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Title: American Scenery, Vol. II (of 2) - or, Land, lake, and river illustrations of transatlantic nature
Author: Willis, Nathaniel Parker
Language: English
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AMERICAN SCENERY;
LAND, LAKE, AND RIVER
ILLUSTRATIONS OF TRANSATLANTIC NATURE.
FROM DRAWINGS BY W. H. BARTLETT,
ENGRAVED IN THE FIRST STYLE OF THE ART,
BY
R. WALLIS, J. COUSEN, WILLMORE, BRANDARD, ADLARD, RICHARDSON, &c.
THE LITERARY DEPARTMENT
BY N. P. WILLIS, ESQ.
AUTHOR OF “PENCILLINGS BY THE WAY”, “INKLINGS OF ADVENTURE” ETC.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
G E O R G E V I R T U E, 26, I V Y L A N E.
MDCCCXL.
LONDON:—RICHARD CLAY, PRINTER,
BREAD STREET HILL.
CONTENTS AND LIST OF ENGRAVINGS
TO VOLUME II.
* * * * *
_Ch._ _Page_
1 The Catterskill Falls, from below 1
2 The Catterskill Falls, from above the Ravine 2
3 Winter Scene on the Catterskills 4
4 Rogers’ Slide, Lake George 7
5 The Gothic Church, Newhaven 9
6 Niagara Falls from the top of the Ladder on the American side 11
7 Saw-Mill at Centre Harbour, Lake Winnipiseogee 12
8 Little Falls, on the Mohawk 14
9 Bridge at Norwich, Connecticut 16
10 Undercliff, near Cold Spring 18
11 Boston, and Bunker Hill, from the East 23
12 Mount Jefferson, from Mount Washington 25
13 Mount Tom, and the Connecticut River 27
14 The Silver Cascade, in the Notch of the White Mountains 29
15 View of New York, from Weehawken 30
16 The President’s House from the River 32
17 View on the Susquehanna, at Liverpool 34
18 Desert Rock Light-house, Maine 36
19 Washington’s House, Mount Vernon 38
20 Village of Little Falls, Mohawk River 40
21 Harper’s Ferry, from the Blue Ridge 42
22 Barhydt’s Lake, near Saratoga 43
23 Fairmount Gardens, Philadelphia 45
24 Sing-Sing Prison, and Tappan Sea 47
25 Washington, from the President’s House 49
26 View of Baltimore 51
27 The Exchange and Girard’s Bank, Philadelphia 53
28 Principal Front of the Capitol, Washington 55
29 The Narrows, Lake George 57
30 Natural Bridge, Virginia 59
31 View of the Passaic Falls 61
32 View of Northumberland, on the Susquehanna 63
33 Pulpit Rock, White Mountains 65
34 View of Hudson City, and the Catskill Mountains 67
35 Scene among the Highlands on Lake George 69
36 Schuylkill Water Works, Philadelphia 71
37 The United States Bank, Philadelphia 73
38 Brock’s Monument, from the American Side 75
39 Village of Catskill 77
40 View from Gowanus’ Heights, Brooklyn 79
41 View on the Susquehanna, above Owago 81
42 Bridge at Glens Fall, on the Hudson 84
43 View from Mount Ida, near Troy 85
44 View from Glenmary Lawn, on the Owago 87
45 View near Anthony’s Nose, Hudson Highlands 90
46 Washington’s Monument, Baltimore 92
47 East Port, and Passamaquoddy Bay 94
48 Cemetery of Mount Auburn 97
49 Northampton, Massachusetts 98
50 Chapel of our Lady of Coldspring 100
51 The Mountain House, on the Catskills 102
52 Faneuil Hall, from the Water 104
AMERICAN SCENERY.
[Illustration: The Catterskill Falls, from below.]
[Illustration]
THE CATTERSKILL FALLS.
(FROM ABOVE THE RAVINE)
* * * * *
From the precipice whence our first view of this Fall is taken, the
descent is steep and slippery to the very brink of the torrent, which it
is necessary to cross on the wild blocks which lie scattered in its
rocky bed. From thence, literally buried in forest foliage, the tourist
will enjoy a very different, but, perhaps, more striking and picturesque
view than the other. The stream, at a vast height above him, is seen
leaping from ledge to ledge—sometimes lost, sometimes sparkling in
sunshine, till it courses impetuously beneath the rock on which he is
seated, and is lost in the deep unbroken obscurity of the forest. The
rocky ledges above, worn by time, have the appearance of deep caverns,
and beautifully relieve the fall of the light and silvery stream. In the
winter, the vast icicles which are suspended from the ledges of rock,
and shine like pillars against the deep obscurity of the caverns behind,
afford a most romantic spectacle, one which has afforded a subject to
Bryant for one of the most imaginative of his poems.
THE CATTERSKILL FALLS.
“Midst greens and shades the Catterskill leaps
From cliffs where the wood-flower clings;
All summer he moistens his verdant steeps
With the sweet light spray of the mountain springs;
And he shakes the woods on the mountain side,
When they drip with the rains of autumn-tide.
“But when, in the forest bare and old,
The blast of December calls,
He builds, in the starlight clear and cold,
A palace of ice where his torrent falls,
With turret, and arch, and fretwork fair,
And pillars blue as the summer air.
“For whom are those glorious chambers wrought,
In the cold and cloudless night?
Is there neither spirit nor motion of thought
In forms so lovely and hues so bright?
Hear what the grey-haired woodmen tell
Of this wild stream, and its rocky dell.
“’Twas hither a youth of dreamy mood,
A hundred winters ago,
Had wandered over the mighty wood,
When the panther’s track was fresh on the snow;
And keen were the winds that came to stir
The long dark boughs of the hemlock fir.
“Too gentle of mien he seemed, and fair,
For a child of those rugged steeps;
His home lay low in the valley, where
The kingly Hudson rolls to the deeps;
But he wore the hunter’s frock that day,
And a slender gun on his shoulder lay.
“And here he paused, and against the trunk
Of a tall grey linden leant,
When the broad clear orb of the sun had sunk
From his path in the frosty firmament,
And over the round dark edge of the hill
A cold green light was quivering still.
“And the crescent moon, high over the green,
From a sky of crimson shone,
On that icy palace, whose towers were seen
To sparkle as if with stars of their own;
While the water fell, with a hollow sound,
’Twixt the glistening pillars ranged around.
“Is that a being of life, that moves
Where the crystal battlements rise?
A maiden, watching the moon she loves,
At the twilight hour, with pensive eyes?
Was that a garment which seemed to gleam
Betwixt the eye and the falling stream?
“‘Tis only the torrent tumbling o’er,
In the midst of those glassy walls,
Gushing, and plunging, and beating the floor
Of the rocky basin in which it falls:
'Tis only the torrent—but why that start?
Why gazes the youth with a throbbing heart?
“He thinks no more of his home afar,
Where his sire and sister wait;
He heeds no longer how star after star
Looks forth on the night, as the hour grows late.
He heeds not the snow-wreath, lifted and cast
From a thousand boughs, by the rising blast.
“His thoughts are alone of those who dwell
In the halls of frost and snow,
Who pass where the crystal domes upswell
From the alabaster floors below,
Where the frost-trees bourgeon with leaf and spray,
And frost-gems scatter a silvery day.
“‘And oh that those glorious haunts were mine!’
He speaks, and throughout the glen
Their shadows swim in the faint moonshine,
And take a ghastly likeness of men,
As if the slain by the wintry storms
Came forth to the air in their earthly forms.
“There pass the chasers of seal and whale,
With their weapons quaint and grim,
And bands of warriors in glimmering mail,
And herdsmen and hunters huge of limb—
There are naked arms, with bow and spear,
And furry gauntlets the carbine rear.
“There are mothers—and oh, how sadly their eyes
On their children’s white brows rest!
There are youthful lovers—the maiden lies
In a seeming sleep on the chosen breast;
There are fair wan women with moon-struck air,
The snow-stars flecking their long loose hair.
