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.dt The Project Gutenberg eBook of Little Rivers by Henry Van Dyke
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LITTLE RIVERS
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.ca The noise of the falls makes constant music.
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<xxl>LITTLE RIVERS</xxl> ||A BOOK OF ESSAYS IN |PROFITABLE IDLENESS
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BY

<xl>HENRY VAN DYKE</xl>
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<s>“And suppose he take nothing, yet he enjoyeth a delightfull
walk by pleasant Rivers, in sweet Pastures, amongst odoriferous
Flowers, which gratifie his Senses, and delight his Mind; which
Contentments induce many (who affect not <i>Angling</i>) to choose
those places of pleasure for their summer Recreation and Health.”
  <sc>Col. Robert Venables</sc>, <i>The Experienc’d Angler</i>. 1662.</s>
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ILLUSTRATED
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<l>NEW YORK</l>
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
MDCCCCIV
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<i>Copyright, 1895, 1903, by Charles Scribner’s Sons</i>
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DEDICATION
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To one who wanders by my side
As cheerfully as waters glide;
Whose eyes are brown as woodland streams,
And very fair and full of dreams;
Whose heart is like a mountain spring,
Whose thoughts like merry rivers sing:
To her—my little daughter Brooke—
I dedicate this little book.
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CONTENTS
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<i>I.</i> | <i>Prelude</i> | #1#|

<i>II.</i> | <i>Little Rivers</i> | #7#|

<i>III.</i> | <i>A Leaf of Spearmint</i> | #37#|

<i>IV.</i> | <i>Ampersand</i> | #67#|

<i>V.</i> | <i>A Handful of Heather</i> | #93#|

<i>VI.</i> | <i>The Ristigouche from a Horse-Yacht</i> | #135#|

<i>VII.</i> | <i>Alpenrosen and Goat’s-Milk</i> | #165#|

<i>VIII.</i> | <i>Au Large</i> | #215#|

<i>IX.</i> | <i>Trout-Fishing in the Traun</i> | #267#|

<i>X.</i> | <i>At the Sign of the Balsam Bough</i> | #295#|

<i>XI.</i> | <i>A Song after Sundown</i> | #337#|

|<i>Index</i> | #341#|
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ILLUSTRATIONS||<s><i>From drawings by F. V. DuMond</i></s>
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<i>The noise of the falls makes constant</i> | |
<i>music</i> | Frontispiece #iv# |

        | <s>Facing page</s> |

<i>The farmers’ daughters with bare arms</i> | |
<i>and gowns tucked up</i> | #30# |

<i>The bed whereon memory loves to lie and dream</i> | #40# |

<i>Memory is a capricious and arbitrary creature</i> | #120# |

<i>Lulling and soothing the mind into a quietude</i> | #162# |

<i>The same that Titian saw</i> | #174# |

<i>The moon slips up into the sky from behind</i> | |
<i>the Eastern hills</i> | #292# |

<i>If I should ever become a dryad I should</i> | |
<i>choose to be transformed into a white birch</i> | #304# |
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PRELUDE
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AN ANGLER’S WISH IN TOWN


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<i>When tulips bloom in Union Square,
And timid breaths of vernal air
  Are wandering down the dusty town,
Like children lost in Vanity Fair;</i>

<i>When every long, unlovely row
Of westward houses stands aglow
  And leads the eyes toward sunset skies,
Beyond the hills where green trees grow;</i>

<i>Then weary is the street parade,
And weary books, and weary trade:
  I’m only wishing to go a-fishing;
For this the month of May was made.</i>

            ~~~

<i>I guess the pussy-willows now
Are creeping out on every bough
  Along the brook; and robins look
For early worms behind the plough.</i>
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<i>The thistle-birds have changed their dun
For yellow coats to match the sun;
  And in the same array of flame
The Dandelion Show’s begun.</i>

<i>The flocks of young anemones
Are dancing round the budding trees:
  Who can help wishing to go a-fishing
In days as full of joy as these?</i>

            ~~~

<i>I think the meadow-lark’s clear sound
Leaks upward slowly from the ground,
  While on the wing the bluebirds ring
Their wedding-bells to woods around:</i>

<i>The flirting chewink calls his dear
Behind the bush; and very near,
  Where water flows, where green grass grows,
Song-sparrows gently sing, “Good cheer:”</i>

<i>And, best of all, through twilight’s calm
The hermit-thrush repeats his psalm:
  How much I’m wishing to go a-fishing
In days so sweet with music’s balm!</i>

            ~~~
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<i>’Tis not a proud desire of mine;
I ask for nothing superfine;
  No heavy weight, no salmon great,
To break the record, or my line:</i>

<i>Only an idle little stream,
Whose amber waters softly gleam,
  Where I may wade, through woodland shade,
And cast the fly, and loaf, and dream:</i>

<i>Only a trout or two, to dart
From foaming pools, and try my art:
  No more I’m wishing—old-fashioned fishing,
And just a day on Nature’s heart.</i>
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1894.
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LITTLE RIVERS

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<i>“There’s no music like a little river’s. It plays the same tune
(and that’s the favourite) over and over again, and yet does not
weary of it like men fiddlers. It takes the mind out of doors;
and though we should be grateful for good houses, there is, after
all, no house like God’s out-of-doors. And lastly, sir, it quiets
a man down like saying his prayers.”</i>——
.rj
<sc>Robert Louis Stevenson</sc>: <i>Prince Otto</i>.
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LITTLE RIVERS
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A river is the most human and companionable
of all inanimate things. It has a life, a character,
a voice of its own, and is as full of good
fellowship as a sugar-maple is of sap. It can talk
in various tones, loud or low, and of many subjects,
grave and gay. Under favourable circumstances
it will even make a shift to sing, not in a
fashion that can be reduced to notes and set down
in black and white on a sheet of paper, but in a
vague, refreshing manner, and to a wandering air
that goes;

.ce
“<i>Over the hills and far away</i>.”

For real company and friendship, there is nothing
outside of the animal kingdom that is comparable
to a river.

I will admit that a very good case can be made
out in favour of some other objects of natural
affection. For example, a fair apology has been
offered by those ambitious persons who have fallen
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in love with the sea. But, after all, that is a formless
and disquieting passion. It lacks solid comfort
and mutual confidence. The sea is too big for
loving, and too uncertain. It will not fit into our
thoughts. It has no personality because it has so
many. It is a salt abstraction. You might as well
think of loving a glittering generality like “the
American woman.” One would be more to the
purpose.

Mountains are more satisfying because they are
more individual. It is possible to feel a very strong
attachment for a certain range whose outline has
grown familiar to our eyes, or a clear peak that
has looked down, day after day, upon our joys
and sorrows, moderating our passions with its calm
aspect. We come back from our travels, and the
sight of such a well-known mountain is like meeting
an old friend unchanged. But it is a one-sided
affection. The mountain is voiceless and imperturbable;
and its very loftiness and serenity sometimes
make us the more lonely.

Trees seem to come closer to our life. They are
often rooted in our richest feelings, and our sweetest
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memories, like birds, build nests in their branches.
I remember, the last time that I saw James Russell
Lowell, (only a few weeks before his musical voice
was hushed,) he walked out with me into the quiet
garden at Elmwood to say good-bye. There was
a great horse-chestnut tree beside the house, towering
above the gable, and covered with blossoms
from base to summit,—a pyramid of green supporting
a thousand smaller pyramids of white. The
poet looked up at it with his gray, pain-furrowed
face, and laid his trembling hand upon the trunk.
“I planted the nut,” said he, “from which this tree
grew. And my father was with me and showed me
how to plant it.”

Yes, there is a good deal to be said in behalf of
tree-worship; and when I recline with my friend
Tityrus beneath the shade of his favourite oak,
I consent in his devotions. But when I invite
him with me to share my orisons, or wander alone
to indulge the luxury of grateful, unlaborious
thought, my feet turn not to a tree, but to the
bank of a river, for there the musings of solitude
find a friendly accompaniment, and human intercourse
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is purified and sweetened by the flowing,
murmuring water. It is by a river that I would
choose to make love, and to revive old friendships,
and to play with the children, and to confess my
faults, and to escape from vain, selfish desires, and
to cleanse my mind from all the false and foolish
things that mar the joy and peace of living. Like
David’s hart, I pant for the water-brooks. There
is wisdom in the advice of Seneca, who says,
“Where a spring rises, or a river flows, there
should we build altars and offer sacrifices.”

The personality of a river is not to be found in
its water, nor in its bed, nor in its shore. Either
of these elements, by itself, would be nothing. Confine
the fluid contents of the noblest stream in a
walled channel of stone, and it ceases to be a
stream; it becomes what Charles Lamb calls “a
mockery of a river—a liquid artifice—a wretched
conduit.” But take away the water from the most
beautiful river-banks, and what is left? An ugly
road with none to travel it; a long, ghastly scar
on the bosom of the earth.

The life of a river, like that of a human being,
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consists in the union of soul and body, the water
and the banks. They belong together. They act
and react upon each other. The stream moulds and
makes the shore; hollowing out a bay here, and
building a long point there; alluring the little
bushes close to its side, and bending the tall slim
trees over its current; sweeping a rocky ledge
clean of everything but moss, and sending a still
lagoon full of white arrow-heads and rosy knotweed
far back into the meadow. The shore guides
and controls the stream; now detaining and now
advancing it; now bending it in a hundred sinuous
curves, and now speeding it straight as a wild-bee
on its homeward flight; here hiding the water in
a deep cleft overhung with green branches, and
there spreading it out, like a mirror framed in
daisies, to reflect the sky and the clouds; sometimes
breaking it with sudden turns and unexpected
falls into a foam of musical laughter, sometimes
soothing it into a sleepy motion like the flow of a
dream.

Is it otherwise with the men and women whom
we know and like? Does not the spirit influence
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the form, and the form affect the spirit? Can we
divide and separate them in our affections?

I am no friend to purely psychological attachments.
In some unknown future they may be satisfying,
but in the present I want your words and your
voice with your thoughts, your looks and your
gestures to interpret your feelings. The warm,
strong grasp of Greatheart’s hand is as dear to
me as the steadfast fashion of his friendships;
the lively, sparkling eyes of the master of Rudder
Grange charm me as much as the nimbleness of his
fancy; and the firm poise of the Hoosier
Schoolmaster’s shaggy head gives me new confidence in
the solidity of his views of life. I like the pure
tranquillity of Isabel’s brow as well as her—

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              “<i>most silver flow
Of subtle-pacèd counsel in distress.</i>”
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The soft cadences and turns in my lady Katrina’s
speech draw me into the humour of her gentle
judgments of men and things. The touches of
quaintness in Angelica’s dress, her folded kerchief
and smooth-parted hair, seem to partake of herself,
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and enhance my admiration for the sweet
order of her thoughts and her old-fashioned ideals
of love and duty. Even so the stream and its channel
are one life, and I cannot think of the swift,
brown flood of the Batiscan without its shadowing
primeval forests, or the crystalline current of the
Boquet without its beds of pebbles and golden sand
and grassy banks embroidered with flowers.

Every country—or at least every country that
is fit for habitation—has its own rivers; and every
river has its own quality; and it is the part of wisdom
to know and love as many as you can, seeing
each in the fairest possible light, and receiving
from each the best that it has to give. The torrents
of Norway leap down from their mountain
home with plentiful cataracts, and run brief but
glorious races to the sea. The streams of England
move smoothly through green fields and beside
ancient, sleepy towns. The Scotch rivers brawl
through the open moorland and flash along steep
Highland glens. The rivers of the Alps are born in
icy caves, from which they issue forth with furious,
turbid waters; but when their anger has been
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forgotten in the slumber of some blue lake, they
flow down more softly to see the vineyards of
France and Italy, the gray castles of Germany,
the verdant meadows of Holland. The mighty
rivers of the West roll their yellow floods through
broad valleys, or plunge down dark cañons. The
rivers of the South creep under dim arboreal archways
hung with banners of waving moss. The Delaware
and the Hudson and the Connecticut are the
children of the Catskills and the Adirondacks
and the White Mountains, cradled among the forests
of spruce and hemlock, playing through a wild
woodland youth, gathering strength from numberless
tributaries to bear their great burdens of lumber
and turn the wheels of many mills, issuing from
the hills to water a thousand farms, and
descending at last, beside new cities, to the
ancient sea.

Every river that flows is good, and has something
worthy to be loved. But those that we love
most are always the ones that we have known best,—the
stream that ran before our father’s door,
the current on which we ventured our first boat or
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cast our first fly, the brook on whose banks we
first picked the twinflower of young love. However
far we may travel, we come back to Naaman’s
state of mind: “Are not Abana and Pharpar,
rivers of Damascus, better than all the waters
of Israel?”

It is with rivers as it is with people: the greatest
are not always the most agreeable, nor the best to
live with. Diogenes must have been an uncomfortable
bedfellow: Antinoüs was bored to death in the
society of the Emperor Hadrian: and you can
imagine much better company for a walking-trip
than Napoleon Bonaparte. Semiramis was a lofty
queen, but I fancy that Ninus had more than one
bad quarter-of-an-hour with her: and in “the spacious
times of great Elizabeth” there was many a
milkmaid whom the wise man would have chosen
for his friend, before the royal red-haired virgin.
“I confess,” says the poet Cowley, “I love Littleness
almost in all things. A little convenient Estate,
a little cheerful House, a little Company, and a
very little Feast, and if I were ever to fall in Love
again, (which is a great Passion, and therefore, I
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hope, I have done with it,) it would be, I think,
with Prettiness, rather than with Majestical
Beauty. I would neither wish that my Mistress,
nor my Fortune, should be a <i>Bona Roba</i>, as <i>Homer</i>
uses to describe his Beauties, like a daughter of
great <i>Jupiter</i> for the stateliness and largeness
of her Person, but as <i>Lucretius</i> says:

.ce
<i>“Parvula, pumilio, Χαρίτων μία, tota merum sal.”</i>

Now in talking about women it is prudent to
disguise a prejudice like this, in the security of a
dead language, and to intrench it behind a fortress
of reputable authority. But in lowlier and less dangerous
matters, such as we are now concerned with,
one may dare to speak in plain English. I am all
for the little rivers. Let those who will, chant in
heroic verse the renown of Amazon and Mississippi
and Niagara, but my prose shall flow—or straggle
along at such a pace as the prosaic muse may grant
me to attain—in praise of Beaverkill and Neversink
and Swiftwater, of Saranac and Raquette and
Ausable, of Allegash and Aroostook and Moose
River. “Whene’er I take my walks abroad,” it shall
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be to trace the clear Rauma from its rise on the
<i>fjeld</i> to its rest in the <i>fjord</i>; or to follow the
Ericht and the Halladale through the heather.
The Ziller and the Salzach shall be my guides
through the Tyrol; the Rotha and the Dove shall
lead me into the heart of England. My sacrificial
flames shall be kindled with birch-bark along the
wooded stillwaters of the Penobscot and the Peribonca,
and my libations drawn from the pure current
of the Ristigouche and the Ampersand, and
my altar of remembrance shall rise upon the rocks
beside the falls of Seboomok.

I will set my affections upon rivers that are not
too great for intimacy. And if by chance any of
these little ones have also become famous, like the
Tweed and the Thames and the Arno, I at least
will praise them, because they are still at heart
little rivers.

If an open fire is, as Charles Dudley Warner
says, the eye of a room; then surely a little river
may be called the mouth, the most expressive feature,
of a landscape. It animates and enlivens the
whole scene. Even a railway journey becomes tolerable
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when the track follows the course of a running
stream.

What charming glimpses you catch from the
window as the train winds along the valley of the
French Broad from Asheville, or climbs the southern
Catskills beside the Æsopus, or slides down the
Pusterthal with the Rienz, or follows the Glommen
and the Gula from Christiania to Throndhjem.
Here is a mill with its dripping, lazy wheel, the
type of somnolent industry; and there is a white
cascade, foaming in silent pantomime as the train
clatters by; and here is a long, still pool with the
cows standing knee-deep in the water and swinging
their tails in calm indifference to the passing world;
and there is a lone fisherman sitting upon a rock,
rapt in contemplation of the point of his rod. For
a moment you become a partner of his tranquil
enterprise. You turn around, you crane your neck
to get the last sight of his motionless angle. You
do not know what kind of fish he expects to catch,
nor what species of bait he is using, but at least
you pray that he may have a bite before the train
swings around the next curve. And if perchance
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your wish is granted, and you see him gravely
draw some unknown, reluctant, shining reward of
patience from the water, you feel like swinging
your hat from the window and crying out “Good
luck!”

Little rivers seem to have the indefinable quality
that belongs to certain people in the world,—the
power of drawing attention without courting it,
the faculty of exciting interest by their very presence
and way of doing things.

The most fascinating part of a city or town is
that through which the water flows. Idlers always
choose a bridge for their place of meditation when
they can get it; and, failing that, you will find
them sitting on the edge of a quay or embankment,
with their feet hanging over the water. What a
piquant mingling of indolence and vivacity you
can enjoy by the river-side! The best point of view
in Rome, to my taste, is the Ponte San Angelo;
and in Florence or Pisa I never tire of loafing
along the Lung’ Arno. You do not know London
until you have seen it from the Thames. And you
will miss the charm of Cambridge unless you take
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a little boat and go drifting on the placid Cam,
beneath the bending trees, along the backs of the
colleges.

But the real way to know a little river is not to
glance at it here or there in the course of a hasty
journey, nor to become acquainted with it after it
has been partly civilised and spoiled by too close
contact with the works of man. You must go to
its native haunts; you must see it in youth and
freedom; you must accommodate yourself to its
pace, and give yourself to its influence, and follow
its meanderings whithersoever they may lead
you.

Now, of this pleasant pastime there are three
principal forms. You may go as a walker, taking
the river-side path, or making a way for yourself
through the tangled thickets or across the open
meadows. You may go as a sailor, launching your
light canoe on the swift current and committing
yourself for a day, or a week, or a month, to the
delightful uncertainties of a voyage through the
forest. You may go as a wader, stepping into the
stream and going down with it, through rapids and
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shallows and deeper pools, until you come to the
end of your courage and the daylight. Of these
three ways I know not which is best. But in all of
them the essential thing is that you must be willing
and glad to be led; you must take the little
river for your guide, philosopher, and friend.

And what a good guidance it gives you. How
cheerfully it lures you on into the secrets of field
and wood, and brings you acquainted with the
birds and the flowers. The stream can show you,
better than any other teacher, how nature works
her enchantments with colour and music.

Go out to the Beaver-kill

.ce
“<i>In the tassel-time of spring</i>,”

and follow its brimming waters through the budding
forests, to that corner which we call the
Painter’s Camp. See how the banks are all enamelled
with the pale hepatica, the painted trillium,
and the delicate pink-veined spring beauty. A little
later in the year, when the ferns are uncurling
their long fronds, the troops of blue and white
violets will come dancing down to the edge of the
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.pn +1
stream, and creep venturously out to the very end
of that long, moss-covered log in the water. Before
these have vanished, the yellow crow-foot and the
cinquefoil will appear, followed by the star-grass
and the loose-strife and the golden St.
John’s-wort. Then the unseen painter begins to
mix the royal colour on his palette, and the red of
the bee-balm catches your eye. If you are lucky,
you may find, in midsummer, a slender fragrant
spike of the purple-fringed orchis, and you cannot
help finding the universal self-heal. Yellow returns
in the drooping flowers of the jewel-weed, and blue
repeats itself in the trembling hare-bells, and scarlet
is glorified in the flaming robe of the cardinal-flower.
Later still, the summer closes in a splendour
of bloom, with gentians and asters and goldenrod.

You never get so close to the birds as when you
are wading quietly down a little river, casting your
fly deftly under the branches for the wary trout,
but ever on the lookout for all the various pleasant
things that nature has to bestow upon you. Here
you shall come upon the cat-bird at her morning
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bath, and hear her sing, in a clump of pussy-willows,
that low, tender, confidential song which
she keeps for the hours of domestic intimacy. The
spotted sandpiper will run along the stones before
you, crying, “<i>wet-feet, wet-feet!</i>” and bowing and
teetering in the friendliest manner, as if to show
you the way to the best pools. In the thick branches
of the hemlocks that stretch across the stream, the
tiny warblers, dressed in a hundred colours, chirp
and twitter confidingly above your head; and the
Maryland yellow-throat, flitting through the bushes
like a little gleam of sunlight, calls “<i>witchery,
witchery, witchery!</i>” That plaintive, forsaken, persistent
note, never ceasing, even in the noonday
silence, comes from the wood-pewee, drooping upon
the bough of some high tree, and complaining,
like Mariana in the moated grange, “<i>weary,
weary, wéary!</i>”

When the stream runs out into the old clearing,
or down through the pasture, you find other and
livelier birds,—the robin, with his sharp, saucy call
and breathless, merry warble; the bluebird, with
his notes of pure gladness, and the oriole, with his
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.pn +1
wild, flexible whistle; the chewink, bustling about
in the thicket, talking to his sweetheart in French,
“<i>chérie, chérie!</i>” and the song-sparrow, perched on
his favourite limb of a young maple, close beside
the water, and singing happily, through sunshine
and through rain. This is the true bird of the
brook, after all: the winged spirit of cheerfulness
and contentment, the patron saint of little rivers,
the fisherman’s friend. He seems to enter into your
sport with his good wishes, and for an hour at a
time, while you are trying every fly in your book,
from a black gnat to a white miller, to entice the
crafty old trout at the foot of the meadow-pool,
the song-sparrow, close above you, will be chanting
patience and encouragement. And when at last
success crowns your endeavour, and the parti-coloured
prize is glittering in your net, the bird on the
bough breaks out in an ecstasy of congratulation:
“<i>catch ’im, catch ’im, catch ’im; oh, what
a pretty fellow! sweet!</i>”

There are other birds that seem to have a very
different temper. The blue-jay sits high up in the
withered-pine tree, bobbing up and down, and calling
.bn 039.png
.pn +1
to his mate in a tone of affected sweetness,
“<i>salúte-her, salúte-her</i>,” but when you come in
sight he flies away with a harsh cry of “<i>thief,
thief, thief!</i>” The kingfisher, ruffling his crest in
solitary pride on the end of a dead branch, darts
down the stream at your approach, winding up
his reel angrily as if he despised you for interrupting
his fishing. And the cat-bird, that sang so
charmingly while she thought herself unobserved,
now tries to scare you away by screaming “<i>snake,
snake!</i>”

As evening draws near, and the light beneath
the trees grows yellower, and the air is full of
filmy insects out for their last dance, the voice of
the little river becomes louder and more distinct.
The true poets have often noticed this apparent
increase in the sound of flowing waters at nightfall.
Gray, in one of his letters, speaks of “hearing
the murmur of many waters not audible in the
daytime.” Wordsworth repeats the same thought
almost in the same words:

.ce 2
“<i>A soft and lulling sound is heard
Of streams inaudible by day.</i>”

.bn 040.png
.pn +1
And Tennyson, in the valley of Cauteretz, tells of
the river

.ce
“<i>Deepening his voice with deepening of the night.</i>”

It is in this mystical hour that you will hear the
most celestial and entrancing of all bird-notes, the
songs of the thrushes,—the hermit, and the wood-thrush,
and the veery. Sometimes, but not often,
you will see the singers. I remember once, at the
close of a beautiful day’s fishing on the Swiftwater,
I came out, just after sunset, into a little open space
in an elbow of the stream. It was still early spring,
and the leaves were tiny. On the top of a small
sumac, not thirty feet away from me, sat a veery.
I could see the pointed spots upon his breast, the
swelling of his white throat, and the sparkle of his
eyes, as he poured his whole heart into a long
liquid chant, the clear notes rising and falling,
echoing and interlacing in endless curves of sound,

.ce
“<i>Orb within orb, intricate, wonderful.</i>”

Other bird-songs can be translated into words, but
not this. There is no interpretation. It is music,—as
Sidney Lanier defines it,—

.ce
“<i>Love in search of a word.</i>”

.bn 041.png
.pn +1

But it is not only to the real life of birds and
flowers that the little rivers introduce you. They
lead you often into familiarity with human nature
in undress, rejoicing in the liberty of old clothes,
or of none at all. People do not mince along the
banks of streams in patent-leather shoes or crepitating
silks. Corduroy and home-spun and flannel
are the stuffs that suit this region; and the frequenters
of these paths go their natural gaits, in
calf-skin or rubber boots, or bare-footed. The girdle
of conventionality is laid aside, and the skirts
rise with the spirits.

A stream that flows through a country of upland
farms will show you many a pretty bit of
<i>genre</i> painting. Here is the laundry-pool at the
foot of the kitchen garden, and the tubs are set
upon a few planks close to the water, and the
farmer’s daughters, with bare arms and gowns
tucked up, are wringing out the clothes. Do you
remember what happened to Ralph Peden in <i>The
Lilac Sunbonnet</i> when he came on a scene like this?
He tumbled at once into love with Winsome Charteris,—and
far over his head.
.bn 042.png
.pn +1

And what a pleasant thing it is to see a little
country lad riding one of the plough-horses to
water, thumping his naked heels against the ribs
of his stolid steed, and pulling hard on the halter
as if it were the bridle of Bucephalus! Or perhaps
it is a riotous company of boys that have come
down to the old swimming-hole, and are now splashing
and gambolling through the water like a drove
of white seals very much sun-burned. You had
hoped to catch a goodly trout in that hole, but
what of that? The sight of a harmless hour of
mirth is better than a fish, any day.

Possibly you will overtake another fisherman on
the stream. It may be one of those fabulous countrymen,
with long cedar poles and bed-cord lines,
who are commonly reported to catch such enormous
strings of fish, but who rarely, so far as my
observation goes, do anything more than fill their
pockets with fingerlings. The trained angler, who
uses the finest tackle, and drops his fly on the water
as accurately as Henry James places a word in a
story, is the man who takes the most and the largest
fish in the long run. Perhaps the fisherman ahead
of you is such an one,—a man whom you have
known in town as a lawyer or a doctor, a merchant
or a preacher, going about his business in the
hideous respectability of a high silk hat and a long
black coat. How good it is to see him now in the
freedom of a flannel shirt and a broad-brimmed
gray felt with flies stuck around the band.

.bn 043.png

.il fn=p030.jpg w=322px
.ca The farmer’s daughters with bare arms and gowns tucked up.

.bn 044.png
// [Blank Page]
.bn 045.png
.pn +1

In Professor John Wilson’s <i>Essays Critical and
Imaginative</i>, there is a brilliant description of a
bishop fishing, which I am sure is drawn from the
life: “Thus a bishop, sans wig and petticoat, in
a hairy cap, black jacket, corduroy breeches and
leathern leggins, creel on back and rod in hand,
sallying from his palace, impatient to reach a
famous salmon-cast ere the sun leave his cloud,
... appears not only a pillar of his church,
but of his kind, and in such a costume is manifestly
on the high road to Canterbury and the
Kingdom-Come.” I have had the good luck to see
quite a number of bishops, parochial and diocesan,
in that style, and the vision has always dissolved
my doubts in regard to the validity of their claim
to the true apostolic succession.
.bn 046.png
.pn +1

Men’s “little ways” are usually more interesting,
and often more instructive than their grand manners.
When they are off guard, they frequently
show to better advantage than when they are on
parade. I get more pleasure out of Boswell’s
<i>Johnson</i> than I do out of <i>Rasselas</i> or <i>The Rambler</i>.
The <i>Little Flowers of St. Francis</i> appear to
me far more precious than the most learned German
and French analyses of his character. There
is a passage in Jonathan Edwards’ <i>Personal Narrative</i>,
about a certain walk that he took in the
fields near his father’s house, and the blossoming
of the flowers in the spring, which I would not
exchange for the whole of his dissertation <i>On the
Freedom of the Will</i>. And the very best thing of
Charles Darwin’s that I know is a bit from a letter
to his wife: “At last I fell asleep,” says he,
“on the grass, and awoke with a chorus of birds
singing around me, and squirrels running up the
tree, and some woodpeckers laughing; and it was
as pleasant and rural a scene as ever I saw; and I
did not care one penny how any of the birds or
beasts had been formed.”
.bn 047.png
.pn +1

Little rivers have small responsibilities. They
are not expected to bear huge navies on their
breast or supply a hundred-thousand horse-power
to the factories of a monstrous town. Neither do
you come to them hoping to draw out Leviathan
with a hook. It is enough if they run a harmless,
amiable course, and keep the groves and fields
green and fresh along their banks, and offer a
happy alternation of nimble rapids and quiet
pools,

.ce 2
“<i>With here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling.</i>”

When you set out to explore one of these minor
streams in your canoe, you have no intention of
epoch-making discoveries, or thrilling and world-famous
adventures. You float placidly down the
long stillwaters, and make your way patiently
through the tangle of fallen trees that block the
stream, and run the smaller falls, and carry your
boat around the larger ones, with no loftier ambition
than to reach a good camp-ground before
dark and to pass the intervening hours pleasantly,
.bn 048.png
.pn +1
“without offence to God or man.” It is an agreeable
and advantageous frame of mind for one who
has done his fair share of work in the world, and
is not inclined to grumble at his wages. There are
few moods in which we are more susceptible of
gentle instruction; and I suspect there are many
tempers and attitudes, often called virtuous, in
which the human spirit appears to less advantage
in the sight of Heaven.

It is not required of every man and woman to
be, or to do, something great; most of us must content
ourselves with taking small parts in the chorus.
Shall we have no little lyrics because Homer and
Dante have written epics? And because we have
heard the great organ at Freiburg, shall the sound
of Kathi’s zither in the alpine hut please us no more?
Even those who have greatness thrust upon them
will do well to lay the burden down now and then,
and congratulate themselves that they are not altogether
answerable for the conduct of the universe,
or at least not all the time. “I reckon,” said a cowboy
to me one day, as we were riding through the
Bad Lands of Dakota, “there’s some one bigger
.bn 049.png
.pn +1
than me, running this outfit. He can ’tend to it
well enough, while I smoke my pipe after the
round-up.”

There is such a thing as taking ourselves and the
world too seriously, or at any rate too anxiously.
Half of the secular unrest and dismal, profane sadness
of modern society comes from the vain idea
that every man is bound to be a critic of life, and
to let no day pass without finding some fault with
the general order of things, or projecting some
plan for its improvement. And the other half
comes from the greedy notion that a man’s life
does consist, after all, in the abundance of the
things that he possesses, and that it is somehow
or other more respectable and pious to be always
at work making a larger living, than it is to lie
on your back in the green pastures and beside the
still waters, and thank God that you are alive.

Come, then, my gentle reader, (for by this time
you have discovered that this chapter is only a
preface in disguise,—a declaration of principles
or the want of them, an apology or a defence, as
you choose to take it,) and if we are agreed, let
.bn 050.png
.pn 36
us walk together; but if not, let us part here without
ill-will.

You shall not be deceived in this book. It is
nothing but a handful of rustic variations on the
old tune of “Rest and be thankful,” a record of
unconventional travel, a pilgrim’s scrip with a few
bits of blue-sky philosophy in it. There is, so far
as I know, very little useful information and absolutely
no criticism of the universe to be found in
this volume. So if you are what Izaak Walton calls
“a severe, sour-complexioned man,” you would better
carry it back to the bookseller, and get your
money again, if he will give it to you, and go your
way rejoicing after your own melancholy fashion.

But if you care for plain pleasures, and informal
company, and friendly observations on men
and things, (and a few true fish-stories,) then perhaps
you may find something here not unworthy
your perusal. And so I wish that your winter fire
may burn clear and bright while you read these
pages; and that the summer days may be fair, and
the fish may rise merrily to your fly, whenever you
follow one of these little rivers.

1895.
.pb
.bn 051.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.ce
A LEAF OF SPEARMINT
.ce
RECOLLECTIONS OF A BOY AND A ROD
.bn 052.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.ll -4
.in +4
.ti 0
“<i>It puzzles me now, that I remember all these young impressions so,
because I took no heed of them at the time whatever; and yet they
come upon me bright, when nothing else is evident in the gray fog
of experience.</i>”——
.rj
<sc>R. D. Blackmore</sc>: <i>Lorna Doone</i>.
.in
.ll
.bn 053.png
.pn 39
.sp 4
.h2
A LEAF OF SPEARMINT
.sp 2
Of all the faculties of the human mind, memory
is the one that is most easily “led by the nose.”
There is a secret power in the sense of smell which
draws the mind backward into the pleasant land
of old times.

If you could paint a picture of Memory, in the
symbolical manner of Quarles’s <i>Emblems</i>, it should
represent a man travelling the highway with a
dusty pack upon his shoulders, and stooping to
draw in a long, sweet breath from the small, deep-red,
golden-hearted flowers of an old-fashioned
rose-tree straggling through the fence of a neglected
garden. Or perhaps, for a choice of emblems,
you would better take a yet more homely and
familiar scent: the cool fragrance of lilacs drifting
through the June morning from the old bush
that stands between the kitchen door and the well;
the warm layer of pungent, aromatic air that floats
.bn 054.png
.pn +1
over the tansy-bed in a still July noon; the drowsy
dew of odour that falls from the big balm-of-Gilead
tree by the roadside as you are driving
homeward through the twilight of August; or,
best of all, the clean, spicy, unexpected, unmistakable
smell of a bed of spearmint—that is the
bed whereon Memory loves to lie and dream!

Why not choose mint as the symbol of remembrance?
It is the true spice-tree of our Northern
clime, the myrrh and frankincense of the land of
lingering snow. When its perfume rises, the shrines
of the past are unveiled, and the magical rites of
reminiscence begin.
.sp 2
.ce
I.
.sp 1
You are fishing down the Swiftwater in the early
Spring. In a shallow pool, which the drought of
summer will soon change into dry land, you see
the pale-green shoots of a little plant thrusting
themselves up between the pebbles, and just beginning
to overtop the falling water. You pluck a
leaf of it as you turn out of the stream to find a
comfortable place for lunch, and, rolling it between
your fingers to see whether it smells like a
good salad for your bread and cheese, you discover
suddenly that it is new mint. For the rest
of that day you are bewitched; you follow a stream
that runs through the country of Auld Lang Syne,
and fill your creel with the recollections of a boy
and a rod.
.bn 055.png

.il fn=p040.jpg w=328px
.ca The bed whereon memory loves to lie and dream.

.bn 056.png
// [Blank Page]
.bn 057.png
.pn 41

And yet, strangely enough, you cannot recall
the boy himself at all distinctly. There is only the
faintest image of him on the endless roll of films
that has been wound through your mental camera:
and in the very spots where his small figure should
appear, it seems as if the pictures were always
light-struck. Just a blur, and the dim outline of
a new cap, or a well-beloved jacket with extra
pockets, or a much-hated pair of copper-toed shoes—that
is all you can see.

But the people that the boy saw, the companions
who helped or hindered him in his adventures,
the sublime and marvellous scenes among the Catskills
and the Adirondacks and the Green Mountains,
in the midst of which he lived and moved
.bn 058.png
.pn +1
and had his summer holidays—all these stand out
sharp and clear, as the “Bab Ballads” say,
.sp 1
.nf b
“<i>Photographically lined
On the tablets of your mind.</i>”
.nf-

And most vivid do these scenes and people become
when the vague and irrecoverable boy who walks
among them carries a rod over his shoulder, and
you detect the soft bulginess of wet fish about his
clothing, and perhaps the tail of a big one emerging
from his pocket. Then it seems almost as if
these were things that had really happened, and
of which you yourself were a great part.

The rod was a reward, yet not exactly of merit.
It was an instrument of education in the hand of a
father less indiscriminate than Solomon, who chose
to interpret the text in a new way, and preferred
to educate his child by encouraging him in pursuits
which were harmless and wholesome, rather than
by chastising him for practices which would likely
enough never have been thought of, if they had not
been forbidden. The boy enjoyed this kind of father
at the time, and later he came to understand, with a
.bn 059.png
.pn +1
grateful heart, that there is no richer inheritance
in all the treasury of unearned blessings.
For, after all, the love, the patience, the
kindly wisdom of a grown man who can enter into
the perplexities and turbulent impulses of a boy’s
heart, and give him cheerful companionship, and
lead him on by free and joyful ways to know and
choose the things that are pure and lovely and of
good report, make as fair an image as we can find
of that loving, patient Wisdom which must be
above us all if any good is to come out of our
childish race.

Now this was the way in which the boy came
into possession of his undreaded rod. He was by
nature and heredity one of those predestined
anglers whom Izaak Walton tersely describes as
“born so.” His earliest passion was fishing. His
favourite passage in Holy Writ was that place
where Simon Peter throws a line into the sea and
pulls out a great fish at the first cast.

But hitherto his passion had been indulged under
difficulties—with improvised apparatus of cut
poles, and flabby pieces of string, and bent pins,
.bn 060.png
.pn +1
which always failed to hold the biggest fish; or
perhaps with borrowed tackle, dangling a fat worm
in vain before the noses of the staring, supercilious
sunfish that poised themselves in the clear water
around the Lake House dock at Lake George; or,
at best, on picnic parties across the lake, marred
by the humiliating presence of nurses, and disturbed
by the obstinate refusal of old Horace, the
boatman, to believe that the boy could bait his
own hook, but sometimes crowned with the delight
of bringing home a whole basketful of yellow
perch and goggle-eyes. Of nobler sport with game
fish, like the vaulting salmon and the merry,
pugnacious trout, as yet the boy had only dreamed.
But he had heard that there were such fish in the
streams that flowed down from the mountains
around Lake George, and he was at the happy
age when he could believe anything—if it was
sufficiently interesting.

There was one little river, and only one, within
his knowledge and the reach of his short legs. It
was a tiny, lively rivulet that came out of the
woods about half a mile away from the hotel, and
.bn 061.png
.pn +1
ran down cater-cornered through a sloping meadow,
crossing the road under a flat bridge of
boards, just beyond the root-beer shop at the lower
end of the village. It seemed large enough to the
boy, and he had long had his eye upon it as a
fitting theatre for the beginning of a real angler’s
life. Those rapids, those falls, those deep, whirling
pools with beautiful foam on them like soft, white
custard, were they not such places as the trout
loved to hide in?

You can see the long hotel piazza, with the gossipy
groups of wooden chairs standing vacant in
the early afternoon; for the grown-up people are
dallying with the ultimate nuts and raisins of their
mid-day dinner. A villainous clatter of innumerable
little vegetable-dishes comes from the open
windows of the pantry as the boy steals past the
kitchen end of the house, with Horace’s lightest
bamboo pole over his shoulder, and a little brother
in skirts and short white stockings tagging along
behind him.

When they come to the five-rail fence where the
brook runs out of the field, the question is, Over
.bn 062.png
.pn +1
or under? The lowlier method seems safer for the
little brother, as well as less conspicuous for persons
who desire to avoid publicity until their enterprise
has achieved success. So they crawl beneath
a bend in the lowest rail,—only tearing one tiny
three-cornered hole in a jacket, and making some
juicy green stains on the white stockings,—and
emerge with suppressed excitement in the field of
the cloth of buttercups and daisies.

