Letters from a Landscape Painter

by Charles Lanman

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.

A SLEEPLESS NIGHT.

I have been whiling away a little time this morning in recording a queer medley of thoughts, which occupied my mind during the tedious hours of the past night. Their cause and import I will leave you to guess.