“They eye him not as they pass along,
But his hair stands up with dread,
When he feels that he moves with that phantom throng,
Till those icy turrets are over his head,
And the torrent’s roar, as they enter, seems
Like a drowsy murmur heard in dreams.
“The glittering threshold is scarcely passed,
When there gathers and wraps him round
A thick white twilight, sullen and vast,
In which there is neither form nor sound;
The phantoms, the glory, vanish all,
With the dying voice of the waterfall.
“Slow passes the darkness of that trance,
And the youth now faintly sees
Huge shadows and gushes of light that dance
On a rugged ceiling of unhewn trees,
And walls where the skins of beasts are hung,
And rifles glitter on antlers strung.
“On a couch of shaggy skins he lies;
As he strives to raise his head,
Hard-featured woodmen, with kindly eyes
Come round him and smooth his furry bed,
And bid him rest, for the evening star
Is scarcely set, and the day is for.
“They had found at eve the dreaming one,
By the base of that icy steep,
When over his stiffening limbs begun
The deadly slumber of frost to creep;
And they cherished the pale and breathless form,
Till the stagnant blood ran free and warm.”—BRYANT.
[Illustration]
WINTER SCENE ON THE CATTERSKILLS.
* * * * *
The great proportion of evergreen trees, shrubs, and creepers, in the
American mountains, make the winter scenery less dreary than would be at
first imagined; but even the nakedness of the deciduous trees is not
long observable. The first snow clothes them in a dress so feathery and
graceful, that, like a change in the costume of beauty, it seems
lovelier than the one put off; and the constant renewal of its freshness
and delicacy goes on with a variety and novelty which is scarce dreamed
of by those who see snow only in cities, or in countries where it is
rare.
The roads, in so mountainous a region as the Catterskills, are in winter
not only difficult, but dangerous. The following extracts from a sleigh
ride in a more level part of the country, will serve to give an idea of
it. “As we got farther on, the new snow became deeper. The occasional
farm-houses were almost wholly buried, the black chimney alone appearing
above the ridgy drifts; while the tops of the doors and windows lay
below the level of the trodden road, from which a descending passage was
cut to the threshold, like the entrance to a cave in the earth. The
fences were quite invisible. The fruit-trees looked diminished to
shrubberies of snow-flowers, their trunks buried under the visible
surface, and their branches loaded with the still falling flakes, till
they bent beneath the burden. Nothing was abroad, for nothing could stir
out of the road without danger of being lost; and we dreaded to meet
even a single sleigh, lest, in turning out, the horses should ’slump’
beyond their depth in the untrodden drifts. The poor animals began to
labour severely, and sank at every step over their knees in the clogging
and wool-like substance; and the long and cumbrous sleigh rose and fell
in the deep pits like a boat in a heavy sea. It seemed impossible to get
on. Twice we brought up with a terrible plunge, and stood suddenly
still; for the runners had struck in too deep for the strength of the
horses; and with the snow-shovels, which formed a part of the furniture
of the vehicle, we dug them from their concrete beds. Our progress at
last was reduced to scarce a mile in the hour, and we began to have
apprehensions that our team would give out between the post-houses.
Fortunately it was still warm, for the numbness of cold would have
paralyzed our already flagging exertions.
“We had reached the summit of a long hill with the greatest difficulty.
The poor beasts stood panting and reeking with sweat; the runners of the
sleigh were clogged with hard cakes of snow, and the air was close and
dispiriting. We came to a standstill, with the vehicle lying over almost
on its side; and I stepped out to speak to the driver and look forward.
It was a discouraging prospect; a long deep valley lay before us, closed
at the distance of a couple of miles by another steep hill, through a
cleft in the top of which lay our way. We could not even distinguish the
line of the road between. Our disheartened animals stood at this moment
buried to their breasts; and to get forward, without rearing at every
step, seemed impossible. The driver sat on his box, looking uneasily
down into the valley. It was one undulating ocean of snow—not a sign of
a human habitation to be seen—and even the trees indistinguishable from
the general mass by their whitened and overladen branches. The storm had
ceased, but the usual sharp cold that succeeds a warm fall of snow had
not yet lightened the clamminess of the new-fallen flakes, and they
clung around the foot like clay, rendering every step a toil.”
“We heaved out of the pit into which the sleigh had settled, and for the
first mile it was down hill, and we got on with comparative ease. The
sky was by this time almost bare, a dark slaty mass of clouds alone
settling on the horizon in the quarter of the wind; while the sun, as
powerless as moonlight, poured with dazzling splendour on the snow; and
the gusts came keen and bitter across the sparkling waste, rimming the
nostrils as if with bands of steel, and penetrating to the innermost
nerve with their pungent iciness. No protection seemed of any avail. The
whole surface of the body ached as if it were laid against a slab of
ice. The throat closed instinctively, and contracted its unpleasant
respiration. The body and limbs drew irresistibly together, to
economize, like a hedge-hog, the exposed surface. The hands and feet
felt transmuted to lead; and across the forehead, below the pressure of
the cap, there was a binding and oppressive ache, as if a bar of frosty
iron had been let into the skull. The mind, meantime, seemed freezing
up; unwillingness to stir, and inability to think of any thing but the
cold, becoming every instant more decided.
“From the bend of the valley our difficulties became more serious. The
drifts often lay across the road like a wall, some feet above the heads
of the horses; and we had dug through one or two, and had been once
upset, and often near it, before we came to the steepest part of the
ascent. The horses had by this time begun to feel the excitement of the
rum given them by the driver at the last halt, and bounded on through
the snow with continuous leaps, jerking the sleigh after them with a
violence that threatened momently to break the traces. The steam from
their bodies froze instantly, and covered them with a coat like
hoar-frost; and spite of their heat, and the unnatural and violent
exertions they were making, it was evident, by the pricking of their
ears, and the sudden crouch of the body when a stronger blast swept
over, that the cold struck through even their hot and intoxicated blood.
“We toiled up, leap after leap; and it seemed miraculous to me that the
now infuriated animals did not burst a blood-vessel, or crack a sinew,
with every one of those terrible springs. The sleigh plunged on after
them, stopping dead and short at every other moment, and reeling over
the heavy drifts like a boat in a surging sea. A finer crystallization
had meanwhile taken place upon the surface of the moist snow; and the
powdered particles flew almost insensibly on the blasts of wind, filling
the eyes and hair, and cutting the skin with a sensation like the touch
of needle-points. The driver, and his maddened but almost exhausted
team, were blinded by the glittering and whirling eddies; the cold grew
intenser every moment, the forward motion gradually less and less; and
when, with the very last effort apparently, we reached a spot on the
summit of the hill, which from its exposed situation had been kept bare
by the wind, the patient and persevering whip brought his horses to a
stand, and despaired, for the first time, of his prospects of getting
on.”
The description, which is too long to extract entire, details still
severer difficulties; after which the writer and driver mounted on the
leaders, and arrived, nearly dead with cold, at the tavern. Such cold as
is described here, however, is what is called “an old-fashioned spell,”
and occurs now but seldom.
[Illustration]
ROGERS'S SLIDE, LAKE GEORGE.
* * * * *
This is an almost perpendicular precipice of great height, abutting
directly upon the romantic waters of Lake George, and remarkable for the
escape of an American officer, Major Rogers, who, pursued closely by a
party of Indians when the lake was frozen over, descended this bluff,
and escaped upon the ice. To look at it, the feat seems incredible; and
so thought the pursuing Indians, who, arriving at the brow of the
precipice, and not seeing his body at the bottom, attributed his
disappearance to supernatural agency.
