Wild Northern Scenes - S. H. Hammond
"Men denounce the use of tobacco, and I do not quarrel with them for
doing so. Say that it is a vile and a filthy habit; be it so, I will
not now stop to deny it. Say that it is bad for the constitution,
ruinous to the health; be it so. I will not gainsay it. Still I never
see an old man, seated in his great arm chair, with his grandchildren
playing around him, smoking his pipe and enjoying its, to him,
pleasant perfume, its soothing influences, without regarding that same
pipe as an institution which I would hardly be willing to banish
entirely from the world.
"There is a good deal of philosophy, too, in a pipe, if one will but
take the trouble to study it; great subjects for moralizing, much food
for reflection; and all this outside of the physical enjoyment, the
soothing influences of a quiet pipe, when the day is drawing to a
close, and its cares require some gentle force to banish them away. It
does not weaken the power of thought, nor stultify the brain. It
quiets the nerves, makes a man look in charity upon the world, and to
judge with a chastened lenity the shortcomings of his neighbors. It
reconciles him to his lot, and sends him to his pillow, or about his
labors, with a calm deliberate cheerfulness, very desirable to those
who come under the law that requires people to earn their bread by the
sweat of their brow.
"I said there is a good deal of philosophy in a pipe, and I repeat it.
Who can see the smoke go wreathing and curling upward from his lips in
all sorts of fantastic shapes, spreading out thinner and thinner, till
it fades away and is lost among the invisible things of the air,
without saying to himself, 'Such are the visions of youth; such the
hopes, the grand schemes of life, looming up in beautiful distinctness
before the mind's eye, growing fainter and fainter as life wears away,
and then disappearing forever. Such are the things of this life,
beautiful as they appear, unsubstantial shadows all.' And then, as the
fire consumes the weed, exhausting itself upon the substance which
feeds it, burning lower and lower, till it goes out for lack of
aliment, who will not be reminded of life itself? the animated form,
the body instinct with vitality, changing and changing as time sweeps
along, till the spirit that gave it vigor and comeliness, and power
and beauty, is called away, and it becomes at last mere dust and
ashes. And then again, when the pipe itself falls from the teeth, or
the table, or the mantel, or the shelf--as fall it surely will, sooner
or later--and is broken, and the fragments are thrown out of the
window, or swept out at the door, who can fail to see in this, the
type of life's closing scene? the body broken by disease and death,
carried away and hidden in the earth, to remain among the useless
rubbish of the past, to be seen no more forever? Yes, yes! there is a
great deal of philosophy in a pipe, if people will take pains to
study it.
"I have a pleasant time of it once or twice a year with an old
gentleman, living away in the country; one whom memory calls up from
the dim and shadowy twilight of my earliest recollections, as a tall
stalwart man, already the head of a family with little children around
him. Those who were then little children have grown up to be men and
women, and have drifted away upon the currents of life, themselves
fathers and mothers, with grey hairs gathering upon their heads. I
visit this venerable philosopher in his hearty and green old age,
every summer. I see him now, in my mind's eye, sitting under the
spreading branches of the trees planted by himself half a century ago,
which cast their shadows upon the pleasant lawn in front of his
dwelling--discussing politics, morals, history, religion,
philosophy--recounting anecdotes of the early settlement of the
county of which he was a pioneer; and I see how calmly and
deliberately he smokes, while he calls up old memories from the
shadowy past, discoursing wisely of the present, or speaking
prophetically of the future. I saw him last in July of the past year,
and he seemed to have changed in nothing. He had not grown older in
outward seeming. His heart was as warm and genial as it was long,
long ago; and cheerfulness, calm and chastened, marked as it had for
years the conversation of a man who felt that his mission in life was
accomplished. 'Why,' said he, addressing me, as a new thought seemed
to strike him, 'why, _your_ head is growing grey! I never noticed it
before. It is almost as white as mine. Well, well!' he continued, as
he tapped the thumb nail of his left hand with the inverted bowl of
his pipe, knocking the ashes from it as he spoke, 'well, well! it
won't be long until we will have smoked our last pipe. Mine, at least,
will soon be broken. But what of that? Seventy-eight years is a long
time to live in this world. I have had my share of life and of the
good pertaining to it, and shall have no right to complain when my
pipe is broken and its ashes scattered.' Such was the philosophy of an
almost Octogenarian smoker."
"I move for a suspension of sentence," said Smith, "Spalding's defence
of the weed, induces me to withdraw the indictment against it, leaving
punishment only for the excessive use of it."
