Chapter XIV: Breaking the Ice (5)

[34] _Discours sur l’Hist. univ._: “The Egyptians observe
the customs of their fathers, and adopt no new ones,” says
Herodotus.

[35] _Théorie du Pouvoir_, vol. i. book 1. From this work,
now consulted so little, but nevertheless full of remarkable
views respecting the different systems of social
organization, we have taken the plan of this _étude_ of the
political institutions of ancient Egypt.

[36] Eusebius, _apud Sync._ vol.

[37] _Notice du Musée de Boulaq_, p. 185.

[38] F. Lenormant, _Manuel d’Hist. anc._, vol. i. p. 334.

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A WEEK AT LAKE GEORGE.

Most of our merchant readers will be able to recall a thousand pleasant reminiscences or anecdotes of the firm of Hawkins & Smith, wholesale cloth dealers, of our great metropolis. Mr. Hawkins is the dapper, fluent, old English gentleman, who meets all callers upon the house. He appears to be the very life of the firm, and sells the counters and shelves as clean as his own smoothly shaved, fair little face. He is fond of boasting that he never kept a piece of goods through two whole seasons. He is the only member of the firm with whom our agents and correspondents are acquainted. Rarely, indeed, does it enter anybody’s head to inquire for Mr. Smith. But a silent, squarely-built, gray-eyed man, never to be seen in the salesroom, and only in the office at the earliest hours, looks as if he might be called Smith, or any other practically-sounding name; and on closer inspection this same individual appears to possess those qualities which would fit one to do and endure the grinding, screwing, and pounding, the stern refusing and energetic demanding, connected with the business of such a distinguished firm. Smith never boasts. He has a disagreeable way of chuckling, when he observes, before dismissing an idle employee, that _he_ (Smith) came here (to New York) in his own schooner from home (Rhode Island) and, in six months, bought his share in the present business. Mr. Hawkins never alludes to him in conversation, but always greets him with marked respect, and, when late to business, with a nervous flush quite unpleasant to witness. It has been said by enemies of the firm that Hawkins is a first-class salesman because Smith does all the buying; and many quaint expressions have arisen regarding the fate of the American eagle whenever a certain coin passes between old Smith’s thumb and forefinger.

Any one who has so far penetrated the nether gloom of our first story salesroom as to peep behind the little railing on the high desk, has seen a tall, pale, blue-eyed young man, with closely-trimmed whiskers, bending over the gas-lit figures and folios, the mysteries of Hawkins & Smith. Five years in this Hades, wearing and puzzling over the 79 perpetual riddle before him, have worked a slight wrinkle just between his brows, and bent his thin figure, and even blanched his delicate hands and hollow cheeks; but he is no more a demon or ghost than you or I, or even Mr. Hawkins himself, but the jolliest and best of jolly good fellows. If you have long known Jack Peters, and acknowledged this, be civil to me, dear reader, henceforth, for his sake, for I am this book-keeper’s first cousin, George Peters.

Ask the boys in the first floor whom old Smith watches most. They will tell you, with a laugh, the new clerk at the first counter. Ask Mr. Hawkins whom he put at the first counter because he likes Jack Peters. He will answer, George Peters, his cousin. Ask Mr. Smith who the clerk at the first counter is. He will answer, “An infernal fool that Hawkins picked up, because he always wants a good-looking figure-head.”

This last remark is historical, and I quote it to illustrate many subjects which vanity, modesty, and respect for my employers alike render delicate to me, George Peters.

On a certain Monday evening in July last, Jack and I stood in the dread presence of Hawkins and Smith, in the inner circle of the gloom.

“Mr. Peters,” said Hawkins, looking at both of us as blandly as man could look in such a place, “we have both concluded that we can better spare you this week than next. Nothing will be going on, and so you had better be going off. Ah! ha! And you, my young friend, although it is not customary to grant vacation to such recent employees, had better go off, too, on account of your cousin--entirely on his account!” added the little gentleman, dexterously, glancing the last part of his speech from me to his partner.

Jack nodded his thanks, and I endeavored to thaw the cold stare of the junior partner by a warm burst of gratitude, not altogether feigned. His glance, indeed, altered, but only to a sneer, and the labials of the word “puppy” were so distinctly formed that I could scarcely keep from disarranging them by a hearty slap.

Feeling checked and snubbed, I walked with Jack out of the store, but soon these feelings gave place to the excitement of our vacation.

“Jack, are the ‘traps’ all packed?”

“Everything is ready; all we have to do is to get aboard the boat. Hawkins told me on Saturday that I might get ready, but that it was necessary to stay over Monday in order to get you off with me. So I left word at home to have everything sent down by the boy.”

We turned the corner, and, in a few minutes, were wandering through the cabins and gangways of the Albany boat. The “boy” on whom Jack had relied so confidently did not make his appearance until the last moment, and then professed utter ignorance of any lunch-basket. Jack was certain that he had put it with the trunk and satchels, and was but partially convinced when he found it, on our return, in the wardrobe of his bedroom. But we were on board of the _St. John_, and it only made a difference of two dollars in the cost of our supper.