Much as we are in the habit of extolling the athletic make and superior
physical qualities of the Indians of our country, the early annals prove
the superiority in strength, and even in address, which was their strong
point, to have been oftenest on the side of the white settlers. There
are two or three very stirring examples in the annals of a small town in
New Hampshire:—
“Early in the morning of the 23d April, Ephraim Dorman left the fort to
search for his cow. He went northwardly, along the borders of what was
then a hideous and almost impervious swamp, lying east of the fort,
until he arrived near to the place where the turnpike now is. Looking
into the swamp, he perceived several Indians lurking in the bushes. He
immediately gave the alarm, by crying, “Indians! Indians!” and ran
towards the fort. Two, who were concealed in the bushes between him and
the fort, sprang forward, aimed their pieces at him, and fired; but
neither hit him. They then, throwing away their arms, advanced towards
him: one he knocked down by a blow, which deprived him of his senses;
the other he seized, and being a strong man, an able wrestler, tried his
strength and skill in his favourite mode of ‘trip and twitch.’ He tore
his antagonist’s blanket from his shoulders, leaving him nearly naked.
He then seized him by the arms and body, but, as he was painted and
greased, he slipped from his grasp. After a short struggle, Dorman
quitted him, ran towards the fort, and reached it in safety.
“Mrs. Clark was at a barn, near the Todd-house, about fifty rods
distant. Leaving it, she espied an Indian near her, who threw away his
gun, and advanced to make her prisoner. She gathered her clothes around
her waist, and started for the fort. The Indian pursued: the woman,
animated by cheers from her friends, out-ran her pursuer, who skulked
back for his gun. Nathan Blake was at his barn, near where his son’s
house now stands. Hearing the cry of Indians, and presuming his barn
would be burnt, he determined that his cattle should not be burnt with
it. Throwing open his stable door, he let them loose, and presuming his
retreat to the fort was cut off, went out at a back door, intending to
place himself in ambush at the only place where the river could be
crossed. He had gone but a few steps, when he was hailed by a party of
Indians, concealed in a shop between him and the street. Looking back,
he perceived several guns pointed at him, and at this instant several
Indians started up from their places of concealment near him; upon
which, feeling himself in their power, he gave himself up. He was then
conducted to Lucbee, and thence to an Indian village, several miles
north of that place, called Conissadawga. He was a strong, athletic man,
and possessed many qualities which procured him the respect of the
savages. He could run with great speed; and in all the trials to which
he was put, (and they were many and severe,) he beat every antagonist.
“Not long after his arrival at the village, the tribe lost a chief by
sickness. As soon as his decease was made known, the women repaired to
his wigwam, and with tears, sobs, and clamorous lamentations, mourned
his death. The funeral ceremonies performed, the men sought Blake,
dressed him in the Indian costume, and invested him with all the
authority and privileges of the deceased, as one of the chiefs of the
tribe, and as husband of the widow. In the family to which he now stood
in the relation of father, there were, as he had often remarked, several
daughters of uncommon beauty. Yet notwithstanding this good fortune, he
still had difficulties to encounter. The tribe was divided into two
parties, his friends and his enemies. The former consisted of the great
mass of the tribe, who respected him for qualities to which they had not
equal pretensions; the latter, of those who were envious of his success,
and had been worsted in their contests with him. These, to humble his
pride, sent far into the northern wilderness, and procured a celebrated
Indian runner, to run against him. At the time assigned, the whole tribe
assembled to witness the race; and a Frenchman, from Quebec, happened to
be present. Perceiving the excitement among them, he advised Blake to
permit himself to be beaten, intimating that fatal consequences might
ensue if he did not. The race was run; and Blake, as advised by the
Frenchman, permitted his antagonist to reach the goal a moment before he
did. He persisted, however, after his return from captivity, in
declaring that he might have beaten him, if he had tried. The event of
the race restored harmony to the tribe, and Blake was permitted to live
in peace.”
[Illustration]
THE GOTHIC CHURCH, NEW HAVEN.
* * * * *
The area occupied by the town of New Haven is estimated to be six times
as great as that of a European town with the same number of inhabitants.
It was originally laid out in parallelograms, and the houses are built
upon the outer sides of the squares, with large gardens meeting in the
centre. Almost every house stands separate, and surrounded by shrubbery
and verdure; and it is the great peculiarity of the town, that all its
streets are planted with rows of elms, grown at this day to remarkable
size and luxuriance. It has the appearance of a town roofed in with
leaves; and it is commonly said, that, but for the spires, a bird flying
over would scarce be aware of its existence. Nothing could be more
beautiful than the effect of this in the streets; for, standing where
any of the principal avenues cross at right angles, four embowered
aisles extend away as far as the eye can follow, formed of the straight
stems and graceful branches of the drooping elm, the most elegant and
noble of the trees of our country. The roads below are kept moist and
cool with the roof overhead; the side-walks, between the trees and the
rural dwellings, are broad and shady; the small gardens in front of most
of the houses are bright with flowering shrubs; and the whole scene,
though in the midst of a city, breathes of nature.
The style of domestic architecture in New Haven favours the rural
character of the town. Built, as was remarked before, in the midst of a
garden, each house looks like what would be termed in England a cottage,
or, in streets where a more ambitious style prevails, like the sort of
white villa common at watering places. The green Venetian blind is
universal; the broad, open hall extends through the house, showing the
gay alley of a garden in the rear; and, living in the midst of a
primitive and friendly community, the inhabitants sit at their low
windows along the street, or promenade, without fear of rude
observation, on the shady pavement before their dwellings, preserving
for the place altogether that look of out-of-doors life and gaiety
which, with less elegance, distinguishes Naples and other cities of
southern Europe. The prettiest of English rural towns have a general
resemblance to it.
In the centre of New Haven were originally laid out two open squares,
divided by a street kept sacred from private buildings. The upper green
is a beautiful slope, edged with the long line of the college edifices.
Between the two squares stand three churches, at equal distances; two of
the common order of architecture for places of public worship in this
country (immense brick buildings, with tall white spires); and a third,
which is presented in the drawing, a Gothic episcopal church, of
singular purity and beauty. Behind and before it, spread away the
verdant carpets of the two enclosed “greens;” above its turret and
windows hang the drooping fans of elms, half disclosing and half
concealing its pointed architecture; and to its door, from every
direction, tend aisles of lofty trees, overhanging the paths with
shadow, as if the first thought of the primitive settlers had been to
create visible avenues to the house of God. There is scarce a more
beautiful place of worship, take it all in all, in the whole of
Christendom.
The trees in the magnificent avenue in front of these churches were
planted by a single individual, the Hon. James Hillhouse. His example
decided the character of the town, for it was followed in every street.
To the enterprise of the same public-spirited gentleman, New Haven owes
one of the most beautiful cemeteries in the world. The square in the
rear of the churches was formerly, according to the English custom, used
as a churchyard, and encumbered with graves, which soon threatened to
overrun its limits. Mr. Hillhouse, some years since, purchased a field
in the western skirt of the town, laid it out and planted it, and
subsequently removed to it all the tombstones and remains from the
Green; among them the headstone of the regicide Goffe. It is now one of
the most beautiful of burial-places. The monuments are of white marble,
or of a very rich _verd antique_ found in the neighbourhood; and the
natural elegance of the place has induced a taste and elegance into
these monuments for the dead, found in no other spot of the same
character.
The interior of the episcopal church is purely Gothic, and esteemed in
the best taste. The material of the exterior is a brownish trap-rock
from the neighbouring mountains, which, from its colour, resembles a
very weather-beaten and time-worn stone, and gives a look of antiquity
to the edifice. The cornices and abutments are of what a distinguished
writer on the subject calls a sprightly freestone.
[Illustration]
NIAGARA FALLS,
(FROM THE TOP OF THE LADDER ON THE AMERICAN SIDE.)
* * * * *
This is often the first near and general view of the Falls, and it is
well calculated to produce the most astonishing impression on any one
suddenly introduced to it. Supposing him to have arrived from Lockport,
by a tedious progress through the forests, the visitor is conducted
through a beautiful wood, presenting scenery of the softest character.
