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 beLake 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 theFrench 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 havelearned 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 thewater, 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 fasteneda 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 attractiveobject, 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 forminga 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, whichwere 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 peoplegathered 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 ahappierman 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, andanother 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 ofagonizingthoughts 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 thebeamin 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 itreaches 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 DiamondIsland. 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 ahandsome 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. Thesnake 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 principalamusementis 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 exterminatingthe 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 thequiet 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.
Of all the towns which I have ever seen, Burlington in Vermont is decidedly the most beautiful. It stands on the shore of Lake Champlain, and from the water to its eastern extremity is a regular elevation, which rises to the height of some three hundred feet. Its streets are broad and regularly laid out, the generality of its buildings elegant, and its inhabitants well educated, refined, and wealthy. My visit here is now about to close, and I cannot but follow the impulses of my heart, by giving you a brief account of its principal picturesque attraction, and some information concerning a few of its public men.
As a matter of course, my first subject is Lake Champlain. In approaching it from the south, and particularly from Horicon, one is apt to form a wrong opinion of its picturesque features; but one cannot pass through it withoutbeing lavish in its praise. It extends, in a straight line from south to north, somewhat over a hundred miles, and lies between the States of Vermont and New York. It is the gateway between the country on the St. Lawrence and that on the Hudson, and it is therefore extensively navigated by vessels and steamboats. The steamer Burlington, Captain Sherman, is unquestionably the finest boat in the Union; not on account of its size, but considering the admirable discipline with which it is commanded. Lake Champlain is surrounded with flourishing villages, whose population is generally made up of New Englanders and Canadians. Its width varies from half a mile to thirteen, but its waters are muddy, excepting in the vicinity of Burlington. Its islands are not numerous, but one of them, Grand Isle, is sufficiently large to support four villages. Its scenery may be denominated bold; rising from the water on the west are the Adirondack Mountains, and at some distance on the east the beautiful Green Mountains, whose gloriouscommandersare Mansfield Mountain and the Camel’s Hump. Owing to the width of the Lake at Burlington, and the beauty of the western mountains, the sunsets that are herevisible are exceedingly superb. O that I could strike the lyre of the poet, that I might celebrate in song some of those which have transported my spirit to the realms of bliss. The classic associations of this Lake are uncommonly interesting. Here are the moss-covered ruins of Ticonderoga and Crown Point, whose present occupants are the snake, the lizzard, and toad. Leaden and iron balls, broken bayonets, and English flints, have I picked up on their ramparts, which I cannot look upon without thinking of death-struggles and the horrible shout of war. And there too is Plattsburg, in whose waters Commodore McDonough vindicated the honor of the Stars and Stripes of Freedom. As to the fishing of this lake, I have but a word to say. Excepting trout, every variety of fresh-water fish is found here in abundance; but the water is not pure, which is ever a serious drawback to my enjoyment in wetting the line. Lake Champlain received its present name from a French nobleman, who discovered it in 1609, and who died at Quebec in 1635.
