SKETCHES OF AMERICAN LIFE AND SCENERY.

III.—MOUNTAIN WAYS.

'Lucy D——,' said Aunt Sarah Grundy, 'I really cannot conceive what you and Elsie find to entertain you in the desolate, out-of-the-way places where you are in the habit of wasting your summers. Why can you not be content with the ordinary highways, where people travel comfortably in good boats and rail cars? Why must you leave tolerably convenient hotels, regular meals, and agreeable, proper people, to bury yourself in some mountain fastness, where the inns are poor, the food plain, and the people—well! such as are totally unfit associates for two well-bred young women?'

'O auntie! auntie! we thought you called yourself a democrat!' said Elsie.

'Politically, my dear, but not socially,' was the reply.

'And a Christian!' added Lucy D——.

'I see,' continued Mrs. Grundy, 'that, by raising other issues, you hope to escape an explanation of the mystery to which I have referred.'

'A mystery indeed!' replied Lucy D——. 'The mystery of nature, of creation, of the communion of the creature with the infinitely bountiful Creator. Have you never wandered away from the beaten track, from tiresome dinners, with mercenary waiters and elaborate courses, from yawning, blasé men, and over-dressed, artificial, weakly women, and, resting upon some quiet hillside, suffered the glories of external nature to fill your soul as you drained the cup of beauty, until sunrises and sunsets, storm clouds and morning mists, broad bands of light and darksome shadows, steep mountains and curving valleys, hurrying brooks and tidal oceans, dusky pine forests and tremulous bluebells, dreamily floated before the vision, soothing care and the petty wounds inflicted by the human denizens of this nether world? I love my kind, I share their faults and follies, I pity their sorrows, and would do my utmost to succor or to soothe; but I do not understand them as I do the woods: their faces I readily forget, but never the forms of mountain crag, of noble tree, or of first spring wild flower. Among men I may be misunderstood, disliked perhaps, or, more generally, simply ignored and overlooked; but among the hills I fear no harsh, no indifferent word: each treasure of beauty breathes to me of One who knows my every heart-beat, One whom I can love without fear of wound or disenchantment. The mountain clefts have no unkind words, no fault-finding, no ridicule, no rash judgments for the sons of men. They offer clear springs, fresh fruits, and festal flowers, peace and rest and pure joy!'

'Really, Lucy,' said Aunt Sarah, 'I am not sure your rhapsody has made the mystery any plainer than before. May I not, in my turn, ask if your feelings are quite Christian? Are you not afraid you entertain a species of repulsion toward your fellow men?'

'Aunt Sarah, I nearly always feel more for them than they for me. Perhaps they hurt my vanity by overwhelming me with the sense of my own insignificance. Be that as it may, their everlasting wrangling among themselves is more than I can endure. When people begin to quarrel, even to disagree warmly, the blood rushes to my brain, and I long for a cool breeze from some piny height, a mossy seat by some calm lake, that mirrors only the blue of heaven, the measured flow of falling waters, the rustle of leaves, the hum of bees, or the song of birds.'

'You are not strong, and have grown nervous, I fear,' said Aunt Sarah. 'I can remember when you greatly enjoyed a good discussion, and never shrank from an encounter of opinions.'

'I was young then,' replied Lucy; 'I am older now, and have less confidence in my argumentative powers. I love truth as well, but doubt my capacity to lift her veil, the willingness of mortals to seek her humbly, or the certainty of their yielding to conviction, even were she bodily, in unclouded radiance, to stand before them. I hope I may always have courage sufficient to support my honest convictions, but I must confess the effort has become a painful one, and I instinctively fly all wrangling as I would the plague.'

'Do you then desire to lead an isolated life?' asked Mrs. Grundy.

