Or you can drive into Peacock’s Grove at Barcelona—a lovely little forest of tall graceful trees, with a velvet turf from which all annoying brush has been removed. Leave your carriage, throw yourself upon the ground and drink in the ever changing beauty of the magic view; the turquoise blue of the water, of a sunny morning; the sapphire blue of a drowsy summer afternoon; the molten glory of sky and water at sunset; the slow oncoming of the solemn moon. How the trees seem to whisper to the waters as if they were talking over all they have witnessed in common; faintly comes the tinkle of a cow bell from a neighboring copse; the crows are calling to each other in the tree-tops; across the path scamper the squirrels; the bay is dotted with the boats of the fishermen; there is scarcely a ripple on the vast stretch of water before you; a heavenly peace lies on lake and shore.
Or take the drive to the wonderful “Hog’s Back.” Leaving the town behind you, commence the gradual ascent of the dark and rugged hills. Up and up, higher and higher you go, now pause and look back. The valley lies smiling before you—a lovely jewel with its setting of the marvelously blue waters behind it. You leave your carriage and horses in a hospitable farm yard and set out on foot for the “Hog’s Back.” Across a meadow or two and you come into a forest of pines and hemlocks. The wind sighs through the trees as it only sighs through such a wood; far, far off you hear the rushing of water. You go on a few steps further and suddenly you find yourself on the edge of a most frightful precipice, the descent into which is over a narrow ledge of earth thrown up by some tremendous eruption into the shape of the back of a giant hog. And such an abyss! Words can not express the awful stillness which reigns over this mighty gorge whose sides are lined with gloomy forests. Primeval solitudes could not have been more desolate. The descent is terrible, but nothing in comparison with the dizzy ascent. One draws a breath of relief when safely up once more and out from the shade of the mysterious pines into the gladness of sunlight and an open sky.
Having heard that a mile or so from the town were still to be seen traces of an old French fort, built either at the time Du Quesne cut the portage road, or during the French and Indian war, the writer drove with a friend one morning in search of the place. After many questions, directions and counter-directions, we finally found the farm upon which it was said to be located. The genial farmer to whom we stated our errand laughed and answered:
“O, yes, I’ve got all there is left of it, which ain’t much.”
He told us we could drive nearly to the spot, and led the way, walking by the carriage, while a joyful dog leaped on before. Past the farm house, barns, the orchard flaunting its magnificent red fruit, through the “back lot,” across a field perfumed with its “second crop” of red clover, we came to a rail fence almost hidden from view by young chestnut trees and the rioting wild grapevine. Thus far, and no farther, could we go in the carriage, and leaving it, we stepped over the fence chivalrously lowered by our guide, and soon saw “all there’s left of it.” Only an immense circular breastwork, with tall straight trees many, many years old growing on its top, is left of what may have been simply a supply station, a fort erected by the French against the Indians, possibly the fort where the brave Eries were massacred by the Iroquois, or going further back, it may have been the work of the mound builders.
“I can’t tell you anything about it,” said our obliging guide, “but if you want to take the trouble to go there, old Uncle Dave Cochrane will tell you all about it. He’s ninety years old, but he remembers everything, and he’ll be glad to see you and tell you all he knows.”
Being directed to Uncle Dave’s, we left the farm and drove in the opposite direction toward the lake. When about half way to Barcelona, we turned aside from the main road, and in a hollow, close by Chautauqua Creek, found an old-fashioned stuccoed house, over which the scarlet woodbine crept and clung lovingly. We could bring no one to the front door, and so the Adventurous One commenced to explore the rear of the house, and was rewarded by seeing peering over the top of the coal bin in the woodshed, an old, old man with a chisel in his hand.
“Are you Uncle David Cochrane?”
“Hey?” shouted the old gentleman.
The question was repeated, and the answer was literally bawled: