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in　the　wilds　of　the　Adirondacks。　　Sometimes　it　is　a　love　of　adventure　and　freedom　that　sends　men　out　of　the　more　civilized　conditions　into　the　less；　sometimes　it　is　a　constitutional　physical　lassitude　which　leads　them　to　prefer　the　rod　to　the　hoe；　the　trap　to　the　sickle；　and　the　society　of　bears　to　town　meetings　and　taxes。　　I　think　that　Old　Mountain　Phelps　had　merely　the　instincts　of　the　primitive　man；　and　never　any　hostile　civilizing　intent　as　to　the　wilderness　into　which　he　plunged。　　Why　should　he　want　to　slash　away　the　forest　and　plow　up　the　ancient　mould；　when　it　is　infinitely　pleasanter　to　roam　about　in　the　leafy　solitudes；　or　sit　upon　a　mossy　log　and　listen　to　the　chatter　of　birds　and　the　stir　of　beasts？　　Are　there　not　trout　in　the　streams；　gum　exuding　from　the　spruce；　sugar　in　the　maples；　honey　in　the　hollow　trees；　fur　on　the　sables；　warmth　in　hickory　logs？　　Will　not　a　few　days'　planting　and　scratching　in　the　〃open〃　yield　potatoes　and　rye？　　And；　if　there　is　steadier　diet　needed　than　venison　and　bear；　is　the　pig　an　expensive　animal？　　If　Old　Phelps　bowed　to　the　prejudice　or　fashion　of　his　age　（since　we　have　come　out　of　the　tertiary　state　of　things）；　and　reared　a　family；　built　a　frame　house　in　a　secluded　nook　by　a　cold　spring；　planted　about　it　some　apple　trees　and　a　rudimentary　garden；　and　installed　a　group　of　flaming　sunflowers　by　the　door；　I　am　convinced　that　it　was　a　concession　that　did　not　touch　his　radical　character；　that　is　to　say；　it　did　not　impair　his　reluctance　to　split　oven…wood。

He　was　a　true　citizen　of　the　wilderness。　　Thoreau　would　have　liked　him；　as　he　liked　Indians　and　woodchucks；　and　the　smell　of　pine　forests；　and；　if　Old　Phelps　had　seen　Thoreau；　he　would　probably　have　said　to　him；　〃Why　on　airth；　Mr。　Thoreau；　don't　you　live　accordin'　to　your　preachin'？〃　　You　might　be　misled　by　the　shaggy　suggestion　of　Old　Phelps's　given　nameOrsoninto　the　notion　that　he　was　a　mighty　hunter；　with　the　fierce　spirit　of　the　Berserkers　in　his　veins。　Nothing　could　be　farther　from　the　truth。　　The　hirsute　and　grisly　sound　of　Orson　expresses　only　his　entire　affinity　with　the　untamed　and　the　natural；　an　uncouth　but　gentle　passion　for　the　freedom　and　wildness　of　the　forest。　　Orson　Phelps　has　only　those　unconventional　and　humorous　qualities　of　the　bear　which　make　the　animal　so　beloved　in　literature；　and　one　does　not　think　of　Old　Phelps　so　much　as　a　lover　of　nature；to　use　the　sentimental　slang　of　the　period；as　a　part　of　nature　itself。

His　appearance　at　the　time　when　as　a　〃guide〃　he　began　to　come　into　public　notice　fostered　this　impression；a　sturdy　figure　with　long　body　and　short　legs；　clad　in　a　woolen　shirt　and　butternut…colored　trousers　repaired　to　the　point　of　picturesqueness；　his　head　surmounted　by　a　limp；　light…brown　felt　hat；　frayed　away　at　the　top；　so　that　his　yellowish　hair　grew　out　of　it　like　some　nameless　fern　out　of　a　pot。　　His　tawny　hair　was　long　and　tangled；　matted　now　many　years　past　the　possibility　of　being　entered　by　a　comb。

His　features　were　small　and　delicate；　and　set　in　the　frame　of　a　reddish　beard；　the　razor　having　mowed　away　a　clearing　about　the　sensitive　mouth；　which　was　not　seldom　wreathed　with　a　childlike　and　charming　smile。　　Out　of　this　hirsute　environment　looked　the　small　gray　eyes；　set　near　together；　eyes　keen　to　observe；　and　quick　to　express　change　of　thought；　eyes　that　made　you　believe　instinct　can　grow　into　philosophic　judgment。　　His　feet　and　hands　were　of　aristocratic　smallness；　although　the　latter　were　not　worn　away　by　ablutions；　in　fact；　they　assisted　his　toilet　to　give　you　the　impression　that　here　was　a　man　who　had　just　come　out　of　the　ground；　a　real　son　of　the　soil；　whose　appearance　was　partially　explained　by　his　humorous　relation　to…soap。　　〃Soap　is　a　thing；〃　he　said；　〃that　I　hain't　no　kinder　use　for。〃　　His　clothes　seemed　to　have　been　put　on　him　once　for　all；　like　the　bark　of　a　tree；　a　long　time　ago。　　The　observant　stranger　was　sure　to　be　puzzled　by　the　contrast　of　this　realistic　and　uncouth　exterior　with　the　internal　fineness；　amounting　to　refinement　and　culture；　that　shone　through　it　all。　　What　communion　had　supplied　the　place　of　our　artificial　breeding　to　this　man？

Perhaps　his　most　characteristic　attitude　was　sitting　on　a　log；　with　a　short　pipe　in　his　mouth。　　If　ever　man　was　formed　to　sit　on　a　log；　it　was　Old　Phelps。　　He　was　essentially　a　contemplative　person。　　Walking　on　a　country　road；　or　anywhere　in　the　〃open；〃　was　irksome　to　him。　　He　had　a　shambling；　loose…jointed　gait；　not　unlike　that　of　the　bear：　his　short　legs　bowed　out；　as　if　they　had　been　more　in　the　habit　of　climbing　trees　than　of　walking。　　On　land；　if　we　may　use　that　expression；　he　was　something　like　a　sailor；　but；　once　in　the　rugged　trail　or　the　unmarked　route　of　his　native　forest；　he　was　a　different　person；　and　few　pedestrians　could　compete　with　him。　　The　vulgar　estimate　of　his　contemporaries；　that　reckoned　Old　Phelps　〃lazy；〃　was　simply　a　failure　to　comprehend　the　conditions　of　his　being。　　It　is　the　unjustness　of　civilization　that　it　sets　up　uniform　and　artificial　standards　for　all　persons。　　The　primitive　man　suffers　by　them　much　as　the　contemplative　philosopher　does；　when　one　happens　to　arrive　in　this　busy；　fussy　world。

If　the　appearance　of　Old　Phelps　attracts　attention；　his　voice；　when　first　heard；　invariably　startles　the　listener。　　A　small；　high…　pitched；　half…querulous　voice；　it　easily　rises　into　the　shrillest　falsetto；　and　it　has　a　quality　in　it　that　makes　it　audible　in　all　the　tempests　of　the　forest；　or　the　roar　of　rapids；　like　the　piping　of　a　boatswain's　whistle　at　sea　in　a　gale。　　He　has　a　way　of　letting　it　rise　as　his　sentence　goes　on；　or　when　he　is　opposed　in　argument；　or　wishes　to　mount　above　other　voices　in　the　conversation；　until　it　dominates　everything。　　Heard　in　the　depths　of　the　woods；　quavering　aloft；　it　is　felt　to　be　as　much　a　part　of　nature；　an　original　force；　as　the　northwest　wind　or　the　scream　of　the　hen…hawk。　　When　he　is　pottering　about　the　camp…fire；　trying　to　light　his　pipe　with　a　twig　held　in　the　flame；　he　is　apt　to　begin　some　philosophical　observation　in　a　small；　slow；　stumbling　voice；　which　seems　about　to　end　in　defeat；　when　he　puts　on　some　unsuspected　force；　and　the　sentence　ends　in　an　insistent　shriek。　　Horace　Greeley　had　such　a　voice；　and　could　regulate　it　in　the　same　manner。　　But　Phelps's　voice　is　not　seldom　plaintive；　as　if　touched　by　the　dreamy　sadness　of　the　woods　themselves。

