LETTER No. VIII.
Up the Hudson River—The Catskills—My first chipmunk—"The Rip Van Winkle"—"Sleepy Hollow"—The Mountain-House Hotel—Old Indian squaw-spirit—A snake in the grass—A painting by Holbein.
Catskill Mountains, Sept., 1885.
After a short time in New York, agreeably spent in spite of the heat, we started early one bright morning on the splendid river steamer "Albany" up the noble Hudson River. It is no part of my plan or my duty to describe the innumerable objects, historical and picturesque, which command this wonderful river. Why should I attempt to describe or even to mention points so fully and so well described elsewhere? All I aspire to record is the passing impression of whatever comes under my own notice or interests me as a rapid traveller; it would be presumption to do more.
The chief object and ultima Thule of my wanderings is that little log shanty built by my boy thousands of miles away in the heart of the Rocky Mountains—but our plan is to take in our way as much of this great country as our limited time will permit.
The point we are now sailing for is "The Catskills," about 120 miles up the river from New York. Reaching the Catskill Station early in the afternoon, we took train for the foot of the mountains, a ride of about eight miles through a richly cultivated country: every object here, even the rocks and streams and fruit-laden apple-trees, seemed strange and new to me.
At the foot of the ascent, we were met by a stage-wagon drawn by a couple of stout horses; these had to drag us for three miles and a half up the steep mountain side.
The mountain is clad with thick foliage to the summit. The sun was shining hotly, but we were protected by a canopy formed of the green leaves of trees mostly new to me. Scattered freely among them were maples decked in manifold autumn tints, several kinds of birch, and oaks with leaves differing so much in shape from any English oaks I know, that I should not have called these young saplings oaks at all but for the unmistakable large acorns with which they were laden. Then, too, there were the mountain-ash with large chocolate cones, and the lovely sumach with red berries. The mingling of this variegated foliage made for me an indescribably pleasant scene.
What has much surprised and pleased me in this, the first American wood I have seen, is the fresh, bright, spring-like greenness of the leaves, at a time when in Old England leaves are becoming sere and brown, and are rapidly falling.
We had no sooner entered the wood than I saw sitting on a rail a pretty little animal of a kind unknown to me. It was the size of a small squirrel, but without the bushy upturned tail. I had but a glimpse as it darted away; it was brown on the back, with broad black diagonal stripes, and white throat and belly. The driver told me it was a chipmunk—it may have had three inches of tail.
The road for some distance up was alive with katydids and locusts; but birds and other animals seem to be very scarce. I was told there are plenty of jack-rabbits and partridges in these woods, and occasionally a black bear is heard of.
"THE RIP VAN WINKLE."
Apart from the music of the katydids and grasshoppers there is perfect stillness; and one longs to hear the songs of birds in these pleasant places, but I never heard even "the occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker."
Halfway up the hill we came upon an old-fashioned little inn called "The Rip Van Winkle," and the stone on which Rip slept. His long sleep is regarded as a true and veritable piece of history about which there can be no question, for is not the rock still there to attest it?
Over the porch is a half-obliterated signboard representing Rip Van Winkle waking up, and underneath is the inscription,—
"O that flagon! that wicked flagon! what shall I say to Dame Winkle?"[[2]]
[2]. It should read "What excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle?"
Here it was that "from an opening between the trees" Rip "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 in its silent but majestic course." Here it is that we look down through the foliage upon "Sleepy Hollow," at least I was told so by the communicative landlord; certainly the opening does reveal a deep wood-clad valley, which looks charming, though somnolent enough to merit the title of "Sleepy Hollow;" nevertheless, Knickerbocker's "Sleepy Hollow" is certainly not here; it lies away down yonder "in the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, not far from the village of Tarrytown, in a little valley or rather lap of land among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world."
Some of us walked up the steep inclines to ease the horses, until we reached "The Mountain-House Hotel," a great place capable of holding five hundred people; but the season is over, and there are not more than thirty here now; the other hotels on the mountains are already closed. I will only say of this hostelry that it is kept in a very primitive style, and is certainly fifty years behind the age.
The view from the front, on the very edge of the cliff, looks over a semicircle of country extending for sixty miles in every direction, with the Hudson River winding like a silver streak through the very heart of it. This prospect, they tell me, is one of the most wonderful to be found in this wonderful country, but owing to haze and mist it is rarely to be seen as we saw it.
We wandered through the woods and down by the lakes for miles, but we heard not a sound of bird or beast; the dead silence is almost appalling; not even the noisy little katydids get so far up the mountains.
These woods would be perfect if one could only say of them as Longfellow says of some of the American woods in autumn:
"The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,
Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life
Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned,
And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,
Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down
By the wayside aweary. Through the trees
The golden robin moves. The purple finch,
That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,
A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle,
And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud
From cottage roofs the warbling bluebird sings."
The weather during our stay here has been perfect, the air bright and bracing; that old Indian squaw-spirit who is said to influence the weather on the "Catskills," "spreading sunshine or clouds over the landscape," was very good to us; she gave us nothing but bright sunshiny days and clear moonlight nights, a sure proof that we were welcome visitors, for it is said that when she is displeased she "would brew up clouds black as ink, sitting in the midst of them like a bottle-bellied spider in the midst of its web; and when these clouds broke, woe betide the valleys!"
We visited most of the points of interest within easy reach. There is a magnificent waterfall near the Laurel House, and many other sights which it did us good to see. The sunset one night was the most glorious I had ever beheld. "Real handsome," a Baltimorean enthusiast called it, and the full silver moon shining over the broad expanse was equally "handsome."
One morning, as I was walking along the cliff in front of the hotel, a snake nearly a yard long sprang out of the long grass under my feet, and flung itself right over the precipice; it came down flop on the hard rock thirty feet below, and then shot off into the bushes as if there was nothing the matter. The whole thing passed so rapidly that I could not distinctly note the colour of the reptile; but it seemed to be of a dark-brownish colour. I wondered if that was its usual way of going home, or if it had made the leap by mistake.
A SNAKE FLUNG ITSELF OVER THE PRECIPICE.
That snake, the little chipmunk, katydids, and sparrows, were the only samples I saw of the natural history of "The Catskills;" but it must be remembered that I only passed two days there. Even the idle Rip, however, could find but little sport for his vagabond gun, for he is said to have "trudged through woods and swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons." I was told by the landlord, who, proud of the grand position he holds as monarch of a sixty-miles' unrivalled panorama, must have told it scores of times before, that down yonder in the village of Catskill there resides a member of the Salisbury family, who possesses a family picture painted by Holbein which he regards as of priceless value. This good and loquacious old landlord is full of the history of the great valley and river in front of him, and if you have patience to listen he will tell you everything that ever happened from the time when Hendrich Hudson first discovered it to the present time.