But, with the roar of the cataract in his ear, he hurries rapidly
through, till he stands on the very verge of the Fall, at the point
where its mighty waters descend in one solemn unbroken mass into a gulf
of spray, rising in clouds from the tortured waves beneath, and driven
about by the gusts, till sometimes the whole river beneath, and the
opposite shores, are momentarily concealed. As this misty curtain is
withdrawn, the whole scene is disclosed. Beyond the American fall, which
is immediately before him, and the wooded steeps of Goat Island, he sees
the sublime curve of the Horse-shoe Fall; from below the centre of
which, where the greatest mass of water descends, arises a tall and
beautiful column of silvery vapour far into the sky.
At this spot is the entrance of the long covered ladder by which the
descent to the ferry is accomplished. At an opening in it, half way down
the precipice, people usually stop (in spite of their hurry, and that
absorbing matter, the care of their baggage) to enjoy the only view,
perhaps, which brings them near to the falling column in the midst of
its descent. It is, indeed, “horribly beautiful.” No one has better
described the effect sometimes produced on the mind at Niagara, than
Basil Hall.
“On Sunday night, the 8th of July, we returned to the Falls, and walked
down to the Table Rock, to view them by moonlight. Our expectations, as
may be supposed, were high, but the sight was more impressive than we
had expected. It possessed, it is true, what may be called a more sober
kind of interest than that belonging to the wild scene behind the sheet
of water above described. I may mention one curious effect:—it seemed
to the imagination not impossible that the Fall might swell up, and
grasp us in its vortex. The actual presence of any very powerful moving
object is often more or less remotely connected with a feeling that its
direction may be changed; and when the slightest variation would
evidently prove fatal, a feeling of awe is easily excited. At all
events, as I gazed upon the cataract, it more than once appeared to
increase in its volume, and to be accelerated in its velocity, till my
heated fancy became strained, alarmed, and so much over-crowded with new
and old images,—all exaggerated; and in spite of the conviction that
the whole was nonsense, I felt obliged to draw back from the edge of the
rock; and it required a little reflection, and some resolution, to
advance again to the brink.
“During the delightful period that the Falls formed our head-quarters,
we made various excursions to several interesting objects in the
neighbourhood. Of these, the most amusing were, a trip to Buffalo, a
flourishing American town at the eastern end of Lake Erie, where the
great New York canal commences; and a visit to the Welland canal, which
joins Lake Erie with Lake Ontario.”
[Illustration]
SAW-MILL AT CENTRE HARBOUR,
LAKE WINIPISEOGEE.
* * * * *
In the early records of the first settlement of Keene, in this state, on
the river Asduelot, (in the Indian language, _a collection of many
waters_,) is an account of some of their difficulties; among which was
the establishment of a saw-mill. “A vote was passed,” says the record,
“offering one hundred acres of middling good land, and twenty-five
pounds, to any person or persons who would engage to build a saw-mill,
and saw boards for the proprietors at twenty shillings per thousand.”
The next year “another meeting was appointed at the _house lot_ of
Joseph Fisher, but was adjourned to the _house_ of Nathan Blake, the
first erected in the township.” A committee was here appointed, “to
agree with a man to build a great mill, and they were authorized to
offer not exceeding forty pounds encouragement therefor.” These early
annals are highly interesting, and we cannot better associate drawings
of scenes of cultivated life at the present day, than by portraying some
of the steps by which the comfort and civilization of the state have
been attained.
“No person,” says the record, “had hitherto attempted to remain through
the winter on the township. Those who came in the summer to clear their
lands, brought their provisions with them, and erected temporary huts to
shelter them from the weather. In the summer of 1736, at least one house
was erected; and three persons, Nathan Blake, Seth Heaton, and William
Smeed, (the two first from Wrentham, and the last from Deerfield,) made
preparations to pass the winter in the wilderness. Their house was at
the lower end of the street. Blake had a pair of oxen and a horse, and
Heaton a horse. For the support of these, they collected grass in the
open spots; and in the first part of the winter they employed them in
drawing logs to the saw-mill, which had just been completed. Blake’s
horse fell through the ice of Beaver-brook, and was drowned. In the
beginning of February their own provisions were exhausted, and, to
obtain a supply of meal, Heaton was despatched to Northfield. There were
a few families at Winchester, but none able to furnish what was wanted.
Heaton procured a quantity of meal; but before he left Northfield, the
snow began to fall; and when, on his return, he arrived at Winchester,
it was uncommonly deep, and covered by a sharp crust. He was told ‘that
he might as well expect to die in Northfield and rise again in Upper
Ashnelot, as ride thither on horseback.’ Recollecting the friends he had
left there, he nevertheless determined to make the attempt; but had
proceeded only a short distance when he found that it would be
impossible to succeed. He then returned, and directed his course towards
Wrentham. Blake and Smeed, hearing nothing from Heaton, gave the oxen
free access to the hay, left Ashnelot, and, on snow-shoes, proceeded
either to Deerfield or Wrentham. Anxious for their oxen, they returned
early in the spring. They found them near the Branch, south-east of
Carpenter’s, much emaciated, but feeding upon twigs and such grass as
was bare. The oxen recognised their owner, and exhibited such pleasure
at the meeting as drew tears from his eyes.
“About this time, John Andrews came from Boxford to settle in Upper
Ashnelot. He sent back Ephraim Donnan and Joseph Ellis with a team of
eight oxen and a horse, to bring up his furniture. The route they came,
which was probably then the best, if not the only one, led through
Concord, Worcester, Brookfield, Belchertown, Hadley, Hatfield,
Deerfield, Northfield, Winchester, Swanzey, and on the banks of the
Ashnelot, to the house lots. When they passed through Swanzey, it rained
hard, and they did not reach the station until night. As it continued to
rain, was very dark, and as the water, which already covered the
meadows, rose rapidly, they, apprehensive of being drowned, unyoked
their oxen, chained their cart to a tree, and hastened to the
settlement, then a mile distant. As soon as day-light appeared, the next
morning, a boat was despatched in search of the cattle and furniture;
when, passing over Bullard’s Island, a man cried to them for help. It
was Mark Ferry, the hermit. Wearied with the noise and bustle of the
settlement, he had retired to a cave, which he had dug into the bank of
the river, where he constantly resided. The water had now driven him
from his dwelling, and compelled him to seek refuge on a stump, where he
then sat, with a calf in his arms, over which he had drawn a shirt. The
boatman answered, “we must take care of the _neat cattle_ first,” and
passed on. They soon came to the cart, which was afloat. Proceeding
further, and guided by the sound of the bells, which the cattle as usual
wore, they found them on several little hillocks—some with only their
heads out of water. They forced them into the water, and guided them,
swimming, to high land, where they left them until the flood subsided.
Hearing cries for help below them, they proceeded to Crissen’s House, in
the borders of Swanzey, to the chamber and to the top of which the
family had been driven. These they took off, and, on their return home,
took Ferry and his calf into the canoe. This, which was known by the
name of Andrew’s flood, was the highest ever known in the township. The
water came within a few feet of the street north of Captain Blake’s old
house.”
[Illustration]
THE LITTLE FALLS ON THE MOHAWK.
* * * * *
The cavities worn in the rocks about these Falls, afford great matter of
speculation to the geologist. The rock is _gneiss_, and these circular
pots are worn evidently by the attrition stones kept in agitation by the
current of a river. The astonishing part of it is, that these cavities
are, some of them, more than a hundred feet above the present level of
the Mohawk, proving that river to have been thus much higher in former
times, and of course a lake, whose waters must have extended far and
wide over the broad interval above. The narrow passage which it makes
through the hills just below, shut in by perpendicular precipices on
each side, would be sufficient to have made the theory probable without
the assistance of these appearances.
These cavities are very numerous, and the largest are about eight feet
deep, and fifteen in diameter. The rocks exhibit evidences of having
been washed by water still higher. There are analogous traces of lakes
on the Connecticut and Hudson rivers, which break through the mountains
in a similar manner, the first between Mount Tom and Mount Holyoke, and
the latter at the Highlands; but the depth and number of these rock-worn
cavities are peculiar to Little Falls.