The motion was carried unanimously, and by way of confirming the
decision, we all refilled our pipes and smoked till the stars looked
down in their brightness from the fathomless depths of the sky.
CHAPTER VII.
KINKS!--"DIRTY DOGS"--THE BARKING DOG THAT WAS FOUND
DEAD IN THE YARD--THE DOG THAT BARKED HIMSELF TO DEATH.
"The hallucinations of Smith," said Spalding, after we
had settled the matter of the pipes, and were enjoying a
fresh pull at the weed, "as described by the Doctor, remind
me of a slight attack of fever which I had some months ago,
and from which I recovered partly through the aid of the
Doctor's medicine, and partly through the kindness of a
young friend of mine; and of the strange 'kinks,' as you
call them, which got into my head between the fever and
the Doctor's opiates. Things were strangely mixed up, the
real and the unreal grouped and mingled in a manner that
gave to all the just proportions and appearance of sober
actualities. I remember them as distinctly, and they made
as deep and abiding impression upon my mind as if I had
seen them all. They are impressed as palpably and indelibly
upon my memory now as any actual events of my life."
"Well," said the Doctor, "suppose you give us one of these 'kinks,'
while our pipes are being smoked out, as an 'opiate' to send us all
to sleep."
"Be it understood, then," Spalding began, "that I like dogs in a
general way. They are plain dealing, honest, trusty folk in the
aggregate, albeit, there are what Tom Benton calls, 'dirty dogs.'
These, however, are mostly human canines, dogs that walk on two legs,
and wear clothes. Such curs I _don't_ like. But there are such, and
they may be seen and heard, barking, and snarling, and snapping in
their envy, at honest peoples' heels every day. Let them bark. Mr.
Benton was right. They are 'dirty dogs.' But a dog that looks you
honestly and frankly in the face, that stands by his master and
friend, in all times of trial, in sorrow as in joy, in adversity as in
prosperity, in dark days as in bright days, always cheerful, always
sincere, earnest, and truthful, and so that his kindness be met,
always happy, I like. He is your true nobility of nature below the
human. But there _are_ 'curs of low degree;' dogs of neither genial
instinct nor breeding; senseless animals, that belie the noble nature
of their species, are living libels upon their kind. There was one of
these over against my rooms, at the time of the sickness I speak of. I
say _was_ for thanks to the fates, he is among the things that have
been; he belongs to history, has been wiped out.
"He was a barking dog. When the moon was in the sky, he barked at the
moon. When only the stars shone out, he barked at the stars; when
clouds shut in both moon and stars, he barked at the clouds; and when
the darkness was so deep and black as to obscure even the clouds, he
barked at the darkness. Through all the long night he barked, barked,
barked! It was not a bark of defiance, nor of alarm, nor of
astonishment, nor of warning. It was not a note of danger, breaking
the hush of midnight, saying that thieves were abroad, that murder was
on its stealthy mission, or that the wolf was on the walk. It was a
senseless, monotonous, idiotic bow, wow! Nothing more, nothing less.
"All Monday night, as I lay tossing upon a bed of pain, when fever was
coursing through my veins, and every pulse went plunging like a steam
engine from the gorged heart to every extremity, and my brain was like
molten lead, I heard that terrible bark! It was my evil genius, my
destiny. It mingled in every feverish dream, became the embodiment of
every vision. I measured the periods of its recurrence by the clock
that stands in the corner of our room. I counted the tickings of its
silence, and I counted the tickings of its continuance. Every swing of
the pendulum became a distinct period of existence. Minutes, hours,
were nothing. Forty-four tickings, I said, and that bow, wow! will be
heard again! Fifteen tickings, I said, and it will cease; and so I
went on until the hours seemed to spread out into a boundless ocean of
time. That dog somehow became mixed up with that old family clock that
stood in the corner. I heard him scratching and climbing up among the
weights, writhing and twisting his way among the machinery, till
there, looking out through the face of that old family clock, distinct
and palpable as the sun at noonday, or the moon in a cloudless night,
I saw the ogre head of that dog; his great glassy, fishy eyes, his
half drooping, half erect ears, his slavering jaws, and as he gazed in
a stupid meaningless stare upon me, uttered his everlasting bow, wow!
Tell me that the room was dark; that not a ray of light penetrated the
closed doors or the curtained windows. What of that? That dog's head,
I repeat, was there; I saw it, if I ever saw the sun, the moon or the
bright stars. I saw it staring at me through all the gloom, all the
thick darkness, and I heard its terrible bow, wow! 'Get out!' I
shouted in horror.
