LAKE GEORGE AND TICONDEROGA.
The Sun of Morning hurls himself in blazing splendour o’er thy crystal waters, beautiful Horicon, as we float upon thy placid bosom, not as of yore, in feathery canoe, but in gaily-coloured bark, drawn by Steam Spirit, as he vainly strives to break his fiery prison. See, how he puffs and pants in the fierce embrace of the glowing element; in furious efforts dragging us onward with frantic swiftness, e’en as the frightened steed, the vehicle wildly bounding after him. As the valve of safety opens, hear the shriek of mad delight, with which exultingly he proclaims his freedom;—now, the iron portal closed, how like Sampson in the Prison Mill, struggling, giant-like, he again applies him to his toil. Imprisoned Spirit! there is no help for thee. Sweat thou must, and pant, and groan, till, like thy fellow-labourer, man, released from fire fetter, as he of earth, resolved to pure ether, thou shalt float again free and delighted in the clear elements above!
Ho! brother spirit, tarry, tarry—wait thou a little ’till I join thee,—then, how gallantly we’ll ride! Couched on summer clouds, lazily we’ll float: or, glancing on sun rays, shoot swift as thought, ’mid the bright worlds rolling in sublimity above us. We’llbathe in the Moon’s cold splendour, fan in the sultry heat of crimson Mars, slide upon Saturn’s eternal snows, or joyously gambolling along the Milky Way, we’ll chase the starry Serpent to his den. Ho! brother spirit;—but, we must bide our time—madly now in wild career, thou sweep’st the placid lake from under us.
But whom have we here? A sturdy hunter in homespun clad, with his long rifle—his broad-chested hounds in quiet, sleeping at his feet; our fellow-passenger, ’till landed on some mountain side, he follows his sylvan war. Clear animal health and vigour shine from each lineament—with what open, unsuspicious manhood—what boundless freedom he comports himself. Ha! what is it, hound? What is it? Why dost shake thy pendant ears and gaze so keenly in the distance—and why that plaintive howl? Ay, ay, hunter, thy practised eye hath caught it. On yon wooded island to the windward—a noble buck with graceful form and branching antlers. He sees us not, but the dog’s quick senses have caught his scent upon the passing wind. Still, boy, still! Pilot, put her a little more under the island. Hunter, lend me thy rifle—launch the canoe. Come, hunter—peace—peace—keep the dogs on board; paddle for yonder point—now we shoot upon the pebbly beach—now make her fast to this dead log. We’ll steal gently through the woods and come upon him unawares. Softly—press thosevines away; whist—avoid the rustling of the branches; here, creep through these bushes—tread lightly on the fallen leaves—you’ll mire upon that swampy bottom. Hush—hush—tread softly—that crackling branch! He lifts his head—he looks uneasily about him—stand quiet. Now he browses again; get a little nearer—we are within distance. I’ll try him—click. Back go the antlers—the cocking of the rifle has alarmed him—he’s off! Here goes, hit or miss—crack—he jumps ten feet in the air. I’ve missed him—he bounds onward—no—yes—by Jove! he’s down—he’s up again—he plunges forward—he falls again—he rises—falls—he struggles to his knees—he——falls. Hurrah! he’s ours—quick—quick—thycouteau de chasse, we’ll make sure of him. Stop—stop. Poor deer! andIhave murdered thee, for mysporthave murdered thee—have taken from thee the precious boon of life—with cruelty have broken the silver chord, which the beggar’s blunt knife can sever, but not the jewelled fingers of the monarch again rejoin. There—there, thou liest, true to the Great Master’s picture—
“The big round tears course down thy innocent nose in piteous chase,And thy smooth leathern sides pant almost to bursting.”
“The big round tears course down thy innocent nose in piteous chase,And thy smooth leathern sides pant almost to bursting.”
“The big round tears course down thy innocent nose in piteous chase,And thy smooth leathern sides pant almost to bursting.”
“The big round tears course down thy innocent nose in piteous chase,
And thy smooth leathern sides pant almost to bursting.”
Thy life blood flows apace—e’en now thy large soft eye dims in the sleep of death—andIhave slain thee. Thou had’st nought other enemy than the gaunt coward wolf, or fanged serpent; him, with light leapingbounds, thou laugh’st to scorn, as his long howl struck on thy quick ear; and the sullen rattler, with many blows of thy tiny polished hoof thou dash’st to pieces, ere from his deadly coil, his flattened head, with glistening tongue and protruded fangs, could reach thee. Oh! I shame me of my miscreant fellowship. E’en the poisonous serpent, with quick vibrating tail, did give thee warning—Istole upon thee unawares. Hunter! take again thy weapon; for thee—’tis thy vocation—perhaps ’tis well—the game is thine. I entreat of thee, let not my innocent victim again reproach my eyesight. So! here is the canoe—we again embark—we rock against the steamer’s side—and now again rush onward in our swift career. Islands glide by us in countless numbers. The frightened trout scales in quick alarm from the splashing waterwheels, while echo, mocking their watery clamour, wakes the old mountains from their sleepy stillness, who again, like drowsy giants, relapse into repose as we leave them far behind us.
