to light at the word. The night was clear, moonless, and still. Nearing the middle of the lake, a breeze from the west was barely perceptible, and noiselessly we glided before it. The guide handled his oar with great dexterity; without lifting it from the water or breaking the surface, he imparted the steady, uniform motion desired. How silent it was! The ear seemed the only sense, and to hold dominion over lake and forest. Occasionally a lily-pad would brush along the bottom, and stooping low I could hear a faint murmuring of the water under the bow: else all was still. Then, almost as by magic, we were encompassed by a huge black ring. The surface of the lake, when we had reached the centre, was slightly luminous from the starlight, and the dark, even forest-line that surrounded us, doubled by reflection in the water, presenting a broad, unbroken belt of utter blackness. The effect was quite startling, like some huge conjurer's trick. It seemed as if we had crossed the boundary-line between the real and the imaginary, and this was indeed the land of shadows and of spectres. What magic oar was that the guide wielded, that it could transport me to such a realm! Indeed, had I not committed some fatal mistake and left that trusty servant behind, and had not some wizard of the night stepped into his place? A slight splashing in-shore broke the spell and caused me to turn nervously to the oarsman: "Musquash," said he, and kept straight on.

Nearing the extreme end of the pond, the boat gently headed around, and silently we glided back into the clasp of that strange orbit. Slight sounds were heard as before, but nothing that indicated the presence of the game we were waiting for; and we reached the point of departure as innocent of venison as we had set out.

After an hour's delay, and near midnight, we pushed out again. My vigilance and susceptibility were rather sharpened than dulled by the waiting; and the features of the night had also deepened and intensified. Night was

at its meridian. The sky had that soft luminousness which may often be observed near midnight at this season, and the "large few stars" beamed mildly down. We floated out into that spectral shadow-land and moved slowly on as before. The silence was most impressive. Now and then the faint yeap of some travelling bird would come from the air overhead, or the wings of a bat whisp quickly by, or an owl hoot off in the mountains, giving to the silence and loneliness a tongue. At short intervals some noise in-shore would startle me, and cause me to turn inquiringly to the silent figure in the stern.

On we

The end of the lake was reached, and we turned back. The novelty and the excitement began to flag; tired nature began to assert her claims; the movement was soothing, and the gunner slumbered fitfully at his post. Presently something aroused me. "There's a deer," whispered the guide. The gun heard, and fairly jumped in my hand. Listening, there came the cracking of a limb, followed by a sound as of something walking in shallow water. It proceeded from the other end of the lake, over against our camp. sped, noiselessly as ever, but with increased velocity. Presently, with a thrill of new intensity, I saw the boat was gradually heading in that direction. Now, to a sportsman who gets excited over a gray squirrel, and forgets that he has a gun on the sudden appearance of a fox, this was a severe trial. I felt suddenly cramped for room, and trimming the boat was out of the question. It seemed that I must make some noise in spite of myself. "Light the jack," said a soft whisper behind me. I fumbled nervously for a match, and dropped the first one. Another was drawn briskly across my knee, and broke. A third lighted, but went out prematurely, in my haste to get it up to the jack. What would I not have given to see those wicks blaze! We were fast nearing the shore,-already the lily-pads began to brush along the bottom. Another attempt, and the light took. The gentle motion fanned the blaze.

and in a moment a broad glare of light fell upon the water in front of us, while the boat remained in utter darkness.

By this time I had got beyond the nervous point, and had come round to perfect coolness and composure again, but preternaturally vigilant and keen. I was ready for any disclosures: not a sound was heard. In a few moments the trees along-shore were faintly visible. Every object put on the shape of a gigantic deer. A large rock looked just ready to bound away. The dry limbs of a prostrate tree were surely his antlers.

But what are those two luminous spots? Need the reader be told what they were? In a moment the head of a real deer became outlined; then his neck and foreshoulders; then his whole body. There he stood, up to his knees in the water, gazing fixedly at us, apparently arrested in the movement of putting his head down for a lily-pad, and evidently thinking it was some newfangled moon sporting about there. "Let him have it," said my prompter, -and the crash came. There was a scuffle in the water, and a plunge in the woods. "He's gone," said I. "Wait a moment," said the guide, " and I will show you." Rapidly running the canoe ashore, we sprang out, and holding the jack aloft, explored the vicinity by its light. There, over the logs and brush, I caught the glimmer of those luminous spots again. But, poor thing! there was little need of the second shot, which was the unkindest cut of all, for the deer had already fallen to the ground, and was fast expiring. The success was but a very indifferent one, after all, as the victim turned out to be only an old doe, upon whom maternal cares had evidently worn heavily during the sum

to be sensible to fear, or to think of escape by flight; and the experiment, to be successful, must be done quickly, before the first feeling of bewilderment passes.

Witnessing the spectacle from the shore, I can conceive of nothing more sudden or astounding. You see no movement and hear no noise, but the light grows upon you, and stares and stares like a huge eye from the infernal regions.

According to the guide, when a deer has been played upon in this manner and escaped, he is not to be fooled a second time. Mounting the shore, he gives a long signal snort, which alarms every animal within hearing, and dashes away.