When　Old　Mountain　Phelps　was　discovered；　he　was；　as　the　reader　has　already　guessed；　not　understood　by　his　contemporaries。　　His　neighbors；　farmers　in　the　secluded　valley；　had　many　of　them　grown　thrifty　and　prosperous；　cultivating　the　fertile　meadows；　and　vigorously　attacking　the　timbered　mountains；　while　Phelps；　with　not　much　more　faculty　of　acquiring　property　than　the　roaming　deer；　had　pursued　the　even　tenor　of　the　life　in　the　forest　on　which　he　set　out。　They　would　have　been　surprised　to　be　told　that　Old　Phelps　owned　more　of　what　makes　the　value　of　the　Adirondacks　than　all　of　them　put　together；　but　it　was　true。　　This　woodsman；　this　trapper；　this　hunter；　this　fisherman；　this　sitter　on　a　log；　and　philosopher；　was　the　real　proprietor　of　the　region　over　which　he　was　ready　to　guide　the　stranger。　　It　is　true　that　he　had　not　a　monopoly　of　its　geography　or　its　topography　（though　his　knowledge　was　superior　in　these　respects）；　there　were　other　trappers；　and　more　deadly　hunters；　and　as　intrepid　guides：　but　Old　Phelps　was　the　discoverer　of　the　beauties　and　sublimities　of　the　mountains；　and；　when　city　strangers　broke　into　the　region；　he　monopolized　the　appreciation　of　these　delights　and　wonders　of　nature。　　I　suppose　that　in　all　that　country　he　alone　had　noticed　the　sunsets；　and　observed　the　delightful　processes　of　the　seasons；　taken　pleasure　in　the　woods　for　themselves；　and　climbed　mountains　solely　for　the　sake　of　the　prospect。　　He　alone　understood　what　was　meant　by　〃scenery。〃　In　the　eyes　of　his　neighbors；　who　did　not　know　that　he　was　a　poet　and　a　philosopher；　I　dare　say　he　appeared　to　be　a　slack　provider；　a　rather　shiftless　trapper　and　fisherman；　and　his　passionate　love　of　the　forest　and　the　mountains；　if　it　was　noticed；　was　accounted　to　him　for　idleness。　　When　the　appreciative　tourist　arrived；　Phelps　was　ready；　as　guide；　to　open　to　him　all　the　wonders　of　his　possessions；　he；　for　the　first　time；　found　an　outlet　for　his　enthusiasm；　and　a　response　to　his　own　passion。　　It　then　became　known　what　manner　of　man　this　was　who　had　grown　up　here　in　the　companionship　of　forests；　mountains；　and　wild　animals；　that　these　scenes　had　highly　developed　in　him　the　love　of　beauty；　the　aesthetic　sense；　delicacy　of　appreciation；　refinement　of　feeling；　and　that；　in　his　solitary　wanderings　and　musings；　the　primitive　man；　self…taught；　had　evolved　for　himself　a　philosophy　and　a　system　of　things。　　And　it　was　a　sufficient　system；　so　long　as　it　was　not　disturbed　by　external　skepticism。　　When　the　outer　world　came　to　him；　perhaps　he　had　about　as　much　to　give　to　it　as　to　receive　from　it；　probably　more；　in　his　own　estimation；　for　there　is　no　conceit　like　that　of　isolation。

Phelps　loved　his　mountains。　　He　was　the　discoverer　of　Marcy；　and　caused　the　first　trail　to　be　cut　to　its　summit；　so　that　others　could　enjoy　the　noble　views　from　its　round　and　rocky　top。　　To　him　it　was；　in　noble　symmetry　and　beauty；　the　chief　mountain　of　the　globe。　　To　stand　on　it　gave　him；　as　he　said；　〃a　feeling　of　heaven　up…h'isted…　ness。〃　　He　heard　with　impatience　that　Mount　Washington　was　a　thousand　feet　higher；　and　he　had　a　childlike　incredulity　about　the　surpassing　sublimity　of　the　Alps。　　Praise　of　any　other　elevation　he　seemed　to　consider　a　slight　to　Mount　Marcy；　and　did　not　willingly　hear　it；　any　more　than　a　lover　hears　the　laudation　of　the　beauty　of　another　woman　than　the　one　he　loves。　　When　he　showed　us　scenery　he　loved；　it　made　him　melancholy　to　have　us　speak　of　scenery　elsewhere　that　was　finer。　And　yet　there　was　this　delicacy　about　him；　that　he　never　over…praised　what　he　brought　us　to　see；　any　more　than　one　would　over…praise　a　friend　of　whom　he　was　fond。　　I　remember　that　when　for　the　first　time；　after　a　toilsome　journey　through　the　forest；　the　splendors　of　the　Lower　Au　Sable　Pond　broke　upon　our　vision；that　low…lying　silver　lake；　imprisoned　by　the　precipices　which　it　reflected　in　its　bosom；　he　m