Nathaniel Hawthorne

 

   Old Ticonderoga
    (A Picture of the Past)
    From The Snow Image and Other Twice-Told Tales


    In returning once to New England, from a visit to Niagara, I found myself, one
summer's day, before  noon,  at  Orwell,  about  forty  miles  from  the  southern 
extremity of Lake Champlain, which has here the aspect of a river or a  creek.  We 
were on the Vermont shore, with a ferry, of less than a mile wide, between us  and 
the town of Ti, in New-York.
    On the bank of the lake, within ten yards of the water, stood a  pretty  white
tavern, with a piazza along its front. A wharf and one or two stores were close at 
hand, and appeared to have a good run of trade, foreign as well as  domestic;  the 
latter with Vermont farmers, the former with vessels plying between Whitehall  and 
the  British  dominions.  Altogether,  this  was  a  pleasant  and  lively   spot. 
I delighted in it, among other reasons, on account of the continual succession  of 
travellers, who spent an idle quarter of an hour in waiting  for  the  ferry-boat; 
affording me  just  time  enough  to  make  their  acquaintance,  penetrate  their 
mysteries, and be rid of them without the risk of tediousness on either part.
    The greatest attraction, in this vicinity,  is  the  famous  old  fortress  of
Ticonderoga; the remains of which are visible from the piazza of  the  tavern,  on 
a swell of land that shuts in the prospect of the lake. Those celebrated  heights, 
Mount Defiance and Mount Independence, familiar to all Americans in history, stand 
too prominent not to be recognised, though neither of them precisely correspond to 
the images excited by their names. In truth, the whole scene, except the  interior 
of the fortress, disappointed me. Mount Defiance, which one pictures as  a  steep, 
lofty, and rugged hill, of most formidable aspect, frowning  down  with  the  grim 
visage of a precipice on old Ticonderoga, is merely a long and wooded  ridge;  and 
bore, at some former period, the gentle name of Sugar Hill. The brow is  certainly 
difficult to climb, and high enough to look into every  corner  of  the  fortress. 
St. Clair's most probable reason, however, for neglecting to occupy  it,  was  the 
deficiency of troops to  man  the  works  already  constructed,  rather  than  the 
supposed inacces sibility of Mount Defiance. It is singular that the French  never 
fortified this height, standing, as it does, in the quarter whence they must  have 
looked for the advance of a British army.
    In my first view of the ruins I was favored with the  scientific  guidance  of 
a young lieutenant of engineers, recently from West Point,  where  he  had  gained
credit for great military genius. I saw nothing  but  confusion  in  what  chiefly
interested him; straight lines and zig-zags, defence within defence, wall  opposed 
to wall, and ditch intersecting ditch; oblong squares of masonry below the surface 
of the earth, and huge mounds, or turf-covered hills of stone, above it. On one of 
these artificial hillocks, a pine tree has  rooted  itself,  and  grown  tall  and 
strong, since the banner-staff was levelled. But where my unmilitary glance  could 
trace no regularity, the young lieutenant was perfectly at home. He  fathomed  the 
meaning of every ditch, and formed an entire plan of the fortress from  its  half-
obliterated lines.  His  description  of  Ticonderoga  would  be  as  accurate  as 
a geometrical theorem, and as barren of the poetry that has  clustered  round  its 
decay. I viewed Ticonderoga as a place of ancient  strength,  in  ruins  for  half 
a century; where the flags of three nations had successively waved, and none waved 
now; where armies had struggled, so long ago that the  bones  of  the  slain  were 
mouldered; where Peace had found a heritage in the forsaken haunts of War. Now the 
young West Pointer, with his lectures  on  raveling,  counterscarps,  angles,  and 
covered ways, made it an affair of brick and mortar and hewn  stone,  arranged  on
certain regular principles, having a good deal to do with mathematics but  nothing 
at all with poetry.
    I should have been glad of a hoary veteran to totter by my side, and tell  me,
