beauty came back on me with strange power. The gloomy gorge and savage precipice, or the sudden storm, seem to excite the surface only of one's feelings, while the sweet vale, with its cottages and herds and evening bells, blends itself in with our very thoughts and emotions, forming a part of our after existence. Such a scene sinks away into the heart like a gentle rain into the earth, while a rougher, nay, sublimer one, comes and goes like a sudden shower. I do not know how it is that the gentler influence should be the deeper and more lasting, but so it is. The still small voice of nature is more impressive than her loudest thunder. Of all the scenery in the Alps, and there is no grander on the earth, nothing is so plainly daguerreotyped on my heart as two or three lovely valleys I saw. Those heaven-piercing summits, and precipices of ice, and terrific gorges, and fearful passes, are like grand but indistinct visions on my memory, while those vales, with their carpets of greensward, and murmuring rivulets, and perfect repose, have become a part of my life. In moments of high excitement or turbulent grief they rise before me with their gentle aspect and quiet beauty, hushing

POWER OF QUIET SCENERY.

183

the storm into repose, and subduing the spirit like a

sensible presence.

But Mitchell has arisen from his couch of leaves, where he has been reclining silent and thoughtful as his race, and is looking up to the sky and out upon the lake, and I know something is afoot.

Yours truly.

XXI.

FLOATING DEER-A NIGHT EXCURSION-MORNING IN THE

DEAR H

WOODS.

FORKED LAKE, Aug.

As I stated in my last, Mitchell looked up to the sky, and out upon the lake a moment, and then, in that quiet way so characteristic of his race, said, "If you want to go after a deer it is time we started." It took but five minutes to load my rifle, put on my overcoat, and announce myself ready. bark canoe softly from the rocks, we launched it on the still water, and stepping carefully in, pushed off. Previously, however, Mitchell requested me to try one of my matches, to see if the damp had affected them.

Lifting our

You know that deer-floating amid backwoodsmen is very different from deer-stalking in Scotland. In

The

the warm, summer months, the deer come down from the mountains at night to feed on the marshes that line the shores of the lakes and rivers.* While they are thus feeding, if you pass along in a dark, still night, without making a noise, you can hear them, as they step about in the edge of the water, or snort as they scent approaching danger. The moment you become aware of the proximity of one, strike a light and fix it firmly in the bow of your boat, or in a lantern on your head, and advance cautiously. deer, attracted by the flame, stops and gazes intently upon it. If he hears no sound he will not stir till you are close to him. At first you catch only the sight of his two eyes, burning like fire-balls in the gloom, but as you approach nearer, the light is thrown on his red flanks, and he stands revealed in all his beautiful proportions before you. The candle serves to distinguish the animal, and, at the same time, give you a clear view of the sights along your gun-barrel, and he must be a poor shot who misses at five rods' distance.

* Sportsmen may wonde: at our killing deer in midsummer, but I would say that we never shot a sucking doe. Bucks never are better than in July, for the food is then so abundant they are extremely fat. We killed only one doe in all, and that was a yearling.

This night, the only good feeding spot for deer had been so trampled over by us, before dark, that they would not come out upon it, and we floated on for a a long time without hearing anything. I never before saw such an exhibition of the stealthy movements of an Indian. The lake was as still and smooth as a polished mirror, and our frail canoe floated over it as if impelled by an invisible hand. I knelt at the bow, with my rifle before me, while Mitchell sat in the stern as fixed as a statue, yet urging the boat on by some strange movement of the paddle, which I tried in vain to comprehend. He did not even make a ripple on the water, and I could tell we were moving only by marking the shadow of trees we crossed, or the stars we passed over. Though straining every nerve to catch a sound, I never once heard the stroke of his paddle. It was the most mysterious ride I ever took. We entered the mouth of a river, whose shores were black with the sombre fir trees, while ever and anon would come more clearly on the ear the roar of a distant waterfall. It was so dark I could make out nothing distinctly on shore, and the island-like tufts that here and there rose from the water-the little bays and rocky points we passed,