What an afternoon—how endless and yet how
swift! What perilous efforts to leap across the
foaming stream at its narrowest points; what escapes
from quagmires and possible quicksands;
what stealthy creeping through the grass to the
edge of a likely pool, and cautious dropping of
the line into an unseen depth, and patient waiting
for a bite, until the restless little brother, prowling
about below, discovers that the hook is not in
the water at all, but lying on top of a dry stone,—thereby
proving that patience is not the only
virtue—or, at least, that it does a better business
when it has a small vice of impatience in partnership
with it!
.bn 063.png
.pn +1

How tired the adventurers grow as the day wears
away; and as yet they have taken nothing! But
their strength and courage return as if by magic
when there comes a surprising twitch at the line
in a shallow, unpromising rapid, and with a jerk
of the pole a small, wiggling fish is whirled
through the air and landed thirty feet back in the
meadow.

“For pity’s sake, don’t lose him! There he is
among the roots of the blue flag.”

“I’ve got him! How cold he is—how slippery—how
pretty! Just like a piece of rainbow!”

“Do you see the red spots? Did you notice how
gamy he was, little brother; how he played? It
is a trout, for sure; a real trout, almost as long
as your hand.”

So the two lads tramp along up the stream,
chattering as if there were no rubric of silence in
the angler’s code. Presently another simple-minded
troutling falls a victim to their unpremeditated
art; and they begin already, being human, to wish
for something larger. In the very last pool that
they dare attempt—a dark hole under a steep
.bn 064.png
.pn +1
bank, where the brook issues from the woods—the
boy drags out the hoped-for prize, a splendid
trout, longer than a new lead-pencil. But he feels
sure that there must be another, even larger, in
the same place. He swings his line out carefully
over the water, and just as he is about to drop it
in, the little brother, perched on the sloping brink,
slips on the smooth pine-needles, and goes sliddering
down into the pool up to his waist. How he
weeps with dismay, and how funnily his dress
sticks to him as he crawls out! But his grief is
soon assuaged by the privilege of carrying the
trout strung on an alder twig; and it is a happy,
muddy, proud pair of urchins that climb over the
fence out of the field of triumph at the close of
the day.

What does the father say, as he meets them in
the road? Is he frowning or smiling under that
big brown beard? You cannot be quite sure. But
one thing is clear: he is as much elated over the
capture of the real trout as any one. He is ready
to deal mildly with a little irregularity for the
sake of encouraging pluck and perseverance. Before
.bn 065.png
.pn +1
the three comrades have reached the hotel, the
boy has promised faithfully never to take his little
brother off again without asking leave; and the
father has promised that the boy shall have a real
jointed fishing-rod of his own, so that he will not
need to borrow old Horace’s pole any more.

At breakfast the next morning the family are
to have a private dish; not an every-day affair of
vulgar, bony fish that nurses can catch, but trout—three
of them! But the boy looks up from the
table and sees the adored of his soul, Annie V——,
sitting at the other end of the room, and faring
on the common food of mortals. Shall she eat the
ordinary breakfast while he feasts on dainties?
Do not other sportsmen send their spoils to the
ladies whom they admire? The waiter must bring
a hot plate, and take this largest trout to Miss
V—— (Miss Annie, not her sister—make no mistake
about it).

The face of Augustus is as solemn as an ebony
idol while he plays his part of Cupid’s messenger.
The fair Annie affects surprise; she accepts the
offering rather indifferently; her curls drop down
.bn 066.png
.pn +1
over her cheeks to cover some small confusion. But
for an instant the corner of her eye catches the
boy’s sidelong glance, and she nods perceptibly,
whereupon his mother very inconsiderately calls
attention to the fact that yesterday’s escapade has
sun-burned his face dreadfully.

Beautiful Annie V——, who, among all the
unripened nymphs that played at hide-and-seek
among the maples on the hotel lawn, or waded with
white feet along the yellow beach beyond the point
of pines, flying with merry shrieks into the woods
when a boat-load of boys appeared suddenly
around the corner, or danced the lancers in the big,
bare parlours before the grown-up ball began—who
in all that joyous, innocent bevy could be
compared with you for charm or daring? How
your dark eyes sparkled, and how the long brown
ringlets tossed around your small head, when you
stood up that evening, slim and straight, and taller
by half a head than your companions, in the lamp-lit
room where the children were playing forfeits,
and said, “There is not one boy here that <i>dares</i> to
kiss <i>me</i>!” Then you ran out on the dark porch,
.bn 067.png
.pn 51
where the honeysuckle vines grew up the tall, inane
Corinthian pillars.

Did you blame the boy for following? And were
you very angry, indeed, about what happened,—until
you broke out laughing at his cravat, which
had slipped around behind his ear? That was the
first time he ever noticed how much sweeter the
honeysuckle smells at night than in the day. It
was his entrance examination in the school of nature—human
and otherwise. He felt that there was
a whole continent of newly discovered poetry within
him, and worshipped his Columbus disguised in
curls. Your boy is your true idealist, after all, although
(or perhaps because) he is still uncivilised.
.sp 2
.ce
II.
.sp 1
The arrival of the rod, in four joints, with an
extra tip, a brass reel, and the other luxuries for
which a true angler would willingly exchange the
necessaries of life, marked a new epoch in the boy’s
career. At the uplifting of that wand, as if it had
been in the hand of another Moses, the waters of
.bn 068.png
.pn +1
infancy rolled back, and the way was opened into
the promised land, whither the tyrant nurses, with
all their proud array of baby-chariots, could not
follow. The way was open, but not by any means
dry. One of the first events in the dispensation of
the rod was the purchase of a pair of high rubber
boots. Inserted in this armour of modern infantry,
and transfigured with delight, the boy clumped
through all the little rivers within a circuit of ten
miles from Caldwell, and began to learn by parental
example the yet unmastered art of complete
angling.

But because some of the streams were deep and
strong, and his legs were short and slender, and
his ambition was even taller than his boots, the
father would sometimes take him up pickaback,
and wade along carefully through the perilous
places—which are often, in this world, the very
places one longs to fish in. So, in your remembrance,
you can see the little rubber boots sticking out
under the father’s arms, and the rod projecting
over his head, and the bait dangling down unsteadily
into the deep holes, and the delighted boy
.bn 069.png
.pn +1
hooking and playing and basketing his trout high
in the air. How many of our best catches in life
are made from some one else’s shoulders!

From this summer the whole earth became to the
boy, as Tennyson describes the lotus country, “a
land of streams.” In school-days and in town he
acknowledged the sway of those mysterious and
irresistible forces which produce tops at one season,
and marbles at another, and kites at another,
and bind all boyish hearts to play mumble-the-peg
at the due time more certainly than the stars are
bound to their orbits. But when vacation came,
with its annual exodus from the city, there was
only one sign in the zodiac, and that was Pisces.

No country seemed to him tolerable without
trout, and no landscape beautiful unless enlivened
by a young river. Among what delectable mountains
did those watery guides lead his vagrant
steps, and with what curious, mixed, and sometimes
profitable company did they make him familiar!

There was one exquisite stream among the Alleghanies,
called Lycoming Creek, beside which the
family spent a summer in a decadent inn, kept by
.bn 070.png
.pn +1
a tremulous landlord who was always sitting on the
steps of the porch, and whose most memorable remark
was that he had “a misery in his stomach.”
This form of speech amused the boy, but he did
not in the least comprehend it. It was the description
of an unimaginable experience in a region
which was as yet known to him only as the seat of
pleasure. He did not understand how any one could
be miserable when he could catch trout from his
own dooryard.

The big creek, with its sharp turns from side to
side of the valley, its hemlock-shaded falls in the
gorge, and its long, still reaches in the “sugar-bottom,”
where the maple-trees grew as if in an
orchard, and the superfluity of grasshoppers made
the trout fat and dainty, was too wide to fit the
boy. But nature keeps all sizes in her stock, and
a smaller stream, called Rocky Run, came tumbling
down opposite the inn, as if made to order for
juvenile use.

How well you can follow it, through the old
pasture overgrown with alders, and up past the
broken-down mill-dam and the crumbling sluice,
.bn 071.png
.pn +1
into the mountain-cleft from which it leaps laughing!
The water, except just after a rain-storm, is
as transparent as glass—old-fashioned window-glass,
I mean, in small panes, with just a tinge of
green in it, like the air in a grove of young birches.
Twelve feet down in the narrow chasm below the
falls, where the water is full of tiny bubbles, like
Apollinaris, you can see the trout poised, with
their heads up-stream, motionless, but quivering a
little, as if they were strung on wires.

The bed of the stream has been scooped out of
the solid rock. Here and there banks of sand have
been deposited, and accumulations of loose stone
disguise the real nature of the channel. Great
boulders have been rolled down the alleyway and
left where they chanced to stick; the stream must
get around them or under them as best it can. But
there are other places where everything has been
swept clean; nothing remains but the primitive
strata, and the flowing water merrily tickles the
bare ribs of mother earth. Whirling stones, in the
spring floods, have cut well-holes in the rock, as
round and even as if they had been made with a
.bn 072.png
.pn +1
drill, and sometimes you can see the very stone that
sunk the well lying at the bottom. There are long,
straight, sloping troughs through which the water
runs like a mill-race. There are huge basins into
which the water rumbles over a ledge, as if some
one were pouring it very steadily out of a pitcher,
and from which it glides away without a ripple,
flowing over a smooth pavement of rock which
shelves down from the shallow foot to the deep
head of the pool.

The boy wonders how far he dare wade out
along that slippery floor. The water is within an
inch of his boot-tops now. But the slope seems very
even, and just beyond his reach a good fish is rising.
Only one step more, and then, like the wicked
man in the psalm, his feet begin to slide. Slowly,
and standing bolt upright, with the rod held high
above his head, as if it must on no account get
wet, he glides forward up to his neck in the ice-cold
bath, gasping with amazement. There have
been other and more serious situations in life into
which, unless I am mistaken, you have made an
equally unwilling and embarrassed entrance, and in
.bn 073.png
.pn +1
which you have been surprised to find yourself not
only up to your neck, but over,—and you are a
lucky man if you have had the presence of mind
to stand still for a moment, before wading out, and
make sure at least of the fish that tempted you
into your predicament.

But Rocky Run, they say, exists no longer. It
has been blasted by miners out of all resemblance
to itself, and bewitched into a dingy water-power
to turn wheels for the ugly giant, Trade. It is only
in the valley of remembrance that its current still
flows like liquid air; and only in that country that
you can still see the famous men who came and
went along the banks of the Lycoming when the
boy was there.

There was Collins, who was a wondrous adept at
“daping, dapping, or dibbling” with a grasshopper,
and who once brought in a string of trout
which he laid out head to tail on the grass before
the house in a line of beauty forty-seven feet long.
A mighty bass voice had this Collins also, and could
sing, “Larboard Watch, Ahoy!” “Down in a Coal-Mine,”
and other profound ditties in a way to make
.bn 074.png
.pn +1
all the glasses on the table jingle; but withal,
as you now suspect, rather a fishy character,
and undeserving of the unqualified respect
which the boy had for him. And there was Dr.
Romsen, lean, satirical, kindly, a skilful though
reluctant physician, who regarded it as a personal
injury if any one in the party fell sick in summer
time; and a passionately unsuccessful hunter, who
would sit all night in the crotch of a tree beside
an alleged deer-lick, and come home perfectly satisfied
if he had heard a hedgehog grunt. It was
he who called attention to the discrepancy between
the boy’s appetite and his size by saying loudly
at a picnic, “I wouldn’t grudge you what you eat,
my boy, if I could only see that it did you any
good,”—which remark was not forgiven until the
doctor redeemed his reputation by pronouncing a
serious medical opinion, before a council of mothers,
to the effect that it did not really hurt a boy
to get his feet wet. That was worthy of Galen
in his most inspired moment. And there was
hearty, genial Paul Merit, whose mere company
was an education in good manners, and who could
.bn 075.png
.pn +1
eat eight hard-boiled eggs for supper without
ruffling his equanimity; and the tall, thin,
grinning Major, whom an angry Irishwoman once
described as “like a comb, all back and teeth;” and
many more were the comrades of the boy’s father,
all of whom he admired, (and followed when they
would let him,) but none so much as the father
himself, because he was the wisest, kindest, and
merriest of all that merry crew, now dispersed to
the uttermost parts of the earth and beyond.

Other streams played a part in the education of
that happy boy: the Kaaterskill, where there had
been nothing but the ghosts of trout for the last
thirty years, but where the absence of fish was
almost forgotten in the joy of a first introduction
to Dickens, one very showery day, when dear old
Ned Mason built a smoky fire in a cave below
Haines’s Falls, and, pulling <i>The Old Curiosity
Shop</i> out of his pocket, read aloud about Little
Nell until the tears ran down the cheeks of reader
and listener—the smoke was so thick, you know: and
the Neversink, which flows through John Burroughs’s
country, and past one house in particular,
.bn 076.png
.pn +1
perched on a high bluff, where a very dreadful
old woman come out and throws stones at “city
fellers fishin’ through her land” (as if any one
wanted to touch her land! It was the water that
ran over it, you see, that carried the fish with it,
and they were not hers at all): and the stream at
Healing Springs, in the Virginia mountains, where
the medicinal waters flow down into a lovely wild
brook without injuring the health of the trout in
the least, and where the only drawback to the angler’s
happiness is the abundance of rattlesnakes—but
a boy does not mind such things as that; he
feels as if he were immortal. Over all these streams
memory skips lightly, and strikes a trail through
the woods to the Adirondacks, where the boy made
his first acquaintance with navigable rivers,—that
is to say, rivers which are traversed by canoes and
hunting-skiffs, but not yet defiled by steamboats,—and
slept, or rather lay awake, for the first time
on a bed of balsam-boughs in a tent.
.bn 077.png
.pn 61
.sp 2
.ce
III.
.sp 1
The promotion from all-day picnics to a two
weeks’ camping-trip is like going from school to
college. By this time a natural process of evolution
has raised the first rod to something lighter
and more flexible,—a fly-rod, so to speak, but
not a bigoted one,—just a serviceable, unprejudiced
article, not above using any kind of bait that
may be necessary to catch the fish. The father has
received the new title of “governor,” indicating not
less, but more authority, and has called in new
instructors to carry on the boy’s education: real
Adirondack guides—old Sam Dunning and one-eyed
Enos, the last and laziest of the Saranac
Indians. Better men will be discovered for later
trips, but none more amusing, and none whose
woodcraft seems more wonderful than that of this
queerly matched team, as they make the first camp
in a pelting rain-storm on the shore of Big Clear
Pond. The pitching of the tents is a lesson in
architecture, the building of the camp-fire a victory
over damp nature, and the supper of potatoes
.bn 078.png
.pn +1
and bacon and fried trout a veritable triumph of
culinary art.

At midnight the rain is pattering persistently
on the canvas; the fronts flaps are closed and tied
together; the lingering fire shines through them,
and sends vague shadows wavering up and down:
the governor is rolled up in his blankets, sound
asleep. It is a very long night for the boy.

What is that rustling noise outside the tent?
Probably some small creature, a squirrel or a rabbit.
Rabbit stew would be good for breakfast. But
it sounds louder now, almost loud enough to be a
fox,—there are no wolves left in the Adirondacks,
or at least only a very few. That is certainly quite
a heavy footstep prowling around the provision-box.
Could it be a panther,—they step very softly
for their size,—or a bear perhaps? Sam Dunning
told about catching one in a trap just below here.
(Ah, my boy, you will soon learn that there is no
spot in all the forests created by a bountiful
Providence so poor as to be without its bear story.)
Where was the rifle put? There it is, at the foot
of the tent-pole. Wonder if it is loaded?
.bn 079.png
.pn +1

“<i>Waugh-ho! Waugh-ho-o-o-o!</i>”

The boy springs from his blankets like a cat,
and peeps out between the tent-flaps. There sits
Enos, in the shelter of a leaning tree by the fire,
with his head thrown back and a bottle poised at
his mouth. His lonely eye is cocked up at a great
horned owl on the branch above him. Again the
sudden voice breaks out:

“<i>Whoo! whoo! whoo cooks for you all?</i>”

Enos puts the bottle down, with a grunt, and
creeps off to his tent.

“De debbil in dat owl,” he mutters. “How he
know I cook for dis camp? How he know ’bout dat
bottle? Ugh!”

There are hundreds of pictures that flash into
light as the boy goes on his course, year after
year, through the woods. There is the luxurious
camp on Tupper’s Lake, with its log cabins in the
spruce-grove, and its regiment of hungry men who
ate almost a deer a day; and there is the little bark
shelter on the side of Mount Marcy, where the governor
and the boy, with baskets full of trout from
the Opalescent River, are spending the night, with
.bn 080.png
.pn +1
nothing but a fire to keep them warm. There is
the North Bay at Moosehead, with Joe La Croix
(one more Frenchman who thinks he looks like
Napoleon) posing on the rocks beside his canoe,
and only reconciled by his vanity to the wasteful
pastime of taking photographs while the big fish
are rising gloriously out at the end of the point.
There is the small spring-hole beside the Saranac
River, where Pliny Robbins and the boy caught
twenty-three noble trout, weighing from one to
three pounds apiece, in the middle of a hot August
afternoon, and hid themselves in the bushes whenever
they heard a party coming down the river,
because they did not care to attract company; and
there are the Middle Falls, where the governor
stood on a long spruce log, taking two-pound fish
with the fly, and stepping out at every cast a little
nearer to the end of the log, until it slowly
tipped with him, and he settled down into the river.

Among such scenes as these the boy pursued
his education, learning many things that are not
taught in colleges; learning to take the weather
as it comes, wet or dry, and fortune as it falls,
.bn 081.png
.pn +1
good or bad; learning that a meal which is scanty
fare for one becomes a banquet for two—provided
the other is the right person; learning that there
is some skill in everything, even in digging bait,
and that what is called luck consists chiefly in having
your tackle in good order; learning that a
man can be just as happy in a log shanty as in a
brownstone mansion, and that the very best pleasures
are those that do not leave a bad taste in the
mouth. And in all this the governor was his best
teacher and his closest comrade.

Dear governor, you have gone out of the wilderness
now, and your steps will be no more beside
these remembered little rivers—no more, forever
and forever. You will not come in sight around
any bend of this clear Swiftwater stream where
you made your last cast; your cheery voice will
never again ring out through the deepening twilight
where you are lingering for your disciple to
catch up with you; he will never again hear you
call: “Hallo, my boy! What luck? Time to go
home!” But there is a river in the country where
you have gone, is there not?—a river with trees
.bn 082.png
.pn 66
growing all along it—evergreen trees; and somewhere
by those shady banks, within sound of clear
running waters, I think you will be dreaming and
waiting for your boy, if he follows the trail that
you have shown him even to the end.

1895.
.pb
.bn 083.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.ce
AMPERSAND
.bn 084.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.ll -4
.in +4
.ti 0
“<i>It is not the walking merely, it is keeping yourself in tune
for a walk, in the spiritual and bodily condition in which you can
find entertainment and exhilaration in so simple and natural a
pastime. You are eligible to any good fortune when you are in a
condition to enjoy a walk. When the air and water taste sweet to
you, how much else will taste sweet! When the exercise of your
limbs affords you pleasure, and the play of your senses upon the
various objects and shows of Nature quickens and stimulates your
spirit, your relation to the world and to yourself is what it should
be,—simple, and direct, and wholesome.</i>”——
.rj
<sc>John Burroughs</sc>: <i>Pepacton</i>.
.in
.ll
.bn 085.png
.pn 69
.sp 4
.h2
AMPERSAND
.sp 2
The right to the name of Ampersand, like the
territory of Gaul in those <i>Commentaries</i> which
Julius Cæsar wrote for the punishment of school-boys,
is divided into three parts. It belongs to a
mountain, and a lake, and a little river.

The mountain stands in the heart of the Adirondack
country, just near enough to the thoroughfare
of travel for thousands of people to see
it every year, and just far enough from the beaten
track to be unvisited except by a very few of the
wise ones, who love to turn aside. Behind the mountain
is the lake, which no lazy man has ever seen.
Out of the lake flows the stream, winding down a
long, untrodden forest valley, to join the Stony
Creek waters and empty into the Raquette River.

Which of the three Ampersands has the prior
claim to the name, I cannot tell. Philosophically
speaking, the mountain ought to be regarded as
.bn 086.png
.pn +1
the head of the family, because it was undoubtedly
there before the others. And the lake was probably
the next on the ground, because the stream is
its child. But man is not strictly just in his nomenclature;
and I conjecture that the little river,
the last-born of the three, was the first to be christened
Ampersand, and then gave its name to its
parent and grand-parent. It is such a crooked
stream, so bent and curved and twisted upon itself,
so fond of turning around unexpected corners and
sweeping away in great circles from its direct
course, that its first explorers christened it after
the eccentric supernumerary of the alphabet which
appears in the old spelling-books as <i>&</i>—and <i>per\_se</i>, and.

But in spite of this apparent subordination to
the stream in the matter of a name, the mountain
clearly asserts its natural authority. It stands up
boldly; and not only its own lake, but at least
three others, the Lower Saranac, Round Lake, and
Lonesome Pond, lie at its foot and acknowledge
its lordship. When the cloud is on its brow, they
are dark. When the sunlight strikes it, they smile.
.bn 087.png
.pn +1
Wherever you may go over the waters of these
lakes you shall see Mount Ampersand looking
down at you, and saying quietly, “This is my
domain.”

I never look at a mountain which asserts itself
in this fashion without desiring to stand on the
top of it. If one can reach the summit, one becomes
a sharer in the dominion. The difficulties in the
way only add to the zest of the victory. Every
mountain is, rightly considered, an invitation to
climb. And as I was resting for a month one summer
at Bartlett’s, Ampersand challenged me daily.

Did you know Bartlett’s in its palmy time? It
was the homeliest, quaintest, coziest place in the
Adirondacks. Away back in the <i>ante-bellum</i> days
Virgil Bartlett had come into the woods, and built
his house on the bank of the Saranac River, between
the Upper Saranac and Round Lake. It was
then the only dwelling within a circle of many
miles. The deer and bear were in the majority. At
night one could sometimes hear the scream of the
panther or the howling of wolves. But soon the
wilderness began to wear the traces of a conventional
.bn 088.png
.pn +1
smile. The desert blossomed a little—if not as the
rose, at least as the gilly-flower. Fields were
cleared, gardens planted; half a dozen log cabins
were scattered along the river; and the old house,
having grown slowly and somewhat irregularly for
twenty years, came out, just before the time of
which I write, in a modest coat of paint and a
broad-brimmed piazza. But Virgil himself, the
creator of the oasis—well known of hunters and
fishermen, dreaded of lazy guides and quarrelsome
lumbermen,—“Virge,” the irascible, kind-hearted,
indefatigable, was there no longer. He had made
his last clearing, and fought his last fight; done
his last favour to a friend, and thrown his last
adversary out of the tavern door. His last log had
gone down the river. His camp-fire had burned
out. Peace to his ashes. His wife, who had often
played the part of Abigail toward travellers who
had unconsciously incurred the old man’s mistrust,
now reigned in his stead; and there was great
abundance of maple-syrup on every man’s flapjack.

The charm of Bartlett’s for the angler was the
stretch of rapid water in front of the house. The
.bn 089.png
.pn +1
Saranac River, breaking from its first resting-place
in the Upper Lake, plunged down through
a great bed of rocks, making a chain of short falls
and pools and rapids, about half a mile in length.
Here, in the spring and early summer, the speckled
trout—brightest and daintiest of all fish that swim—used
to be found in great numbers. As the season
advanced, they moved away into the deep
water of the lakes. But there were always a few
stragglers left, and I have taken them in the
rapids at the very end of August. What could be
more delightful than to spend an hour or two, in
the early morning or evening of a hot day, in wading
this rushing stream, and casting the fly on its
clear waters? The wind blows softly down the narrow
valley, and the trees nod from the rocks above
you. The noise of the falls makes constant music
in your ears. The river hurries past you, and yet
it is never gone.

The same foam-flakes seem to be always gliding
downward, the same spray dashing over the stones,
the same eddy coiling at the edge of the pool. Send
your fly in under those cedar branches, where the
.bn 090.png
.pn +1
water swirls around by that old log. Now draw
it up toward the foam. There is a sudden gleam
of dull gold in the white water. You strike too
soon. Your line comes back to you. In a current
like this, a fish will almost always hook himself.
Try it again. This time he takes the fly fairly,
and you have him. It is a good fish, and he makes
the slender rod bend to the strain. He sulks for a
moment as if uncertain what to do, and then with
a rush darts into the swiftest part of the current.
You can never stop him there. Let him go. Keep
just enough pressure on him to hold the hook firm,
and follow his troutship down the stream as if he
were a salmon. He slides over a little fall, gleaming
through the foam, and swings around in the
next pool. Here you can manage him more easily;
and after a few minutes’ brilliant play, a few mad
dashes for the current, he comes to the net, and
your skilful guide lands him with a quick, steady
sweep of the arm. The scales credit him with an
even pound, and a better fish than this you will
hardly take here in midsummer.

“On my word, master,” says the appreciative
.bn 091.png
.pn +1
Venator, in Walton’s <i>Angler</i>, “this is a gallant
trout; what shall we do with him?” And honest
Piscator, replies: “Marry! e’en eat him to supper;
we’ll go to my hostess from whence we came; she
told me, as I was going out of door, that my
brother Peter, [and who is this but Romeyn of
Keeseville?] a good angler and a cheerful companion,
had sent word he would lodge there to-night,
and bring a friend with him. My hostess
has two beds, <i>and I know you and I have the best</i>;
we’ll rejoice with my brother Peter and his friend,
tell tales, or sing ballads, or make a catch, or find
some harmless sport to content us, and pass away
a little time without offence to God or man.”

Ampersand waited immovable while I passed
many days in such innocent and healthful pleasures
as these, until the right day came for the
ascent. Cool, clean, and bright, the crystal morning
promised a glorious noon, and the mountain
almost seemed to beckon us to come up higher.
The photographic camera and a trustworthy lunch
were stowed away in the pack-basket. The backboard
was adjusted at a comfortable angle in the
.bn 092.png
.pn +1
stern seat of our little boat. The guide held the
little craft steady while I stepped into my place;
then he pushed out into the stream, and we went
swiftly down toward Round Lake.

A Saranac boat is one of the finest things that the
skill of man has ever produced under the inspiration
of the wilderness. It is a frail shell, so
light that a guide can carry it on his shoulders
with ease, but so dexterously fashioned that it
rides the heaviest waves like a duck, and slips
through the water as if by magic. You can travel
in it along the shallowest rivers and across the
broadest lakes, and make forty or fifty miles a day,
if you have a good guide.

Everything depends, in the Adirondacks, as in
so many other regions of life, upon your guide.
If he is selfish, or surly, or stupid, you will have a
bad time. But if he is an Adirondacker of the
best old-fashioned type,—now unhappily growing
more rare from year to year,—you will find him
an inimitable companion, honest, faithful, skilful
and cheerful. He is as independent as a prince,
and the gilded youths and finicking fine ladies who
.bn 093.png
.pn +1
attempt to patronise him are apt to make but a
sorry show before his solid and undisguised contempt.
But deal with him man to man, and he will
give you a friendly, loyal service which money
cannot buy, and teach you secrets of woodcraft
and lessons in plain, self-reliant manhood more
valuable than all the learning of the schools. Such
a guide was mine, rejoicing in the Scriptural name
of Hosea, but commonly called, in brevity and
friendliness, “Hose.”

As we entered Round Lake on this fair morning,
its surface was as smooth and shining as a
mirror. It was too early yet for the tide of travel
which sends a score of boats up and down this
thoroughfare every day; and from shore to shore
the water was unruffled, except by a flock of sheldrakes
which had been feeding near Plymouth
Rock, and now went skittering off into Weller
Bay with a motion between flying and swimming,
leaving a long wake of foam behind them.

At such a time as this you can see the real colour
of these Adirondack lakes. It is not blue, as romantic
writers so often describe it, nor green, like
.bn 094.png
.pn +1
some of those wonderful Swiss lakes; although of
course it reflects the colour of the trees along the
shore; and when the wind stirs it, it gives back
the hue of the sky, blue when it is clear, gray
when the clouds are gathering, and sometimes as
black as ink under the shadow of storm. But when
it is still, the water itself is like that river which
one of the poets has described as

.ce
“<i>Flowing with a smooth brown current.</i>”

And in this sheet of burnished bronze the mountains
and islands were reflected perfectly, and the
sun shone back from it, not in broken gleams or
a wide lane of light, but like a single ball of fire,
moving before us as we moved.

But stop! What is that dark speck on the water,
away down toward Turtle Point? It has just the
shape and size of a deer’s head. It seems to move
steadily out into the lake. There is a little ripple,
like a wake, behind it. Hose turns to look at it,
and then sends the boat darting in that direction
with long, swift strokes. It is a moment of pleasant
excitement, and we begin to conjecture whether
.bn 095.png
.pn +1
the deer is a buck or a doe, and whose hounds have
driven it in. But when Hose turns to look again,
he slackens his stroke, and says: “I guess we needn’t
to hurry; he won’t get away. It’s astonishin’ what
a lot of fun a man can get in the course of a
natural life a-chasin’ chumps of wood.”

We landed on a sand beach at the mouth of a
little stream, where a blazed tree marked the beginning
of the Ampersand trail. This line through
the forest was made years ago by that ardent
sportsman and lover of the Adirondacks, Dr. W.
W. Ely, of Rochester. Since that time it has been
shortened and improved a little by other travellers,
and also not a little blocked and confused by the
lumbermen and the course of Nature. For when the
lumbermen go into the woods, they cut roads in
every direction, leading nowhither, and the unwary
wanderer is thereby led aside from the right way,
and entangled in the undergrowth. And as for
Nature, she is entirely opposed to continuance of
paths through her forest. She covers them with
fallen leaves, and hides them with thick bushes.
She drops great trees across them, and blots them
.bn 096.png
.pn +1
out with windfalls. But the blazed line—a succession
of broad axe-marks on the trunks of the trees,
just high enough to catch the eye on a level—cannot
be so easily obliterated, and this, after all,
is the safest guide through the woods.

Our trail led us at first through a natural
meadow, overgrown with waist-high grass, and
very spongy to the tread. Hornet-haunted also was
this meadow, and therefore no place for idle dalliance
or unwary digression, for the sting of the
hornet is one of the saddest and most humiliating
surprises of this mortal life.

Then through a tangle of old wood-roads my
guide led me safely, and we struck one of the long
ridges which slope gently from the lake to the
base of the mountain. Here walking was comparatively
easy, for in the hard-wood timber there is
little underbrush. The massive trunks seemed like
pillars set to uphold the level roof of green. Great
yellow birches, shaggy with age, stretched their
knotted arms high above us; sugar-maples stood
up straight and proud under their leafy crowns;
and smooth beeches—the most polished and park-like
.bn 097.png
.pn +1
of all the forest trees—offered opportunities
for the carving of lovers’ names in a place where
few lovers ever come.

The woods were quiet. It seemed as if all living
creatures had deserted them. Indeed, if you have
spent much time in our Northern forests, you
must have often wondered at the sparseness of
life, and felt a sense of pity for the apparent loneliness
of the squirrel that chatters at you as you
pass, or the little bird that hops noiselessly about
in the thickets. The midsummer noontide is an
especially silent time. The deer are asleep in some
wild meadow. The partridge has gathered her
brood for their midday nap. The squirrels are
perhaps counting over their store of nuts in a hollow
tree, and the hermit-thrush spares his voice
until evening. The woods are close—not cool and
fragrant as the foolish romances describe them—but
warm and still; for the breeze which sweeps
across the hilltop and ruffles the lake does not
penetrate into these shady recesses, and therefore
all the inhabitants take the noontide as their hour
of rest. Only the big woodpecker—he of the scarlet
.bn 098.png
.pn +1
head and mighty bill—is indefatigable, and
somewhere unseen is “tapping the hollow beechtree,”
while a wakeful little bird,—I guess it is the
black-throated green warbler,—prolongs his dreamy,
listless ditty,—<i>’te-dé-terit-scā,—’te-dé-us-wait</i>.

After about an hour of easy walking, our trail
began to ascend more sharply. We passed over the
shoulder of a ridge and around the edge of a
fire-slash, and then we had the mountain fairly
before us. Not that we could see anything of it, for
the woods still shut us in, but the path became very
steep, and we knew that it was a straight climb;
not up and down and round about did this most
uncompromising trail proceed, but right up, in a
direct line for the summit.

Now this side of Ampersand is steeper than any
Gothic roof I have ever seen, and withal very much
encumbered with rocks and ledges and fallen trees.
There were places where we had to haul ourselves
up by roots and branches, and places where we had
to go down on our hands and knees to crawl under logs.
It was breathless work, but not at all dangerous
.bn 099.png
.pn +1
or difficult. Every step forward was also a
step upward; and as we stopped to rest for a moment,
we could see already glimpses of the lake
below us. But at these I did not much care to look,
for I think it is a pity to spoil the surprise of a
grand view by taking little snatches of it beforehand.
It is better to keep one’s face set to the
mountain, and then, coming out from the dark
forest upon the very summit, feel the splendour of
the outlook flash upon one like a revelation.

The character of the woods through which we
were now passing was entirely different from those
of the lower levels. On these steep places the birch
and maple will not grow, or at least they occur
but sparsely. The higher slopes and sharp ridges
of the mountains are always covered with soft-wood
timber. Spruce and hemlock and balsam strike their
roots among the rocks, and find a hidden nourishment.
They stand close together; thickets of small
trees spring up among the large ones; from year to
year the great trunks are falling one across another,
and the undergrowth is thickening around them, until
 a spruce forest seems to be almost impassable.
.bn 100.png
.pn +1
The constant rain of needles and the crumbling
of the fallen trees form a rich, brown mould,
into which the foot sinks noiselessly. Wonderful
beds of moss, many feet in thickness, and
softer than feathers, cover the rocks and roots.
There are shadows never broken by the sun, and
dark, cool springs of icy water hidden away in the
crevices. You feel a sense of antiquity here which
you can never feel among the maples and birches.
Longfellow was right when he filled his forest
primeval with “murmuring pines and hemlocks.”

The higher one climbs, the darker and gloomier
and more rugged the vegetation becomes. The
pine-trees soon cease to follow you; the hemlocks
disappear, and the balsams can go no farther.
Only the hardy spruce keeps on bravely, rough
and stunted, with branches matted together and
pressed down flat by the weight of the winter’s
snow, until finally, somewhere about the level of
four thousand feet above the sea, even this bold
climber gives out, and the weather-beaten rocks of
the summit are clad only with mosses and Alpine
plants.
.bn 101.png
.pn +1

Thus it is with mountains, as perhaps with
men, a mark of superior dignity to be naturally
bald.

Ampersand, falling short by a thousand feet of
the needful height, cannot claim this distinction.
But what Nature has denied, human labour has
supplied. Under the direction of the Adirondack
Survey, some years ago, several acres of trees were
cut from the summit; and when we emerged, after
the last sharp scramble, upon the very crest of
the mountain, we were not shut in by a dense
thicket, but stood upon a bare ridge of granite
in the centre of a ragged clearing.

I shut my eyes for a moment, drew a few long
breaths of the glorious breeze, and then looked out
upon a wonder and a delight beyond description.

A soft, dazzling splendour filled the air. Snowy
banks and drifts of cloud were floating slowly over
a wide and wondrous land. Vast sweeps of forest,
shining waters, mountains near and far, the deepest
green and the palest blue, changing colours
and glancing lights, and all so silent, so strange,
so far away, that it seemed like the landscape of
.bn 102.png
.pn +1
a dream. One almost feared to speak, lest it should
vanish.

Right below us the Lower Saranac and Lonesome
Pond, Round Lake and the Weller Ponds,
were spread out like a map. Every point and island
was clearly marked. We could follow the
course of the Saranac River in all its curves and
windings, and see the white tents of the haymakers
on the wild meadows. Far away to the
northeast stretched the level fields of Bloomingdale.
But westward all was unbroken wilderness, a
great sea of woods as far as the eye could reach.
And how far it can reach from a height like this!
What a revelation of the power of sight! That
faint blue outline far in the north was Lyon
Mountain, nearly thirty miles away as the crow
flies. Those silver gleams a little nearer were the
waters of St. Regis. The Upper Saranac was displayed
in all its length and breadth, and beyond
it the innumerable waters of Fish Creek were
tangled among the dark woods. The long ranges
of the hills about the Jordan bounded the western
horizon, and on the southwest Big Tupper Lake
.bn 103.png
.pn +1
was sleeping at the base of Mount Morris. Looking
past the peak of Stony Creek Mountain, which
rose sharp and distinct in a line with Ampersand,
we could trace the path of the Raquette River
from the distant waters of Long Lake down
through its far-stretched valley, and catch here
and there a silvery link of its current.

But when we turned to the south and east, how
wonderful and how different was the view! Here
was no widespread and smiling landscape with
gleams of silver scattered through it, and soft blue
haze resting upon its fading verge, but a wild land
of mountains, stern, rugged, tumultuous, rising
one beyond another like the waves of a stormy
ocean,—Ossa piled upon Pelion,—McIntyre’s sharp
peak, and the ragged crest of the Gothics, and,
above all, Marcy’s dome-like head, raised just far
enough above the others to assert his royal right
as monarch of the Adirondacks.

But grandest of all, as seen from this height,
was Mount Seward,—a solemn giant of a mountain,
standing apart from the others, and looking
us full in the face. He was clothed from base to
.bn 104.png
.pn +1
summit in a dark, unbroken robe of forest. <i>Ou-kor-lah</i>,
the Indians called him—the Great Eye;
and he seemed almost to frown upon us in defiance.
At his feet, so straight below us that it seemed
almost as if we could cast a stone into it, lay the
wildest and most beautiful of all the Adirondack
waters—Ampersand Lake.

On its shore, some five-and-twenty years ago,
the now almost forgotten Adirondack Club had
their shanty—the successor of “the Philosophers’
Camp” on Follensbee Pond. Agassiz, Appleton,
Norton, Emerson, Lowell, Hoar, Gray, John
Holmes, and Stillman, were among the company
who made their resting-place under the shadow of
Mount Seward. They had bought a tract of forest
land completely encircling the pond, cut a
rough road to it through the woods, and built a
comfortable log cabin, to which they purposed to
return summer after summer. But the civil war
broke out, with all its terrible excitement and confusion
of hurrying hosts: the club existed but for
two years, and the little house in the wilderness
was abandoned. In 1878, when I spent three weeks
.bn 105.png
.pn +1
at Ampersand, the cabin was in ruins, and surrounded
by an almost impenetrable growth of
bushes. The only philosophers to be seen were a
family of what the guides quaintly call “quill
pigs.” The roof had fallen to the ground; raspberry-bushes
thrust themselves through the yawning
crevices between the logs; and in front of the
sunken door-sill lay a rusty, broken iron stove, like
a dismantled altar on which the fire had gone out
forever.

