Lake Horicon—Sketches of its scenery—Information for
anglers—Sabbath-day Point—War memories—The Turret City—Death
of a deer—Roger’s Slide—Diamond Island—The snake-charmer—Snake
stories—Night on the Horicon.
Lyman’s Tavern. June.
If circumstances alone could make one poetical, then might you expect
from me on this occasion a paper 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 which did not
disappoint me after reading the descriptions of travellers. I verily
believe, that in point of mere beauty, it has not its superior 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 situated in the centre of the lake,
at a place 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 steam-boat, commanded by a gentleman, passes through the
Lake every morning and evening (excepting Sundays), and though a
convenient affair to the traveller, it is an eye-sore to the admirer of
the wilderness.
Identified with this boat is an eccentric man, named “Old Dick,” who
amuses the tourist, and collects an occasional shilling by exhibiting a
number of rattlesnakes. 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 chapter the following passages.
[Illustration: LAKE HORICON.]
Six pencil 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 colour was of that delicate dreamy
blue, created by a sunlight atmosphere, with the sun directly in front.
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, which
was made quite 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,
while from the chimney of the house 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 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 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 salmon-trout, 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 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 better for the
table than 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 neighbouring barbarians have
been accustomed to spear them by torch-light; and if the heartless
business does not soon 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; are taken by
trolling and with a drop line, and afford fine sport. 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, where 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, but
magnificent. Only look upon the picture.
It is the sunset hour, and before us, 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 back-ground 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 there-after
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, our 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. 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 a 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 should 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 pack 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 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 course
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 during the Revolution. The American detachment was commanded by
Colonel 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, for ever 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 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 rattle-snakes, 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 favourite 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 by 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 man actually made his hair stand
straight with fear.
One more snake story and I’ll conclude. 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 favourite 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, they
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! Since 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-washer 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 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.