Ticonderoga, we approach thy shore. Ay—true to appointment—here are the horses. Mount—on we go, over hillock and valley, through brake, through brier, through mud, through water, through swamp, through mire; we gallop over the broad green peninsula—leap the entrenchments—thread the lines. Here is the citadel—descend the moat; the wild dank weeds and furze o’ertop our heads. Ay—here’s achasm—a breach in the ancient walls; spur up—spur up; now we draw rein within the very centre of the blackened ruins. How lovely the view, from the soft undulating promontory—the lake bathing its sides; Horicon’s mountains o’erlooking it on this—the stalwart yeomen of the verdant State, free as the winds, on that! Oh! Ticonderoga, midst these uncultivated wilds—these silent mountains—various and eventful hath been thy history.
Ho! Old Time—how calmly strok’st thou thy long greybeard, as seated on the broken ruins, thou ponderest their past! Come! come, old father! ascend this crumbling battlement—lean on my shoulder—I,as yet, am straightest—I will hold thy scythe. Now point to me the drama which past generations have acted upon this green peninsula.
What do I see? I see the savage life—the light canoe floating on the blue lake—painted warriors spearing the salmon, chasing the deer upon the plain, dragging the surly bear in triumph,—I see the swift paddle chase—I hear the laugh of children—the voice of patient squaws—the distant yell as rounding the point, the returning braves bemoan the dead left on the war-path, and as the shades of evening close, the sun in golden radiance retiring o’er the mountains, I see them congregate in wigwams in the cove.—The blue smoke rises gently o’er the tree tops, and all is still—quiet and serenity obtain—the whip-poor-will, and cricket, amid the drowsy hum of insect life, keep melancholy cadence.
“Stranger! venture not near them—the peace is treacherous. No civilized challenge shall give thee warning, but the cruel war-shriek wildly ring o’er the insensate brain as the light tomahawk trembles in thy cloven skull.”
Wild mist rolls onward—I hear sounds of distant music—the mellow horn—the clashing cymbals break from its midst. Ah! it rises. A gallant army, in proud array, with flags and banners—bright glittering arms, and ponderous artillery. With alacrity they effect their landing. They fraternise with the red-skinned warriors. Their military lines run round like magic. I feel, e’en where we stand, huge walls, grim towers rise, and bastions springing up around us—the spotless drapeau blanc, high o’er our heads, floats in the breeze—wild chansons of love, of war, of la belle France, mix with mirth and revelry.
“Stranger, ’tis the quick ‘Qui Vive’ that doth arrest thy footstep.”
Ay—now, Old Time, the mystic curtain again rolls upwards. What do I see?—Red-coated soldiers advancing in proud battalia through the forest glades, the sunbeams dancing on their bayonets. I hear the sound of bugles—the clamorous roll of drums, the groaning jar and creak of heavy-wheeled artillery. Spread along the lines, covered with sharp abattis and water moat, I see the impatient Gaul, with savage ally in ambushment, await their coming—they advance with desperatevalour,—they ford the ditch, they hew the sharpened trees with axes. In vain—the balls like hail, from unseen foes murderously destroy them—their leader falls—hark! the bugle with melancholy wail sounds their retreat.
Again, Old Time, an interval—again red-coated soldiers! again groaning artillery! Look up!—the drapeau blanc has vanished—the meteor flag streams proudly from the flag-staff.
“Stranger, ’tis the Anglo-Saxon’s rough challenge that gruffly breaks upon thy ear.”
Long peace and silence—Old Father, now obtain—the sentry sleeps upon his post—women and children play upon the ramparts—but, hark! what is it far in the distance that I hear! the sound of battle! the fusilade of musketry—the roar of cannon! I see Bunker’s Hill from light barricade sweep down her thousands—I see hurrying forward the hardy husbandman with hastily caught musket—the robed divine—the youth—the old man—cheered on by mothers—sisters—tender wives,—to strike
“For their altars and their fires,God, and their native homes.”
“For their altars and their fires,God, and their native homes.”
“For their altars and their fires,God, and their native homes.”
“For their altars and their fires,
God, and their native homes.”
I see new Nation’s symbol—Stars and Stripes—and watch, now in the midnight darkness through the fortress moat—how advance that fearless band of men—Lo! in silence they penetrate the fortress’ centre. Hark! what voice rouses the astonished officer, asstarting from his slumbers, he meets, close at his throat, the bayonet’s threatening point. “Surrender!” “To whom?” “The Great Jehovah, and the Continental Congress!”
Now floats the spangled banner proudly o’er the citadel—patriotic men assemble—armies make temporary resting place—invalid soldiers breathe the health-restoring air, and age wears on. Ha!—was that a meteor flashing from Defiance Mountain summit? And there, another?—Plunge! plunge! Cannon shot! screaming, yelling, bounding i’ th’ very centre of the fortress.
“’Tis the Englishman with his artillery.”
Quick, quick!—St. Clair, withdraw the army—the position is no longer tenable. Strike not that flag!—palsied be the hand that so degrades the flag of Freedom—let it shake defiance to the last! Quick, the magazine—the train—Ha, hah! Ætna, Vesuvius like, the explosion.
Hallo! Old Time!—Ho! thou of the scythe!—What! hast gone? Am I!—ay, I am alone! Nought but the blackened ruins, and the crumbling ramparts, in silence surrounding me.