In approaching this part of the Mohawk from the east, the stranger is
first delighted with the bold abutments on the river of two dark
precipices, whose summits are laden with foliage, and which rise so
abruptly from the undulating banks of the Mohawk, that they seem
designed as barriers to the pass. The river glides between, darkened by
their shadow; and close under the face of one precipice shoots the
rail-car, while as close under the opposing one glides the silent
passage-boat of the canal. Emerging to the sunshine beyond, the river
spreads out in its thousand windings, as if rejoicing in the space of
which it is so soon to be deprived, and in a moment or two (if you are
travelling by steam) your course is arrested amid the foaming and busy
scenery of the Falls, the picturesque and the hideous, the wildly
beautiful and the merely useful, so huddled together that the artist who
would draw either the architecture or the scenery by itself, would
scarce find a bit large enough for a vignette.
Alluring as the picturesque and fertile valley of the Mohawk must have
been, it was not till after the revolution that it was sought by white
men with a view to settle. For some years after the war, it was still
the beaver country of the aborigines, or the place of their wigwams; and
the country round about, now stocked with villages, and without a
red-face to be seen, was a hunting-ground, in which ranged bears, foxes,
wolves, deer, and other game, the Indians themselves calling it
_couxsachraga_, or the dismal wilderness. The town of Mohawk, where the
tribe dwelt up to the year 1780, is but thirty-six miles west of Albany.
General Sir William Johnson lived not many miles below Little Falls, and
from this spot to Canada Creek a tract of fourteen miles was given to
him on his marriage with a Mohawk girl, by King Hendricks, the faithful
Indian ally of the whites. It is a curious fact, that, during the war of
the revolution, a son of Sir William Johnson, in the English service in
Canada, made an incursion at the head of a party of hostile Indians on
the very lands once owned by his father.
The Mohawks contended very fiercely for the honour of original descent.
The Iroquois, who were more powerful, they considered as interlopers;
and, in the following tradition, give the basis of their pedigree:—
“Before man existed, there were three great and good spirits; of whom
one was superior to the other two, and is emphatically called the Great
and Good Spirit. At a certain time, this exalted being said to one of
the others, ‘_Make a man!_’ He obeyed; and taking _chalk_, formed a
paste of it, and moulding it into the human shape, infused into it the
animating principle and brought it to the Great Spirit. He, after
surveying it, said, ‘_It is too white!_’
“He then directed the other to make a trial of his skill. Accordingly,
taking _charcoal_, he pursued the same process, and brought the result
to the Great Spirit; who, after surveying it, said, ‘It is too black!’
“Then said the Great Spirit, ‘I will now try myself.’ And, taking _red
earth_, he formed a human being in the same manner, surveyed it and
said, ‘This is a proper man!’”
It is possible that this is traditionary, but it is more probable that
it was invented after the arrival of whites, and the introduction of
blacks into the country, neither of which races the Indians had before
seen.
[Illustration]
BRIDGE AT NORWICH, CONNECTICUT.
* * * * *
Two Indian rivers, the Shetucket and Yautick, unite at this place to
form the Thames, and in the fork of the junction lies the picturesque
and prosperous town of Norwich. From the hilly nature of the ground, the
buildings have a remarkably fine appearance, the streets rising one
above the other, and the style of the houses denoting taste and
opulence. In the rear of the hill on which the town stands is a level
plain, on which are laid out several handsome streets, planted with
avenues of trees. The prospects are extensive and various; and,
altogether, there are few towns in the world which have so many
advantages and attractions.
The Thames is navigable for large vessels as high as Norwich, and its
trade with the West Indies was once considerable. That has declined, and
the capital of the inhabitants is now invested principally in
manufactories, for which the fine water-power of the neighbourhood
furnishes peculiar facilities. As a birth-place of distinguished
individuals, Norwich has produced Mrs. Sigourney, the sweetest of
American poetesses; and it stands upon the natal ground and possessions
of the celebrated Uncas, chief of the Mohegans. The burial-place of the
kings of this warlike tribe is still to be seen here.
No spot could have been selected with more felicity than that on which
Uncas formerly lived. It is a high point of land, commanding a noble and
extensive view of the Thames, here a large river, and of the country on
both sides. It was, therefore, well fitted for the discovery of an
enemy’s approach, and furnished every convenience to hostile excursions.
At the same time, it bordered on a never-failing supply of provisions,
furnished by the scale and shell-fish, with which both the river and the
neighbouring ocean have ever been richly stored.
Uncas was originally a petty sachem; a Pequod by birth; a subject and a
tributary to Sassacus. When the English made war upon the Pequods, Uncas
was unfriendly to this chieftain, and would have quarrelled with him,
had he not been kept in awe by the talents and prowess of this
formidable warrior. Of the English he appears to have entertained, from
the first, a very respectful opinion; and, when he saw them determined
upon a war with his master, concluded to unite his forces and his
fortune with theirs. His dread of Sassacus was, however, so great, that
when Captain Mason marched against the Pequods, he did not believe him
to be serious in his professed design of attacking that terrible nation,
nor did he even engage in the conflict, until after Mason and his little
band of heroes had stormed the Pequod fortress.
Upon the death of Sassacus, Uncas became the sachem of the remaining
Pequods, as well as of the Mohegans. In this character he claimed,
perhaps rightfully enough, as there was no other acknowledged heir, all
the territory which had been possessed by that tribe. This tract
included almost the whole of the eastern division of Connecticut, from
the middle of the Syno range. He understood his own interest too well to
quarrel with the English, and had a sufficient share of cunning to
support his claims with very plausible reasons. They were, therefore,
very generally allowed.
From this time he became the most formidable, and altogether the most
prosperous Indian chieftain in Southern New England. Over his subjects
he exercised a more efficacious and unresisted government than perhaps
was ever exercised by any other sachem. Nor was his control confined to
them; but extended, in a considerable degree, to several of the tribes
on the western side of the Connecticut. To his enemies he became
scarcely less formidable than Sassacus had been before him. At the head
of four or five hundred men, he met Miantonomoh, a brave and sagacious
chief of the Narrhagansetts, coming to attack him with twice the number;
and, after having in vain challenged him to single combat, defeated his
army, took him prisoner, and put him to death. On this occasion he cut a
piece of flesh from his shoulder, roasted and eat it, and, with the true
spirit of a savage, declared that it was the sweetest meat which he had
ever tasted in his life.
The avarice, ambition, and restlessness of this man, frequently
embroiled him with his neighbours, and were sometimes troublesome to his
English allies. The natives considered them as the friends of Uncas, and
implicated them more or less in his mischievous conduct. When he found
the English resentful, and himself severely censured, he made such
submissions, promises, and presents as he thought necessary to restore
their good-will, and secure his future peace. But he was not indebted
for these advantages to his address alone. On several occasions he
rendered them real and important assistance; and to their interests he
adhered faithfully and uniformly. No Indian among the New England
tribes, except Massasait, exhibited an equally steady attachment to the
Colonists, or so regular an adherence to his engagements. Hence he
enjoyed their public friendship, and the good-will of individuals among
them, until the day of his death.
Uncas died at an advanced age, in his own house, and left his power and
his property to his children. Onecho, his eldest son, commanded a party
of Mohegans in a war which the English carried on against the
Narrhagansetts in 1676. The family, however, soon declined in their
importance by the general declension of their tribe, and the sale of
their property to the English. Some years since, a man, descended from
Uncas, came from North Carolina, or Tennessee, where he was settled, and
obtained permission of the Connecticut legislature to sell his
patrimonial share in this tract. This man had received a military
commission from the British government; and it is said, was well
dressed, well informed, sensible, and gentlemanly in his deportment. He
was probably the only respectable descendant of Uncas then living.
[Illustration]
UNDERCLIFF, NEAR COLD-SPRING,
THE SEAT OF GENERAL MORRIS.
* * * * *
The pen of the poet and the pencil of the artist have so frequently
united to record the grandeur and sublimity of the Hudson, and with such
graphic fidelity, that little of interest remains unsaid or unsketched.
