As Bradford gazes out in the distance, the lights now penetrating more deeply reveal in turn, George Washington and Abraham Lincoln. The clear voice of Washington repeats these significant words: "The basis of our political system is the right of the people to make and to alter their constitution of the government." Then the deep, calm voice of Lincoln is heard to say: "Government of the people, for the people, and by the people, shall not perish from the earth."
As Lincoln finishes speaking, two men in modern dress come toward the rock, looking seaward.
The first speaker:
"This was the port of entry of our Freedom.Men brought it in a box of alabasterAnd broke the box and spilled it to the West,Here on the granite wharf prepared for them.
Second speaker:
"And so we have it."
Firstspeaker:
"Have it to achieve;We have it as they had it in their day,A little in the grasp—more to achieve."
Then we hear these significant words:
"I wonder what the Pilgrims if they cameWould say to us, as Freemen? Is our freedomTheir freedom as they left it to our keeping,Or would they know their own in modern guise?
Across the back of the field to the grand triumphal strains of martial music pass the flags of the allies, so lighted that they show brilliantly. Nearer move the French and British flags, and then all wave and beckon. There follows a hush. Suddenly from far out on the Mayflower a bugle calls in the darkness and light begins to glow on the vessel, but very faintly.
Then again the voice from the Rock is heard: "The path of the Mayflower must be forever free." Forty-eight young women bear the state flags. The pageant ground is now ablaze with lights, and as the wonderful chorus that has carried you on its mighty tide of harmony dies away; the field darkens until there is only light on the Mayflower.
Again the voice from the Rock fills the place with deep sonorous tones, like celestial music, as we listen to these fitting words: "With malice toward none and charity for all it is for us to resolve that this nation under God shall have a new birth of freedom."
What is there in Europe, or the whole world, in the way of pageants that can compare with this? When we consider its import, viewed in the full, bright light of the rising sun of Liberty; wafted by the delicate electric threads of this busy commercial world which are silently conveying with a certain majesty of movement its significance, we may well say that this celebrated one of the most eventful deeds of man since time began.
"As we go back to that shadowy and evanescent period when history and culture of ancient Chaldea unroll before us, with the overpowering greatness of Assyria followed by the swift rise and fall of Babylon, let us try and extract some truths in regard to the growth of Civilization. Even though nations rise and fall, and races come and go, has not human development been ever upward and onward?"
Let us then look forward to the dawning of a better day. Let us cherish those high ideals of liberty our fore-fathers so dearly bought. Let us put on the strong armor of the Word of God which was to them a shield and a buckler and move forward with firm, steadfast hope toward a brighter dawn of Freedom, that shall exceed that of the present as the light which gleamed from the Mayflower exceeded in brilliancy that of the Old World.
Watching the lights slowly fade on the Mayflower we thought how the Pilgrims had stood on the icy deck of the vessel, with the winds blowing through the masts overhead and the waves roaring about the black hull beneath, while they sang hymns of praise for deliverance from the dangers of the sea.
And the heavy night hung darkThe hills and waters o'er,When a band of exiles moored their barkOn the wild New England shore.
Not as the conqueror comes,They, the true hearted came;Not with the roll of the stirring drams,Or the trumpet that sings of fame.
Not as the flying come,In silence and in fear,They shook the depths of the desert gloomWith their hymns of lofty cheer.
Amidst the storm they sang,And the stars heard and the sea;And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rangTo the anthem of the free.
—Felicia Henaans.
How richly glows the water's breast,Before us tinged with evening's hues,When facing thus the crimson west,The boat her silent course pursues,And see how dark the backward stream,A little moment past so smiling!And still perhaps some faithless gleam,Some other loiterer beguiling.
Such views the youthful bard allure,But heedless of the following gloom,He dreams their colors shall endureTill peace go with him to the tomb.And let him nurse his fond deceit;And what if he must die in sorrowWho would not cherish dreams so sweet;Though grief and pain may come tomorrow.
—Wordsworth.
The ancients believed that the alchemists could create rose blooms out of their ashes. We are prone to believe it for, at the close of a fair New England day we have seen the Master Alchemist, the sun, beneath his spacious workshop of July skies, transmuting the gray mists and vapors into sunset's glow; and lo! we had the blooming roses there. He melted his many ingredients with the falling dew and distilled from them the gold with which he burnished the western sky, making it glow like a glassy sea. Seizing upon some more potent fluid, he threw it among the fleecy clouds, kindling them all along the horizon until they shone like a vast lake of flame; then taking his magic wand, he waved it over the glowing mass and crimson changed to rosy pink, pink to glowing purple; forming those royal gates through which the magician passed behind the distant foothills of the Adirondacks.
During such a pageant of splendor as this o'er head, did we first behold the placid waters of Lake Champlain.
Far away beyond the Vermont shore rose the Green mountains behind their misty veils of purplish-blue. High above the lower undulations loomed the forest crowned ridges, gloriously colored and radiant, forming a mysterious yet fitting background for the exquisite picture before us. The nearer hills from their tops and extending far down their sides were covered with evergreens; below them a purple belt of deciduous trees and bright green meadows made a vivid contrast; while the nearer valley was filled with clumps of trees, fields of grain and crimson clover.
Before us lay the tranquil lake flecked with islands, which looked like floating gardens of green on a purple mirror. Near us a wooden bridge led across a shallow cove passing between myriads of pickerel weed whose light purple spathes formed a striking mass of color. Beneath it long, slender patches of silvery blue rushes made magic hedges, so symmetrical as to seem clipped by the hand of art. So ethereal in their loveliness were they, we could account for their presence in no other way than being woven by the genii of the lake out of the purple bloom that surrounded it.
It was a royal path fit for any of the nobility of earth to journey upon. The air was so clear and transparent and the surface of the lake so calm that a boat with some fishermen appeared to be drifting in mid-air among a "veiled shower of shadowy roses." The flight of a kingfisher was revealed in the lake below as distinctly as in the sky above. A great blue- heron, making one think of a French soldier at attention, was silently awaiting a green-coated Boche to make his appearance over the top of his lily-pad dugout. The stillness was so pronounced it seemed as if all Nature held her breath while super-powers of both lake and mountain wrought their miracles.
It must have been such a scene as this which Tennyson portrayed in his "Lotus-Eaters:"
There is sweet music here that softer fallsThan petals from blown roses on the grass,Or night-dews on still waters between wallsOf shadowy granite in a gleaming pass;Music that gentler on the spirit liesThan tired eyelids upon tired eyes,Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissfulskiesHere are cool mosses deep,And through the moss the ivies creep,And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.
Another heaven arched below us in which the Green mountains joined their bases with still others that seemed like fairy creations floating upon the water. An ideal remoteness and perfection were thrown o'er the landscape by the crystalline atmosphere. Mountains, fields, woods and lake all made "ethereal pictures" in the mild evening light. Above in the blue dome, Nature hung her finely woven drapery of rose-colored clouds, whose glory was repeated by the unfathomable lake, seemingly as deep as the blue dome it reflected. Its hues were not those of earth, but were borrowed from heaven with which the poem of evening was written on the twilight sky, for the delight of all mankind.
Such scenes as this naturally call for comparisons, but having seen but one that will in any measure compare with it, we shall try to recall an evening on the Mediterranean.
