Letters from a Landscape Painter

by Charles Lanman

Strange, that an immortal man, after dwelling upon such poetry, should be willing to go into a poultry yard. But why not? I should rather do this willingly, than be compelled, as I have been, and may be again, to hear a man say, after reading to him Wordsworth’s great Ode—“Why! of what use is such stuff as that? what does it prove? will it furnish a man with bread and butter? will it make the pot boil?” The people of the poultry yard have been in such glee to-day, and contributed so much to the gladness of the day, that I must pay them a passing tribute. In the first place, our old gobbler, with his retinue of turkey wives, has been on the point of bursting with pride ever since sunrise. If the Grand Sultan of Turkey (who must be the father of all turkeys) cuts the same kind of capers in the presence of his hundred ladies, that must be a great country for lean people to “laugh and grow fat.” Our ring-tailed gobbler is a feathered personification of Jack Falstaff, possessing his prominent trait of cowardice to perfection. I flourished a red handkerchief in his face this morning, and, by the way he strutted round and gobbled, you would have thought he was going to devour you. About ten minutes after this, I threw down a handful of corn, which was intended for him. While he was busy picking it up, a certain rooster stept along side and commenced picking too: the intruder, having got in the way of the gobbler, was suddenly pushed aside; whereupon the gentleman with spurs chuckled and “showed fight,” but the gobbler for a moment heeded him not. This the rooster could not bear, so he pounced upon his enemy, and whipt him without mercy, until the coward and fool ran away, with his long train of affectionate wives following behind.

The roosters, hens and chickens, which have figured in the yard to-day, would more than number a hundred, and such cackling, crowing, chuckling, and crying as they have made, was anything but a “concord of sweet sounds.” But the creatures have been happy, and it was therefore a pleasure to look at them. A young hen this morning made her first appearance with a large brood of chickens, yellow as gold, and this caused quite a sensation among the feathered husbands generally. The mother, as she rambled about, seemed to say by her pompous air, to her daughterless friends—“ar’nt they beautiful? don’t you wish you had a few?” It was also very funny to see with what looks of astonishment the youthful roosters surveyed these “infant phenomenons.” As to our ducks, and geese, and guinea hens, they have minded their business pretty well—the two former paddling about the creek and mud-puddles, and the latter “between meals” roaming at large through the orchard and garden, altogether the most beautiful and rational of the feathered tribes.

A mountaineer, who is to take this letter to the post-office, is waiting for me below, and I must close,—hoping that the country figures I have endeavored to sketch may have a tendency to make you feel a portion of that joy, which has characterized this delightful Spring Day.

SOUTH PEAK MOUNTAINS.

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.