Yes, dear reader, we were on board of the _St. John_, and moving up the Hudson; and, if you are pleased at finding us on our way at last, judge with what feelings we turned from the brick and stone of the great Babylon behind us to the towering palisades, the groves, and hills, and happy rural sights about us. Jack and I were unable to 80 get a state-room; all had been secured before the boat left the wharf. This, however, afforded little matter for regret, as we sailed through moonlight and a warm breeze beneath the gloomy Highlands, and watched the lights of the barges and tow-boats, like floating cities on the inky river. Scraps of history and romance were suggested at almost every turn of the winding channel, and as we passed old Cro’ Nest, the opening lines of the _Culprit Fay_ were forcibly recalled:

“’Tis the middle watch of a summer night,
Earth is dark, but the heavens are bright,
And naught is seen in the vault on high
But the moon and stars, and the cloudless sky,
And the flood which rolls its milky hue,
As a river of light, o’er the welkin blue.
The moon looks down on old Cro’ Nest;
She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast;
And seems his huge gray form to throw
In a silver cone on the wave below.”

The white schooners went through their ghostly parts in a way that would have shamed Wallack himself. We thought the performance of the sturgeons fully equal, from an artistic point of view, and, certainly, less objectionable from every point of view, when compared with anything we ever saw at the ballet; and, yet, we remembered that men and women were sitting wide awake through these late hours in the hot and crowded theatres of the city. Thus we were consoled for the loss of a state-room. But even in this peaceful enjoyment of nature we were not without drawbacks, and in the chapter of accidents must be recorded how and why we lost our places on the forward deck.

Scarcely had the steamer left her dock, when we were startled by a voice inquiring “if there would be any intrusion in case a party of ladies and gentlemen desired to while away time by singing a few hymns?”

Jack and I turned in our seats. The inquiry had proceeded from an elderly individual, of general clerical appearance, and certain marks strongly indicating the specific character of the “Evangelical” school. A pair of “sisters” hung upon either arm, and all three settled into chairs in the middle of the deck. His question had been addressed to about two hundred ladies and gentlemen who crowded the forward deck. There were evident marks of dissatisfaction, but, as nobody spoke, our “Evangelical” friend thought proper to conclude that nobody was offended, and the hymn-singing commenced. Gradually congenial spirits, drawn by the sound, were to be seen approaching from various parts of the boat, and when Jack and I returned from supper, we found about twenty or thirty in various stages of excitement, and our clerical friend wrought up to a high pitch. Another minister, with a strong but wheezy bass voice, announced and intoned the hymns. At intervals in the singing, our friend arose and addressed the spectators. At one time he informed them that the feeling which animated the present assembly was love to the Saviour. At another, he thought that perhaps there might be some present who knew nothing about the Saviour; to such he would apply the words of the apostle, “Be ye followers of me, as I am of Christ.” He said that he had been a child of God for thirty years, and knew by a certain assurance that he was a saved man. Hallelujah!

“Evangelical” blood was up, and our friend turned from the contemplation of his own happy lot to worry something or somebody. Jack’s cigar caught his eye. It was the red rag to the bull.

“Young man! there ain’t no smokin’-car in heaven. There ain’t no 81 for’ard deck where you can puff that stinkin’ weed of your’n!”

Jack expressed a forcible denial in an undertone, and, before I could nudge him, broke out with:

“I’d like to know what the Bible says against smoking?”

“You would, young man, would ye? Well, I’m glad you would. I’m glad you have asked that question. Well, sir, the Bible says, ‘Let no filthy communication proceed out of thy mouth’; and if that ar smoke ain’t a ‘filthy communication,’ I’d like to know what is.”

There was a general roar. “Come along, Jack,” said I, “you are a Papist, and can’t argue against a ‘free Bible.’” So, retiring to the after-deck, which was covered, and concealed much of the landscape, we left our Methodist friends triumphantly shouting and keeping folks awake up to a late hour.

As the night passed, and our fellow-travellers dropped off one by one to doze in their state-rooms or on the sofas of the cabins, we were left alone. Gradually we retired within ourselves, and shut the doors of our senses.

“Wake up, old fellow, we are nearly in!”

I opened my eyes, and saw Jack’s pale face smiling over my shoulders.

We landed at Albany, and after breakfast found ourselves settled in the Rensselaer and Saratoga cars, and, changing trains at Fort Edward, arrived at Glenn’s Falls in about three hours.

Jack, who had often made the trip before, had set me reading _The Leather Stocking Series_, and I positively refused to budge from the town of Glenn’s Falls until we had visited the rapids and descended into the cave which Cooper has immortalized in the first chapters of his most interesting romance, _The Last of the Mohicans_. The falling in of the rock at different periods, and the low stage of the water in the summer season, prevented us from recognizing the old shelter of Hawkeye and his party.

But there is the cave, and there are the rapids--both are shrines of American legend; and we felt better pleased with ourselves for our pilgrimage. Of course we had missed the stage which takes passengers from the station to Caldwell at the head of Lake George. We wandered a short time about town, found out that there were a number of Catholics in it, and that its president, Mr. Keenan, was a well-known Irish Catholic. We also visited a beautiful church, the finest in the town, recently completed by Father McDermott, the pastor of the English-speaking Catholic congregation, there being also a French-Canadian parish in the place.

