A GLIMPSE OF THE ADIRONDACKS.
Lake George, Sept. —, 1876.
My Dear Friend: Not content with being told that we enjoyed our trip immensely, you demand a description—of, at least, the chief part of it. Now, an adequate description of any kind of scenery is by no means an easy thing. I have read since my return those Adventures of a Phaeton which your high praises made me promise to try. And, certainly, the author’s plan is admirably executed; his pages are fragrant with rural freshness; but can you aver that your mind carries away a single picture from his numerous descriptions? I have, as you know, the advantage over you of having visited some of the places through which he conducts the party, particularly Oxford and its vicinity; but I assure you, had I not seen old Iffley, for instance, with its church and mill, the strokes of his pen would have given me no idea of them.
Poets understand description better than other writers. Lord Byron is the greatest master of the art in our language, and, I venture to say, in any. What is their secret? To go into the least possible detail—sketching but a few bold outlines, and leaving you to contemplate, as they did. I shall make no apology, then, for following in their wake.
Well, the time we spent in the woods proper—or mountains proper, if you prefer it—was barely five days. It took us a whole day to voyage down Lake George and part of Lake Champlain, and then stage (or vehicle) it to a place with the euphonious name of Keene Flats. Lake George looked as lovely as it always does under a clear morning sky; and when the Minnehaha had finished her course, we found—something new to us—a railway station, and a train waiting to convey us to Lake Champlain. I cannot deny that the unromantic train is an improvement on the coach-ride of other days; for the old road was so absurdly bad, one had to hold on to the coach like grim death to avoid being jolted off.
The Champlain boats are all that can be desired. Besides other accommodations, they serve you with a dinner which is well worth the dollar you pay for it. The lake itself, though, makes a very poor show after the beautiful George; and on this occasion what charms it had were veiled by a thick smoke—from Canadian forests (we were told). We had not more than time for a post-prandial cigar before we reached Westport, our aquatic terminus. Landing, we found it no difficult matter to discover the stage for Keene Flats. Two men, if not three, vociferously greeted us with “Keene Flats!” “Stage for Keene Flats!” The stage we had expected to meet was not there. It ran only Tuesdays and Fridays, they said—or Mondays and Fridays, I forget which—and this was Wednesday. So we took the only one to be had, and started on a journey of some twenty-four miles, but which lasted over five hours.
The journey was broken by having to change vehicles at Elizabethtown—a strikingly pretty place, and evidently popular. The drive thus far had been through a continuous cloud of dust, and the thickest of its kind I was ever in. The remaining fourteen miles were really delightful. While evening fell softly from a cloudless sky, the scenery grew bolder and wilder. The heights on either side took a deeper blue, the woods a darker green. And presently the chill air made us wrap ourselves against it. Very long seemed the drive, and weary; but many a violet peak beguiled us with its beauty, and the large star drew our thoughts from earth, till at last, as we descended into Keene Valley, the moon rose to light us to our rest.
It was after nine o’clock when we
alighted at Washbond’s. Mine host had gone to bed, but was not slow to answer our summons; and then his wife and daughter came down to get us supper. We did justice to the repast, which was simple but well served, and in the meantime made arrangements with Trumble, the guide, whom we were fortunate in finding at home. Our beds were in a new house Washbond had just built. Everything was clean and comfortable, and I need not say we slept.