The afternoon had been spent on the island of St. Marguerite, a short distance off the coast of Nice. Here we visited the old tower where Marshal Bazaine got over the stone wall, the cell in which the prisoner of the Iron Mask resided, and the old Spanish well dating from the eleventh century. How delicious it was—the rest, the quiet, the box-scented breeze, the sheen of the sunset on the dark blue waves! The very atmosphere breathed of romance. The sinking sun was gilding the distant peaks of the Alps, causing them to grow radiant with rosy splendor, as we pushed out from the island in our sail-boat. The place was remarkably still. Only the nightingale broke into song among the fragrant bushes by the frowning prison. All else was silent, save the silvery plash of the oars that broke the surface of the water in measured and rythmical strokes.
Rising from the edge of the glorious Bay of the Angels at Nice, domes, palaces and casino, all steeped in those deep, delicious hues, appeared like some vast work of art. As we drew nearer the whole scene opened to us in all its marvelous beauty. We floated slowly o'er the deep blue water which so perfectly mirrored a few pearly clouds that we seemed to be drifting above rather than beneath them. Then the little boats with their orange- colored sails made the place more romantic still. Just in front of us lay the dome-shaped casino, whose windows glowed like rare jewels; all along the shore magnificent hotels of white stone with red tile roofs looked from among their royal palms; while numberless villas, rising one above another with their orange trees, vines and flowers, made a picture of rare beauty. Higher still the rich green, brown and gray of the mountains rose, until they blended with the serene and airy hues of the snow- clad Alps.
Fair as this scene was, it yet lacked that irresistible and magic charm that we beheld in Lake Champlain. It was the most divinely placid and clear sheet of water we ever beheld; one of Nature's famous works of art, that perchance come to one only once in a lifetime. As we gazed in admiration and wonder at those ethereal hues that seem unrealized in Nature, we said, "Here is beauty enough, not for one evening, but for all future evenings of our lifetime." It was a vast mirror that carried in its bosom heaven itself, reflecting the Master Artist's most rare designs.
A boat came round a point of land with three fishermen in it. One of the occupants was heard to exclaim "I am fifty cents to the good, old man Grump, for remember, on each black bass caught we had a nickel up. Whoopee! Say, d'ye see that darned big bass I would have got if the line would of held him? Oh, man! My heart stopped throbbing and I felt it in my throat and had ter swaller it fore I could breathe again. Such luck as that would of made a preacher go wrong."
His companions began talking now, telling how if something or other hadn't interfered they would have made their record catch; which has been the tale of woe of all hunters and fishers from Esau's time on down.
"Been a most ungodly hot day. My old hide is blistered all over."
"Serves you right, old dill pickle. If you had got your just dues for robbing me of that pike I'll be switched you'd be burnt to a cinder."
Such was the general trend of the conversation. As the boat disappeared round a jutting point of land, one of the number was heard to exclaim:
"Gee, but I got a peachy bunch of black bass. Golly, we'll have to hurry or it'll be dark fore we git to camp."
Thus they drifted over the waters far out to where the huge purple rocks made soft outlines with wild, mysterious impressiveness. They may have been expert fishermen, but it is to be feared not real anglers; although they took a fine string of black bass, they caught but few of the glorious reflections and little of the unearthly beauty of the lake. Heaven had come down to earth for them and "beauty pervaded the atmosphere like a Presence." Think of fishing amid scenes like this! One wonders if there will be fishing in Paradise.
What glorious vistas those waters opened up to all, stretching away to those purple haunting distances, where may be had a fleeting glimpse of things which are eternal and the perceiving ear may catch strains of long remembered melodies ("those songs without words") which only the finest souls may know. Yet here were three men who, in their modern Ago, were returning from their search of the golden fleece. Jason, Hercules and Theseus could have experienced no greater joy in object won, than these three "heroes" of the lake returning in the resin-scented twilight with their long-sought prize of bass! A nickel up on each black bass and not one red cent on the placid lake and the radiant sky! Columbus, when he viewed from afar the fronded palms of the Indies, could not have been more enraptured than the one with fifty cents to the good.
Looking out over the lake and then at the wonderful grouping of the elms, birches, vines and sedge along the shore that stood hushed and expectant, as the glory slowly faded from the sky, we said, "had this place a voice, how full of hope and calm serenity it would be!"
Near us a boat grated softly on the pebbly bottom of a cove and swung in. From the deep purple shadow of the wooded shore, out over the lake a thin white veil was slowly creeping as if the purple bloom had faded to silvery whiteness. It seemed not unlike the breath of the sleeping water, and the spirit of the silent lake.
Suddenly a melody that seemed as serene as the mountains and as pure as the lake broke the silence; far up on a wooded ridge a thrush was chanting his evening hymn to the Creator. It was as if the soul of the quiet lake spoke to us; the spirit that haunts high mountains, clear lakes, shadowy forests, and all that is pure and beautiful in life; its hopes, longings and faith were voiced in that mellow "angelus" of the forest.
We would love to see the twilight linger, but all things must end, and we pursued our way down the winding shore road, already gray with the coming night. Before we said good-night the mister said, "I wonder what eternity will be like?" His comrade spoke with a clearness of speech, declaring a truth that no one could doubt: "Eternity is here and now, and this is our first glimpse into paradise."
Long after retiring the words of George Herbert came and went through memory:
"Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so brightThe bridal of the earth and sky,The dews shall weep thy fall tonight;For thou must die.
Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;Thy root is ever in the graveAnd thou must die.
Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses;A box where sweets compacted lie;My music shows you have your closesAnd all must die.
Only a great and virtuous soul,Like seasoned timber, never gives;But, though the whole world turns to coalThen chiefly lives."
Whoever passes through the Green mountains and arrives at Burlington in the evening of a fair day will he rewarded by one of the most beautiful views of natural scenery the world has to offer. The outlook from the hilltop here is enchanting. Looking westward you see the beautiful expanse of Lake Champlain, dotted with numerous islands that stretch away to the purple wall of the Adirondacks, whose summits are outlined by a bright golden light which slowly ascends and diffuses along the horizon as if striving to linger around the loveliness below. The sun disappears, leaving an ocean of flame where he passes, and the fleecy clouds which swim in the ether look down at their images in the lake. Here you behold the Green mountains, showing majestically against the sky. They are clothed in soft blue veils, as lovely as any that Italian mountains can boast. The highest peaks of the range, Mount Mansfield and Camel's Hump, thrust their outlines like purple silhouettes against their glowing background.
William Dean Howells, standing with a friend on the shore of theBay of Naples, remarked that he considered one scene in theworld more beautiful than that upon which they were gazing—LakeChamplain and the Adirondacks, as seen from Burlington.
Morning came bright and clear; a cool breeze waved the clinging foliage of birch and elm, rippling the lake near the shore and tossing the waves far out on its bosom, which gleamed white along their crests. This was the real Lake Champlain, for it is a very turbulent mass of water and rarely presents a picture of such calm and quiet beauty as we beheld on the preceding evening. Numerous islands, "each fair enough to have keen the Garden of Eden," seen through the level rays of the morning sun, formed a glorious veil of color. Dark green arbor vitae trees grew near their edges; nearer still the elm and willows flung down their lighter masses of foliage to the water, and birch gleamed silvery white against their shadowy background.