The sequel to the deer-shooting was a little sharp practice with a revolver upon a rabbit, or properly a hare, which was so taken with the spectacle of the camp-fire, and the sleeping figures lying about, that it ventured quite up in our midst; but while testing the quality of some condensed milk that sat uncovered at the foot of a large tree, poor Lepus had his spine injured by a bullet.

Those who lodge with Nature find early rising quite in order. It is our voluptuous beds, and isolation from the earth and the air, that prevents us from emulating the birds and the beasts in this respect. With the citizen in his chamber, it is not morning, but breakfasttime. The camper-out, however, feels morning in the air, he smells it, sees it, hears it, and springs up with the general awakening. None were tardy at the row of white chips arranged on the trunk of a prostrate tree, when breakfast was halloed; yet all were speedily convinced that the dietetical use of venison at this season, particularly, was the last to be taken into account.

The day was warm and calm, and we loafed at leisure. The woods were Nature's own. It was a luxury to ramble through them,--rank, and shaggy, and venerable, but with an aspect singularly ripe and mellow. No fire had consumed and no lumberman plunder.

ed. Every trunk and limb and leaf lay where it had fallen. At every step the foot sank into the moss, which, like a soft green snow, covered every thing, making every stone a cushion and every rock a bed,—a grand old Norse parlor; adorned beyond art and upholstered beyond skill. I almost felt a necessity for believing in Fauns and sylvan deities. Indulging in a brief nap on a rug of club-moss carelessly dropped at the foot of a pine-tree, I woke up to find myself the subject of a discussion by a troop of chickarees. Presently three or four shy wood-warblers came to look upon this strange creature that had wandered into their haunts; else I passed quite unnoticed.

One associates the birds with the more open and settled country, yet the deepest recesses of the forest have their denizens also, and the more familiar species occasionally wander far beyond their accustomed limits. Once, by the Boreas river, I heard the call of the robin; it was like the voice of an old friend speaking my name; and here, by this mountain-lake, that orchard-beauty, the cedar wax-wing, was spending his vacation in the assumed character of a fly-catcher, whose part he performed with great accuracy and deliberation. Only a month before I had seen him regaling himself upon cherries in the garden and orchard, but as the dogdays approached, he set out for the streams and lakes, to divert himself with the more exciting pursuits of the chase. From the tops of the dead trees along the border of the lake, he would sally out in all directions, sweeping through long curves, alternately mounting and descending, now reaching up for a fly high in air, now sinking low for one near the surface, and returning to his perch in a few moments for a fresh start.

The pine-finch was also here, though, as usual, never appearing at home, but with a waiting, expectant air. Here also I met my beautiful singer, the hermit-thrush, but with no song in his throat now. A week or two later and he was on his journey southward. This

was the only thrush I saw in the Adirondac region. Near Lake Sanford, where were large tracts of raspberry and wild cherry, I saw numbers of them. A boy whom we met, driving home some stray cows, said it was the "partridge-bird,"-no doubt from the resemblance of its note, when disturbed, to the cluck of the partridge.

Troops of blue-jays were occasionally met with, and pigeon-hawks were common. On one occasion the last-named marauder, after having frightened a flock of pigeons I was in pursuit of, and relying too implicitly upon his prowess, turned his attention to me. Launching into the air from the top of a pine-tree, he came with the speed of an arrow in a direct line to my face, and when the contents of my gun went out to meet him, his mangled body fell literally between my feet. The faint piping call of the nut-hatches, leading their broods through the high pine-trees, was often heard, though the birds were seldom

seen.

Warblers were noted at various points, particularly in the vicinity of clearings. The most abundant species were the black-throated, blue-backed, and the speckled canada. In one locality I saw the red-headed woodpecker, flitting among the dead trees, showing his beautiful tri-colored coat of red, white, and steel-blue.. He is a very distant, dignified bird, with a grave, military look. Indeed, I take him to be a major-general among woodpeckers.

The purple-finch breed here, and are quite common in the settlements; but the most universal bird I noted was the white-throated sparrow. It still sang in the morning and at twilight, and greeted us at all points. Its song is singularly sweet and plaintive,—a thin, wavering, tremulous whistle, which disappoints one, however, as it ends when it seems only to have begun. If the bird could give us the finishing strain of which this seems only the prelude, he would stand first among feathered songsters.

Trout-fishing in the Adirondacs has this desirable feature-there is little danger of your being surfeited with

fish, or of your hand forgetting any of its cunning in the process of taking them. It being August, we were both too late and too early for lake-trout too late by June and too early by Oc'tober; and of brook-trout only enough were obtained to demonstrate the fact that such luxuries were possible. Was ever any other fish so fastidious as this, requiring such sweet harmony and perfection of the elements for its production and sustenance? Of two similar ponds in the same locality, one had trout and the other sun-fish and perch. The shores of the trout-pond were high and rocky, while those of the other were low, with more or less vegetable matter in the water.

Trolling for pickerel remains when trout-fishing is a failure; and in Lake Sanford, within sight of Mt. Marcy, the monarch of the Adirondacs, most noble ones may be taken, weighing ten to fifteen pounds.