After we had feasted upon the view as long as
we dared, counted the lakes and streams, and found
that we could see without a glass more than thirty,
and recalled the memories of “good times” which
came to us from almost every point of the compass,
we unpacked the camera, and proceeded to
take some pictures.

If you are a photographer, and have anything
of the amateur’s passion for your art, you will
appreciate my pleasure and my anxiety. Never before,
so far as I knew, had a camera been set up
on Ampersand. I had but eight plates with me. The
views were all very distant and all at a downward
.bn 106.png
.pn +1
angle. The power of the light at this elevation
was an unknown quantity. And the wind was
sweeping vigorously across the open summit of the
mountain. I put in my smallest stop, and prepared
for short exposures.

My instrument was a thing called a Tourograph,
which differs from most other cameras in
having the plate-holder on top of the box. The
plates are dropped into a groove below, and then
moved into focus, after which the cap is removed
and the exposure made.

I set my instrument for Ampersand Pond,
sighted the picture through the ground glass, and
measured the focus. Then I waited for a quiet
moment, dropped the plate, moved it carefully
forward to the proper mark, and went around to
take off the cap. I found that I already had it in
my hand, <i>and the plate had been exposed for about
thirty seconds with a sliding focus</i>!

I expostulated with myself. I said: “You are
excited; you are stupid; you are unworthy of the
name of photographer. Light-writer! You ought
to write with a whitewash-brush!” The reproof
.bn 107.png
.pn 91
was effectual, and from that moment all went well.
The plates dropped smoothly, the camera was
steady, the exposure was correct. Six good pictures
were made, to recall, so far as black and white
could do it, the delights of that day.

It has been my good luck to climb many of the
peaks of the Adirondacks—Dix, the Dial, Hurricane,
the Giant of the Valley, Marcy, and Whiteface—but
I do not think the outlook from any of
them is so wonderful and lovely as that from little
Ampersand; and I reckon among my most valuable
chattels the plates of glass on which the sun
has traced for me (who cannot draw) the outlines
of that loveliest landscape.

The downward journey was swift. We halted for
an hour or two beside a trickling spring, a few
rods below the summit, to eat our lunch. Then,
jumping, running, and sometimes sliding, we made
the descent, passed in safety by the dreaded lair
of the hornet, and reached Bartlett’s as the fragrance
of the evening pancake was softly diffused
through the twilight. Mark that day, Memory,
with a double star in your catalogue!

1885.
.pb
.bn 108.png
.pn +1
// [Blank Page]
.bn 109.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.ce
A HANDFUL OF HEATHER
.pn +1
.sp 2
.in +4
.ll -4
.ti 0
“<i>Scotland is the home of romance because it is the home of
Scott, Burns, Black, Macdonald, Stevenson, and Barrie—and of
thousands of men like that old Highlander in kilts on the tow-path,
who loves what they have written. I would wager he has a copy of
Burns in his sporran, and has quoted him half a dozen times to the
grim Celt who is walking with him. Those old boys don’t read for
excitement or knowledge, but because they love their land and their
people and their religion—and their great writers simply express
their emotions for them in words they can understand. You and I
come over here, with thousands of our countrymen, to borrow
their emotions.</i>”——
.rj
<sc>Robert Bridges</sc>: <i>Overheard in Arcady</i>.
.in
.ll
.bn 110.png
// Blank Page
.bn 111.png
.pn 95
.sp 4
.h2
A HANDFUL OF HEATHER
.sp 2
My friend the Triumphant Democrat, fiercest of
radicals and kindest of men, expresses his scorn
for monarchical institutions (and his invincible
love for his native Scotland) by tenanting, summer
after summer, a famous castle among the
heathery Highlands. There he proclaims the most
uncompromising Americanism in a speech that
grows more broadly Scotch with every week of his
emancipation from the influence of the clipped,
commercial accent of New York, and casts contempt
on feudalism by playing the part of lord
of the manor to such a perfection of high-handed
beneficence that the people of the glen are all become
his clansmen, and his gentle lady would be
the patron saint of the district—if the republican
theology of Scotland could only admit saints
among the elect.

Every year he sends trophies of game to his
.bn 112.png
.pn +1
friends across the sea—birds that are as toothsome
and wild-flavoured as if they had not been hatched
under the tyranny of the game-laws. He has a
pleasant trick of making them grateful to the
imagination as well as to the palate by packing
them in heather. I’ll warrant that Aaron’s rod bore
no bonnier blossoms than these stiff little bushes—and
none more magical. For every time I take up
a handful of them they transport me to the Highlands,
and send me tramping once more, with
knapsack and fishing-rod, over the braes and down
the burns.
.sp 2
.ce
I.
.sp 1
.ce
BELL-HEATHER.
.sp 1
Some of my happiest meanderings in Scotland
have been taken under the lead of a book. Indeed,
for travel in a strange country there can be no
better courier. Not a guide-book, I mean, but a
real book, and, by preference, a novel.

Fiction, like wine, tastes best in the place where
it was grown. And the scenery of a foreign land
(including architecture, which is artificial landscape)
.bn 113.png
.pn +1
grows less dreamlike and unreal to our perception
when we people it with familiar characters
from our favourite novels. Even on a first journey
we feel ourselves among old friends. Thus to read
<i>Romola</i> in Florence, and <i>Les Misérables</i> in Paris,
and <i>Lorna Doone</i> on Exmoor, and <i>The Heart of
Midlothian</i> in Edinburgh, and <i>David Balfour</i> in
the Pass of Glencoe, and <i>The Pirate</i> in the Shetland
Isles, is to get a new sense of the possibilities
of life. All these things have I done with much
inward contentment; and other things of like
quality have I yet in store; as, for example, the
conjunction of <i>The Bonnie Brier-Bush</i> with Drumtochty,
and <i>The Little Minister</i> with Thrums, and
<i>The Raiders</i> with Galloway. But I never expect to
pass pleasanter days than those I spent with <i>A
Princess of Thule</i> among the Hebrides.

For then, to begin with, I was young; which is
an unearned increment of delight sure to be confiscated
by the envious years and never regained.
But even youth itself was not to be compared with
the exquisite felicity of being deeply and desperately
in love with Sheila, the clear-eyed heroine
.bn 114.png
.pn +1
of that charming book. In this innocent passion my
gray-haired comrades, Howard Crosby, the Chancellor
of the University of New York, and my
father, an ex-Moderator of the Presbyterian General
Assembly, were ardent but generous rivals.

How great is the joy and how fascinating the
pursuit of such an ethereal affection! It enlarges
the heart without embarrassing the conscience. It is
a cup of pure gladness with no bitterness in its
dregs. It spends the present moment with a free
hand, and yet leaves no undesirable mortgage upon
the future. King Arthur, the founder of the Round
Table, expressed a conviction, according to Tennyson,
that the most important element in a young
knight’s education is “the maiden passion for a
maid.” Surely the safest form in which this course
in the curriculum may be taken is by falling in
love with a girl in a book. It is the only affair of
the kind into which a young fellow can enter without
responsibility, and out of which he can always
emerge, when necessary, without discredit. And as
for the old fellow who still keeps up this education
of the heart, and worships his heroine with
.bn 115.png
.pn +1
the ardour of a John Ridd and the fidelity of a
Henry Esmond, I maintain that he is exempt from
all the penalties of declining years. The man who
can love a girl in a book may be old, but never
aged.

So we sailed, lovers all three, among the Western
Isles, and whatever ship it was that carried us,
her figurehead was always the Princess Sheila.
Along the ruffled blue waters of the sounds and
lochs that wind among the roots of unpronounceable
mountains, and past the dark hills of Skye,
and through the unnumbered flocks of craggy
islets where the sea-birds nest, the spell of the
sweet Highland maid drew us, and we were pilgrims
to the <i>Ultima Thule</i> where she lived and
reigned.

The Lewis, with its tail-piece, the Harris, is quite
a sizable island to be appended to such a country
as Scotland. It is a number of miles long, and another
number of miles wide, and it has a number
of thousand inhabitants—I should say as many as
three-quarters of an inhabitant to the square mile—and
the conditions of agriculture and the fisheries
.bn 116.png
.pn +1
are extremely interesting and quarrelsome.
All these I duly studied at the time, and reported
in a series of intolerably dull letters to the newspaper
which supplied a financial basis for my sentimental
journey. They are full of information;
but I have been amused to note, after these many
years, how wide they steer of the true motive and
interest of the excursion. There is not even a hint
of Sheila in any of them. Youth, after all, is
a shamefaced and secretive season; like the fringed
polygala, it hides its real blossom underground.

It was Sheila’s dark-blue dress and sailor hat
with the white feather that we looked for as we
loafed through the streets of Stornoway, that
quaint metropolis of the herring-trade, where
strings of fish alternated with boxes of flowers in
the windows, and handfuls of fish were spread
upon the roofs to dry just as the sliced apples are
exposed upon the kitchen-sheds of New England
in September, and dark-haired women were carrying
great creels of fish on their shoulders, and
groups of sunburned men were smoking among
the fishing-boats on the beach and talking about
.bn 117.png
.pn +1
fish, and sea-gulls were floating over the houses
with their heads turning from side to side and
their bright eyes peering everywhere for unconsidered
trifles of fish, and the whole atmosphere of
the place, physical, mental, and moral, was pervaded
with fish. It was Sheila’s soft, sing-song
Highland speech that we heard through the long,
luminous twilight in the pauses of that friendly
chat on the balcony of the little inn where a good
fortune brought us acquainted with Sam Bough,
the mellow Edinburgh painter. It was Sheila’s low
sweet brow, and long black eyelashes, and tender
blue eyes, that we saw before us as we loitered
over the open moorland, a far-rolling sea of brown
billows, reddened with patches of bell-heather, and
brightened here and there with little lakes lying
wide open to the sky. And were not these peat-cutters,
with the big baskets on their backs, walking
in silhouette along the ridges, the people that
Sheila loved and tried to help; and were not these
crofters’ cottages with thatched roofs, like beehives,
blending almost imperceptibly with the landscape,
the dwellings into which she planned to introduce
.bn 118.png
.pn +1
the luxury of windows; and were not these Standing
Stones of Callernish, huge tombstones of a
vanished religion, the roofless temple from which
the Druids paid their westernmost adoration to the
setting sun as he sank into the Atlantic—was not
this the place where Sheila picked the bunch of
wild flowers and gave it to her lover? There is
nothing in history, I am sure, half so real to us
as some of the things in fiction. The influence of
an event upon our character is little affected by
considerations as to whether or not it ever happened.

There were three churches in Stornoway, all
Presbyterian, of course, and therefore full of
pious emulation. The idea of securing an American
preacher for an August Sabbath seemed to
fall upon them simultaneously, and to offer the
prospect of novelty without too much danger. The
brethren of the U. P. congregation, being a trifle
more gleg than the others, arrived first at the inn,
and secured the promise of a morning sermon from
Chancellor Howard Crosby. The session of the
Free Kirk came in a body a little later, and to
.bn 119.png
.pn +1
them my father pledged himself for the evening
sermon. The senior elder of the Established Kirk,
a snuff-taking man and very deliberate, was the
last to appear, and to his request for an afternoon
sermon there was nothing left to offer but the services
of the young probationer in theology. I could
see that it struck him as a perilous adventure.
Questions about “the fundamentals” glinted in his
watery eye. He crossed and uncrossed his legs
with solemnity, and blew his nose so frequently in
a huge red silk handkerchief that it seemed like a
signal of danger. At last he unburdened himself
of his hesitations.

“Ah’m not saying that the young man will not
be orthodox—ahem! But ye know, sir, in the
Kirk, we are not using hymns, but just the pure
Psawms of Daffit, in the meetrical fairsion. And
ye know, sir, they are ferry tifficult in the reating,
whatefer, for a young man, and one that iss a
stranger. And if his father will just be coming
with him in the pulpit, <i>to see that nothing iss said
amiss, that will be ferry comforting to the congregation</i>.”
.bn 120.png
.pn +1

So the dear governor swallowed his laughter
gravely and went surety for his son. They appeared
together in the church, a barnlike edifice,
with great galleries half-way between the floor
and the roof. Still higher up, the pulpit stuck like
a swallow’s nest against the wall. The two ministers
climbed the precipitous stair and found themselves
in a box so narrow that one must stand perforce,
while the other sat upon the only seat. In
this “ride and tie” fashion they went through the
service. When it was time to preach, the young
man dropped the doctrines as discreetly as possible
upon the upturned countenances beneath him.
I have forgotten now what it was all about, but
there was a quotation from the Song of Solomon,
ending with “Sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance
is comely.” And when it came to that, the
probationer’s eyes (if the truth must be told) went
searching through that sea of faces for one that
should be familiar to his heart, and to which he
might make a personal application of the Scripture
passage—even the face of Sheila.

There are rivers in the Lewis, at least two of
.bn 121.png
.pn +1
them, and on one of these we had the offer of a
rod for a day’s fishing. Accordingly we cast lots,
and the lot fell upon the youngest, and I went
forth with a tall, red-legged gillie, to try for my
first salmon. The Whitewater came singing down
out of the moorland into a rocky valley, and there
was a merry curl of air on the pools, and the silver
fish were leaping from the stream. The gillie
handled the big rod as if it had been a fairy’s
wand, but to me it was like a giant’s spear. It was
a very different affair from fishing with five
ounces of split bamboo on a Long Island trout-pond.
The monstrous fly, like an awkward bird,
went fluttering everywhere but in the right direction.
It was the mercy of Providence that preserved
the gillie’s life. But he was very patient and
forbearing, leading me on from one pool to another,
as I spoiled the water and snatched the
hook out of the mouth of rising fish, until at
last we found a salmon that knew even less about
the niceties of salmon-fishing than I did. He seized
the fly firmly, before I could pull it away, and
then, in a moment, I found myself attached to a
.bn 122.png
.pn +1
creature with the strength of a whale and the
agility of a flying-fish. He led me rushing up and
down the bank like a madman. He played on the
surface like a whirlwind, and sulked at the bottom
like a stone. He meditated, with ominous delay, in
the middle of the deepest pool, and then, darting
across the river, flung himself clean out of water
and landed far up on the green turf of the opposite
shore. My heart melted like a snowflake in the
sea, and I thought that I had lost him forever.
But he rolled quietly back into the water with the
hook still set in his nose. A few minutes afterwards
I brought him within reach of the gaff, and my
first salmon was glittering on the grass beside me.

Then I remembered that William Black had described
this very fish in <i>A Princess of Thule</i>.
I pulled the book from my pocket, and, lighting
a pipe, sat down to read that delightful chapter
over again. The breeze played softly down the
valley. The warm sunlight was filled with the
musical hum of insects and the murmur of falling
waters. I thought how much pleasanter it
would have been to learn salmon-fishing, as Black’s
.bn 123.png
.pn +1
hero did, from the Maid of Borva, than from a
red-headed gillie. But, then, his salmon, after
leaping across the stream, got away; whereas mine
was safe. A man cannot have everything in this
world. I picked a spray of rosy bell-heather from
the bank of the river, and pressed it between the
leaves of the book in memory of Sheila.
.sp 2
.ce
II.
.sp 1
.ce
COMMON HEATHER.
.sp 1
It is not half as far from Albany to Aberdeen as
it is from New York to London. In fact, I venture
to say that an American on foot will find himself
less a foreigner in Scotland than in any other
country in the Old World. There is something
warm and hospitable—if he knew the language well
enough he would call it <i>couthy</i>—in the greeting
that he gets from the shepherd on the moor, and
the conversation that he holds with the farmer’s
wife in the stone cottage, where he stops to ask
for a drink of milk and a bit of oat-cake. He feels
that there must be a drop of Scotch somewhere
.bn 124.png
.pn +1
in his mingled blood, or at least that the
texture of his thought and feelings has been
partly woven on a Scottish loom—perhaps the
Shorter Catechism, or Robert Burns’s poems, or
the romances of Sir Walter Scott. At all events,
he is among a kindred and comprehending people.
They do not speak English in the same way
that he does—through the nose—but they think
very much more in his mental dialect than the
English do. They are independent and wide awake,
curious and full of personal interest. The wayside
mind in Inverness or Perth runs more to muscle
and less to fat, has more active vanity and less
passive pride, is more inquisitive and excitable and
sympathetic—in short, to use a symbolist’s description,
it is more apt to be red-headed—than in
Surrey or Somerset. Scotchmen ask more questions
about America, but fewer foolish ones. You
will never hear them inquiring whether there is
any good bear-hunting in the neighbourhood of
Boston, or whether Shakespeare is much read in
the States. They have a healthy respect for our
institutions, and have quite forgiven (if, indeed,
.bn 125.png
.pn +1
they ever resented) that little affair in 1776. They
are all born Liberals. When a Scotchman says he
is a Conservative, it only means that he is a Liberal
with hesitations.

And yet in North Britain the American pedestrian
will not find that amused and somewhat condescending
toleration for his peculiarities, that
placid willingness to make the best of all his
vagaries of speech and conduct, that he finds in
South Britain. In an English town you may do
pretty much what you like on a Sunday, even to
the extent of wearing a billycock hat to church,
and people will put up with it from a country-man
of Buffalo Bill and the Wild West Show. But in
a Scotch village, if you whistle in the street
on a Lord’s Day, though it be a Moody and Sankey
tune, you will be likely to get, as I did, an
admonition from some long-legged, grizzled elder:

“Young man, do ye no ken it ’s the Sawbath
Day?”

I recognised the reproof of the righteous, an
excellent oil which doth not break the head, and
took it gratefully at the old man’s hands. For did
.bn 126.png
.pn +1
it not prove that he regarded me as a man and a
brother, a creature capable of being civilised and
saved?

It was in the gray town of Dingwall that I had
this bit of pleasant correction, as I was on the
way to a fishing tramp through Sutherlandshire.
This northwest corner of Great Britain is the best
place in the whole island for a modest and impecunious
angler. There are, or there were a few
years ago, wild lochs and streams which are still
practically free, and a man who is content with
small things can pick up some very pretty sport
from the highland inns, and make a good basket
of memorable experiences every week.

The inn at Lairg, overlooking the narrow waters
of Loch Shin, was embowered in honeysuckles,
and full of creature comfort. But there were too
many other men with rods there to suit my taste.
“The feesh in this loch,” said the boatman, “iss
not so numerous ass the feeshermen, but more wise.
There iss not one of them that hass not felt the
hook, and they know ferry well what side of the
fly has the forkit tail.”
.bn 127.png
.pn +1

At Altnaharra, in the shadow of Ben Clebrig,
there was a cozy little house with good fare, and
abundant trout-fishing in Loch Naver and Loch
Meadie. It was there that I fell in with a wandering
pearl-peddler who gathered his wares from the
mussels in the moorland streams. They were not
of the finest quality, these Scotch pearls, but they
had pretty, changeable colours of pink and blue
upon them, like the iridescent light that plays
over the heather in the long northern evenings. I
thought it must be a hard life for the man, wading
day after day in the ice-cold water, and groping
among the coggly, sliddery stones for the
shellfish, and cracking open perhaps a thousand
before he could find one pearl. “Oh, yess,” said
he, “and it iss not an easy life, and I am not saying
that it will be so warm and dry ass liffing in
a rich house. But it iss the life that I am fit for,
and I hef my own time and my thoughts to mysel’,
and that is a ferry goot thing; and then, sir,
I haf found the Pearl of Great Price, and I think
upon that day and night.”

Under the black, shattered peaks of Ben Laoghal,
.bn 128.png
.pn +1
where I saw an eagle poising day after day
as if some invisible centripetal force bound him
forever to that small circle of air, there was a
loch with plenty of brown trout and a few <i>salmo
ferox</i>; and down at Tongue there was a little river
where the sea-trout sometimes come up with the tide.

Here I found myself upon the north coast, and
took the road eastward between the mountains and
the sea. It was a beautiful region of desolation.
There were rocky glens cutting across the road,
and occasionally a brawling stream ran down to
the salt water, breaking the line of cliffs with a
little bay and a half-moon of yellow sand. The
heather covered all the hills. There were no trees,
and but few houses. The chief signs of human
labour were the rounded piles of peat, and the
square cuttings in the moor marking the places
where the subterranean wood-choppers had gathered
their harvests. The long straths were once cultivated,
and every patch of arable land had its
group of cottages full of children. The human
harvest has always been the richest and most abundant
.bn 129.png
.pn +1
that is raised in the Highlands; but unfortunately
the supply exceeded the demand; and so
the crofters were evicted, and great flocks of sheep
were put in possession of the land; and now the
sheep-pastures have been changed into deer-forests;
and far and wide along the valleys and across the
hills there is not a trace of habitation, except the
heaps of stones and the clumps of straggling
bushes which mark the sites of lost homes. But
what is one country’s loss is another country’s gain.
Canada and the United States are infinitely the
richer for the tough, strong, fearless, honest men
that were dispersed from these lonely straths to
make new homes across the sea.

It was after sundown when I reached the straggling
village of Melvich, and the long day’s journey
had left me weary. But the inn, with its red-curtained
windows, looked bright and reassuring.
Thoughts of dinner and a good bed comforted my
spirit—prematurely. For the inn was full. There
were but five bedrooms and two parlours. The gentlemen
who had the neighbouring shootings occupied
three bedrooms and a parlour; the other two
.bn 130.png
.pn +1
bedrooms had just been taken by the English fishermen
who had passed me in the road an hour ago
in the mail-coach (oh! why had I not suspected
that treacherous vehicle?); and the landlord and
his wife assured me, with equal firmness and sympathy,
that there was not another cot or pair of
blankets in the house. I believed them, and was sinking
into despair when Sandy M’Kaye appeared on
the scene as my angel of deliverance. Sandy was
a small, withered, wiry man, dressed in rusty gray,
with an immense white collar thrusting out its
points on either side of his chin, and a black stock
climbing over the top of it. I guessed from his
speech that he had once lived in the lowlands. He
had hoped to be engaged as a gillie by the shooting
party, but had been disappointed. He had
wanted to be taken by the English fishermen, but
another and younger man had stepped in before
him. Now Sandy saw in me his Predestinated Opportunity,
and had no idea of letting it post up
the road that night to the next village. He cleared
his throat respectfully and cut into the conversation.
.bn 131.png
.pn +1

“Ah’m thinkin’ the gentleman micht find a
coomfortaible lodgin’ wi’ the weedow Macphairson
a wee bittie doon the road. Her dochter is awa’ in
Ameriky, an’ the room is a verra fine room, an’ it
is a peety to hae it stannin’ idle, an’ ye wudna
mind the few steps to and fro tae yir meals here,
sir, wud ye? An’ if ye ’ill gang wi’ me efter dinner,
’a ’ll be prood to shoo ye the hoose.”

So, after a good dinner with the English fishermen,
Sandy piloted me down the road through the
thickening dusk. I remember a hoodie crow flew
close behind us with a choking, ghostly cough that
startled me. The Macpherson cottage was a snug
little house of stone, with fuchsias and roses growing
in the front yard: and the widow was a douce
old lady, with a face like a winter apple in the
month of April, wrinkled, but still rosy. She was
a little doubtful about entertaining strangers, but
when she heard I was from America she opened
the doors of her house and her heart. And when,
by a subtle cross examination that would have been
a credit to the wife of a Connecticut deacon, she
discovered the fact that her lodger was a minister,
.bn 132.png
.pn +1
she did two things, with equal and immediate fervour;
she brought out the big Bible and asked
him to conduct evening worship, and she produced
a bottle of old Glenlivet and begged him to
“guard against takkin’ cauld by takkin’ a glass
of speerits.”

It was a very pleasant fortnight at Melvich.
Mistress Macpherson was so motherly that “takkin’
cauld” was reduced to a permanent impossibility.
The other men at the inn proved to be very
companionable fellows, quite different from the
monsters of insolence that my anger had imagined
in the moment of disappointment. The shooting
party kept the table abundantly supplied with
grouse and hares and highland venison; and there
was a piper to march up and down before the window
and play while we ate dinner—a very complimentary
and disquieting performance. But there are many
occasions in life when pride can be entertained
only at the expense of comfort.

Of course Sandy was my gillie. It was a fine
sight to see him exhibiting the tiny American
trout-rod, tied with silk ribbons in its delicate
.bn 133.png
.pn +1
case, to the other gillies and exulting over them.
Every morning he would lead me away through the
heather to some lonely loch on the shoulders of
the hills, from which we could look down upon
the Northern Sea and the blue Orkney Isles far
away across the Pentland Firth. Sometimes we
would find a loch with a boat on it, and drift up
and down, casting along the shores. Sometimes, in
spite of Sandy’s confident predictions, no boat
could be found, and then I must put on the Mackintosh
trousers and wade out over my hips into
the water, and circumambulate the pond, throwing
the flies as far as possible toward the middle, and
feeling my way carefully along the bottom with
the long net-handle, while Sandy danced on the bank
in an agony of apprehension lest his Predestinated
Opportunity should step into a deep
hole and be drowned. It was a curious fact in
natural history that on the lochs with boats
the trout were in the shallow water, but in the
boatless lochs they were away out in the depths.
“Juist the total depraivity o’ troots,” said Sandy,
“an’ terrible fateegin’.”
.bn 134.png
.pn +1

Sandy had an aversion to commit himself to
definite statements on any subject not theological.
If you asked him how long the morning’s tramp
would be, it was “no verra long, juist a bit ayant
the hull yonner.” And if, at the end of the seventh
mile, you complained that it was much too far, he
would never do more than admit that “it micht be
shorter.” If you called him to rejoice over a trout
that weighed close upon two pounds, he allowed
that it was “no bad—but there’s bigger anes i’
the loch gin we cud but wile them oot.” And at
lunch-time, when we turned out a full basket of
shining fish on the heather, the most that he would
say, while his eyes snapped with joy and pride,
was, “Aweel, we canna complain, the day.”

Then he would gather an armful of dried
heather-stems for kindling, and dig out a few roots
and crooked limbs of the long-vanished forest from
the dry, brown, peaty soil, and make our camp-fire
of prehistoric wood—just for the pleasant,
homelike look of the blaze—and sit down beside it to
eat our lunch. Heat is the least of the benefits that
man gets from fire. It is the sign of cheerfulness
.bn 135.png
.pn +1
and good comradeship. I would not willingly
satisfy my hunger, even in a summer nooning,
without a little flame burning on a rustic altar to
consecrate and enliven the feast. When the bread
and cheese were finished and the pipes were filled
with Virginia tobacco, Sandy would begin to tell
me, very solemnly and respectfully, about the mistakes
I had made in the fishing that day, and
mourn over the fact that the largest fish had not
been hooked. There was a strong strain of pessimism
in Sandy, and he enjoyed this part of the
sport immensely.

But he was at his best in the walk home through
the lingering twilight, when the murmur of the
sea trembled through the air, and the incense of
burning peat floated up from the cottages, and
the stars blossomed one by one in the pale-green
sky. Then Sandy dandered on at his ease down
the hills, and discoursed of things in heaven and
earth. He was an unconscious follower of the theology
of the Reverend John Jasper, of Richmond,
Virginia, and rejected the Copernican theory of
the universe as inconsistent with the history of
.bn 136.png
.pn +1
Joshua. “Gin the sun doesna muve,” said he, “what
for wad Joshua be tellin’ him to stond steel? ‘A
wad suner beleeve there was a mistak’ in the
veesible heevens than ae fault in the Guid Buik.”
Whereupon we held long discourse of astronomy
and inspiration; but Sandy concluded it with a
philosophic word which left little to be said:
“Aweel, yon teelescope is a wonnerful deescovery;
but ’a dinna think the less o’ the Baible.”
.sp 2
.ce
III.
.sp 1
.ce
WHITE HEATHER.
.sp 1

.bn 137.png

.il fn=p120.jpg w=328px
.ca Memory is a capricious and arbitrary creature.

.bn 138.png
// [Blank Page]
.bn 139.png
.pn +1

Memory is a capricious and arbitrary creature.
You never can tell what pebble she will pick up
from the shore of life to keep among her treasures,
or what inconspicuous flower of the field she will
preserve as the symbol of

.ce
“<i>Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.</i>”

She has her own scale of values for these mementos,
and knows nothing of the market price of
precious stones or the costly splendour of rare
orchids. The thing that pleases her is the thing
that she will hold fast. And yet I do not doubt
that the most important things are always the best
remembered; only we must learn that the real importance
of what we see and hear in the world is
to be measured at last by its meaning, its significance,
its intimacy with the heart of our heart
and the life of our life. And when we find a little
token of the past very safely and imperishably
kept among our recollections, we must believe that
memory has made no mistake. It is because that
little thing has entered into our experience most
deeply, that it stays with us and we cannot lose it.

You have half forgotten many a famous scene
that you travelled far to look upon. You cannot
clearly recall the sublime peak of Mont Blanc, the
roaring curve of Niagara, the vast dome of St.
Peter’s. The music of Patti’s crystalline voice has
left no distinct echo in your remembrance, and the
blossoming of the century-plant is dimmer than
the shadow of a dream. But there is a nameless
valley among the hills where you can still trace
every curve of the stream, and see the foam-bells
floating on the pool below the bridge, and the long
moss wavering in the current. There is a rustic
.bn 140.png
.pn +1
song of a girl passing through the fields at sunset,
that still repeats its far-off cadence in your
listening ears. There is a small flower trembling
on its stem in some hidden nook beneath the open
sky, that never withers through all the changing
years; the wind passes over it, but it is not gone—it
abides forever in your soul, an amaranthine
blossom of beauty and truth.

White heather is not an easy flower to find. You
may look for it among the highlands for a day
without success. And when it is discovered, there
is little outward charm to commend it. It lacks the
grace of the dainty bells that hang so abundantly
from the <i>Erica Tetralix</i>, and the pink glow of the
innumerable blossoms of the common heather. But
then it is a symbol. It is the Scotch <i>Edelweiss</i>. It
means sincere affection, and unselfish love, and tender
wishes as pure as prayers. I shall always remember
the evening when I found the white
heather on the moorland above Glen Ericht. Or,
rather, it was not I that found it (for I have little
luck in the discovery of good omens, and have
never plucked a four-leaved clover in my life),
.bn 141.png
.pn +1
but my companion, the gentle Mistress of the
Glen, whose hair was as white as the tiny blossoms,
and yet whose eyes were far quicker than
mine to see and name every flower that bloomed in
those lofty, widespread fields.

Ericht Water is formed by the marriage of two
streams, one flowing out of Strath Ardle and the
other descending from Cairn Gowar through the
long, lonely Pass of Glenshee. The Ericht begins
at the bridge of Cally, and its placid, beautiful
glen, unmarred by railway or factory, reaches almost
down to Blairgowrie. On the southern bank,
but far above the water, runs the high road to
Braemar and the Linn of Dee. On the other side
of the river, nestling among the trees, is the low
white manor-house,

.ce
“<i>An ancient home of peace.</i>”

It is a place where one who had been wearied and
perchance sore wounded in the battle of life might
well desire to be carried, as Arthur to the island
valley of Avilion, for rest and healing.

I have no thought of renewing the conflicts and
.bn 142.png
.pn +1
cares that filled that summer with sorrow. There
were fightings without and fears within; there was
the surrender of an enterprise that had been cherished
since boyhood, and the bitter sense of irremediable
weakness that follows such a reverse;
there was a touch of that wrath with those we love,
which, as Coleridge says,

.ce
“<i>Doth work like madness in the brain;</i>”


flying across the sea from these troubles, I had
found my old comrade of merrier days sentenced
to death, and caught but a brief glimpse of
his pale, brave face as he went away into exile.
At such a time the sun and the light and the moon
and the stars are darkened, and the clouds return
after rain. But through those clouds the Mistress
of the Glen came to meet me—a stranger till then,
but an appointed friend, a minister of needed
grace, an angel of quiet comfort. The thick mists
of rebellion, mistrust, and despair have long since
rolled away, and against the background of the
hills her figure stands out clearly, dressed in the
fashion of fifty years ago, with the snowy hair
.bn 143.png
.pn +1
gathered close beneath her widow’s cap, and a
spray of white heather in her outstretched hand.

There were no other guests in the house by the
river during those still days in the noontide hush
of midsummer. Every morning, while the Mistress
was busied with her household cares and letters, I
would be out in the fields hearing the lark sing,
and watching the rabbits as they ran to and fro,
scattering the dew from the grass in a glittering
spray. Or perhaps I would be angling down the
river, with the swift pressure of the water around
my knees, and an inarticulate current of cooling
thoughts flowing on and on through my brain like
the murmur of the stream. Every afternoon there were
long walks with the Mistress in the old-fashioned
garden, where wonderful roses were blooming; or
through the dark, fir-shaded den where the wild
burn dropped down to join the river; or out upon
the high moor under the waning orange sunset.
Every night there were luminous and restful talks
beside the open fire in the library, when the words
came clear and calm from the heart, unperturbed by
.bn 144.png
.pn +1
the vain desire of saying brilliant things, which
turns so much of our conversation into a combat
of wits instead of an interchange of thoughts.
Talk like this is possible only between two. The
arrival of a third person sets the lists for a
tournament, and offers the prize for a verbal
victory. But where there are only two, the armour
is laid aside, and there is no call to thrust
and parry.

One of the two should be a good listener, sympathetic,
but not silent, giving confidence in order
to attract it—and of this art a woman is the best
master. But its finest secrets do not come to her
until she has passed beyond the uncertain season
of compliments and conquests, and entered into the
serenity of a tranquil age.

What is this foolish thing that men say about
the impossibility of true intimacy and converse
between the young and the old? Hamerton, for
example, in his book on <i>Human Intercourse</i>,
would have us believe that a difference in years is
a barrier between hearts. For my part, I have
more often found it an open door, and a security
of generous and tolerant welcome for the young
.bn 145.png
.pn +1
soldier, who comes in tired and dusty from the
battle-field, to tell his story of defeat or victory in
the garden of still thoughts where old age is resting
in the peace of honourable discharge. I like
what Robert Louis Stevenson says about it in his
essay on <i>Talk and Talkers</i>.

“Not only is the presence of the aged in itself
remedial, but their minds are stored with antidotes,
wisdom’s simples, plain considerations overlooked
by youth. They have matter to communicate, be they
never so stupid. Their talk is not merely literature,
it is great literature; classic by virtue of
the speaker’s detachment; studded, like a book of
travel, with things we should not otherwise have
learnt.... Where youth agrees with age, not
where they differ, wisdom lies; and it is when
the young disciple finds his heart to beat in tune
with his gray-haired teacher’s that a lesson may
be learned.”

The conversation of the Mistress of the Glen
shone like the light and distilled like the dew, not
only by virtue of what she said, but still more by
virtue of what she was. Her face was a good
.bn 146.png
.pn +1
counsel against discouragement; and the cheerful
quietude of her demeanour was a rebuke to all
rebellious, cowardly, and discontented thoughts. It
was not the striking novelty or profundity of her
commentary on life that made it memorable, it was
simply the truth of what she said and the gentleness
with which she said it. Epigrams are worth
little for guidance to the perplexed, and less for
comfort to the wounded. But the plain, homely
sayings which come from a soul that has learned
the lesson of patient courage in the school of real
experience, fall upon the wound like drops of balsam,
and like a soothing lotion upon the eyes smarting
and blinded with passion.

She spoke of those who had walked with her
long ago in her garden, and for whose sake, now
that they had all gone into the world of light,
every flower was doubly dear. Would it be a true
proof of loyalty to them if she lived gloomily or
despondently because they were away? She spoke
of the duty of being ready to welcome happiness
as well as to endure pain, and of the strength that
endurance wins by being grateful for small daily
.bn 147.png
.pn +1
joys, like the evening light, and the smell of roses,
and the singing of birds. She spoke of the faith
that rests on the Unseen Wisdom and Love like a
child on its mother’s breast, and of the melting
away of doubts in the warmth of an effort to do
some good in the world. And if that effort has
conflict, and adventure, and confused noise, and
mistakes, and even defeats mingled with it, in the
stormy years of youth, is not that to be expected?
The burn roars and leaps in the den; the stream
chafes and frets through the rapids of the glen;
the river does not grow calm and smooth until it
nears the sea. Courage is a virtue that the young
cannot spare; to lose it is to grow old before the
time; it is better to make a thousand mistakes and
suffer a thousand reverses than to refuse the battle.
Resignation is the final courage of old age;
it arrives in its own season; and it is a good
day when it comes to us. Then there are no more
disappointments; for we have learned that it is
even better to desire the things that we have than
to have the things that we desire. And is not the
best of all our hopes—the hope of immortality—always
.bn 148.png
.pn +1
before us? How can we be dull or heavy while we
have that new experience to look forward to? It
will be the most joyful of all our travels and
adventures. It will bring us our best acquaintances
and friendships. But there is only one way to get
ready for immortality, and that is to love this life,
and live it as bravely and cheerfully and faithfully
as we can.

So my gentle teacher with the silver hair showed
me the treasures of her ancient, simple faith; and
I felt that no sermons, nor books, nor arguments
can strengthen the doubting heart so deeply as
just to come into touch with a soul which
has proved the truth of that plain religion whose
highest philosophy is “Trust in the Lord and do
good.” At the end of the evening the household
was gathered for prayers, and the Mistress
kneeled among her servants, leading them, in her soft
Scottish accent, through the old familiar petitions
for pardon for the errors of the day, and
refreshing sleep through the night and strength
for the morrow. It is good to be in a land where
the people are not ashamed to pray. I have
.bn 149.png
.pn +1
shared the blessing of Catholics at their table in
lowly huts among the mountains of the Tyrol,
and knelt with Covenanters at their household
altar in the glens of Scotland; and all around the
world, where the spirit of prayer is, there is peace.
The genius of the Scotch has made many contributions
to literature, but none I think, more
precious, and none that comes closer to the heart,
than the prayer which Robert Louis Stevenson
wrote for his family in distant Samoa, the night
before he died:—
.sp 1
.ll -4
.in +4
.ti 0
“<i>We beseech thee, Lord, to behold us with favour,
folk of many families and nations, gathered together
in the peace of this roof: weak men and women subsisting
under the covert of thy patience. Be patient still;
suffer us yet a while longer—with our broken promises
of good, with our idle endeavours against evil—suffer
us a while longer to endure, and (if it may be) help
us to do better. Bless to us our extraordinary
mercies; if the day come when these must be
taken, have us play the man under affliction. Be with
our friends, be with ourselves. Go with each of us to
rest; if any awake, temper to them the dark hours of
watching; and when the day returns to us—our sun
and comforter—call us with morning faces, eager to
labour, eager to be happy, if happiness shall be our
portion, and, if the day be marked to sorrow, strong
to endure it. We thank thee and praise thee; and,
in the words of Him to whom this day is sacred, close
our oblation.</i>”

.in
.ll
.bn 150.png
.pn +1
.sp 1
The man who made that kindly human prayer
knew the meaning of white heather. And I dare
to hope that I too have known something of its
meaning, since that evening when the Mistress of
the Glen picked the spray and gave it to me on
the lonely moor. “And now,” she said, “you will
be going home across the sea; and you have been
welcome here, but it is time that you should go,
for there is the place where your real duties and
troubles and joys are waiting for you. And if you
have left any misunderstandings behind you, you
will try to clear them up; and if there have been
any quarrels, you will heal them. Carry this little
flower with you. It’s not the bonniest blossom in
Scotland, but it’s the dearest, for the message that
it brings. And you will remember that love is not
.bn 151.png
.pn 133
getting, but giving; not a wild dream of pleasure,
and a madness of desire—oh no, love is not that—it
is goodness, and honour, and peace, and pure
living—yes, love is that; and it is the best thing
in the world, and the thing that lives longest.
And that is what I am wishing for you and yours
with this bit of white heather.”

