Old Ticonderoga, a Picture of the Past: (From: "The Snow Image and Other Twice-Told Tales")Hawthorne, Nathaniel
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Old Ticonderoga, a Picture of the Past: (From: "The Snow Image and Other Twice-Told Tales")
Hawthorne, Nathaniel
Historical fiction, American; New England -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Short stories
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.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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