The associations I am now to speak of, are of a personal character; and the first, of the three names before me, is that of JosephTorrey, the present Professor of Moral and Intellectual Philosophy in the University of Vermont. As a citizen, he is one of the most amiable and beloved of men. As one of the faculty of the University, he occupies a high rank, and is a particular favorite with all his students. A pleasing evidence of the latter fact I noticed a few days since, when it was reported among the students that the Professor had returned from a visit to the Springs for his health. I was in company with some half-dozen of them at the time, and these are the remarks they made. “How is his health”? “I hope he has improved”! “Now shall I be happy,—for ever since he went away, the recitation-room has been a cheerless place to me.” “Now shall I be advised as to my essay”! “Now shall my poem be corrected”! “Now, in my troubles, shall I have the sympathies of a true friend”! Much more meaning is contained in these simple phrases than what meets the eye. Surely, if any man is to be envied, it is he who has a place in the affections of all who know him. As a scholar, too, Professor Torrey occupies an exalted station, as will be proven to the world in due time. He has never published anything butan occasional article for a review, and the memoir of President Marsh (who was his predecessor in the University), as contained in the admirable volume of his Remains, which should occupy a conspicuous place in the library of every American scholar and Christian. The memoir is indeed a rare specimen of that kind of writing,—beautifully written, and pervaded by a spirit of refinement that is delightful. But I was mostly interested in Mr. Torrey as a man of taste in the Fine Arts. In everything but the mere execution, he is a genuine artist, and long may I remember the counsels of his experience and knowledge. A course of Lectures on the Arts forms a portion of his instruction as Professor, and I trust that they will eventually be published for the benefit of our country. He has also translated, from the German of Schelling, a most admirable discourse entitled “Relation of the Arts of Design to Nature;” a copy of which ought to be in the possession of every young artist. Mr. Torrey has been an extensive traveller in Europe, and being a lover and an acute observer of everything connected with Literature and Art, it is a perfect luxury to hear him expatiate upon “the wonders he has seen.”He also examines everything with the eye of a philosopher, and his conclusions are ever of practical utility. Not only can he analyze in a profound manner the principles of metaphysical learning, but, with the genuine feelings of a poet, descant upon the triumphs of poetic genius, or point out the mind-charms of a Claude or Titian. He is—but I will not say all that I would, for I fear that at our next meeting he would chide me for my boyish personalities. Let me conclude then with the advice, that, if you ever chance to meet the Professor in your travels, you must endeavor to secure an introduction, which I am sure you cannot but ever remember with unfeigned pleasure.
John Henry Hopkins, D. D., Bishop of Vermont, is another of the principal attractions of Burlington. The history of his life, the expression of his countenance, and his general deportment, all speak of the “peace of God.” Considering the number and diversity of his acquirements, I think him a very remarkable man. He is not only in point of character well worthy of his exalted station as Bishop, but as a theologian learned and eloquent to an uncommon degree. His contributions to theworld of Letters are of rare value, having published volumes entitled “Christianity Vindicated;” “The Primitive Church;” “The Primitive Creed;” “The Church of Rome;” “British Reformation;” and “Letters to the Clergy.” His style of writing is persuasive, vigorous, and clear, and all his conclusions seem to have been formed in full view of the Bible, which is a virtue worth noticing in these degenerate days. Unlike the bigoted followers of Pusey, he is acharitableEpiscopalian,—deserving and enjoying the love and esteem of every orthodox denomination. It is because of his honesty and soundness, I suppose, that some of his own church are disaffected with his straight-forward conduct. Bishop Hopkins, as a divine, is of the same school with the late Bishop White, and therefore among the most eminently wise and good of his age and country.
The Bishop of Vermont is also a man of remarkable taste with regard to Architecture, Music, and Painting; in which departments, as an amateur, he has done himself great credit. Not only did he plan and superintend the building of an edifice for his recent school, but has published an interesting book on Architecture,wherein he appears to be as much athomeas a Christopher Wren. Knowing the market to be full of sentimental nonsense in the way of songs, he composed, for the benefit of his own children, a few with a moral tone, which he also set to music, and are now published as a worthy tribute to his fine feelings and the correctness of his ear. But he ranks still higher as a man of taste in the capacity of a Painter. The Vermont Drawing Book, which he published, is an evidence of his ability as a draftsman. The family portraits which adorn his walls, prove him to have an accurate eye for color, and an uncommon knowledge of effect;—and his oil sketches of scenes from Nature, give token of an ardent devotion to Nature. But the best, in my opinion, of all his artistical productions, is a picture representing “our Saviour blessing little children.” Its conception, grouping, and execution, are all of very great merit, and I am persuaded will one day be looked upon with peculiar interest by the lovers and judges of art in this country. Though done in water colors, and considered by the artist as a mere sketch for a larger picture, there are some heads in it that would have called forth a compliment even from thelamented Allston. Would that he could be influenced to send it, for exhibition, to our National Academy! And thus endeth my humble tribute of applause to a gifted man.
