. Always ready to do a kind deed, a number of his neighbors immediately started in different directions for the hunt. A barking sound having issued from this cavern, it was discovered, and, at the bottom of it, the lost dog, which had probably fallen in while chasing a fox. “But how is he to be extricated from this hole?” was the general inquiry of the assembled hunters. Not one of all the group would venture to descend, under any circumstances; so the poor animal remained a prisoner for another night. But the next morning he was released, and by none other than a brave boy, the son of the farmer, and playmate of the dog. A large number of men were present on the occasion. A strong rope was tied around the body of the boy, and he was gently lowered down. Having reached the bottom, and by the aid of his lamp discovered that he was in a “real nice place,” the little rogue thought he would have some sport; so he continued to pull down, more rope, until he had made a coil of two hundred feet, which was bewildering enough to the crowd above; but nothing happened to him, and the dog was raised. The young hero having played his trick so well, it was generally supposed, for a long time after, that this cavern was two hundred feet in depth, and none were found sufficiently bold to venture in. The bravery of the boy, however, was eventually the cause of his death, for he was cut down by a cannon ball in the war of 1812.
The next remarkable place that we attained in our ascent was the Bear Bank, where, in the winter, may ever be found an abundance of those charming creatures. It is said that they have often, on a clear day, been seen sunning themselves, even from as far as the Hudson. We were now on a beetling precipice three hundred feet high, where, under the shadow of a huge pine, we enjoyed a slice of bread and pork, without the “fixens to match.” Instead of a dessert of strawberries and ice-cream, we were furnished by venerable dame nature with a thunder-storm. It was one that we had noticed making a great commotion in the valley below, and which, having discovered two bipeds going toward its home, the sky, seemed to have come up there to frighten us back again. But, “knowing that nature never did betray the heart that loved her,” we awaited the thunder-storm’s reply to our obstinate refusal to descend. The cloud was yet below us, but its unseen herald, a strong east wind, told us that the conflict had commenced. Presently a peal of thunder resounded through the vast profound, which caused the mountain to tremble to its deep foundation. And then followed another and another, as the storm increased, and the rain and hail poured down in floods. Thinking it safer to expose ourselves to the storm than remain under the pine, we retreated without delay, when we were suddenly enveloped in the heart of the cloud, only a few rods distant; a stroke of vivid lighting blinded us, and the towering forest monarch, even upon his proud throne, was smitten to the earth. We were in the midst of an unwritten epic poem about that time, but we could not then appreciate its beauties, for another peal of thunder, and another stroke of lightning, attracted our whole attention. Soon as these had passed, a terrible gale followed in their wake, tumbling down piles of loose rocks, and bending to the dust, as if in passion, the resisting forms of an army of trees, and a glorious rainbow spanned the mountain like that distinguishing circle around the temples of the mighty and holy, as portrayed by the painters of old. The commotion lasted for an hour, when the region of the Bear Bank became as serene as the slumber of a babe. A spirit of silent and holy prayer seemed to be brooding over that scene of marvellous loveliness, and with a shadow of thoughtfulness at our hearts we resumed our upward march.
The next place where we halted to get breath was upon a sort of peninsula, called the Eagle’s Nest, where it is said an Indian child was carried by one of those birds and cruelly destroyed, and whence the frantic mother, with the mangled body of her babe, leaped into the terrible abyss below. From this point we discovered a host of clouds assembled in council above High Peak, as if discussing the parched condition of the earth, and the speediest mode of affording relief to a still greater extent than they had done; and far away to the west, was another assembly of clouds, vieing, like sporting children, to outrun and overleap each other in their aerial amphitheatre.
After this, we surmounted another lofty cliff, celebrated for rattlesnakes. Here the rocks were literally covered with the white bones of these reptiles, slaughtered by the hunter in by-gone years, and we saw a couple that were alive. One was about four feet long, and the other half this size, which seemed to be the offspring of the old one, for, when discovered, they were playing together, like an affectionate mother with her tender child. Strange, that even in creatures, the sight of which begets in man only abhorrence and fear, should be found one of the first and most cherished principles of humanity! The law of love is indeed universal. Soon as we appeared the sport ceased, and the venomous creatures, in the twinkling of an eye, coiled themselves up in the attitude of battle. But the conflict was of short duration, and to know the result you need only look into my cabinet of curiosities.
