Catskill Creek.-Hudson and the Indians.-Road to
the Mountains.-Onti Ora.-Cole, the Artist.-His Paintings.-Sketch of
the Road.-Rip Van Winkle's Cabin.-The Mountain House.-View from
it.-Cloud Mirror.North and South Mountains.-The Lakes.-The
Falls.-Cauterskill Clove.-The Fawn's Leap.-Palensville.-Cooper's
" Pioneers."-The Mountains and Falls.-Rip Van
Winkle.-Sketch of Him.-His Trip tip the Mountains.-His
Companion.-Playing at Ninepins.-Hard Drinking.-A Long Nap.-Waking
Up.-Return Home.-Changes there.
An able author and artist, after speaking of
Catskill as lying at the month of Catskill Creek, a clear and
beautiful stream that flows down from the hill-country of Schoharie
County for nearly forty miles, thus writes : "It was near
Catskill that the Half Moon, Hendrick Hudson's vessel, anchored
September 20, 1609, and was detained all the next day on account of
the great number of natives who came on board and had a merry
time." Master Juet, one of Hudson's companions, says, in his
journal, "Our master and his mate determined to trie some of the
chefe men of the country, whether they had any treacherie in them. So
they tooke them down into the cabbin and gave them so much wine and
aqua vitae that they were all merrie; and one of them had his wife
with him, which sate so modestly as any of our countrywomen would doe
in a strange place. In the ende, one of them was drunke, which had
been aboord our ship all the time that we had beene there ; and that
was strange to them, for they could not tell how to take it. The
canoes and folks all went on shore; but some of them came again, and
brought stropes of beades (wampum made of the clam shell); some had
six, seven, eight, nine, ten, and gave him (that is, Hudson). So he
(the Indian) slept all night quietly. The savages did not venture on
board until noon the next day, when they were glad to find their old
companion that was so drunk quite well again. They then brought on
board tobacco and more beads, which they gave to Hudson, and made an
oration; and afterwards sent for venison, which was brought on board."
From Catskill, at the distance of eight miles
in an air line, the Mountain House may be seen. The river is crossed
on a steam ferry-boat, and omnibuses convey travellers to the
pleasant village of Catskill, half a mile from the landing. From
thence conveyances take the tourist to the Mountain House, twelve
miles distant, through a picturesque and highly cultivated country,
to the foot of the mountains. From the banks of the Hudson, a few
miles into the country, may be seen from different points of view
some of the most charming scenery in the world. Every turn in the
road, every bend in the stream, presents new and attractive pictures,
remarkable for beauty and diversity in outline, color, and aerial
perspective. The solemn Katzbergs, sublime in form, and mysterious in
their dim, incomprehensible, and everchanging aspect, almost always
form a prominent feature in the landscape. The Indians called these
mountains "Onti Ora," or "Mountains of the Sky; "
for, in some conditions of the atmosphere, they are said to appear
like a heavy cumulose cloud above the horizon. In the midst of this
scenery, Cole, the eminent painter, delighted to linger when the
shadows of the early morning were projected towards the mountains,
then bathed in purple mists; or at evening, when these lofty heights,
then dark and awful, cast their deep shadows over more than half of
the country below between their bases and the river. Charmed with
Catskill and its vicinity, Cole made it at first a summer retreat,
and finally his permanent residence; and there, in a fine old family
mansion, delightfully situated to command a full view of the
mountains and the intervening country, his spirit passed from earth;
while a sacred poem, created by his wealthy imagination and deep
religious sentiment, was finding expression upon his easel in a
series of fine pictures like those of "The Course of Empire"
and the "Voyage of Life." He entitled the series "The
Cross and the World." Two of them were unfinished. One had found
form in a "study" only, while the other was half finished
upon the large canvas, with some figures sketched in white chalk. So
they remain, just as the master left them; and so remains his studio.
It is regarded by his devoted widow as a place too sacred for the
common gaze. The stranger never enters it.
The mountains rise abruptly from the plain on
their eastern side, where the road that leads to the Mountain House
enters them, and follows the margin of a deep, dark glen, through
which flows a clear mountain stream, seldom seen by the traveller,
but heard continually for nearly a mile, as in swift rapids or in
little cascades it hurries to the plain below. The road is winding
and in its ascent along the side of the glen, or, more properly,
magnificent gorge, it is so inclosed by the towering heights on one
side, and the lofty trees that shoot up on the other, that little can
be seen beyond a few rods except the sky above or glimpses of some
distant summit, until the pleasant nook in the mountain is reached
wherein the Rip Van Winkle cabin is nestled. After that the course of
the road is more nearly parallel with the river and the plain, and
through frequent vistas glimpses may be caught of the country below
that charm the eye, excite the fancy and imagination, and make the
heart throb quicker and stronger with pleasurable emotions. Rip's
cabin is a small, white building, with two rooms, where travellers
formerly obtained refreshments ; and is at the head of the gorge
along whose margin the traveller has ascended. It is so called
because it stands within the amphitheatre, inclosed by lofty heights,
reputed to be the place where the ghostly ninepin players held their
revel; and where Rip Van Winkle lay down to his long repose. From a
rude spout by the cabin there pour cooling draughts from a mountain
spring, more delicious than ever came from the juice of the grape.
