of his family, and buried in front of the house in which he had lived at North Elba.

"The house," says a writer in Old and New for September, 1870, "is unpainted and plain, though equal to the ordinary farm houses of the region. It stands well up the hills, separated from the wilderness by a few cleared fields, commanding a majestic view of the mountain world. A few rods in front, a huge boulder, surrounded by a plain board fence, is the fit monument of the fierce old apostle of liberty. At its foot is the grave. The headstone was brought from an old grave yard in New England, where it stood over the grave of his father, Capt. John Brown, who died in New York in 1776. The whole stone is covered with the family inscriptions: John Brown, executed at Charlestown, Va., Dec. 2, 1859. Oliver and Watson, his sons, both killed at Harper's Ferry, the same year; and his son Frederick, murdered in Kansas by border ruffians in 1856. Above the little grassy enclosure, towers the mighty rock, almost as high as the house, and on its summit is cut in massive granite characters the inscription 'John Brown, 1859. Standing on the top of this monumental rock, for the first time I felt that I comprehended the character of the man whose name it commemorates. I could well understand how such a man, formed in the mould of the old Scotch Covenanters and English Puritans, brooding over the horrors of slavery, foreseeing the impending struggle for liberty, maddened by the murder of his son and friends in Kansas, with the mighty northern hills looking down upon him, the rush of strong rivers, and the songs of resounding tempests, and the mystery of the illimitable wilderness all about him, should easily come to think himself inspired to

descend like a mountain torrent, and sweep the black curse from out the land. I reverently raised my hat, and sung 'John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave; His soul is marching on.""

ness.

The attempt of Gerrit Smith to found a colony of colored people at North Elba, proved an utter failure. The children of the sunny south could not tame the old north wilderThe surviving members of John Brown's family sought elsewhere more congenial homes, and now the little forest hamlet, after its eventful career, sits almost deserted among its sheltering mountains, inhabited by a few families only, and affording a transient stopping place for the curious summer tourist, and the wandering hunter.

In the depths of the limitless forest, and surrounded by the towering peaks of the old giants of the mountain belt, now sleeps, like a strong man after his labors are ended, the little decaying and deserted hamlet known as Adirondack Village, or the Upper Iron Works. Its story is a tale of almost superhuman effort, crowned with partial success, but finally ending in fruitless endeavor, disaster and death.

Six or seven miles below, and to the south of the old Indian Pass in the valley of the infant Hudson, and fed by its waters, which there run through them, are the lakes Sanford and Henderson, lying about a mile apart.

Between these two lakes, upon the right bank of the Hudson, the connecting river, this famous village is situated. To the west of it rises Santanoni, to the north yawns the awful gorge of the Indian Pass, and to the east of it old Tahawas towers up above the clouds.

II.

About the year 1826, Archibald McIntyre, of Albany, David Henderson, his son-in-law, of Jersey City, and Duncan McMartin, with others, were or had been proprietors of

iron works at North Elba, on the Au Sable. One day in that year, Mr. Henderson, while standing near his works, was approached by an old Indian, of the St. Francis tribe, named Sabelle, who often hunted near that wild region. The Indian took from under his blanket a lump of rich iron ore, and showing it to Mr. Henderson, said to him:

"You want to see 'um ore? Me find plenty all same." "Where?" said Mr. Henderson, eagerly.

"Me hunt beaver all 'lone," replied old Sabelle, "and find 'um where water run pom, pom, pom, over iron dam, 'way off there," pointing toward the southern woods beyond the Indian Pass.

The next day an exploring party, guided by old Sabelle, set out in search of this wonderful bed of iron ore, and boldly plunged into the then unknown wilderness. They spent the first night within the gorge of the Indian Pass, at the fountain head of the infant Hudson. The day after, following the course of the stream, they reached lakes Sanford and Henderson, and found the iron dam across the bed of the Hudson between the 'two lakes. The old Indian had not misled them. There was "plenty" of ore-there were mountains of ore all around them. There was ore enough there apparently to supply the world with iron for ages.

Mr. Henderson and his associates hastened to Albany, purchased of the State a large tract of land, and formed a company to be called the "Adirondack Iron and Steel Company," with a capital of one million dollars, to operate these inexhaustible mines. A clearing was soon made near the "iron dam" of old Sabelle. A road was cut into it with great labor, winding around the mountain masses a distance

of fifty miles from Crown Point, on Lake Champlain. Then a little mountain hamlet sprung up, as if by magic, in the wild, secluded valley. Forges, boarding houses, store houses, cottages, mills, and a school house were built. The mountain shadows were soon lighted up with the ruddy glow of furnace fires, and the howling wilderness was made vocal with the roar of ponderous machinery, with the hum of many industries, and the songs of labor. The busy housewives spun and wove, and plied their daily toil; the children laughed, and frolicked, and loitered on their way to and from their school, and from many a stumpy pasture round about came the drowsy tinkle of the cow bells.

III.

But a sad calamity awaited Mr. Henderson, the man whose tireless energy helped so much to build up this little oasis in the wilderness. In the month of September, 1845, he was one day exploring the woods near the foot of Mount Marcy. He was accompanied only by his little son, ten years old, and the famous hunter John Cheney as their guide. They stopped to rest upon a rock that lay on the border of a little mountain pond, since known as Calamity Pond. Mr. Henderson, thinking their guide had laid his knapsack, in which was a loaded pistol, in a damp place, took it up to remove it to a dryer one. When putting it down again the hammer of the pistol struck, in some way, the solid rock. The pistol exploded, its ball entering Mr. Henderson's heart. "To die in such an awful place as this," moaned the fallen man. "Take care, my son, of your mother when I am gone," were his last words.