"'What's the matter?' cried my wife, springing up in an ecstasy of
terror.
"'Drive out that dog,' I replied.
"'What dog?' she inquired.
"'There,' I replied, 'that dog there, in the clock with his great
staring, glassy eyes; drive him out!'
"She lighted the gas, and as it flashed up, there stood the old clock,
the pendulum swung back and forth, the ticking went on, and its white
old-fashioned face, looked out in calm serenity; but the dog was gone.
It was all natural as life. The lighting of the gas had frightened the
cur back to his yard, and as the forty-fourth tick ceased, his bow
wow! was heard again, and it lasted while the pendulum swung back and
forth just fifteen times. I took a cooling draft, and counted in
feverish agony forty-four, and fifteen, till the daylight came
creeping in at the windows, filling with sepulchral greyness the room.
The barking ceased, and I slept only to dream of snarling curs and
'dirty dogs' for an hour.
"Through all Tuesday I lay tossing with pain. Fever was in every
pulse; my brain was seething, burning lava. I thought and dreamed of
nothing but mangy curs and 'dirty dogs.' The night gathered again, and
the rumbling of the carriages and the thousand voices that break the
stillness of a thronged city, died away into silence. The lights were
extinguished, but again that horrible bark! bark! broke the hush of
midnight, and worse than all, the quickened senses of fever heard it
answered from away over on Arbor Hill; and again away up in State
street; and yet again over in Lydius, and still again away down by the
river. The East, the North, the West and the South had a voice, and it
was all concentrated in a ceaseless, senseless, idiotic bark. I
counted again the tickings of the clock, and each swing of the
pendulum ended in a bark! As I lay there in the silence and
desolation, the restless, tossing anguish of fever, those dogs
gathered together in State at the crossing of Eagle, just above my
boarding-house, and barked! They came under my windows, and barked!
They looked in between the curtains, and barked! They came into my
room, and there on the sofa, on the rocking-chair, on the table, on
the mantelpiece, on the ottoman, on the stove, and on the top of the
old clock, was a dog; and each barked! and barked! I saw them all
through the darkness, plain as if it were noonday. They were
'dirty dogs,' filthy brutes, ill-favored mangy curs all, and there
they sat and barked at the clock, barked at the mirror, at the stove,
barked at one another and at me, with the same monotonous,
meaningless, idiotic bow, wow! as of old.
"I had two rifles and a double-barrelled fowling-piece, sitting in the
corner of the parlor adjoining our sleeping-room, the gifts of valued
friends. My wife, wearied with the day's watching, had sunk into
slumber on the bed beside me. I woke her gently.
"'Make no noise,' I said, 'but bring me the guns; do it carefully.'
"'What on earth do you want of the guns?' she inquired in alarm.
"'Don't you see those infernal dogs?' I answered, 'bring me the guns,
and I'll make short work with the howling curs.'
"'Why, husband,' said she, 'there are no dogs here,' and as she
lighted the gas the curs vanished away. But I saw them in the
darkness. It was only when the light flashed through the room, that
they fled from it, and I heard them barking in response to each other
through all the long night, till the dawn crept over the world again.
"Years ago, I saved a boy from the meshes of the law, in which his
evil ways had involved him. I admonished him of the end towards which
he was hastening. I showed him that the path he was treading led to
destruction, and he left it, as he said, forever. He apprenticed
himself to a useful trade, and is now an intelligent mechanic. Out
of his time, an industrious, sober youth of two and twenty, supporting
by his industry, his mother and sister in comfort and respectability.
He heard of my sickness, and on Wednesday morning called to see me,
proffering his services as a nurse and watchman, prompted by gratitude
for the past. I declined his kindness for the present, as I told him
casually of the dog whose midnight barking was killing me. He called
again on Thursday morning. The barking had ceased. He inquired if I
had been troubled with the yelping of that senseless cur, and I
answered truly that I had not, that I had slept soundly, and woke with
a softened pulse and a cooled brain.
"'Well,' said he, 'I thought you would rest easier. I looked into the
yard as I came along, and saw a dead dog lying there. I thought may be
he had barked himself to death.'
"I did not at the time take in the full meaning, the hidden import of
his words. I dropped away into slumber, and dreamed of the dog that
barked himself to death. I saw him vanish by piecemeal at each
successive bark, until nothing but his jaws were left, and as his last
bark was uttered, these, too, vanished away, and then all was still.