'By no means,' replied Lucy. 'Duty and affection both bind me to active service in the ranks of the world, and, to return to the subject of a retired country sojourn, the freedom from gêne, the absence of hurry, the confidentiality of nature, lead us in a week to a better comprehension and appreciation of the few persons surrounding us than could be obtained in years of ordinary city acquaintance. Bricks and mortar and cut stones tend to the revelation of but few secrets, but the evening twilight, the crescent moon, the morning dawn, the forest shade, and the noonday repose are persuasive openers of hearts and weavers of sympathy. A walk with Elsie is far more to me than a solitary ramble. Then, too, the country population frequently exhibit an originality and individuality of development more often missed than found in the assimilating atmosphere of cities.'

'I should weary in a week of such a dull, sentimentalizing mode of existence,' said Aunt Sarah, with a significant shrug of her prettily drooping shoulders.

'Sentimentalizing!' cried Lucy; 'nothing can be more healthfully real, more conducive to strength and will to work, when the last red leaf has fallen, and the gray November clouds remind one that Paradise is not yet gained, and that a world of toil and strife and passion has a claim upon each mortal's earnest labor. Also, the comic side of life is by no means wanting among the hills, and many an innocent laugh is to be enjoyed with, not at, one's fellow creatures. Humor I love dearly; satire is simply hateful—filled with pain. I can always see the victim (if he only knew!) writhing and blenching beneath the bitter glances and blasting words of fiendish tormentors.'

'Yes, indeed,' said Elsie, 'many a merry evening have we spent laughing over the day's adventures. The singular coincidences and strange incongruities of American life are nowhere more strikingly exhibited than among the hills and lakes bordering the great thoroughfares of travel. Do you remember, Lucy, the transit of our friends, the foreign professor and the artist, from the Catskill Mountain House to the head of the Kauterskill Falls?'

'Can I ever forget it?'

'What transit was that, Lucy?' asked Mrs. Grundy.

'You know, Aunt Sarah, that midway up the Clove, nestled against the side of the South Mountain, is Brockett's, and two miles up the ravine, at the head of the Kauterskill Falls, stands the Laurel House, where we passed a portion of last summer. Two miles farther east is the steep brink of the Pine Orchard, crowned by the White colonnade of the Mountain House. Early one morning, a much-esteemed friend, one of our best artists, left Brockett's, and, climbing the ravine, passed our house on his way to the North Mountain, whence a sketch was desired. We had had nearly four weeks of continued rain, the brooks were full, the falls magnificent, the roads in some parts under water, and every pathway a running stream. We were daily expecting the arrival from abroad of a gentleman whom I had never seen, but who was well known to, and highly regarded by, sundry members of our family. He had written to announce his coming, but we had failed to receive his letter, and, consequently, when he, on the afternoon of the day already mentioned, arrived at the Mountain House, he found no one waiting to receive him, and no carriage to convey him to his final destination. No vehicle was to be obtained at the great caravansary, and he was vainly endeavoring to have at least a note despatched to our address, when the artist, who had meantime finished his sketch and descended the North Mountain on his way home, entered the office. He was weary from a toilsome walk under heavy trappings, but hearing a fellow mortal in distress, and partially learning the cause, his habitual kindness of heart induced him to say to the stranger that he was about to walk over to the Laurel House, and would lead the way, if he chose to follow. The professor, despairing of his ability to make any more comfortable arrangement, accepted the offer, and prepared to follow his guide.

'Our foreign visitor was a tall, athletic man, with a noble forehead and piercing black eyes. His attire was irreproachably neat, his patent-leather boots rather thin for so rough a walk, especially as he was just then much out of health, and he carried a heavy basket of fruit, which he had kindly brought from a tropical clime to give pleasure to his friends. He added to a generous and affectionate disposition profound learning in languages, science, and philosophy, and was a devoted patriot and lover of liberty. He had, however, landed in New York during the terrible riots of last summer, and had hence imbibed no very exalted idea of the orderliness of our population. He was of course totally unaware of the frank confidence placed by man in his brother man among our Northern mountains.

