58 LETTERS FROM THE BACKWOODS. 



made me love him at once, and, as I hummed them 

 over with him, I conceived a respect for him I shall 

 never lose.' 



The day went out in storms, and, as Hay down that 

 night on my rough couch, I could hardly believe I 

 was in the same State of which New York was the 

 capital, whose hundred spires pierced the heavens. 



I have been thus particular, and mean to be in fu- 

 ture, because in no other way can you get a correct 

 idea of the daily life one is compelled to lead who 

 would penetrate these untrodden wilds of the Empire 

 State. It is nonsense to talk of dignity and the im- 

 propriety of a man's carrying a rifle and fishing tackle, 

 and spending his time in shooting deer and catching 

 trout. Such folly is becoming to him only who sits 

 on the piazza of a hotel at Saratoga Springs at the 

 expense of twelve dollars a week for his health. I 

 love nature and all things as God has made them. I 

 love the freedom of the wilderness and the absence 

 of conventional forms there. I love the long stretch 

 through the forest on foot, and the thrilling, glorious 

 prospect from some hoary mountain top. I feel my 

 soul lift amid such scenes, and throw off the chain 

 that has been rusting around it, and I think better of 

 man and worse of his mad chase after straws and 

 baubles. I love it, and I know it is better for me 

 than the thronged city, and better for my wasted 

 health and exhausted frame than "all the poppies and 

 madrigoras of the world." 



