In the first series of articles about the “Moody Boys,” it was noted that they had been hired in the 1850s as guides by New York State Librarian Alfred Street. Mr. Street and three of his friends had planned on an adventuresome trip through the untouched woods and waters of the region.
At the time of which we are writing, the Moodys still lived in Saranac Lake, then a settlement of fewer than a dozen families and where the Moodys were the first settlers on record. It was essential in those days to have guide for wilderness travel. This part of the Adirondacks was largely unsettled. Maps, if available, were often inaccurate and sketchy at best, and even trained surveyors like Benjamin Tupper and Verplank Colvin got “turned around.”
After the 1890s, when railroads brought in thousands of people, settlements grew into population centers, lumber roads criss-crossed the woods, mapping improved and the need for guides diminished, a situation that pretty much continues today.
Mr. Street had arranged to meet Harvey Moody, who would be the chief guide, at a hotel called Bakers, also known as The Lake House. This small hotel was located on what is today Saranac Lake’s Pine Street, alongside the Saranac River.
The hotel was quite famous in its time and was visited over the years by many famous people. The owner, Col. Baker, has been described by one observer as “a man of commanding presence with a tinge of aristocrat in his manner and bearing.” It has been further related: “He always met his guests on the footing of assured equality. They were his guests rather than his boarders.”
Col. Baker was a rabid Democrat, as the following story found in Donaldson’s History of the Adirondacks reveals: “One night the stage brought a New York gentleman to the hotel, who carried with him a brand-new and very expensive fishing outfit. He carefully laid these things on a chair on the piazza and then addressed the proprietor. ‘Colonel’ he said, ‘this stuff if worth several hundred dollars. I want you to put it in a safe place for the night.’”
The next morning on stepping out on the piazza, the guest found his treasures just where he had left them the night before. He sought out the proprietor and remonstrated with some heat.
“By Godfrey, sir!” exclaimed the Colonel, using his favorite obsecration, “By Godfrey, sir, your things are as safe there as in the Bank of England. There’s not a Republican within 10 miles of here!”
Mr. Baker would become one of Saranac Lake’s (then known as Bakers or Harristown) earliest, if not its first, postmaster, and he opened the first store in that sparsely settled hamlet. Today, the bridge that spans the river near the former hotel is called Bakers Bridge (aka Pine Street Bridge). The prominent, beautiful mountain seen upon entering Saranac Lake from Tupper Lake on the LaPan Highway is still called Baker Mountain.
Most of the important hotels, such as Baker’s, had at that time their own staff of guides. As a general matter, there were several classes of guides. (Not unlike the local golf course classification when this writer was a young golf caddy. There were “Honor Caddies,” then “A Caddies” and, low on the totem pole, “B Caddies.” You were “sent out” by the caddy master accordingly.) Thus, there were “hotel guides,” the lowest category of all (errands down the lake, row older ladies on scenic trips). The next step up were the “house guides,” usually employed by an estate and subject to the owner’s needs. The top category, the aristocrats of the class like the “Moody Boys,” were called the “private guides,” who were reserved in advance and paid and tipped well, and who were eagerly sought after for their expertise and dependability.
Upon arriving at Baker’s Hotel after a long, tiring ride by stagecoach from Port Kent on Lake Champlain, Street and his friends went for a quick and frigid swim in the modest rapids alongside the hotel. (Note: if you see Paul O’Leary, ask him about his unintentional swim in those very same rapids during the annual Ice Breaker canoe race once recent and early spring day.)
Refreshed in body and spirit, “their blood tingling in every invigorating vein,” the Street party retired to the hotel’s small bar to await the dinner bell. As planned, they met Harvey. They also met Harvey’s son, Will, who was known to Mr. Street from one of his earlier visits to the region. Following a friendly greeting and having ordered “punch for all hands,” Street asked Will, who had a reputation for having a fine voice, to sing them a song.
“Sing us Glencoe, Will,” Street said, and Will somewhat bashfully obliged, his voice strong and clear. The words from that song were written down by Librarian Street and translated from what he called the Saranac vernacular. There is a lot of meaning in that ballad Will rendered, especially in view of today’s global conflicts, where loved ones are being separated for long periods. I’ve reprinted it here, and I do hope you enjoy reading it:
The young leaves of May had just feathered the trees,
And the heatherbell’s fragrance was filling the breeze;
I went as of old, to see the dipping low,
On the wild, gloomy grandeur of rocky Glencoe.
The bank of a burnie beside me that run,
Displayed a bright lassie, as bright as the sun;
All flowing in tartans, a lass long ago
That loved young Macdonald, the Pride of Glencoe.
With heart beating wildly, I slowly drew nigh,
The lily and rose in her cheek seemed to vie;
I asked in soft tones where her thought was to go,
And she answered, I’m straying to gaze at Glencoe!
Said I, lovely lassie, thy look and thy smile,
My pathway forever with joy can beguile!
If thou thy affections on me will bestow,
I’ll bless the glad hour we met at Glencoe.
Said she, My affections no more can I claim;
I once had a true love, Macdonald his name;
He went to the wars, alas long years ago,
And I live but to see him once more at Glencoe.
It may be Macdonald thou’ll never more see,
That he loves some far lassie more fondly than thee,
That he thinks not of tartans so simple in flow,
But of jewels that shine in disdain of Glencoe.
False man my Macdonald truehearted will prove;
The valiant in battle are faithful in love!
And soon will the Spaniards in dust be laid low,
And in joy will my true love return to Glencoe.
So loyal I found her, I pulled out a glove.
She gave me a parting, her token of love;
She hung on my bosom her tears all aflow,
Oh, art thou Macdonald returned to Glencoe!
Yes, Nannie, dear Nannie, thy sorrows are o’er!
I come from the battles to wander no more!
The rude winds of war at a distance may blow,
And fond and contended, we’ll dwell at Glencoe.