I now come to the Hon. George P. Marsh, of whom, if I were to follow the bent of my feelings, I could write a complete volume. Though yet in the early prime of life, he is a sage in learning and wisdom. After leaving college he settled in Burlington, where he has since resided, dividing his time between his legal profession and the retirement of his study. With a large and liberal heart, he possesses all the endearing and interesting qualities which belong to the true and accomplished gentleman. Like all truly great men, he is exceedingly retiring and modest in his deportment, and one of that rare class who are never excited by the voice of fame. About two years ago, almost without his knowledge, he was elected to a seat in the lower house of Congress, where he at once began to make an impression as a Statesman. Though few have been his public speeches, they are remarkable for sound political logic, and the classic elegance of their language. As an orator, he is not showy and passionate, but plain, forcible, and earnest.
But it is in the walks of private life, that Mr. Marsh is to be mostly admired. His knowledge of the Fine Arts is probably more extensive than that of any other man in this country, and his critical taste is equal to his knowledge; but that department peculiarly his hobby, is Engraving. He has a perfect passion for line engravings; and it is unquestionably true, that his collection is the most valuable and extensive in the Union. He is well acquainted with the history of this art from the earliest period, and also with its various mechanical ramifications. He is as familiar with the lives and peculiar styles of the Painters and Engravers of antiquity, as with his household affairs; and when he talks to you on his favorite theme, it is not to display his learning, but to make you realize the exalted attributes and mission of universal Art.
As an author, Mr. Marsh has done but little in extent, but enough to secure a seat beside such men as Edward Everett, with whom he has been compared. He has published (among his numerous things of the kind) a pamphlet entitled “The Goths in New-England,” which is a fine specimen of chastewriting and beautiful thought; also another on the “History of the Mechanic Arts,” which contains a great deal of rare and important information. He has also written an “Icelandic Grammar” of 150 pages, which created quite a sensation among the learned of Europe a few years ago. As to his scholarship,—it can be said of him, that he is amasterin some twelve of the principal modern and ancient languages. He has not learned them merely for the purpose of being considered a literary prodigy, but to multiply his means of acquiring information, which information is intended to accomplish some substantial end. He is not a visionary, but a devoted lover of truth, whether it be in History, Poetry, or the Arts.
But my chief object in speaking of this gentleman, was to introduce a passing notice of his Library, which is undoubtedly the most unique in the country. The building itself, which stands near his dwelling, is of brick, and arranged throughout with great taste. You enter it, as it was often my privilege, and find yourself in a perfect wilderness of gorgeous books, and portfolios of engravings. Of books Mr. Marsh owns some five thousand volumes. His collection of Scandinavian Literature issupposed to be the most complete that can be found out of the Northern Kingdoms. To give you an idea of this literary treasure, I will mention a few of the rarest specimens. In old Northern Literature, here may be found theArna Magnæaneditions of old Icelandic Sagas, all those ofSuhm, all those of the Royal Society of Northern Antiquaries, and in fact all those printed at Copenhagen and Stockholm, as well as in Iceland, with scarcely an exception. This Library also contains the great editions ofHeimskringla, the twoEddas,Kongs-Skugg-Sjo,Konunga,Styrilse, the Scriptores Rerum Danicarum, Scriptores Rerum Svecicarum, Dansk Magazin, the two complete editions ofOlaus Magnus,Saxo Grammaticus, the works of Bartholinus, Torfaus, Schöning, Suhm, Pontoppidan, Grundtvig, Petersen, Rask, theAplanticaof Rudbeck, the great works ofSjöborg, Liljegren, Geijer, Cronholm, and Strinnholm, all the collections of old Icelandic, Danish, and Swedish laws, and almost all the writers, ancient and modern, who have treated of the language, literature, or history of the ancient Scandinavian race.
In modern Danish Literature, here may befound the works of Holberg, Wessel, Ewald, Hejberg, Baggesen, Ochlenschlseger, Nyerup, Ingemann, with other celebrated authors; in Swedish, those of Leopold Oxenstjerna, Bellmann, Franzen, Atterbom, Tegner, Frederika Bremer, and indeed almost all thebelles lettresauthors of Sweden, the Transactions of the Royal Academy of Science, (more than one hundred volumes,) those of the Swedish Academy, and of the Royal Academy of Literature, and many collections in documentary history, besides numerous other works.