"After the French had built Fort Saint Anne on Isle la Motte a party of men went out in search of game. They crossed the lake in a southwesterly direction and were surprised by a band of Mohawk Indians, who took some of the white men prisoners, and killed Captain de Traversy and Sieur de Chasy." The place where they were killed has since been known as Chasy's landing. We crossed a long causeway, which led to the landing, where we took the ferry across to Chasy. The first auto on the boat was from Massachusetts, followed by "another Nash" from New Hampshire; then Ohio filled the middle space of the boat, and was followed by a horse and buggy; as neither bore a license, we could not tell the state from which they came. The distance to Chasy was about one mile, and we were soon on our way to Plattsburg.
Fields of ripening wheat, oats, alfalfa and buckwheat, all divided by stone fences into squares and triangles, began to appear. Meadows in which Holstein cattle were grazing dotted the low ranges of foothills that spread away until lost in blue distance.
Between the Adirondack mountains in New York state and the Green mountains of Vermont on the shore of Lake Champlain, in the heart of Champlain valley, lies the historic town of Plattsburg. It is noted in recent years as the home of the "Plattsburg Idea," the movement for universal military training inaugurated by Major General Leonard Wood, through the establishment at Plattsburg in the summer of 1915 of the first summer camp of military instruction for the regular army. It was noon when we arrived here, and we found that quite a few had adopted the idea, for a long line of hungry khaki-clad men were awaiting their turn at the mess hall.
The first battle of Lake Champlain occurred near here as early as 1609, when Samuel de Champlain, with two other white men, led the Algonquins and Hurons in an attack upon their enemies, the Mohawks. A British and American naval engagement, October 11, 1776, resulted in victory for the British. September 11, 1814, the last naval battle between English speaking peoples was fought here, known as the Battle of Plattsburg Bay.
Eight miles south of Plattsburg is located the Alaskan silver fox farm, which is the largest in the United States. This farm comprises forty acres and contains one hundred silver foxes. It is open to visitors from July to September.
The road leading to this farm passes through one of most picturesque of all the Adirondack regions. As we made our way across the beautiful Ausable valley we beheld an enchanting scene spread out around us. Green meadows sloped up to wooded heights and fields of grain like golden lakes flashed in the sunlight. The hills became more rugged as we wound our way among them. Farmers were loading hay in the meadows, through which streams glistened as they slipped over their sinuous stone- strewn bottoms. Groups of cattle stood knee-deep in the meadow brooks, or rested beneath the shade of elms and willows. In the center of the picture, disclosing its bends and reaches, Ausable river flowed on its way to Lake Champlain. In places its waters were almost hidden by grape vines that clambered and twisted around bush and tree, forming "Laocoon groups" in which they were hopelessly intertwined.
Far beyond the valley sharp summits and irregular ridges printed their bold outlines on the sky. Nearer were farms, groves, and hills, with now and then a placid lake which caught the color of the sky and mirrored it back to us. But our eyes were fastened upon the grand summits and pinnacles that rose dreamy and silent through the summer haze, beckoning us on to those enchanted realms we were soon to behold. Old White Face reared his colossal pyramid above the woods and waved his dull white banner from afar. Soon we entered higher hills, where giant maples threw their cooling shadows across the road and a faint breeze made the balsam boughs breathe and sigh. The road became more sinuous and the hills more grand and imposing. Over the notched summits of the clustered peaks the outlines of thunder heads, luminous and edged with gold, appeared through the blue haze.
At length a broad summit rising against another one still taller, broke suddenly above the foliage where the amber colored falls of Ausable river saluted us. We were in the midst of one of the finest pieces of natural scenery in the eastern United States. We were only fifteen miles from Lake Champlain, but what a change! Here in Ausable chasm we beheld one of the many natural wonders of the Adirondack region. The Ausable river at this point flows through a tortuous channel two miles in length. A rustic walk with many bridges and stairways has been built along the chasm, passing all the wild beauty spots in the gorge. The silvery babble of water passing over rocks, mingled with the gurgling liquid notes of the woodthrush.
The sides of the canyon in places were vast streets of ferns, moss and vines, which resembled cataracts of varying shades of green or great pieces of hanging tapestry inwrought with rare designs of woodland flowers. We could stay in so romantic a spot many days, for in a short time we had seen paintings; read poems, heard the silvery tongues of running brooks, and ringing texts from the sermons in stone. We only tarried long enough to pass up the gorge and view Rainbow falls, which drop seventy feet to the rock below. To the opposite bank from this we made our way and were amply repaid by a commanding view of the tumbling waters. The rays of the sun falling upon this sheet of water produced an exquisite effect. Here from the thick-growing shrubbery as we watched the amber waters concentrate for their fall, and break into silken streamers of irised spray, we knew they had been appropriately named "Rainbow Falls."
We recalled many a cascade among the Alps, where from remote heights the small avalanches of snowy water form comet-like streamers of rarest beauty. We saw again the shimmering rainbow mist of others more remote, whose murmurs died away in the gloomy depth of some Italian forest.
Soon we were gazing at distant peaks that had such a savage aspect as to again call forth comparisons. Balsam fir, pine, hemlock, maple, birch, and beech were the principal forest trees. Lakes gleamed like silver mirrors in the lap of wild rugged hills that stretched far away. We saw huge rocks that had fallen from above as if shattered in the original upheaval of the range, presenting sharp, forcible outlines and rugged facets of shadow so striking in comparison with the flowing outlines of the Catskills or Blue Ridge. The road wound back and forth as it climbed the stony wilderness and soon unfolded to our view a picture of utter desolation. We had just emerged from a stretch of road lined as far as the eye could see on either side with ash, hemlock, birch, beech, and balsam fir. Here we rested among cool shadows, where beautifully fronded ferns rose all about. Weary pedestrians had fallen asleep beneath their cooling shadows and groups of boy scouts pitched their tents along this highway.
Our eyes fell upon a sign that read like this: "A careless smoker caused the fire that destroyed thousands of acres of these forests. You love the forests. Help keep them green by being careful about your fires." Looking forward we beheld a vast and awful scene of desolation. Miles and miles on either side of the road stretched that sea of blackened stumps and charred logs where once the evergreens rose heavenward with all their wealth of whispering leaves. Blackened stubs rose all around as if they were huge exclamation points or pointing fingers of accusation at the carelessness and thoughtlessness of one individual.
Carelessness! How that word rang in our ears as we journeyed through this lonely region, with all its grandeur and beauty gone! Here we realized the kindly and beneficent influence of streams and trees upon mountain scenery. True, mountains may be grand without forests, but it is the grandeur of death we behold in the vast untrodden fields of the show-clad Alps. Forests and streams give life, fragrance, and beauty to those rough forms as a pure soul adds beauty to the countenance of man. Only heated waves of air rose from the fiery rocks and road around us, whose shimmering lines made a fit perspective to such a scene. No mossy rock where one could sit and listen to the singing birds; no ancient trees through which the fragrant west wind could sing its songs of rest and contentment; no purifying river where it was once so pleasant for man to linger before going back to the heat and smoke of the city; all because of one man's carelessness. How much of sorrow and crime is in that word; what failures, what wrecks of humanity stranded along the steep precipice of that mountain.