"I awoke, and thought that a dose of 'dog-buttons,' or a taste of
strychnine, administered with a tempting bit of cold steak, or a piece
of fresh lamb, or a bone of mutton carefully dropped in his way, might
have aided the operation. Be that as it may, whatever of debt may
have existed between my young friend and myself for past kind it is
all wiped out by the news he brought me, that a 'dead dog lay in the
yard over the way.'"
CHAPTER VIII.
STONY BROOK--A GOOD TIME WITH THE TROUT--RACKETT RIVER--TUPPER'S
LAKE--A QUESTION ASKED AND ANSWERED.
The next morning we started down Stony Brook, towards the Rackett
River, intending to pitch our tents at night on the banks of Tupper's
Lake, twenty-three miles distant. Before leaving the Spectacle Ponds,
we visited a little island at the north end of the middle pond,
containing perhaps half an acre. This island has a few Norway pines
upon it, is of a loose sandy soil, and at the highest portion is some
twenty feet above the level of the water. It is a great resort for
turtle in the season of depositing their eggs. We found thousands of
their eggs, some on the surface and some buried in the sand, and if
one in a dozen of them brings forth a turtle, there will be no lack of
the animal in the neighborhood. Stony Brook is a sluggish, tortuous
stream, large enough to float our little boats, and goes meandering
most of the way for five miles among natural meadows, overflowed at
high water, or thinly timbered prairie, when it enters the Rackett. I
discovered on a former visit to this wilderness, when the water was
very low, a spring that came boiling up near the centre of the stream,
with a volume large enough almost to carry a mill. It was at a point
where a high sandy bluff, along which the stream swept, terminated. As
we approached this spot, I suggested to Spalding, who was in the bow
of the boat, to prepare his rod and fly. We approached carefully along
the willows on the opposite shore, until in a position from which he
could throw in the direction I indicated. In the then stage of the
water, there was no appearance of a spring, or any indication marking
it as a spot where the trout would be at all likely to congregate, and
Spalding was half inclined to believe that I was practising upon his
want of knowledge of the habits of the fish of this region. I had said
nothing about the spring, or the habit of the trout in gathering
wherever a cold stream enters a river, or a spring comes gushing up
in its bed.
"I don't believe there's a trout within half a mile of us," he said,
as he adjusted his rod and fly.
"Never mind," I replied, "throw your fly across towards that boulder
on the bank, and trail it home, and you'll see."
"Well," said he, "here goes;" and he threw in the direction indicated.
The fly had scarcely touched the water when a trout, weighing a pound
or over, struck it with a rush that carried him clear out of the
water. After a little play he was landed safely in the boat, and
another, and another, followed at almost every throw. Not once did the
fly touch the water that it was not risen to by a fish.
"By Jove!" said Spalding, as he handed me the landing-net to take in
his third or fourth trout, "this is sport. You use the net, and I'll
trail them to you. Let us make hay while the sun shines. The other
boat will soon be along, and Smith will be for dipping his spoon into
my dish. I want to astonish him when he comes."
We had secured eight beautiful fish when the Doctor and Smith rounded
the point above us. We motioned them back, and their boat lay upon its
oars. Spalding kept on throwing his fly and trailing the trout to me
to secure with the landing-net."
"Hallo!" shouted Smith, "hold on there; fair play, my friends, give me
a hand in," and he fell to adjusting his rod and flies.
"Keep back, you lubber," replied Spalding; "what do _you_ know about
trout-fishing? You'll frighten them all away by your awkwardness."
"No you don't!" shouted Smith, his rod now adjusted. "Drop down,
boatman, and we'll see who is the lubber. Wait, Spalding! Don't throw,
if you are a true man, until we can take a fair start, and then the
one that comes out second best pays the piper."
The boat dropped down to the proper position, and the Doctor, who was
seated in the stern, held it in place by pressing his paddle into the
sand at the bottom, while the boatman handled the landing net.
"Now!" exclaimed Smith, as the flies dropped upon the water together
above the cold spring. There was no lack of trout, for one rose to the
fly at every cast.
"I say," said the Doctor, "how many have you in your boat?"
"Sixteen," I replied, after counting them.
"We've got eight, and I bar any more fishing. The law has reached its
limit. No wanton waste of the good things of God, you know."