In Spanish and Portuguese, besides many modern authors, here are numerous old chronicles, such as the Madrid collection of old Spanish Chronicles in seven volumes 4to.; the PortugueseLivros ineditos da Historia Portugueza, five volumes folio; Fernam Lopez, de Brito, Duarte Nunez de Liam, Damiam de Goes, de Barros, Castanheda, Resende, Andrada, Osorio; also, de Menezes, Mariana, and others of similar character. In Italian, most of the best authors, who have acquired a European reputation; several hundred volumes of French works, including many of the ancient chronicles; a fine collection in German, including many editions ofReyneke de Vos, the Nibelungen, and other works of the middle ages. In classical literature, good editions of the most celebrated Greek and Latin authors; and in English, a choice collection of the best authors, among which should be mentioned, as rare in this country, Lord Berners’ Froissart, Roger Ascham, the writings of King James I., John Smith’s Virginia (edition of 1624), Amadis de Gaul, and Palmerin of England. In lexicography, the best dictionaries and grammars in all the languages of Western Europe, and many biographical dictionaries and other works of reference in various languages. Many works too, are here, on astrology, alchemy, witchcraft, and magic; and a goodly number of works on the situation of Plato’s Atlantis and Elysian Fields, such as Rudbeck’s Atlantica, Goropius Becanus, de Grave Republique des Champs Elysées, and a host of others in every department of learning, the mere mention of which would cause the bookworm a thrill of delight.
In the department of Art, Mr. Marsh possesses the Musée Français, Musée Royal, (proof before letters) Liber Veritatis, Houghton Galley, Florence Gallery, Publications ofDilettanti Society, and many other illustrated works and collections of engravings; the works of Bartsch, Ottley, Mengs, Visconti, Winchelmann, and other writers on the history and theory of Art; old illustrated works, among which are the original editions of Teuerdanck and Der Weiss Kunig; and many thousand steel engravings, including many originals by Albert Dürer, Luke of Leyden, Lucas Cranach, Aldegreuer, Wierx, the Sadelers Nauteuil, (among others the celebrated Louis XIV., size of life, and a proof of the Cadet a la Perle, by Masson,) Edelink, Drevet, Marc Antonio, and other old engravers of the Italian school, Callot, Ostade, Rembrandt, (including a most superb impression of the Christ Healing the Sick, the hundred guilder Piece, and the portrait of Renier Ansloo,) Waterloo, Woollett, Sharp, Strange, Earlom, Wille, Ficquet, Schmidt, Longhi, and Morghen; in short, nearly all the works of all the greatest masters in chalcography, from the time of Dürer to the present day. It were folly for me to praise these various works, and I have alluded to them merely for the purpose of letting you know something of the taste and possessions of Mr. Marsh. His library isone of the most glorious places it has ever been my fortune to visit, and the day that I became acquainted with the man, I cannot but consider as an era in my life. Morning, noon, and evening did I linger with the master-spirits of olden time, collected in that delightful place, and though I often stood in mute admiration of their genius, I was sometimes compelled to shed a tear, as I thought of the miserable destiny, as a writer or painter, which will probably be mine. Thank God, there is no such thing asambitionin that blessed world above the stars, which I hope to attain,—no ambition to harass the soul,—for then will it be free to revel, and forever, in its holy and godlike conceptions. But a truce to this strain of thought, and also to the Lions of Burlington, of whom I now take my leave with a respectful bow.
