We parted with our guide at the foot of the mountain. Our boy-driver and the vehicle had disappeared, and we were obliged to walk in the hot sun to the village. Our good tempers were not at all improved when we learned the fact that the stage from Lake George had passed nearly an hour before, and that no conveyance could be procured until toward evening to take us to the fort, unless the boy, who had not returned, should make his appearance; and where he had gone was a mystery. Dinner at the Pavilion was an event only a half hour in the future, and two miles in distance stretched between us and the viands. So we stopped grumbling, trudged on, and, whiling away the moments by pleasant conversation, we reached the Pavilion in time to take our places at table, too much heated and fatigued, however, to enjoy the luxuries set before us. Our Boston friends left that afternoon, but we tarried until two o'clock the next morning, when we departed on the Burlington for Whitehall.
The air was cool and the sky unclouded when we left Ticonderoga. The moon had gone down, and it was too dark to see more than the outlines of the romantic shores by which we were gliding, so we took seats upon the upper deck and surveyed the clear heavens, jeweled with stars. The Pleiades were glowing in the southern sky, and beautiful Orion was upon the verge of the eastern horizon. Who can look upward on a clear night and not feel the spirit of worship stirring within! Who can contemplate those silent watchers in the firmament and not feel the impulses of adoration!
"I know they must be holy things
That from a roof so sacred shine,
Where sounds the beat of angels' wings,
And footsteps echo* all divine.
Their mysteries I never sought,
Nor hearken to what science tells:
For oh, in childhood I was taught
That God amid them dwells."