As may be easily imagined, we had no mind to walk over to the lake, or to pay ten dollars for a vehicle to carry us as many miles, and Jack was beginning to grumble at my curiosity when we met a farmer’s wagon--with a farmer in it, of course. The latter offered to take us over for fifty cents a head, as he was going in the same direction. Never was there a better piece of good luck. There are several Scotch families settled on French Mountain, at the head of the lake; our driver was one of their patriarchs. He literally poured out funny stories of the “kirk” and “dominie”; and although some of the jokes were very nearly as broad as they were long, Jack and I were forced to hold our sides while the “gudeman” sparkled and foamed, like a certain brown export from his native country.

During a momentary lull in the conversation, I took occasion to inquire with respect to a black woolly-coated dog, who followed the 82 wagon, if he were a good hunter. “Yes,” said Jack, with a contemptuous smile at the subject of my inquiry. “He is what is called a beef-hound.”

“Hoot, mon,” said his owner, “that dog would tree a grasshopper up a mullen-stalk.”

It was in no sad or poetical mood that we passed by “Williams’s Monument” and the scene of Hendrick’s death and Dieskau’s defeat, or saw at “Bloody Pond” the lilies bending over the sedge and ooze which served of old as the last resting-place of many a brave young son of France. We did not think of the fierce struggle which had here confirmed our Anglo-Saxon forefathers in possession of this soil. All this comes up now as I write; for, certainly no sober thought entered our brains until, as we turned round a mountain-side, I saw Jack take off his hat. I looked in the direction of his respectful nod, and--oh! what a vision!--the deep blue lake sank from view in the embrace of the distant mountains. Its winding shores and secret bays, curtained with veils of mist hanging in festoons from boughs of cedar, birch, maple, and chestnut, were like enchantment in their endless variety of form and shade. No less the work of magic were the islands. These, owing to the reflection of the water, appeared to hang over its surface as the clouds seemed to hang over the peaks above. To stand suddenly in view of such a sight might have startled and awed even lighter souls than ours. Here, indeed, our hearts were lifted up and thrilled as we thought of the gray-haired apostle and martyr, the first European who sailed upon the water before us--the Jesuit Father Jogues, who also gave it on the eve of Corpus Christi its original name--Lac du Saint-Sacrament. Our Protestant tradition, following the courtier taste of Sir William Johnson, has handed down the name of Lake George, but we trust that the hope of every lover of American antiquity who has visited its shores may not prove vain, and that time, in doing justice to all, will restore to the lake its first true and lovely title.

A few small sails on the water, and the smoke from the village at our feet, broke the spell and reminded us that we were still among the haunts of man.

Caldwell is made up of a courthouse, several churches, stores, hotels, and shops, a saw-mill, and a few streets of separated dwelling-houses. The grand hotel is near the site once occupied by Fort William Henry, and is called by that name, and looks towards Ticonderoga, although the view is cut off midway by the windings of the lake. Old Fort George is overgrown with cedars and shrubs, and only a few feet of ruined bastion remain. The scene of the massacre of Fort William Henry is now, as nearly as we could reckon from Mr. Cooper’s description, a swamp. Time, however, is said to have greatly altered the topography of the shore at this point, and certainly it is hard to locate Montcalm’s old camping-ground during the siege described in _The Last of the Mohicans_.

Leaving such questions to the antiquarian, perhaps, dear reader, you will ask one with a practical regard for the present and future, namely, How do they provide for their guests at the Fort William Henry? Alas! that were indeed an ill-timed question for us. Perhaps, if I had asked the proprietor to allow me to report upon his fare in the pages of THE CATHOLIC WORLD, he would have done so in a manner satisfactory to all parties; but, as no such brilliant idea occurred at that time, I am forced to confess that I was afraid that it was 83 too good. Be it said to our shame, we did not promenade upon the magnificent piazza, nor did we stop to taste the alluring fare of the Fort William Henry. What else did we come for? Why, to see Lake George, of course, and to have a good time; and we did both, although we went without lunch for some hours that day.

Scarcely had I claimed our baggage at the stage-office, when Jack came up from the beach with a radiant countenance. “It’s all right!” said he, “I’ve got just the boat we want. Five dollars for the rest of the week. Take hold of that trunk, and we’ll get under way as soon as possible.”

Perhaps, dear reader, in your wanderings through life it has never been your happy lot to be absolute master of the craft on which you are sailing. Do you think that you have fathomed the mystery of such lives as those of Captain Kidd and Admiral Semmes?

Do you imagine that life on the ocean wave means sleeping in a berth and pacing a quarter-deck? Ah! that was truly independence day to us. The wind blew fresh and strong. We hoisted our india-rubber blanket on an oar. Coats and collars were packed away in the satchel, our “worst” straw hats were pulled down over our eyes, and, as we sat with loosened flannel in the bottom of our heavy skiff, and listened to the rippling water, we quite forgot that it was past lunch-time. The warm south breeze, and that peculiar fragrance which popular fancy has associated with the name of cavendish, brought us in full sympathy with the naval adventurers of other days, and we blessed the memory of Sir Walter Raleigh, “as we sailed.”