perhaps, of the French garrisons and their  Indian  allies - of Abercrombie,  Lord
Howe, and Amherst - of Ethan Allen's triumph and St. Clair's  surrender.  The  old
soldier and the old fortress would be emblems of each  other.  His  reminiscences, 
though vivid as the image of Ticonderoga in the lake,  would  harmonize  with  the 
gray influence of the scene. A survivor of the  long-disbanded  garrisons,  though 
but a private soldier, might have mustered his  dead  chiefs  and  comrades - some 
from Westminster Abbey, and English churchyards,  and  battle-fields  in  Europe - 
others from their graves here in America - others, not a  few,  who  lie  sleeping 
round the fortress; he might have mustered them all, and bid  them  march  through 
the ruined gateway, turning their old historic faces on me as they passed. Next to 
such a companion, the best is one's own fancy.
    At another visit I was alone, and, after rambling all over the  ramparts,  sat
down to rest myself in  one  of  the  roofless  barracks.  These  are  old  French 
structures, and appear to have occupied three sides of a large area, now overgrown 
with grass, nettles, and thistles. The one, in which I sat, was long  and  narrow, 
as all the rest had been, with peaked  gables.  The  exterior  walls  were  nearly 
entire, constructed of gray, flat, unpicked stones, the  aged  strength  of  which 
promised long to resist the elements, if  no  other  violence  should  precipitate 
their fall. The roof, floors, partitions, and  the  rest  of  the  wood-work,  had 
probably been burnt, except some bars of stanch old oak, which were blackened with 
fire but still remained embedded into the window-sills and over the  doors.  There 
were a few particles of plastering near the chimney, scratched with rude  figures, 
perhaps by a soldier's hand. A most luxuriant crop of weeds had sprung  up  within 
the edifice and hid the scattered fragments of the wall. Grass and weeds  grew  in 
the windows, and in all the crevices of the stone, climbing, step  by  step,  till 
a tuft of yellow flowers was waving on the highest peak of the gable.  Some  spicy 
herb diffused a pleasant odor through the ruin. A verdant heap of  vegetation  had 
covered the hearth of the second floor, clustering on the very spot where the huge 
logs had mouldered to glowing coals, and flourished beneath the broad flue,  which
had so often puffed the smoke over a circle of French or English soldiers. I  felt 
that there was no other token of decay so impressive as that bed of weeds  in  the 
place of the back-log.
    Here I sat, with those roofless walls about me, the clear sky  over  my  head,
and the afternoon sunshine falling gently bright  through  the  window-frames  and
doorway. I heard the tinkling of a cow-bell, the  twittering  of  birds,  and  the
pleasant hum of insects. Once a gay butterfly, with four gold-speckled wings, came 
and fluttered about my head, then flew up and  lighted  on  the  highest  tuft  of 
yellow flowers, and at last took wing across the lake. Next a bee  buzzed  through 
the sunshine, and found much sweetness among the weeds. After watching him till he 
went off to his distant hive, I closed my eyes on Ticonderoga in ruins, and cast a 
dream-like glance over pictures of the past, and scenes of  which  this  spot  had 
been the theatre.
    At first, my fancy saw only the  stern  hills,  lonely  lakes,  and  venerable 
woods. Not a tree, since their seeds were first scattered over  the  infant  soil, 
had felt the axe, but had grown up and flourished  through  its  long  generation, 
had fallen beneath the weight of years, been buried in green moss,  and  nourished 
the roots of others as gigantic. Hark! A light paddle dips into the lake, a  birch 
canoe glides round the point, and an Indian chief has passed, painted and feather-
crested, armed with a bow of hickory, a stone tomahawk, and  flint-headed  arrows. 
But the ripple had hardly vanished from the water, when a white  flag  caught  the 
breeze, over a castle in the wilderness  with  frowning  ramparts  and  a  hundred 
cannon. There stood a French chevalier, commandant of the fortress,  paying  court 
to a copper-colored lady, the princess of the land, and winning her wild  love  by 