1893.
.pb
.bn 152.png
.pn +1
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.bn 153.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.ce 2
THE RISTIGOUCHE FROM A
HORSE-YACHT
.bn 154.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.in +4
.ll -4
.ti 0
“<i>Dr. Paley was ardently attached to this amusement; so much so, that
when the Bishop of Durham inquired of him when one of his most
important works would be finished, he said, with great simplicity
and good humour, ‘My Lord, I shall work steadily at it when the
fly-fishing season is over.’</i>”——
.rj
<sc>Sir Humphry Davy</sc>: <i>Salmonia</i>.
.in
.ll
.bn 155.png
.pn 137
.sp 4
.h2
THE RISTIGOUCHE FROM A|HORSE-YACHT
.sp 2
The boundary line between the Province of
Quebec and New Brunswick, for a considerable
part of its course, resembles the name of the poet
Keats; it is “writ in water.” But like his fame, it
is water that never fails,—the limpid current of
the river Ristigouche.

The railway crawls over it on a long bridge at
Metapedia, and you are dropped in the darkness
somewhere between midnight and dawn. When you
open your window-shutters the next morning, you
see that the village is a disconsolate hamlet,
scattered along the track as if it had been
shaken by chance from an open freight-car; it
consists of twenty houses, three shops, and a
discouraged church perched upon a little hillock
like a solitary mourner on the anxious seat. The
one comfortable and prosperous feature in the
countenance of Metapedia is the house of the
.bn 156.png
.pn +1
Ristigouche Salmon Club—an old-fashioned mansion,
with broad, white piazza, looking over rich
meadow-lands. Here it was that I found my friend
Favonius, president of solemn societies, pillar of
church and state, ingenuously arrayed in gray
knickerbockers, a flannel shirt, and a soft hat,
waiting to take me on his horse-yacht for a voyage
up the river.

Have you ever seen a horse-yacht? Sometimes it
is called a scow; but that sounds common. Sometimes
it is called a house-boat; but that is too English.
What does it profit a man to have a whole
dictionary full of language at his service, unless
he can invent a new and suggestive name for his
friend’s pleasure-craft? The foundation of the
horse-yacht—if a thing that floats may be called
fundamental—is a flat-bottomed boat, some fifty
feet long and ten feet wide, with a draft of about
eight inches. The deck is open for fifteen feet aft
of the place where the bowsprit ought to be; behind
that it is completely covered by a house,
cabin, cottage, or whatever you choose to call it,
with straight sides and a peaked roof of a very
.bn 157.png
.pn +1
early Gothic pattern. Looking in at the door you see,
first of all, two cots, one on either side of the
passage; then an open space with a dining-table,
a stove, and some chairs; beyond that a pantry
with shelves, and a great chest for provisions. A
door at the back opens into the kitchen, and from
that another door opens into a sleeping-room for
the boatmen. A huge wooden tiller curves over the
stern of the boat, and the helmsman stands upon
the kitchen-roof. Two canoes are floating behind,
holding back, at the end of their long tow-ropes,
as if reluctant to follow so clumsy a leader.
This is an accurate description of the horse-yacht.
If necessary it could be sworn to before a notary
public. But I am perfectly sure that you might
read this page through without skipping a word,
and if you had never seen the creature with your
own eyes, you would have no idea how absurd it
looks and how comfortable it is.

While we were stowing away our trunks and
bags under the cots, and making an equitable
division of the hooks upon the walls, the motive
power of the yacht stood patiently upon the shore,
.bn 158.png
.pn +1
stamping a hoof, now and then, or shaking a
shaggy head in mild protest against the flies.
Three more pessimistic-looking horses I never saw.
They were harnessed abreast, and fastened by a
prodigious tow-rope to a short post in the middle
of the forward deck. Their driver was a truculent,
brigandish, bearded old fellow in long boots, a blue
flannel shirt, and a black sombrero. He sat upon
the middle horse, and some wild instinct of colour
had made him tie a big red handkerchief around
his shoulders, so that the eye of the beholder took
delight in him. He posed like a bold, bad robber-chief.
But in point of fact I believe he was the
mildest and most inoffensive of men. We never
heard him say anything except at a distance, to
his horses, and we did not inquire what that was.

Well, as I have said, we were haggling courteously
over those hooks in the cabin, when the
boat gave a lurch. The bow swung out into the
stream. There was a scrambling and clattering of
iron horse-shoes on the rough shingle of the bank;
and when we looked out of doors, our house was
moving up the river with the boat under it.
.bn 159.png
.pn +1

The Ristigouche is a noble stream, stately and
swift and strong. It rises among the dense forests
in the northern part of New Brunswick—a moist
upland region, of never-failing springs and
innumerous lakes—and pours a flood of clear, cold
water one hundred and fifty miles northward and
eastward through the hills into the head of the
Bay of Chaleurs. There are no falls in its course,
but rapids everywhere. It is steadfast but not
impetuous, quick but not turbulent, resolute and
eager in its desire to get to the sea, like the
life of a man who has a purpose,

.ce
“<i>Too great for haste, too high for rivalry.</i>”

The wonder is where all the water comes from.
But the river is fed by more than six thousand
square miles of territory. From both sides the little
brooks come dashing in with their supply. At
intervals a larger stream, reaching away back
among the mountains like a hand with many fingers
to gather

.ce
“<i>The filtered tribute of the rough woodland,</i>”
.sp 1
delivers its generous offering to the main current.
.bn 160.png
.pn +1

The names of the chief tributaries of the Ristigouche
are curious. There is the headstrong
Metapedia, and the crooked Upsalquitch, and the
Patapedia, and the Quatawamkedgwick. These are
words at which the tongue balks at first, but you
soon grow used to them and learn to take anything
of five syllables with a rush, as a hunter
takes a five-barred gate, trusting to fortune that
you will come down with the accent in the right
place.

For six or seven miles above Metapedia the river
has a breadth of about two hundred yards, and
the valley slopes back rather gently to the mountains
on either side. There is a good deal of cultivated
land, and scattered farm-houses appear. The
soil is excellent. But it is like a pearl cast before
an obstinate, unfriendly climate. Late frosts prolong
the winter. Early frosts curtail the summer.
The only safe crops are grass, oats, and potatoes.
And for half the year all the cattle must be housed
and fed to keep them alive. This lends a melancholy
aspect to agriculture. Most of the farmers
look as if they had never seen better days. With
.bn 161.png
.pn +1
few exceptions they are what a New Englander
would call “slack-twisted and shiftless.” Their
barns are pervious to the weather, and their fences
fail to connect. Sleds and ploughs rust together
beside the house, and chickens scratch up the
front-door yard. In truth, the people have been
somewhat demoralised by the conflicting claims of
different occupations; hunting in the fall, lumbering
in the winter and spring, and working for the
American sportsmen in the brief angling season,
are so much more attractive and offer so much
larger returns of ready money, that the tedious
toil of farming is neglected. But for all that, in
the bright days of midsummer, these green fields
sloping down to the water, and pastures high up
among the trees on the hillsides, look pleasant
from a distance, and give an inhabited air to the
landscape.

At the mouth of the Upsalquitch we passed the
first of the fishing-lodges. It belongs to a sage
angler from Albany who saw the beauty of the
situation, years ago, and built a habitation to
match it. Since that time a number of gentlemen
.bn 162.png
.pn +1
have bought land fronting on good pools, and put
up little cottages of a less classical style than
Charles Cotton’s “Fisherman’s Retreat” on the
banks of the river Dove, but better suited to this
wild scenery, and more convenient to live in. The
prevailing pattern is a very simple one; it consists
of a broad piazza with a small house in the
middle of it. The house bears about the same proportion
to the piazza that the crown of a Gainsborough
hat does to the brim. And the cost of the
edifice is to the cost of the land as the first price
of a share in a bankrupt railway is to the assessments
which follow the reorganisation. All the
best points have been sold, and real estate on the
Ristigouche has been bid up to an absurd figure.
In fact, the river is over-populated and probably
over-fished. But we could hardly find it in our
hearts to regret this, for it made the upward trip
a very sociable one. At every lodge that was open,
Favonius (who knows everybody) had a friend,
and we must slip ashore in a canoe to leave the
mail and refresh the inner man.

An angler, like an Arab, regards hospitality as
.bn 163.png
.pn +1
a religious duty. There seems to be something in
the craft which inclines the heart to kindness and
good-fellowship. Few anglers have I seen who were
not pleasant to meet, and ready to do a good turn
to a fellow-fisherman with the gift of a killing fly
or the loan of a rod. Not their own particular
and well-proved favourite, of course, for that is a
treasure which no decent man would borrow; but
with that exception the best in their store is at the
service of an accredited brother. One of the Ristigouche
proprietors I remember, whose name bespoke
him a descendant of Caledonia’s patron
saint. He was fishing in front of his own door
when we came up, with our splashing horses,
through the pool; but nothing would do but he
must up anchor and have us away with him into
the house to taste his good cheer. And there were
his daughters with their books and needlework,
and the photographs which they had taken pinned
up on the wooden walls, among Japanese fans and
bits of bright-coloured stuff in which the soul of
woman delights, and, in a passive, silent way, the
soul of man also. Then, after we had discussed the
.bn 164.png
.pn +1
year’s fishing, and the mysteries of the camera,
and the deep question of what makes some negatives
too thin and others too thick, we must go out
to see the big salmon which one of the ladies had
caught a few days before, and the large trout
swimming about in their cold spring. It seemed to
me, as we went on our way, that there could
hardly be a more wholesome and pleasant summer-life
for well-bred young women than this, or two
amusements more innocent and sensible than
photography and fly-fishing.

It must be confessed that the horse-yacht as a
vehicle of travel is not remarkable in point of
speed. Three miles an hour is not a very rapid
rate of motion. But then, if you are not in a
hurry, why should you care to make haste?

The wild desire to be forever racing against old
Father Time is one of the kill-joys of modern life.
That ancient traveller is sure to beat you in the
long run, and as long as you are trying to rival
him, he will make your life a burden. But if you
will only acknowledge his superiority and profess
that you do not approve of racing after all, he
.bn 165.png
.pn +1
will settle down quietly beside you and jog along
like the most companionable of creatures. That is a
pleasant pilgrimage in which the journey itself is
part of the destination.

As soon as one learns to regard the horse-yacht
as a sort of moving house, it appears admirable.
There is no dust or smoke, no rumble of wheels,
or shriek of whistles. You are gliding along steadily
through an ever-green world; skirting the
silent hills; passing from one side of the river to
the other when the horses have to swim the current
to find a good foothold on the bank. You are
on the water, but not at its mercy, for your craft
is not disturbed by the heaving of rude waves, and
the serene inhabitants do not say “I am sick.”
There is room enough to move about without falling
overboard. You may sleep, or read, or write
in your cabin, or sit upon the floating piazza in
an arm-chair and smoke the pipe of peace, while
the cool breeze blows in your face and the musical
waves go singing down to the sea.

There was one feature about the boat, which
commended itself very strongly to my mind. It
.bn 166.png
.pn +1
was possible to stand upon the forward deck and
do a little trout-fishing in motion. By watching
your chance, when the corner of a good pool was
within easy reach, you could send out a hasty line
and cajole a sea-trout from his hiding-place. It is
true that the tow-ropes and the post made the
back cast a little awkward; and the wind sometimes
blew the flies up on the roof of the cabin; but
then, with patience and a short line the thing
could be done. I remember a pair of good trout
that rose together just as we were going through
a boiling rapid; and it tried the strength of my
split-bamboo rod to bring those fish to the net
against the current and the motion of the boat.

When nightfall approached we let go the anchor
(to wit, a rope tied to a large stone on the
shore), ate our dinner “with gladness and singleness
of heart” like the early Christians, and slept
the sleep of the just, lulled by the murmuring of
the waters, and defended from the insidious attacks
of the mosquito by the breeze blowing down the
river and the impregnable curtains over our beds.
At daybreak, long before Favonius and I had finished
.bn 167.png
.pn +1
our dreams, we were under way again; and
when the trampling of the horses on some rocky
shore wakened us, we could see the steep hills gliding
past the windows and hear the rapids dashing
against the side of the boat, and it seemed as if
we were still dreaming.

At Cross Point, where the river makes a long
loop around a narrow mountain, thin as a saw and
crowned on its jagged edge by a rude wooden
cross, we stopped for an hour to try the fishing.
It was here that I hooked two mysterious creatures,
each of which took the fly when it was below the
surface, pulled for a few moments in a sullen way
and then apparently melted into nothingness. It
will always be a source of regret to me that the
nature of these fish must remain unknown. While
they were on the line it was the general opinion
that they were heavy trout; but no sooner had
they departed, than I became firmly convinced,
in accordance with a psychological law which holds
good all over the world, that they were both enormous
salmon. Even the Turks have a proverb which
says, “Every fish that escapes appears larger than
.bn 168.png
.pn +1
it is.” No one can alter that conviction, because
no one can logically refute it. Our best blessings,
like our largest fish, always depart before we have
time to measure them.

The Slide Pool is in the wildest and most picturesque
part of the river, about thirty-five miles
above Metapedia. The stream, flowing swiftly
down a stretch of rapids between forest-clad hills,
runs straight toward the base of an eminence so
precipitous that the trees can hardly find a foothold
upon it, and seem to be climbing up in haste
on either side of the long slide which leads to the
summit. The current, barred by the wall of rock,
takes a great sweep to the right, dashing up at
first in angry waves, then falling away in oily
curves and eddies, until at last it sleeps in a black
deep, apparently almost motionless, at the foot of
the hill. It was here, on the upper edge of the
stream, opposite to the slide, that we brought our
floating camp to anchor for some days. What does
one do in such a watering-place?

Let us take a “specimen day.” It is early morning,
or to be more precise, about eight of the
.bn 169.png
.pn +1
clock, and the white fog is just beginning to curl
and drift away from the surface of the river.
Sooner than this it would be idle to go out. The
preternaturally early bird in his greedy haste may
catch the worm; but the salmon never take the fly
until the fog has lifted; and in this the scientific
angler sees, with gratitude, a remarkable adaptation
of the laws of nature to the tastes of man. The
canoes are waiting at the front door. We step into
them and push off, Favonius going up the stream a
couple of miles to the mouth of the Patapedia,
and I down, a little shorter distance, to the famous
Indian House Pool. The slim boat glides easily on
the current, with a smooth buoyant motion, quickened
by the strokes of the paddles in the bow and
the stern. We pass around two curves in the river
and find ourselves at the head of the pool. Here
the man in the stern drops the anchor, just on the
edge of the bar where the rapid breaks over
into the deeper water. The long rod is lifted;
the fly unhooked from the reel; a few feet of
line pulled through the rings, and the fishing
begins.
.bn 170.png
.pn +1

First cast,—to the right, straight across the
stream, about twenty feet: the current carries the
fly down with a semicircular sweep, until it comes
in line with the bow of the canoe. Second cast,—to
the left, straight across the stream, with the same
motion: the semicircle is completed, and the fly
hangs quivering for a few seconds at the lowest
point of the arc. Three or four feet of line are
drawn from the reel. Third cast to the right;
fourth cast to the left. Then a little more line.
And so, with widening half-circles, the water is
covered, gradually and very carefully, until at
length the angler has as much line out as his two-handed
rod can lift and swing. Then the first
“drop” is finished; the man in the stern quietly
pulls up the anchor and lets the boat drift down
a few yards; the same process is repeated on the
second drop; and so on, until the end of the run
is reached and the fly has passed over all the good
water. This seems like a very regular and somewhat
mechanical proceeding as one describes it, but in
the performance it is rendered intensely interesting
.bn 171.png
.pn +1
by the knowledge that at any moment it is
liable to be interrupted.

This morning the interruption comes early. At
the first cast of the second drop, before the fly
has fairly lit, a great flash of silver darts from
the waves close by the boat. Usually a salmon takes
the fly rather slowly, carrying it under water before
he seizes it in his mouth. But this one is in no
mood for deliberation. He has hooked himself with
a rush, and the line goes whirring madly from the
reel as he races down the pool. Keep the point of
the rod low; he must have his own way now. Up
with the anchor quickly, and send the canoe after
him, bowman and sternman paddling with swift
strokes. He has reached the deepest water; he stops
to think what has happened to him; we have passed
around and below him; and now, with the current
to help us, we can begin to reel in. Lift the point
of the rod, with a strong, steady pull. Put the
force of both arms into it. The tough wood will
stand the strain. The fish must be moved; he must
come to the boat if he is ever to be landed. He
.bn 172.png
.pn +1
gives a little and yields slowly to the pressure.
Then suddenly he gives too much, and runs straight
toward us. Reel in now as swiftly as possible, or
else he will get a slack on the line and escape. Now
he stops, shakes his head from side to side, and
darts away again across the pool, leaping high out
of water. Don’t touch the reel! Drop the point of
the rod quickly, for if he falls on the leader he
will surely break it. Another leap, and another!
Truly he is “a merry one,” and it will go hard
with us to hold him. But those great leaps have
exhausted his strength, and now he follows the
rod more easily. The men push the boat back
to the shallow side of the pool until it touches
lightly on the shore. The fish comes slowly in,
fighting a little and making a few short runs; he
is tired and turns slightly on his side; but even
yet he is a heavy weight on the line, and it seems
a wonder that so slight a thing as the leader can
guide and draw him. Now he is close to the boat.
The boatman steps out on a rock with his gaff.
Steadily now and slowly, lift the rod, bending it
backward. A quick sure stroke of the steel! a
.bn 173.png
.pn +1
great splash! and the salmon is lifted upon the
shore. How he flounces about on the stones. Give
him the <i>coup de grace</i> at once, for his own sake
as well as for ours. And now look at him, as he lies
there on the green leaves. Broad back; small head
tapering to a point; clean, shining sides with a
few black spots on them; it is a fish fresh-run from
the sea, in perfect condition, and that is the reason
why he has given such good sport.

We must try for another before we go back.
Again fortune favours us, and at eleven o’clock
we pole up the river to the camp with two good
salmon in the canoe. Hardly have we laid them
away in the ice-box, when Favonius comes dropping
down from Patapedia with three fish, one of
them a twenty-four pounder. And so the morning’s
work is done.

In the evening, after dinner, it was our custom
to sit out on the deck, watching the moonlight as
it fell softly over the black hills and changed the
river into a pale flood of rolling gold. The fragrant
wreaths of smoke floated lazily away on the
faint breeze of night. There was no sound save
.bn 174.png
.pn +1
the rushing of the water and the crackling of the
camp-fire on the shore. We talked of many things
in the heavens above, and the earth beneath, and
the waters under the earth; touching lightly here
and there as the spirit of vagrant converse led us.
Favonius has the good sense to talk about himself
occasionally and tell his own experience. The man
who will not do that must always be a dull companion.
Modest egoism is the salt of conversation:
you do not want too much of it; but if it is altogether
omitted, everything tastes flat. I remember
well the evening when he told me the story of the
Sheep of the Wilderness.

“I was ill that summer,” said he, “and the doctor
had ordered me to go into the woods, but on
no account to go without plenty of fresh meat,
which was essential to my recovery. So we set out
into the wild country north of Georgian Bay, taking
a live sheep with us in order to be sure that
the doctor’s prescription might be faithfully followed.
It was a young and innocent little beast,
curling itself up at my feet in the canoe, and following
me about on shore like a dog. I gathered
.bn 175.png
.pn +1
grass every day to feed it, and carried it in my
arms over the rough portages. It ate out of my
hand and rubbed its woolly head against my leggings.
To my dismay, I found that I was beginning
to love it for its own sake and without any
ulterior motives. The thought of killing and eating
it became more and more painful to me, until at
length the fatal fascination was complete, and my
trip became practically an exercise of devotion to
that sheep. I carried it everywhere and ministered
fondly to its wants. Not for the world would I
have alluded to mutton in its presence. And when
we returned to civilisation I parted from the
creature with sincere regret and the consciousness
that I had humoured my affections at the expense
of my digestion. The sheep did not give me so
much as a look of farewell, but fell to feeding on
the grass beside the farm-house with an air of
placid triumph.”

After hearing this touching tale, I was glad
that no great intimacy had sprung up between
Favonius and the chickens which we carried in a
coop on the forecastle head, for there is no telling
.bn 176.png
.pn +1
what restrictions his tender-heartedness might have
laid upon our larder. But perhaps a chicken would
not have given such an opening for misplaced
affection as a sheep. There is a great difference in
animals in this respect. I certainly never heard of
any one falling in love with a salmon in such a
way as to regard it as a fond companion. And this
may be one reason why no sensible person who has
tried fishing has ever been able to see any cruelty
in it.

Suppose the fish is not caught by an angler,
what is his alternative fate? He will either perish
miserably in the struggles of the crowded net, or
die of old age and starvation like the long, lean
stragglers which are sometimes found in the shallow
pools, or be devoured by a larger fish, or torn
to pieces by a seal or an otter. Compared with any
of these miserable deaths, the fate of a salmon who
is hooked in a clear stream and after a glorious
fight receives the happy despatch at the moment
when he touches the shore, is a sort of euthanasia.
And, since the fish was made to be man’s food, the
.bn 177.png
.pn +1
angler who brings him to the table of destiny in
the cleanest, quickest, kindest way is, in fact, his
benefactor.

There were some days, however, when our benevolent
intentions toward the salmon were frustrated;
mornings when they refused to rise, and evenings
when they escaped even the skilful endeavours of
Favonius. In vain did he try every fly in his book,
from the smallest “Silver Doctor” to the largest
“Golden Eagle.” The “Black Dose” would not
move them. The “Durham Ranger” covered the
pool in vain. On days like this, if a stray fish rose,
it was hard to land him, for he was usually but
slightly hooked.

I remember one of these shy creatures which led
me a pretty dance at the mouth of Patapedia. He
came to the fly just at dusk, rising very softly
and quietly, as if he did not really care for it but
only wanted to see what it was like. He went down
at once into deep water, and began the most dangerous
and exasperating of all salmon-tactics, moving
around in slow circles and shaking his head
.bn 178.png
.pn +1
from side to side, with sullen pertinacity. This is
called “jigging,” and unless it can be stopped, the
result is fatal.

I could not stop it. That salmon was determined
to jig. He knew more than I did.

The canoe followed him down the pool. He
jigged away past all three of the inlets of the
Patapedia, and at last, in the still, deep water below,
after we had laboured with him for half an
hour, and brought him near enough to see that he
was immense, he calmly opened his mouth and the
fly came back to me void. That was a sad evening,
in which all the consolations of philosophy
were needed.

Sunday was a very peaceful day in our camp.
In the Dominion of Canada, the question “to fish
or not to fish” on the first day of the week is not
left to the frailty of the individual conscience.
The law on the subject is quite explicit, and says
that between six o’clock on Saturday evening and
six o’clock on Monday morning all nets shall be
taken up and no one shall wet a line. The Ristigouche
Salmon Club has its guardians stationed all
.bn 179.png
.pn +1
along the river, and they are quite as inflexible in
seeing that their employers keep this law as the
famous sentinel was in refusing to let Napoleon
pass without the countersign. But I do not think
that these keen sportsmen regard it as a hardship;
they are quite willing that the fish should have “an
off day” in every week, and only grumble because
some of the net-owners down at the mouth of the
river have brought political influence to bear in
their favour and obtained exemption from the rule.
For our part, we were nothing loath to hang up
our rods, and make the day different from other
days.

In the morning we had a service in the cabin
of the boat, gathering a little congregation of
guardians and boatmen, and people from a solitary
farm-house by the river. They came in <i>pirogues</i>—long,
narrow boats hollowed from the trunk of a
tree; the black-eyed, brown-faced girls sitting back
to back in the middle of the boat, and the men
standing up bending to their poles. It seemed a
picturesque way of travelling, although none too
safe.
.bn 180.png
.pn +1

In the afternoon we sat on deck and looked at
the water. What a charm there is in watching a
swift stream! The eye never wearies of following
its curls and eddies, the shadow of the waves dancing
over the stones, the strange, crinkling lines of
sunlight in the shallows. There is a sort of fascination
in it, lulling and soothing the mind into a quietude
which is even pleasanter than sleep, and making it
almost possible to do that of which we so often speak,
but which we never quite accomplish—“think about
nothing.” Out on the edge of the pool, we could
see five or six huge salmon, moving slowly from
side to side, or lying motionless like gray
shadows. There was nothing to break the
silence except the thin clear whistle of the
white-throated sparrow far back in the woods.
This is almost the only bird-song that one hears
on the river, unless you count the metallic
“<i>chr-r-r-r</i>” of the kingfisher as a song.

.bn 181.png

.il fn=p162.jpg w=321px
.ca Lulling and soothing the mind into a quietude.

.bn 182.png
// [Blank Page]
.bn 183.png
.pn +1

Every now and then one of the salmon in the
pool would lazily roll out of water, or spring high
into the air and fall back with a heavy splash.
What is it that makes salmon leap? Is it pain or
pleasure? Do they do it to escape the attack of
another fish, or to shake off a parasite that clings
to them, or to practise jumping so that they can
ascend the falls when they reach them, or simply
and solely out of exuberant gladness and joy of
living? Any one of these reasons would be enough
to account for it on week-days. On Sunday I am
quite sure they do it for the trial of the fisherman’s
faith.

But how should I tell all the little incidents
which made that lazy voyage so delightful? Favonius
was the ideal host, for on water, as well
as on land, he knows how to provide for the liberty
as well as for the wants of his guests. He
understands also the fine art of conversation,
which consists of silence as well as speech. And
when it comes to angling, Izaak Walton himself
could not have been a more profitable teacher
by precept or example. Indeed, it is a curious
thought, and one full of sadness to a well-constituted
mind, that on the Ristigouche “I. W.”
would have been at sea, for the beloved father of
all fishermen passed through this world without
.bn 184.png
.pn +1
ever catching a salmon. So ill does fortune match
with merit here below.

At last the days of idleness were ended. We
could not,

.ce 2
“<i>Fold our tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away;</i>”

but we took down the long rods, put away the
heavy reels, made the canoes fast to the side of
the house, embarked the three horses on the
front deck, and then dropped down with the
current, swinging along through the rapids, and
drifting slowly through the still places, now
grounding on a hidden rock, and now sweeping
around a sharp curve, until at length we saw the
roofs of Metapedia and the ugly bridge of the
railway spanning the river. There we left our
floating house, awkward and helpless, like some
strange relic of the flood, stranded on the shore.
And as we climbed the bank we looked back and
wondered whether Noah was sorry when he said
good-bye to his ark.

1888.
.pb
.bn 185.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.ce
ALPENROSEN AND GOAT’S MILK

.bn 186.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.in +4
.ll -4
.ti 0
“<i>Nay, let me tell you, there be many that have forty times
our estates, that would give the greatest part of it to be
healthful and cheerful like us; who, with the expense of a
little money, have ate, and drank, and laughed, and angled,
and sung, and slept securely; and rose next day, and cast away
care, and sung, and laughed, and angled again; which are blessings
rich men cannot purchase with all their money.</i>”——
.rj
<sc>Izaak Walton</sc>: <i>The Complete Angler</i>.
.in
.ll
.bn 187.png
.pn 167
.sp 4
.h2
ALPENROSEN AND GOAT’S MILK
.sp 2
A great deal of the pleasure of life lies in
bringing together things which have no connection.
That is the secret of humour—at least so
we are told by the philosophers who explain the
jests that other men have made—and in regard
to travel, I am quite sure that it must be illogical
in order to be entertaining. The more contrasts it
contains, the better.

Perhaps it was some philosophical reflection of
this kind that brought me to the resolution, on a
certain summer day, to make a little journey, as
straight as possible, from the sea-level streets of
Venice to the lonely, lofty summit of a Tyrolese
mountain, called, for no earthly reason that I can
discover, the Gross-Venediger.

But apart from the philosophy of the matter,
which I must confess to passing over very superficially
at the time, there were other and more
cogent reasons for wanting to go from Venice to
.bn 188.png
.pn +1
the Big Venetian. It was the first of July, and
the city on the sea was becoming tepid. A slumbrous
haze brooded over canals and palaces and
churches. It was difficult to keep one’s conscience
awake to Baedeker and a sense of moral obligation;
Ruskin was impossible, and a picture-gallery
was a penance. We floated lazily from
one place to another, and decided that, after
all, it was too warm to go in. The cries of
the gondoliers, at the canal corners, grew more
and more monotonous and dreamy. There was
danger of our falling fast asleep and having to
pay by the hour for a day’s repose in a gondola.
If it grew much warmer, we might be compelled
to stay until the following winter in order
to recover energy enough to get away. All the
signs of the times pointed northward, to the
mountains, where we should see glaciers and
snow-fields, and pick Alpenrosen, and drink goat’s
milk fresh from the real goat.
.bn 189.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.ce
I.
.sp 1
The first stage on the journey thither was by
rail to Belluno—about four or five hours. It is a
sufficient commentary on railway travel that the
most important thing about it is to tell how
many hours it takes to get from one place to
another.

We arrived in Belluno at night, and when we
awoke the next morning we found ourselves in a
picturesque little city of Venetian aspect, with a
piazza and a campanile and a Palladian cathedral,
surrounded on all sides by lofty hills. We
were at the end of the railway and at the beginning
of the Dolomites.

Although I have a constitutional aversion to
scientific information given by unscientific persons,
such as clergymen and men of letters, I must
go in that direction far enough to make it clear
that the word Dolomite does not describe a kind
of fossil, nor a sect of heretics, but a formation
of mountains lying between the Alps and
.bn 190.png
.pn +1
the Adriatic. Draw a diamond on the map, with
Brixen at the northwest corner, Lienz at the
northeast, Belluno at the southeast, and Trent
at the southwest, and you will have included
the region of the Dolomites, a country so
picturesque, so interesting, so full of sublime and
beautiful scenery, that it is equally a wonder
and a blessing that it has not been long since
completely overrun by tourists and ruined with
railways. It is true, the glaciers and snow-fields
are limited; the waterfalls are comparatively
few and slender, and the rivers small; the
loftiest peaks are little more than ten thousand
feet high. But, on the other hand, the mountains
are always near, and therefore always
imposing. Bold, steep, fantastic masses of naked
rock, they rise suddenly from the green and
flowery valleys in amazing and endless contrast;
they mirror themselves in the tiny mountain
lakes like pictures in a dream.

I believe the guide-book says that they are
formed of carbonate of lime and carbonate of
magnesia in chemical composition; but even if this
.bn 191.png
.pn +1
be true, it need not prejudice any candid observer
against them. For the simple and fortunate
fact is that they are built of such stone
that wind and weather, keen frost and melting
snow and rushing water have worn and cut and
carved them into a thousand shapes of wonder and
beauty. It needs but little fancy to see in them
walls and towers, cathedrals and campaniles,
fortresses and cities, tinged with many hues
from pale gray to deep red, and shining in an
air so soft, so pure, so cool, so fragrant, under
a sky so deep and blue and a sunshine so genial,
that it seems like the happy union of Switzerland
and Italy.

The great highway through this region from south
to north is the Ampezzo road, which was constructed
in 1830, along the valleys of the Piave,
the Boite, and the Rienz—the ancient line of
travel and commerce between Venice and Innsbruck.
The road is superbly built, smooth
and level. Our carriage rolled along so easily
that we forgot and forgave its venerable appearance
and its lack of accommodation for
.bn 192.png
.pn +1
trunks. We had been persuaded to take four
horses, as our luggage seemed too formidable
for a single pair. But in effect our concession to
apparent necessity turned out to be a mere display
of superfluous luxury, for the two white
leaders did little more than show their feeble
paces, leaving the gray wheelers to do the
work. We had the elevating sense of travelling
four-in-hand, however—a satisfaction to
which I do not believe any human being is altogether
insensible.

At Longarone we breakfasted for the second
time, and entered the narrow gorge of the Piave.
The road was cut out of the face of the rock.
Below us the long lumber-rafts went shooting
down the swift river. Above, on the right,
were the jagged crests of Monte Furlon and
Premaggiore, which seemed to us very wonderful,
because we had not yet learned how jagged the
Dolomites can be. At Perarolo, where the Boite
joins the Piave, there is a lump of a mountain
in the angle between the rivers, and around
this we crawled in long curves until we had
.bn 193.png
.pn +1
risen a thousand feet, and arrived at the same
Hotel Venezia, where we were to dine.

While dinner was preparing, the Deacon and I
walked up to Pieve di Cadore, the birthplace of
Titian. The house in which the great painter first
saw the colours of the world is still standing, and
tradition points out the very room in which he
began to paint. I am not one of those who
would inquire too closely into such a legend
as this. The cottage may have been rebuilt a
dozen times since Titian’s day; not a scrap of the
original stone or plaster may remain; but beyond
a doubt the view that we saw from the window
is the same that Titian saw. Now, for
the first time, I could understand and appreciate
the landscape-backgrounds of his pictures.
The compact masses of mountains, the bold,
sharp forms, the hanging rocks of cold gray
emerging from green slopes, the intense blue aerial
distances—these all had seemed to be unreal
and imaginary—compositions of the studio.
But now I knew that, whether Titian painted
out-of-doors, like our modern impressionists, or
.bn 194.png
.pn +1
not, he certainly painted what he had seen,
and painted it as it is.

The graceful brown-eyed boy who showed us
the house seemed also to belong to one of Titian’s
pictures. As we were going away, the Deacon,
for lack of copper, rewarded him with a little
silver piece, a half-lira, in value about ten cents.
A celestial rapture of surprise spread over the
child’s face, and I know not what blessings he invoked
upon us. He called his companions to rejoice
with him, and we left them clapping their
hands and dancing.

Driving after one has dined has always a
peculiar charm. The motion seems pleasanter,
the landscape finer than in the morning hours.
The road from Cadore ran on a high level,
through sloping pastures, white villages, and
bits of larch forest. In its narrow bed, far
below, the river Boite roared as gently as
Bottom’s lion. The afternoon sunlight touched
the snow-capped pinnacle of Antelao and the
massive pink wall of Sorapis on the right; on
the left, across the valley, Monte Pelmo’s vast
head and the wild crests of La Rochetta and
Formin rose dark against the glowing sky. The
peasants lifted their hats as we passed, and gave
us a pleasant evening greeting. And so, almost
without knowing it, we slipped out of Italy into
Austria, and drew up before a bare, square stone
building with the double black eagle, like a
strange fowl split for broiling, staring at us
from the wall, and an inscription to the effect
that this was the Royal and Imperial Austrian
Custom-house.
.bn 195.png

.il fn=p174.jpg w=327px
.ca The same that Titian saw.

.bn 196.png
// [Blank Page]
.bn 197.png
.pn +1

The officer saluted us so politely that we felt
quite sorry that his duty required him to disturb
our luggage. “The law obliged him to open
one trunk; courtesy forbade him to open more.”
It was quickly done; and, without having to
make any contribution to the income of His
Royal and Imperial Majesty, Francis Joseph, we
rolled on our way, through the hamlets of Acqua
Bona and Zuel, into the Ampezzan metropolis of
Cortina, at sundown.

The modest inn called “The Star of Gold”
stood facing the public square, just below the
.bn 198.png
.pn +1
church, and the landlady stood facing us in the
doorway, with an enthusiastic welcome—altogether
a most friendly and entertaining landlady,
whose one desire in life seemed to be that we
should never regret having chosen her house instead
of “The White Cross,” or “The Black
Eagle.”

“O ja!” she had our telegram received; and
would we look at the rooms? Outlooking on the
piazza, with a balcony from which we could observe
the Festa of to-morrow. She hoped they
would please us. “Only come in; accommodate
yourselves.”

It was all as she promised; three little bedrooms,
and a little salon opening on a little balcony;
queer old oil-paintings and framed embroideries
and tiles hanging on the walls; spotless
curtains, and board floors so white that it
would have been a shame to eat off them without
spreading a cloth to keep them from being
soiled.

“These are the rooms of the Baron Rothschild
when he comes here always in the summer—with
.bn 199.png
.pn +1
nine horses and nine servants—the Baron Rothschild
of Vienna.”

I assured her that we did not know the
Baron, but that should make no difference. We
would not ask her to reduce the price on account
of a little thing like that.

She did not quite grasp this idea, but hoped
that we would not find the pension too dear
at a dollar and fifty-seven and a half cents a day
each, with a little extra for the salon and the
balcony. “The English people all please themselves
here—there comes many every summer—English
Bishops and their families.”

I inquired whether there were many Bishops in
the house at that moment.

“No, just at present—she was very sorry—none.”

“Well, then,” I said, “it is all right. We will take
the rooms.”

Good Signora Barbaria, you did not speak
the American language, nor understand those
curious perversions of thought which pass among
the Americans for humour; but you understood
.bn 200.png
.pn +1
how to make a little inn cheerful and home-like;
yours was a very simple and agreeable art of
keeping a hotel. As we sat in the balcony after
supper, listening to the capital playing of the
village orchestra, and the Tyrolese songs with
which they varied their music, we thought within
ourselves that we were fortunate to have fallen
upon the Star of Gold.
.sp 2
.ce
II.
.sp 1
Cortina lies in its valley like a white shell
that has rolled down into a broad vase of malachite.
It has about a hundred houses and seven
hundred inhabitants, a large church and two
small ones, a fine stone campanile with excellent
bells, and seven or eight little inns. But it is
more important than its size would signify, for
it is the capital of the district whose lawful title
is <i>Magnifica Comunità di Ampezzo</i>—a name conferred
long ago by the Republic of Venice. In
the fifteenth century it was Venetian territory;
but in 1516, under Maximilian I., it was
joined to Austria; and it is now one of the richest
.bn 201.png
.pn +1
and most prosperous communes of the Tyrol.
It embraces about thirty-five hundred people,
scattered in hamlets and clusters of houses
through the green basin with its four entrances,
lying between the peaks of Tofana, Cristallo,
Sorapis, and Nuvolau. The well-cultivated grain
fields and meadows, the smooth alps filled
with fine cattle, the well-built houses with their
white stone basements and balconies of dark
brown wood and broad overhanging roofs, all
speak of industry and thrift. But there is more
than mere agricultural prosperity in this valley.
There is a fine race of men and women—intelligent,
vigorous, and with a strong sense
of beauty. The outer walls of the annex of the
Hotel Aquila Nera are covered with frescoes
of marked power and originality, painted by
the son of the innkeeper. The art schools
of Cortina are famous for their beautiful work
in gold and silver filigree, and wood-inlaying.
There are nearly two hundred pupils in these
schools, all peasants’ children, and they produce
results, especially in <i>intarsia</i>, which are admirable.
.bn 202.png
.pn +1
The village orchestra, of which I spoke a
moment ago, is trained and led by a peasant’s
son, who has never had a thorough musical education.
It must have at least twenty-five members,
and as we heard them at the Festa they
seemed to play with extraordinary accuracy and
expression.