Who would even want to climb those blackened summits? The elevation would only make the view more terrible. The thousands of travellers who pass this way were all affected by these unsightly monuments to one man's carelessness, proving that "Man liveth not to himself alone."
As we emerged from that scene of heat and desolation, a prayer trembled upon every lip and its only theme was, "Lord, help us to be careful."
What an awful spectacle that vast stretch of burning forest must have presented! We shall quote from Headley, who witnessed such a scene in these mountains: "One night the whole mountain was wrapped in a fiery mantle, a mighty bosom of fire from which rose waving columns and lofty turrets of flame. Trees a hundred feet high and five and six and eight feet in circumference, were on fire from the root to the top. Vast pyramids of flame, now surging in eddies of air that caught them, now bending as if about to yield the struggle, then lifting superior to the foe and dying, martyr-like, in the vast furnace. Shorn of their glory, their flashing, trembling forms stood crisping and writhing in the blaze till, weary of their long suffering, they threw themselves with a sudden and hurried sweep on the funeral pile around. From the noble pine to the bending sprout, the trees were aflame, while the crackling underbrush seemed a fiery network cast over the prostrate forms of the monarchs of the forest. When the fire caught a dry stump, it ran up the huge trunk like a serpent, and coiling around the withered branches, shot out its fiery tongue as if in mad joy over the raging element below; while ever and anon came a crash that reverberated far away in the gorges—the crash of falling trees, at the overthrow of which there went up a cloud of sparks and cinders and ashes. Sweeping along its terrible path, the tramp of that conflagration filled the air with an uproar like the bursting of billows on a rocky shore."
Across a narrow valley gigantic boulders seemed to have accumulated and formed masses that appeared to be slowly creeping downward. Farther away we beheld the serrated mountains breaking into the wildest confusion of pinnacles, which rose above the forest and relieved their masses of vivid green tints like ruined castles along the Rhine, clothing them with an atmosphere of age. Far up as the eye could reach, the broken rocks were piled in huge chaos. "Here as your eye sweeps over these fragments of a former earthquake, your imagination recalls that remote period when the mountains were split like lightning- riven oaks, and the great peaks swayed like trees in a blast and the roar of a thousand storms rolled away from the yawning gulf, into which precipices and forests went down with a deafening crash as of a falling world."
The rugged sides of mountains often gave us views on almost as grand a scale as that of the Alps. Only there, height above height, rise those rocky ramparts where snowy cascades leap hundreds of feet, then leap again where those chaotic and fantastic rocks and immeasurable sweep of terraced hills stretch away like another world. You will ever remember the Gorge du Loup with its seven-arched viaduct and stream of vivid green and the white foam that pours between its piers. On the road which leads from Nice to the town of Grasse, where are located the famous perfumeries, you will pass orange orchards, flower farms, and charming meadows with patches of wild broom lying iii vast sheets of gold. The dark gray rocks are filled with pits and holes, and when viewed from a distance resemble the homes of the cliff dwellers. The views here are frowning and awesome.
As you near the Gorge du Loup you will see Gourdon perched far, far up on its rocky throne, whose gray, weatherbeaten buildings give to this wild scenery an infinite charm. You are sure that you never can reach this far-distant town, but are agreeably surprised when you gaze at the vastness of the gray, sterile mountain sides you have left. Far below you the terraced vineyards rise in emerald waves against their silvery background of century-old olives.
Yet we have experienced almost as strong emotions of vagueness, terror, sublimity, strength, and beauty while gazing upon the vast panorama of groups and clusters of chaotic peaks that stretch away in almost endless variety of form in confused and disorderly arrangement. Here almost interminable forests are only interrupted with beautiful lakes that now and then peep from their hiding places in vast expanse of forest-crowned wilderness. But here is beauty as well as grandeur. "Those three- months European travelers who hurry through our lowlands by steam and perhaps take a night boat up the Hudson, Lake Champlain, or St. Lawrence and presume to belittle our natural scenery, are not the most reliable persons in the world."
Let them go to the summit of Mount Marcy on a clear day and look out over the magnificent panorama spread out before them, and they will not say we have no natural scenery worth viewing in the Atlantic States from Canada to New Orleans, except Niagara and Burlington. Here in every direction countless summits pierce the sky, and the unnumbered miles of forests that clothe with green garments the ridges and slopes of this vast wilderness, who can ever forget them? How wonderful are these wild and rugged scenes, still fresh from the hand of God! Call us idle triflers if you will, but we shall ever try to read the messages from these stone pages from the book of God, where all day long the breezes whisper messages fuller of meaning than any lines from the hand of man.
But to return to the view from the mountain peak, glorious, indeed, is the scene spread out below you from Mount Marcy. How unlike the Alps is the prospect you obtain from its summit. True, you will see no snow-capped peaks and shining glaciers, but what a chaos of gray and green mountains extend as far as the eye can reach.
One writer gives this vivid description of the scene that meets the enraptured gaze of the traveler here: "It looked as if the Almighty had once set this vast earth rolling like the sea; and then, in the midst of its maddest flow, bid all the gigantic billows stop and congeal in their places, and there they stood, just as He froze them grand and gloomy. There was the long swell, and there the cresting, bursting billow—and there, too, the deep, black, cavernous gulf." Those in our country who think only the Alps and Apennines can inspire awe and veneration should force their way through thick fir, dwarf evergreen and deep moss to the top of Mount Marcy, where it pushes its rocky forehead high into the heavens. Here in these beautiful wild regions you will find lakes over whose waters you may glide in a canoe, whose forest-clad shores seem never to have been marred by the axe of civilization. Here as the sun sinks to repose amid these purple mountains, and the last rays of light on their waters seem like sheets of fluid gold, and the lonely cry of the loon breaks the solitude, you too will feel that you do not need to go to Europe for natural mountain beauty when such glorious scenes lie spread out before you.
We shall never forget our first impression of Lake Colder, perfectly embosomed among the gigantic mountains which rise it all their wild and savage grandeur around it. What absolute freedom and absence of conventional forms are found here by him who loves Nature as God made it.
Toward Canada stretches the vast expanse of Lake Champlain with its numerous islands, while along the eastern horizon the distant Green mountains lift their granite summits, at whose bases the charming city of Burlington lies dreamily silent beneath its smoky veil. Far away to the north and west repose many lakes. Some lie dark and silent beneath the shadows of their guarding mountains, others reflect the shy above in silvery blue sheen as if to cheer this vast and lonely solitude. How your thoughts reach out toward the Infinite as the wondrous vision unrolls before you! This interminable mass of different shades of green and gray presents one of the most beautiful scenes your eye ever gazed upon.
No wonder Christ gave to the world his glorious lessons from a mountain top; in which he urged the disciples to be worthy examples to their fellow men. Up in these everlasting hills, where He has manifested His wonderful power and left a symbol of His omnipotence, we can draw nearer the Creator than elsewhere. How puny, how insignificant seems man and all his works out here in these unbounded solitudes! "I will lift up mine eyes to the hills from whence cometh my help," chants the psalmist. Wandering among these glorious hills that rise above the distant horizon, or stretch away in endless majesty from you, as your heart swells over the thrilling scene, you too shall feel the presence of a great and mighty power, and realize in part what the psalmist meant.