But when every point of its bold and beautiful scenery might be made the
subject of a picture, and every incident of its past history the theme
of a poem, it requires no great research to discover new and prominent
objects of attraction. Perhaps there is no portion of this beautiful
river which partakes more of the picturesque, or combines more of the
wild and wonderful, than the vicinity of the present View; and when time
shall touch the history of the present with the wand of tradition, and
past events shall live in the memory of the future as legends, romance
will never revel in a more bewitching region. Fiction shall then fling
its imaginative veil over the things we have seen—covering, but not
concealing them—and, in the plenitude of poetic genius, people the
drama of futurity with a thousand exquisite creations, clothed in the
venerated garb of antiquity.
UNDERCLIFF, the mansion of GENERAL GEORGE P. MORRIS, which forms the
principal object in the engraving, is situated upon an elevated plateau,
rising from the eastern shore of the river; and the selection of such a
commanding and beautiful position at once decides the taste of its
intellectual proprietor. In the rear of the villa, cultivation has
placed her fruit and forest trees with a profuse hand, and fertilized
the fields with a variety of vegetable products. The extent of the
grounds is abruptly terminated by the base of a rocky mountain, that
rises nearly perpendicular to its summit, and affords in winter a secure
shelter from the bleak blasts of the north. In front, a circle of
greensward is refreshed by a fountain in the centre, gushing from a
Grecian vase, and encircled by ornamental shrubbery; from thence a
gravelled walk winds down a gentle declivity to a second plateau, and
again descends to the entrance of the carriage road, which leads upwards
along the left slope of the hill, through a noble forest, the growth of
many years, until suddenly emerging from its sombre shades, the visitor
beholds the mansion before him in the bright blaze of day. A few
openings in the wood afford an opportunity to catch a glimpse of the
water, sparkling with reflected light; and the immediate transition from
shadow to sunshine is peculiarly pleasing.
Although the sunny prospects from the villa, of the giant mountains in
their eternal verdure—the noble stream, when frequent gusts ruffle its
surface into a thousand waves—the cluster of white cottages collected
into the distant village, are glorious; it is only by the lovely light
of the moon, when nature is in repose, that their magic influence is
fully felt. We were fortunate in having an opportunity to contemplate
the scene at such an hour: the moon had risen from a mass of clouds
which formed a line across the sky so level that fancy saw her ascending
from the dark sea, and her silvery light lay softened on the landscape;
silence was over all, save where the dipping of a distant oar was echoed
from the deep shadows of the rocks. Sometimes the white sail of a sloop
would steal into sight from the deep gloom, like some shrouded spirit
gliding from the confines of a giant’s cavern, and recalled the
expressive lines by Moore:—
“The stream is like a silvery lake,
And o’er its face each vessel glides
Gently, as if it feared to wake
The slumber of the silent tides.”
In the view of Undercliff, the artist has been peculiarly happy in
producing an effect at once brilliant and chaste. The broken foreground
is agreeably relieved by the sparkling transparency of the water: the
receding figures on the shore are judiciously introduced to mark the
perspective. The projecting bluff in the middle distance is thrown into
shadow, and stands out in fine contrast from the light horizon, while
the lights upon the solitary rock, the entrance gate, the mansion, and
the vessels, produce the effect of a setting sun; and the whole subject
is treated with masterly skill. We only regret that art has not power to
convey the kindly hospitalities hourly exercised in the interior of the
mansion.
To enumerate the matchless and minute beauties of Undercliff, would
occupy more space than the limits of our descriptive pages will permit.
Its superiority, however, may be summed up in one expressive sentence,
to which it is justly entitled, and which has been conceded to it by
common consent—“_The Gem of the Hudson River_.” To the belles-lettres
reader the “Gem” will acquire additional value by reflecting the light
of literature: it is the home of a fine poet, and graceful prose writer.
General Morris has been for many years the editor of the “New York
Mirror,” a weekly journal, which circulates more extensively among the
_élite_ than any other periodical in the country. The typographic
neatness of its execution, the talent of its original contributions, and
the elegance of its embellishments, have placed upon it a permanent seal
of popularity, and seem to have given a tone to taste, and a refinement
to fashion.
General Morris has recently published a volume of lyrical effusions,
called “The Deserted Bride, and other Poems.” Many of them have been
written among the fairy beauties of Undercliff, and under the
inspiration of that true poetic feeling which such enchanting scenes are
so likely to elicit. Where so many gems of genius enrich a work, it
becomes difficult to decide upon that most worthy of selection. It is
not our province or intention to review the volume, but we cannot resist
the inclination to make a few extracts, because they seem as beautiful
accessories to the subject, and create an added interest in the
engraving. Where scenes are so replete with the poetry of nature, they
are best illustrated by the poetry of numbers; but we were particularly
delighted with the following lines, addressed to his young daughter. The
natural simplicity of the subject is well expressed by the purity of its
poetic images, and breathes the refinement of paternal affection.
IDA.
“Where Hudson’s wave, o’er silvery sands,
Winds through the hills afar,
Old Cro’nest like a monarch stands,
Crowned with a single star:
And there, amid the billowy swells
Of rock-ribbed, cloud-capt earth,
My fair and gentle IDA dwells,
A nymph of mountain birth.
“The snow-curl that the cliff receives,
The diamonds of the showers,
Spring’s tender blossoms, buds and leaves,
The sisterhood of flowers:
Morn’s early beam, eve’s balmy breeze,
Her purity define;
But IDA’S dearer far than these,
To this fond breast of mine.
“My heart is on the hills. The shades
Of night are on my brow:
Ye pleasant haunts and silent glades,
My soul is with you now!
I bless the star-crowned islands where
My IDA’S footsteps roam:
Oh for a falcon’s wing to bear
Me onward to my home!”—MORRIS.
General Morris is not less successful in the lighter and livelier freaks
of poetic fancy, as we hope to prove by a quotation from “The New York
Mirror,” in which the moral of the lines is not their least merit. The
melodies of the various birds which roost among the wild recesses of the
rocks, or haunt the mountain forest, or sweep along the waters, are sent
forth hourly in sounds of “unwritten music.” But the cry “most musical,
most melancholy,” comes at the twilight hour from the clear throat of
the whip-poor-will, at intervals, through the summer’s night: nor is it
ever heard or seen by day; it may be called the sad unknown. The words,
“whip-poor-will,” are divided into three shrill, distinct notes, and
express the sounds as perfectly as if uttered by the human voice. The
poetry annexed, is equally expressive of the melancholy mystery which
seems to mark the mourning burden of its lonely song.
TO THE WHIP-POOR-WILL.
“Why dost thou come at set of sun,
Those pensive words to say?
Why whip poor Will?—What has he done?
And who is Will, I pray?
“Why come from you leaf-shaded hill,
A suppliant at my door?—
Why ask of me to whip poor Will?
And is Will really poor?
“If poverty’s his crime, let mirth
From out his heart be driven:
That is the deadliest sin on earth,
And never is forgiven!
“Art Will himself?—It must be so—
I learn it from thy moan,
For none can feel another’s woe
As deeply as his own.
“Yet wherefore strain thy tiny throat,
While other birds repose?
What means thy melancholy note?
The mystery disclose.
“Still ‘whip-poor-will!’—Art thou a sprite,
From unknown regions sent
To wander in the gloom of night,
And ask for punishment?
“Is thine a conscience sore beset
With guilt—or, what is worse,
Hast thou to meet writs, duns, and debt—
No money in thy purse?
“If this be thy hard fate indeed,
Ah well may’st thou repine:
The sympathy I give, I need—
The poet’s doom is thine.
“Art thou a lover, Will?—Hast proved
The fairest can deceive?
Thine is the lot of all who’ve loved
Since Adam wedded Eve.
“Hast trusted in a friend, and seen
No friend was he in need?
A common error—men still lean
Upon as frail a reed.
“Hast thou, in seeking wealth or fame,
A crown of brambles won?
O’er all the earth ’tis just the same
With every mother’s son!
“Hast found the world a Babel wide,
Where man to mammon stoops?