This Festa gave us a fine chance to see the
people of the Ampezzo all together. It was the
annual jubilation of the district; and from all
the outlying hamlets and remote side valleys,
even from the neighbouring vales of Agordo and
Auronzo, across the mountains, and from Cadore,
the peasants, men and women and children,
had come in to the <i>Sagro</i> at Cortina. The
piazza—which is really nothing more than a
broadening of the road behind the church—was
quite thronged. There must have been between
two and three thousand people.

The ceremonies of the day began with general
church-going. The people here are honestly and
naturally religious. I have seen so many examples
of what can only be called “sincere
.bn 203.png
.pn +1
and unaffected piety,” that I cannot doubt it.
The church, on Cortina’s feast-day, was crowded
to the doors with worshippers, who gave every
evidence of taking part not only with the voice,
but also with the heart, in the worship.

Then followed the public unveiling of a tablet,
on the wall of the little Inn of the Anchor,
to the memory of Giammaria Ghedini, the founder
of the art-schools of Cortina. There was
music by the band; and an oration by a
native Demosthenes (who spoke in Italian so
fluent that it ran through one’s senses like
water through a sluice, leaving nothing behind),
and an original <i>Canto</i> sung by the village
choir, with a general chorus, in which they
called upon the various mountains to “reëcho
the name of the beloved master John-Mary as
a model of modesty and true merit,” and wound
up with—
.sp 1
.nf b
“<i>Hurrah for John-Mary! Hurrah for his art!
  Hurrah for all teachers as skilful as he!
Hurrah for us all, who have now taken part
  In singing together in</i> do ... re ... mi.”
.nf-

.bn 204.png
.pn +1

It was very primitive, and I do not suppose
that the celebration was even mentioned in the
newspapers of the great world; but, after all,
has not the man who wins such a triumph as
this in the hearts of his own people, for whom
he has made labour beautiful with the charm of
art, deserved better of fame than many a crowned
monarch or conquering warrior? We should be
wiser if we gave less glory to the men who have
been successful in forcing their fellow-men to
die, and more glory to the men who have been
successful in teaching their fellow-men how to
live.

But the Festa of Cortina did not remain all
day on this high moral plane. In the afternoon
came what our landlady called “<i>allerlei Dummheiten</i>.”
There was a grand lottery for the
benefit of the Volunteer Fire Department. The
high officials sat up in a green wooden booth in
the middle of the square, and called out the
numbers and distributed the prizes. Then there
was a greased pole with various articles of an
attractive character tied to a large hoop at the
.bn 205.png
.pn +1
top—silk aprons, and a green jacket, and bottles
of wine, and half a smoked pig, and a coil
of rope, and a purse. The gallant firemen voluntarily
climbed up the pole as far as they
could, one after another, and then involuntarily
slid down again exhausted, each one wiping off
a little more of the grease, until at last the
lucky one came who profited by his forerunners’
labours, and struggled to the top to snatch the
smoked pig. After that it was easy.

Such is success in this unequal world; the
man who wipes off the grease seldom gets the
prize.

Then followed various games, with tubs of
water; and coins fastened to the bottom of a
huge black frying-pan, to be plucked off with
the lips; and pots of flour to be broken with
sticks; so that the young lads of the village were
ducked and blackened and powdered to an unlimited
extent, amid the hilarious applause of
the spectators. In the evening there was more
music, and the peasants danced in the square,
the women quietly and rather heavily, but the
.bn 206.png
.pn +1
men with amazing agility, slapping the soles of
their shoes with their hands, or turning cart-wheels
in front of their partners. At dark the
festivities closed with a display of fireworks;
there were rockets and bombs and pin-wheels;
and the boys had tiny red and blue lights which
they held until their fingers were burned, just
as boys do in America; and there was a general
hush of wonder as a particularly brilliant
rocket swished into the dark sky; and when it
burst into a rain of serpents, the crowd breathed
out its delight in a long-drawn “Ah-h-h-h!” just
as the crowd does everywhere. We might easily
have imagined ourselves at a Fourth of July
celebration in Vermont, if it had not been
for the costumes.

The men of the Ampezzo Valley have kept
but little that is peculiar in their dress. Men
are naturally more progressive than women, and
therefore less picturesque. The tide of fashion
has swept them into the international monotony
of coat and vest and trousers—pretty much
the same, and equally ugly, all over the world.
.bn 207.png
.pn +1
Now and then you may see a short jacket with
silver buttons, or a pair of knee-breeches; and
almost all the youths wear a bunch of feathers
or a tuft of chamois’ hair in their soft green
hats. But the women of the Ampezzo—strong,
comely, with golden brown complexions, and
often noble faces—are not ashamed to dress
as their grandmothers did. They wear a little
round black felt hat with rolled rim and
two long ribbons hanging down at the back.
Their hair is carefully braided and coiled, and
stuck through and through with great silver
pins. A black bodice, fastened with silver clasps,
is covered in front with the ends of a brilliant
silk kerchief, laid in many folds around
the shoulders. The white shirt-sleeves are very
full and fastened up above the elbow with
coloured ribbon. If the weather is cool, the
women wear a short black jacket, with satin
yoke and high puffed sleeves. But, whatever
the weather may be, they make no change in the
large, full dark skirts, almost completely covered
with immense silk aprons, by preference light
.bn 208.png
.pn +1
blue. It is not a remarkably brilliant dress,
compared with that which one may still see in
some districts of Norway or Sweden, but upon
the whole it suits the women of the Ampezzo
wonderfully.

For my part, I think that when a woman has found
a dress that becomes her, it is a waste of time
to send to Paris for a fashion-plate.
.sp 2
.ce
III.
.sp 1
When the excitement of the Festa had subsided,
we were free to abandon ourselves to the
excursions in which the neighbourhood of Cortina
abounds, and to which the guide-book earnestly
calls every right-minded traveller. A walk
through the light-green shadows of the larchwoods
to the tiny lake of Ghedina, where we
could see all the four dozen trout swimming
about in the clear water and catching flies; a
drive to the Belvedere, where there are superficial
refreshments above and profound grottos
below; these were trifles, though we enjoyed
them. But the great mountains encircling us
.bn 209.png
.pn +1
on every side, standing out in clear view with
that distinctness and completeness of vision
which is one charm of the Dolomites, seemed to
summon us to more arduous enterprises. Accordingly,
the Deacon and I selected the easiest
one, engaged a guide, and prepared for the
ascent.

Monte Nuvolau is not a perilous mountain. I
am quite sure that at my present time of life I
should be unwilling to ascend a perilous mountain
unless there were something extraordinarily
desirable at the top, or remarkably disagreeable
at the bottom. Mere risk has lost the attractions
which it once had. As the father of a
family I felt bound to abstain from going for
amusement into any place which a Christian
lady might not visit with propriety and safety.
Our preparation for Nuvolau, therefore, did not
consist of ropes, ice-irons, and axes, but simply of
a lunch and two long sticks.

Our way led us, in the early morning, through
the clustering houses of Lacedel, up the broad,
green slope that faces Cortina on the west, to the
.bn 210.png
.pn +1
beautiful Alp Pocol. Nothing could exceed the
pleasure of such a walk in the cool of the day,
while the dew still lies on the short, rich grass,
and the myriads of flowers are at their brightest
and sweetest. The infinite variety and abundance
of the blossoms is a continual wonder.
They are sown more thickly than the stars in
heaven, and the rainbow itself does not show so
many tints. Here they are mingled like the
threads of some strange embroidery; and there
again nature has massed her colours; so that
one spot will be all pale blue with innumerable
forget-me-nots, or dark blue with gentians;
another will blush with the delicate pink of the
Santa Lucia or the deeper red of the clover;
and another will shine yellow as cloth of gold.
Over all this opulence of bloom the larks were
soaring and singing. I never heard so many
as in the meadows about Cortina. There was
always a sweet spray of music sprinkling down
out of the sky, where the singers poised unseen.
It was like walking through a shower of
melody.
.bn 211.png
.pn +1

From the Alp Pocol, which is simply a fair,
lofty pasture, we had our first full view of
Nuvolau, rising bare and strong, like a huge
bastion, from the dark fir-woods. Through
these our way led onward now for seven miles,
with but a slight ascent. Then turning off to
the left we began to climb sharply through the
forest. There we found abundance of the lovely
Alpenrosen, which do not bloom on the lower
ground. Their colour is a deep, glowing pink,
and when a Tyrolese girl gives you one of these
flowers to stick in the band of your hat, you
may know that you have found favour in
her eyes.

Through the wood the cuckoo was calling—the
bird which reverses the law of good
children, and insists on being heard, but not
seen.

When the forest was at an end we found ourselves
at the foot of an alp which sloped steeply
up to the Five Towers of Averau. The effect of
these enormous masses of rock, standing out in
lonely grandeur, like the ruins of some forsaken
.bn 212.png
.pn +1
habitation of giants, was tremendous. Seen from
far below in the valley their form was picturesque
and striking; but as we sat beside the
clear, cold spring which gushes out at the foot
of the largest tower, the Titanic rocks seemed
to hang in the air above us as if they would
overawe us into a sense of their majesty. We felt
it to the full; yet none the less, but rather the
more, could we feel at the same time the delicate
and ethereal beauty of the fringed gentianella
and the pale Alpine lilies scattered on
the short turf beside us.

We had now been on foot about three hours
and a half. The half hour that remained was
the hardest. Up over loose, broken stones that
rolled beneath our feet, up over great slopes of
rough rock, up across little fields of snow where
we paused to celebrate the Fourth of July with
a brief snowball fight, up along a narrowing
ridge with a precipice on either hand, and
so at last to the summit, 8600 feet above the
sea.

It is not a great height, but it is a noble
.bn 213.png
.pn +1
situation. For Nuvolau is fortunately placed in
the very centre of the Dolomites, and so commands
a finer view than many a higher mountain.
Indeed, it is not from the highest peaks,
according to my experience, that one gets the
grandest prospects, but rather from those of middle
height, which are so isolated as to give a
wide circle of vision, and from which one can
see both the valleys and the summits. Monte
Rosa itself gives a less imposing view than the
Görner Grat.

It is possible, in this world, to climb too high
for pleasure.

But what a panorama Nuvolau gave us on
that clear, radiant summer morning—a perfect
circle of splendid sight! On one side we looked
down upon the Five Towers; on the other, a
thousand feet below, the Alps, dotted with the
huts of the herdsmen, sloped down into the deep-cut
vale of Agordo. Opposite to us was the
enormous mass of Tofana, a pile of gray and
pink and saffron rock. When we turned the
other way, we faced a group of mountains as
.bn 214.png
.pn +1
ragged as the crests of a line of fir-trees, and
behind them loomed the solemn head of Pelmo.
Across the broad vale of the Boite, Antelao
stood beside Sorapis, like a campanile beside a
cathedral, and Cristallo towered above the green
pass of the Three Crosses. Through that opening
we could see the bristling peaks of the Sextenthal.
Sweeping around in a wider circle
from that point, we saw, beyond the Dürrenstein,
the snow-covered pile of the Gross-Glockner;
the crimson bastions of the Rothwand appeared
to the north, behind Tofana; then the white
slopes that hang far away above the Zillerthal;
and, nearer, the Geislerspitze, like five fingers
thrust into the air; behind that, the distant
Oetzthaler Mountain, and just a single white
glimpse of the highest peak of the Ortler by the
Engadine; nearer still we saw the vast fortress
of the Sella group and the red combs of the
Rosengarten; Monte Marmolata, the Queen of
the Dolomites, stood before us revealed from
base to peak in a bridal dress of snow; and
southward we looked into the dark rugged face
.bn 215.png
.pn +1
of La Civetta, rising sheer out of the vale of
Agordo, where the Lake of Alleghe slept unseen.
It was a sea of mountains, tossed around us
into a myriad of motionless waves, and with a
rainbow of colours spread among their hollows
and across their crests. The cliffs of rose and
orange and silver gray, the valleys of deepest
green, the distant shadows of purple and melting
blue, and the dazzling white of the scattered
snow-fields seemed to shift and vary like the
hues on the inside of a shell. And over all, from
peak to peak, the light, feathery clouds went
drifting lazily and slowly, as if they could not
leave a scene so fair.

There is barely room on the top of Nuvolau
for the stone shelter-hut which a grateful Saxon
baron has built there as a sort of votive offering
for the recovery of his health among the mountains.
As we sat within and ate our frugal
lunch, we were glad that he had recovered his
health, and glad that he had built the hut, and
glad that we had come to it. In fact, we could
almost sympathise in our cold, matter-of-fact
.bn 216.png
.pn +1
American way with the sentimental German inscription
which we read on the wall:—
.sp 1
.nf b
<i>Von Nuvolau’s hohen Wolkenstufen
Lass mich, Natur, durch deine Himmel rufen—
An deiner Brust gesunde, wer da krank!
So wird zum</i> Völkerdank <i>mein</i> Sachsendank.
.nf-

We refrained, however, from shouting anything
through Nature’s heaven, but went lightly
down, in about three hours, to supper in the Star
of Gold.


.ce
IV.


When a stern necessity forces one to leave
Cortina, there are several ways of departure.
We selected the main highway for our trunks,
but for ourselves the Pass of the Three Crosses;
the Deacon and the Deaconess in a mountain
waggon, and I on foot. It should be written
as an axiom in the philosophy of travel that the
easiest way is best for your luggage, and the
hardest way is best for yourself.

All along the rough road up to the Pass, we
.bn 217.png
.pn +1
had a glorious outlook backward over the Val
d’ Ampezzo, and when we came to the top, we
looked deep down into the narrow Val Buona
behind Sorapis. I do not know just when we
passed the Austrian border, but when we came
to Lake Misurina we found ourselves in Italy
again. My friends went on down the valley to
Landro, but I in my weakness, having eaten of the
trout of the lake for dinner, could not resist
the temptation of staying over-night to catch
one for breakfast.

It was a pleasant failure. The lake was
beautiful, lying on top of the mountain like a
bit of blue sky, surrounded by the peaks of
Cristallo, Cadino, and the Drei Zinnen. It was
a happiness to float on such celestial waters and
cast the hopeful fly. The trout were there;
they were large; I saw them; they also saw
me; but, alas! I could not raise them. Misurina
is, in fact, what the Scotch call “a dour
loch,” one of those places which are outwardly
beautiful, but inwardly so demoralised that the
trout will not rise.
.bn 218.png
.pn +1

When we came ashore in the evening, the
boatman consoled me with the story of a French
count who had spent two weeks there fishing,
and only caught one fish. I had some thoughts
of staying thirteen days longer, to rival the
count, but concluded to go on the next morning,
over Monte Pian and the Cat’s Ladder to
Landro.

The view from Monte Pian is far less extensive
than that from Nuvolau; but it has the
advantage of being very near the wild jumble
of the Sexten Dolomites. The Three Shoemakers
and a lot more of sharp and ragged
fellows are close by, on the east; on the west,
Cristallo shows its fine little glacier, and
Rothwand its crimson cliffs; and southward
Misurina gives to the view a glimpse of water,
without which, indeed, no view is complete.
Moreover, the mountain has the merit of being,
as its name implies, quite gentle. I met the
Deacon and the Deaconess at the top, they having
walked up from Landro. And so we crossed
the boundary line together again, seven thousand
.bn 219.png
.pn +1
feet above the sea, from Italy into Austria.
There was no custom-house.

The way down, by the Cat’s Ladder, I travelled
alone. The path was very steep and little
worn, but even on the mountain-side there was
no danger of losing it, for it had been blazed
here and there, on trees and stones, with a dash
of blue paint. This is the work of the invaluable
DÖAV—which is, being interpreted,
the German-Austrian Alpine Club. The more
one travels in the mountains, the more one learns to
venerate this beneficent society, for the shelter-huts
and guide-posts it has erected, and the
paths it has made and marked distinctly with
various colours. The Germans have a genius
for thoroughness. My little brown guide-book,
for example, not only informed me through
whose back yard I must go to get into a certain
path, but it told me that in such and
such a spot I should find quite a good deal
(<i>ziemlichviel</i>) of Edelweiss, and in another a
small echo; it advised me in one valley to take
provisions and dispense with a guide, and in another
.bn 220.png
.pn +1
to take a guide and dispense with provisions,
adding varied information in regard to
beer, which in my case was useless, for I could
not touch it. To go astray under such auspices
would be worse than inexcusable.

Landro we found a very different place from
Cortina. Instead of having a large church and
a number of small hotels, it consists entirely of
one large hotel and a very tiny church. It does
not lie in a broad, open basin, but in a narrow
valley, shut in closely by the mountains. The
hotel, in spite of its size, is excellent, and a
few steps up the valley is one of the finest views in
the Dolomites. To the east opens a deep, wild
gorge, at the head of which the pinnacles of
the Drei Zinnen are seen; to the south the Dürrensee
fills the valley from edge to edge, and
reflects in its pale waters the huge bulk of
Monte Cristallo. It is such a complete picture,
so finished, so compact, so balanced, that one
might think a painter had composed it in a moment
of inspiration. But no painter ever laid
such colours on his canvas as those which are
.bn 221.png
.pn +1
seen here when the cool evening shadows have
settled upon the valley, all gray and green,
while the mountains shine above in rosy Alpenglow,
as if transfigured with inward fire.

There is another lake, about three miles north
of Landro, called the Toblacher See, and there
I repaired the defeat of Misurina. The trout at
the outlet, by the bridge, were very small,
and while the old fisherman was endeavouring
to catch some of them in his new net, which
would not work, I pushed my boat up to the
head of the lake, where the stream came in.
The green water was amazingly clear, but the
current kept the fish with their heads up stream;
so that one could come up behind them near
enough for a long cast, without being seen. As
my fly lighted above them and came gently
down with the ripple, I saw the first fish turn
and rise and take it. A motion of the wrist hooked
him, and he played just as gamely as a trout in
my favourite Long Island pond. How different the
colour, though, as he came out of the water.
This fellow was all silvery, with light pink
.bn 222.png
.pn +1
spots on his sides. I took seven of his companions,
in weight some four pounds, and then stopped
because the evening light was failing.

How pleasant it is to fish in such a place and
at such an hour! The novelty of the scene, the
grandeur of the landscape, lend a strange charm
to the sport. But the sport itself is so familiar
that one feels at home—the motion of the rod,
the feathery swish of the line, the sight of the
rising fish—it all brings back a hundred woodland
memories, and thoughts of good fishing
comrades, some far away across the sea, and,
perhaps, even now sitting around the forest
camp-fire in Maine or Canada, and some with
whom we shall keep company no more until we
cross the greater ocean into that happy country
whither they have preceded us.


.ce
V.


Instead of going straight down the valley by
the high road, a drive of an hour, to the railway
in the Pusterthal, I walked up over the
mountains to the east, across the Plätzwiesen,
.bn 223.png
.pn +1
and so down through the Pragserthal. In one
arm of the deep fir-clad vale are the Baths of
Alt-Prags, famous for having cured the Countess
of Görz of a violent rheumatism in the fifteenth
century. It is an antiquated establishment,
and the guests, who were walking about in the
fields or drinking their coffee in the balcony,
had a fifteenth century look about them—venerable
but slightly ruinous. But perhaps that was
merely a rheumatic result.

All the waggons in the place were engaged.
It is strange what an aggravating effect this
state of affairs has upon a pedestrian who is
bent upon riding. I did not recover my delight
in the scenery until I had walked about five
miles farther, and sat down on the grass, beside
a beautiful spring, to eat my lunch.

What is there in a little physical rest that has
such magic to restore the sense of pleasure? A
few moments ago nothing pleased you—the
bloom was gone from the peach; but now it has
come back again—you wonder and admire.
Thus cheerful and contented I trudged up the
.bn 224.png
.pn +1
right arm of the valley to the Baths of Neu-Prags,
less venerable, but apparently more popular
than Alt-Prags, and on beyond them, through
the woods, to the superb Pragser-Wildsee, a lake
whose still waters, now blue as sapphire under
the clear sky, and now green as emerald under
gray clouds, sleep encircled by mighty precipices.
Could anything be a greater contrast
with Venice? There the canals alive with gondolas,
and the open harbour bright with many-coloured
sails; here, the hidden lake, silent and
lifeless, save when

.nf b
                 “<i>A leaping fish
Sends through the tarn a lonely cheer.</i>”
.nf-

Tired, and a little foot-sore, after nine hours’
walking, I came into the big railway hotel at
Toblach that night. There I met my friends
again, and parted from them and the Dolomites
the next day, with regret. For they were
“stepping westward;” but in order to get to
the Gross-Venediger I must make a détour to
the east, through the Pusterthal, and come up
.bn 225.png
.pn +1
through the valley of the Isel to the great
chain of mountains called the Hohe Tauern.

At the junction of the Isel and the Drau lies
the quaint little city of Lienz, with its two
castles—the square, double-towered one in the
town, now transformed into the offices of the
municipality, and the huge mediæval one on a
hill outside, now used as a damp restaurant and
dismal beer-cellar. I lingered at Lienz for a
couple of days, in the ancient hostelry of the
Post. The hallways were vaulted like a cloister,
the walls were three feet thick, the kitchen was
in the middle of the house on the second floor,
so that I looked into it every time I came from
my room, and ordered dinner direct from the
cook. But, so far from being displeased with
these peculiarities, I rather liked the flavour of
them; and then, in addition, the landlady’s
daughter, who was managing the house, was a
person of most engaging manners, and there
was trout and grayling fishing in a stream near
by, and the neighbouring church of Dolsach
contained the beautiful picture of the Holy
.bn 226.png
.pn +1
Family, which Franz Defregger painted for his
native village.

The peasant women of Lienz have one very
striking feature in their dress—a black felt hat
with a broad, stiff brim and a high crown,
smaller at the top than at the base. It looks
a little like the traditional head-gear of the
Pilgrim Fathers, exaggerated. There is a solemnity
about it which is fatal to feminine
beauty.

I went by the post-waggon, with two slow
horses and ten passengers, fifteen miles up
the Iselthal, to Windisch-Matrei, a village
whose early history is lost in the mist of
antiquity, and whose streets are pervaded with
odours which must have originated at the same
time with the village. One wishes that they
also might have shared the fate of its early
history. But it is not fair to expect too much
of a small place, and Windisch-Matrei has certainly
a beautiful situation and a good inn. There I
took my guide—a wiry and companionable little
man, whose occupation in the lower world was
.bn 227.png
.pn +1
that of a maker and merchant of hats—and set
out for the Pragerhütte, a shelter on the side of
the Gross-Venediger.

The path led under the walls of the old Castle
of Weissenstein, and then in steep curves up
the cliff which blocks the head of the valley,
and along a cut in the face of the rock, into
the steep, narrow Tauernthal, which divides the
Glockner group from the Venediger. How
entirely different it was from the region of the
Dolomites! There the variety of colour was
endless and the change incessant; here it was
all green grass and trees and black rocks, with
glimpses of snow. There the highest mountains
were in sight constantly; here they could only
be seen from certain points in the valley.
There the streams played but a small part in
the landscape; here they were prominent, the
main river raging and foaming through the
gorge below, while a score of waterfalls leaped
from the cliffs on either side and dashed down
to join it.

The peasants, men, women and children, were
.bn 228.png
.pn +1
cutting the grass in the perpendicular fields; the
woodmen were trimming and felling the trees in
the fir-forests; the cattle-tenders were driving
their cows along the stony path, or herding
them far up on the hillsides. It was a lonely
scene, and yet a busy one; and all along the
road was written the history of the perils
and hardships of the life which now seemed
so peaceful and picturesque under the summer
sunlight.

These heavy crosses, each covered with a
narrow, pointed roof and decorated with a rude
picture, standing beside the path, or on the
bridge, or near the mill—what do they mean?
They mark the place where a human life has
been lost, or where some poor peasant has been
delivered from a great peril, and has set up a
memorial of his gratitude.

Stop, traveller, as you pass by, and look at
the pictures. They have little more of art than
a child’s drawing on a slate; but they will teach
you what it means to earn a living in these
mountains. They tell of the danger that lurks
.bn 229.png
.pn +1
on the steep slopes of grass, where the mowers
have to go down with ropes around their waists,
and in the beds of the streams where the floods
sweep through in the spring, and in the forests
where the great trees fall and crush men like
flies, and on the icy bridges where a slip is fatal,
and on the high passes where the winter snow-storm
blinds the eyes and benumbs the limbs of the
traveller, and under the cliffs from which
avalanches slide and rocks roll. They show you
men and women falling from waggons, and swept
away by waters, and overwhelmed in land-slips.
In the corner of the picture you may see a
peasant with the black cross above his head—that
means death. Or perhaps it is deliverance
that the tablet commemorates—and then you will
see the miller kneeling beside his mill with a
flood rushing down upon it, or a peasant kneeling
in his harvest-field under an inky-black
cloud, or a landlord beside his inn in flames, or
a mother praying beside her sick children; and
above appears an angel, or a saint, or the Virgin
with her Child.
.bn 230.png
.pn +1

Read the inscriptions, too, in their quaint
German. Some of them are as humourous as the
epitaphs in New England graveyards. I remember
one which ran like this:
.sp 1
.nf b
<i>Here lies Elias Queer,
Killed in his sixtieth year;
Scarce had he seen the light of day
When a waggon-wheel crushed his life away.</i>
.nf-

And there is another famous one which says:
.sp 1
.nf c
<i>Here perished the honoured and virtuous
                maiden,
                  G. V.
This tablet was erected by her only son.</i>
.nf-

But for the most part a glance at these
<i>Marterl und Taferl</i>, which are so frequent
on all the mountain-roads of the Tyrol, will give
you a strange sense of the real pathos of human
life. If you are a Catholic, you will not refuse
their request to say a prayer for the departed; if
you are a Protestant, at least it will not hurt you
to say one for those who still live and suffer and
toil among such dangers.
.bn 231.png
.pn +1

After we had walked for four hours up the
Tauernthal, we came to the Matreier-Tauernhaus,
an inn which is kept open all the year for
the shelter of travellers over the high pass that
crosses the mountain-range at this point, from
north to south. There we dined. It was a
bare, rude place, but the dish of juicy trout was
garnished with flowers, each fish holding a big
pansy in its mouth, and as the maid set them
down before me she wished me “a good
appetite,” with the hearty old-fashioned Tyrolese
courtesy which still survives in these remote
valleys. It is pleasant to travel in a land where
the manners are plain and good. If you meet a
peasant on the road he says, “God greet you!”
if you give a child a couple of kreuzers he folds
his hands and says, “God reward you!” and
the maid who lights you to bed says, “Good-night,
I hope you will sleep well!”

Two hours more of walking brought us
through Ausser-gschlöss and Inner-gschlöss, two
groups of herdsmen’s huts, tenanted only in
summer, at the head of the Tauernthal. Mid-way
.bn 232.png
.pn +1
between them lies a little chapel, cut into the
solid rock for shelter from the avalanches. This
lofty vale is indeed rightly named; for it is
shut off from the rest of the world. The portal
is a cliff down which the stream rushes in foam
and thunder. On either hand rises a mountain
wall. Within, the pasture is fresh and green,
sprinkled with Alpine roses, and the pale river
flows swiftly down between the rows of dark
wooden houses. At the head of the vale towers the
Gross-Venediger, with its glaciers and snow-fields
dazzling white against the deep blue heaven.
The murmur of the stream and the tinkle of the
cow-bells and the jödelling of the herdsmen
far up the slopes, make the music for the
scene.

The path from Gschlöss leads straight up to
the foot of the dark pyramid of the Kesselkopf,
and then in steep endless zig-zags along the edge
of the great glacier. I saw, at first, the pinnacles
of ice far above me, breaking over the
face of the rock; then, after an hour’s breathless
climbing, I could look right into the blue
.bn 233.png
.pn +1
crevasses; and at last, after another hour over
soft snow-fields and broken rocks, I was at
the Pragerhut, perched on the shoulder of the
mountain, looking down upon the huge river
of ice.

It was a magnificent view under the clear light
of evening. Here in front of us, the Venediger
with all his brother-mountains clustered
about him; behind us, across the Tauern, the
mighty chain of the Glockner against the eastern
sky.

This is the frozen world. Here the Winter,
driven back into his stronghold, makes his last
stand against the Summer, in perpetual conflict,
retreating by day to the mountain-peak, but
creeping back at night in frost and snow to regain
a little of his lost territory, until at last
the Summer is wearied out, and the Winter sweeps
down again to claim the whole valley for his
own.
.bn 234.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.ce
VI.
.sp 1
In the Pragerhut I found mountain comfort.
There were bunks along the wall of the guestroom,
with plenty of blankets. There was good
store of eggs, canned meats, and nourishing
black bread. The friendly goats came bleating
up to the door at nightfall to be milked. And
in charge of all this luxury there was a cheerful
peasant-wife with her brown-eyed daughter, to
entertain travellers. It was a pleasant sight to
see them, as they sat down to their supper with
my guide; all three bowed their heads and said
their “grace before meat,” the guide repeating
the longer prayer and the mother and daughter
coming in with the responses. I went to bed
with a warm and comfortable feeling about my
heart. It was a good ending for the day. In
the morning, if the weather remained clear, the
alarm-clock was to wake us at three for the
ascent to the summit.

But can it be three o’clock already. The
gibbous moon still hangs in the sky and casts a
.bn 235.png
.pn +1
feeble light over the scene. Then up and away
for the final climb. How rough the path is
among the black rocks along the ridge! Now we
strike out on the gently rising glacier, across
the crust of snow, picking our way among the
crevasses, with the rope tied about our waists
for fear of a fall. How cold it is! But now the
gray light of morning dawns, and now the
beams of sunrise shoot up behind the Glockner,
and now the sun itself glitters into sight. The
snow grows softer as we toil up the steep,
narrow comb between the Gross-Venediger and
his neighbour the Klein-Venediger. At last we
have reached our journey’s end. See, the whole
of the Tyrol is spread out before us in wondrous
splendour, as we stand on this snowy ridge; and
at our feet the Schlatten glacier, like a long,
white snake, curls down into the valley.

There is still a little peak above us; an
overhanging horn of snow which the wind has
built against the mountain-top. I would like
to stand there, just for a moment. The guide
protests it would be dangerous, for if the snow
.bn 236.png
.pn +1
should break it would be a fall of a thousand feet
to the glacier on the northern side. But let us
dare the few steps upward. How our feet sink!
Is the snow slipping? Look at the glacier!
What is happening? It is wrinkling and curling
backward on us, serpent-like. Its head rises far
above us. All its icy crests are clashing together
like the ringing of a thousand bells. We
are falling! I fling out my arm to grasp the
guide—and awake to find myself clutching a
pillow in the bunk. The alarm-clock is ringing
fiercely for three o’clock. A driving snow-storm
is beating against the window. The ground is
white. Peer through the clouds as I may, I
cannot even catch a glimpse of the vanished
Gross-Venediger.
.pb
.bn 237.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.ce
AU LARGE
.bn 238.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.ll -4
.in +4
.ti 0
“<i>Wherever we strayed, the same tranquil leisure enfolded
us; day followed day in an order unbroken and peaceful as
the unfolding of the flowers and the silent march of the
stars. Time no longer ran like the few sands in a delicate
hour-glass held by a fragile human hand, but like a majestic
river fed by fathomless seas.... We gave ourselves up to the
sweetness of that unmeasured life, without thought of yesterday
or to-morrow; we drank the cup to-day held to our lips, and
knew that so long as we were athirst that draught would not
be denied us.</i>”——
.rj
<sc>Hamilton W. Mabie</sc>: <i>Under the Trees</i>.
.in
.ll
.bn 239.png
.pn 217
.sp 4
.h2
AU LARGE
.sp 2
There is magic in words, surely, and many a
treasure besides Ali Baba’s is unlocked with a
verbal key. Some charm in the mere sound,
some association with the pleasant past, touches
a secret spring. The bars are down; the gate
is open; you are made free of all the fields of
memory and fancy—by a word.

<i>Au large! Envoyez au large!</i> is the cry of
the Canadian voyageurs as they thrust their
paddles against the shore and push out on the
broad lake for a journey through the wilderness.
<i>Au large!</i> is what the man in the bow shouts
to the man in the stern when the birch canoe is
running down the rapids, and the water grows
too broken, and the rocks too thick, along the
river-bank. Then the frail bark must be driven
out into the very centre of the wild current, into
the midst of danger to find safety, dashing, like
.bn 240.png
.pn +1
a frightened colt, along the smooth, sloping lane
bordered by white fences of foam.

<i>Au large!</i> When I hear that word, I hear
also the crisp waves breaking on pebbly beaches,
and the big wind rushing through innumerable
trees, and the roar of headlong rivers leaping
down the rocks. I see long reaches of water
sparkling in the sun, or sleeping still between
evergreen walls beneath a cloudy sky; and the
gleam of white tents on the shore; and the glow
of firelight dancing through the woods. I smell
the delicate vanishing perfume of forest flowers;
and the incense of rolls of birch-bark, crinkling
and flaring in the camp-fire; and the soothing
odour of balsam-boughs piled deep for woodland
beds—the veritable and only genuine perfume
of the land of Nod. The thin shining veil of
the Northern lights waves and fades and brightens
over the night sky; at the sound of the word,
as at the ringing of a bell, the curtain rises.
<i>Scene, the Forest of Arden; enter a party of
hunters.</i>

It was in the Lake St. John country, two
.bn 241.png
.pn +1
hundred miles north of Quebec, that I first heard
my rustic incantation; and it seemed to fit the
region as if it had been made for it. This is not
a little pocket wilderness like the Adirondacks,
but something vast and primitive. You do not
cross it, from one railroad to another, by a
line of hotels. You go into it by one river as
far as you like, or dare; and then you turn and
come back again by another river, making haste
to get out before your provisions are exhausted.
The lake itself is the cradle of the mighty
Saguenay: an inland sea, thirty miles across and
nearly round, lying in the broad limestone basin
north of the Laurentian Mountains. The southern
and eastern shores have been settled for
twenty or thirty years; and the rich farm-land
yields abundant crops of wheat and oats and
potatoes to a community of industrious <i>habitants</i>,
who live in little modern villages, named after
 the saints and gathered as closely as possible
around big gray stone churches, and thank
the good Lord that he has given them a climate
at least four or five degrees milder than Quebec.
.bn 242.png
.pn +1
A railroad, built through a region of granite
hills, which will never be tamed to the plough,
links this outlying settlement to the civilised
world; and at the end of the railroad the Hotel
Roberval, standing on a hill above the lake, offers
to the pampered tourist electric lights, and
spring-beds, and a wide veranda from which he
can look out across the water into the face of
the wilderness.

Northward and westward the interminable
forest rolls away to the shores of Hudson’s Bay
and the frozen wastes of Labrador. It is an
immense solitude. A score of rivers empty into
the lake; little ones like the Pikouabi and La
Pipe, and middle-sized ones like the Ouiatchouan
and La Belle Rivière, and big ones like
the Mistassini and the Peribonca; and each of
these streams is the clue to a labyrinth of woods
and waters. The canoe-man who follows it far
enough will find himself among lakes that are
not named on any map; he will camp on virgin
ground, and make the acquaintance of unsophisticated
fish; perhaps even, like the maiden in
.bn 243.png
.pn +1
the fairy-tale, he will meet with the little bear,
and the middle-sized bear, and the great big
bear.

Damon and I set out on such an expedition
shortly after the nodding lilies in the Connecticut
meadows had rung the noon-tide bell of
summer, and when the raspberry bushes along
the line of the Quebec and Lake St. John Railway
had spread their afternoon collation for
birds and men. At Roberval we found our four
guides waiting for us, and the steamboat took us
all across the lake to the Island House, at the
northeast corner. There we embarked our tents
and blankets, our pots and pans, and bags of
flour and potatoes and bacon and other delicacies,
our rods and guns, and last, but not least,
our axes (without which man in the woods is
a helpless creature), in two birch-bark canoes,
and went flying down the Grande Décharge.

It is a wonderful place, this outlet of Lake
St. John. All the floods of twenty rivers are
gathered here, and break forth through a net of
islands in a double stream, divided by the broad
.bn 244.png
.pn +1
Ile d’Alma, into the Grande Décharge and the
Petite Décharge. The southern outlet is small,
and flows somewhat more quietly at first. But
the northern outlet is a huge confluence and
tumult of waters. You see the set of the tide
far out in the lake, sliding, driving, crowding,
hurrying in with smooth currents and swirling
eddies, toward the corner of escape. By the
rocky cove where the Island House peers out
through the fir-trees, the current already has a
perceptible slope. It begins to boil over hidden
stones in the middle, and gurgles at projecting
points of rock. A mile farther down there is
an islet where the stream quickens, chafes, and
breaks into a rapid. Behind the islet it drops
down in three or four foaming steps. On the
outside it makes one long, straight rush into a
line of white-crested standing waves.

As we approached, the steersman in the first
canoe stood up to look over the course. The sea
was high. Was it too high? The canoes were
heavily loaded. Could they leap the waves?
There was a quick talk among the guides as we
.bn 245.png
.pn +1
slipped along, undecided which way to turn.
Then the question seemed to settle itself, as most
of these woodland questions do, as if some silent
force of Nature had the casting-vote. “<i>Sautez,
sautez!</i>” cried Ferdinand, “<i>envoyez au large!</i>”
In a moment we were sliding down the smooth
back of the rapid, directly toward the first big
wave. The rocky shore went by us like a dream;
we could feel the motion of the earth whirling
around with us. The crest of the billow in front
curled above the bow of the canoe. “<i>Arrét’,
arrét’, doucement!</i>” A swift stroke of the paddle
checked the canoe, quivering and prancing
like a horse suddenly reined in. The wave
ahead, as if surprised, sank and flattened for a
second. The canoe leaped through the edge of
it, swerved to one side, and ran gayly down along
the fringe of the line of billows, into quieter
water.

Every one feels the exhilaration of such a
descent. I know a lady who almost cried with
fright when she went down her first rapid, but
before the voyage was ended she was saying:—
.bn 246.png
.pn +1
.sp 1
.nf b
“<i>Count that day lost whose low, descending sun
Sees no fall leaped, no foaming rapid run.</i>”
.nf-

It takes a touch of danger to bring out the joy
of life.

Our guides began to shout, and joke each
other, and praise their canoes.

“You grazed that villain rock at the corner,”
said Jean; “didn’t you know where it was?”

“Yes, after I touched it,” cried Ferdinand;
“but you took in a bucket of water, and I suppose
your <i>m’sieu’</i> is sitting on a piece of the
river. Is it not?”

