LAKE CHAMPLAIN
How richly glows the water's breast,
Before us tinged with evening's hues,
When facing thus the crimson west,
The boat her silent course pursues,
And see how dark the backward stream,
A little moment past so smiling!
And still perhaps some faithless gleam,
Some other loiterer beguiling.
Such views the youthful bard allure,
But heedless of the following gloom,
He dreams their colors shall endure
Till peace go with him to the tomb.
And let him nurse his fond deceit;
And what if he must die in sorrow
Who would not cherish dreams so sweet;
Though grief and pain may come tomorrow.
--Wordsworth.
The ancients believed that the alchemists could create rose
blooms out of their ashes. We are prone to believe it for, at
the close of a fair New England day we have seen the Master
Alchemist, the sun, beneath his spacious workshop of July skies,
transmuting the gray mists and vapors into sunset's glow; and
lo! we had the blooming roses there. He melted his many
ingredients with the falling dew and distilled from them the
gold with which he burnished the western sky, making it glow
like a glassy sea. Seizing upon some more potent fluid, he threw
it among the fleecy clouds, kindling them all along the horizon
until they shone like a vast lake of flame; then taking his
magic wand, he waved it over the glowing mass and crimson
changed to rosy pink, pink to glowing purple; forming those
royal gates through which the magician passed behind the distant
foothills of the Adirondacks.
During such a pageant of splendor as this o'er head, did we
first behold the placid waters of Lake Champlain.
Far away beyond the Vermont shore rose the Green mountains
behind their misty veils of purplish-blue. High above the lower
undulations loomed the forest crowned ridges, gloriously colored
and radiant, forming a mysterious yet fitting background for the
exquisite picture before us. The nearer hills from their tops
and extending far down their sides were covered with evergreens;
below them a purple belt of deciduous trees and bright green
meadows made a vivid contrast; while the nearer valley was
filled with clumps of trees, fields of grain and crimson clover.
Before us lay the tranquil lake flecked with islands, which
looked like floating gardens of green on a purple mirror. Near
us a wooden bridge led across a shallow cove passing between
myriads of pickerel weed whose light purple spathes formed a
striking mass of color. Beneath it long, slender patches of
silvery blue rushes made magic hedges, so symmetrical as to seem
clipped by the hand of art. So ethereal in their loveliness were
they, we could account for their presence in no other way than
being woven by the genii of the lake out of the purple bloom
that surrounded it.
It was a royal path fit for any of the nobility of earth to
journey upon. The air was so clear and transparent and the
surface of the lake so calm that a boat with some fishermen
appeared to be drifting in mid-air among a "veiled shower of
shadowy roses." The flight of a kingfisher was revealed in the
lake below as distinctly as in the sky above. A great blue-
heron, making one think of a French soldier at attention, was
silently awaiting a green-coated Boche to make his appearance
over the top of his lily-pad dugout. The stillness was so
pronounced it seemed as if all Nature held her breath while
super-powers of both lake and mountain wrought their miracles.
It must have been such a scene as this which Tennyson portrayed
in his "Lotus-Eaters:"
There is sweet music here that softer falls
Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or night-dews on still waters between walls
Of shadowy granite in a gleaming pass;
Music that gentler on the spirit lies
Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes,
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful
skies
Here are cool mosses deep,
And through the moss the ivies creep,
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.
Another heaven arched below us in which the Green mountains
joined their bases with still others that seemed like fairy
creations floating upon the water. An ideal remoteness and
perfection were thrown o'er the landscape by the crystalline
atmosphere. Mountains, fields, woods and lake all made "ethereal
pictures" in the mild evening light. Above in the blue dome,
Nature hung her finely woven drapery of rose-colored clouds,
whose glory was repeated by the unfathomable lake, seemingly as
deep as the blue dome it reflected. Its hues were not those of
earth, but were borrowed from heaven with which the poem of
evening was written on the twilight sky, for the delight of all
mankind.
Such scenes as this naturally call for comparisons, but having
seen but one that will in any measure compare with it, we shall
try to recall an evening on the Mediterranean.
The afternoon had been spent on the island of St. Marguerite, a
short distance off the coast of Nice. Here we visited the old
tower where Marshal Bazaine got over the stone wall, the cell in
which the prisoner of the Iron Mask resided, and the old Spanish
well dating from the eleventh century. How delicious it was--the
rest, the quiet, the box-scented breeze, the sheen of the sunset
on the dark blue waves! The very atmosphere breathed of romance.
The sinking sun was gilding the distant peaks of the Alps,
causing them to grow radiant with rosy splendor, as we pushed
out from the island in our sail-boat. The place was remarkably
still. Only the nightingale broke into song among the fragrant
bushes by the frowning prison. All else was silent, save the
silvery plash of the oars that broke the surface of the water in
measured and rythmical strokes.
