If circumstances alone could make one poetical, then might you expect
from me on this occasion a letter of rare excellence and beauty. My
sketch book is my desk, my canopy from the sunshine an elm tree, the
carpet under my feet a rich green sprinkled with flowers, the music in
my ear of singing birds, and the prospect before me, north, east, and
south, the tranquil bosom of Lake George, with its islands and
surrounding mountains, whose waters, directly at my side, are alive with
many kinds of fish, sporting together on a bed of sand. Yes, the
far-famed Lake George is my subject, but in what I write I shall not use
that title,—for I do not like the idea of christening what belongs to us
with the name of an English monarch, however much his memory deserves to
be respected. Shall it be Lake St. Sacrament, then? No! for that was
given to it by the Pope and the French nation. Horicon,—a musical and
appropriate word, meaning pure water, and given it by the poor
Indian,—is the name which rightfully belongs to the lake which is now my
theme.
Lake Horicon is one of the few objects in Nature, that did not
disappoint me after reading the descriptions of travellers. I verily
believe, that in point of mere beauty it has not its equal in the world.
Its length is thirty-four miles, and its width from two to four. Its
islands number about three hundred, and vary from ten feet to a mile in
length;—a great many of them are located in the centre of the lake,
which place is called the Narrows. It is completely surrounded with
mountains, the most prominent of which are, Black Mountain on the east
of the Narrows, Tongue Mountain directly opposite, and French Mountain
at the southern extremity. The first is the most lofty, and remarkable
for its wildness, and the superb prospect therefrom; the second is also
wild and uninhabited, but distinguished for its dens of rattlesnakes;
and the latter is somewhat cultivated, but memorable for having been the
camping ground of the French during the Revolutionary war. The whole
eastern border is yet a comparative wilderness, but along the western
shore are some respectable farms, and a good coach road from Caldwell to
Ticonderoga, which affords many admirable views of the sky-blue lake.
There are three public houses here which I can recommend,—the Lake House
for those who are fond of company,—Lyman’s Tavern for the hunter of
scenery and lover of quiet,—and Garfield’s House for the fisherman. A
nice little steamboat, commanded by a gentleman, passes through the lake
every morning and evening (excepting Sundays), which is a convenient
affair to the traveller, but an eye-sore to the admirer of the
wilderness. When, in addition to all these things, it is remembered,
that Horicon is the centre of a region made classic, by the exploits of
civilized and savage warfare, it can safely be pronounced one of the
most interesting portions of our country for the summer tourist to
visit. I have looked upon it from many a peak whence might be seen
almost every rood of its shore. I have sailed into every one of its
bays, and, like the pearl diver, have repeatedly descended into its cold
blue chambers, so that I have learned to love it as a faithful and well
tried friend. Since the day of my arrival here, I have kept a journal of
my adventures, and, as a memorial of Horicon, I will extract therefrom
and embody in this letter the following passages.
Six oil sketches have I executed upon the Lake to-day. One of them was a
view of the distant mountains, whose various outlines were concentrated
at one point, and whose color was of that delicate dreamy blue, created
by a sunlight atmosphere, with the sun beyond. In the middle distance
was a flock of islands, with a sail boat in their midst, and in the
foreground a cluster of rocks, surmounted by a single cedar, which
seemed to be the sentinel of a fortress. Another was of the ruins of
Fort George, with a background of dark green mountains, and made more
desolate by a flock of sheep sleeping in one of its shady moats. Another
was of a rowing race between two rival fishermen, at the time when they
were only a dozen rods from the goal, and when every nerve of their aged
frames was strained to the utmost. Another was of a neat log-cabin on a
quiet lawn near the water, at whose threshold a couple of ragged but
beautiful children were playing with a large dog, and from whose chimney
ascended the blue smoke with a thousand fantastic evolutions. Another
was of a huge pine tree, which towered conspicuously above its kindred
on the mountain side, and which seemed to me an appropriate symbol of
Webster in the midst of a vast concourse of his fellow men. And the last
was of a thunder-storm, driven away from a mountain top by the mild
radiance of a rainbow, which partly encircled Horicon in a loving
embrace.