P. S. As you may probably be induced to visit Burlington, after what I have written, I cannot leave the place without mentioning two more of its personal attractions—Judge Meech the farmer, and John H. Peck the merchant. Of the former, who resides just without the town, I would remark, that hismortal part is six feet and a half high, and weighs nearly four hundred pounds, and a perfect counterpart in body as well as mind of the immortal Jack Falstaff. He is the proprietor of the largest grazing farm in New England, which contains three thousand acres, and at the present moment gives food to nearly four thousand sheep. The Judge is one of the most hospitable of men, and having spent a portion of his life as a trapper in the wilderness, and another as a member of Congress, there is no end to his fund of stories, which he tells with an admirable grace. One concerning himself, is to the following effect. Once on a time, when young, poor, and somewhat idle in his habits, he chanced to stop at a country store where he was known, for the purpose of purchasing a handkerchief, which the shopkeeper refused to let him have upon credit. The youth was so exasperated, that he swore he would one day purchase the whole property of the man; and it is a singular fact, that the identical store, and all the possessions of that merchant, are now incorporated in the immense estate of Judge Meech. A similar story is told of Mr. Astor (who once dealt in furs on Lake Champlainwith the Judge) and the Astor House, so that it would actually seem as if some people are born to become rich. And what is the strangest thing of all, Mr. Meech is a great trout fisherman, and ofcoursea man of genius. About a month ago he caught one thousand in three days, which I can readily believe, but I cannot vouch for the truth of the statement I heard, that he ate two hundred and forty of the little fellows at one meal! Fail not to visit the Judge when you have an opportunity. He will be glad to see you, or any other honest man, and with his accomplished lady will show you every variety of flowers, and an artificial pond full of trout, and will refresh you with the rarest kinds of fruit.
Of Mr. Peck, it will not do for me to say but a single word, as he has never filled any public station, and is therefore only a private citizen. He is just such a man as I suppose William Roscoe of Liverpool to have been, according to the account of Washington Irving—a perfect gentleman, a merchant of the first rank, a lover of books and pictures, and the giver of glorious dinners. A thousand blessings rest upon his head, andupon all the gentlemen of Burlington of my acquaintance, whom I shall ever look upon as among the true nobility of our land, and therefore among the nobility of the earth.
Three loud knocks upon my bed-room door at Burlington, awakened me from “a deep dream of peace.” “The eastern stage is ready,” said my landlord, as he handed me a light; whereupon, in less than five minutes after the hour of three I was on my way to Portland, and inditing on the tablet of my memory the following disjointed stage-coach rhapsody.
A fine coach, fourteen passengers, and six superb horses. My seat is on the outside, and my eyes are on the alert for anything of peculiar interest, which I may meet with in my journey. Now does the beautiful range of the Green Mountains meet my view. The day is breaking, and lo! upon either side of me, and like the two leaders of an army, rise the peaks of Mansfield Mountain and the Camel’s Hump. Around the former the cloud-spiritsof early morning are picturing the fantastic poetry of the sky; while just above the summit of the other, may be seen the new moon and the morning star, waiting for the sun to come, like two sweet human sisters, for the smiles and kisses of a returning father. And now, as the sunbeams glide along the earth, we are in the solitude of the mountains, and the awakened mist-creatures are ascending from the cool and silent nooks in the deep ravines.
Young Dana’s description of a ship under full sail is very fine, but it does not possess the living beauty of that picture which is now before me, in those six bay horses, straining every nerve to eclipse the morning breeze. Hold your breath, for the road is hard and smooth as marble, and the extended nostrils of those matchless steeds speak of a noble pride within. There, the race is done, the victory theirs, and now, as they trot steadily along, what music in the champing of those bits and the striking of those iron-bound hoofs! Of all the soulless animals on earth, none do I love so dearly as the horse,—I sometimes am inclined to think that they have souls. I respect a noble horse, more than I do some men.Horses are the Indian chiefs of the brute creation.
The Winooski, along whose banks is the most picturesque stage route in Vermont, is an uncommonly interesting stream,—rapid, clear, and cold. It is remarkable for its falls and narrow passes, where perpendicular rocks of a hundred feet or more frown upon its solitary pools. Its chief pictorial attraction is the cataract at Waterbury, which is a deep and jagged chasm in the granite mountain, whose horrors are greatly increased by the sight and the smothered howl of an avalanche of pure white foam. On its banks, and forty miles from its outlet near Burlington, is situated Montpelier, the capital of Vermont. It is a compact town, mostly built upon two streets, and completely hemmed in by rich and cultivated mountains. Its chief attractions to my mind, however, during my short stay, was a pair of deep black eyes, only half visible under their drooping lids. O the dear, dear women, I verily believe they will be the ruin of me!
