Ye mountaineer

Front matter

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT.

BY

BINGHAM THOBURN WILSON

Introduction

In offering the following poem to the indulgence of the public, I deem it wise to preface the same with a concise explanatory introduction, containing as well a bit of history that may be of aid to the reader in grasping more fully the situations that lie within. I am well aware that in this the beginning of the Twentieth Century, the public is loath to receive a story dating back to a period, that, beyond the attention of the political enthusiast or student, is almost forgotten ; and expects, in its stead, a tale dealing with more modern achievements. Then too, it is with the deepest of possible regrets, that I note the changeful tastes of the mighty masses, gradually neglecting the songful Muse that has made each age glorious in recording its most worthy achievements ; thereby turning a light of imperishable beauty upon the duller page of History, and leaning with preference to that class of literature that can be speedily read, then cast aside, and soon forgotten.

A short time ago this same subject was the topic of conversation in a party of gentlemen.

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among whom were two former identures of New York City publishers, and to my surprise they were open in their discouragement of any large poetic publication, from a financial standpoint, no matter what the merit or who the author might be, one even going so far as to say with almost dramatic firmness, that if Byron himself were to walk into his sanctum with a new ^^Childe Harold," though multiplied in beauty a hundred times, he would refuse to publish it; but should he be induced to do so "for the sake of literature,'' he further ventured the belief, that its reception to-day would be as cold and informal as it was once grand and imposing. With the last I could not agree, for to me it does seem : as long as the world has woes, as long as the heart answers to the nobler sentiments and passions, so long will the Muse find a welcome place in the minds of the more appreciative, nor months, nor years, nor ages, can depreciate its reception, for the older the story, the sweeter seems the song.

But this is truly called the age of gold — to many, the extreme limit of comprehension, the end of all purpose, the mecca of affection, and often I fear, even the policy of pretended religious devotion: smothering every intuitive sentiment that is struggling for higher development, by forcing worship at its feet; rebellious to the higher

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press and its output, by making time too precious to read, and destroying the glorious object of our public schools by driving children almost in infancy from their doors to the factory; while nurses at its foul breast, the positive incentives to covetousness, ignorance, falsity, and crime. Destroying true brotherhood; strangling true friendship, and exiling by separation that beautiful spirit of social and intellectual communion — ^this is the Master that is driving man into the land of greed and will in time banish him beyond all hope upon a veritable Patmos of selfishness, from which he may never return. And yet, amid the busy scenes of life, thousands lay down its burdens and its cares, to cast their eyes across the page of song.

In attempting such an extensive composition, whether it be meritorious or otherwise, such open expressions from men who have held the literary pulse, are anything but encouragements, especially to the man who slips home weary indeed from his business cares and is forced for a moment of silent thought to the late companionship of the midnight oil, and were it not for that unexplainable spirit of fealty that has caused great men to forsake fortune ; bowing at the very feet of the Muse with a spirit of worship almost equal to idolatry, long since the task might have been given over. But this to me has been a labor of

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idle hours. Alone and unaided I have toiled over these stubborn mountains and drank mental refreshment at their imaginary springs; nor am I particularly anxious about its general reception, for I know a few hearts that will beat for it a warmer welcome than perhaps it deserves, and to that knowledge of its appreciation I am satisfied. From my earliest recollection there has always been something musical and charming about the words, Lake Champlain, and as I grew older and learned of the many deeds of valor, devotion and love that had been enacted upon its shores, I could hardly understand how so many writers that have since lived, each contributing their beautiful garlands to American literature, could have passed them by unsung. The leading characters in the following story are living heroes in tradition's mind, although the link that binds them into a tangible relationship has long since corroded with the rust of forgetfulness, and beyond any doubt many beautiful characters have drifted away from the now unsymmetric whole and are lost forever. In the story, for the convenience of versification, as well as the interest of the local historian, I have used assumed names, which I think will prove an interesting puzzle in the location of historic parallels, which are identical with these fictitious personages.

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The general historic facts of the story are true in detail, and the many local prejudices against the crown, which history fails to record, but perhaps to which tradition has been more than indulgently kind, I have gathered by the most painstaking research, and have embodied the principal one in the story which opens, although without positive date, in the winter of 1774 and 1775.

