THE KNICKERBOCKER. VOL. XVII. MARCH, 1841. No. 3. THE COUNTRY DOCTOR: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY: WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF GLAUBER SAULTZ, M. D. BY THE AUTHOR OF PETER CRAM AT TINNECUM,' ETC. CHAPTER II. I was more and more delighted with the appearance of the country in which my practice lay, and was disposed to cry out in the words of the Psalmist, that the lines had fallen to me in pleasant places. The northern shores of Long-Island (for there I wish it to be understood that the scene of my adventures is laid) are remarkable for picturesque scenery. On its southern coasts the fisherman struggles for a precarious existence, and prairie-like plains extend through its central parts; but passing the ledge of hills which with greater or less depression extends through its whole length, you strike into a fertile and undulating region. Here is the garden of Long-Island; in a spirit of too much partiality I had almost called it the garden of the world. For whether in the season of autumn, when nature is beautiful in her decay, or when our own skies, soft and blue as the Italian, are hanging over harvests golden and ripe unto the sickle, I know of few scenes where the eye roams in greater rapture, or where the painter would rather delight to fix his easel, and the contemplative man to pass the rest of his days. Here the roads or rather lanes wind frequently through groves of oak or chestnut, or are skirted by the tulip tree and the locust, which flourish in full luxuriance; while on either side you get a glimpse of a country now swelling into little knolls, or sinking into deep ravines, or expanding into gay meadows, where the boblink reigns preeminent, the bird immortalized by the pen of Geoffrey Crayon. Sometimes on reaching a hill-top you look unexpectedly on the bright expanse of a lake; at others, after gradually ascending, you reach a summit whence the unbroken prospect shelves away to the far horizon, and now you follow the course of those delightful bays or coves which indent the northern shores. Beaten roads wind around promontories crowned by the abodes of the wealthy overlooking the waters of the Long-Island Sound and all the gay and moving scene; the snow-white sails of sloops and of innumerable barges, and the steam-boat ploughing its way, never mindful of the rocks and whirl pools, where so many smaller craft have been irretrievably wrecked. Oh! could the Indian who sleeps beneath the turf on the promontory, with tomahawk and flinty arrow-heads by his side, and whose solitary canoe once stole over the surface of these waters, awake to behold the triumphant sweep of these proud boats, how would he bend down with fear, and awe-struck wonder, at this almost audacious triumph of genius and human art! But the Red Man has passed away forever, and the wild beauty of the place is softened down. The husbandman looks with a just pride on fields of the richest verdure and the cattle on a thousand hills, and the stately Quaker walks across the scene with countenance calm and unruffled as if the spirit had never moved him. Nothing is wanting to render this part of the Island an acceptable retreat for the summer tourist; and I speak professionally when I say, that they make but a poor exchange who barter the healthy exhilaration of scenes like these, for the hot and crowded salons, where Health stands at a distance and mocks at the scene of folly, or who would give one draught of the spring which gushes from the hill-side, for those nauseous waters whose virtues are so highly praised. As it is, Long-Island is comparatively unknown. It has charms which no pencil has ever portrayed, and contains many sweet flowers which are born to blush unseen. But we hope yet to lift the veil from its obscurity. Its hills and vallies; its pleasant nooks and sweet seclusions; its romantic lakes and rivers, whose sources have not been explored; its bays and islands associated with the memory of the boldest of bucaniers; its remote and antiquated villages, whose inhabitants have not kept up with the age in which they live, and which bear the full impress of primeval times; its Indians, its ancient men, and young and beautiful women perhaps it may fall within my scope to illustrate all these; nor can I conceive of a better preparation for such a task, than that afforded in the diversified wandering of the country-doctor. It was the second day after my arrival at the farm-house, that I ordered Flummery to get up my horse and sulkey at an early hour, for we dined at twelve o'clock at Mrs. Quaintley's, and I had some additional calls to make. The little old man obeyed my summons with a promptness which called for my admiration, and I puzzled myself to know how the quickness of his motions was compatible with such rigidity of muscle, and so great a solemnity of deportment. My ride conducted me, as on the day before, along the pleasant banks of Dog River. This queer little stream takes its rise nobody knows where among the hills, and turns a great many mill-wheels before it eventually finds its way into the waters of the Long-Island Sound. When you look at it from the highest hill-tops, the river Dog seems like a silver thread occasionally lost to the eye in its many mazes, but for the most part distinctly to be traced upon the bright verdure of the landscape. Its capricious and rabid course appears to justify its classic name. Sometimes it is so diminished that it merely drips from stone to stone, or snarls and frets peevishly over rocks and obstructions, which cause it to halt, hesitate, and turn round, as if it would retrace its wanderings. Anon, it forms rapids for a considerable distance, and then rushes violently through small Symplegades which appear to come together as you advance. But there are parts |