In the winter, outside the house, we had the snow with which to build statues and make forts, and huge piles of wood covered with ice, which we called the Alps, so difficult were they of ascent and descent.  There we would climb up and down by the hour, if not interrupted, which, however, was generally the case.  It always seemed to me that, in the height of our enthusiasm, we were invariably summoned to some disagreeable duty, which would appear to show that thus early I keenly enjoyed outdoor life.  Theodore Tilton has thus described the place where I was born:  “Birthplace is secondary parentage, and transmits character.  Johnstown was more famous half a century ago than since; for then, though small, it was a marked intellectual center; and now, though large, it is an unmarked manufacturing town.  Before the birth of Elizabeth Cady it was the vice-ducal seat of Sir William Johnson, the famous English negotiator with the Indians.  During her girlhood it was an arena for the intellectual wrestlings of Kent, Tompkins, Spencer, Elisha Williams, and Abraham Van Vechten, who, as lawyers, were among the chiefest of their time.  It is now devoted mainly to the fabrication of steel springs and buckskin gloves.  So, like Wordsworth’s early star, it has faded into the light of common day.  But Johnstown retains one of its ancient splendors—­a glory still fresh as at the foundation of the world.  Standing on its hills, one looks off upon a country of enameled meadow lands, that melt away southward toward the Mohawk, and northward to the base of those grand mountains which are ’God’s monument over the grave of John Brown.’”

Harold Frederic’s novel, “In the Valley,” contains many descriptions of this region that are true to nature, as I remember the Mohawk Valley, for I first knew it not so many years after the scenes which he lays there.  Before I was old enough to take in the glory of this scenery and its classic associations, Johnstown was to me a gloomy-looking town.  The middle of the streets was paved with large cobblestones, over which the farmer’s wagons rattled from morning till night, while the sidewalks were paved with very small cobblestones, over which we carefully picked our way, so that free and graceful walking was out of the question.  The streets were lined with solemn poplar trees, from which small yellow worms were continually dangling down.  Next to the Prince of Darkness, I feared these worms.  They were harmless, but the sight of one made me tremble.  So many people shared in this feeling that the poplars were all cut down and elms planted in their stead.  The Johnstown academy and churches were large square buildings, painted white, surrounded by these same sombre poplars, each edifice having a doleful bell which seemed to be ever tolling for school, funerals, church, or prayer meetings.  Next to the worms, those clanging bells filled me with the utmost dread; they seemed like so many warnings of an eternal future.  Visions of the Inferno were strongly impressed on my childish imagination.  It was thought, in those days, that firm faith in hell and the devil was the greatest help to virtue.  It certainly made me very unhappy whenever my mind dwelt on such teachings, and I have always had my doubts of the virtue that is based on the fear of punishment.