We passed through the town of Schroon Lake, situated along a picturesque sheet of water bearing the same name, which lies to the west of Kayaderrossera range. It has been compared by some to Lake Como. On one side a bold mountain rears its green wall, while the shores slope down to it as if eager to behold their lovely forms in its crystal water. In places it is very narrow and its windings seem more like a great river than a lake. It is fed by Schroon river, along which are Schroon falls. Numerous tents peeped from their guarding trees along its banks. How we rejoiced in the refreshing shade of the forests and vistas, revealing this "gleaming pearl set in emeralds," as some one has appropriately called it. Its water is very pure and cold, and fishermen will find ample compensation for all the time they spend here, even though few fish are caught. Its crystal waters are dotted with green islands.
The name Schroon was given this lake by the early French settlers at Crown Point in honor of Madam Scarron, the widow of a celebrated French dramatist and novelist, Paul Scarron. Along the margin of this lake we saw a Sunday-school teacher who had brought his class of boys for an outing. What lessons these growing lads will imbibe from the beauty of Nature around them. How can they help but think of the Creator when they dwell so near the primal source of life. The crystal waters of the lake will teach them purity, the leaves of the trees will rustle messages of self-denial, and the majestic mountains will speak to them of endurance and courage, a religion which dwells in Nature until they, "like Moses, will see in the bushes the radiant Deity and know they are treading on holy ground."
Wonderfully rich in lakes is this charming mountain region. No other country is blessed with greater numbers of lovely lakes than North America. Lake Placid, Echo, Loon, and a host of others were encircled by green hills with sturdy evergreens, graceful elms and scattered tents that framed them pleasantly.
Here amidst such sylvan beauty, where the air is rife with the fragrance of birch and balsam, as you gaze at the Adirondacks that lift their startling cliffs into the air, or farther along the horizon stand bathed in a radiant glow, while a gold tangle of sunset glitters among the white birch trees or casts a soft sheen like the tints on a mourning dove's neck—pray tell me, have you ever seen anything fairer than your own placid lakes?
On such evenings as these your thoughts will become as serene as the lake and ripple now and then with a thousand vague, sweet visions like its placid surface when dimpled by the leap of a trout.
Morning here brings scenes almost as fair. Singing brooks flash like silver across green valleys, the rays of the sun fall upon the yellow and white birch boles that look mellow and rich as "pillars of amber and gleaming pearl." The rocky ledges are covered with lichens, ferns and mosses; myriads of campanula look blue-eyed towards a bluer sky; and out over the lake white- bellied swallows write poems of grace and beauty on the air. The frescoes of dawn touch the tips of the eastern ranges whose stern gray summits break into rosy flame.
We climbed to the summit of a towering mountain and a glorious prospect met our view. Looking out over the billows of verdure that seemed to be rolling down the mountains, we saw Lake Placid, with its green islands, like a lovely painting in the quiet morning light. Far as the eye can reach the forest-crowned mountains stretched, now surging into summits, now sinking into valleys, holding in their embrace the lovely Saranac lakes that gleamed like the flashing of distant shields. Far beyond to the south like a glittering mirror lay Tupper's lake, while farther away the pointed pinnacles of the Adirondacks thrust themselves boldly into the sky. Looking northward we beheld a lovely cultivated region with meadows and grain fields. We also caught sight of several towns, and glimpses of dark forests between the billowy folds of other ranges, that melted into the sky. Like a narrow band of light, Lake Champlain was just visible, while the faint summits of the Green mountains with their misty veils seemed like far, thin shadows.
Long Lake is one of the most charming of any found in the Adirondacks. Its islands are lovely beyond words to describe. No artist, not even Turner, has ever caught the magic sheen that clothes it, nor portrayed the rosy clouds the crimson west has painted, that seem to hang motionless above it. Neither has anyone caught those ethereal blues or royal purples that the soft semi-light of evening makes upon its bosom where the darker mountains seem to be floating.
But this lake requires not the aid of morning or evening to make it fair. When the rays of the sun sprinkle the trees along its sides like golden rain, or while stirred with darkening ripples beneath a clouded sky, it is clothed in grandest beauty.
But if it were indeed possible for any lake to be fairer than this, surely Lake George is that one. No wonder artists flock to its shores, for what picturesque combinations of cove and cliff they find there! Then, too, what lovely reaches, what mountain views, what rich and varied combinations of forest with retreating slopes bathed in the tender purple of distance!
The valleys were covered with a silvery, shimmering atmosphere, on which we traced the outlines of meadows, forests, and lakes, like the first sketching of an artist picture that ere long, under our good genius the automobile, would grow into reality. The road that wound among forest crowned hills was one of the most pleasant we remember. The air was filled with silvery haze, which made distance mysterious; and grain fields and the nearer hills, touched with the rarest delicacy of tone and softly blended color, were dreamy and full of suggestion of Indian summer. Through the trees we beheld a fine sheet of water and presently emerged upon a grand view of the lake. It has fine boat landings, even though set in rugged hills, which in places tower above it, while over its surface are countless scattered isles of romantic beauty. It has a wild, primeval character, which no association of man upon its banks can quite dispel. One almost fancies he sees the rising smoke from the teepees of the fierce Mohawks or hears their ringing warwhoops amid the wild scenery.
This lake is thirty-two miles in length and has been the scene of many thrilling historic events. West of the railroad station, near Lake George village, are the ruins of ancient forts, and there also stands the monument erected in 1903 to commemorate the battle of Lake George, in which General Johnson, with his army of twenty-two hundred, defeated the French, under Baron Diesken. The lake offers excellent fishing. Trout, salmon, pickerel and perch abound in great numbers. Bolton road, known as "Millionaires' Row," begins at the village of Lake George and continues along the west shore as far as Bolton landing. Beautiful views of the surrounding country may be had along this route.
At sunset, as we made our way along the shore, the wonderful beauty of the scene became more evident. Out over the lake, studded with numerous isles, a rosy glow began to gather, the high hills along its shores were rosy purple, "some were a mingling of stiff spruce and pine in shadow," while others wore a lighter green and the lush grass near this shore was golden green when struck by the rays of the declining sun. The swift lights and shades stole over the distant peaks like color on velvet.
In the waning light that tinged the west with lucent gold the lake made a wonderful picture. It wore on its blue a silver sheen, in which we beheld a few cloud paintings; and along the shore it mirrored the graceful birch and elm. At length the clouds in the zenith blushed into rose; mingled colors of sapphire, emerald, topaz, and amethyst glinted on the lake. Over this lovely expanse an eagle sailed in majestic flight, turning his head from side to side as if enamored of the fair scene beneath him. Later we beheld only a vast expanse of imperial purple with its dark mountains and green islands.
Soon a few stars appeared in the sky, where the dark points and ridges rose against it like airy battlements. In the east the moon looked down on the lake and made a path of gold on its placid surface. In the distance a boat, a fairy shallop, glided noiselessly out across the radiant water until we lost it among the deep shadows of an island. Scarce a ripple on the surface of the lake or a fluttering leaf disturbed the peaceful scene. As we made our way to the automobile which carried us back to the village of Lake George we said, "What moonlight scene or sunset hues have we ever beheld on the Tyrol that could rival this?"
