ite well that America loved him, and did
not love his brother, but with the mention of his name came into my
mind the tender, grieved surprise of that pathetic little appeal, and I
just said thought it aloud,--assuming historic knowledge enough in my
listeners to prevent misconception. But to this day Halicarnassus
persists in thinking or at least in asserting, that I tripped over Lord
Howe. As he does not often get such a chance, I let him comfort
himself with it as much as he can; but that is the way with your
whippersnapper critics. They put on their "specs," and pounce down
upon some microscopic mote, which they think to be ignorance, but which
is really the diamond-dust of imagination. "But let us see the place,"
said Grande. "We must drive within sight of it."

"Yes," I said. "Halicarnassus, ask the driver to be sure to tell us
where Lord Howe fell."

"Fell into the brook," said that Oracle, and sat as stiff as a post.

Ticonderoga,--up-hill and down-hill for six miles, white houses and
dark, churches and shops, and playing children and loungers, and mills,
and rough banks and haggard woods, just like any other somewhat
straggling country village. O no! O no! There are few like this.
_I_ have seen no other. Churches and shops and all the paraphernalia of
busy, bustling common life there may be, but we have no eyes for such.
Yonder on the green high plain which we have already entered is a
simple guide-post, guiding you, not on to Canada, to New York, to
Boston, but back into the dead century that lived so fiercely and lies
so still. We stand on ground over-fought by hosts of heroes. Here
rise still the breastworks, grass-grown and harmless now, behind which
men awaited bravely the shock of furious onset, before which men rushed
as bravely to duty and to death. Slowly we wind among the little
squares of intrenchments, whose deadliest occupants now are peaceful
cows and sheep, slowly among tall trees,--ghouls that thrust out their
slimy, cold fingers everywhere, battening on horrid banquets,--nay,
sorrowful trees, not so. Your gentle, verdant vigor nourishes no lust
of blood. Rather you sprang in pity from the cold ashes at your feet,
that every breeze quivering through your mournful leaves may harp a
requiem for Polydorus. Alighting at the landing-place we stroll up the
hill and among the ruins of the old forts, and breast ourselves the
surging battle-tide. For war is not to this generation what it