Higher up yet was it our lot to climb. We went a little out of our course to obtain a bird’s-eye view of Shew’s Lake. In its tranquil bosom the glowing evening sky was perfectly reflected, and the silence surrounding it so profound, that we could almost hear the ripples made by a solitary wild duck, as it swam from one shore to the other in its utter loneliness. And the thought entered my mind, that, as the infant of Bethlehem was tenderly protected by the parents who watched over its slumbers, so was this exquisite lake cradled and protected in the lap of the mountains.
One sight more did we behold before reaching the summit. It was the sunset hour, and on a jutting cliff, which commanded an immense view, our eyes were delighted by a solitary deer, standing still, and looking down upon the silent void below, which was then covered with a deep purple atmosphere, causing the prospect to resemble the boundless ocean. It was the last of its race, we could not but fancy, bidding the human world good night, previous to seeking its heathery couch in a nameless ravine.
Such are some of the scenes we enjoyed in our ascent. One effort more and the long-desired eminence was attained, which was a little nearer the evening star than we had ever been before. It was now the shadowy hour of twilight, and as we were about done over with fatigue, it was not long before we had pitched our leafy tent, eaten some supper, offered up a prayer, and yielded ourselves to the embrace of sleep, “dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health.”
At midnight, a cooling breath of air having passed across my face, I was awakened from a fearful dream, which left me in a nervous and excited state of mind. A strange and solemn gloom had taken possession of my spirit, which was enhanced by the melancholy song of a neighboring hemlock grove. Our encampment having been made a little below the summit of the peak, and feeling anxious to behold the prospect at that hour from that point, I arose, without awaking my companion, and seated myself on the topmost rock, which was bare of trees and shrubs, and covered by a rich moss, softer and more beautiful than a Turkey carpet. But oh, how can I describe the scene that burst upon my enraptured vision? It was unlike anything I had ever seen before, creating a “lone, lost feeling,” which I supposed could only be realized by a wanderer in the heart of an uninhabited wilderness, or on the ocean a thousand leagues from land. Above, around, and beneath me, ay, far beneath me, were the cold, bright stars, and to the east, the “old moon with the young moon in her arms.” In the west were floating a little band of pearly clouds, which I fancied to be winged chariots from the city of the living God, and that they were crowded with children, the absent and loved of other years, who, in a frolic of blissful joy, were out upon the fields of heaven. On my left reposed the long, broad valley of the Hudson, with its cities, towns, villages, woods, hills, and plains, whose crowded highway was diminished to a narrow girdle of deep blue. To the south, hill beyond hill, field beyond field, receded to the sky, occasionally enlivened by a peaceful lake. On my right, a multitudinous array of rugged mountains lay piled up, apparently as impassable as the bottomless pit. To the north, the king of the Catskills bared his bosom to the moonlight, as if demanding and expecting the homage of the world. Such was the scene that surrounded me at that witching hour of the night, and think you, that it did not animate my spirit with new life, and expand my love for the invisible Creator of all? Oh, yes, and I longed for the timbrel of Miriam, or the harp of David, that I might sing aloud this song of praise,—“Praise the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, bless his holy name. Praise him, O earth, for he hath crowned thee with blessings numberless as the sands of ocean. Praise him, ye children of men, for he healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds. Praise him, all ye starry hosts of heaven, for he telleth your numbers and calleth you names. Praise him, ye heaven of heavens, for he commanded and ye were created. Praise ye him, all ye his angels, for he hath crowned you with immortality. Let everything that hath breath sing praises unto the Lord forever, for his manifold and infinite attributes.” The song ended, the weight upon my spirit was departed, and I sought my couch once more, and slumbered until the dawn.
We saw the sun rise, as a matter of course, which event is described in the following brief rhapsody: it will be more distinctly understood by those who are familiar with the mountain.