During one of my rambles near Montpelier, I discovered an isolated and abandoned dwelling, which stands upon a little plot of green, in the lap of the forest near the top of a mountain.I entered its deserted chambers, and spent a long time musing upon its solemn admonitions. The cellar had become the home of lizards and toads. The spider and cricket were masters of the hearth, where once had been spun the mountain legend, by an old man to the only child of his widowed son. They were, as I am told, the last of a long line, which once flourished in Britain, but with them their name would pass into forgetfulness. Only the years of a single generation have elapsed since then, but the dwellers upon yonder mountain are sleeping in the grave. And is this passing record of their existence the only inheritance they have left behind? Most true; but would it have beenbetterfor them, or for us, had they bequeathed to the world a noted name or immense possessions? What is our life?
The route between Montpelier and Danville lies along the Winooski, and is not less beautiful than that down the river. Its chief picture is Marshfield Waterfall. While at Montpelier a pleasure ride was got up by some of my friends, and as they were bound to the east, and I was honored with an invitation, I sent on my baggage and joined them, so that themonotony of my journey was agreeably relieved. We had our fishing-rods with us, and having stopped at the fall, we caught a fine mess of trout, which we had cooked for dinner at the next tavern on our way,—and our dessert was fine singing from the ladies, and good stories from the lips of Senator Phelps, who was of the party, and is celebrated for his conversational powers. For further particulars concerning that expedition, I would refer you to Mr. George Langdon and Lady of Montpelier, and to that pair of eyes, which I just now mentioned as having beamed upon me with a bewitching brilliancy. But alas! the dear creature is already,—excuse me, I cannot, I will not speak the hateful word. The lucky fellow ought to carry a liberal and kind soul hereafter, if he has never done so before.
At cock-crowing this morning I was again in my seat outside of the stage-coach, anxiously waiting for the mists to evaporate in the east. The sun proved to be my friend, and soon as he appeared, they vanished like a frightened troop, and he was marching up the sky in the plenitude of his glory. And then, for the first time, did my vision rest upon the White Mountains, as they reposed in the distance,like a mighty herd of camels in the solitude of the desert. In the charming valley of the Connecticut we only tarried about ten minutes, but long enough for me to hear the mower whet his scythe, the “lark sing loud and high,” and the pleasant tinkle of a cow-bell far away in a broad meadow. While there I took a sketch, wherein I introduced the father of New England rivers, and the bald peak of Mount Lafayette, with the storm-inflicted scar upon its brow. A noble monument is yonder mountain to the memory of a noble man.
While breakfasting at Littleton this morning, I came to the conclusion to leave my baggage and visit Franconia. I jumped into the stage, and after a very pleasant ride of seventeen miles, found myself far into the Notch, in the midst of whose scenery I am to repose this night. I would not have missed the tripevenfor asincerelove-smile from the girl of my former idolatry. I reached here in time to enjoy an early dinner with “mine host”; after which I sallied forth to examine the wonders of the place, but was so delighted with everything around, that I did not take time to make a single sketch. I saw theFlume, and was perfectly astonished. It is a chasm in the mountain, thirty feet wide, about a hundred deep, and some two thousand long, and as regular in its shape as if it had been cut by the hand of man. Bridging its centre is a rock of many tons weight, which one would suppose could only have been hurled there from the heavens. Through its centre flows a little brook, which soon passes over a succession of rocky slides, and which are almost as smooth and white as marble. And to cap the climax, this Flume is the centre of as perfect and holy a wilderness of scenery as could be imagined.