'When the outside door was reached, the artist paused to gather together his pointed staff, sketching box, and other traps. These implements were evidently not familiar objects in the professor's experience, as he supposed they might be part of the gear of a peddler, and hence conceived a certain distrust of his guide. The artist was tall and handsome, with a vigorous frame, a long, waving beard, a slouched hat, and garments rather the worse for much exposure to the suns, winds, and rains of a summer spent in the open air. One who did not examine the clear eyes raying the essence of truth, and the high-cut features bearing the unmistakable impress of manly honor, might perhaps have erred with the stranger, and have supposed it possible that 'the man' (as the professor invariably called his guide when he related the adventure) might be a brigand intent upon luring travellers into byways for sinister purposes. This idea was strengthened by the character of the pathway chosen by the artist as the shortest route between the two hotels. It passed through a dense forest, and was ankle deep in water. Fallen trunks lay across its sinuous track, and no sound save a twittering bird or crackling branch broke the silence of the rugged, lonely way. The active guide strode on from stone to stone, returning short answers to his companion, whose doubts began to take the form of questions as to 'the man's' knowledge of the road, and the certainty of finding the Laurel House at the end of this will-o'-the-wisp journey. Weariness from a long day's walk and work, and the dawning perception of the stranger's suspicions, were not calculated to induce a very bland frame of mind or tone of manner, and the replies received confirmed the professor's determination to keep a watchful eye upon his leader. He fell behind a few paces, and prepared his only weapon, a strong penknife, in case the enemy should suddenly turn upon him, meantime consoling himself that, should matters culminate in a hand-to-hand fight, he was rather the stouter and heavier man of the two. The thin boots had soon been saturated with water, the basket of fruit grew heavier and heavier, and the way seemed interminable. The guide, now fully awake to the absurdity of the situation, and perhaps as much provoked as amused, strode rapidly on, and, at a fork in the pathway, momentarily struck into a wrong route. He was forced to retrace a few paces, and the stranger's dismay was now complete—the way was surely lost, and a night in the damp wood the least evil to be anticipated.

'A wide meadow was soon after reached, but no sign of human habitation greeted the longing eyes of the expectant traveller. Another band of woodland was entered, and a deserted charcoal hut for a moment cheered the heart and then dashed the hopes of our weary friend. The woodland crossed, an open field and a cheery farmhouse broke upon his view. Suffering the artist to hasten on, he eagerly bent his steps to the farmhouse door, and there inquired concerning the way to the Laurel House. He was in fact rather surprised to learn that he was on the direct route, and now not far away. Narrowly escaping the fangs of a cross dog, he hurried on, and overtook the now thoroughly amused artist before the latter reached the long-expected Laurel House. That goal won, the two gentlemen entered the office, and, as the rest of the family were out walking, the professor sent to me the note already prepared at the Mountain House. Not knowing that he had himself brought it, I went into the bar room, where the first person I saw was the artist. I gave him as usual a cordial greeting, noticing his travel-stained appearance as bearing honorable evidence to a good day's work, and said I had come to order a carriage for a foreign friend just arrived at the other hotel. The artist asked a question or two, then said he presumed he had brought over the very gentleman, and, with a quizzical expression, offered to introduce me. The professor meantime had been watching the interview with some surprise. He recognized me from my resemblance to other members of my family known to him, and wondered to see 'the man' so high in my esteem. He afterward remarked that he had thought it strange that when he invited 'the man' to a joint punch at the bar counter, the stranger should have drawn forth a two shilling note, and insisted upon paying the whole scot. Night was rapidly approaching, and the artist hastened down the glen while the summer twilight might serve to illuminate the somewhat intricate way.

'Bursts of laughter greeted the comical recital of the adventure as good-naturedly given by the professor. The only drawback upon our mirth was the fear lest wet feet and over fatigue might perhaps have increased his malady.'

'You see now,' said Aunt Sarah, with an ominous shake of the head, 'if you will go to such forlorn, wild places, what may be expected to happen. Had I been in your friend's place, I should never have forgiven you for causing me such an uncomfortable, and, in one sense, dangerous walk.'