The upper portion of the lake, through which we are now passing, though surrounded by hills, has enough farming land and farm-houses on their slopes to give it that placid, tranquil beauty which is always associated with views on the English waters. As it widened from three-quarters to as many full miles, we passed several beautiful residences, two of them belonging to Messrs. Price and Hayden of New York City. Opposite these, on the eastern shore, is a handsome property belonging to Charles O’Conor, Esq., one of the most distinguished members of the New York bar, and well known throughout the United States. Just abreast Diamond Island is the residence of Mr. Cramer, president of the Rensselaer and Saratoga Railroad, and while sailing past the lovely group of islands known as the “Three Sisters,” the property of Judge Edmonds, we saw beyond them the white walls of his cottage peeping out from the green foliage of the western shore, about three miles and a half from Caldwell.

As the sun sank below Mount Cathead, back of the pretty little village of Bolton, we landed on a little islet in the Narrows near Fourteen Mile Island.

I was quite curious to find out what preparations Jack had made, and lent a willing hand at the long narrow trunk. In the tray was a small cotton tent, made according to Jack’s own order, and slightly larger than the soldier’s “dog-house.” A keen little axe in Jack’s quick hand soon provided a pair of forked uprights and four little pins, an oar served for a ridge-pole, and our shelter was up before the sun was fairly below the real horizon. Out of the same tray came a quilt and two pairs of blankets, which I was ordered to spread on the india-rubber. My task accomplished, the smell of something very much 84 like ham and eggs recalled me to the beach. We supped, that night, by the light of our camp-fire, and it was only after a night’s heavy sleep that I was able to examine the rest of Jack’s outfit. A small mess-chest, which bore marks of his own clever fingers, occupied one division of the bottom of the trunk. The rest of it was shared by apartments for clothing, provisions, and a humble assortment of fishing-tackle and shooting material. The gun lay strapped to one side of the trunk, and a couple of rods on the other.

“Very neat, Jack,” said I.

“You are right; I built it myself, all except the walls and roof, seven years ago.”

I am sorry to confess that I did not get up that morning until breakfast was ready. Jack did not complain, but I saw by his quiet smile that some kind of an apology was necessary.

“Jack, I’m as stiff as a clotheshorse, and sore from head to foot.”

“Why,” he asked, “didn’t you dig holes for your hips and shoulders, as the Indians do?”

“The holes were all made, only they were in the wrong places.”

After breakfast, we broke up our camp and rowed over to Fourteen Mile Island. On the way we had another view of Bolton, behind us, and the countless islands in the Narrows, through which we were shortly to sail. The little village of Bolton lies on the western shore opposite Fourteen Mile Island. It contains a hotel, several boarding-houses, a pretty little P. E. church, and a forest of flags, every house seeming to have its own staff. One of the islands, near Bolton, was shown us as the point of view from which Kensett’s picture of the Narrows was painted. At Fourteen Mile Island we found a quiet little hotel, which serves as a dining-place for excursionists from Caldwell. A few regular boarders seemed to be enjoying themselves, and I noticed an artist’s easel and umbrella on the porch.

We soon left with a good supply of butter, eggs, milk, and fresh bread. After rowing a few miles through the maze of islands in the Narrows, one of which is occupied by a hermit artist named Hill, a “transcendentalist,” the wind arose, and we sailed under the shadow of Black Mountain through the wildest portion of the lake. On the western shore, savage cliffs were piled in utter confusion, now rising, like the Hudson River Palisades, in solid walls above a mass of _débris_, now hanging in gigantic masses over the crystal abyss below. On the eastern shore, Black Mountain rises above any other height on the lake, and the view which we beheld as we passed from Fourteen Mile Island down the Narrows is one of the finest in the world. Now we were drifting under the cliffs at the base of the mountain, and, looking up its abrupt sides--a series of rocky spurs covered principally with hemlocks and cedar--we saw two eagles soaring above the thin clouds which floated half-way up. Throughout this portion the lake varies from one to two miles in width.

Oh! what a cozy little nest in the hills at the northern end of Black Mountain! A few farms, and a sleepy old mill that looks as if it never was made to run, lie on the sunny slope retiring into the hills which forms a pass over to Whitehall. No wonder they call it the “Bosom!”

Here, in a little graveyard, we saw the tombstone of a Revolutionary soldier, and the old farm-house, at which we stopped for dinner, with its loom and spindle and bustling old housewife, formed a good specimen of that phase of American life which is rapidly passing 85 away for ever.

While our meal was being cooked, Jack disappeared with his rod. I had a long talk with the mistress of the house. She was a “Free-will Baptist” and very much opposed to the Irish and Catholics generally. Her objections to the former were thus curtly summed up, “The critters get rich off a rock, and have sich litters of children.”

During the ensuing conversation she remarked, “I have four sons, and every one of them professors.”

“Ah!” said I, in all simplicity, “they must be doing very well; but what do they teach?”

“Teach?--they don’t teach nothing. I said they were professors.”

“Well, then,” I asked, “what do they profess?”

“Why, professors of religion, of course,” answered the good dame--“every one of ‘em baptized in yon lake. Oh! it was a glor’ous sight!”

The good old lady--for she was past eighty--showed me her dairy, and apartments of the house which she said were usually occupied by boarders at this time of the year. She had woven all the carpets, quilts, towels, napkins, and table-cloths of the whole establishment, and everything looked very neat and old-fashioned.

“I’m mighty sorry you have to hurry off,” said she, “I could make you the nicest chowder you ever tasted. My man knows just where to get the fish. A few years ago we sent off, at once, one hundred and fifty pounds of clean lake trout.”

