A CHARACTER. 303 



you visit the Indian Pass, and in the afternoon trot 

 down through the woods to the lower Saranac, where 

 the road ends. Here, at Martin's, you have a 

 fair bed, an excellent table, with trout and venison 

 ad libitum, and can loiter and fish and hunt in the 

 vicinity, or take a boat and a guide, and go through 

 lakes dotted with islands, through ponds, along rivers, 

 unmarred by the hand of man, a hundred miles, and not 

 be compelled to walk, altogether, further than from the 

 City Hall to Union Square. 



The morning after we reached Scott's was misty, 

 the clouds ran low, at times enfolding the mountains to 

 their waists, with gleams of sunshine between. Then 

 again the whole shifting canopy would slowly lift, as if 

 unseen hands were rolling up a vast curtain to reveal 

 the glories beyond. 



While the party were getting ready, I had quite a 

 conversation with Scott, who, instead of being taciturn 

 and sombre as I supposed a man living alone amid such 

 mountains would be, is a great wag, and bubbling over 

 with humor. From what strange source he draws his 

 fun I could not divine. Nothing, I should imagine, 

 could be more dreary than this solitary spot, especially 

 in winter. With these towering mountains standing 



