opened upon our vision. Surrounded by low and undulating hills, dotted
with islands, with long points running far out into the lake, and
pleasant little bays hiding around behind wooded promontories, it
presented a wild yet pleasing landscape, on which a painter's eye
could not rest but with delight, and which, transferred to canvas,
would make a picture of which any artist might be proud.

By the way, I wonder that our artists do not summer among these
mountains and lakes, sketching and painting the transcendently
beautiful views they everywhere present. There is nothing like them on
all this continent. We talk about the scenery of Lake George. It is
all tame and spiritless compared with what may be seen here; it
possesses not a tithe of the variety, the bold and grand, the placid
and beautiful, all mingled, and changing always, as you pass from
point to point along these lakes. Why do not the artists whose
business it is to make the "canvas speak," drift out this way, and
deal with nature in all her ancient loveliness, clothed in her
primeval robes, and smiling in her freshness and beauty, as when
thrown from the hand of Deity? It would repay them for their labor,
and yield them a rich harvest of gain.

We had heard of the shanty in which we were to encamp, and we rowed
straight through the whole length of the lake towards it. We reached
it as the sun was going down, and stowed away our luggage before the
darkness had gathered over the forest. We took possession by the right
of squatter sovereignty, the owner being unknown, or at all events,
absent from the woods. This lake is one of the few in all this region
that I had never visited before, and is next in beauty to its
namesake, two days' journey nearer to civilization. It is about twelve
miles in length, and from one to two miles in width, with many