The rods were unjointed and laid away, and such a string of trout as
we had, is rarely seen outside of the Saranac woods. We procured fresh
grass in which to lay our fish, and green boughs to cover them, and
floated on down the stream, entering the Rackett at nine o'clock. The
Rackett is a most beautiful river. To me at least it is so, for it
flows on its tortuous and winding way for a hundred or more miles
through an unbroken forest, with all the old things standing in their
primeval grandeur along its banks. The woodman's axe has not marred
the loveliness of its surroundings, and no human hand has for all that
distance been laid upon its mane, or harnessed it to the great wheel,
making it a slave, compelling it to be utilitarian, to grind corn or
throw the shuttle and spin. It moves on towards the mighty St.
Lawrence as wild, and halterless, and free, as when the Great Spirit
sent it forward on its everlasting flow. The same scenery, and the
same voices are seen and heard along its banks now as then; and, while
man, in his restlessness, has changed almost everything else, the
Rackett and the things that pertained to it when the earth was young,
remain unchanged. But this will not be so long. Civilization is
pushing its way even towards this wild and, for all agricultural
purposes, sterile region, and before many years even the Rackett will
be within its ever-extending circle. When that time shall have
arrived, where shall we go to find the woods, the wild things, the old
forests, and hear the sounds which belong to nature in its primeval
state? Whither shall we flee from civilization, to take off the
harness and be free, for a season, from the restraints, the
conventionalities of society, and rest from the hard struggles, the
cares and toils, the strifes and competitions of life? Had I my way, I
would mark out a circle of a hundred miles in diameter, and throw
around it the protecting aegis of the constitution. I would make it a
forest forever. It should be a misdemeanor to chop down a tree, and a
felony to clear an acre within its boundaries. The old woods should
stand here always as God made them, growing on until the earthworm ate
away their roots, and the strong winds hurled them to the ground, and
new woods should be permitted to supply the place of the old so long
as the earth remained. There is room enough for civilization in
regions better fitted for it. It has no business among these
mountains, these rivers and lakes, these gigantic boulders, these
tangled valleys and dark mountain gorges. Let it go where labor will
garner a richer harvest, and industry reap a better reward for its
toil. It will be of stinted growth at best here.
"I like these old woods," said a gentleman, whom I met on the Rackett
last year; "I like them, because one can do here just what he pleases.
He can wear a shirt a week, have holes in his pantaloons, and be out
at elbows, go with his boots unblacked, drink whisky in the raw, chew
plug tobacco, and smoke a black pipe, and not lose his position in
society. Now," continued he, "tho' I don't choose to do any of these
things, yet I love the freedom, now and then, of doing just all of
them if I choose, without human accountability. The truth is, that it
is natural as well as necessary for every man to be a vagabond
occasionally, to throw off the restraints imposed upon him by the
necessities and conventionalities of civilization, and turn savage for
a season,--and what place is left for such transformation, save these
northern forests?"
The idea was somewhat quaint, but to me it smacked of philosophy, and
I yielded it a hearty assent. I would consecrate these old forests,
these rivers and lakes, these mountains and valleys to the Vagabond
Spirit, and make them a place wherein a man could turn savage and
rest, for a fortnight or a month, from the toils and cares of life.
We entered TUPPER'S LAKE towards six o'clock, and saw our white tents
pitched upon the left bank, some half a mile above the outlet, where a
little stream, cold almost as icewater, comes down from a spring a
short way back in the forest. This lake, some ten miles long, and
from one to three in width, is one of the most beautiful sheets of
water that the eye of man ever looked upon. The scenery about it is
less bold than that of some of the other lakes of this region. The
hills rise with a gentle acclivity from the shore; behind them and far
off rise rugged mountain ranges; and further still, the lofty peaks of
the Adirondacks loom up in dim and shadowy outline against the sky.
From every point and in every direction, are views of placid and quiet
beauty rarely equalled; valleys stretching away among the highlands;
gaps in the hills, through which the sunlight pours long after the
shadows of the forest have elsewhere thrown themselves across the
lake; islands, some bold and rocky, rising in barren desolation, right
up from the deep water; some covered with a dense and thrifty growth
of evergreen trees, with a soil matchless in fertility; and some
partaking of both the sterile and productive; beautiful bays stealing
around bold promontories, and hiding away among the old woods. These
are the features of this beautiful sheet of water, which none see but
to admire, none visit but to praise; and it lies here all alone,
surrounded by the old hills and forests, bold bluffs, and rocky
shores, all as God made them, with no mark of the hand of man about
it, save in a single spot on a secluded bay, where lives a solitary
family in a log house, surrounded by an acre or two, from which the
forest has been cleared away.