The event of that night, however, which afforded me the purest enjoyment, was the witnessing of a moonlight scene, immediately after leaving the Lake shore, for the inn where I was staying. Before me, in wild and solemn beauty, lay the southern portion of the Scaroon, on whose bosom were gliding the spearmen, holding high above their heads three huge torches, which threw a spectral glare, not only upon the water, but upon the swarthy forms which were watching for their prey. Just at this moment an immense cloud of fog broke away, and directly above the summit of the opposite mountain, the clear full moon made its appearance, and a thousand fantastic figures, born of the fog, were pictured in the sky, and appeared extremely brilliant under the effulgence of the ruling planet; while the zenith of sky was of a deep blue, cloudless, but completely spangled with stars. And what greatly added to the magic of the scene, was the dismal scream of a loon, which came to my ear from a remote portion of the Lake which was yet covered with a heavy fog.
Rising from the western margin of Scaroon Lake, is a lofty mountain, which was once painted by Thomas Cole, and by him named Scaroon Mountain. There is nothing particularly imposing about it, but it commands an uncommonly fine prospect of the surrounding country. When I first came in sight of this mountain, it struck me as an old acquaintance, and I reined in my horse for the purpose of investigating its features. Before I resumed my course, I concluded that I was standing on the very spot whence the artist Cole had taken his original sketch of the scene, by which circumstance I was convinced of the fidelity of his pencil.
The largest island in Scaroon Lake lies near the northern extremity, and studs the water like an emerald on a field of blue. It was purchased some years ago by a gentleman of New York, named Ireland, who has built a summer residence upon it, for the accommodation of himself and friends.
Emptying into the Scaroon river, just below the Lake, is a superb mountain stream, known as Trout Brook. It is thirty feet wide, twelve miles long, and comes rushing down the mountains, forming a thousand waterfalls and pools, and filling its narrow valley with a continual roar of music. Not only is it distinguished for the quality and number of its trout, but it possesses one attraction which will pay the tourist for the weary tramp he must undergo to explore its remote recesses. I allude to what the people about here call the “Stone Bridge.” At this point, the wild and dashing stream has formed a channel directly through the solid mountains; so that in fishing down, the angler suddenly finds himself standing upon a pile of dry stones. The extent of this natural bridge is not more than twenty, or perhaps thirty feet; but the wonder is, that the unseen channel is sufficiently large to admit the passage of the largest logs, which the lumbermen float down the stream.