Rising from the edge of the glorious Bay of the Angels at Nice,
domes, palaces and casino, all steeped in those deep, delicious
hues, appeared like some vast work of art. As we drew nearer the
whole scene opened to us in all its marvelous beauty. We floated
slowly o'er the deep blue water which so perfectly mirrored a
few pearly clouds that we seemed to be drifting above rather
than beneath them. Then the little boats with their orange-
colored sails made the place more romantic still. Just in front
of us lay the dome-shaped casino, whose windows glowed like rare
jewels; all along the shore magnificent hotels of white stone
with red tile roofs looked from among their royal palms; while
numberless villas, rising one above another with their orange
trees, vines and flowers, made a picture of rare beauty. Higher
still the rich green, brown and gray of the mountains rose,
until they blended with the serene and airy hues of the snow-
clad Alps.
Fair as this scene was, it yet lacked that irresistible and
magic charm that we beheld in Lake Champlain. It was the most
divinely placid and clear sheet of water we ever beheld; one of
Nature's famous works of art, that perchance come to one only
once in a lifetime. As we gazed in admiration and wonder at
those ethereal hues that seem unrealized in Nature, we said,
"Here is beauty enough, not for one evening, but for all future
evenings of our lifetime." It was a vast mirror that carried in
its bosom heaven itself, reflecting the Master Artist's most
rare designs.
A boat came round a point of land with three fishermen in it.
One of the occupants was heard to exclaim "I am fifty cents to
the good, old man Grump, for remember, on each black bass caught
we had a nickel up. Whoopee! Say, d'ye see that darned big bass
I would have got if the line would of held him? Oh, man! My
heart stopped throbbing and I felt it in my throat and had ter
swaller it fore I could breathe again. Such luck as that would
of made a preacher go wrong."
His companions began talking now, telling how if something or
other hadn't interfered they would have made their record catch;
which has been the tale of woe of all hunters and fishers from
Esau's time on down.
"Been a most ungodly hot day. My old hide is blistered all
over."
"Serves you right, old dill pickle. If you had got your just
dues for robbing me of that pike I'll be switched you'd be burnt
to a cinder."
Such was the general trend of the conversation. As the boat
disappeared round a jutting point of land, one of the number was
heard to exclaim:
"Gee, but I got a peachy bunch of black bass. Golly, we'll have
to hurry or it'll be dark fore we git to camp."
Thus they drifted over the waters far out to where the huge
purple rocks made soft outlines with wild, mysterious
impressiveness. They may have been expert fishermen, but it is
to be feared not real anglers; although they took a fine string
of black bass, they caught but few of the glorious reflections
and little of the unearthly beauty of the lake. Heaven had come
down to earth for them and "beauty pervaded the atmosphere like
a Presence." Think of fishing amid scenes like this! One wonders
if there will be fishing in Paradise.
What glorious vistas those waters opened up to all, stretching
away to those purple haunting distances, where may be had a
fleeting glimpse of things which are eternal and the perceiving
ear may catch strains of long remembered melodies ("those songs
without words") which only the finest souls may know. Yet here
were three men who, in their modern Ago, were returning from
their search of the golden fleece. Jason, Hercules and Theseus
could have experienced no greater joy in object won, than these
three "heroes" of the lake returning in the resin-scented
twilight with their long-sought prize of bass! A nickel up on
each black bass and not one red cent on the placid lake and the
radiant sky! Columbus, when he viewed from afar the fronded
palms of the Indies, could not have been more enraptured than
the one with fifty cents to the good.
Looking out over the lake and then at the wonderful grouping of
the elms, birches, vines and sedge along the shore that stood
hushed and expectant, as the glory slowly faded from the sky, we
said, "had this place a voice, how full of hope and calm
serenity it would be!"
Near us a boat grated softly on the pebbly bottom of a cove and
swung in. From the deep purple shadow of the wooded shore, out
over the lake a thin white veil was slowly creeping as if the
purple bloom had faded to silvery whiteness. It seemed not
unlike the breath of the sleeping water, and the spirit of the
silent lake.
Suddenly a melody that seemed as serene as the mountains and as
pure as the lake broke the silence; far up on a wooded ridge a
thrush was chanting his evening hymn to the Creator. It was as
if the soul of the quiet lake spoke to us; the spirit that
haunts high mountains, clear lakes, shadowy forests, and all
that is pure and beautiful in life; its hopes, longings and
faith were voiced in that mellow "angelus" of the forest.
We would love to see the twilight linger, but all things must
end, and we pursued our way down the winding shore road, already
gray with the coming night. Before we said good-night the mister
said, "I wonder what eternity will be like?" His comrade spoke
with a clearness of speech, declaring a truth that no one could
doubt: "Eternity is here and now, and this is our first glimpse
into paradise."
Long after retiring the words of George Herbert came and went
through memory:
"Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright
The bridal of the earth and sky,
The dews shall weep thy fall tonight;
For thou must die.
Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;
Thy root is ever in the grave
And thou must die.
Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses;
A box where sweets compacted lie;
My music shows you have your closes
And all must die.
Only a great and virtuous soul,
Like seasoned timber, never gives;
But, though the whole world turns to coal
Then chiefly lives."