dismantled and disgraced. The retrieving fleet of Amherst
follows, as brilliant and as eager,--to gain the victory of
numbers over valor, but to lose its fruit, as many a blood-
bought prize has since been lost, snatched from the conqueror's
hand by the traitor, doubt. But this is only the prologue of
our great drama. Allen leaps first upon the scene, bucklered
as no warrior ever was since the days of Homer or before. Then
Arnold comes flying in, wresting laurels from defeat,--Arnold,
who died too late. Here Schuyler walks up at night, his
military soul vexed within him by the sleeping guards and the
intermittent sentinels, his gentle soul harried by the rustic
ill-breeding of his hinds, his magnanimous soul cruelly
tortured by the machinations of jealousy and envy and
evil-browed ambition. Yonder on the hill Burgoyne's battery
threatens death, and Lincoln avenges us of Burgoyne. Let
the curtain fall; a bloodier scene shall follow.

* * * * *

And then we re-embark on Lake Champlain, and all the summer
afternoon sail down through phantom fleets, under the frowning
ramparts of phantom forts, past grim rows of deathful-throated
cannon, through serried hosts of warriors, with bright swords
gleaming and strong arms lifted and stern lips parted; but from
lips of man or throat of cannon comes no sound. A thousand
oars strike through the leaping waves, but not a plash breaks
on the listening ear. A thousand white sails swell to the
coming breeze, that brings glad greeting from the inland hills,
but nothing breaks the silences of time.