This seemed to us all a very merry jest,
and we laughed with the same inextinguishable
laughter which a practical joke, according to
Homer, always used to raise in Olympus. It is
one of the charms of life in the woods that it
brings back the high spirits of boyhood and
renews the youth of the world. Plain fun, like
plain food, tastes good out-of-doors. Nectar is
the sweet sap of a maple-tree. Ambrosia is
only another name for well-turned flapjacks.
And all the immortals, sitting around the table
.bn 247.png
.pn +1
of golden cedar-slabs, make merry when the
clumsy Hephaistos, playing the part of Hebe,
stumbles over a root and upsets the plate of
cakes into the fire.

The first little rapid of the Grande Décharge
was only the beginning. Half a mile below we
could see the river disappear between two points
of rock. There was a roar of conflict, and
a golden mist hanging in the air, like the smoke
of battle. All along the place where the river
sank from sight, dazzling heads of foam were
flashing up and falling back, as if a horde of
water-sprites were vainly trying to fight their
way up to the lake. It was the top of the
<i>grande chûte</i>, a wild succession of falls and
pools where no boat could live for a moment.
We ran down toward it as far as the water
served, and then turned off among the rocks on
the left hand, to take the portage.

These portages are among the troublesome
delights of a journey in the wilderness. To the
guides they mean hard work, for everything,
including the boats, must be carried on their
.bn 248.png
.pn +1
backs. The march of the canoes on dry land is
a curious sight. Andrew Marvell described it
two hundred years ago when he was poetizing
beside the little river Wharfe in Yorkshire:—
.sp 1
.nf b
“<i>And now the salmon-fishers moist
Their leathern boats begin to hoist,
And like antipodes in shoes
Have shod their heads in their canoes.
How tortoise-like, but none so slow,
These rational amphibii go!</i>”
.nf-

But the sportsman carries nothing, except perhaps
his gun, or his rod, or his photographic
camera; and so for him the portage is only a
pleasant opportunity to stretch his legs, cramped
by sitting in the canoe, and to renew his acquaintance
with the pretty things that are in the woods.

We sauntered along the trail, Damon and I,
as if school were out and would never keep
again. How fresh and tonic the forest seemed
as we plunged into its bath of shade. There
were our old friends the cedars, with their roots
.bn 249.png
.pn +1
twisted across the path; and the white birches,
so trim in youth and so shaggy in age; and the
sociable spruces and balsams, crowding close
together, and interlacing their arms overhead.
There were the little springs, trickling through
the moss; and the slippery logs laid across the
marshy places; and the fallen trees, cut in two
and pushed aside,—for this was a much-travelled
portage.

Around the open spaces, the tall meadow-rue
stood dressed in robes of fairy white and green.
The blue banners of the <i>fleur-de-lis</i> were planted
beside the springs. In shady corners, deeper in
the wood, the fragrant pyrola lifted its scape
of clustering bells, like a lily of the valley
wandered to the forest. When we came to the end
of the portage, a perfume like that of cyclamens
in Tyrolean meadows welcomed us, and searching
among the loose grasses by the water-side we
found the exquisite purple spikes of the lesser
fringed orchis, loveliest and most ethereal of
all the woodland flowers save one. And what
one is that? Ah, my friend, it is your own
.bn 250.png
.pn +1
particular favourite, the flower, by whatever
name you call it, that you plucked long ago
when you were walking in the forest with your
sweetheart,—

.ce 2
“<i>Im wunderschönen Monat Mai
  Als alle Knospen sprangen.</i>”

We launched our canoes again on the great
pool at the foot of the first fall,—a broad
sweep of water a mile long and half a mile wide,
full of eddies and strong currents, and covered
with drifting foam. There was the old camp-ground
on the point, where I had tented so often
with my lady Greygown, fishing for ouananiche,
the famous land-locked salmon of Lake
St. John. And there were the big fish, showing
their back fins as they circled lazily around in
the eddies, as if they were waiting to play with
us. But the goal of our day’s journey was
miles away, and we swept along with the stream,
now through a rush of quick water, boiling and
foaming, now through a still place like a lake,
now through
.bn 251.png
.pn +1

.nf b
             “<i>Fairy crowds
Of islands, that together lie,
As quietly as spots of sky
Among the evening clouds.</i>”
.nf-

The beauty of the shores was infinitely varied,
and unspoiled by any sign of the presence of
man. We met no company except a few kingfishers,
and a pair of gulls who had come up
from the sea to spend the summer, and a large
flock of wild ducks, which the guides call “Betseys,”
as if they were all of the gentler sex. In
such a big family of girls we supposed that a
few would not be missed, and Damon bagged
two of the tenderest for our supper.

In the still water at the mouth of the Rivière
Mistook, just above the Rapide aux Cèdres, we
went ashore on a level wooded bank to make
our first camp and cook our dinner. Let me
try to sketch our men as they are busied about
the fire.

They are all French Canadians of unmixed blood,
descendants of the men who came to New France
with Samuel de Champlain, that incomparable old
.bn 252.png
.pn +1
woodsman and life-long lover of the wilderness.
Ferdinand Larouche is our <i>chef</i>—there
must be a head in every party for the sake
of harmony—and his assistant is his brother
François. Ferdinand is a stocky little fellow, a
“sawed off” man, not more than five feet two
inches tall, but every inch of him is pure vim.
He can carry a big canoe or a hundred-weight
of camp stuff over a mile portage without stopping
to take breath. He is a capital canoe-man, with
prudence enough to balance his courage, and a fair
cook, with plenty of that quality which is wanting
in the ordinary cook of commerce—good humour.
Always joking, whistling, singing, he brings the
 atmosphere of a perpetual holiday along with him.
His weather-worn coat covers a heart full of music.
He has two talents which make him a marked man
among his comrades. He plays the fiddle to the
delight of all the balls and weddings through
the country-side; and he speaks English to the
admiration and envy of the other guides. But
like all men of genius he is modest about his
.bn 253.png
.pn +1
accomplishments. “H’I not spik good h’English—h’only
for camp—fishin’, cookin’, dhe voyage—h’all
dhose t’ings.” The aspirates puzzle him.
He can get through a slash of fallen timber
more easily than a sentence full of “this” and
“that.” Sometimes he expresses his meaning
queerly. He was telling me once about his
farm, “not far off here, in dhe Rivière au
Cochon, river of dhe pig, you call ’im. H’I am
a widow, got five sons, t’ree of dhem are girls.”
But he usually ends by falling back into French,
which, he assures you, you speak to perfection,
“much better than the Canadians; the French of
Paris in short—M’sieu’ has been in Paris?” Such
courtesy is born in the blood, and is irresistible.
You cannot help returning the compliment
and assuring him that his English is
remarkable, good enough for all practical purposes,
better than any of the other guides can
speak. And so it is.

François is a little taller, a little thinner,
and considerably quieter than Ferdinand. He
laughs loyally at his brother’s jokes, and sings
.bn 254.png
.pn +1
the response to his songs, and wields a good
second paddle in the canoe.

Jean—commonly called Johnny—Morel is
a tall, strong man of fifty, with a bushy red
beard that would do credit to a pirate. But
when you look at him more closely, you see
that he has a clear, kind blue eye and a most
honest, friendly face under his slouch hat. He
has travelled these woods and waters for thirty
years, so that he knows the way through them
by a thousand familiar signs, as well as you
know the streets of the city. He is our pathfinder.

The bow paddle in his canoe is held by his
son Joseph, a lad not quite fifteen, but already
as tall, and almost as strong as a man. “He
is yet of the youth,” said Johnny, “and he
knows not the affairs of the camp. This trip
is for him the first—it is his school—but I
hope he will content you. He is good, M’sieu’,
and of the strongest for his age. I have educated
already two sons in the bow of my canoe.
The oldest has gone to <i>Pennsylvanie</i>; he peels
.bn 255.png
.pn +1
the bark there for the tanning of leather. The
second had the misfortune of breaking his leg,
so that he can no longer kneel to paddle. He
has descended to the making of shoes. Joseph
is my third pupil. And I have still a younger
one at home waiting to come into my school.”

A touch of family life like that is always refreshing,
and doubly so in the wilderness. For
what is fatherhood at its best, everywhere, but
the training of good men to take the teacher’s
place when his work is done? Some day, when
Johnny’s rheumatism has made his joints a little
stiffer and his eyes have lost something of their
keenness, he will be wielding the second paddle
in the boat, and going out only on the short
and easy trips. It will be young Joseph that steers
the canoe through the dangerous places, and
carries the heaviest load over the portages, and
leads the way on the long journeys.

It has taken me longer to describe our men
than it took them to prepare our frugal meal:
a pot of tea, the woodsman’s favourite drink, (I
never knew a good guide that would not go
.bn 256.png
.pn +1
without whisky rather than without tea,) a few
slices of toast and juicy rashers of bacon, a kettle
of boiled potatoes, and a relish of crackers
and cheese. We were in a hurry to be off for an
afternoon’s fishing, three or four miles down the
river, at the Ile Maligne.

The island is well named, for it is the most
perilous place on the river, and has a record of
disaster and death. The scattered waters of
the Discharge are drawn together here into
one deep, narrow, powerful stream, flowing between
gloomy shores of granite. In mid-channel
the wicked island shows its scarred and bristling
head, like a giant ready to dispute the passage.
The river rushes straight at the rocky brow,
splits into two currents, and raves away on both
sides of the island in a double chain of furious
falls and rapids.

In these wild waters we fished with immense
delight and fair success, scrambling down among
the huge rocks along the shore, and joining the
excitement of an Alpine climb with the placid
pleasures of angling. At nightfall we were at
.bn 257.png
.pn +1
home again in our camp, with half a score of
ouananiche, weighing from one to four pounds
each.

Our next day’s journey was long and variegated.
A portage of a mile or two across the
Ile d’Alma, with a cart to haul our canoes and
stuff, brought us to the Little Discharge, down
which we floated for a little way, and then
hauled through the village of St. Joseph to the
foot of the Carcajou, or Wildcat Falls. A mile
of quick water was soon passed, and we came to
the junction of the Little Discharge with the
Grand Discharge at the point where the picturesque
club-house stands in a grove of birches beside
the big Vache Caille Falls. It is lively work
crossing the pool here, when the water is high
and the canoes are heavy; but we went through
the labouring seas safely, and landed some distance
below, at the head of the Rapide Gervais,
to eat our lunch. The water was too rough to
run down with loaded boats, so Damon and I had
to walk about three miles along the river-bank,
while the men went down with the canoes.
.bn 258.png
.pn +1

On our way beside the rapids, Damon geologised,
finding the marks of ancient glaciers, and bits of
iron-ore, and pockets of sand full of infinitesimal
garnets, and specks of gold washed from the
primitive granite; and I fished, picking
up a pair of ouananiche in foam-covered
nooks among the rocks. The swift water was
almost passed when we embarked again and ran
down the last slope into a long dead-water.

The shores, at first bold and rough, covered
with dense thickets of second-growth timber,
now became smoother and more fertile. Scattered
farms, with square, unpainted houses, and
long, thatched barns, began to creep over the
hills toward the river. There was a hamlet,
called St. Charles, with a rude little church and
a campanile of logs. The curé, robed in decent
black and wearing a tall silk hat of the vintage
of 1860, sat on the veranda of his trim presbytery,
looking down upon us, like an image
of propriety smiling at Bohemianism. Other
craft appeared on the river. A man and his
wife paddling an old dugout, with half a dozen
.bn 259.png
.pn +1
children packed in amidships; a crew of lumbermen,
in a sharp-nosed bateau, picking up
stray logs along the banks; a couple of boatloads
of young people returning merrily from a holiday
visit; a party of berry-pickers in a flat-bottomed
skiff; all the life of the country-side
was in evidence on the river. We felt quite as
if we had been “in the swim” of society, when
at length we reached the point where the
Rivière des Aunes came tumbling down a
hundred-foot ladder of broken black rocks.
There we pitched our tents in a strip of meadow
by the water-side, where we could have the
sound of the falls for a slumber-song all night
and the whole river for a bath at sunrise.

A sparkling draught of crystal weather was
poured into our stirrup-cup in the morning,
as we set out for a drive of fifteen miles across
country to the Rivière à l’Ours, a tributary of
the crooked, unnavigable river of Alders. The
canoes and luggage were loaded on a couple of
<i>charrettes</i>, or two-wheeled carts. But for us
and the guides there were two <i>quatre-roues</i>, the
.bn 260.png
.pn +1
typical vehicles of the century, as characteristic
of Canada as the carriole is of Norway. It is
a two-seated buckboard, drawn by one horse, and
the back seat is covered with a hood like an
old-fashioned poke bonnet. The road is of clay
and always rutty. It runs level for a while, and
then jumps up a steep ridge and down again, or
into a deep gully and out again. The <i>habitant’s</i>
idea of good driving is to let his horse slide
down the hill and gallop up. This imparts a
spasmodic quality to the motion, like Carlyle’s
style.

The native houses are strung along the road.
The modern pattern has a convex angle in the roof,
and dormer-windows; it is a rustic adaptation
of the Mansard. The antique pattern, which
is far more picturesque, has a concave curve
in the roof, and the eaves project like eyebrows,
shading the flatness of the face. Paint is
a rarity. The prevailing colour is the soft gray
of weather-beaten wood. Sometimes, in the better
class of houses, a gallery is built across
the front and around one side, and a square of
.bn 261.png
.pn +1
garden is fenced in, with dahlias and hollyhocks
and marigolds, and perhaps a struggling rose-bush,
and usually a small patch of tobacco growing
in one corner. Once in a long while you
may see a balm-of-Gilead tree, or a clump of
sapling poplars, planted near the door.

How much better it would have been if the
farmer had left a few of the noble forest-trees to
shade his house. But then, when the farmer
came into the wilderness he was not a farmer,
he was first of all a wood-chopper. He regarded
the forest as a stubborn enemy in possession
of his land. He attacked it with fire and axe
and exterminated it, instead of keeping a few
captives to hold their green umbrellas over
his head when at last his grain fields should be
smiling around him and he should sit down
on his doorstep to smoke a pipe of home-grown
tobacco.

In the time of adversity one should prepare
for prosperity. I fancy there are a good many
people unconsciously repeating the mistake of
the Canadian farmer—chopping down all the
.bn 262.png
.pn +1
native growths of life, clearing the ground of
all the useless pretty things that seem to cumber
it, sacrificing everything to utility and success.
We fell the last green tree for the sake of raising
an extra hill of potatoes; and never stop to
think what an ugly, barren place we may have
to sit in while we eat them. The ideals, the
attachments—yes, even the dreams of youth are
worth saving. For the artificial tastes with
which age tries to make good their loss grow
very slowly and cast but a slender shade.

Most of the Canadian farmhouses have their
ovens out-of-doors. We saw them everywhere;
rounded edifices of clay, raised on a foundation
of logs, and usually covered with a pointed
roof of boards. They looked like little family
chapels—and so they were; shrines where the
ritual of the good housewife was celebrated, and
the gift of daily bread, having been honestly
earned, was thankfully received.

At one house we noticed a curious fragment
of domestic economy. Half a pig was suspended
over the chimney, and the smoke of the summer
.bn 263.png
.pn +1
fire was turned to account in curing the
winter’s meat. I guess the children of that family
had a peculiar fondness for the parental roof-tree.
We saw them making mud-pies in the
road, and imagined that they looked lovingly
up at the pendent porker, outlined against
the sky,—a sign of promise, prophetic of
bacon.

About noon the road passed beyond the region of
habitation into a barren land, where blueberries
were the only crop, and partridges took
the place of chickens. Through this rolling
gravelly plain, sparsely wooded and glowing with
the tall magenta bloom of the fireweed, we drove
toward the mountains, until the road went to
seed and we could follow it no longer. Then we
took to the water and began to pole our canoes up
the River of the Bear. It was a clear, amber-coloured
stream, not more than ten or fifteen
yards wide, running swift and strong, over beds
of sand and rounded pebbles. The canoes
went wallowing and plunging up the narrow
channel, between thick banks of alders, like
.bn 264.png
.pn +1
clumsy sea-monsters. All the grace with which
they move under the strokes of the paddle, in
large waters, was gone. They looked uncouth
and predatory, like a pair of seals that I once
saw swimming far up the river Ristigouche in
chase of fish. From the bow of each canoe the
landing-net stuck out as a symbol of destruction—after
the fashion of the Dutch admiral who
nailed a broom to his masthead. But it would
have been impossible to sweep the trout out of
that little river by any fair method of angling,
for there were millions of them; not large, but
lively, and brilliant, and fat; they leaped in
every bend of the stream. We trailed our flies,
and made quick casts here and there, as we went
along. It was fishing on the wing. And when
we pitched our tents in a hurry at nightfall on
the low shore of Lac Sâle, among the bushes
where firewood was scarce and there were no
<i>sapins</i> for the beds, we were comforted for the
poorness of the camp-ground by the excellence
of the trout supper.

It was a bitter cold night for August. There
.bn 265.png
.pn +1
was a skin of ice on the water-pail at daybreak.
We were glad to be up and away for an early
start. The river grew wilder and more difficult.
There were rapids, and ruined dams built
by the lumbermen years ago. At these places
the trout were larger, and so plentiful that it
was easy to hook two at a cast. It came on to
rain furiously while we were eating our lunch.
But we did not seem to mind it any more than
the fish did. Here and there the river was completely
blocked by fallen trees. The guides
called it <i>bouchée</i>, “corked,” and leaped out
gayly into the water with their axes to “un-cork”
it. We passed through some pretty lakes,
unknown to the map-makers, and arrived, before
sundown, at the Lake of the Bear, where we
were to spend a couple of days. The lake was
full of floating logs, and the water, raised by
the heavy rains and the operations of the lumbermen,
was several feet above its usual level.
Nature’s landing-places were all blotted out,
and we had to explore halfway around the shore
before we could get out comfortably. We raised
.bn 266.png
.pn +1
the tents on a small shoulder of a hill, a few
rods above the water; and a glorious camp-fire
of birch logs soon made us forget our misery
as though it had not been.

The name of the Lake of the Beautiful Trout
made us desire to visit it. The portage was said
to be only fifty acres long (the <i>arpent</i> is the
popular measure of distance here), but it passed
over a ridge of newly burned land, and was so
entangled with ruined woods and desolate of
birds and flowers that it seemed to us at least
five miles. The lake was charming—a sheet of
singularly clear water, of a pale green tinge,
surrounded by wooded hills. In the translucent
depths trout and pike live together, but whether
in peace or not I cannot tell. Both of them
grow to an enormous size, but the pike are
larger and have more capacious jaws. One of
them broke my tackle and went off with a silver
spoon in his mouth, as if he had been born
to it. Of course the guides vowed that they
saw him as he passed under the canoe, and
declared that he must weigh thirty or forty
.bn 267.png
.pn +1
pounds. The spectacles of regret always magnify.

The trout were coy. We took only five of
them, perfect specimens of the true <i>Salvelinus
fontinalis</i>, with square tails, and carmine spots
on their dark, mottled sides; the largest weighed
three pounds and three-quarters, and the others
were almost as heavy.

On our way back to the camp we found the portage
beset by innumerable and bloodthirsty foes.
There are four grades of insect malignity in the
woods. The mildest is represented by the winged
idiot that John Burroughs’ little boy called a
“blunderhead.” He dances stupidly before your
face, as if lost in admiration, and finishes
his pointless tale by getting in your eye, or down
your throat. The next grade is represented by
the midges. “Bite ’em no see ’em,” is the Indian
name for these invisible atoms of animated
pepper which settle upon you in the twilight
and make your skin burn like fire. But their
hour is brief, and when they depart they leave
not a bump behind. One step lower in the
.bn 268.png
.pn +1
scale we find the mosquito, or rather he finds
us, and makes his poisoned mark upon our
skin. But after all, he has his good qualities.
The mosquito is a gentlemanly pirate. He carries
his weapon openly, and gives notice of an
attack. He respects the decencies of life, and
does not strike below the belt, or creep down
the back of your neck. But the black fly is at
the bottom of the moral scale. He is an unmitigated
ruffian, the plug-ugly of the woods.
He looks like a tiny, immature house-fly, with
white legs as if he must be innocent. But, in
fact, he crawls like a serpent and bites like a
dog. No portion of the human frame is sacred
from his greed. He takes his pound of flesh
anywhere, and does not scruple to take the
blood with it. As a rule you can defend yourself,
to some degree, against him, by wearing a
head-net, tying your sleeves around your wrists
and your trousers around your ankles, and
anointing yourself with grease, flavoured with
pennyroyal, for which cleanly and honest scent he
has a coarse aversion. But sometimes, especially
.bn 269.png
.pn +1
on burned land, about the middle of a
warm afternoon, when a rain is threatening,
the horde of black flies descend in force
and fury knowing that their time is short. Then
there is no escape. Suits of chain armour, Nubian
ointments of far-smelling potency, would
not save you. You must do as our guides did
on the portage, submit to fate and walk along
in heroic silence, like Marco Bozzaris “bleeding
at every pore,”—or do as Damon and I did,
break into ejaculations and a run, until you
reach a place where you can light a smudge
and hold your head over it.

“And yet,” said my comrade, as we sat coughing
and rubbing our eyes in the painful shelter
of the smoke, “there are worse trials than
this in the civilised districts: social enmities,
and newspaper scandals, and religious persecutions.
The blackest fly I ever saw is the Reverend
——” but here his voice was fortunately
choked by a fit of coughing.

A couple of wandering Indians—descendants
of the <i>Montagnais</i>, on whose hunting domain
.bn 270.png
.pn +1
we were travelling—dropped in at our camp
that night as we sat around the fire. They gave
us the latest news about the portages on our
further journey; how far they had been blocked
with fallen trees, and whether the water was
high or low in the rivers—just as a visitor at
home would talk about the effect of the strikes
on the stock market, and the prospects of the
newest organization of the non-voting classes for
the overthrow of Tammany Hall. Every phase
of civilisation or barbarism creates its own
conversational currency. The weather, like the
old Spanish dollar, is the only coin that passes
everywhere.

But our Indians did not carry much small
change about them. They were dark, silent chaps,
soon talked out; and then they sat sucking
their pipes before the fire, (as dumb as their
own wooden effigies in front of a tobacconist’s
shop,) until the spirit moved them, and they
vanished in their canoe down the dark lake.
Our own guides were very different. They were
as full of conversation as a spruce-tree is of gum.
.bn 271.png
.pn +1
When all shallower themes were exhausted they
would discourse of bears and canoes and lumber
and fish, forever. After Damon and I had left
the fire and rolled ourselves in the blankets
in our own tent, we could hear the men going
on and on with their simple jests and endless
tales of adventure, until sleep drowned their
voices.

It was the sound of a French <i>chanson</i> that
woke us early on the morning of our departure
from the Lake of the Bear. A gang of lumbermen
were bringing a lot of logs through the
lake. Half-hidden in the cold gray mist that
usually betokens a fine day, and wet to the waist
from splashing about after their unwieldy flock,
these rough fellows were singing at their work
as cheerfully as a party of robins in a cherrytree
at sunrise. It was like the miller and the
two girls whom Wordsworth saw dancing in their
boats on the Thames:
.sp 1
.nf b
        “<i>They dance not for me,
         Yet mine is their glee!
Thus pleasure is spread through the earth</i>
  <i>In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find;
  Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind,
Moves all nature to gladness and mirth.</i>”
.nf-
.bn 272.png
.pn +1

But our later thoughts of the lumbermen were
not altogether grateful, when we arrived that
day, after a mile of portage, at the little Rivière
Blanche, upon which we had counted to float us
down to Lac Tchitagama, and found that they
had stolen all its water to float their logs down
the Lake of the Bear. The poor little river was
as dry as a theological novel. There was nothing
left of it except the bed and the bones; it
was like a Connecticut stream in the middle of
August. All its pretty secrets were laid bare;
all its music was hushed. The pools that lingered
among the rocks seemed like big tears;
and the voice of the forlorn rivulets that trickled
in here and there, seeking the parent stream, was
a voice of weeping and complaint.

For us the loss meant a hard day’s work,
scrambling over slippery stones, and splashing
through puddles, and forcing a way through the
tangled thickets on the bank, instead of a pleasant
.bn 273.png
.pn +1
two hours’ run on a swift current. We ate
our dinner on a sandbank in what was once the
middle of a pretty pond; and entered, as the
sun was sinking, a narrow wooded gorge between
the hills, completely filled by a chain of small
lakes, where travelling became easy and pleasant.
The steep shores, clothed with cedar and black
spruce and dark-blue fir-trees, rose sheer from
the water; the passage from lake to lake was a
tiny rapid a few yards long, gurgling through
mossy rocks; at the foot of the chain there was
a longer rapid, with a portage beside it. We
emerged from the dense bush suddenly and found
ourselves face to face with Lake Tchitagama.

How the heart expands at such a view! Nine
miles of shining water lay stretched before us,
opening through the mountains that guarded it
on both sides with lofty walls of green and gray,
ridge over ridge, point beyond point, until the
vista ended in

.ce
“<i>Yon orange sunset waning slow.</i>”

At a moment like this one feels a sense of exultation.
It is a new discovery of the joy of living.
.bn 274.png
.pn +1
And yet, my friend and I confessed to each other,
there was a tinge of sadness, an inexplicable
regret mingled with our joy. Was it the
thought of how few human eyes had even seen
that lovely vision? Was it the dim foreboding
that we might never see it again? Who can
explain the secret pathos of Nature’s loveliness?
It is a touch of melancholy inherited from our
mother Eve. It is an unconscious memory of
the lost Paradise. It is the sense that even if
we should find another Eden, we would not be
fit to enjoy it perfectly, nor stay in it forever.

Our first camp on Tchitagama was at the sunrise
end of the lake, in a bay paved with small
round stones, laid close together and beaten
firmly down by the waves. There, and along
the shores below, at the mouth of a little river
that foamed in over a ledge of granite, and in
the shadow of cliffs of limestone and feldspar,
we trolled and took many fish: pike of enormous
size, fresh-water sharks, devourers of nobler
game, fit only to kill and throw away; huge old
trout of six or seven pounds, with broad tails
.bn 275.png
.pn +1
and hooked jaws, fine fighters and poor food;
stupid, wide-mouthed chub—<i>ouitouche</i>, the Indians
call them—biting at hooks that were not baited
for them; and best of all, high-bred ouananiche,
pleasant to capture and delicate to eat.

Our second camp was on a sandy point at the
sunset end of the lake—a fine place for bathing,
and convenient to the wild meadows and
blueberry patches, where Damon went to hunt
for bears. He did not find any; but once he
heard a great noise in the bushes, which he
thought was a bear; and he declared that he
got quite as much excitement out of it as if it
had had four legs and a mouthful of teeth.

He brought back from one of his expeditions
an Indian letter, which he had found in a cleft
stick by the river. It was a sheet of birch-bark
with a picture drawn on it in charcoal; five Indians
in a canoe paddling up the river, and one
in another canoe pointing in another direction;
we read it as a message left by a hunting party,
telling their companions not to go on up the
.bn 276.png
.pn +1
river, because it was already occupied, but to
turn off on a side stream.

There was a sign of a different kind nailed to
an old stump behind our camp. It was the top
of a soap-box, with an inscription after this
fashion:

.nf c
AD. MEYER & B. LEVIT
<sc>Soap</sc> Mfrs. N. Y.
<sc>Camped here july 18—
1 Trout 17-1/2 Pounds. II Ouan
anisHes 18-1/2 Pounds. One
Pike 147-1/2 lbs.</sc>
.nf-

There was a combination of piscatorial pride
and mercantile enterprise in this quaint device,
that took our fancy. It suggested also a curious
question of psychology in regard to the inhibitory
influence of horses and fish upon the human
nerve of veracity. We named the place “Point
Ananias.”

And yet, in fact, it was a wild and lonely
spot, and not even the Hebrew inscription could
spoil the sense of solitude that surrounded us
.bn 277.png
.pn +1
when the night came, and the storm howled
across the lake, and the darkness encircled us
with a wall that only seemed the more dense and
impenetrable as the firelight blazed and leaped
within the black ring.

“How far away is the nearest house,
Johnny?”

“I don’t know; fifty miles, I suppose.”

“And what would you do if the canoes were
burned, or if a tree fell and smashed them?”

“Well, I’d say a <i>Pater noster</i>, and take bread
and bacon enough for four days, and an axe, and
plenty of matches, and make a straight line
through the woods. But it wouldn’t be a joke,
M’sieu’, I can tell you.”

The river Peribonca, into which Lake Tchitagama
flows without a break, is the noblest of
all the streams that empty into Lake St. John.
It is said to be more than three hundred miles
long, and at the mouth of the lake it is perhaps
a thousand feet wide, flowing with a deep,
still current through the forest. The dead-water
lasted for several miles; then the river
.bn 278.png
.pn +1
sloped into a rapid, spread through a net of
islands, and broke over a ledge in a cataract.
Another quiet stretch was followed by another
fall, and so on, along the whole course of the
river.

We passed three of these falls in the first
day’s voyage (by portages so steep and rough
that an Adirondack guide would have turned
gray at the sight of them), and camped at night
just below the Chûte du Diable, where we
found some ouananiche in the foam. Our tents
were on an islet, and all around we saw the
primeval, savage beauty of a world unmarred
by man.

The river leaped, shouting, down its double
stairway of granite, rejoicing like a strong man
to run a race. The after-glow in the western
sky deepened from saffron to violet among the
tops of the cedars, and over the cliffs rose
the moonlight, paling the heavens but glorifying
the earth. There was something large and generous
and untrammelled in the scene, recalling one
of Walt Whitman’s rhapsodies:—
.bn 279.png
.pn +1
.sp 1
.nf b
“<i>Earth of departed sunsets! Earth of the mountains
    misty-topped!
Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just
    tinged with blue!
Earth of shine and dark, mottling the tide of the
    river!</i>”
.nf-

All the next day we went down with the
current. Regiments of black spruce stood in
endless files like grenadiers, each tree capped
with a thick tuft of matted cones and branches.
Tall white birches leaned out over the stream,
Narcissus-like, as if to see their own beauty in
the moving mirror. There were touches of
colour on the banks, the ragged pink flowers of
the Joe-Pye-weed (which always reminds me of a
happy, good-natured tramp), and the yellow eardrops
of the jewel-weed, and the intense blue of
the closed gentian, that strange flower which,
like a reticent heart, never opens to the light.
Sometimes the river spread out like a lake,
between high bluffs of sand fully a mile apart;
and again it divided into many channels, winding
cunningly down among the islands as if it
.bn 280.png
.pn +1
were resolved to slip around the next barrier of
rock without a fall. There were eight of these
huge natural dams in the course of that day’s
journey. Sometimes we followed one of the
side canals, and made the portage at a distance
from the main cataract; and sometimes we ran
with the central current to the very brink of the
chûte, darting aside just in time to escape going
over. At the foot of the last fall we made
our camp on a curving beach of sand, and spent
the rest of the afternoon in fishing.

It was interesting to see how closely the
guides could guess at the weight of the fish by
looking at them. The ouananiche are much
longer in proportion to their weight than trout,
and a novice almost always overestimates them.
But the guides were not deceived. “This one
will weigh four pounds and three-quarters, and
this one four pounds, but that one not more than
three pounds; he is meagre, M’sieu’, <i>but</i> he is
meagre.” When we went ashore and tried the
spring balance (which every angler ought to
carry with him, as an aid to his conscience), the
.bn 281.png
.pn +1
guides guess usually proved to be within an
ounce or two of the fact. Any one of the senses
can be educated to do the work of the others.
The eyes of these experienced fishermen were as
sensitive to weight as if they had been made to
use as scales.

Below the last fall the Peribonca flows for a
score of miles with an unbroken, ever-widening
stream, through low shores of forest and bush
and meadow. Near its mouth the Little Peribonca
joins it, and the immense flood, nearly two
miles wide, pours into Lake St. John. Here we
saw the first outpost of civilisation—a
huge unpainted storehouse, where supplies are
kept for the lumbermen and the new settlers.
Here also we found the tiny, lame steam launch
that was to carry us back to the Hotel Roberval.
Our canoes were stowed upon the roof of the
cabin, and we embarked for the last stage of
our long journey.

As we came out of the river-mouth, the opposite
shore of the lake was invisible, and a stiff
“Nor’wester” was rolling big waves across the
.bn 282.png
.pn +1
bar. It was like putting out into the open sea.
The launch laboured and puffed along for four
or five miles, growing more and more asthmatic
with every breath. Then there was an explosion
in the engine-room. Some necessary part
of the intestinal machinery had blown out.
There was a moment of confusion. The captain
hurried to drop the anchor, and the narrow craft
lay rolling in the billows.

What to do? The captain shrugged his
shoulders like a Frenchman. “Wait here, I
suppose.” But how long? “Who knows? Perhaps
till to-morrow; perhaps the day after.
They will send another boat to look for us in the
course of time.”

But the quarters were cramped; the weather
looked ugly; if the wind should rise, the cranky
launch would not be a safe cradle for the night.
Damon and I preferred the canoes, for they at
least would float if they were capsized. So we
stepped into the frail, buoyant shells of bark once
more, and danced over the big waves toward the
shore. We made a camp on a wind-swept point
.bn 283.png
.pn +1
of sand, and felt like shipwrecked mariners. But
it was a gilt-edged shipwreck. For our larder
was still full, and as if to provide us with
the luxuries as well as the necessities of life,
Nature had spread an inexhaustible dessert of
the largest and most luscious blueberries around
our tents.

After supper, strolling along the beach, we
debated the best way of escape; whether to send
one of our canoes around the eastern shore of
the lake that night, to meet the steamer at the
Island House and bring it to our rescue; or
to set out the next morning, and paddle both
canoes around the western end of the lake,
thirty miles, to the Hotel Roberval. While
we were talking, we came to a dry old birch-tree,
with ragged, curling bark. “Here is a torch,”
cried Damon, “to throw light upon the situation.”
He touched a match to it, and the
flames flashed up the tall trunk until it was
transformed into a pillar of fire. But the sudden
illumination burned out, and our counsels
were wrapt again in darkness and uncertainty,
.bn 284.png
.pn +1
when there came a great uproar of steam-whistles
from the lake. They must be signalling
for us. What could it mean?

We fired our guns, leaped into a canoe,
leaving two of the guides to break camp, and
paddled out swiftly into the night. It seemed
an endless distance before we found the feeble
light where the crippled launch was tossing at
anchor. The captain shouted something about
a larger steamboat and a raft of logs, out in the
lake, a mile or two beyond. Presently we saw the
lights, and the orange glow of the cabin windows.
Was she coming, or going, or standing
still? We paddled on as fast as we could,
shouting and firing off a revolver until we had
no more cartridges. We were resolved not to
let that mysterious vessel escape us, and threw
ourselves with energy into the novel excitement
of chasing a steamboat in the dark.

Then the lights began to swing around;
the throbbing of paddle-wheels grew louder and
louder; she was evidently coming straight toward
us. At that moment it flashed upon us
.bn 285.png
.pn +1
that, while she had plenty of lights, we had
none! We were lying, invisible, right across
her track. The character of the steamboat
chase was reversed. We turned and fled, as the
guides say, <i>à quatre pattes</i>, into illimitable
space, trying to get out of the way of our too
powerful friend. It makes considerable difference,
in the voyage of life, whether you chase
the steamboat, or the steamboat chases you.

Meantime our other canoe had approached
unseen. The steamer passed safely between the
two boats, slackening speed as the pilot caught
our loud halloo! She loomed up above us like
a man-of-war, and as we climbed the ladder
to the main-deck we felt that we had indeed
gotten out of the wilderness. My old friend,
Captain Savard, made us welcome. He had
been sent out, much to his disgust, to catch a
runaway boom of logs and tow it back to Roberval;
it would be an all night affair; but we must take
possession of his stateroom and make ourselves
comfortable; he would certainly bring us
to the hotel in time for breakfast. So he went
.bn 286.png
.pn +1
off on the upper deck, and we heard him stamping
about and yelling to his crew as they struggled
to get their unwieldy drove of six thousand
logs in motion.

All night long we assisted at the lumbermen’s
difficult enterprise. We heard the steamer
snorting and straining at her clumsy, stubborn
convoy. The hoarse shouts of the crew, disguised
in a mongrel dialect which made them
(perhaps fortunately) less intelligible and more
forcible, mingled with our broken dreams.

But it was, in fact, a fitting close of our
voyage. For what were we doing? It was the last
stage of the woodman’s labour. It was the
gathering of a wild herd of the houses and
churches and ships and bridges that grow in the
forests, and bringing them into the fold of human
service. I wonder how often the inhabitant
of the snug Queen Anne cottage in the
suburbs remembers the picturesque toil and
varied hardship that it has cost to hew and drag
his walls and floors and pretty peaked roofs out
of the backwoods. It might enlarge his home,
.bn 287.png
.pn +1
and make his musings by the winter fireside less
commonplace, to give a kindly thought now and
then to the long chain of human workers through
whose hands the timber of his house has passed,
since it first felt the stroke of the axe in the
snow-bound winter woods, and floated, through
the spring and summer, on far-off lakes and
little rivers, <i>au large</i>.

1894.
.pb
.bn 288.png
.pn +1
// [Blank Page]
.bn 289.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.ce
TROUT-FISHING IN THE TRAUN
.bn 290.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.ll -4
.in +4
.ti 0
“<i>Those who wish to forget painful thoughts do well to absent
themselves for a time from the ties and objects that recall them;
but we can be said only to fulfil our destiny in the place that
gave us birth. I should on this account like well enough to spend
the whole of my life in travelling abroad, if I could anywhere
borrow another life to spend afterwards at home.</i>”——
.rj
<sc>William Hazlitt</sc>: <i>On Going a Journey</i>.
.in
.ll
.bn 291.png
.pn 269
.sp 4
.h2
TROUT-FISHING IN THE TRAUN
.sp 2
The peculiarity of trout-fishing in the Traun
is that one catches principally grayling. But
in this it resembles some other pursuits which
are not without their charm for minds open to
the pleasures of the unexpected—for example,
reading George Borrow’s <i>The Bible in Spain</i> with
a view to theological information, or going to the
opening night at the Academy of Design with
the intention of looking at pictures.

Moreover, there are really trout in the Traun,
<i>rari nantes in gurgite</i>; and in some places more
than in others; and all of high spirit, though
few of great size. Thus the angler has his
favourite problem: Given an unknown stream
and two kinds of fish, the one better than the
other; to find the better kind, and determine
the hour at which they will rise. This is sport.

As for the little river itself, it has so many
beauties that one does not think of asking
.bn 292.png
.pn +1
whether it has any faults. Constant fulness,
and crystal clearness, and refreshing coolness of
living water, pale green like the jewel that is
called <i>aqua marina</i>, flowing over beds of clean
sand and bars of polished gravel, and dropping
in momentary foam from rocky ledges, between
banks that are shaded by groves of fir and ash
and poplar, or through dense thickets of alder
and willow, or across meadows of smooth verdure
sloping up to quaint old-world villages—all
these are features of the ideal little river.

