The most famous, and one of the most beautiful islands in this lake, is Diamond Island, so called, from the fact that it abounds in crystallized quartz. It is half a mile in length, but the last place in the world which would be thought of as the scene of a battle. It is memorable for the attack made by the Americans on the British, who had a garrison there during the Revolution. The American detachment was commanded by Colonel Brown, and being elated with his recent triumphs on Lake Champlain, he resolved to attack Diamond Island. The battle was bloody, and the British fought like brave men, “long and well;” the Americans were defeated, and this misfortune was followed by the sufferings of a most painful retreat over the almost impassable mountains between the Lake and what is now Whitehall. While wandering about the island, it was a difficult matter for me to realize, that it had ever resounded with the roar of cannon, the dismal wail of war, and the shout of victory. That spot is now covered with woods, whose shadowy groves are the abode of a thousand birds, for ever singing a song of peace or love, as if to condemn the ambition and cruelty of man.
In the vicinity of French Mountain is an island celebrated as the burial place of a rattle-snake hunter, named Belden. From all that I can learn, he must have been a strange mortal indeed. His birth-place and early history were alike unknown. When he first made his appearance at this Lake, his only companions were a brotherhood of rattle-snakes, by exhibiting which he professed to have obtained his living; and it is said that, during the remainder of his life, he acquired a handsome sum of money by selling the oil and gall of his favourite reptile. And I have recently been told, that the present market-price of a fat snake, when dead, is not less than half a dollar. Another mode peculiar to old Belden for making money, was to suffer himself to be bitten, at some tavern, after which he would return to his cabin to apply the remedy, when he would come forth again just as good as new. But he was not always to be a solemn trifler. For a week had the old man been missing, and on a pleasant August morning, his body was found on the island alluded to, sadly mutilated and bloated, and it was certain that he had died actually surrounded by rattlesnakes. His death-bed became his grave, and rattlesnakes were his only watchers,—and thus endeth the story of his life.