Here we were among the clouds, the wind blowing freshly, and the mists sweeping past, obscuring every object below. In this wind lay our hope, and scarcely less in the mists, for they might be the means of dispersing the haze. There went a rift, a patch of blue sky—and there a bit of green mountain! Then again all was leaden, damp, and cold. We seemed to have reached the Ultima Thule, to be the sole living creatures in some far-away corner of an earth gone back to chaos and mysterious twilight. Again a break, and again appeared a stretch of dark fir-covered mountain tops, an avalanche-riven peak, a bright, green field, or a corner of some far-away blue water. This hide-and-go-seek between landscape and mist lasted some half hour, when the clouds all rolled away, and left us with bright sunlight and the most glorious view our eyes had ever rested upon. The extreme distance was still hazy, but the nearer wilderness of forest and mountain was wild and grand enough to have satisfied the most fastidious. The elder guide, who had stood some dozen times on the summit, missed the bits of Lake Champlain and some dim outlines of hills and waters that ought to have been visible, but we were quite content with the sharp ridge of the Haystack and its deep chasm, the bold and beautiful lines of the Gothic Mountains, the stern, scarred face of Moriah, the distant, still cloud-capped Dix's Peak, the pleasant valley of the Au Sable, the Camel's Hump, the Schroon Mountains, the Boreas Waters, Mud and Clear Ponds, the hills about Lake George, Mounts Seward and Sandanona, Lake Sanford, Mounts McIntire, McMartin, Golden, Whiteface, Bennet's Pond, the plains of North Elba, the Skylight, with its singular rock whence is derived its name, and an infinity of peaks of every possible form, all gathered about us as doing homage to the stately monarch, the comely and benignant giant, Tahawus.
The sun was warm, and, sheltered by a rock to screen us from the west wind, we found a single shawl all-sufficient covering. Diogenes produced from his capacious pocket sundry lemons, which, added to some maple sugar, a block of chocolate, and a few crackers, furnished a delightful repast. We had reached the top of the mountain about nine o'clock. By eleven the clouds again began to thicken, and grew so dark upon their under edges that we feared rain. McIntire had collected a murky company that threatened with the rumble of heavenly artillery. Wishing to descend the slide before a coming rain should render it slippery, we took a last look, and hastened away down the rocky slope, through the shrubby spruces, to the top of the slide, where great stones, flung down the bare, sloping rock, bounded and rebounded until they plashed into the marshy pool, one thousand feet below.
Stopping only long enough at our camp to gather up our 'traps,' and to inscribe its name, 'Tahawus,' with a tiny sketch from Elsie, and a chess problem from E. B. C., upon the 'barked' side of a spruce, we hurried down to the 'Mount Marcy stream,' over the Bartlett Mountain, on to the Upper Pond. The thunder rumbled all around us, and we had several light showers. Just as we reached the lake, the storm burst in all its fury. By the aid of our shawls and umbrellas we managed to keep dry until a lull came and we could row to the bark shanties, where we purposed passing the night. It was only half past three, and we might have returned to the 'Flats' that evening, but we did not care to walk through the wet woods in the rain, and, besides, desired a still further acquaintance with the beautiful Upper Pond.
The three bark huts on the shore of the lake had been recently erected and used by a hunting and fishing party. They proved perfectly water tight, and a bright fire of green logs soon dried all dampness out of our garments. Our supper that night was quite elaborate, both pork and hasty pudding entering into its composition. The rain continued to descend, and pattered softly as we disposed ourselves to rest.
That repose was sweet and unbroken, save by a characteristic 'Te-he-he,' and 'Good morning, good morning!' uttered in the high but feeble voice of the elder guide as he came to mend the decaying fire. A reference to our watches showed the hour to be but one past midnight. It must have been a profound yearning for human sympathy that had induced our courteous and considerate guide thus to awaken us. Sleep, however, soon again took up her broken threads, and so firmly reknit their ravelled edges, that the web needed the morning dew and the approaching glories of a brilliant sunrise once more to break and give freedom to the prisoned senses.
Our pioneer, who loved every peak and pond in the neighborhood with the affection of a discoverer, took advantage of the charming morning to row us all round the lake, to show us the pretty inlet with its beaver dam, and help us gather the singular leaves of the pitcher plant, and the beautiful, fragrant white water lilies riding at anchor in the lucent stream.
We soon after took up our line of march for the Lower Pond, where we found 'Uncle David,' with his sturdy wife and pretty, chubby children, awaiting our arrival. Rowing rapidly down the lake, we took our last Mount Marcy lunch beside the outlet, and, early in the afternoon, returned to the Flats. The time devoted to the excursion was thus a little over two and a half days. Going and returning we had driven six miles, rowed four miles (exclusive of our visits to the Upper Pond), and walked somewhat over twenty-one. There had been no fatigue and no difficult climbing. Indeed, it would be no very serious matter to go one day and return the next. And hence we advise all travellers in that region with sound lungs, moderate strength, and any love for forest life and magnificent scenery, to make the ascent. They will assuredly bring home with them a host of pleasant memories, and many new and enchanting pictures for that precious gallery already mentioned.
TIDINGS OF VICTORY.
When David's winning son rebelled,
They smote the traitor low,
And thought the monarch would rejoice
At riddance of his foe.
But in his chamber all alone
That kingly head was bowed,
And for the erring Absalom
His father wept aloud.
The ministers astonished stood
At such a burst of grief!
The traitor's death alone could bring
Their sovereign sure relief.
Back to their tents in sullen gloom
The faithful warriors flee;
While still he cried, 'My son! my son!
Would I had died for thee!'
My country's wilful erring sons,
Disloyal men, but brave,
Such tears of anguish now she sheds
Above the traitor's grave!
Amid the pealing notes of joy
For glorious victory won,
Is heard Columbia's piercing cry,
'O Absalom, my son!'
Ye faithful men whose crimson blood
In her defence is shed,
Upbraid her not if thus she weep
Above the guilty dead!
Her noble heart is true to you,
But generous as brave,
She mourns in royal grief apart
For those she could not save.