I have spoken of these personal qualities
first, because a truly moral writer ought to
make more of character than of position. A
good river in a bad country would be more
worthy of affection than a bad river in a good
country. But the Traun has also the advantages
of an excellent worldly position. For it
rises all over the Salzkammergut, the summer
hunting-ground of the Austrian Emperor, and
flows through that most picturesque corner of
his domain from end to end. Under the desolate
cliffs of the Todtengebirge on the east,
.bn 293.png
.pn +1
and below the shining ice-fields of the Dachstein
on the south, and from the green alps around
St. Wolfgang on the west, the translucent waters
are gathered in little tarns, and shot through
roaring brooks, and spread into lakes of wondrous
beauty, and poured through growing
streams, until at last they are all united just
below the summer villa of his Kaiserly and
Kingly Majesty, Francis Joseph, and flow away
northward, through the rest of his game-preserve,
into the Traunsee. It is an imperial playground,
and such as I would consent to hunt
the chamois in, if an inscrutable Providence
had made me a kingly kaiser, or even a plain
king or an unvarnished kaiser. But, failing
this, I was perfectly content to spend a few idle
days in fishing for trout and catching grayling,
at such times and places as the law of the Austrian
Empire allowed.

For it must be remembered that every stream
in these over-civilised European countries belongs
to somebody, by purchase or rent. And
all the fish in the stream are supposed to belong
.bn 294.png
.pn +1
to the person who owns or rents it. They do
not know their master’s voice, neither will they
follow when he calls. But they are theoretically
his. To this legal fiction the untutored American
must conform. He must learn to clothe his natural
desires in the raiment of lawful sanction,
and take out some kind of a license before he
follows his impulse to fish.

It was in the town of Aussee, at the junction of
the two highest branches of the Traun, that this
impulse came upon me, mildly irresistible. The
full bloom of mid-July gayety in that ancient
watering-place was dampened, but not extinguished,
by two days of persistent and surprising showers.
I had exhausted the possibilities of interest in
the old Gothic church, and felt all that a man
should feel in deciphering the mural tombstones
of the families who were exiled for their faith in
the days of the Reformation. The throngs of merry
Hebrews from Vienna and Buda-Pesth, amazingly arrayed
as mountaineers and milk-maids, walking up and
down the narrow streets under umbrellas, had
.bn 295.png
.pn +1
Cleopatra’s charm of an infinite variety; but
custom staled it. The woodland paths, winding
everywhere through the plantations of fir-trees
and provided with appropriate names on wooden
labels, and benches for rest and conversation at
discreet intervals, were too moist for even the
nymphs to take delight in them. The only
creatures that suffered nothing by the rain were
the two swift, limpid Trauns, racing through
the woods, like eager and unabashed lovers, to
meet in the middle of the village. They were as
clear, as joyous, as musical as if the sun were
shining. The very sight of their opalescent
rapids and eddying pools was an invitation to
that gentle sport which is said to have the merit
of growing better as the weather grows worse.

I laid this fact before the landlord of the
hotel of the Erzherzog Johann, as poetically
as I could, but he assured me that it was of
no consequence without an invitation from the
gentleman to whom the streams belonged; and
he had gone away for a week. The landlord
was such a good-natured person, and such an
.bn 296.png
.pn +1
excellent sleeper, that it was impossible to believe
that he could have even the smallest inaccuracy
upon his conscience. So I bade him
farewell, and took my way, four miles through
the woods, to the lake from which one of the
streams flowed.

It was called the Gründlsee. As I do not
know the origin of the name, I cannot consistently
make any moral or historical reflections
upon it. But if it has never become famous,
it ought to be, for the sake of a cozy and busy
little Inn, perched on a green hill beside the lake
and overlooking the whole length of it, from the
groups of toy villas at the foot to the heaps
of real mountains at the head. This Inn kept a
thin but happy landlord, who provided me with
a blue license to angle, for the inconsiderable
sum of fifteen cents a day. This conferred the
right of fishing not only in the Gründlsee, but
also in the smaller tarn of Toplitz, a mile above
it, and in the swift stream which unites them.
It all coincided with my desire as if by magic.
A row of a couple of miles to the head of the
.bn 297.png
.pn +1
lake, and a walk through the forest, brought me
to the smaller pond; and as the afternoon sun
was ploughing pale furrows through the showers,
I waded out on a point of reeds and cast the
artful fly in the shadow of the great cliffs of the
Dead Mountains.

It was a fit scene for a lone fisherman. But
four sociable tourists promptly appeared to act
as spectators and critics. Fly-fishing usually
strikes the German mind as an eccentricity which
calls for remonstrance. After one of the tourists
had suggestively narrated the tale of seven trout
which he had caught in another lake, <i>with
worms</i>, on the previous Sunday, they went away
for a row, (with salutations in which politeness
but thinly veiled their pity,) and left me still
whipping the water in vain. Nor was the fortune
of the day much better in the stream below.
It was a long and wet wade for three fish
too small to keep. I came out on the shore of
the lake, where I had left the row-boat, with an
empty bag and a feeling of damp discouragement.
.bn 298.png
.pn +1

There was still an hour or so of daylight, and
a beautiful place to fish where the stream poured
swirling out into the lake. A rise, and a large
one, though rather slow, awakened my hopes.
Another rise, evidently made by a heavy fish,
made me certain that virtue was about to be
rewarded. The third time the hook went home.
I felt the solid weight of the fish against the
spring of the rod, and that curious thrill which
runs up the line and down the arm, changing,
somehow or other, into a pleasurable sensation
of excitement as it reaches the brain. But
it was only for a moment; and then came that
foolish, feeble shaking of the line from side to
side which tells the angler that he has hooked a
great, big, leather-mouthed chub—a fish which
Izaak Walton says “the French esteem so mean
as to call him Un Vilain.” Was it for this
that I had come to the country of Francis
Joseph?

I took off the flies and put on one of those
phantom minnows which have immortalised the
name of a certain Mr. Brown. The minnow swung
.bn 299.png
.pn +1
on a long line as the boat passed back and forth
across the current, once, twice, three times—and
on the fourth circle there was a sharp
strike. The rod bent almost double, and the
reel sang shrilly to the first rush of the fish.
He ran; he doubled; he went to the bottom and
sulked; he tried to go under the boat; he did
all that a game fish can do, except leaping.
After twenty minutes he was tired enough to be
lifted gently into the boat by a hand slipped
around his gills, and there he was, a <i>lachs-forelle</i>
of three pounds’ weight: small pointed
head; silver sides mottled with dark spots;
square, powerful tail and large fins—a fish not
unlike the land-locked salmon of the Saguenay, but
more delicate.

Half an hour later he was lying on the grass
in front of the Inn. The waiters paused, with
their hands full of dishes, to look at him; and
the landlord called his guests, including my
didactic tourists, to observe the superiority of
the trout of the Gründlsee. The maids also
came to look; and the buxom cook, with her
.bn 300.png
.pn +1
spotless apron and bare arms akimbo, was drawn
from her kitchen, and pledged her culinary
honour that such a <i>pracht-kerl</i> should be served
up in her very best style. The angler who is
insensible to this sort of indirect flattery through
his fish does not exist. Even the most indifferent
of men thinks more favourably of people who know
a good trout when they see it, and sits down to
his supper with kindly feelings. Possibly he reflects,
also, upon the incident as a hint of the usual size of
the fish in that neighbourhood. He remembers that he
may have been favoured in this case beyond his deserts
by good-fortune, and resolving not to put too heavy
a strain upon it, considers the next place where it
would be well for him to angle.

Hallstatt is about ten miles below Aussee.
The Traun here expands into a lake, very dark
and deep, shut in by steep and lofty mountains.
The railway runs along the eastern shore. On
the other side, a mile away, you see the old
town, its white houses clinging to the cliff like
lichens to the face of a rock. The guide-book
.bn 301.png
.pn +1
calls it “a highly original situation.” But this
is one of the cases where a little less originality
and a little more reasonableness might be desired,
at least by the permanent inhabitants. A
ledge under the shadow of a precipice makes a
trying winter residence. The people of Hallstatt
are not a blooming race: one sees many
dwarfs and cripples among them. But to the
summer traveller the place seems wonderfully
picturesque. Most of the streets are flights of
steps. The high-road has barely room to edge
itself through among the old houses, between
the window-gardens of bright flowers. On the
hottest July day the afternoon is cool and shady.
The gay, little skiffs and long, open gondolas
are flitting continually along the lake, which is
the main street of Hallstatt.

The incongruous, but comfortable, modern
hotel has a huge glass veranda, where you can
eat your dinner and observe human nature in
its transparent holiday disguises. I was much
pleased and entertained by a family, or confederacy,
of people attired as peasants—the men
.bn 302.png
.pn +1
with feathered hats, green stockings, and bare
knees—the women with bright skirts, bodices,
and silk neckerchiefs—who were always in
evidence, rowing gondolas with clumsy oars,
meeting the steamboat at the wharf several
times a day, and filling the miniature garden of
the hotel with rustic greetings and early
Salzkammergut attitudes. After much conjecture,
I learned that they were the family and friends
of a newspaper editor from Vienna. They had
the literary instinct for local colour.

The fishing at Hallstatt is at Obertraun.
There is a level stretch of land above the lake,
where the river flows peaceably, and the fish
have leisure to feed and grow. It is leased to a
peasant, who makes a business of supplying the
hotels with fish. He was quite willing to give
permission to an angler; and I engaged one of
his sons, a capital young fellow, whose natural
capacities for good fellowship were only hampered
by a most extraordinary German dialect,
to row me across the lake, and carry the net
and a small green barrel full of water to keep
.bn 303.png
.pn +1
the fish alive, according to the custom of the
country. The first day we had only four trout
large enough to put into the barrel; the next day
I think there were six; the third day, I remember
very well, there were ten. They were
pretty creatures, weighing from half a pound to
a pound each, and coloured as daintily as bits of
French silk, in silver gray with faint pink spots.

There was plenty to do at Hallstatt in the
mornings. An hour’s walk from the town there
was a fine waterfall, three hundred feet high.
On the side of the mountain above the lake was
one of the salt-mines for which the region is
celebrated. It has been worked for ages by many
successive races, from the Celt downward. Perhaps
even the men of the Stone Age knew of it,
and came hither for seasoning to make the flesh
of the cave-bear and the mammoth more palatable.
Modern pilgrims are permitted to explore the
long, wet, glittering galleries with a guide, and
slide down the smooth wooden rollers which join
the different levels of the mines. This pastime
has the same fascination as sliding down
.bn 304.png
.pn +1
the balusters; and it is said that even queens
and princesses have been delighted with it.
This is a touching proof of the fundamental
simplicity and unity of our human nature.

But by far the best excursion from Hallstatt
was an all-day trip to the Zwieselalp—a mountain
which seems to have been especially created
as a point of view. From the bare summit you
look right into the face of the huge, snowy
Dachstein, with the wild lake of Gosau gleaming
at its foot; and far away on the other side your
vision ranges over a confusion of mountains,
with all the white peaks of the Tyrol stretched
along the horizon. Such a wide outlook as this
helps the fisherman to enjoy the narrow beauties of
his little rivers. No sport is at its best without
interruption and contrast. To appreciate
wading, one ought to climb a little on odd
days.

Ischl is about ten or twelve miles below Hallstatt,
in the valley of the Traun. It is the fashionable
summer-resort of Austria. I found it
in the high tide of amusement. The shady
.bn 305.png
.pn +1
esplanade along the river was crowded with
brave women and fair men, in gorgeous raiment;
the hotels were overflowing; and there were
various kinds of music and entertainments at
all hours of day and night. But all this did
not seem to affect the fishing.

The landlord of the Königin Elizabeth, who
is also the Burgomaster and a gentleman of
varied accomplishments and no leisure, kindly
furnished me with a fishing license in the shape
of a large pink card. There were many rules
printed upon it: “All fishes under nine inches
must be gently restored to the water. No instrument
of capture must be used except the
angle in the hand. The card of legitimation
must be produced and exhibited at the polite
request of any of the keepers of the river.”
Thus duly authorised and instructed, I sallied
forth to seek my pastime according to the law.

The easiest way, in theory, was to take the
afternoon train up the river to one of the villages,
and fish down a mile or two in the evening,
returning by the eight o’clock train. But
.bn 306.png
.pn +1
in practice the habits of the fish interfered seriously
with the latter part of this plan.

On my first day I had spent several hours in
the vain effort to catch something better than
small grayling. The best time for the trout was
just approaching, as the broad light faded from
the stream; already they were beginning to
feed, when I looked up from the edge of a pool
and saw the train rattling down the valley below
me. Under the circumstances the only thing to
do was to go on fishing. It was an even pool
with steep banks, and the water ran through it
very straight and swift, some four feet deep and
thirty yards across. As the tail-fly reached the
middle of the water, a fine trout literally turned
a somersault over it, but without touching it.
At the next cast he was ready, taking it with a
rush that carried him into the air with the fly
in his mouth. He weighed three-quarters of a
pound. The next one was equally eager in rising
and sharp in playing, and the third might
have been his twin sister or brother. So, after
casting for hours and taking nothing in the
.bn 307.png
.pn +1
most beautiful pools, I landed three trout from
one unlikely place in fifteen minutes. That was
because the trout’s supper-time had arrived. So
had mine. I walked over to the rambling old
inn at Goisern, sought the cook in the kitchen,
and persuaded her, in spite of the lateness of the
hour, to boil the largest of the fish for my supper,
after which I rode peacefully back to Ischl
by the eleven o’clock train.

For the future I resolved to give up the illusory
idea of coming home by rail, and ordered
a little one-horse carriage to meet me at some
point on the high-road every evening at nine
o’clock. In this way I managed to cover the
whole stream, taking a lower part each day,
from the lake of Hallstatt down to Ischl.

There was one part of the river, near Laufen,
where the current was very strong and waterfally,
broken by ledges of rock. Below these it
rested in long, smooth reaches, much beloved by
the grayling. There was no difficulty in getting
two or three of them out of each run.

The grayling has a quaint beauty. His appearance
.bn 308.png
.pn +1
is æsthetic, like a fish in a pre-Raphaelite
picture. His colour, in midsummer,
is a golden gray, darker on the back, and with
a few black spots just behind his gills, like
patches put on to bring out the pallor of his
complexion. He smells of wild thyme when he
first comes out of the water, wherefore St. Ambrose
of Milan complimented him in courtly
fashion: “<i>Quid specie tua gratius? Quid
odore fragrantius? Quod mella fragrant, hoc
tuo corpore spiras.</i>” But the chief glory of
the grayling is the large iridescent fin on his
back. You see it cutting the water as he swims
near the surface; and when you have him on
the bank it arches over him like a rainbow.
His mouth is under his chin, and he takes the
fly gently, by suction. He is, in fact, and to
speak plainly, something of a sucker; but then
he is a sucker idealised and refined, the flower
of the family. Charles Cotton, the ingenious
young friend of Walton, was all wrong in calling
the grayling “one of the deadest-hearted
fishes in the world.” He fights and leaps and
.bn 309.png
.pn +1
whirls, and brings his big fin to bear across the
force of the current with a variety of tactics
that would put his more aristocratic fellow-citizen,
the trout, to the blush. Twelve of these
pretty fellows, with a brace of good trout for
the top, filled my big creel to the brim. And
yet, such is the inborn hypocrisy of the human
heart that I always pretended to myself to be
disappointed because there were not more trout,
and made light of the grayling as a thing of
naught.

The pink fishing license did not seem to be of
much use. Its exhibition was demanded only
twice. Once a river guardian, who was walking down
the stream with a Belgian Baron and encouraging
him to continue fishing, climbed out
to me on the end of a long embankment, and
with proper apologies begged to be favoured with
a view of my document. It turned out that his
request was a favour to me, for it discovered the
fact that I had left my fly-book, with the pink
card in it, beside an old mill, a quarter of a mile
up the stream.
.bn 310.png
.pn +1

Another time I was sitting beside the road,
trying to get out of a very long, wet, awkward
pair of wading-stockings, an occupation which
is unfavourable to tranquillity of mind, when a
man came up to me in the dusk and accosted
me with an absence of politeness which in German
amounted to an insult.

“Have you been fishing?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Have you any right to fish?”

“What right have you to ask?”

“I am a keeper of the river. Where is your
card?”

“It is in my pocket. But pardon my curiosity,
where is <i>your</i> card?”

This question appeared to paralyse him. He
had probably never been asked for his card
before. He went lumbering off in the darkness,
muttering “My card? Unheard of! <i>My</i>
card!”

The routine of angling at Ischl was varied
by an excursion to the Lake of St. Wolfgang
and the Schafberg, an isolated mountain on
.bn 311.png
.pn +1
whose rocky horn an inn has been built. It
stands up almost like a bird-house on a pole,
and commands a superb prospect; northward,
across the rolling plain and the Bavarian forest;
southward, over a tumultuous land of peaks and
precipices. There are many lovely lakes in
sight; but the loveliest of all is that which
takes its name from the old saint who wandered
hither from the country of the “furious
Franks” and built his peaceful hermitage on
the Falkenstein. What good taste some of those
old saints had!

There is a venerable church in the village,
with pictures attributed to Michael Wohlgemuth,
and a chapel which is said to mark the spot
where St. Wolfgang, who had lost his axe far
up the mountain, found it, like Longfellow’s
arrow, in an oak, and “still unbroke.” The
tree is gone, so it was impossible to verify the
story. But the saint’s well is there, in a pavilion;
with a bronze image over it, and a profitable
inscription to the effect that the poorer pilgrims,
“who have come unprovided with either
.bn 312.png
.pn +1
money or wine, should be jolly well contented
to find the water so fine.” There is also a
famous echo farther up the lake, which repeats
six syllables with accuracy. It is a strange coincidence
that there are just six syllables in the
name of “der heilige Wolfgang.” But when
you translate it into English, the inspiration of
the echo seems to be less exact. The sweetest
thing about St. Wolfgang was the abundance of
purple cyclamens, clothing the mountain meadows,
and filling the air with delicate fragrance
like the smell of lilacs around a New England
farmhouse in early June.

There was still one stretch of the river above
Ischl left for the last evening’s sport. I remember
it so well: the long, deep place where
the water ran beside an embankment of stone,
and the big grayling poised on the edge of the
shadow, rising and falling on the current as a
kite rises and falls on the wind and balances
back to the same position; the murmur of the
stream and the hissing of the pebbles underfoot
in the rapids as the swift water rolled them over
.bn 313.png
.pn +1
and over; the odour of the fir-trees, and the
streaks of warm air in quiet places, and the
faint whiffs of wood-smoke wafted from the
houses, and the brown flies dancing heavily up
and down in the twilight; the last good pool,
where the river was divided, the main part making
a deep, narrow curve to the right, and the
lesser part bubbling into it over a bed of stones
with half-a-dozen tiny waterfalls, with a fine
trout lying at the foot of each of them and rising
merrily as the white fly passed over him—surely
it was all very good, and a memory to be
grateful for. And when the basket was full, it
was pleasant to put off the heavy wading-shoes
and the long rubber-stockings, and ride homeward
in an open carriage through the fresh
night air. That is as near to sybaritic luxury
as a man should care to come.

The lights in the cottages are twinkling like
fire-flies, and there are small groups of people
singing and laughing down the road. The
honest fisherman reflects that this world is only
a place of pilgrimage, but after all there is a
.bn 314.png
.pn +1
good deal of cheer on the journey, if it is made
with a contented heart. He wonders who the
dwellers in the scattered houses may be, and
weaves romances out of the shadows on the curtained
windows. The lamps burning in the
wayside shrines tell him stories of human love
and patience and hope, and of divine forgiveness.
Dream-pictures of life float before him,
tender and luminous, filled with a vague, soft
atmosphere in which the simplest outlines gain
a strange significance. They are like some of
Millet’s paintings—“The Sower,” or “The
Sheepfold,”—there is very little detail in them;
but sometimes a little means so much.
.bn 315.png
.pn +1

.il fn=p292.jpg w=319px
.ca The moon slips up into the sky from behind\
the Eastern hills.
.bn 316.png

Then the moon slips up into the sky from
behind the eastern hills, and the fisherman begins
to think of home, and of the foolish, fond
old rhymes about those whom the moon sees
far away, and the stars that have the power to
fulfil wishes—as if the celestial bodies knew
or cared anything about our small nerve-thrills
which we call affection and desires! But if
there were Some One above the moon and stars
.bn 317.png
.pn +1
who did know and care, Some One who could
see the places and the people that you and I
would give so much to see, Some One who could
do for them all of kindness that you and I fain
would do, Some One able to keep our beloved in
perfect peace and watch over the little children
sleeping in their beds beyond the sea—what
then? Why, then, in the evening hour, one
might have thoughts of home that would go
across the ocean by way of heaven, and be better
than dreams, almost as good as prayers.

1892.
.pb
.bn 318.png
// [Blank Page]
.bn 319.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.ce
AT THE SIGN OF THE BALSAM BOUGH
.sp 1
.bn 320.png
.pn +1

.nf b
“<i>Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, or hills, or field,
Or woods and steepy mountains yield.</i>

“<i>There we will rest our sleepy heads,
And happy hearts, on balsam beds;
And every day go forth to fish
In foamy streams for ouananiche</i>.”
.rj
<i>Old Song with a New Ending</i>.
.nf-

.bn 321.png
.pn 297
.sp 4
.h2
AT THE SIGN OF THE BALSAM BOUGH
.sp 2
It has been asserted, on high philosophical
authority, that woman is a problem. She is
more; she is a cause of problems to others. This
is not a theoretical statement. It is a fact of
experience.

Every year, when the sun passes the summer
solstice, the
.ce
“<i>Two souls with but a single thought</i>,”

of whom I am so fortunate as to be one, are
summoned by that portion of our united mind which
has at once the right of putting the question and
of casting the deciding vote, to answer this
conundrum: How can we go abroad without crossing
the ocean, and abandon an interesting family
of children without getting completely beyond
their reach, and escape from the frying-pan of
housekeeping without falling into the fire of the
.bn 322.png
.pn +1
summer hotel? This apparently insoluble problem
we usually solve by going to camp in Canada.

It is indeed a foreign air that breathes around
us as we make the harmless, friendly voyage
from Point Levis to Quebec. The boy on the
ferry-boat, who cajoles us into buying a copy of
<i>Le Moniteur</i> containing last month’s news, has
the address of a true though diminutive Frenchman.
The landlord of the quiet little inn on
the outskirts of the town welcomes us with Gallic
effusion as well-known guests, and rubs his
hands genially before us, while he escorts us to
our apartments, groping secretly in his memory
to recall our names. When we walk down the
steep, quaint streets to revel in the purchase of
moccasins and water-proof coats and camping
supplies, we read on a wall the familiar but
transformed legend, <i>L’enfant pleurs, il veut son
Camphoria</i>, and remember with joy that no infant
who weeps in French can impose any responsibility
upon us in these days of our renewed
honeymoon.

But the true delight of the expedition begins
.bn 323.png
.pn +1
when the tents have been set up, in the forest
back of Lake St. John, and the green branches
have been broken for the woodland bed, and the
fire has been lit under the open sky, and, the
livery of fashion being all discarded, I sit down
at a log table to eat supper with my lady Greygown.
Then life seems simple and amiable and
well worth living. Then the uproar and confusion
of the world die away from us, and we
hear only the steady murmur of the river and
the low voice of the wind in the tree-tops. Then
time is long, and the only art that is needful for
its enjoyment is short and easy. Then we taste
true comfort, while we lodge with Mother Green
at the Sign of the Balsam Bough.
.sp 2
.ce
I.
.sp 1
.ce
<sc>UNDER THE WHITE BIRCHES.</sc>
.sp 1
Men may say what they will in praise of their
houses, and grow eloquent upon the merits of
various styles of architecture, but, for our part,
we are agreed that there is nothing to be compared
.bn 324.png
.pn +1
with a tent. It is the most venerable and
aristocratic form of human habitation. Abraham
and Sarah lived in it, and shared its hospitality
with angels. It is exempt from the base
tyranny of the plumber, the paper-hanger, and
the gas-man. It is not immovably bound to one
dull spot of earth by the chains of a cellar
and a system of water-pipes. It has a noble freedom
of locomotion. It follows the wishes of its
inhabitants, and goes with them, a travelling
home, as the spirit moves them to explore the
wilderness. At their pleasure, new beds of wild
flowers surround it, new plantations of trees
overshadow it, and new avenues of shining water
lead to its ever-open door. What the tent lacks
in luxury it makes up in liberty: or rather let
us say that liberty itself is the greatest luxury.

Another thing is worth remembering—a family
which lives in a tent never can have a skeleton
in the closet.

But it must not be supposed that every spot
in the woods is suitable for a camp, or that
a good tenting-ground can be chosen without
.bn 325.png
.pn +1
knowledge and forethought. One of the requisites,
indeed, is to be found everywhere in the
St. John region; for all the lakes and rivers are
full of clear, cool water, and the traveller does
not need to search for a spring. But it is always
necessary to look carefully for a bit of smooth
ground on the shore, far enough above the water
to be dry, and slightly sloping, so that the head
of the bed may be higher than the foot. Above
all, it must be free from big stones and serpentine
roots of trees. A root that looks no bigger
than an inch-worm in the daytime assumes the
proportions of a boa-constrictor at midnight—when
you find it under your hip-bone. There
should also be plenty of evergreens near at hand
for the beds. Spruce will answer at a pinch; it
has an aromatic smell; but it is too stiff and
humpy. Hemlock is smoother and more flexible;
but the spring soon wears out of it. The
balsam-fir, with its elastic branches and thick
flat needles, is the best of all. A bed of these
boughs a foot deep is softer than a mattress and
as fragrant as a thousand Christmas-trees. Two
.bn 326.png
.pn +1
things more are needed for the ideal camp-ground—an
open situation, where the breeze will drive
away the flies and mosquitoes, and an abundance
of dry firewood within easy reach. Yes, and a
third thing must not be forgotten; for, says my
lady Greygown:

“I shouldn’t feel at home in camp unless I
could sit in the door of the tent and look out
across flowing water.”

All these conditions are met in our favourite
camping place below the first fall in the Grande
Décharge. A rocky point juts out into the river
and makes a fine landing for the canoes. There
is a dismantled fishing-cabin a few rods back in
the woods, from which we can borrow boards for
a table and chairs. A group of cedars on the
lower edge of the point opens just wide enough
to receive and shelter our tent. At a good distance
beyond ours, the guides’ tent is pitched;
and the big camp-fire burns between the two
dwellings. A pair of white-birches lift their
leafy crowns far above us, and after them we
name the place <i>Le Camp aux Bouleaux</i>.
.bn 327.png
.pn +1

“Why not call trees people?—since, if you
come to live among them year after year, you
will learn to know many of them personally, and
an attachment will grow up between you and them
individually.” So writes that <i>Doctor Amabilis</i>
of woodcraft, W. C. Prime, in his book,
<i>Among the Northern Hills</i>, and straightway
launches forth into eulogy on the white-birch. And
truly it is an admirable, lovable, and comfortable
tree, beautiful to look upon and full of
various uses. Its wood is strong to make paddles
and axe handles, and glorious to burn, blazing
up at first with a flashing flame, and then
holding the fire in its glowing heart all through
the night. Its bark is the most serviceable of
all the products of the wilderness. In Russia,
they say, it is used in tanning, and gives its subtle,
sacerdotal fragrance to Russia leather. But
here, in the woods, it serves more primitive ends.
It can be peeled off in a huge roll from some
giant tree and fashioned into a swift canoe to
carry man over the waters. It can be cut into
square sheets to roof his shanty in the forest.
.bn 328.png
.pn +1
It is the paper on which he writes his woodland
despatches, and the flexible material which he
bends into drinking-cups of silver lined with
gold. A thin strip of it wrapped around the
end of a candle and fastened in a cleft stick
makes a practicable chandelier. A basket for
berries, a horn to call the lovelorn moose through
the autumnal woods, a canvas on which to draw
the outline of great and memorable fish—all
these and many other indispensable luxuries are
stored up for the skilful woodsman in the birch
bark.

Only do not rob or mar the tree, unless you
really need what it has to give you. Let it
stand and grow in virgin majesty, ungirdled and
unscarred, while the trunk becomes a firm pillar
of the forest temple, and the branches spread
abroad a refuge of bright green leaves for the
birds of the air. Nature never made a more
excellent piece of handiwork. “And if,” said
my lady Greygown, “I should ever become a
dryad, I would choose to be transformed into a
white-birch. And then, when the days of my
life were numbered, and the sap had ceased to
flow, and the last leaf had fallen, and the dry
bark hung around me in ragged curls and
streamers, some wandering hunter would come
in the wintry night and touch a lighted coal to
my body, and my spirit would flash up in a fiery
chariot into the sky.”

.bn 329.png

.il fn=p304.jpg w=328px
.ca If I should ever become a dryad I should\
choose to be transformed into a white birch.

.bn 330.png
// [Blank Page]
.bn 331.png
.pn +1

The chief occupation of our idle days on the
Grande Décharge was fishing. Above the camp spread
a noble pool, more than two miles in circumference,
and diversified with smooth bays
and whirling eddies, sand beaches and rocky
islands. The river poured into it at the head,
foaming and raging down a long <i>chûte</i>, and
swept out of it just in front of our camp in a
merry, musical rapid. It was full of fish of
various kinds—long-nosed pickerel, wall-eyed
pike, and stupid chub. But the prince of the pool
was the fighting ouananiche, the little salmon
of St. John.

Here let me chant thy praise, thou noblest
and most high-minded fish, the cleanest feeder,
the merriest liver, the loftiest leaper, and the
.bn 332.png
.pn +1
bravest warrior of all creatures that swim! Thy
cousin, the trout, in his purple and gold with
crimson spots, wears a more splendid armour
than thy russet and silver mottled with black,
but thine is the kinglier nature. His courage
and skill compared with thine

.ce
“<i>Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine.</i>”

The old salmon of the sea who begot thee, long
ago, in these inland waters, became a backslider,
descending again to the ocean, and grew gross
and heavy with coarse feeding. But thou, unsalted
salmon of the foaming floods, not land-locked,
as men call thee, but choosing of thine
own free-will to dwell on a loftier level, in the
pure, swift current of a living stream, hast
grown in grace and risen to a higher life. Thou
art not to be measured by quantity, but by
quality, and thy five pounds of pure vigour will
outweigh a score of pounds of flesh less vitalised
by spirit. Thou feedest on the flies of the
air, and thy food is transformed into an aerial
.bn 333.png
.pn +1
passion for flight, as thou springest across the
pool, vaulting toward the sky. Thine eyes
have grown large and keen by peering through
the foam, and the feathered hook that can deceive
thee must be deftly tied and delicately
cast. Thy tail and fins, by ceaseless conflict
with the rapids, have broadened and strengthened,
so that they can flash thy slender body
like a living arrow up the fall. As Lancelot
among the knights, so art thou among the fish,
the plain-armoured hero, the sunburnt champion
of all the water-folk.

Every morning and evening, Greygown and
I would go out for ouananiche, and sometimes
we caught plenty and sometimes few, but we
never came back without a good catch of happiness.
There were certain places where the fish
liked to stay. For example, we always looked
for one at the lower corner of a big rock, very
close to it, where he could poise himself easily
on the edge of the strong downward stream.
Another likely place was a straight run of water,
swift, but not too swift, with a sunken stone
.bn 334.png
.pn +1
in the middle. The ouananiche does not like
crooked, twisting water. An even current is far
more comfortable, for then he discovers just how
much effort is needed to balance against it, and
keeps up the movement mechanically, as if he
were half asleep. But his favourite place is under
one of the floating islands of thick foam
that gather in the corners below the falls. The
matted flakes give a grateful shelter from the
sun, I fancy, and almost all game-fish love to
lie in the shade; but the chief reason why the
ouananiche haunt the drifting white mass is because
it is full of flies and gnats, beaten down
by the spray of the cataract, and sprinkled all
through the foam like plums in a cake. To this
natural confection the little salmon, lurking in
his corner, plays the part of Jack Horner all day
long, and never wearies.

“See that <i>belle brou</i> down below there!” said
Ferdinand, as we scrambled over the huge rocks
at the foot of the falls; “there ought to be
salmon there <i>en masse</i>.” Yes, there were the
sharp noses picking out the unfortunate insects,
.bn 335.png
.pn +1
and the broad tails waving lazily through the
foam as the fish turned in the water. At this
season of the year, when summer is nearly ended,
and every ouananiche in the Grande Décharge
has tasted feathers and seen a hook, it is useless
to attempt to delude them with the large gaudy
flies which the fishing-tackle-maker recommends.
There are only two successful methods of angling
now. The first of these I tried, and by casting
delicately with a tiny brown trout-fly tied on a
gossamer strand of gut, captured a pair of fish
weighing about three pounds each. They fought
against the spring of the four-ounce rod for
nearly half an hour before Ferdinand could slip
the net around them. But there was another
and a broader tail still waving disdainfully on
the outer edge of the foam. “And now,” said
the gallant Ferdinand, “the turn is to madame,
that she should prove her fortune—attend but
a moment, madame, while I seek the <i>sauterelle</i>.”

This was the second method: the grasshopper
was attached to the hook, and casting the
line well out across the pool, Ferdinand put the
.bn 336.png
.pn +1
rod into Greygown’s hands. She stood poised
upon a pinnacle of rock, like patience on a
monument, waiting for a bite. It came. There
was a slow, gentle pull at the line, answered by
a quick jerk of the rod, and a noble fish flashed
into the air. Four pounds and a half at least!
He leaped again and again, shaking the drops
from his silvery sides. He rushed up the rapids
as if he had determined to return to the lake,
and down again as if he had changed his plans
and determined to go to the Saguenay. He
sulked in the deep water and rubbed his nose
against the rocks. He did his best to treat that
treacherous grasshopper as the whale served
Jonah. But Greygown, through all her little
screams and shouts of excitement, was steady
and sage. She never gave the fish an inch of
slack line; and at last he lay glittering on
the rocks, with the black St. Andrew’s crosses
clearly marked on his plump sides, and the iridescent
spots gleaming on his small, shapely
head. “<i>Une belle!</i>” cried Ferdinand, as he
held up the fish in triumph, “and it is madame
.bn 337.png
.pn +1
who has the good fortune. She understands
well to take the large fish—is it not?” Greygown
stepped demurely down from her pinnacle,
and as we drifted down the pool in the canoe,
under the mellow evening sky, her conversation
betrayed not a trace of the pride that a victorious
fisherman would have shown. On the contrary,
she insisted that angling was an affair of
chance—which was consoling, though I knew it
was not altogether true—and that the smaller
fish were just as pleasant to catch and better to
eat, after all. For a generous rival, commend
me to a woman. And if I must compete, let it
be with one who has the grace to dissolve the
bitter of defeat in the honey of a mutual
self-congratulation.

We had a garden, and our favourite path
through it was the portage leading around the
falls. We travelled it very frequently, making
an excuse of idle errands to the steamboat-landing
on the lake, and sauntering along the trail
as if school were out and would never keep
again. It was the season of fruits rather than
.bn 338.png
.pn +1
of flowers. Nature was reducing the decorations
of her table to make room for the banquet.
She offered us berries instead of blossoms.

There were the light coral clusters of the
dwarf cornel set in whorls of pointed leaves; and
the deep blue bells of the <i>Clintonia borealis</i>
(which the White Mountain people call the
bear-berry, and I hope the name will stick, for
it smacks of the woods, and it is a shame to
leave so free and wild a plant under the burden
of a Latin name); and the gray, crimson-veined
berries for which the Canada Mayflower
had exchanged its feathery white bloom; and
the ruby drops of the twisted stalk hanging like
jewels along its bending stem. On the three-leaved
table which once carried the gay flower of the
wake-robin, there was a scarlet lump like a
red pepper escaped to the forest and run wild.
The partridge-vine was full of rosy provision for
the birds. The dark tiny leaves of the creeping
snow-berry were all sprinkled over with delicate
drops of spicy foam. There were a few belated
.bn 339.png
.pn +1
raspberries, and, if we chose to go out into
the burnt ground, we could find blueberries in
plenty.

But there was still bloom enough to give that
festal air without which the most abundant feast
seems coarse and vulgar. The pale gold of the
loosestrife had faded, but the deeper yellow of
the goldenrod had begun to take its place. The
blue banners of the fleur-de-lis had vanished
from beside the springs, but the purple of the
asters was appearing. Closed gentians kept
their secret inviolate, and bluebells trembled
above the rocks. The quaint pinkish-white
flowers of the turtle-head showed in wet places, and
instead of the lilac racemes of the purple-fringed
orchis, which had disappeared with midsummer,
we found now the slender braided
spikes of the lady’s-tresses, latest and lowliest
of the orchids, pale and pure as nuns of the
forest, and exhaling a celestial fragrance. There
is a secret pleasure in finding these delicate
flowers in the rough heart of the wilderness.
It is like discovering the veins of poetry in the
.bn 340.png
.pn +1
character of a guide or a lumberman. And to
be able to call the plants by name makes them
a hundredfold more sweet and intimate. Naming
things is one of the oldest and simplest of
human pastimes. Children play at it with their
dolls and toy animals. In fact, it was the first
game ever played on earth, for the Creator who
planted the garden eastward in Eden knew well
what would please the childish heart of man,
when He brought all the new-made creatures to
Adam, “to see what he would call them.”

Our rustic bouquet graced the table under
the white-birches, while we sat by the fire and
watched our four men at the work of the camp—Joseph
and Raoul chopping wood in the distance;
François slicing juicy rashers from the
flitch of bacon; and Ferdinand, the <i>chef</i>, heating
the frying-pan in preparation for supper.

“Have you ever thought,” said Greygown,
in a contented tone of voice, “that this is the
only period of our existence when we attain to
the luxury of a French cook?”

“And one with the grand manner, too,” I
.bn 341.png
.pn +1
replied, “for he never fails to ask what it is
that madame desires to eat to-day, as if the larder
of Lucullus were at his disposal, though he
knows well enough that the only choice lies
between broiled fish and fried fish, or bacon
with eggs and a rice omelet. But I like the fiction
of a lordly ordering of the repast. How
much better it is than having to eat what is
flung before you at a summer boarding-house by
a scornful waitress!”

“Another thing that pleases me,” continued
my lady, “is the unbreakableness of the dishes.
There are no nicks in the edges of the best
plates here; and, oh! it is a happy thing to
have a home without bric-à-brac. There is nothing
here that needs to be dusted.”

“And no engagements for to-morrow,” I ejaculated.
“Dishes that can’t be broken, and plans
that can—that’s the ideal of housekeeping.”

“And then,” added my philosopher in skirts,
“it is certainly refreshing to get away from all
one’s relations for a little while.”

“But how do you make that out?” I asked,
.bn 342.png
.pn +1
in mild surprise. “What are you going to do
with me?”

“Oh,” said she, with a fine air of independence,
“I don’t count you. You are not a relation,
only a connection by marriage.”