There are many delightful resting-places upon
the road, soon after leaving Rip's cabin, as we toil wearily up the
mountain, where the eye takes in a magnificent panorama of hill and
valley, forest and river, hamlet and village, and thousands of broad
acres, where herds graze and the farmer gathers his crops; much of it
dimly defined because of distance, a beautifully colored map rather
than a picture. These delight the eye and quicken the pulse; but
there is one place upon the road where the ascending weary ones enjoy
more exquisite pleasure, for a moment, than at any other point in all
that mountain region. It is at a turn in the road where the Mountain
House stands; suddenly, before and above the traveller, revealed in
perfect distinctness, column, capital, window, rock, people, - all
apparently only a few rods distant. There too the road is level, and
the traveller rejoices in the assurance that the toilsome journey is
at an end, when suddenly, like the young pilgrim in Cole's
"Voyage of Life," he finds himself disappointed in his
course. The road that seemed to be leading directly to that beautiful
mansion upon the crag just above him turns away, like the stream that
appeared to be taking the ambitious young man directly to the shadowy
temple of fame in the clouds; and many a weary step must be taken
over a steep, crooked road before the traveller can reach the object
of his journey.
The grand rock platform on which the Mountain
House stands is reached at last, and then comes the full recompense
for all weariness. Bathed, immersed, in pure mountain air, almost
three thousand feet above tidewater, full, positive, enduring rest is
given to every muscle, after half an hour's respiration of that
invigorating atmosphere, and soul and limb are ready for a longer,
loftier, and more rugged ascent. There is something indescribable in
the pleasure experienced during the first hour passed upon the piazza
of the Mountain House, gazing upon the scene towards the east. That
view has been described a thousand times. I shall not attempt it.
Much rhetoric and rhyme, with sentimental platitudes, have been
employed in describing it.
The aerial pictures seen from the Mountain
House are sometimes marvellous, especially during a shower in the
plain, when all is sunshine above, while the lightning plays and the
thunder rolls far below those upon the summits; or after a storm,
when mists are driving over the mountains, struggling with the wind
and sun, or dissolving in the pure air. At rare intervals an
apparition, like the spectre of the Brocken, may be seen. A late
writer, who was there during a summer storm, was favored with the
sight. The guests were in the parlor when it was announced that
"the house was going past, on the outside." All rushed to
the piazza; and there, sure enough, upon a moving cloud more dense
than the fog that enveloped the mountains, was a perfect picture of
the great building, in colossal proportions. The mass of vapor was
passing slowly from north to south, directly in front, at a distance
apparently of two hundred feet from the house, and reflected the
noble Corinthian columns which ornament the front of the building,
every window, and all the spectators. The cloud moved on, and ere
long we saw one pillar disappear, and then another. We, ourselves,
who were expanded into giants in size, saw the gulf into which we
were to enter and be lost. I almost shuddered when my turn came; but
there was no escaping my fate; one side of my face was veiled, and in
a moment the whole had passed like a dream. An instant before, and we
were the inhabitants of a gorgeous palace; but it was the
"baseless fabric of a vision," and now there was left
"not a wreck behind."
Although the Mountain House is far below the
higher summits of the range, yet portions of four States of the Union
and an area of about ten thousand square miles are comprised in the
scope of vision from its piazza. From the top of the South Mountain,
near and three hundred feet above the Mountain House, and of the
North Mountain more distant and higher, a greater range of sight may
be obtained, including part of a fifth State. The lakes, lying in a
basin a short distance from the Mountain House, with all their grand
surroundings, the house itself, the South Mountain, and the Roundtop
or Liberty Cap, form the middle ground; while in the dim distance the
winding Hudson, with Esopus, Shawangunk, and the Highland ranges are
revealed, the borders of rivers dotted with villas and towns,
appearing mere white specks on the landscape.
Two miles and a half from the Mountain House is
an immense gorge scooped from the rugged hills, into which pours the
gentle outlet of the Cauterskill Lakes, in a fall, first of one
hundred and seventy-five feet, and close to it another of eighty
feet. If the visitor would enjoy one of the wildest and most romantic
rambles in the world, let him follow that little stream in its way
off the mountains, down the deep, dark, mysterious gorge, until it
joins the Cauterskill proper, that rushes through the Clove from the
neighborhood of Hunter, among the hills above, and thence onward to
the plain. The tourist, if he fails to traverse the rugged gorge,
should not omit a ride from the Mountain House, down through the
Clove, to Palensville and the plain, a distance of eight miles. After
leaving the falls and reaching the Clove, down, down, sometimes with
only a narrow space between the base of a high mountain on one side
and steep precipices on the other, whose feet are washed by the
rushing Cauterskill, our crooked road pursued its way, now passing a
log house, now a pleasant cottage, and at length the ruins of a
leather-manufacturing village, deserted because the bark upon the
hills around, used for tanning, is exhausted. |
