In the Revue des Deux Mondes for September, 1912, is published a pleasant article by M. René Bazin, of the French Academy, entitled “Paysages d’Amérique,” in which he gives a graphic and poetic account of his American visit as a member of the French delegation, which presented the statue of France for the Champlain memorial. He tells of the voyage, paints vividly his first impressions of New York, chats of his visit to Washington, with many fresh impressions of scenes and people. His article, which is in journal form, brings him to Lake Champlain, May 3, 1912. After noting various incidents of the journey north, he continues:
Since last evening we have traveled by special train to the banks of Lake Champlain. Early this morning, the sensation of being still awoke me. I opened the window of the Pullman and saw that we were stopped on a siding, in the open country. Day was breaking; the sun had not yet risen. Before me, at the right of the railroad, were low lands, grassy, wild, like neglected pastures. Further on, a great house under the elms, and further yet the waters of the lake, the gleam of which came to me in rays between the white mists which rolled up. The silence was perfect. It was the season, already past with us, when the blackbirds at day-break poise themselves on the top of the trees.
Nothing was lacking. The outlines of the hills beyond the lake and above the mists, were of a vivid blue, and, suddenly, the globe of the sun showed itself. Presently a great heron, seeking the woods, came on wing, his legs like a rudder, and crossed over the bank. I hear the sound of the beats of his short wings; I hear the coming of a train on the distant horizon, and the noise is so sharp that it makes me realize the immensity of the land through which it spreads. Primitive peace is still here. I go out; I notice at the left of the line the successive level of wooded hills, the highest of which have the appearance of mountains. These are the Adirondacks. They call them “Green Mountains” in the country. But they look out upon the morning and the myriads of buds massed together clothe them in purple. Oaks, perhaps; probably maples; this beautiful maple which has two red seasons.
About eight o’clock automobiles come for us. I get into the first, with Hanotaux and two others of our companions. We have not a long road to go. On one side, clear woodland; a short approach, a turning to the left, a fine descending curve planted with green trees, and we are before the steps of a great villa on the shores of the lake. Our hosts for the morning, Mr. and Mrs. S. H. P. Pell, came to us on the veranda. The automobiles stop and at once a little boom of cannon is heard ahead of us. We look in the direction whence the shot comes and we see the grass of the field all starred with tricolor flags. A second automobile arrives. It is saluted as were ourselves. In the fine house,—very well lighted, very white, ornamented with family portraits and with old engravings representing scenes of other days in this place so enriched in history, we are greeted with a graciousness and a knowledge of the world which is manifested through a considerate and sincere heart. There are some moments in which plain people and simple actions become arguments in favor of a country. I shall never again hear the American spirit ill-spoken of without recalling the hospitality of the Americans of Ticonderoga. The name is an Indian name of the fortress which was entrusted by Louis XV. to the Marquis de Montcalm. The French have said, say, and will say, “Carillon.” At Carillon, July 8, 1758, the Marquis de Montcalm had only 3,570 regulars, 87 marines, 85 Canadians, and 16 Indians, under his command,—that is to say, 3,758 soldiers. But he was entrenched in the woods and he had a refuge in case of need. Abercromby commanded an army of 16,500 men and he came on to conquer this feeble enemy and to establish finally English dominion over Canada. The hour was not yet come. Once more, although the enemy was brave and determined, France with unequal arms was victorious.
Entering Mr. Pell’s house, we were reminded of this date, these figures, and of their fine significance. We remembered that in this forest where we are, Montcalm in early morning, throwing off his jacket and crouching under the branches of a tree, said to his men who labored to gather the stones for the intrenchments, “Children, the day will be hot!” We recall that at evening in the same place, as the fading light of day was prolonged by the reflection of the lake, he wrote: “What a day for France! The little army of the King conquers his enemies. Ah, what troops like ours! I have never seen their equal!”
In how many parts of the world, among others, cannot memory speak to us thus softly of the glory of our arms! But what is delicious here is that a foreign family which entertains us, also remembers, and that it understands, and that it recognizes something beyond the mere history.
While they served us with a well-ordered breakfast—there were even fruits from California and Florida in aromatic wine—our hosts and the parents of our hosts spoke to us of that France that they know and love, of Cartier, of Roberval, of Champlain, “father of the aborigines,” of the missionaries, of Frontenac, of Vaudreuil and of Montcalm. These names lived again and those of their adversaries.
We learned that Mr. Pell has sought to buy all the lands around Ticonderoga where the French and English fought, so that no one shall build a hotel there and lessen the sacred character of this landscape. Is it not a fine stroke, and does he belong by chance to this “material civilization,” of which they have made in respect to Americans so much reproach, so much hard compliment? We go out of the house; we cross the field, and, the ground falling away a little, we are in front of a square fortress of stone, protected by ditches. The proprietors have restored it, but the great part of these old stones are truly stones of war, and the black rafters of the chambers have become brown by the smoke of pipes which were lighted in the hard winter of this climate by the lost and almost abandoned children of the regiments of France.
One thinks of the reproaches which they would have made to the news brought by the Indians, to the wind which howled, to the snow storm.... The fort is decorated in our honor. On its front, a bronze plaque bears this inscription: “Germain redoubt constructed by captain Germain, régiment des Gardes de la Reine, in 1758, by order of the marquis de Montcalm, in command of the fortress of Carillon.”
The extent of the old covered way, cut through to-day, brings us to the interior of the earthworks. Before us, at 500 meters, high glacis crown the hill and conceal just at the roof line a construction which would have served as quarters for the officers. I notice two flags waving at the end of two great flagstaffs, and more below, like a basket of violets moving, for the wind is brisk, where they have been planted. But no one explains to me yet what we have come to see, and Mr. Pell, who walks with me, stooping, picks a woolly leaf of a wild plant, and says to me: “Keep it as souvenir. Right here, some years ago, we set out to make an excavation. At the first stroke of the pick the workmen uncovered some bodies clothed in trimmed uniforms. They were immediately ordered to cover them up and not to disturb them.” We were moved. I continued to ascend the hill. One has to turn a little to find the entrance into the fortress of Carillon. A dozen cannon outside are still pointed towards the lake and towards the little neighboring mountain, “The mount of France” which drew the English artillery. I enter the enclosure of the fortress. It is trimmed up. It awaits France. Ah, see who has come—La France! and she sees in front of the wall of Montcalm’s old quarters, ten silken standards which the wind lifts and lets fall heavily on the staffs; violet squares bordered with white, blue panels barred with red, many-colored banners, all the standards of the regiments of France which were represented at the battle of Carillon. The victorious colors live again in the light, and a little above, dominating the broken walls and the roofs, two great flags protect the others, command them and explain them; the starry flag of young America and the banner of ancient France, all white and strewn with Fleur-de-lis. My eyes fill with tears, and I really think that two tears have fallen. I am sure that they said, “Long live this American who has a deep heart.” They say still other things and I feel myself living wholly in the France of other days.