Six pencil sketches have I executed upon the lake to-day. One of them was a view of the distant mountains, whose various outlines were concentrated at one point, and whose color was of that delicate, dreamy blue, created by a sunlight atmosphere, with the sun directly in front. In the middle distance was a flock of islands, with a sail-boat in their midst, and in the foreground a cluster of rocks, surmounted by a single cedar, which appeared like the sentinel of a fortress. Another was of the ruins of Fort George, with a background of dark-green mountains, made quite desolate by a flock of sheep sleeping in one of its shady moats. Another was of a rowing-race between two rival fishermen, at the time they were only a dozen rods from the goal, and when every nerve of their aged frames was strained to the utmost. Another was of a neat log-cabin, on a quiet lawn near the water, at whose threshold a couple of ragged, but beautiful children were playing with a large dog, while from the chimney of the house ascended the blue smoke with a thousand fantastic evolutions. Another was of a huge pine tree, which towered conspicuously above its kindred on the mountain side, and seemed to me an appropriate symbol of Webster in the midst of a vast concourse of his fellow men. And the last was of a thunder-storm, driven away from the mountain top by the mild radiance of a rainbow, which partly encircled Horicon in a loving embrace.
I have been fishing to-day, and, while enduring some poor sport, indited in my mind the following information, for the benefit of my piscatorial friends. The days of trout-fishing in Lake Horicon are nearly at an end. A few years ago, it abounded in salmon-trout, which were frequently caught weighing twenty pounds. But their average weight, at the present time, is not more than one pound and a half, and they are scarce even at that. In taking them, you first have to obtain a sufficient quantity of sapling bark to reach the bottom in sixty feet of water, to one end of which must be fastened a stone, and to the other a stick of wood, which designates your fishing-ground, and is called a buoy. A variety of more common fish are then caught, such as suckers, perch, and eels, which are cut up and deposited, some half a peck at a time, in the vicinity of the buoy. In a few days the trout will begin to assemble, and so long as you keep them well fed, a brace of them may be captured at any time during the summer. But the fact is, this is only another way for “paying too dear for the whistle.” The best angling, after all, is for the common brook trout, which is a bolder biting fish, and better for the table than the salmon trout. The cause of the great decrease in the large trout of this lake, is this:—in the autumn, when they have sought the shores for the purpose of spawning, the neighboring barbarians have been accustomed to spear them by torch-light; and if the heartless business does not soon cease, the result will be, that in a few years they will be extinct. There are two other kinds of trout in the lake, however, which yet afford good sport,—the silver trout, caught in the summer, and the fall trout. But the black bass, upon the whole, is now mostly valued by the fisherman. They are in their prime in the summer months. They vary from one to five pounds in weight; are taken by trolling, and with a drop line, and afford fine sport. Their haunts are along the rocky shores, and it is often the case, that on a still day you may see them from your boat, swimming about in herds where the water is twenty feet deep. They have a queer fashion, when hooked, of leaping out of the water, for the purpose of getting clear, and it is seldom that a novice in the gentle art can keep them from succeeding. But, alas! their numbers also are fast diminishing, by the same means and the same hands that have killed the trout. My advice to those who come here exclusively for the purpose of fishing is, to continue their journey to the sources of the Hudson, Scaroon Lake, Long Lake, and Lake Pleasant; in whose several waters there seems to be no end to every variety of trout, and where may be found much wild and beautiful scenery. The angler of the present day will be disappointed in Lake Horicon.
When issuing from the Narrows on your way down the Horicon, the most attractive object, next to the mountains, is a strip of low, sandy land, extending into the lake, called Sabbath Day Point. It was so christened by Abercrombie, who encamped and spent the sabbath there, when on his way to Ticonderoga, where he was so sadly defeated. I look upon it as one of the most enchanting places in the world; but the pageant with which it is associated was not only enchanting and beautiful, but magnificent. Only look upon the picture. It is the sunset hour, and before us, far up in the upper air, and companion of the evening star, and a host of glowing clouds, rises the majestic form of Black Mountain, enveloped in a mantle of rosy atmosphere. The bosom of the lake is without a ripple, and every cliff, ravine and island has its counterpart in the pure waters. A blast of martial music from drums, fifes, bagpipes and bugle horns now falls upon the ear, and the immense procession comes in sight; one thousand and thirty-five batteaux, containing an army of seventeen thousand souls, headed by the brave Abercrombie and the red cross of England,—the scarlet uniforms and glistening bayonets forming a line of light against the darker background of the mountain. And behind a log in the foreground is a crouching Indian runner, who, with the speed of a hawk, will carry the tidings to the French nation, that an army is coming—“numerous as the leaves upon the trees.” Far from the strange scene fly the affrighted denizens of mountain and wave,—while thousands of human hearts are beating happily at the prospect of victory, whose bodies, in a few hours, will be food for the raven on the plains of Ticonderoga.
A goodly portion of this day have I been musing upon the olden times, while rambling about Fort George, and Fort William Henry. Long and with peculiar interest did I linger about the spot near the latter, where were cruelly massacred the followers of Monroe, at which time Montcalm linked his name to the title of a heartless Frenchman, and the name of Webb became identified with all that is justly despised by the human heart. I profess myself to be an enemy to wrong and outrage of every kind, and yet a lover and defender of the Indian race; but when I picked up one after another the flinty heads of arrows, which were mementos of an awful butchery, my spirit revolted against the red man, and for a moment I felt a desire to condemn him. Yes, I will condemn that particular band of murderers, but I cannot but defend the race. Cruel and treacherous they were, I will allow, but do we not forget the treatment they ever met with from the while man? The most righteous of battles have ever been fought for the sake of sires and wives and children, and for what else did the poor Indian fight, when driven from the home of his youth into an unknown wilderness, to become thereafter a by-word and a reproach among the nations? “Indians,” said we, “we would have your lands, and if you will not be satisfied with the gewgaws we proffer, our powder and balls will teach you that power is but another name for right.” And this is the principle that has guided the white man ever since in his warfare against the aborigines of our country. I cannot believe that we shall ever be a happy and prosperous people until the King of kings shall have forgiven us for having, with a yoke of tyranny, almost annihilated an hundred nations.
A portion of this afternoon I whiled away on a little island, which attracted my attention by its charming variety of foliage. It is not more than one hundred feet across at the widest part, and is encircled by a yellow sand bank, and shielded by a regiment of variegated rocks. But what could I find there to interest me, it may be inquired? My answer is this. This island, hidden in one of the bays of Horicon, is an insect city, and more populous than was Rome in the days of her glory. There the honeybee has his oaken tower, the wasp and humble-bee their grassy nests, the spider his den, the butterfly his hammock, the grasshopper his domain, the beetle and cricket and hornet their decayed stump, and the toiling ant her palace of sand. There they were born, there they flourish and multiply, and there they die, symbolizing the career and destiny of man. I was a “distinguished stranger” in that city, and I must confess that it gratified my ambition to be welcomed with such manifestations of regard as the inhabitants thought proper to bestow. My approach was heralded by the song of a kingly bee; and when I had thrown myself upon a mossy bank, multitudes of people gathered round, and, with their eyes intently fixed upon me, stood still, and let “expressive silence muse my praise.” To the “natives,” I was emphatically a source of astonishment, and as I wished to gather instruction from the incident, I wondered in my heart whether I would be a happier man if my presence in a human city should create a kindred excitement. At any rate it would be a “great excitement on a small capital.”