'Oh yes, you would,' cried Elsie; 'the remembrance would have added a zest to the monotony of your every-day life, you would never willingly have resigned.'

'I presume, then, Elsie, you also have had adventures?'

'Have I not?' replied Elsie; 'from the young Southerner who informed me he would like the mountains very much if the roads were not so terribly up and down, to the infuriated bull that took especial offence at my white umbrella, and came charging toward me, with flashing eyeballs, horns tearing up the sod, and hoofs threatening a leap over a low stone wall, the only barrier dividing us.'

'I suppose you call that pleasure, too!' said Aunt Sarah. 'Well, I must confess I am more mystified than ever.'

'I presume, Aunt Sarah, you could as little appreciate the attractions to be found in a walk of over twenty miles in ten hours?'

'Very well for men, my dear Elsie, but I think such excursions scarcely fitting for ladies, especially for young and pretty ones. One of Lucy's wild-goose chases, I doubt not! However, I am quite ready to listen to your experience.'

'One morning, at nine o'clock, Lucy and I left the Laurel House, intending to visit the valley of the East Kill, a fine trout stream that rises near the North Mountain, and flows into the Schoharie. The first three miles being well-known ground, we preferred to drive, but left the little carriage on the stony road to East Jewett, soon after that road branches from the main Clove stage route. The day was magnificent, and the view from the fir-garlanded sides of the Parker Mountain novel and bewitching. The North and South Mountains, Round Top, the jagged peaks bounding the Plattekill Clove, the narrow cleft of the Stony Clove, and the terraced slope of Clum's Hill swept across the horizon bathed in a soft September shimmer. A few birds were still piping, golden rods and purple asters lighted up the wayside, and luscious blackberries, large as Lawtons, hung in great clusters, from which no mortal hand had as yet plucked a single berry. There they grew all for us and the birds, and you may be sure we enjoyed this feast so lavishly spread in the wilderness. The crown of the hill passed, we left the lovely view behind, and began the descent into the valley of the East Kill. The forest growth was here dense and of various species, and the road, although solitary, apparently well worn. An ominous rustling among the trees was the only sound we heard until we again reached the open country, where a market cart, driven by a woman, assured us of some near habitation. A long, broken valley lies between the hills bordering the Schoharie, and the river range, and contains the settlements of East Jewett, Big Hollow, and Windham Centre. Near the first-named place (a scattered collection of farmhouses), we struck the East Kill, and began to follow it up toward its source. It is a clear, rapid stream, and we did not wonder the trout still loved to linger in its cool waters. On a rustic bridge we sat down and ate our simple lunch of gingerbread, crackers, plums, and almonds. The sun was in the meridian, and counselled return, but curiosity led us on to further explorations.

'The winding road crossed and re-crossed the stream. It was bordered by lofty summits, and led through many a clearing and past many a farmhouse. At one of these we met a man hiving swarms of bees. He lived below, and told us we were eight miles from Cairo, a town near the eastern foot of the Catskills. The friendly mistress of the cottage informed us that the pass at the summit was only three miles distant, and we hence concluded to return home by descending the eastern slope of the mountains, crossing the lower portion of the intervening spur, and reascending by the Mountain House road. Mountain miles are proverbial for their length, and so we found them, as we wandered on until civilization and the last good piece of road was left behind at a large steam sawmill. Our way now skirted the near hills, and passed through an upland bog of apparently interminable width. Fortunately, the last few weeks had been comparatively dry, and hence it was possible to make one's way by springing from clump to clump of rank grass, or more frequently from hurdle to hurdle, as long stretches of half-decayed branches covered the partially hidden quagmire. The air had become close, the sun hot; a dense, low growth of wood shut in the devious way; desolation and neglect marked the environs, and we were by no means sure we were on the right road. Even Lucy began to doubt the prudence and final success of the expedition. A very suspicious circumstance was the fact that this road, by which we expected to cross the mountain top, had lately made very little of an ascent.