I, too, was sorry that we were obliged to hasten on our journey, as I thought, for the first time since we started, of Hawkins & Smith and a long year in the gloomy salesroom.

Jack came late for dinner with five small brook-trout in his hand.

“Hulloa, old fellow, where did you get those?”

“Oh! there’s a little pool on the hillside up yonder,” answered Jack, pointing as he spoke, “I always find two or three there.”

After paying for our dinner, visiting an Indian family who claim to be the genuine “Last of the Mohicans,” we bade farewell to our hostess and one of the “professors,” who had appeared in the meanwhile, and were again afloat. We passed Sabbath Day Point, about two miles above “The Bosom” on the opposite shore. The former derived its name from having served as a resting-place to Abercrombie’s expedition; it was the scene of several bloody skirmishes during the French and Indian war and also during the Revolution.

The lake now widens somewhat, and the mountains decrease in height. Two points of land overlapping from opposite sides close up the northern view and form a large circular basin opposite the little village of Hague, situated on the western shore about six or seven miles from the lower end of the lake. One of the points alluded to is a craggy spur which seems to spring directly out of the depths of the water; it is on the eastern shore, and is called Anthony’s Nose. The western point is a well-shaded lawn of about one hundred and fifty acres, with a winding irregular shore, and containing a number of large hickory and chestnut trees.

The robins were hopping about the lawn as we landed; the thrush, singing his vesper, made a special commemoration of the faithful newly arrived; the greedy cat-bird, a sleek-coated sharper, approached to see what was to be made off the strangers; while the politic red-squirrels, scampering off at sight of our tent to discuss the object and intent of this invasion, remained at a respectful distance while Jack’s trout were frying over the little camp-fire now gleaming 86 in the twilight.

Supper having been despatched, I heard Jack approaching, while engaged in washing the dishes on the beach--an occupation which time and place can often rob of all its offensiveness, wherefore, most delicate of readers, I am bold enough to mention it.

I looked at Jack from my towel and tin plates, and great was my astonishment to behold him in complete hunting-dress, gun in hand, and all accoutred for the chase.

“Why, Jack! what’s afoot?”

“No game yet,” he answered, smiling; “but I’m to leave you to-night.”

“What! to sleep here all by myself?”

“Why, yes--you are not afraid, are you?”

“No, not afraid exactly.”

“The fact is,” said Jack, “a fellow over at Hague promised me a deer-hunt last year, and if I can find him to-night I shall go out with him to-morrow. You can’t shoot, have no gun, and are not much of a walker, so I am sure you would be bored to death.” (I nodded.) Jack continued, “I will walk over to-night, and if I do not meet the hunter will be back bright and early to-morrow morning. If I do not come then, please row over for me to-morrow evening.”

“All right, _mon capitaine_.” And, with a wave of the hand, Jack departed, and I was alone.

The embers of the camp-fire began to brighten as the darkness fell. The birds and squirrels disappeared. The trunk was stowed safely together with its mess-chest and provisions, and the blankets were spread in the little tent; the milk-jug and butter-bowl were secured by stones in the water, in order to keep them cool. I began my rosary for night prayers, and roamed through the grove over to the northern side of the point, in full view of the steep promontory on the opposite shore. Beyond our own smooth camping-ground the western shore surged up again in all its former wildness. The beads passed slowly through my fingers, and it seemed as if the beauty and loneliness of the scene were absorbing all my faculties, and withdrawing me from instead of raising my thoughts to God and heaven.

Finally the moon arose. A thousand scattered beams shot through the dark foliage, and lit up patches of the lawn over which I had just passed. The wind had died away, and the light fell in unbroken splendor upon the broad mirror before me. The few thin clouds, veiling small groups of stars, the frowning cliffs and sombre woods--all were reduplicated in the unruffled water. Far to the south, Black Mountain closed up the view, which sank in the east behind the low ranges of hills, all dark below the rising moon. The last bead fell from my fingers, and praying God to forgive anything inordinate in my enjoyment of his creatures, I gave up to the intoxication of the scene. The hours passed rapidly while I dreamed of the days of Montcalm and Abercrombie, and saw in fancy the fleets of canoes and batteaux passing and repassing in victory and defeat the rocks upon which I was sitting. Had my mind ever reverted to the possibility of being obliged to give a public account of itself, I might have composed some lines, had some “thoughts,” or done something worth recording. Alas, dear reader, do not consider me rude if I confess that I did not think of you at that time. For, indeed, I did not think of anything, but left my fancy to be sported with by impressions past 87 and present of the lovely region in which I found myself a happy visitor. The cool night air brought the blood to my sunburnt cheeks. The landscape swam before me, the past mingled with the present; finally, the mist seemed to shroud everything. My watch was run down past midnght when I awoke, finding myself stretched at full length on the rock. I started--where was I? what had disturbed my slumber? Was it the war-whoop of the Mingoes, or the friendly greeting of Uncas and Chingacgook; but if so, where were the canoes? I raised myself slowly on my elbow, all wet with dew, dazed by sleep and the strange scene about me--when suddenly, under the shadow of the trees, and not one hundred feet distant, there rose from the water a shrill, fierce, devilish laugh, so wild and startling that I bounded to my feet and fairly screamed with fright. The next instant, a large bird appeared fluttering on the moonlit water beyond. “Pshaw!” said I, “didn’t you ever hear a loon before?” Thus addressing myself, I returned to the tent, and, stripping off my wet clothes, fell asleep in the blankets.