Where flourish arrogance and pride,
While modest merit droops?
“What, none of these?—Then, whence thy pain,
To guess it who’s the skill?
Pray have the kindness to explain
Why I should whip poor Will?
“Dost merely ask thy just desert?
What, not another word?—
Back to the woods again, unhurt—
I will not harm thee, bird!
“But treat thee kindly—for my nerves,
Like thine, have penance done;
Treat every man as he deserves—
Who shall ’scape whipping?’—None.
“Farewell, poor Will—not valueless
This lesson by thee given:
‘Keep thine own counsel, and confess
Thyself alone to heaven!’”—MORRIS.
We cannot close our description without one more extract from the
delightful volume before us.
THE OAK.
“Woodman, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
And I’ll protect it now.
’Twas my forefather’s hand
That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not!
“That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown
Are spread o’er land and sea,
And wouldst thou hack it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Oh spare that aged oak,
Now towering to the skies!
“When but an idle boy
I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy
Here, too, my sisters played.
My mother kissed me here;
My father pressed my hand—
Forgive this foolish tear,
But let that old oak stand!
“My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild-bird sing,
And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot;
While I’ve a hand to save,
Thy axe shall harm it not.”—MORRIS.
[Illustration]
BOSTON, AND BUNKER HILL,
(FROM THE EAST.)
* * * * *
This view is taken from a long cape, sometimes cut off by water
overflowing the marshes, and called William’s Island. Five or six years
ago, it was a thinly cultivated and neglected spot, scarce known, except
to adventurous boys, who pulled across from the city wharfs, and to the
one or two farmers who inhabited it. Now, with the suddenness which
attends speculation in our country, it is grown suddenly into a
consequential suburb, with a showy hotel and steam ferry, and citizens
and strangers resort to it to eat French dinners, and pass the hot weeks
of the summer.
Boston, from this point of view, is very picturesque. The town rises
gradually from the water’s edge to the height surmounted by the State
House, whose lofty cupola brings to a point all the ascending lines of
the picture; Dorchester Heights rise gracefully on the left limit of the
bay, and Bunker-Hill, famous in American story, breaks the horizon on
the right. In the centre lie the forest of shipping, and the fine ranges
of commercial buildings on the water side; and, turning from this view,
the harbour, with its many small islands, stretches away behind to the
sea, tracked by steamers, and sprinkled by craft of every size and
nation. Like every other bay in the world, that of Boston has been
compared to Naples; but it has neither its violet sky, nor its volcano,
yet it may be mentioned in the same day.
Close under the eye of the spectator here, lies that part of the town
formerly the fashionable quarter, but now very much what Red Lion
Square, and its precincts, are to London. There is still existing (or
there was, some six or eight years since,) the house of Governor
Hutchinson, of which the mouldings were brought from London, and in
which the drawing-room panels were portraits of his family, in their
youth. This is still a very roomy and well-built, and must once have
been a rather luxurious house. We are apt to fancy that our strait-laced
ancestors from England lived parsimoniously, and denied themselves the
elegances of modern luxury; but antiquarian researches exhibit a
different state of things. “In the principal houses,” says the discourse
of a learned gentleman on this subject, “there was a great hall,
ornamented with pictures and a great lantern, and a velvet cushion in
the window-seat which looked into the garden. On either side was a great
parlour, a little parlour, or study. These were furnished with great
looking-glasses, Turkey carpets, window curtains and valance, pictures,
and a map, a brass clock, red leather-back chairs, and a great pair of
brass andirons. The chambers were well supplied with feather beds,
warming-pans, and every other article that would now be thought
necessary for comfort or display. The pantry was well filled with
substantial fare and dainties—prunes, marmalade, and Madeira wine.
Silver tankards, wine-cups, and other articles of plate, were not
uncommon; and the kitchen was completely stocked with pewter, iron, and
copper utensils. Very many families employed servants, and in one we see
a Scotch boy valued among the property, and invoiced at 14_l._”
In the matter of dress, our grandames seem to have pushed the ruling
passion of the sex even through the rigid crust of Puritanism. In a
tract, called the “Simple Cobler of Agawam,” some righteous round-head
thus expresses his indignation at their fashions:—
“Methinks it should break the hearts of Englishmen to see so many goodly
Englishwomen imprisoned in French cages, peering out of their hood-holes
for some men of mercy to help them with a little wit, and nobody
relieves them. We have about five or six of them in our colony; if I see
any of them accidentally, I cannot cleanse my phansie of them for a
month after.
“It is a more common than convenient saying, that ‘nine taylors make a
man:’ it were well if nineteen could make a woman to her mind. If
taylors were men, indeed, well furnished but with mere moral principles,
they would disdain to be led about like asses by such mymick marmosets.
It is a most unworthy thing for men that have bones in them, to spend
their lives in making fiddle-cases for women’s phansies.
“It is known more than enough that I am neither niggard nor cynic to the
true bravery of the true gentry. I am not much offended if I see a
trimme far trimmer than she that wears it; but when I hear a nugiperous
gentle dame inquire what dress the queen is in, with egge to be in it in
all haste, whatever it be, I look to her as the very gizzard of a
trifle, the product of a quarter of a cypher, the epitome of nothing,
fitter to be kickt, if she were of a kickable substance, than either
honoured, or humoured.”
[Illustration]
MOUNT JEFFERSON,
(FROM MOUNT WASHINGTON.)
* * * * *
In looking in this direction from the elevated summit of Mount
Washington, the eye drops upon a region of climate entirely different
from that on its south-eastern side. The towns of Lancaster and
Jefferson, though something north of the White Mountains, enjoy a
benign, tranquil atmosphere, such as is not known for two or three
hundred miles farther south, and with the beauty of the scenery and the
number of water-courses, it is a little Arcadia in the bosom of the
north. The peculiar climate felt here, is owing to the proximity of the
White Mountains, which form a wall of thirty miles from north to south,
either checking entirely the easterly winds, or elevating them into a
region far above the surface. The westerly winds, again, impinging
against the mountains, (but in an elevated part,) are arrested, leaving
the towns below in the same tranquillity as is felt by a person coming
near a large building in a high wind.
The snow rarely lies permanently here until after the tenth or fifteenth
of December, and generally leaves it about the middle of March: at this
time the earth is usually free from frost. A stick forced through the
snow in the month of February enters the earth without difficulty, the
snow falling so early as to prevent the frost from penetrating to any
depth, and dissolving the little which had previously existed. Hence the
pastures become suddenly green, and cattle are safely turned into them
in the middle of April; the time of pasturage is, therefore, as long
here as in Connecticut. In this manner that tedious period, known as the
breaking up of the frost, is here chiefly prevented; and the warm season
is annually lengthened, so far as the purposes of gardening and
agriculture are concerned, about a month every year.
There is a broad tract running across the State at this point, embracing
both sides of the mountains, which is generally called _Upper Coos_.
What the meaning of this term is, would be difficult to say; but Dwight
supposes, from its application to places where there are remarkable
alluvial intervals, and where there are no distinguishing objects,
except a peculiar winding of rivers, that one or the other of these must
be denoted by the term.
In the year 1776, a farmer planted himself on the richest and most
beautiful of these lands, a large share of which he left to his
descendants. Valuable as his acquisition has since become, however, his
first step required uncommon enterprise, industry, and perseverance. His
separation from society may be understood from the fact, that, for
several years after he came here to live, he carried all his corn one
hundred and twenty-four miles to be ground. There was not a single road
in the neighbourhood. All his communication with the world was either
through the wilderness, or down the channel of the Connecticut; and this
he was obliged to enter at the distance of twenty miles from his house.
When any member of his family was ill, he had neither physician nor
nurse, nor other medicine than his own limited stock.
Rains and snows, in this part of the country almost universally come
from the western side of the heavens, and chiefly from the north-west.