"Saratoga lies in an angle formed by a long valley whose beauty, aside from its historical associations, is fair enough to stop whole armies of tourists as they come and go through this lovely region. The old Indian War Trail was indeed the pathway of armies, and the beautiful Hudson and Mohawk rivers here bore on their waters many swift canoes filled with Algonquins and French. The English marched and fought here from Hudson's time and that of Samuel Champlain until the close of the revolutionary period. This fair land, with its green, velvety meadows, peaceful, fruitful valleys, and broad, majestic streams has indeed been rightly named 'the dark and bloody ground.'
"The Five Nations built lodges on the shores of the lake near Saratoga, and here it was that the French and Indians came down from Quebec and Montreal to meet them. In 1690 the French and Indians bivouacked at these springs as they descended to the cruel massacre of Schenectady. The French, urged by Frontenac, came down the valley in 1693 and destroyed the village of the Mohawks and started on their return with the prisoners they had taken. Here one thousand hostile warriors threw up intrenchments on the exact place where the gay streets of Saratoga now stand. They retreated in a storm after the English sustained three furious assaults.
In 1743 there occurred a terrible massacre at Old Saratoga. All of the houses in the village were burned to the ground and only one or two of the inhabitants escaped to tell the tale. For seven years the French and Indian war raged through the valley, proving its importance as a northern gateway. The rattle of arms, the tread of soldiers, the hurrying of street boys were heard in town from morning till night. Indians in war-paint and feathers joined each side, burning with the hate of over a hundred years. Garrets were ransacked for great-grandfather's swords, rusted with the blood of King Philip's war. French officers in gold lace, trappers in doeskin, priests in their black robes, soldiers in the white uniform of the French king, gathered on the banks of the St. Lawrence. English grenadiers in red coats, Scotch Highlanders in plaids and colonial troops in homespun rallied from all the frontiers; and again this great gateway knew the horrors of a long, devastating, and bloody war.
"In 1767 Sir William Johnson, who had suffered for years from a wound received in his hip in the war with the Indians, was told of the Great Medicine Waters. The Indians seemed to know of their location many years previous to this, for they were the ones who told Johnson about their great healing qualities. He was carried on stretchers to this mysterious spring. The waters proved so beneficial that he was able to return over the 'carrying place' on foot. The waters he drank were said to have been taken from High Rock spring of Saratoga Springs."
The city contains many spacious, imposing hotels and fine tree- bordered streets, which at once suggest that Saratoga was the one time "Queen of Spas." But if the people no longer come here in such great numbers, Nature still reigns over the place, and it possesses that quiet and repose which make it an ideal place in which to spend a vacation. Here are wonderful old elms whose branches intermingle to form a canopy over the streets. So gracefully do their drooping sprays of green descend that we could think of nothing with which to compare them save emerald fountains. These old trees are more stately, more graceful than those at Versailles. Beautiful villas, public halls and handsome churches are scattered about the city. Viewed from the surrounding hills, the buildings seem to nestle in a leafy wilderness. The annual horseraces held here still draw large crowds, but as a summer resort Saratoga, like Trenton Falls, has seen its day.
It is not Old Saratoga that contains the most interest for the traveler, but the region around Schuylerville. Here the green carpet covers all the hills, whose smooth, velvety appearance adds greatly to the beauty of the country.
The day of our arrival at Saratoga was extremely sultry, and heavy masses of clouds darkened the sky. Soon bursting peals of thunder told us that the warrior clouds were bringing their heavy artillery into action. This storm passed around us, however, and we hastened to the site of the beautiful monument commemorating the decisive victory of the Revolution. It stands on the site of Burgoyne's fortified camp, overlooking the place of his surrender. The height of this monument is one hundred and fifty-four feet, its base is forty feet square, and it contains one hundred and eighty-four steps, which lead up to the last windows, which command an enchanting view of from ten to thirty miles in all directions.
The country all around is full of very picturesque, scenic surprises, and the lordly Hudson winding among its hills of vernal loveliness is not the least of them. Your attention is quickly recalled from the dead past, whether you like it or not, to the living present. From this place you will see and hear things which no historian can ever record; paragraphs of the life history of the palpitant beauty and pulsing song of existence. The true lover of Nature will find no greater delight than to linger here to drink in the beauty of the place as his eyes rove over the vast expanse of gently undulating hills that melt away in the blue haze. The river flowing through masses of verdue, the towering trees that climb the surrounding heights and skirt the pastoral landscapes, afford constant evidence of the natural wealth and beauty of this historic region.
Standing here, gazing out over the beautiful scene, we recalled our visit to the famous battlegrounds of Waterloo.
It was on a lovely June day that we left the Belgium capital,turning again and again to look at the wonderful Palace ofJustice which dominates this city, as the capitol does atWashington.
The country around the field of Waterloo is very level, hardly relieved by an undulation, and dotted at intervals with a few trees that heighten the loneliness of the scene rather than relieve it. Here we became aware that we were gazing at one of the finest sites that man has ever known for the purpose of mutual destruction. We readily saw that this level region gave ample room for both infantry and cavalry, where the many thousands of human beings were brought together in deadly collision. It was apparently designed by Nature to feed the hungry toilers of earth, but "was consecrated by man for a solemn spectacle of deliberate slaughter."
How often this fertile country was made the battleground of surrounding nations! Here it was we felt that indomitable spirit that rose above every oppression forced upon its people, stopping the hordes of invading armies.
We ascended the hill that flanked the right wing of the position of the English where the fight was hottest. From this eminence we looked down on vast cultivated fields with acres of waving barley and verdant meadows in which fine Holstein cattle were grazing. This hill is composed of soil dug from Mount St. Jean to cover the bones of the slain of both armies. This conical tumulus contains upon its summit, set in a spacious and lofty pedestal, a huge bronze lion cast from the cannon taken in battle.
As we stood on its top the scene unrolled before us like a wonderful panoramic painting, and we gazed out on this "great chessboard, where the last hard game of Napoleon's and Wellington's protracted match was played."
Here where all Nature seemed to breathe of peace and joy it seemed difficult to believe that at that very season, one hundred and four years ago, on this spot was fought one of the memorable battles of the world. Here, after participating in the activities of a world war, how like a dream it seemed to be gazing down upon this fertile plain. The larks were soaring in the blue above, uttering the same sweet notes that charmed the poet, Shelley, while we gazed out upon the fair scene toward La Belle Alliance and La Haye Sainte. Nearer our eyes rested upon the place that formed the key to the English position, where they successfully resisted, throughout the day of the eighteenth of June, the hottest assaults of the enemy. Then we beheld the high road to Namur which passed through the center of the lovely picture "as if inviting us to look upon the road Napoleon took to make his escape when in the agony of his heart he exclaimed 'Sauve qui peut!' and fled from the field."
Near La Belle Alliance is a monument to the memory of the German legion. Corning down from the tumulus we made our way past fields of barley and paused to pluck a few cornflowers and poppies, and over all the blue sky like an angel of peace the skylark was still flooding the blue dome with melodies which for us can never die.