I do not know exactly what time of the day it was when I awoke the next morning. The sun was high, and my clothes and the tent perfectly dry; but I saw through its open door the steamer which leaves Caldwell at eight o’clock, and hence concluded that it was now between ten and eleven. I was glad enough that Jack did not appear to rebuke my laziness until I came to try my hand at cooking breakfast. The fire would smoke, and I could not hinder it; the ham would not broil, and I could not force it. The eggs, of course, were scorched, and so was my tongue when I tasted the coffee, which resembled a decoction of shavings and bitter almonds. Quietly emptying the coffee-pot on the grass, I contented myself with a cup of milk, which, however, showed strong premonitory symptoms of sourness; and after bolting a huge stock of raw ham and scorched eggs, made up my mind that this was to be the last meal without Jack.

It was very warm in the tent, so, taking the quilt and a certain small pouch of buckskin decked with wampum, I sought the shelter of the grove. Chestnut-burrs did not prevent me from choosing the shadiest spot, for my quilt afforded ample protection.

Here, with my back to the tree, I fell into a state which might easily have proved a continuation of my already protracted nap. It was not so, however. The bag of the medicine-man contains an antidote for prosiness after meals. Blue clouds of the inspiring fragrance curled in the still air, and the brain which might have succumbed to the vulgar humors of digesting pork maintained itself in a gentle, subdued, intellectual state. Had I some favorite author in my hand, some volume of pithy sentences furnishing themes for my morning meditation, or somebody’s “confessions”? Alas, dear reader, I am forced to make a confession myself, to wit, that there was not a line of printed matter in all our luggage.

Day-dreams and night-dreams are pretty much alike with me unless there be a trifle of brilliant imagination in favor of the latter. Still, if any stray thoughts wandered through my brain at this time, they must have been something like these: Why was it that the law of rest had to be superadded to the law of labor, if not because man has turned his wholesome penance into a debauchery? Avarice and ambition have gradually mastered the human race, and he who would eat or hold his 88 own must sweat and fight, or others will snatch it from him. By degrees, the struggle has grown and deepened. First, we were shepherds and tillers of the soil. Childhood passed in plenty and obedience. Ploughing and reaping came only in their seasons, and, while kings and princes tended flocks, labor was worship and life was not all drudgery--there was some time for happiness and God. Then came the curse of cunning and trade and cities. Here began a fiercer strife, and, instead of the accidental miseries of drought and famine, men learned to fear beggary. And, now that craft and commerce are supreme, slavery is universal. No more days of festival, no more years of jubilee! You, George Peters, wretch that you are, are the bond-slave of Hawkins & Smith. What! will you rebel? Well, it is only a choice of masters--serve you must. This pitiful vacation is only a device of old Smith to make you feel your real bondage. If, dear reader, you should perceive any other explanation of the facts which I so loosely jumbled together, remember that this was the reverie of a lazy youth, escaped from the thraldom of his counter, and basking in the fresh air and beauty of Lake George. If, branching off from the great labor question, I thought of anything else, it was to compare that beauty with what I had seen in pictures or read in books of other lakes. I have before alluded to the placid and tranquil English character of the scenery between Caldwell and Fourteen Mile Island. The farms and villas, and the town of Bolton, although lying on the western shore, add much to this effect, and serve to rob the eastern bank almost entirely of its natural air of uninhabited wildness. The sail-boats and skiffs and three little steamers continually plying about this portion of the lake, complete the impression that it is a place of pleasure, ease, and holiday. The Narrows, completely filled with islands, where every stroke of the oar reveals new vistas and endless changes of scene, I can compare with nothing, and, indeed, it would seem as if they were a unique creation. These extend for two or three miles to where Black Mountain begins. And as for the rest, my ignorance is also at a loss for a comparison, and I can only think of what Lake Como might have been if adorned with islands, if its peaks were lower and covered with foliage, and if the hand of man had never wrought upon its native beauty.

That evening I rowed over for Jack. He had not yet arrived, although the sun had set when I arrived, as agreed, at the little hotel at Hague. Something unusual was going on, and I made various guesses as to the reason why so many well-dressed maids and shaven yeomen were gathered on the porch. Seven o’clock came, and yet no Jack. I eagerly inquired after supper, resolved not to risk the chance of being obliged to depend upon myself for a cook. The dining-room had been cleared of every table save the one which I occupied, and shortly after I had come out from supper I saw the young people crowding into it. I had now begun to suspect what was the matter, when an honest-looking young gentleman, fresh and fragrant from a process to which he shortly afterwards urged and invited me, approached and said: “Stranger, you’re camping on the p’int?” To this piece of information I nodded a genial assent.

“Lookin’ for your pardner?” asked the pleasant young man. I nodded again. “Well, he’ll be in soon. He’s gone out with a fellow that 89 never misses this sort of thing.” I had previously formed my own notion of Jack’s companion, and a jolly flourish on a neighboring violin forestalled the necessity of inquiring as to the nature of the “thing” which exercised such an influence over him. The pleasant young man, however, became confidential, and added with an ingenuous air: “The fact is, we are going to shuffle the hoof a little to-night, and he never misses anything like that. You’d better come in and try it yourself.”