The first Canto deals with the settlers of our country during that portion of colonial history immediately preceding the war of the Revolution. Along the shores of Lake Champlain in what is now the State of Vermont was aroused undoubtedly, the first spirit of revolt against the mother country, brought on by the weakness of King George in allowing the nullification of the titles to their lands, which by the crown had been decided in the year 1740 as a part of the original New Hampshire colony, but that New York claimed as a portion of that grant given by Charles II. to the Duke of York. The dispute was purely of a local nature and between the colonies of New York and New Hampshire, and tradition tells of much bitterness on both sides; but when King George sustained the claim of the colony of New York, New Hampshire settlers were ready to fly to arms. Officers from New York went in to levy taxes and in many instances were handled roughly xii Introduction.

by the hardy mountaineers. Happily, however, the contending issue was short lived, for this, with other indiscretions of the crown so enraged the settlers, that in the following spring the flood of Eevolution swept over the entire territory from the St. Lawrence to the Gulf of Mexico, and the powerful colony of New York, joining gloriously in the common cause, either forgot, or most nobly laid aside all animosity, and, leaving their differences to be settled at another time, went to a man upon the field of battle.

Seldom does history record such fervent devotion to a cause as was here displayed, or scarce does it recall a ruler of so little diplomacy as King George. Having the situation at hand, it was his, with a reasonable amount of kindness, judgment and indulgence to have held us long what Canada is to-day, and it might have been the lot of long after years to cast that greatest of living titles, "The Father of Our Country'^ upon some other than the brow of our glorious and immortal George Washington; but we are all liable to err, and it hardly seems just to look backward with other than the kindest of criticisms upon the actions of that unfortunate and alike, unhappy king. There is a destiny that shapes our ends, and, when that end is reached, we trace the writing of the hand of fate where we read, "The leaf and the

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flower fall victims alike in death." George sleeps entombed in that mighty mausoleum of merit, justice and tyranny, St. George's chapel, at Windsor, and whatever were his deficiencies in life, may the Angel of Mercy breathe over his silent urn naught but the prayer of peace.

Among the bordering mountains on the western side of Champlain and on both sides of Lake George these situations lie and many within a few miles of that once powerful English Fort Ticonderoga, where, farther west, around the minor lakes of the Adirondacks, our hero had begun a mountain warfare against the King, and coming to Lake Champlain in mid-winter, he is driven to the home of a settler for shelter from the terror of the gale.

It is here for the first time he sees the reward that is offered for his head, and for the first time seems to comprehend the gravity of the unenviable position he occupies. This picture of a price for murder is, I think, not unjustly drawn, for several far more lucrative were sent out from the English throne, a few years later by the same King, one in particular which I might mention being for ten thousand guineas ($52,500) for the head of John Paul Jones, that midget Napoleon of the seas. The second Canto is purely descriptive and xiv Introduction.

occupies the last colonial summer precedent to the Kevolution,

The third is a compilation of happy events, finishing each character in that peace of both body and mind which their diligence, devotion, and fearlessness so justly deserve.

However enshrouded by the mist of uncertainty we admit the characters to be, it does not destroy any of the grandeur or picturesqueness of the land in which the story lies. Few, indeed, if any bodies of water in the world exceed in beauty Lake George or Lake Champlain, where, rising over their mirror-like surfaces, the vaulting mountains vie in height with the very skies. Near the southern end of Lake Champlain, Ticonderoga, a crumbling ruin, stands to-day a voiceless, silent witness to the struggle ; and oft its rocky remnants resound to the tales of tradition's tongue, as told of Ethan Allen and his fearless militia, or Stark and the Green Mountain boys.

In conclusion permit me to say, over a hundred years have passed and gone since the memorable events herein described, and peace and plenty have taken the place of sword and flame. A mighty nation rises to-day where then the infant struggled for its liberty, yet in all these years, those deeds of valor, devotion, and love, by poets have remained unsung.

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This humble tribute to their achievements, unworthy though it be, I herewith commend to your care, satisfied a thousand times if it but inspire one heart to a greater love for his country, and a Imore heartfelt appreciation of the spirit of valor that led those men and women who offered their lives as a sacrifice upon the altar of war.

I hope to leave a pleasing impression of both these places and people.

The Author.