He comes! he comes! the “king of the bright day!” The crimson and golden clouds are parting, and he bursts on the bewildered sight! One moment more, and the whole earth rejoices in his beams; and these are not more welcome to the prince than the peasant, to the philosopher than the idiot. All, alike, are made happy by the blessed sunshine. But look! on either side and beneath the sun, what an array of new-born clouds are gathering!—like a band of cavaliers, preparing to accompany their leader on a journey. Out of the Atlantic have they just risen; at noon they will have pitched their tents on the cerulean plains of heaven; and when the hours of day are numbered, the far-off waters of the Pacific will again receive them in its cool embrace. Hark! was not that the roar of waves? No; naught but the report of thunder in the valley below. Can it be? can it be? are the two oceans coming together? God have mercy upon us! we are on a rock in the midst of an illimitable sea, and the tide is rising—rapidly. Strange! it is still as death, and yet the oceans are covered with billows. Lo! the naked masts of a Ship on fire! Now she is gone, and from her grave ascends the emblem of her fate. Yonder, as if a reef were hidden there to impede their course, the waves are struggling in despair—now leaping to the very sky, and now plunging into a deep abyss. And when they have passed the unseen enemy, how beautiful are their various evolutions, as they hasten to the distant shore! Another look, and what a change! The mists of morning are being exhaled by the sun, already the world of waters is dispersed, and in the broad valley of the Hudson, far, far beneath me, are reposing all the enchanting features of the green earth.
We descended the mountain by a circuitous route, that we might enjoy the luxury of passing through the Plauterkill Clove. The same spring that gives rise to Schoharie Creek, which is a tributary of the Mohawk, also gives rise to this wild mountain stream. In its very infancy it begins to leap and laugh with the gladness of a boy. From its source to my dwelling-place the distance is only two miles, and yet it has a fall of twenty-five hundred feet; but the remainder of its course, until it reaches the Esopus creek, is calm and peaceful, and on every side and at every turn is protected by the farm-houses of a sturdy yeomanry. The wild gorge or dell, through which it passes, abounds in waterfalls of surpassing beauty, varying from ten to a hundred and fifty feet in height, whose rocks are green with the moss of centuries, and whose brows are ever wreathed with the most exquisite of vines and flowers. There’s the Double Leap, with its almost fathomless pool, containing a hermit trout that has laughed at the angler’s skill for a score of years; the Mountain Spirit, haunted by the disembodied spirit of an Indian girl, who lost her life there while pursuing a phantom of the brain; and the Blue Bell Fall, which is forever guarded by a multitudinous array of those charming flowers. Caverns, too, and chasms are there, dark, deep, chilly, and damp, where the toad, the lizard and snake, and strange families of insects, are perpetually multiplying and actually seeming to enjoy their loathsome lives; the Black Chasm, the Gray Chasm, and the Devil’s Chamber, with perpendicular walls of twice the height of a tall mast, and with a wainscoting of pines and hemlocks, that have “braved a thousand years the battle and the breeze.” Plauterkill Clove is an eddy of the great and tumultuous world, and in itself a world of unwritten poetry, whose primitive loveliness has not yet been disfigured by the influences of mammon, and God grant that it may continue so forever. It is endeared to my heart for being a favorite haunt of solitude, and for having been consecrated by a brotherhood of friends to the pure religion of nature; and they always enter there as into a holy sanctuary. You may imagine, then, my friend, what was our mode of descending through the dell, and as to our feelings as we emerged under the open sky, they were allied to those of a pilgrim in a strange land, passing through the dim twilight of a dream-like cathedral. And now we stood upon a ledge whence could be obtained a view of the dear old mountain we were leaving behind, and as we contemplated its graceful lines and delicate hues of blueish green, we could not but admire, in the abstract, the sublimity and solemnity of its admonitions as a preacher, its faithfulness as a friend, and the grandeur of its conceptions as a poet. We reached home about noon, thankful to God for the love of nature which he has so deeply implanted in our hearts, and, as we hope, happier and better men.