I have been a fishing to-day, and, while enduring some poor sport,
indited in my mind the following information, for the benefit of my
piscatorial friends. The days of trout-fishing in Lake Horicon are
nearly at an end. A few years ago it abounded in this fine fish, which
were frequently caught weighing twenty pounds, but their average weight
at the present is not more than one pound and a half, and they are
scarce even at that. In taking them you first have to obtain a
sufficient quantity of sapling bark to reach the bottom in sixty feet of
water, to one end of which must be fastened a stone, and to the other a
stick of wood, which designates your fishing ground, and is called a
buoy. A variety of more common fish are then caught, such as suckers,
perch, and eels, which are cut up and deposited, some half a peck at a
time, in the vicinity of the buoy. In a few days the trout will begin to
assemble, and so long as you keep them well fed, a brace of them may be
captured at almost any time during the summer. But the fact is, this is
only another way for “paying too dear for the whistle.” The best
angling, after all, is for the common brook trout, which is a bolder
biting fish, and full as good for the table as the salmon trout. The
cause of the great decrease in the large trout of this lake is this,—in
the Autumn, when they have sought the shores for the purpose of
spawning, the neighboring barbarians have been accustomed to spear them
by torch-light; and if the heartless business does not cease, the result
will be, that in a few years they will be extinct. There are two other
kinds of trout in the lake, however, which yet afford good sport,—the
silver trout, caught in the summer, and the fall-trout. But the
black-bass, upon the whole, is now mostly valued by the fisherman. They
are in their prime in the summer months. They vary from one to five
pounds in weight; and are taken by trolling and with a drop line, and
afford fine fun. Their haunts are along the rocky shores, and it is
often the case that on a still day you may see them from your boat
swimming about in herds, when the water is twenty feet deep. They have a
queer fashion when hooked, of leaping out of the water for the purpose
of getting clear, and it is seldom that a novice in the gentle art can
keep them from succeeding. But alas, their numbers also are fast
diminishing, by the same means and the same hands that have killed the
trout. My advice to those who come here exclusively for the purpose of
fishing is, to continue their journey to the sources of the Hudson,
Schroon Lake, Long Lake, and Lake Pleasant, in whose several waters
there seems to be no end to every variety of trout, and where may be
found much wild and beautiful scenery. The angler of the present day
will be disappointed in Lake Horicon.
When issuing from the Narrows on your way down the Horicon, the most
attractive object, next to the mountains, is a strip of low sandy land
extending into the lake, called Sabbath Day Point. It was so christened
by Abercrombie, who encamped and spent the Sabbath there, when on his
way to Ticonderoga, where he was so sadly defeated. I look upon it as
one of the most enchanting places in the world; but the pageant with
which it is associated was not only enchanting, and beautiful, and
grand, but perfectly magnificent. Only look at the picture, which I am
attempting to reproduce upon canvass. It is the sunset hour, and before
you, far up in the upper air, and companion of the Evening star and a
host of glowing clouds, rises the majestic form of Black Mountain,
enveloped in a mantle of rosy atmosphere. The bosom of the Lake is
without a ripple, and every cliff, ravine, and island, has its
counterpart in the pure waters. A blast of martial music from drums,
fifes, bagpipes, and bugle horns, now falls upon the ear, and the
immense procession comes in sight; one thousand and thirty-five battaux,
containing an army of seventeen thousand souls, headed by the brave
Abercrombie and the red cross of England,—the scarlet uniforms and
glistening bayonets forming a line of light against the darker
background of the mountain. And behind a log in the foreground is a
crouching Indian runner, who, with the speed of a hawk, will carry the
tidings to the French nation that an army is coming—“numerous as the
leaves upon the trees.” Far from the strange scene fly the affrighted
denizens of mountain and wave,—while thousands of human hearts are
beating happily at the prospect of victory, whose bodies in a few hours
will be food for the raven on the plains of Ticonderoga.
A goodly portion of this day have I been musing upon the olden times,
while rambling about Fort George, and Fort William Henry. Long and with
peculiar interest did I linger about the spot near the latter, where
were cruelly massacred the followers of Monroe, at which time Montcalm
linked his name to the title of a heartless Frenchman, and the name of
Webb became identified with all that is justly despised by the human
heart. I profess myself to be an enemy to wrong and outrage of every
kind, and yet a lover and defender of the Indian race; but when I picked
up one after another the flinty heads of arrows, which were mementos of
an awful butchery, my spirit revolted against the Red man, and for a
moment I felt a desire to condemn him. Yes, I will condemn that
particular band of murderers, but I cannot but defend the race. Cruel
and treacherous they were, I will allow, but do we forget the treatment
they ever met with from the white man? The most righteous of battles
have ever been fought for the sake of sires and wives and children, and
for what else did the poor Indian fight, when driven from the home of
his youth into an unknown wilderness, to become thereafter a by-word and
a reproach among the nations? “Indians,” said we, “we would have your
lands, and if you will not be satisfied with the gewgaws we proffer, out
powder and balls will teach you that power is but another name for
right.” And this is the principle that has guided the white man ever
since in his warfare against the aborigines of our country. Oh, I cannot
believe that we shall ever be a happy and prosperous people, until the
King of kings shall have forgiven us for having, with a yoke of tyranny,
almost annihilated an hundred nations.