But we have been straying somewhat from Saratoga. The view we had from the monument reminded us a little of that to be obtained from the plateau of the citadel of Namur where we beheld the Sambre, the Meuse, and the forest of Ardennes. The valley of the Meuse through which we passed on our way to Liege, though wild, varied and secluded, full of unexpected turns and scenic surprises, has no more charm than Saratoga.
We were greatly impressed with the tablet presented in memory of the women of 1776 by the Daughters of the American Revolution. It represents one woman busy with spinning while another is making bullets at a fireplace. These noble and brave women deserve much credit for helping to win our independence, for while their husbands and sons fought they gathered in the crops, melted into bullets their treasured pewter ware, learned to shoot, bar their homes against Indians and conceal themselves from preying bands of Indians and Tories.
Before leaving the monument at Schuylerville we discovered that the birds had chosen the monument as a place for their nests. On General Gates' shoulder was a robin's nest, while another chose the center of an officer's hat for her domicile. Looking into the mouth of the twenty-four pounder presented by J. Watts de Peyster to the monument association, we discovered a blue bird's nest containing four eggs. This gun was at one time a part of the armament of a British vessel. The vessel becoming disabled, the gun was then mounted on wheels and placed on a bluff at Ticonderoga, where it was captured by the Americans. Right glad we were that the place knows no harsher sound than the soft, melodious warble of the bluebird and cherry carol of the robin. We thought how glorious the time when all monuments may be not merely grim reminders of war, but give shelter to the "color- bearer of the Spring Brigade."
Most admirable plans had been made by the British for a very brilliant campaign, but their success depended, like so many other things, in the ability of the British to work them.
Burgoyne, three thousand miles away, received his orders while in England. Howe did not receive his until the 16th of August, when he was entering Chesapeake Bay. "Burgoyne was already being defeated at Bennington while Howe was reading his dispatch and learning for the first time that he was expected to cooperate with Burgoyne."
King George said, "any means of discouraging the Americans will meet with my approval." So the scalping knife and tomahawk were associated with English arms.
Burgoyne had seven thousand picked troops, three thousand of whom were Germans in the pay of the British Army. This army was divided into three corps; Frazer, Riedesel and Phillips were their officers. "The excellent discipline, spirit and equipment of his army led Burgoyne to do and dare anything." Overconfidence in war as elsewhere usually proves disastrous. Burgoyne is reported to have said, "The enemy will probably fight at Ticonderoga. Of course I will beat them, then we will have a nice little promenade of eight days down to Albany." But the trip toward Albany turned out to be anything but a promenade and the British soldiers failed to see the nice part of it.
General Schuyler, on hearing that Burgoyne was on the march, seized all the firearms he could and hurried to his camp. Schuyler was superseded by General Gates. We learn that he was not on the line when the great fighting occurred, but that he was a very conspicuous character in "the final wind up." He reminds one of those ministers who are intensely interested in the welfare of the souls of those of their members who happen to have an exceptionally fine strawberry patch.
But let us turn our attention for a brief time to some of Saratoga's deserving heroes. It was at Bennington that John Stark pointed toward the redoubt of the enemy and exclaimed, "There, my lads, are the Hessians! Tonight our flag floats over yonder hill or Molly Stark is a widow." With New England yeomanry rudely equipped with pouches, powder horns and armed with old brown firelocks he stormed the trenches of the best trained soldiers of Europe and won a glorious victory. At Oriskany, Herkimer, in an unlooked-for battle, won undying fame, although most of his gallant little band were slaughtered. Schuyler sent Arnold with Larned's brigade to retrieve Herkimer's disaster, which he did in an admirable manner. Gansevoort held the fort against St. Leger, but his situation was growing desperate, when one day without apparent cause the enemy fled in haste, leaving camps, baggage and artillery. This inglorious flight was brought about by a half-wined fellow, who wandered into the enemy's camp and on being asked how many men were coming, pointed to the leaves on the trees, thus frightening the Indians and British into a hasty retreat.
It is singular that the fiercest fighting of Saratoga occurred on a farm hearing the significant name of Freeman. The ground around the old well was covered with bodies of dead soldiers after the battle. The British held persistently the position at the farm they gained in a line to the east on the bank of the river, where they built three redoubts on three hills.
"The fortified camp of the Americans lay about one and one-half miles below, in a parallel line, from the British. Here within bugle call from each other, for two weeks the hostile forces sat upon the hill of Saratoga; frowning defiance at each other as boys who are afraid to start a fight but persist in making faces from back doors, or like cocks who stand immovable and try to stare each other out of countenance, yet ready to open the conflict with a moment's notice."
On October the 7th the British moved from their entrenchments in battle array. Gates took up the gauntlet thus thrown down to him and exclaimed: "Order out Morgan to begin the game."
It must have been a thrilling scene that fair October morning, for autumn had wrought her oriental magic and far and near the lovely forests were arrayed in chromatic harmony. The maples were ablaze for miles, and so vivid seemed the flame of sumac berries one almost expected to see smoke ascending on the tranquil morning air. The scarlet banner of the woodbine fluttered from many a tree like a bloody omen, the ash was clad in purple robes, the elm and linden trees were like yellow flames among the bright red fires of gum and dogwood. The purple haze over all gave to the scene an air of mystery.
The stillness was intense. Only the chink of the bobolinks bound for the plains of the Orinoco or the chonk, chonking of ground squirrels broke the silence. This stillness must have been more awful than any noise of battle could possibly be. Amid such lovely and peaceful surroundings as this, Morgan dashed to the fray and scattered Burgoyne's advance guard, then rushed on the trained forces of Fraser and swept them from their position to the left, which they had taken in advance.
"Fraser rallied his men and was forming a second line when he fell, mortally wounded. The sharp whistle of Morgan once more called his men into action, while Poor and Larned attacked the center and right. The battle swayed back and forth through the great ravine. Another charge from Morgan and the British retreated to their entrenchments.
"At this moment the indignant Arnold, stung to madness by the slights put upon him by Gates, dashed across the field. He gathered the regulars under his leadership by enthusiasm, bravery, and vehemence. He broke through the lines of entrenchments at Freeman's farm. Repulsed for a moment, he assailed the left and charged the strong redoubt of Breyman, which flanked the British camp at the place now called Burgoyne's Hill. The patriotic army, fired with new hope and courage, crowded fearlessly up to the very mouths of the belching guns of the redoubt and won the final victory of the day; then, exhausted by the deadly fight, before they took possession of the British camp, sullenly dropped down for a rest.
"Silently and sullenly the defeated army withdrew from the works of Freeman's farm and huddled closely together under the three redoubts by the river. Here the women trembled over the drying form of Fraser. In the cellar of the old Marshall House Madame Riedesel, with her three little girls, found refuge from the American bullets during the week preceding Burgoyne's surrender. Here Surgeon Jones had his remaining leg shot away while the other was being amputated. Eleven cannon balls passed through the house. The splintered beams and other relics well preserved are still shown. With slight alterations the house remains as at the time of the surrender.