Then, becoming confidential in turn and glancing at my unpolished extremities, I suggested that perhaps the articles in question were not in a condition to be shuffled. Here it was that our sympathy culminated, and my friend, in a burst of intimacy, proffered the invitation before alluded to, with the words: “Come along and slick up.” I do not know into what folly I might have been seduced if my good angel Jack had not just then appeared and rescued me.

“How many deer, Jack?”

“Oh! we did not so much as start one,” he answered. And then asked, “Have you had anything to eat?”

On my reply, Jack said that he was glad, for he had just had his own supper in the kitchen. As we rowed back to camp, Jack fell asleep in the stern of the boat, while telling me how he had tramped in vain from early dawn till night.

Oh! how proud I felt next morning, when, after kindling the fire and putting on the kettle, I came back and found Jack still sleeping in the tent.

Dear old nervous Jack! who ever saw you asleep in daytime before?

Quick as the thought in my mind, he bounded up as freshly as one of the deer of which he had been dreaming.

“Caught!” he said, the old quiet smile lighting up his face as he came out and fell to work getting breakfast.

When we had finished our meal and laughed over the adventures of the precious day, Jack set me to catching grasshoppers, while he prepared the fishing tackle.

I found my occupation quite lively for a sultry morning, and not without a certain amount of adventure, as I also discovered, for one ignorant of the precise difference between a grasshopper and a hornet.

Finally, enough were caught and imprisoned in an empty wine-bottle to serve for bait, and Jack was sure we were going to catch a load of fish. My confidence in fishing was only in proportion to my experience, very meagre, and after several hours fruitlessly spent in trying various places, great was my astonishment when the lance-wood rod bent double in my hands, and the next instant a large fish appeared struggling on the surface of the water.

“Don’t lose him!” shouted Jack as he came forward, and snatched the rod out of my hands and landed the fish.

“A fool for luck!” said my cousin. “I beg your pardon, old boy, but there won’t be a better fish caught here this summer.” It proved to be a splendid specimen of black bass, and weighed, according to Jack’s estimate, every ounce of six pounds. Several smaller fish of the same species, together with a few small perch, were the result of our day’s sport. The big bass made a sufficiently large Friday dinner and supper; the other fish we saved for our last breakfast.

Alas! for some episode, before we row down to Ticonderoga and take the steamer on Lake Champlain to Whitehall, and the cars thence to Albany 90 and New York. Our tent did not blow away that night; and, although the storm beat fiercely, not a drop of water touched us, thanks to the little furrow which Jack had traced with a sharp stick, to carry off the drippings from the tent-cloth.

Starting bright and early next morning, we rowed past a steep smooth cliff running almost perpendicularly for about four hundred feet and then down into the lake.

“That’s ‘Rogers’s Slide,’” said Jack.

“The deuce it is! He must have worn a stout pair of pantaloons!”

“Oh! but he didn’t actually slide, you know!” replied Jack, and then proceeded to recount the famous escape of Major Rogers in 1758, who here eluded the pursuit of the Indians, and, having thrown his knapsack over the precipice, turned his snow-shoes and made off by another route.

In a few hours, we had left our little boat attached to the steamer to be taken back to Caldwell. A stage ride of several miles brought us to Ticonderoga and Lake Champlain. That same evening, at ten o’clock, we snuffed the hot and fetid breath of the great metropolis, and Monday morning saw us re-entering the shades of Hawkins & Smith. A word to Jack and a stare at me were the only greetings of the junior partner, as he passed through the salesroom.

“Ah, boys!” said the cheery Hawkins, “glad to see you; look as if you’ve been having a good time. Plenty of bone, muscle, and brown skin, eh? I guess Mr. Smith will think that it pays to give you such a _rest_. You haven’t been wasting your money at Long Branch or Saratoga, I’ll bet.”

Thus ended our summer vacation; and if we did not have enough adventure to pass for heroes, or bag enough game for sportsmen, or see enough sights for artists, or recall enough of the past for antiquarians, or measure miles and heights enough for the scientific--in short, if we appear as two vulgar and thoroughly commonplace clerks, smoking and boating through our holiday--take note, dear reader, that even such as we can take delight in Lake George; then, go and make the trip after your own fashion, and see if you can enjoy it more or better.

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THE ELEMENTS OF OUR NATIONALITY. 91

The diversity of race to be found in this republic, like its rapid and stupendous physical and mental development, is unparalleled in history. Great nations, such as Austria, Prussia, and Russia, it is true, have been called into existence in times comparatively modern, but they have been aggregations of smaller kindred states already established, attracted towards each other by mutual interests and tastes, or coerced into union by force of arms. With us, growth and greatness, originating at different times and at places widely separated, have been the result in the first instance of the establishment of a wise and comprehensive system of government, the benefits of which we were willing to share generously with the people of all nations; and next, to the alacrity and sincerity with which those people, acting on an impulse common to humanity, have accepted the advantages thus presented.

