In one of my excursions into the woods of Put-in-Bay [138] island, I was accompanied by my friend Capt. W. of the United States Army, a gentleman of a scientific and polished mind. Having provided ourselves with some old clothes, we visited a cave situated about a mile from the bay. This cave is smaller than some others in the west; but is, nevertheless, worth a description.
After exploring the woods for some time, we found what we supposed might be, and what actually was the cave. Its front is situated at the end of a considerable rise of land of an oval form. The mouth of the cave was very small; and being covered with sticks and leaves, presented a very uninviting aspect. After removing the obstructions, we took lights, and descending about ten feet perpendicularly, came to a rock, the position of which was that of an inclined plane. This rock is, in its descent, met by the front of the cave, so as to leave an aperture, near the floor of it, of only about three feet in length, and eighteen inches in height. This aperture also was covered with leaves. After removing them, we lay flat, and crowded ourselves, one to time, into an unknown and dismal region. As we advanced the cave, gradually, became higher; and at length we could move in an erect posture. Here we found ourselves in a spacious apartment, constituting about an acre, and surrounded by curious petrifactions. Those on the walls were small; but on the floor of the cave they were large; some of them weighing about thirty pounds. The latter are, generally of a pyramidical form. At the distance of about two hundred feet from the mouth of the cave, we came to a precipice, at the foot of which was a body of deep water. Whilst my companion sat upon the brink of the precipice, I descended it, and holding a light in one hand, swam with the other for the purpose of ascertaining the course and boundaries of this subterranean lake.
[139] In this gloomy, yet interesting cavern, we saw no living thing, excepting two bats, which were in a torpid state. Whilst exploring the most distant recesses of the cave, one of our candles was accidentally extinguished. The extinguishment of our other light would, perhaps, have been fatal to us. The darkness of this dreary region is palpable. No ray of nature’s light ever visited it. Its silence too is full of thought. The slippery step of the traveller, and the stilly drippings of the slimy concave, yielded a contrast which made silence speak. Our own appearance interested us. We forgot ourselves, and unconsciously dwelt upon two ragged Fiends, prying, with taper dim, along the confines of this doleful place. We saw these beings under the low sides of the cave knocking off some large petrifactions. We said, who are they?—and almost shuddered to find they were ourselves.
As soon as the storm ceased we set sail from the Bay, and the next evening arrived at Erie. In this harbour were several United States’ vessels of considerable magnitude. The banks of the harbour, on the town side, are high, steep, and romantic; and from them there is an extensive view of the Lake. The harbour itself is spacious, and the water deep.
At this place the celebrated General Wayne died,[[134]] upon his return from his campaign against the Indians. Such was the success of this great soldier, and such the terror which he inspired among the savages against whom he fought, that to this day they call him the “sinews.” His mode of proceeding into the country of the enemy ought ever to be imitated. Indians may always be defeated by good troops, unless when the latter are ambushed, and surprised. General Wayne proceeded with the greatest caution during the forepart of the day, and [140] in the afternoon employed his men in fortifying for the night; the consequence was, that he avoided every ambuscade, ultimately met the enemy, and gave them a chastising which made a lasting impression upon their minds.
After reaping many laurels in this campaign, General Wayne was returning home to enjoy the grateful salutations of his fellow-citizens; but death arrested him at Erie.—
“The path of glory leads but to the grave.”
After leaving Detroit, I received a letter from the Secretary of the Lyceum there, informing me of my having, on the evening of my departure, been admitted an honourary member of that institution. I mention this fact for the purpose of introducing an anecdote respecting it, which was communicated to me after my return home, and which afforded me much amusement.
In passing through the country, in the early stages of my tour, some weak minded persons, who thought that my excursion was so frought with danger as to render it presumptuous, were offended by the undertaking; and adding a little ill-nature to this idea, their invectives were even more keen than the wintry winds. One of these persons, whose common sense is like Shakspeare’s grain of wheat in a bushel of chaff; and whose learning is equalled only by that of the good Mrs. Maleprop, exclaimed one day, upon seeing some newspaper, which contained an account of the Pedestrian having been admitted into the Lyceum at Detroit, “well, they have got him into the mad-house at last!” Mad-house? said a friend. “Yes”, replied this Xenophen of the age,—“the mad-house!—the Lyceum!—all the same thing!”
[141] From Erie I proceeded to Waterford, a distance of fourteen miles. At this place the snow upon the ground was eighteen inches deep. The spring in the west was very backward. I shall speak upon this topic in another place.