A portion of this afternoon I whiled away on a little island, which
attracted my attention by its charming variety of foliage. It is not
more than one hundred feet across at the widest part, and is encircled
by a yellow sand-bank, and shielded by a regiment of variegated rocks.
But what could I find there to interest me, it may be inquired. My
answer is this: That island, hidden in one of the bays of Horicon, is an
Insect city, and more populous than was Rome in the days of her glory.
There the honey-bee has his oaken tower, the wasp and humble-bee their
grassy nests, the spider his den, the butterfly his hammock, the
grasshopper his domain, the beetle and cricket and hornet their decayed
stump, and the toiling ant her palace of sand. There they were born,
there they flourish and multiply, and there they die, symbolizing the
career and destiny of man. I was a “distinguished stranger” in that
city, and I must confess that it gratified my ambition to be welcomed
with such manifestations of regard as the inhabitants thought proper to
bestow. My approach was heralded by the song of a kingly bee; and when I
had thrown myself upon a mossy bank, multitudes of people gathered
round, and, with their eyes intently fixed upon me, stood still, and let
“expressive silence muse my praise.” To the “natives” I was emphatically
a source of astonishment; and as I wished to gather instruction from the
event, I wondered in my heart whether I would be a _happier_ man if my
presence in a human city should create a kindred excitement. At any rate
it would be a “great excitement on a small capital.”
While quietly eating my dinner this noon, in the shady recess of an
island near Black Mountain, I was startled by the yell of a peck of
hounds coming down one of its ravines. I knew that the chase was after a
deer, so I waited in breathless anxiety for his appearance. Five minutes
had hardly elapsed before I discovered a noble buck at bay on the
extreme summit of a bluff which extended into the lake. There were five
dogs yelping about him, but the “antlered monarch” fought them like a
hero. His hoof was the most dangerous weapon he could wield, and it
seemed to me that the earth actually trembled every time that he struck
at his enemies. Presently, to my great joy, one of the hounds was
killed, and another so disabled, that he retired from the contest. But
the hunters made their appearance, and I knew that the scene would soon
come to a tragic close. And when the buck beheld them, I could not but
believe that over his face a “tablet of _agonizing_ thoughts was
traced,” for he fell upon his knees, then made a sudden wheel, and with
a frightful bound, as a ball passed through his heart, cleared the rock
and fell into the lake far below. The waters closed over him, and
methought that the waves of Horicon and the leaves of the forest
murmured a requiem above the grave of the wilderness king. I turned away
with a tear in my eye, and partly resolved that I would never again have
a dog for my friend, or respect the character of a hunter; but then I
looked into the crystal waters of the lake, and thought of the _beam_ in
my own eye, and stood convicted of a kindred cruelty.
One of the most singular precipices overlooking Horicon is about five
miles from the outlet, and known as Rogers’ Slide. It is some four
hundred feet high, and at one point not a fissure or sprig can be
discerned to mar the polished surface of the rock till it reaches the
water. Once on a time in the winter, the said Rogers was pursued by a
band of Indians to this spot, where, after throwing down his knapsack,
he carefully retraced the steps of his snow-shoes for a short distance,
and descending the hill by a circuitous route, continued his way across
the frozen lake. The Indians, on coming to the jumping-off-place,
discovered their enemy on the icy plain; but when they saw the neglected
knapsack below, and no signs of returning footsteps where they stood,
they thought the devil must be in the man, and gave up the pursuit.
The most famous, and one of the most beautiful islands in this lake, is
Diamond Island, so called from the fact that it abounds in crystallized
quartz. It is half a mile in length, but the last place in the world
which would be thought of as the scene of a battle. It is memorable for
the attack made by the Americans on the British, who had a garrison
there, in 1777. The American detachment was commanded by Col. Brown, and
being elated with his recent triumphs on Lake Champlain, he resolved to
attack Diamond Island. The battle was bloody, and the British fought
like brave men “long and well”; the Americans were defeated, and this
misfortune was followed by the sufferings of a most painful retreat over
the almost impassable mountains between the Lake and what is now
Whitehall. While wandering about the island it was a difficult matter
for me to realize, that it had ever resounded with the roar of cannon,
the dismal wail of war, and the shout of victory. That spot is now
covered with woods, whose shadowy groves are the abode of a thousand
birds, forever singing a song of peace or love, as if to condemn the
ambition and cruelty of man.
