Fortunately, they had room for us. Very pleasant people. And they got us up a first-rate dinner, the most delectable feature whereof was (to me, at least) some rashers of English bacon. This and the farm itself, with its look of peace and honest toil, took me back to
long ago—to my first English home; for the pretty little parsonage where I was born was close to two farmhouses. But farm, dinner, and all were nothing to the view commanded by this spot—the most exquisite panorama of mountains it had ever been my happiness to contemplate. Facing us, as we turned to look back on the wilderness we had escaped from, was Indian Pass, the true character of which is best seen from this distance. To the left of us stood Marcy in majestic silence. Between him and the pass were the “scarpèd cliffs” of Avalanche. From south to west was a lower line of heights, apparelled in a thick blue haze. And when, an hour later, we saw the sun set along this line, the evening azure settled on the other peaks around us, and Marcy’s signal gleamed and flashed like a red star.
And here I must bid you adieu, my dear friend. However poorly I have complied with your request, it has been no small pleasure to me. I hope you will catch a fair glimpse of the Adirondacks, which is all I pretend to give. But I must add that when we three travellers got back to this dear old lake, we were unanimous in declaring that, after all we had seen, there was nothing to surpass Lake George, nor anything that would wear so well. Vale.
[87] “For he hath given his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways. In their hands they shall bear thee up, lest, perchance, thou dash thy foot against a stone.”
SIR THOMAS MORE.
A HISTORICAL ROMANCE.
FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.