But now the screeching fiddle is again heard above the murmur of talking and laughing voices, and another rush is made for the sanded floor. Another dance is then enjoyed, differing from the one already described only in its increased extravagance. After sawing away for a long time as if for dear life, the musician is politely requested to play a new tune. Promptly does he assent to the proposition; but having started on a fresh key, he soon falls into the identical strain which had kept him busy for the previous hour; so that the philosophic listener is compelled to conclude either that the fiddler cannot play more than one tune, or that he has a particular passion for the monotonous and nameless one to which he so closely clings. And thus with many indescribable variations does the ball continue throughout the entire night.
I did not venture to trip the “light fantastic toe” on the occasion in question, but my enjoyment as a calm spectator was very amusing and decidedly original. Never before had I seen a greater amount of labor performed by men and women in the same time. I left this interesting assembly about midnight, fully satisfied with what I had seen and heard, but I was afterwards told that I missed more than “half the fun.”
When the music was loudest, so it appears, and the frenzy of the dance at its climax, a select party of Dutch gentlemen were suddenly seized with an appetite for some more substantial food than any that had yet been given them. They held a consultation on the important subject, and finally agreed to ransack the garret and cellar of their host for the purpose of satisfying their natural desires. In the former place they found a good supply of dried beef, and in the latter, a few loaves of bread and a jar of rich cream, upon which they regaled themselves without favor, but with some fear. The giver of the bee subsequently discovered what had been done, and though somewhat more than “three sheets in the wind,” slyly sent for a pair of constables, who soon made their appearance, and arrested the thieving guests, who were held to bail in the sum of fifty dollars each. I was also informed that the dance was kept up until six o’clock in the morning, and that the appearance of my friend’s establishment and the condition of his guests at seven o’clock were ridiculous in the extreme. A small, proportion of the bee-party only had succeeded in starting for home, so that the number who from excess of drinking and undue fatigue had retired to repose, was not far from three score and ten. The sleeping accommodations of the host were limited, and the consequence was that his guests had to shift for themselves as they best could. The floors of every room in the house, including the pantries, were literally covered with men and women,—some of them moaning with a severe headache, some breathing audibly in a deep sleep, and others snoring in the loudest and most approved style. By twelve o’clock the interesting company had stolen off to their several homes, and the corn planting bee, among the Catskills, was at an end.
CHAPTER IV.
Lake Horicon—Sketches of its scenery—Information for anglers—Sabbath Day Point—War memories—The insect city—Death of a deer—Rogers’ Slide—Diamond Island—The snake charmer—Snake stories—Night on Horicon.
Lyman’s Tavern, June.
If circumstances alone could make one poetical, then might you expect from me, on this occasion, a paper of rare excellence and beauty. My sketch-book is my desk; my canopy from the sunshine, an elm tree; the carpet under my feet, a rich green sprinkled with flowers; the music in my ear of singing birds; and the prospect before me, north, east, and south, the tranquil bosom of Lake George, with its islands and surrounding mountains; whose waters, directly at my side, are alive with many kinds of fish, sporting together on a bed of sand. Yes, the far-famed Lake George is my subject; but in what I write, I shall not use that title,—for I do not like the idea of christening what belongs to us with the name of an English monarch, however much his memory deserves to be respected. Shall it be Lake St. Sacrament, then? No! for that was given to it by the Pope, and the French nation. Horicon—a musical and appropriate word, meaning pure water, and given to it by the poor Indian—is the name which rightfully belongs to the lake which is now my theme.
Lake Horicon is one of the few objects in Nature which did not disappoint me after reading the descriptions of travellers. I verily believe that, in point of mere beauty, it has not its superior in the world. Its length is thirty-four miles, and its width from two to four. Its islands number about three hundred, and vary from ten feet to a mile in length;—a great many of them are located in the centre of the lake, at a place called the Narrows. It is completely surrounded with mountains; the most prominent of which are, Black Mountain, on the east of the Narrows, Tongue Mountain, directly opposite, and French Mountain, at the southern extremity. The first is the most lofty, and remarkable for its wildness, and the superb prospect therefrom; the second is also wild and uninhabited, but distinguished for its dens of rattlesnakes; and the latter is somewhat cultivated, but memorable for having been the camping-ground of the French during the Revolutionary War. The whole eastern border is yet a comparative wilderness; but along the western shore are some respectable farms, and a good coach road from Caldwell to Ticonderoga, which affords many admirable views of the sky-blue lake. There are three public houses here which I can recommend: the Lake House, for those who are fond of company—Lyman’s Tavern for the hunter of scenery and lover of quiet—and Garfield’s House for the fisherman. A nice little steamboat, commanded by a gentleman, passes through every morning and evening, (excepting Sundays,) and though a convenient affair to the traveller, it is an eyesore to the admirer of the wilderness. Identified with this boat is an eccentric man named Old Dick, who amuses the tourist, and collects an occasional shilling by exhibiting a number of rattlesnakes. When, in addition to all these things, it is remembered that Horicon is the centre of a region made classic by the exploits of civilized and savage warfare, it can safely be pronounced one of the most interesting portions of our country for the summer tourist to visit. I have looked upon it from many a peak whence might be seen almost every rood of its shore. I have sailed into every one of its bays, and, like the pearl-diver, have repeatedly descended into its cold blue chambers, so that I have learned to love it as a faithful and well-tried friend. Since the day of my arrival here, I have kept a journal of my adventures, and, as a memorial of Horicon, I will extract therefrom, and embody in this chapter the following passages.