In the vicinity of French Mountain is an island which is celebrated as
the burial place of a rattle-snake hunter, named Belden. From all that I
can learn, he must have been a strange mortal indeed. His birth-place
and early history were alike unknown. When he first made his appearance
at this Lake, his only companions were a brotherhood of rattlesnakes, by
exhibiting which he professed to have obtained his living; and it is
said that, during the remainder of his life, he acquired a handsome sum
of money by selling the oil and gall of his favorite reptile. And I have
recently been told that the present market price of a fat snake, when
dead, is not less than half a dollar. Another mode peculiar to old
Belden for making money, was to suffer himself to be bitten, at some
tavern, after which he would return to his cabin to apply the remedy,
when he would come forth again just as good as new. But he was not
always to be a solemn trifler. For a week had the old man been missing,
and on a pleasant August morning, his body was found on the island
alluded to, sadly mutilated and bloated, and it was certain that he had
died actually surrounded with rattlesnakes. His death-bed became his
grave, and rattlesnakes were his only watchers,—and thus endeth the
story of his life.
But this reminds me of two little adventures. The other day as I was
seated near the edge of a sand bar, near the mouth of a brook, sketching
a group of trees and the sunset clouds beyond, I was startled by an
immense black snake, that landed at my side, and pursued its way
directly under my legs, upon which my drawing-book was resting. Owing to
my perfect silence, the creature had probably looked upon me as a mere
stump. But what was my surprise a few moments after, when reseated in
the same place, to find another snake, and that a large spotted adder,
passing along the same track the former had pursued. The first fright
had almost disabled me from using the pencil, but when the second came,
I gave a lusty yell, and forgetful of the fine arts, started for home on
the keen run.
At another time, when returning from a fishing excursion, in a boat,
accompanied by a couple of greenhorns, we discovered on the water, near
Tongue Mountain, an immense rattlesnake, with his head turned towards
us. As the oarsman in the bow of the boat struck at him with his oar,
the snake coiled round it, and the fool was in the very act of dropping
the devilish thing in my lap at the stern of the boat. I had heard the
creature rattle, and not knowing what I did, as he hung suspended over
me, overboard I went, and did not look behind till I had reached the
land. The consequence was, that for one while I was perfectly disgusted
even with Lake Horicon, and resolved to leave it without delay. The
snake was killed without doing any harm, however, but such a blowing up
as I gave the greenhorn actually made his hair stand straight with fear.
One more snake story and I’ll stop. On the north side of Black Mountain
is a cluster of some half-dozen houses, in a vale, which spot is called
the Bosom, but from what cause I do not know. The presiding geniuses of
the place are a band of girls, weighing two hundred pounds a piece, who
farm it with their fathers for a living, but whose principal _amusement_
is rattlesnake hunting. Their favorite playground is the notorious cliff
on Tongue Mountain, where they go with naked feet (rowing their own
boats across the Lake), and pull out by their tails from the rocks the
pretty playthings, and, snapping them to death, lay them away in a
basket as trophies of their skill. I was told that in one day last year
they killed the incredible number of eleven hundred. What delicious
wives would these Horicon ladies make! Now that the Florida Indians have
been driven from their country by bloodhounds, would it not be a good
idea for Congress to secure the services of these amazons for the
purpose of exterminating the rattlesnakes upon our mountains. This
latter movement would be the most ridiculous, but the inhumanity of the
former is without a parallel.
A clear and tranquil summer night, and I am alone on the pebbly beach of
this paragon of lakes. The countless hosts of heaven are beaming upon me
with a silent joy, and more impressive and holy than a poet’s dream, are
the surrounding mountains, as they stand reflected in the unruffled
waters. Listen! what sound is that, so like the wail of a spirit? Only a
loon, the lonely night-watcher of Horicon, whose melancholy moan, as it
breaks the profound stillness, carries my fancy back to the olden Indian
times, ere the white man had crossed the ocean. All these mountains and
this beautiful Lake were then the heritage of a brave and noble-hearted
people, who made war only upon the denizens of the forest, whose lives
were peaceful as a dream, and whose manly forms, decorated with the
plumes of the eagle, the feathers of the scarlet bird, and the robe of
the bounding stag, tended but to make the scenery of the wilderness
beautiful as an earthly Eden. Here was the quiet wigwam village, and
there the secluded abode of the thoughtful chief. Here, unmolested, the
Indian child played with the spotted fawn, and the “Indian lover wooed
his dusky mate;” here the Indian hunter, in the “sunset of his life,”
watched, with holy awe, the sunset in the west, and here the ancient
Indian prophetess sung her uncouth but religious chant. Gone,—all, all
gone,—and the desolate creature of the waves, now pealing forth another
wail, seems the only memorial that they have left behind. There,—my
recent aspirations are all quelled, I can walk no farther to
night;—there is a tear in my eye and a sadness in my soul, and I must
seek my home. It is such a blessed night, that it seems almost sinful
that a blight should rest upon the spirit of man; yet on mine a gloom
will sometimes fall, nor can I tell from whence the cloud that makes me
wretched. To prayer!!
Here endeth a lover’s tribute to the sky-blue and ice-cold Horicon.