twenty or thirty miles towards Windsor, lengthwise upon that long broken
spur of heights which the Green Mountains of Vermont send into
Massachusetts. For nearly the whole of the distance, you have the
continual sensation of being upon some terrace in the moon. The feeling
of the plain or the valley is never yours; scarcely the feeling of the
earth. Unless by a sudden precipitation of the road you find yourself
plunging into some gorge, you pass on, and on, and on, upon the crests
or slopes of pastoral mountains, while far below, mapped out in its
beauty, the valley of the Housatonie lies endlessly along at your feet.
Often, as your horse gaining some lofty level tract, flat as a table,
trots gayly over the almost deserted and sodded road, and your admiring
eye sweeps the broad landscape beneath, you seem to be Bootes driving in
heaven. Save a potato field here and there, at long intervals, the whole
country is either in wood or pasture. Horses, cattle and sheep are the
principal inhabitants of these mountains. But all through the year lazy
columns of smoke, rising from the depths of the forest, proclaim the
presence of that half-outlaw, the charcoal-burner; while in early spring
added curls of vapor show that the maple sugar-boiler is also at work.
But as for farming as a regular vocation, there is not much of it here.
At any rate, no man by that means accumulates a fortune from this thin
and rocky soil, all whose arable parts have long since been nearly
exhausted.

Yet during the first settlement of the country, the region was not
unproductive. Here it was that the original settlers came, acting upon
the principle well known to have regulated their choice of site, namely,
the high land in preference to the low, as less subject to the
unwholesome miasmas generated by breaking into the rich valleys and
alluvial bottoms of primeval regions. By degrees, however, they quitted
the safety of this sterile elevation, to brave the dangers of richer