I have also seen (what should be the pride of the Merrimack, as it is upon one of its tributaries) the most superb pool in this whole country. The fall above it is not remarkable, but the forest-covered rocks on either side, and the pool itself, are wonderfully fine. In the first place, you must remember, that the waters of this whole region are cold as ice, and clear as possible. The pool forms a circle of about one hundred feet in diameter, and is said to be fifty feet in depth. Owing to the fall, it is the “head-quarters” of the trout, which are found all along the stream in great abundance.After I had completed a drawing, I laid aside my pencils and fixed my fishing rod. I threw the lineonlyabout two hours and caughtonlyforty-five trout, but they were real beauties, I assure you. Among them was the great-grandfather of all trout,—he wasonlyseventeen inches long, and weighedonlytwo pounds and one ounce. It does take me, and no mistake, to throw a scientific fly.
The Old Man of the Mountain, is another of the lions of this place. It is a cone-shaped mountain, (at the foot of which is a small lake,) upon whose top are some rocks, which have a resemblance to the profile of an old man. It is really a very curious affair. There the old fellow stands, as he has stood perhaps for centuries, “looking the whole world in the face.” I wonder if the thunder never frightens him! and does the lightning play around his brow without making him wink? His business there, I suppose, is to protect the “ungranted lands” of New Hampshire, or keep Isaac Hill from lecturing the White Mountains on Locofocoism. He need not trouble himself as to the first fear, for they could not be deeded even to a bear; and as to the second, I don’t believe the mountains could ever bepersuaded to go for the annexation of Texas. Every plant upon them speaks of freedom, and in their fastnesses does the eagle find a home,—their banner-symbols are the stars and stripes, and therefore they must be Whigs.
And another curiosity, which everybody goes to see, is called the Basin,—which is indeed an exquisite little spot,—fit for the abode of a very angel. It is formed in the solid rock, and though twenty feet in depth, you can see a sixpence at the bottom,—it is so wonderfully clear. But the wild beauties of this Notch, unknown to fame, are charming beyond compare. There goes the midnight warning of the clock, and I must retire. O that my dreams may be of yonder star, now just beaming with intense brightness above the dark outline of the nearest mountain.
The distance from Knight’s tavern to the western outlet of Franconia Notch is eight miles. The eastern stage was to pass through about the middle of the afternoon, so after eating my breakfast I started on, intending to enjoy a walk between the mountains. With the conceptions and feelings that were with me then, I should have been willing to die,for I was perfectly happy. Now, as I sat upon a stone to sketch a mass of foliage, a little red squirrel came within five feet of me, and commenced a terrible chattering, as if his lady-love had given him the “mitten,” and he was blowing out against the whole female sex; and now an old partridge with a score of children came tripping along the shadowy road, almost within my reach, and so fearless of my presence, that I would not have harmed one of them even for a crown. Both of these were exceedingly simple pictures, and yet they afforded me a world of pleasure. I thought of the favorite haunts of these dear creatures,—the hollow tree,—the bed of dry leaves,—the cool spring,—the mossy yellow log,—the rocky ledges overgrown with moss,—the gurgling brooklet stealing through the trees, with its fairy waterfalls in a green shadow and its spots of vivid sunlight,—and of a thousand other kindredgemsin the wonderful gallery of Nature. And now as I walked onward, peering into the gloomy recesses of the forest on either side, or fixed my eyes upon the blue sky with a few white clouds floating in their glory, many of my favorite songs were remembered, and, in a stylepeculiarlymy own, I poured them upon the air, whilst I was answered by unnumbered mountain echoes. Nothing had they to do with the place or with each other, but like the pictures around me, they were a divine food for my soul,—so that I was in the perfect enjoyment of a heavenly feast. Now, as I looked through the opening trees, I saw an eagle floating above the summit of a mighty cliff,—now, with the speed of a falling star descending far into the leafy depths, and then, slowly but surely ascending, until hidden from view by a passing cloud. Fly on, proud bird, glorious symbol of my country’s freedom! O what a god-like life is thine? Yes, thou art the “sultan of the sky,” and from thy craggy home forever lookest upon the abodes of man with indifference and scorn. The war-whoop of the Savage, the roar of artillery on the bloody battle field, and the loud boom of the ocean cannon, have fallen upon thy ear, and thou hast listened, utterly heedless as to whom belonged the victory. What strength and power in thy pinions! traversing in an hour a wider space