Looking back to the history of the migration of mankind from the cradle of the human race, we find that colonies, afterwards to become nations and the _nuclei_ of distinct families, thrown off from the centre, presented each a unity of language and affinity of which the originators of our country had not the advantage. Even Greece, the graceful daughter of dusky Egypt, soon ceased to be Hellenic, and became, notwithstanding her many subdivisions, thoroughly Greek, and her colonies in Europe and Asia, when they ceased their connection with the mother country, were quickly absorbed in the surrounding peoples. The Roman Empire had no nationality, being simply the creature of force, and no matter how widely its boundaries were spread, all authority was lodged in Rome, and its subjects outside the walls of that city were comparatively or positively slaves, without any voice in the management of their own affairs, or a nationality to which they could lay claim. As the legions were withdrawn to the capital, the empire crumbled, and the disintegrated parts gradually resumed their original character. So with the splendid but short-lived empire of Charlemagne, The Goths, Vandals, Huns, and other European and Asiatic conquerors who from time to time overran different parts of Europe and founded dynasties, were simply waves of conquest overcoming and enslaving the previous inhabitants, subjecting them to the yoke of their own crude customs and laws, and building upon the ruins of one nation the greatness of another.

Far different was the origin of our republic. At the beginning, we had on our shores voluntary immigrants from the then four great maritime nations of Europe--Spain, France, Holland, and England. The colonists of each, from fortuitous circumstances, or led by peculiar predilections, selected for settlement certain portions of the continent, established themselves therein, and, while adhering to their parent country and following its laws, speaking its language, and practising its religion, early assumed a state of semi-independence.

These representatives of distinct nationalities, though few in numbers, grew prosperous each in its own territory, for the reason 92 that there was no idea of nationality, and consequently no unity of action, among the aborigines in their resistance to the new-comers. Supported by their home governments respectively, they grew from mere settlements to be important colonies, at peace with each other as far as their own individual relation was concerned, but always liable to be embroiled in the incessant quarrels of their countrymen at home. The sturdy Hollanders were the first to succumb to what might be called foreign influence; then the French settlers, deserted by France, laid down their arms before their English conquerors, who, in their turn, by the Revolution of ‘76, yielded their dominion to the Thirteen Colonies, which embraced within their limits much of the territory and most of the descendants of the original colonists of at least three of the nationalities which first effected settlements on the Atlantic coast. From this period we may date the origin of American nationality. In its infancy, it included nearly four millions of men of various races, creeds, opinions, and sentiments. For the first time in history was proclaimed the perfect equality before the law of all persons of European origin, as has since been extended that grand principle of human equality to men from every part of the earth. In forming a code for itself, it rejected what was contrary to this dogma, and adopted everything that was beneficial in all other forms of government. From Holland, it took the Declaration of Independence, that great manifesto of popular rights; from England, the writ of habeas corpus and trial by jury; from France and Spain, many of those equitable constructions of the civil law which regulate the rights of property and the domestic status of individuals. To all these were added the beneficent constitution under which we have the good fortune to live, and the many excellent laws, local and national, which, in conformity with that instrument, have been enacted from time to time.

But custom is said to be stronger even than law, and hence we can understand that the vivifying principle of the government itself was generated from the peculiar circumstances amid which the first settlers of America and their children found themselves, without local monarchical traditions, an hereditary aristocracy, or laws of primogeniture. With, as a general rule, little private fortune or means of subsistence other than that derived from manual labor and individual enterprise, the American colonist, no matter of what nation, was naturally disposed towards popular government, and to proclaim and admit general equality. It is undoubtedly to the existence of these robust social and economical habits in the early settlers--which, finding expression in their new-found political power, were embodied in the fundamental laws of the new nation by the fathers of the republic--that we are primarily indebted for the wise and moderate scheme of government we enjoy, and which it is our duty to preserve and perpetuate unimpaired to posterity.

It was thus by a combination of circumstances hitherto unknown that our country became clothed with all the attributes of nationality peculiar to itself--its subsequent progress, as we may presume its future greatness, having no parallel in the annals of other lands. That we are a nation, possessing an appropriate autonomy, capable of sustaining all the relations of war and peace with other countries, and exercising supreme authority over all our integral parts and individual members, no sane man uninfluenced by the quibbles of mere 93 lawyers or unswayed by the political passions of the day, will deny. Who would so deny, and maintain that this republic is a bundle of petty sovereignties in which the power of one is coequal to that of all the others combined, would reject the axiom of Euclid, that the whole is greater than its part. The true American, then, is he who keeps this principle of unity always in view. It gives dignity and strength to his country abroad, and assures peace, concord, and security at home. While allowing all possible latitude to subordinate members in the management of their domestic affairs, it reconciles and harmonizes the conflicting and sometimes antagonistic interests of different sections, concentrates on works of vast commercial and national importance the collective powers of all, directs the foreign policy of the government for the general good, and arrays the power of the people for the common protection and defence. True, some years ago, many persons held contrary opinions, and in the attempt to carry them out unhappily caused one of the most calamitous civil wars of modern times; but, like the tempest which sweeps over the gigantic oak, swaying its trunk and loosening the ground around it only that its roots may strike deeper and firmer into the earth, our country has passed through the storm unscathed and now rests on a basis firmer than ever. The past and its errors, however, we can easily forget; the future is ours; and who shall hold us harmless if we profit not by our dearly-bought experience and the lessons which every day teaches us?