“Well, my dear,” I answered, between the
meditative puffs of my pipe, “it is good to consider
the advantages of our present situation.
We shall soon come into the frame of mind of
the Sultan of Morocco when he camped in the
Vale of Rabat. The place pleased him so well
that he staid until the very pegs of his tent took
root and grew up into a grove of trees around
his pavilion.”
.sp 2
.ce
II.
.sp 1
.ce
KENOGAMI.
.sp 1
The guides were a little restless under the
idle régime of our lazy camp, and urged us to
set out upon some adventure. Ferdinand was
like the uncouth swain in Lycidas. Sitting
upon the bundles of camp equipage on the
shore, and crying,—
.bn 343.png
.pn +1

.ce
“<i>To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new</i>,”

he led us forth to seek the famous fishing
grounds on Lake Kenogami.

We skirted the eastern end of Lake St. John
in our two canoes, and pushed up La Belle
Rivière to Hebertville, where all the children
turned out to follow our procession through the
village. It was like the train that tagged after
the Pied Piper of Hamelin. We embarked
again, surrounded by an admiring throng, at the
bridge where the main street crossed a little
stream, and paddled up it, through a score of
back yards and a stretch of reedy meadows,
where the wild and tame ducks fed together,
tempting the sportsman to sins of ignorance.
We crossed the placid Lac Vert, and after a
carry of a mile along the high-road toward Chicoutimi,
turned down a steep hill and pitched
our tents on a crescent of silver sand, with the
long, fair water of Kenogami before us.

It is amazing to see how quickly these woods-men
can make a camp. Each one knew precisely
his share of the enterprise. One sprang
.bn 344.png
.pn +1
to chop a dry spruce log into fuel for a quick
fire, and fell a harder tree to keep us warm
through the night. Another stripped a pile of
boughs from a balsam for the beds. Another
cut the tent-poles from a neighbouring thicket.
Another unrolled the bundles and made ready
the cooking utensils. As if by magic, the miracle
of the camp was accomplished.—

.ce 2
“<i>The bed was made, the room was fit,
By punctual eve the stars were lit</i>”—

but Greygown always insists upon completing
that quotation from Stevenson in her own voice;
for this is the way it ends,—

.ce 2
“<i>When we put up, my ass and I,
At God’s green caravanserai.</i>”

Our permanent camp was another day’s voyage
down the lake, on a beach opposite the
Point Ausable. There the water was contracted
to a narrow strait, and in the swift current, close
to the point, the great trout had fixed their
spawning-bed from time immemorial. It was
.bn 345.png
.pn +1
the first week in September, and the magnates
of the lake were already assembling—the Common
Councilmen and the Mayor and the whole
Committee of Seventy. There were giants in
that place, rolling lazily about, and chasing
each other on the surface of the water. “Look,
M’sieu’!” cried François, in excitement, as we
lay at anchor in the gray morning twilight;
“one like a horse has just leaped behind us; I
assure you, big like a horse!”

But the fish were shy and dour. Old Castonnier,
the guardian of the lake, lived in his hut
on the shore, and flogged the water, early and
late, every day with his home-made flies. He
was anchored in his dugout close beside us, and
grinned with delight as he saw his over-educated
trout refuse my best casts. “They are here,
M’sieu’, for you can see them,” he said, by way
of discouragement, “but it is difficult to take
them. Do you not find it so?”

In the back of my fly-book I discovered a
tiny phantom minnow—a dainty affair of varnished
silk, as light as a feather—and quietly
.bn 346.png
.pn +1
attached it to the leader in place of the tail-fly.
Then the fun began.

One after another the big fish dashed at that
deception, and we played and netted them,
until our score was thirteen, weighing altogether
thirty-five pounds, and the largest five
pounds and a half. The guardian was mystified
and disgusted. He looked on for a while in
silence, and then pulled up anchor and clattered
ashore. He must have made some inquiries
and reflections during the day, for that night
he paid a visit to our camp. After telling bear
stories and fish stories for an hour or two by the
fire, he rose to depart, and tapping his fore-finger
solemnly upon my shoulder, delivered himself as
 follows:—

“You can say a proud thing when you go
home, M’sieu’—that you have beaten the old
Castonnier. There are not many fishermen who
can say that. But,” he added, with confidential
emphasis, “<i>c’était votre sacré p’tit poisson qui a
fait cela</i>.”

That was a touch of human nature, my rusty
.bn 347.png
.pn +1
old guardian, more welcome to me than all the
morning’s catch. Is there not always a “confounded
little minnow” responsible for our failures?
Did you ever see a school-boy tumble
on the ice without stooping immediately to re-buckle
the strap of his skates? And would not
Ignotus have painted a masterpiece if he could
have found good brushes and a proper canvas?
Life’s shortcomings would be bitter indeed if we
could not find excuses for them outside of ourselves.
And as for life’s successes—well, it is
certainly wholesome to remember how many of
them are due to a fortunate position and the
proper tools.

Our tent was on the border of a coppice of
young trees. It was pleasant to be awakened
by a convocation of birds at sunrise, and to
watch the shadows of the leaves dance out upon
our translucent roof of canvas.

All the birds in the bush are early, but there
are so many of them that it is difficult to believe
that every one can be rewarded with a
worm. Here in Canada those little people of
.bn 348.png
.pn +1
the air who appear as transient guests of spring
and autumn in the Middle States, are in their
summer home and breeding-place. Warblers,
named for the magnolia and the myrtle, chestnut-sided,
bay-breasted, blue-backed, and black-throated,
flutter and creep along the branches
with simple lisping music. Kinglets, ruby-crowned
and golden-crowned, tiny, brilliant
sparks of life, twitter among the trees, breaking
occasionally into clearer, sweeter songs. Companies
of redpolls and crossbills pass chirping
through the thickets, busily seeking their
food. The fearless, familiar chickadee repeats
his name merrily, while he leads his family to
explore every nook and cranny of the wood.
Cedar wax-wings, sociable wanderers, arrive in
numerous flocks. The Canadians call them “<i>récollets</i>,”
because they wear a brown crest of the
same colour as the hoods of the monks who came
with the first settlers to New France. They are
a songless tribe, although their quick, reiterated
call as they take to flight has given them the
name of chatterers. The beautiful tree-sparrows
.bn 349.png
.pn +1
and the pine-siskins are more melodious, and
the slate-coloured juncos, flitting about the camp,
are as garrulous as chippy-birds. All these varied
notes come and go through the tangle of
morning dreams. And now the noisy blue-jay is
calling “<i>Thief—thief—thief!</i>” in the distance,
and a pair of great pileated woodpeckers with
crimson crests are laughing loudly in the swamp
over some family joke. But listen! what is
that harsh creaking note? It is the cry of the
Northern shrike, of whom tradition says that
he catches little birds and impales them on
sharp thorns. At the sound of his voice the
concert closes suddenly and the singers vanish
into thin air. The hour of music is over; the
commonplace of day has begun. And there is
my lady Greygown, already up and dressed,
standing by the breakfast-table and laughing at
my belated appearance.

But the birds were not our only musicians at
Kenogami. French Canada is one of the ancestral
homes of song. Here you can still listen
to those quaint ballads which were sung centuries
.bn 350.png
.pn +1
ago in Normandie and Provence. “<i>A
la Claire Fontaine</i>,” “<i>Dans Paris y a-t-une
Brune plus Belle que le Jour</i>,” “<i>Sur le Pont
d’Avignon</i>,” “<i>En Roulant ma Boule</i>,” “<i>La
Poulette Grise</i>,” and a hundred other folk-songs
linger among the peasants and voyageurs of these
northern woods. You may hear

.nf b
“<i>Malbrouck s’en va-t-en guerre—
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine</i>,”
.nf-

and

.nf b
“<i>Isabeau s’y promène
Le long de son jardin</i>,”
.nf-
chanted in the farmhouse or the lumber shanty,
to the tunes which have come down from an unknown
source, and never lost their echo in the
hearts of the people.

Our Ferdinand was a perfect fountain of
music. He had a clear tenor voice, and solaced
every task and shortened every voyage
with melody. “A song, Ferdinand, a jolly song,”
the other men would say, as the canoes went
sweeping down the quiet lake. And then the
.bn 351.png
.pn +1
leader would strike up a well-known air, and
his companions would come in on the refrain,
keeping time with the stroke of their paddles.
Sometimes it would be a merry ditty:

.nf b
“<i>My father had no girl but me,
And yet he sent me off to sea;
Leap, my little Cécilia.</i>”
.nf-

Or perhaps it was:

.nf b
“<i>I’ve danced so much the livelong day,—
Dance, my sweetheart, let’s be gay,—
I’ve fairly danced my shoes away,—
      Till evening.
Dance, my pretty, dance once more;
Dance, until we break the floor.</i>”
.nf-

But more frequently the song was touched with
a plaintive pleasant melancholy. The minstrel
told how he had gone into the woods and
heard the nightingale, and she had confided to
him that lovers are often unhappy. The story
of <i>La Belle Françoise</i> was repeated in minor
cadences—how her sweetheart sailed away to
.bn 352.png
.pn +1
the wars, and when he came back the village
church bells were ringing, and he said to himself
that Françoise had been faithless, and the
chimes were for her marriage; but when he
entered the church it was her funeral that he
saw, for she had died of love. It is strange
how sorrow charms us when it is distant and
visionary. Even when we are happiest we enjoy
making music

.ce
“<i>Of old, unhappy, far-off things.</i>”

“What is that song which you are singing,
Ferdinand?” asks the lady, as she hears him
humming behind her in the canoe.

“Ah, madame, it is the <i>chanson</i> of a young
man who demands of his <i>blonde</i> why she will
not marry him. He says that he has waited
long time, and the flowers are falling from the
rose-tree, and he is very sad.”

“And does she give a reason?”

“Yes, madame—that is to say, a reason of
a certain sort; she declares that she is not quite
ready; he must wait until the rose-tree adorns
itself again.”
.bn 353.png
.pn +1

“And what is the end—do they get married
at last?”

“But I do not know, madame. The <i>chanson</i>
does not go so far. It ceases with the complaint
of the young man. And it is a very
uncertain affair—this affair of the heart—is
it not?”

Then, as if he turned from such perplexing
mysteries to something plain and sure and easy
to understand, he breaks out into the jolliest of
all Canadian songs:
.sp 1
.nf b
“<i>My bark canoe that flies, that flies,
Hola! my bark canoe!</i>”
.nf-
.sp 2
.ce
III.
.sp 1
.ce
THE ISLAND POOL.
.sp 1
Among the mountains there is a gorge. And
in the gorge there is a river. And in the river
there is a pool. And in the pool there is an
island. And on the island, for four happy days,
there was a camp.

It was by no means an easy matter to establish
.bn 354.png
.pn +1
ourselves in that lonely place. The river,
though not remote from civilisation, is practically
inaccessible for nine miles of its course
by reason of the steepness of its banks, which
are long, shaggy precipices, and the fury of
its current, in which no boat can live. We
heard its voice as we approached through
the forest, and could hardly tell whether it was
far away or near.

There is a perspective of sound as well as
of sight, and one must have some idea of the
size of a noise before one can judge of its
distance. A mosquito’s horn in a dark room
may seem like a trumpet on the battlements;
and the tumult of a mighty stream heard
through an unknown stretch of woods may appear
like the babble of a mountain brook close
at hand.

But when we came out upon the bald forehead
of a burnt cliff and looked down, we realised
the grandeur and beauty of the unseen
voice that we had been following. A river of
splendid strength went leaping through the
.bn 355.png
.pn +1
chasm five hundred feet below us, and at the
foot of two snow-white falls, in an oval of dark
topaz water, traced with curves of floating foam,
lay the solitary island.

The broken path was like a ladder. “How
shall we ever get down?” sighed Greygown, as
we dropped from rock to rock; and at the bottom
she looked up sighing, “I know we never
can get back again.” There was not a foot of
ground on the shores level enough for a tent.
Our canoe ferried us over, two at a time, to the
island. It was about a hundred paces long,
composed of round, coggly stones, with just one
patch of smooth sand at the lower end. There was
not a tree left upon it larger than an alder-bush.
The tent-poles must be cut far up on the
mountain-sides, and every bough for our beds
must be carried down the ladder of rocks. But
the men were gay at their work, singing like
mocking-birds. After all, the glow of life comes
from friction with its difficulties. If we cannot
find them at home, we sally abroad and create
them, just to warm up our mettle.
.bn 356.png
.pn +1

The ouananiche in the island pool were superb,
astonishing, incredible. We stood on the
cobble-stones at the upper end, and cast our
little flies across the sweeping stream, and for
three days the fish came crowding in to fill the
barrel of pickled salmon for our guides’ winter
use; and the score rose,—twelve, twenty-one,
thirty-two; and the size of the “biggest fish”
steadily mounted—four pounds, four and a
half, five, five and three-quarters. “Precisely
almost six pounds,” said Ferdinand, holding the
scales; “but we may call him six, M’sieu’, for if
it had been to-morrow that we had caught him,
he would certainly have gained the other ounce.”
And yet, why should I repeat the fisherman’s
folly of writing down the record of that marvellous
catch? We always do it, but we know that
it is a vain thing. Few listen to the tale, and
none accept it. Does not Christopher North,
reviewing the <i>Salmonia</i> of Sir Humphry Davy,
mock and jeer unfeignedly at the fish stories of
that most reputable writer? But, on the very
next page, old Christopher himself meanders
.bn 357.png
.pn +1
on into a perilous narrative of the day when he
caught a whole cart-load of trout in a Highland
loch. Incorrigible, happy inconsistency! Slow
to believe others, and full of sceptical inquiry,
fond man never doubts one thing—that somewhere
in the world a tribe of gentle readers will be
discovered to whom his fish stories will appear
credible.

One of our days on the island was Sunday—a
day of rest in a week of idleness. We had a
few books; for there are some in existence
which will stand the test of being brought into
close contact with nature. Are not John Burroughs’
cheerful, kindly essays full of woodland
truth and companionship? Can you not
carry a whole library of musical philosophy in
your pocket in Matthew Arnold’s volume of
selections from Wordsworth? And could there
be a better sermon for a Sabbath in the wilderness
than Mrs. Slosson’s immortal story of
<i>Fishin’ Jimmy</i>?

But to be very frank about the matter, the
camp is not stimulating to the studious side of
.bn 358.png
.pn +1
my mind. Charles Lamb, as usual, has said what
I feel: “I am not much a friend to out-of-doors
reading. I cannot settle my spirits to it.”

There are blueberries growing abundantly
among the rocks—huge clusters of them,
bloomy and luscious as the grapes of Eshcol.
The blueberry is nature’s compensation for the
ruin of forest fires. It grows best where the
woods have been burned away and the soil is
too poor to raise another crop of trees. Surely
it is an innocent and harmless pleasure to wander
along the hillsides gathering these wild
fruits, as the Master and His disciples once
walked through the fields and plucked the ears
of corn, never caring what the Pharisees thought
of that new way of keeping the Sabbath.

And here is a bed of moss beside a dashing
rivulet, inviting us to rest and be thankful.
Hark! There is a white-throated sparrow, on a
little tree across the river, whistling his
afternoon song

.ce
“<i>In linkèd sweetness long drawn out.</i>”

.bn 359.png
.pn +1
Down in Maine they call him the Peabody-bird,
because his notes sound to them like
<i>Old mān—Péabody, péabody, péabody</i>. In
New Brunswick the Scotch settlers say that he sings
<i>Lōst—lōst—Kénnedy, kénnedy, kénnedy</i>.
But here in his northern home I think we can
understand him better. He is singing again and
again, with a cadence that never wearies,
“<i>Sweet—sweet—Cánada, cánada, cánada!</i>”
The Canadians, when they came across the sea,
remembering the nightingale of southern France,
baptised this little gray minstrel their <i>rossignol</i>,
and the country ballads are full of his praise.
Every land has its nightingale, if we only have
the heart to hear him. How distinct his voice
is—how personal, how confidential, as if he had
a message for us!

There is a breath of fragrance on the cool
shady air beside our little stream, that seems familiar.
It is the first week of September. Can
it be that the twin-flower of June, the delicate
<i>Linnæa borealis</i>, is blooming again? Yes, here
is the threadlike stem lifting its two frail pink
.bn 360.png
.pn +1
bells above the bed of shining leaves. How
dear an early flower seems when it comes back
again and unfolds its beauty in a St. Martin’s
summer! How delicate and suggestive is the
faint, magical odour! It is like a renewal of the
dreams of youth.

“And need we ever grow old?” asked my
lady Greygown, as she sat that evening with the
twin-flower on her breast, watching the stars
come out along the edge of the cliffs, and tremble
on the hurrying tide of the river. “Must we
grow old as well as gray? Is the time coming
when all life will be commonplace and practical,
and governed by a dull ‘of course’? Shall we
not always find adventures and romances, and a
few blossoms returning, even when the season
grows late?”

“At least,” I answered, “let us believe in the
possibility, for to doubt it is to destroy it. If
we can only come back to nature together every
year, and consider the flowers and the birds, and
confess our faults and mistakes and our unbelief
under these silent stars, and hear the river
.bn 361.png
.pn +1
murmuring our absolution, we shall die young,
even though we live long: we shall have a treasure
of memories which will be like the twin-flower,
always a double blossom on a single stem,
and carry with us into the unseen world something
which will make it worth while to be immortal.”

1894.
.pb
.bn 362.png
.pn +1
// [Blank Page]
.bn 363.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.ce
A SONG AFTER SUNDOWN
.bn 364.png
.pn +1
// [Blank Page]
.bn 365.png
.pn 339
.sp 4
.h2
THE WOOD-NOTES OF THE VEERY
.sp 2
.ll -4
.in +4
.nf b
<i>The moonbeams over Arno’s vale in silver flood were pouring,
When first I heard the nightingale a long-lost love deploring:
So passionate, so full of pain, it sounded strange and eerie,
I longed to hear a simpler strain, the wood-notes of the veery.</i>

<i>The laverock sings a bonny lay, above the Scottish heather,
It sprinkles from the dome of day like light and love together;
He drops the golden notes to greet his brooding mate, his dearie;
I only know one song more sweet, the vespers of the veery.</i>

<i>In English gardens green and bright, and rich in fruity treasure,
I’ve heard the blackbird with delight repeat his merry measure;</i>
.bn 366.png
.pn +1
<i>The ballad was a lively one, the tune was loud and cheery,
And yet with every setting sun I listened for the veery.</i>

<i>O far away, and far away, the tawny thrush is singing,
New England woods at close of day with that clear chant are
ringing;
And when my light of life is low, and heart and flesh are weary,
I fain would hear, before I go, the wood-notes of the veery.</i>
.nf-
.in
.ll

1895.

.bn 367.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
INDEX
.sp 2
.in 2
.nf l
Affection, misplaced: an instance of, #157#, #158#.

Altnaharra: #111#.

Alt-Prags, the Baths of: their venerable appearance, #202#.

Ambrose, of Milan: his compliment to the Grayling, #286#.

Ampersand: derivation of the name, #70#;
  the mountain, #71#;
  the lake, #89#;
  the river, #71#.

Ananias: a point named after him, #254#.

Anglers: the pretensions of rustic, exposed, #30#;
  a group of, #57#, #58#;
  a friendly folk, #145#, #146#.

Angling: its attractions, #3#-#5#;
  an education in, #4# ff.;
  Dr. Paley’s attachment to, #136#;
  a benefaction to fish, #159#.

Antinoüs: the cause of his death, #17#.

Architecture: prevailing style on the Ristigouche, #144#;
  the superiority of a tent to other forms of, #300#;
  domestic types in Canada, #238#, #239#.

Arnold, Matthew: quoted, #140#.

Aussee: #272#.


Baldness: in mountains and men, #85#.

Barrie, J. M.: #97#.

Bartlett, Virgil: a tribute to his memory, #72#, #73#.

Bear-stories: their ubiquity, #62#.

Bellinghausen, von Münch: quoted, #297#.

Birds: a good way to make their acquaintance, #24#;
  differences in character, #25#-#27#;
  a convocation of, #321#.
.bn 368.png
.pn +1

Birds named:
  Blackbird, #339#.
  Bluebird, #4#, #26#.
  Cat-bird, #24#.
  Cedar-bird, #322#, #323#.
  Chewink, #4#, #26#.
  Chickadee, #322#.
  Crossbill, #322#.
  Crow, Hoodie, #115#.
  Cuckoo, #190#.
  Ducks, “Betseys,” #229#.
  Eagle, #112#.
  Grouse, Ruffed, #81#.
  Gull, #229#.
  Jay, Blue, #26#, #322#.
  Kingfisher, #27#, #162#, #229#.
  Kinglet, ruby, and golden-crowned, #321#, #322#.
  Laverock, #339#.
  Meadow-lark, #4#.
  Nightingale, #333#, #339#.
  Oriole, #25#.
  Owl, Great Horned, #62#.
  Pewee, Wood, #25#.
  Pine-Siskin, #323#.
  Redpoll, #322#.
  Robin, #3#, #25#.
  Sand-piper, Spotted, #24#.
  Sheldrake, #77#.
  Shrike, #323#.
  Sky-lark, #188#, #339#.
  Sparrow, Song, #4#, #26#.
  Sparrow, Tree, #323#.
  Sparrow, White-throated, #162#, #333#.
  Thistle-bird, #4#.
  Thrush, Hermit, #4#, #28#.
  Thrush, Wood, #28#.
.bn 368.png
.pn +1
  Veery, 28, #339#, #340#.
  Warbler, black-throated green, #82#.
  Warbler, various kinds of Canada, #321#.
  Woodpecker, #31#, #32#.
  Woodpecker, Great-pileated, #322#.
  Woodpecker, Red-headed, #81#.
  Yellow-throat, Maryland, #24#.

Bishops: the proper costume for, #30#;
  a place frequented by, #177#.

Black, William: his “Princess of Thule,” #97# ff.

Black-fly: his diabolical nature, #246#.

Blackmore, R. D.: quoted, #37#.

Blunderhead: a winged idiot, #245#.

Boats: Adirondack, #76#.

Bonaparte, Napoleon: as a comrade on foot, #17#.

Bridges, Robert: quoted, #93#.

Burroughs, John: his views on walking, #67#;
  his essays, #331#.

Byron, George, Lord: misquoted, #282#, #283#.


Cambridge: looks best from the rear, #21#.

Camping-out: a first experience, #60#-#64#;
  lessons to be learned from it, #65#;
  discretion needed in, #301#;
  skill of guides in preparation for, #317#.

Character: expressed in looks, #14#.

Chub: a mean fish, #276#-#277#.

Cities: enlivened by rivers, #21#.

Conservatism: Scotch style of, #108#.

Contentment: an example of, #316#.

Conversation: best between two, #125#;
  the most valuable kind, #128#;
  egoism the salt of, #156#;
  the fine art of, #163#, #164#;
  current coin in, #247#.

Cook: the blessing of having a good-humoured, #229#, #230#.

Cortina: #178#-#194#.

Cotton, Charles: quoted, #286#.

Courtesy: in a custom-house officer, #174#;
  among the Tyrolese peasants, #209#;
  of a French Canadian, #231#.

Cow-boy: pious remark of a, #34#.

Cowley, Abraham: on littleness, #17#, #18#.

Credulity: of anglers in regard to their own fish-stories, #330#.

Crockett, S. R.: quoted, #29#, #98#.


Darwin, Charles: quoted, #31#, #32#.

Davy, Sir Humphry: quoted, #136#.

Deer-hunting: in the Adirondacks, #78#.

Depravity, total: in trout, #118#.

Diogenes: as a bedfellow, #17#.

Dolomites: described, #169#-#171# ff.

Driving: four-in-hand, #172#;
  after dinner, #174#;
  the French Canadian idea of, #237#.


Economy: an instance of, #241#.

Education: a wise method of, #42#, #43#.

Education: in a canoe, #232#.

Edwards, Jonathan: his love of nature, #31#, #32#.

Egoism, modest: the salt of conversation, #156#.
.bn 369.png
.pn +1

Epics: not to be taken as discouragement to lyrics, #34#.

Epigrams: of small practical value, #127#, #128#.


Failures: the philosophic way of accounting for, #321#.

Fame: the best kind of, #182#.

Farming: demoralised on the Ristigouche, #142#, #143#.

Fashion: unnecessary for a well-dressed woman to follow, #186#.

Fatherhood: the best type of, #42#, #43#;
  its significance, #232#.

Fiction: its uses, #96#-#98#, #102#.

Fish: fact that the largest always escape, #150#.

Flowers named:
  Alpenrosen, #168#, #189#, #210#.
  Anemone, #4#.
  Arrow-head, #13#.
  Asters, #24#, #313#.
  Bear-berry (Clintonia borealis), #312#.
  Bee-balm, #23#.
  Blue-bells, #313#, #314#.
  Canada May-flower, #312#.
  Cardinal flower, #24#.
  Cinquefoil, #23#.
  Clover, #188#.
  Crowfoot, #23#.
  Cyclamen, #227#, #297#.
  Dahlia, #238#.
  Daisy, ox-eye, #14#.
  Dandelion, #4#.
  Dwarf cornel, #312#.
  Fireweed, #241#.
  Fleur-de-lis, #227#, #312#.
  Forget-me-not, #188#.
  Fuchsia, #115#.
  Gentian, Alpine, #188#.
  Gentian, closed, #24#, #257#, #313#.
  Goldenrod, #24#, #312#.
  Hare-bell, #23#.
  Heather, #18#, #95# ff.
  Hepatica, #23#.
  Hollyhock, #238#.
  Honey-suckle, #110#, #111#.
  Jewel-weed, #23#, #257#.
  Joe-Pye weed, #257#.
  Knot-weed, #13#.
  Ladies’-tresses, #313#.
  Lilac, #39#, #290#.
  Loose-Strife, yellow, #23#, #312#.
  Marigold, #138#, #139#.
  Meadow-rue, #227#.
  Orchis, purple-fringed, #23#, #227#, #313#, #314#.
  Pansy, #209#.
  Partridge-berry, #312#.
  Polygala, fringed, #100#.
  Pyrola, #227#.
  Rose, #39#, #115#, #125#.
  Santa Lucia, #188#.
  Self-heal, #24#.
  Snow-berry, #312#.
  Spring-beauty, #23#.
  St. John’s-wort, #24#.
  Star-grass, #24#.
  Tansy, #39#.
  Trillium, painted, #23#.
  Tulips, #3#.
  Turtle-head, #313#, #314#.
  Twinflower, #16#, #233#.
  Twisted-stalk, #312#.
  Violet, #23#.
  Wake-Robin, #312#.

Flowers: Nature’s embroidery, #23#, #24#, #187#, #227#, #312#;
  the pleasure of knowing by name, #313#, #314#;
  second bloom of, #333#, #334#.

Forests: the mid-day silence of, #81#;
  flowers in, #188#, #189#, #227#, #311#-#314#.

Friendship: the great not always adapted for it, #17#;
  pleasure in proximity, #13#;
  a celestial gift, #124#.
.bn 370.png
.pn +1


Gay, John: quoted, #9#.

Germans: their sentiment, #193#, #194#;
  their genius for thoroughness, #197#;
  their politeness, #288#.

Gilbert, W. S.: quoted, #42#.

Goat’s-milk: the proper way to drink it, #168#;
  obliging disposition of the goat in regard to it, #211#.

Gray, Thomas: quoted, #27#.

Grayling: described, #285#-#287#.

Gross-Venediger: the, #210#-#214#.

Guides: Adirondack, #76#;
  Canadian, #229#-#234#.


Halleck, Fitz-Greene: quoted, #247#.

Hallstatt: #278#.

Haste: the folly of, #146#, #147#.

Hazlitt, William: quoted, #267#.

Heine, Heinrich: quoted, #227#.

Hoosier Schoolmaster, the: the solidity of his views, #14#.

Hornet: the unexpected quality of his sting, #79#, #80#.

Horse-yacht: a description of, #138#;
  drawbacks and advantages, #146#, #147#.

Hospitality: in a Highland cottage, #115#, #116#;
  among anglers, #144#;
  in an Alpine hut, #211#.

Housekeeping: the ideal, #315#.

Human nature: best seen in little ways, #31#, #32#;
  a touch of, #318#.

Humour: American, difficult for foreigners, #177#;
  plain, best enjoyed out-of-doors, #224#, #25#.


Idealist: a boy is the true, #51#.

Ideals: the advantage of cherishing, #240#.

Idleness: occasionally profitable, #34#.

Immortality: the hope of, #130#;
  love makes it worth having, #335#.

Indian: the noble, #247#.

Insects: classified according to malignity, #245# ff.

Ischl, #282#, #283#.


James, Henry: his accuracy in words, #30#.

Johnson, Robert Underwood: quoted, #23#, #24#.


Kenogami, Lake, #316# ff.


Lairg, #140#.

Lake George, #44# ff.

Lamb, Charles: his poor opinion of aqueducts, #13#;
  his disinclination to reading out-of-doors, #331#.

Landro, #198#, #199#.

Lanier, Sidney: quoted, #28#.

Lienz, #203# ff.

Life: more in it than making a living, #35#, #36#.

Littleness: praised, #17#, #18#.

London: the way to see, #21#.

Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth: quoted, #187#.

Love: a boy’s introduction to, #50#;
  a safe course in, #98#, #99#;
  the true meaning of, #132#;
  uncertainty of its course, #326#.

Lowell, James Russell: a reminiscence of him, #10#.

Luck: defined, #64#.

Lucretius, T.: quoted, #18#.

Lumbermen: their share in making our homes, #264#.


Mabie, Hamilton W.: quoted, #216#.

“Maclaren, Ian,” #97#.

Manners: their charm, when plain and good, #209#.
.bn 371.png
.pn +1

Marvell, Andrew: quoted, #226#.

Medicinal Springs: an instance of their harmlessness, #59#, #60#.

Meditation: an aid to, #161#;
  on the building of a house, #264#;
  at nightfall, #290#.

Melvich, #113#.

Memory: associated with odours, #39#;
  capricious, #120#;
  awakened by a word, #217#;
  sweetest when shared by two, #335#.

Metapedia, #137#.

Midges: animated pepper, #228#.

Milton, John: quoted, #316#, #332#.

Mint: a symbol of remembrance, #40#, #41#.

Misurina, Lake, #195#.

Mountains: their influence, #11#;
  invitations to climb, #71#, #72#;
  growth of trees upon them, #83#-#85#;
  the Adirondacks, #87#;
  the Dolomites, #169# ff.;
  the Hohe Tauern, #205# ff.;
  of the Salzkammergut, #270# ff.

Mountain-climbing: charms of, #79# ff.;
  moderation in, #187#;
  disappointment in, #213#, #214#.

Mosquito: his mitigating qualities, #246#.


Naaman, the Syrian: his sentiment about rivers, #16#.

Naming things: pleasure of, #313#.

Navigable rivers: defined, #60#.

Neu-Prags: the Baths of, #201#.

Noah: a question about, #164#.

Nuvolau, Mount, #187# ff.


Old Age: sympathy with youth, #126#;
  the wisdom and beauty of, #128#-#130#;
  preparation for, #333#.

Ouananiche, #228#, #235#, #236#, #252#, #253#, #256#-#258#, #306# ff., #330#.

Oven: the shrine of the good housewife, #240#.


Paley, the Rev. Dr.: quoted, #135#.

Patience: not the only virtue, #46#.

Peasant-life: the perils of, in the Tyrol, #206#-#208#.

Perch: a good fish for nurses to catch, #44#.

Philosophers: a camp of, #88#;
  their explanation of humour, #167#.

Philosophy: of a happy life, #128#;
  of travel, #167#;
  of success, #183#;
  of housekeeping, #313#-#315#;
  of perpetual youth, #333#-#335#.

Photography: its difficulties, #89#-#91#;
  a good occupation for young women, #146#.

Pian, Mount, #196#.

Pike, #243#, #252#, #302#.

Pleasures: simple, not to be purchased with money, #165#.

Plenty: a symbol of, #72#.

Prayer: the secret of peace, #130#, #131#;
  in a Tyrolese hut, #211#;
  thoughts almost as good as, #293#.

Preaching: under supervision, #103#.

Predestination: an instance of faith in, #114#.

Prime, W. C.: quoted, #302#.

Pronunciation: courage in, #141#.

Prosperity: should be prepared for in the time of adversity, #240#.


Quarles, Francis: his emblems, #39#.

Quebec, #297#.


Railway travel: beside a little river, #19#;
  its general character, #168#.

Rapids, #222# ff.
.bn 372.png
.pn +1

Relations: the advantage of temporary separation from, #315#;
  distinguished from connections by marriage, #316#.

Religion: the best evidence of, #130#.

Resignation: the courage of old age, #128#.

Rivers: their personality, #9#, #13#;
  in different countries, #15#;
  little ones the best, #16#-#19#;
  methods of knowing them, #22#, #33#;
  advantages of their friendship, #22#-#30#;
  their small responsibilities, #33#;
  pleasure of watching them, 161;
  variety of life upon, 236;
  disconsolate when dry, #250#;
  merry in the rain, #272#;
 the voice of, #327#.

Rivers named:
  Abana, #17#.
  Æsopus, #20#.
  Allegash, #18#.
  A l’Ours, #237#, #241#.
  Amazon, #18#.
  Ampersand, #19#, #69#.
  Arno, #19#, #21#.
  Aroostook, #18#.
  Ausable, #18#.
  Batiscan, #15#.
  Beaverkill, #18#, #23#.
  Blanche, #250#.
  Boite, #171#, #172#.
  Boquet, #15#.
  Cam, #21#.
  Connecticut, #16#.
  Dee, #123#.
  Delaware, #16#.
  Des Aunes, #237#.
  Dove, #19#, #144#.
  Drau, #203#.
  Ericht, #19#, #147#.
  French Broad, #20#.
  Glommen, #20#.
  Grand Décharge, #220# ff., #302# ff.
  Gula, #20#.
  Halladale, #19#.
  Hudson, #16#.
  Isel, #203#.
  Kaaterskill, #58#-#60#.
  La Belle Rivière, #220#, #317# ff.
  La Pipe, #220#.
  Lycoming, #53#.
  Metapedia, #142#.
  Mississippi, #18#.
  Mistassini, #220#.
  Mistook, #229#.
  Moose, #18#.
  Neversink, #18#, #59#.
  Niagara, #18#.
  Opalescent, #63#.
  Ouiatchouan, #220#.
  Patapedia, #142#.
  Penobscot, #19#.
  Peribonca, #19#, #220#, #259# ff.
  Pharpar, #17#.
  Piave, #171#, #172#.
  Pikouabi, #220#.
  Quatawamkedgwick, #142#.
  Raquette, #18#.
  Rauma, #19#.
  Rienz, #20#, #171#.
  Ristigouche, #19#, #137# ff.
  Rocky Run, #54#.
  Rotha, #19#.
  Saguenay, #219#.
  Salzach, #19#.
  Saranac, #18#, #64#, #73#.
  Swiftwater, #18#, #40#, #65#.
  Thames, #19#, #21#.
  Traun, #267# ff.
  Tweed, #19#.
  Upsalquitch, #142#.
  Wharfe, #226#.
  Ziller, #19#.

Roberval, #220#.

Rome: the best point of view in, #21#.

Rudder Grange: the author of, #14#.
.bn 373.png
.pn +1


St. John, Lake: #218# ff., #298# ff.

Salmon: a literary, #106#;
  a plain, #152#-#155#;
  a delusive, #158#-#160#;
  curious habit of leaping on Sunday, #162#;
  manner of angling for, #151#-#153#.

Sea, the: disadvantages of loving, #10#.

Semiramis: her husband, #17#.

Seneca, L. Annæus: his advice concerning altars, #12#.

Scotch character: contrasted with the English, #107#-#110#;
  caution, #103#, #118#;
  Orthodoxy, #119#;
  true religion, #128#-#131#.

Seriousness: may be carried too far, #34#.

Shakspere, William: quoted, #295#.

Slosson, Annie Trumbull: her story of Fishin’ Jimmy, #331#.

Solomon: improved, #42#;
  quoted, #104#.

Songs, French, #324# ff.

Stevenson, Robert Louis: on rivers, #8#;
  on friendship between young and old, #127#;
  his last prayer, #131#;
  on camping-out, #318#.

Stornoway, #100# ff.

Sunday: reflections upon, #159#-#161#;
  a good way to spend, #331#-#333#.

Sun-fish: their superciliousness when over-fed, #44#.


Tea: preferred to whisky, #233#.

Tennyson, Alfred: quoted, #14#, #27#, #33#, #53#, #141#, #251#.

Tents: their superiority to houses, #299#, #300#.

Time, old Father: the best way to get along with, #146#.

Titian: his landscapes, #173#.

Toblach, Lake of, #198#-#200#.

Trees: their human associations, #10#-#12#;
  their growth on mountains, #83#-#85#;
  advisability of sparing, #238#;
  on their way to market, #250#;
  their personality, #302#.

Trees named:
  Alder, #54#, #241#, #270#.
  Ash, #270#.
  Balm of Gilead, #39#, #239#.
  Balsam, #83#, #227#, #251#, #301#, #314#.
  Beech, #81#.
  Birch, white, #55#, #226#, #257#, #303# ff.
  Birch, yellow, #80#.
  Cedar, white, #226#, #251#, #256#.
  Fir, #205#, #270#, #290#.
  Hemlock, #16#, #25#, #54#, #83#, #85#, #301#.
  Horse-chestnut, #10#.
  Larch, #174#, #185#.
  Maple, #9#, #54#, #80#.
  Oak, #11#, #289#.
  Pine, #84#.
  Poplar, #240#, #268#.
  Pussywillow, #3#, #36#.
  Spruce, #16#, #83#-#85#, #226#, #248#, #251#, #256#, #301#, #317#.

Trout-fishing: a beginning at, #46#;
  a specimen of, #74#;
  in Scotland, #110#, #111#, #116#-#118#;
  in the Tyrol, #195#, #199#;
  in the Traum, #269# ff.;
  in Canada, #149#, #242# ff., #318# ff.


Universe: no man responsible for the charge of it, continuously, #34#.

Utilitarianism: a mistake, #40#.


Venice: in warm weather, #167#, #168#.

Veracity: affected by fish, #254#.

Virgil: quoted, #269#.


Walton, Izaak: quoted, #33#, #36#, #75#, #165#, #276#;
  his ill fortune as a fisherman, #163#.
.bn 374.png
.pn +1

Warner, Charles Dudley: his description of an open fire, #19#.

Watts, Isaac: quoted, #18#.

Whitman, Walt: quoted, #256#.

Wilson, John: his description of a bishop, #31#;
  his skepticism about all fish stories but his own, #330#.

Wish: a modest, #3#-#5#.

Wolfgang, Saint: his lake, #288#;
  his good taste, #289#.

Women: prudence in expressing an opinion about, #18#;
  more conservative than men, #184#;
  problematic quality of, #297#;
  generous rivals (in angling), #311#.

Words: their magic, #217#.

Wordsworth, William: quoted, #27#, #120#, #229#, #250#.


Youth: the secret of preserving it, #334#.
.nf-
.in
.sp 4
.ce
Transcriber’s note.
.sp 1
The original punctuation and spelling has been preserved, except on
Page 320, where a double quotation mark before “But” has
been removed.