the arts which had been successful with Parisian dames. A war-party of French  and 
Indians were issuing from the gate to lay waste some village of New England.  Near 
the fortress there was a group of dancers. The merry soldiers footing it with  the 
swart savage maids; deeper in the wood, some red men were growing frantic around a
keg of the  fire-water;  and  elsewhere  a  Jesuit  preached  the  faith  of  high 
cathedrals beneath a canopy of forest boughs, and  distributed  crucifixes  to  be
worn beside English scalps.
    I tried to make a series of pictures from the old French war, when fleets were
on the lake and armies in the woods, and especially  of  Abercrombie's  disastrous 
repulse, where thousands of lives were utterly thrown away; but being  at  a  loss 
how to order the battle, I chose an  evening  scene  in  the  barracks  after  the 
fortress had surrendered to Sir Jeffrey Amherst. What an immense  fire  blazes  on 
that hearth, gleaming on swords, bayonets, and musket barrels, and  blending  with 
the hue of the scarlet coats till the whole barrackroom is  quivering  with  ruddy 
light! One soldier has thrown himself down to rest, after a deer-hunt, or  perhaps 
a long run through the woods, with Indians on his trail. Two stand up to  wrestle, 
and are on the point of coming to blows. A fifer plays a shrill  accompaniment  to 
a drummer's song - a strain of light love and bloody war, with a chorus  thundered 
forth by twenty voices. Mean time  a  veteran  in  the  corner  is  prosing  about 
Dettingen and Fontenoye, and relates  camp-traditions  of  Marlborough's  battles; 
till his pipe, having been roguishly charged with  gun-powder,  makes  a  terrible 
explosion under his nose. And now they all vanish in a  puff  of  smoke  from  the 
chimney. 
    I merely glanced at the ensuing twenty years, which glided peacefully over the
frontier fortress, till Ethan Allen's shout was heard, summoning it  to  surrender 
"in the name of the great  Jehovah  and  of  the  Continental  Congress."  Strange 
allies! thought the British captain. Next came the hurried muster of the  soldiers 
of liberty, when the cannon of Burgoyne, pointing down upon their stronghold  from 
the brow of Mount Defiance, announced a new conqueror of  Ticonderoga.  No  virgin 
fortress, this! Forth rushed the motley throng from the barracks, one man  wearing 
the blue and buff of  the  Union,  another  the  red  coat  of  Britain,  a  third 
a dragoon's jacket, and a fourth a cotton  frock;  here  was  a  pair  of  leather 
breeches, and striped trowsers there; a grenadier's cap on one head, and a  broad-
brimmed hat, with a tall feather, on the next; this fellow  shouldering  a  king's 
arm, that might throw a bullet to Crown Point, and  his  comrade  a  long  fowling 
piece, admirable to shoot ducks on the lake. In the midst of the bustle, when  the 
fortress was all alive with its last warlike scene, the ringing of a bell  on  the 
lake made me suddenly unclose my eyes, and behold  only  the  gray  and  weedgrown 
ruins. They were as peaceful in the sun as a warrior's grave.
    Hastening to the rampart, I perceived that the signal had been  given  by  the 
steam-boat Franklin, which landed a passenger from Whitehall at  the  tavern,  and 
resumed its progress northward, to reach Canada the  next  morning.  A  sloop  was 
pursuing the same track; a little skiff had just crossed the ferry; while a  scow, 
laden with lumber, spread its huge square sail and went up  the  lake.  The  whole 
country was a cultivated farm. Within musket shot of the  ramparts  lay  the  neat 
villa of Mr. Pell, who, since the revolution, has become proprietor of a spot  for 
which France, England, and America have so often struggled. How forcibly the lapse 
of time and change of circumstances came home to  my  apprehension!  Banner  would 
never wave again, nor cannon  roar,  nor  blood  be  shed,  nor  trumpet  stir  up 
a soldier's heart, in this old fort of Ticonderoga. Tall trees had grown upon  its 
ramparts, since the last garrison marched out, to return no more, or only at  some 
dreamer's summons, gliding from the twilight past to vanish among realities.

    1836

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