and undivided, that
the 'home of the brave' might indeed be the 'land of the free.'

At Westport we left the boat, and found the stage to Elizabethtown, a
_buckboard_, already crowded with passengers. An inn close at hand
furnished us the only covered wagon we chanced to see during our ten
weeks' sojourn among the Adirondacs. The drive to Elizabethtown (eight
miles) was hot and dusty, for we faced the western sun, and the long
summer drought was just then commencing to make itself felt.
Nevertheless, there was beauty enough by the wayside to make one forget
such minor physical annoyances. As the road rose over the first hills,
the views back, over the lake and toward those hazy, dreamy-looking
Vermont mountains, seemed a leaf from some ancient romance, wherein
faultless knights errant sought peerless lady loves with golden locks
flowing to their tiny feet, and the dragons were all on the outside,
dwellers in dark caverns and noisome dens. In our day, I fear, we have
not improved the matter, for the dark caverns seem to have passed
within, and the dragons have been adopted as familiars.

By and by, on some arid spots, appeared the low, spreading juniper,
which we had previously known only as the garden pet of an enthusiastic
tree fancier. And thus, perhaps, the virtues which here we cultivate by
unceasing care and watchfulness, will, when we are translated to some
wider sphere, nearer to the Creator of all, burst upon us as simple,
natural gifts to the higher and freer intelligences native to that
sphere.

Raven Hill is the highest point between Westport and Elizabethtown. It
is a beautifully formed conical hill, rising some twenty-one hundred
feet above the sea level, and contributing the cliffs on the northern
side of the 'Pass,' through which leads the road into the valley of the
Boquet, that vale known formerly as the 'The Pleasant Valley,' in which
was Betseytown, now dignified into Elizabethtown. Does an increase in
civilization and refinement indeed destroy familiarity, render us more
strange one to another, even, through much complexity, to our own
selves? The southern side of the Pass is formed by the slope of the
'Green Mountain,' once so called from its beautiful verdure, now, alas!
burnt over, bristling with dead trees and bare rocks, and green only by
reason of weeds, brambles, and a bushy growth of saplings. The view,
descending from the summit of the Pass into the Pleasant Valley, is
charming. The Boque