But better than fish or game, or grand scenery, or any adventure by night or

by day, is the wordless intercourse with rude Nature one has on these expeditions. It is something to press the pulse of our old mother by mountain-lakes and streams, and know what health and vigor are in her veins, and how regardless of observation she deports herself.

After all has been said, the poet is right and the scientist is wrong. The passionate delight of the sportsman, the skater, the swimmer, the boatman, the rambler in woods, and the camper-out, is more rational and human than the pursuit of the mere naturalist,-the gatherer of bugs and the dissecter of flowers. Not to the student, without love, though armed with every weapon of science, does Nature reveal her most precious secrets; not the bird for itself, or the plant for itself, but only so far as these express and stand for the spirit of all; and he who goes to the woods empty-handed, but full of love, shall find all the gods arrived to welcome him.

March 16th.-Only two weeks since my last date, yet they seem two years. To bury our life-dream is a slow process. God grant I may dig the grave deep, and leave the spot unmarked. Only three more lessons in G square! I have proved myself an admirable drill-master of late, have devoted three quarters of the hour to the study of exercises with a grim enthusiasm. I can breathe her atmosphere, and hold my own unyieldingly, but (must I confess it?) I cannot listen to her soulful voice, and hear from her lips impassioned confessions, thrilling diminutives, tender promises, uttered through music—which, a supreme passion in itself, passionates all it embodies -and be sure of myself. However, an iron will can accomplish much. Nous

At first I

verrons! I went this evening to the Ascher's, hoping to have a cosy hour with them; but I found company in their parlor. Very soon I was requested to play. Feeling unmusical, I politely declined. Then I was suspected of affectation, and Mrs. A- gathered renewed forces to attack me. was courteous, finally grim and short in my refusal, and, as soon as possible, slipped out through the door into the street. Alas! a musician cannot own himself. Society considers him only her plaything, to be used at her will for her own entertainment. There is generally some consideration shown for the poet or painter, when he affirms that he has no inspiration for his work; but the musician is universally treated like a machine. He must be ready at

April 2d.-There is a faint odor of May-blossoms in the air to-day, and the blessed Spring is stealing in upon us with quiet feet and radiant brow. This afternoon, as I entered Mrs. Irving's parlor, Miss Estelle greeted me with these words: "Oh, Mr. Ehrthal, I have found such an enchanting opus of Schumann! Come quick, and play the accompaniment to this gem of a song." Curious and expectant, I seated myself at the piano, and for the first time heard the exquisite "Lied," beginning,

"Hörst du den Vogel singen,

Siel'st du den Blüthenbaum
Herz, kann das dich nicht bringen

Aus deinem bangen Traum?"

The music is a twin-language to the words, the aching question of a wounded heart for hope-the tender appeal of a great grief to Nature for pity and help. She gave it with a significant accent, that made me look up at her, and ask myself if any real sorrow could ever have touched that fresh heart; but I found no shadow on the clear brow. The words were strange and fateful. Did she choose them to mock me as I came out of the springfull air? For an instant I devoured her with my gaze. During that instant a wild impulse seized me to clasp her to my aching heart. Ah, God! no traveller of the desert fierce with thirst ever craved water as I craved the touch of her hand. I gazed at it, in its sweet helplessness, and would have died to have gathered it into mine and covered it with kisses. Thank Heaven, the madness lasted but an instant, and, with a commonplace word of approval, I put by the song and began the lesson. I was never more cold and critical. I did not permit my thirsty senses to linger in the dream of any subtle charm, but centred all attention on the notes, and required from my pupil an equal

April 8th.-To-day my last lesson in G-square. We tried over again, this afternoon, the "Sopran Arien" of Bach arranged by Franz. My pupil's accent suited itself to the very spirit of whichever piece she performed. How subtle this thing called accent is! Culture may give a smooth execution, talent and sensibility may give expression or feeling (neither of which is passion, however), but this spontaneous accent, in all its variety, belongs to genius. It is intuitive, not acquired. It is the pulsation of the soul, that not only can perceive, but create. Miss Estelle has a true musical organization. Among the many who possess musical facility of various kinds, how few inherit this wondrous gift! How few even divine all there is of subtlety and power, of bliss and pain, comprehended in those two words! Ah! is it an enviable heritage, this birth to music? Is not life full and overpowering enough, to the dullest temperament, that the nerves need be such eager and vital messengers?-Well, I have said good-by to my gifted young pupil. Now that space as well as all else separates us, I can throw off the torturing spell-perhaps be glad to know her happy as the wife of the young officer. The words on paper send a pang of sickening anguish. My philosophy is not so solid as I thought it.

May 3d.-This morning I took a long walk, as usual; then returned home, and held my religious services within my own four walls. To-day, however, I stepped on the threshold of a "holy sanctuary "-to listen to the closing hymn! The music was Schuberth's "Lob der Thränen." There is no doubt about the beauty of the melody; but what an inexcusable appropriation of it! The piece was intended by its author for a solo, was written to a certain idea, inspired by a certain sentiment, and should be reverently left, in its primal simplicity, to its intended meaning and mission. No good composer writes a song without being first