Lenox in 1883

of October, it being the fashion to flit with the leaves. Many of the visitors own cottages at Newport, which, as summer wanes, they close to finish the season at Lenox.

We one day inquired of Mr. Curtis, an unquestioned authority on all matters pertaining to Lenox, as to the special attractions which have drawn the wealthy and distinguished in such numbers to the village, but he evaded a reply by inviting us out to drive, wisely assuming that that would be the only method of imparting to a visitor the charm of natural beauty and literary association which has made Lenox the fascinating spot it is. We drove southeast along the crest of the long undulation dominated by encircling ranges on which the town is built. On a side street, almost hidden by a copse of pines, he pointed out a pretty cottage. "In the ‘L’ of that cottage, built especially for her," he remarked, "behind that green blind, Catherine Sedgwick wrote most of her later tales." Then, in the hollow at the foot of the hill, he pointed out the localities of the former homes of two other famous women, Fanny Kemble and Charlotte Cushman. "These three ladies spent many years in Lenox when it was entirely unknown to fame," he continued; "and their enthusiastic descriptions of it, with both tongue and pen, first made its beauties known. Miss Kemble, in particular, was fascinated by it. I was a lad of twenty when she first began spending her summers here, and was often em-

At this moment we turned into a drive that led through spacious grounds to the front of a well-kept country seat. "This," said Mr. Curtis, "is the Haggerty place, leased the past summer by Robert C. Winthrop, Jr. Col. Robert G. Shaw, of the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts Colored Volunteers, married a daughter of the owner and brought his bride here for the honeymoon, leaving her here after a few weeks, to march to his death in the assault on Fort Wagner, where, as you will remember, he was buried by the enemy under the bodies of his men. Mrs. Shaw, after her husband’s death, resided here many years, and here entertained one summer Christine Nilsson, of whom I shall have something to say when we reach Echo Lake. Perhaps you would like to see the house where most of the ‘Star Papers’ were written. Here it is, this plain little cottage under the hill. When Mr. Beecher owned it, however, it stood on the hill instead of under it, on the

From this point we drove down to and partly around Laurel Lake, a lovely sheet of water, a favorite haunt of Miss Kemble, which called out many interesting reminiséences of her from my companion. Returning villageward by another road, we passed the cottages of Dr. William H. Draper, of New York, and of Professor Rachemann, who married a niece of Miss Sedgwick, and drove by a private road through spacious grounds to one of the old-time mansions of Lenox, formerly owned by Judge Walker, a gentleman as much honored in Lenox as the Sedgwicks were in Stockbridge. "His son, Judge William, had a beautiful daughter, Sarah, who became the first wife of Senator David Davis. It came about in this way: at the time Senator Yancey and Josh Billings were wild boys at Lenox Academy, Mr. Davis was studying law in the village with old Judge Bishop, and being captivated by the lady, wooed and won her before his studies were completed." A short distance above the Walker place, Mr. Lanier, of New York, has chosen the site of a pretty modern villa, one

I think he had, too, a feeling that his talents were not fully appreciated."

Echo Lake was the next point of interest included in our drive. The roads of this region are excellent, and the black and bay bore us around the west shores of Stockbridge Bowl with a rush. From the south shore we had our best general view of this justly famed sheet of water. The reader may imagine it as the pit of a great amphitheater whose outer rim is eight or nine miles in diameter, and its walls at first the green foothills, covered with country seats, which constitute Lenox, above them rising the craggy and wooded spurs of the Taghanics, the whole forming a landscape that for striking contrasts and concentration of detail has few equals. A mile south of the Bowl we came to a new road opened only last June for the sole use of pleasure parties, which led us west for nearly half a mile, until at the base of West Stockbridge Mountain we came upon Echo Lake. To my mind it is the prettiest of the twelve or fifteen lakes that lie within easy distance of Lenox. Its shores are delightfully irregular, abounding in sheltered nooks and coves, and are shaded in places by open groves of pine much sought by picnic parties. On the west it is overhung by the black, grim mass of the mountain; its chief feature is a double echo which repeats and repeats all sounds given it with astonishing accuracy and volume. Midway of the east shore is an overhanging boulder canopied by a young

oak, which at the time of our visit hung an oriflamme of color over the lake. It was on this rock that Christine Nilsson sang, while visiting in Lenox, to a select company of friends who had accompanied her to the lake. As described to me the scene must have been one of the most dramatic ever witnessed. Standing on the rock, the great singer threw across the water to the mountain the choicest notes in her repertoire, and these were caught by its subtle spirits and thrown back in double measure and with perfect accuracy. By and by, as the singer’s ardor grew, the notes were echoed and reechoed with equal spirit, until it seemed that scores of celestial choirs must be hidden somewhere among the recesses of the crags.

Echo Lake was the limit of our drive. As we drove back into the village street, Mr. Curtis inquired if my question had been satisfactorily answered, and I admitted that the answer was all-sufficient.