"The hospital stood with its overflowing of wounded and dead. The great and princely army awaited in doubt and despair while the commander hesitated and wavered in his plans. Should he risk another engagement or retreat? He decided to retreat, and it began as the Americans fired the guns for Fraser's funeral at sunset. The blood-red sun sank behind the heights in which the exultant and victorious American army lay. Heavy clouds followed, and quickly after a drenching rain the army of the British, abandoning their sick and wounded, began the retreat up the river, Retracing their steps from Bemis Heights, the scene of their disaster, they followed the river road to the Fishkill and the Schuyler mansion, which they burned to the ground. It was an illumination of their own defeat.
"Failing here to make an advancing stand against the Americans they fell back, formed an entrenched camp and planted their batteries along the heights of old Saratoga. In this camp they still hoped to hold out until relief came up the Hudson from New York. Here the pathos of the campaign culminated. The sick and wounded took up refuge in cellars. Burgoyne was entrenched on the hills with the river below, yet had no water to drink except a cupful brought now and then by the British women. The gallant Americans would not fire upon them. Burgoyne sent in the terms of surrender near the site of the old Schuyler mansion so recently burned. Here he laid down his arms and surrendered to General Gates. Along the road just across the Fishkill the disarmed prisoners were marched to the tune of 'Yankee Doodle,' played first as a national air.
"When the last cannon was heard to die among to hills it was as if the expiring note of British domination in America was sounded. This victory decided the fate of that mighty empire. It will stand unrivaled and alone, deriving lustre and perpetuity in its singleness."
There was soon to he peace throughout the land and independence. Again the golden grain would wave and the Hudson would be white with the sails of ships from many seas.
We left Schuylerville under a gloomy sky that foreboded rain. The clouds gathered thicker and thicker, and soon the rain was descending in torrents. We took refuge in a kind of barn erected for the purpose of sheltering horses during church services. We did not know the denomination of the church that stood near this shelter. We believed more strongly in a religion that is kind to dumb animals and does not have them standing for hours in a cruel storm while they shout "Glory to God." After the storm had abated we started onward once more.
"Flow on forever in thy glorious robeOf terror and of beauty; * * * God hath setHis rainbow on thy forehead; and the cloudMantles around thy feet."
—Mrs. Sigourney.
Niagara! What a wealth of memories come thronging to you as you repeat the name! Some with visions of an emerald sea, filled with the eternal roar and grandeur of many waters; others with haunting melodies, quiet and tender as an Aeolian harp thrummed by an unseen hand. What a poem of blended power and beauty was here unfolded by Nature through countless centuries! Geological grandeur such as one seldom sees elsewhere awaits you here; splendor inconceivable is here wrought in ever varied and powerful forms of beauty, giving rise to a sublimity of thought and exuberance of feeling too powerful for words.
The awe felt in looking at this wild mass of raging water humbles and overwhelms you; you feel the presence of a majesty and grandeur in its onward sweep before unknown to you. When it is dashed to gauzy, irised spray it seems as gentle as the pearly mists of dawn, but its deep thunder-like detonations tell of a mighty power. Beauty blended with the most awe-inspiring sublimity is the order of passionate, impetuous Niagara.
The broad river takes the waters of the four lakes—Superior, Huron, Michigan and Erie—to its turbulent bosom and bears them about twenty-two miles from Lake Erie, where it becomes a raging torrent and rushes in frenzied madness over the precipice forming the incomparable falls. Then, before reaching Lake Ontario, its water forgets its scourging and glides smoothly again in its wider channel, presenting a picture of peace and quietness in striking contrast to the surging tumult of the noisy rapids above.
The country through which Niagara passes is comparatively level, interspersed here and there with hills of "vernal loveliness." Niagara seems to have only one all-absorbing interest. "Not many features of the country through which it flows correspond in that wildness and savage grandeur with which the falls are clothed." The mahogany colored soil is devoted to vegetable and fruit growing. In spring the well-cultivated trees, including pear, plum, peach, and cherry, burst into a miracle of delicious bloom, making patches of pink as vivid as a sunset sea or others of pure white like snows new-fallen. Such scenes of pastoral beauty enhance its wildness and surpassing grandeur.
The strange beauty of the ocean is comprehended long before one reaches its shores. Mountain peaks are seen from afar, blending imperceptibly with the horizon; at first only their faint outlines are revealed as you gradually approach. You have, perhaps, been looking for a rough country with great glacier- sculptured walls or imposing rugged scenery on nearing the falls. You do not suspect they are near and if you approach Prospect Point in an automobile, you are in sight and sound of them ere you are aware.
Here the vast panorama is presented to you. You are hardly prepared for so much at once. One gentleman, on being asked what effect the falls had upon his wife, replied: "She was struck speechless." Whereupon the other gentleman said: "I shall bring my wife tomorrow." Had Niagara this beneficent effect upon both sexes who gaze upon it, one is almost certain that its number of visitors instead of one million, would amount to many millions annually, and "there would be more of heaven on earth, before it is journeyed to."
Those who can see no beauty in Niagara (may the Lord pity such) may still be rewarded by learning that this river is the boundary between the United States and Canada and was therefore the scene of many stirring conflicts between the Mother Country and her young but plucky, wayward, willful child. Nearby, on the Canadian side, are the battlefields of Chippewa, Lundy's Lane and Queenstown Heights. On the steep bank of the river on the top of a well-wooded height stands a graceful Doric shaft erected by the British in memory of their commander, General Brock, who fell on the battlefield of Queenstown Heights October 12, 1812. The monument has a lightning rod on it and on being asked the reason for this a fellow traveler replied: "It is because he has such striking features."
A trip to Niagara is not complete without a visit to the old fort. How beautiful the tree bordered road leading from Niagara along the river to its outlet at Lake Ontario! At first you catch glimpses now and then through the tree and bush covered banks of the river. The scenery along the river about half way between Niagara and the lake consists of beautiful homes with the orchards, vineyards and fields that stretch away over the level valley.
As you approach Fort Niagara you will see the post's cemetery. On the river between the cemetery and the fort is a lighthouse and near it, under the walls of the old fort, a government life- saving station. Entering the government ground the road winds through a beautiful grove in which are located the officers' homes. The barracks are adjacent to these and the road skirts the parade grounds just beyond.
At right angles with the river and lake is located Fort Niagara. This old fort is entered under an arched driveway, which may be closed by two massive doors. Its walls are fourteen feet high and four feet thick, built of stones that have been laid without mortar. It has been remarkably well preserved. It was built by the French approximately on the site occupied by LaSalle and Denouville. It was taken by the British in 1789 and held by them as a base of warfare against the American frontier during the war of the Revolution. It was then occupied by the Americans.
You will be impressed with the old Lombardy poplars that were planted by the French along the lake. Here they have stood, buffeted by the winds of more than two centuries until they resemble grim, sturdy warriors who have known many conflicts. They stand near the water's edge, defiant still, like brave soldiers unable to move farther, who have faced about to meet the enemy. With their few scattered limbs still pointing upward, they seem almost as old as the fort itself. Nature was kind and had clothed their few aged limbs with bright green leaves, which will retain their tints almost as long as any deciduous trees.
But why recall these tales of bygone days when the British and the Americans were engaged in these terrible struggles? Let us go back to the falls where a voice at once grand and awesome speaks of a day so old we have no record, save the geological hieroglyphics; those vast manuscripts written on the tables of rocks by the hand of Time.