'At length a fresh, cool breeze began to fan our cheeks, such a breeze as is never felt except upon mountain heights, and steep piles of rock rose upon our left. The road had shortly before become hard and dry, and, as it now commenced to descend, we could not doubt the summit of the pass was reached. Fine trees, however, so closely hemmed us in that we could see nothing beyond, and not until we were some distance down, did we come to an opening whence the lower country was visible, with the Berkshire hills, the river, the city of Hudson directly opposite, and Kiskatom Round Top lying to our right. We exchanged glances, for we knew something of the distance signified by this situation of landmarks. However, there was nothing to be done except to press on, which we did, down a road at first enchanting, but finally detestable, where it had been neglected, and had become the rocky bed of a stream then dry. We could fancy it in the spring, at the melting of the snows, with the wild water dashing down the steep pathway, and the white foam gleaming and glittering, as a newly risen Undine, in the sight of the astonished, far-off beholders.

'Lovely vistas over the rolling lands beneath, and up to the mountains we were leaving behind, charmed away fatigue, and made the way like fairyland. Near the first cottage we again sat down to rest and consider our route. We hoped to find some near wood road leading over the wide base of the North Mountain into the Mountain House road; but never a wood road was to be seen. On and on we walked, descending lower and lower into the valley, and coming nearer and nearer to Kiskatom Round Top. At a turn in the way we asked a party of carpenters working on a house, if this was the right route to the Mountain House tollgate. Some laughed, all stared, and one answered, 'Yes.' On and on we plodded along a dusty highway, till we reached a house by a brook, with ducks and geese, a garden filled with autumn flowers, and a pleasant old lady sitting near the door. She also opened her eyes at our question, and said the distance to the tollgate was eight miles. Eight miles to the gate, three thence up the steep mountain, and then again two to the Laurel House! This, added to the many miles we had already walked, and the lateness of the hour, was indeed alarming. She added, we might obtain fuller information at a red farmhouse to be found some distance on. Again we walked and walked, passing through a wild region, Kiskatom Round Top continually most provokingly near, the road evidently leading due east, and sinking lower and lower toward the river. At the end of two or three miles we reached the red farmhouse, and were glad to rest in a neat sitting room, with a cheerful woman and two bright, handsome children. The harvest work being nearly done, the husband was absent on a day's hunt, but the aged father was soon called in to give us the desired information. The distance to the tollgate was only two miles, and while the boy made ready the team to take us over, the honest, intelligent farmer gave us a few sketches from his life history. His daughter wished him to don his better coat, but he replied that he had never been able to think that clothes could make or unmake a gentleman. He also observed that early adversity had been the greatest boon he had ever received, as, had he never failed in his city trading projects, he never would have come to the country, or have enjoyed his present health and happiness. He was a good patriot, and eagerly asked the latest news of the war. He had also pleasant reminiscences to relate of a Carolina Senator, who, with his family, had one summer beneath his roof sought health and strength under the shadow of the Catskills.

'A lively lad and fleet team soon placed us at the gate, which the stage from the boat was just passing. The little rest and drive had greatly invigorated us, and we bravely pushed on to the summit, outstripping the heavy coach, and reaching the top of the mountain just as the red rays of the setting sun were flushing the hills with crimson. The hour was too late to risk the dark path through the wood, and we continued upon the main highway, making but one deviation down a stony road, and over Spruce Creek, until we reached the Laurel House, where the twilight was still lingering, and where we found our friends a little anxious.'

'I do not wonder,' said Aunt Sarah. 'Such vagaries are enough to keep a whole household in a chronic state of anxiety. And I really cannot see what you had gained!'

'I have only given you a simple statement of the facts,' replied Elsie; 'to know our feelings by the way, the delight we experienced, all we learned, including geography and topography, and the life and health we drank in at every step, you must take that very same walk.'

'More inscrutable mysteries!' returned Aunt Sarah.

'Yes,' said Lucy D——, 'inscrutable, and yet subtilely vivifying as the breath of their Author, the Great Architect of this glorious universe.'