Snow falls here in a singular manner. A light fleecy shower descends
frequently for a few minutes in the morning, when the sky becomes
perfectly clear, and the day perfectly fine. In this manner it has been
known to fall thirty successive days, and yet to cover the ground
scarcely to the depth of six inches. By this gradual accumulation, it
has sometimes arisen in the forests to the height of thirty inches;
commonly it has not exceeded eighteen. Travelling in the winter,
therefore, is easy and pleasant in this neighbourhood, and the weather
generally delightful.
The imperfect state of settlements in a country still comparatively new,
prevents many persons from forming just views of the splendour of the
scenery. In a landscape of any great extent, the proportion of wild
forest throws a gloom over the whole, and the eye, accustomed to the
haunts of man, demands instinctively a more smiling scene of cultivation
and habitation. In a more limited view, the appearance of girdled trees,
of drowned woods, burnt or fallen stumps, rough enclosures, and stony
land, are blemishes which an unaccustomed eye can with difficulty
overcome. It requires the prospective glance of an American to see the
form of nature, which is now in dishabille, restored to her neat
drapery, glowing with vegetation, and decked with flowers. The outline
of her fair proportions is enough for him; and so that is beautiful, as
in this country it almost every where is, he can finish the portrait to
his fancy, and make a flowery Tempe of a prostrate wilderness.
[Illustration]
MOUNT TOM, AND CONNECTICUT RIVER.
* * * * *
This fine mountain rises nobly from the fertile Interval of the
Connecticut, giving a character of boldness and majesty to scenery that
were else merely soft and lovely. The river at this point broke down the
barrier that evidently at one time held it back from the sea; and the
broad lands that were then left bare by the liberated waters, were
destined to form a strip of verdure and fertility, extending the whole
length of New England.
The expansions of the Valley of the Connecticut on either side of Mount
Tom, are landscapes of great beauty. The word _interval_, which
describes the wide-spreading meadows extending from the banks of the
river in these expansions, has a peculiar use in America, and seems to
define a formation of alluvial land not seen to the same extent in other
countries. In the Southern States the same description of land is called
a _flat_, or a _bottom_. They are formed by the deposit of particles of
soil brought down into the main river by its tributaries, or by
occasional streams created by the melting of the snow, or heavy rains. A
shoal is first formed, which, as it accumulates, rises gradually above
the ordinary surface, while the stream itself, if it flows like the
Connecticut through a soft soil, is continually deepening its bed, and
leaving these newly-formed banks out of the reach of accidental floods.
The existence of some cause to check the current, is absolutely
necessary to the formation of intervals. Wherever such cause is found,
intervals are found proportioned to the room furnished on the side of
the stream for their formation, and the lightness of the soil about the
tributary streams. These causes exist on the Connecticut in falls and
points of land, and in the narrowness of the channel at particular parts
shut in by mountains.
These lands are subject to many changes. Every new obliquity of the
current wears away some part of the Interval, against which its force is
directed. In the progress of such changes, the inhabitants of the
Connecticut have already seen large tracts gradually removed from one
side to the other. The former channel in the mean time has been filled
up, so as, in many instances, to leave no trace of its existence, and a
new one has been made through the solid ground.
The soil of the intervals is, of course, of the richest quality: there
is, however, a material difference in their fertility. The parts which
are lowest are commonly the best, as being the most frequently
overflowed, and therefore most enriched by the successive deposits of
slime. Of these parts, that division which is farthest down the river is
the most productive, as consisting of finer particles, and being more
plentifully covered with this manure. In the spring, these grounds are
regularly overflowed. In the months of March and April, the snows, which
in the northern parts of New England are usually deep, and the rains,
which at this time of the year are generally copious, raise the river
from fifteen to twenty feet, and extend the breadth of its waters in
some places a mile and a half, or two miles. Almost all the slime
conveyed down the current at this season is deposited on these lands;
for here, principally, the water becomes quiescent, and permits the
earthy particles to subside. This deposit is a rich manure. The lands
dressed with it are preserved in their full strength, and being
regularly enriched by the hand of nature, cannot but be highly valuable.
The form of these lands is naturally beautiful. A river passing through
them becomes almost, of course, winding. The border is necessarily
curved, from the evenness of the impression of the river on a soft soil;
and the edge is fringed with shrubs. A great part of them are formed
into meadows, which are more profitable, and, at the same time, more
agreeable to the eye than any other mode of culture. The magnificent
elms, for which this country is remarkable, stand singly in the fields;
while orchards and groves serve to break the uniformity. As they are
seldom enclosed for miles together, there is a look also of extent and
wildness about them, as if they produced their vegetation, “ploughed
only by the sunbeams,” like a paradise spontaneously verdant and
fertile.
Valuable as these intervals on the Connecticut have become, they were
bought cheaply enough by the first proprietors. One of the first
settlers of the neighbourhood of Mount Tom, was a tailor, who, for a
trifling consideration, purchased a tract on the river, forming a square
of three miles on a side. A carpenter came to settle in the valley, and
having constructed a rude wheelbarrow, the tailor offered him for it,
_either a suit of clothes, or the whole of his land_! He accepted the
latter, and became the possessor of one of the finest farms on the bank
of the Connecticut.
[Illustration]
SILVER CASCADE,
IN THE NOTCH OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS.
* * * * *
For a mountainous region, usually fertile in such accidents of nature,
the neighbourhood of the “White Hills” has few waterfalls; of those that
are met with in the “Notch,” the Silver Cascade is by far the most
beautiful; but to be seen to advantage it should be visited after heavy
rains. The stream is scanty, but its course from among the deep forest,
whence its springs issue into the light, is one of singular beauty.
Buried beneath the lofty precipices of the gorge, after ascending
towards the Pulpit Rock, by the side of the turbulent torrent of the
Saco, the ear is suddenly saluted by soft dashings of this sweetest of
cascades; and a glance upwards reveals its silver streams issuing from
the loftiest crests of the mountain, and leaping from crag to crag, or
spread in a broad thin sheet of liquid light over the edge of some
projecting ledge, till it reaches the road, across which it passes,
forming a still and transparent pool immediately beneath, before it
joins the Saco in the depths of the gorge. It is a beautiful vision in
the midst of the wildest and most dreary scenery; and its sudden
appearance—for nothing of it is seen till the tourist is immediately
under it—is a moment of deep delight to him from the suddenness of the
contrast. The lover of nature loves to linger among the wild beauties of
this region; and some of the finest ideas of the American painters have
been gleaned amongst its solitudes. We believe that the engraving, from
a painting by Doughty, will be very interesting to our subscribers.
[Illustration]
VIEW OF NEW YORK, FROM WEEHAWKEN.
* * * * *
Weehawken is slighted by the traveller ascending to the bolder and
brighter glories of the Highlands above; and few visit it except—
“The prisoner to the city’s pent-up air,”
who, making a blest holiday of a summer’s afternoon, crosses thither to
set his foot on the green grass, and mount the rocks for a view of our
new-sprung Babylon and its waters. There is no part of “the country”
which “God made” so blest in its offices of freshening the spirit, and
giving health to the blood, as the rural suburb of a metropolis. The
free breath drawn there, the green herb looked on before it is trodden
down, the tree beautiful simply for the freedom of its leaves from the
dust of the street, the humblest bird or the meanest butterfly, are
dispensers of happiness in another measure than falls elsewhere to their
lot. Most such humble ministers of large blessings have their virtue for
“its own reward;” but it has fallen to the lot of Weehawken to find a
minstrel, and no mean one, among those for whose happiness and
consolation it seems made to bloom. A merchant-poet, whose “works” stand
on shelves in Wall Street, but whose rhymes for pastime live in
literature, and in the hearts of his countrymen, thus glorifies his
suburban Tempe:—
“Weehawken! in thy mountain scenery yet,
All we adore of Nature in her wild
And frolic hour of infancy, is met,
And never has a summer morning smiled
Upon a lovelier scene than the full eye
Of the enthusiast revels on—when high
“Amid thy forest-solitudes he climbs
O’er crags that proudly tower above the deep,
And knows that sense of danger, which sublimes
The breathless moment—when his daring step
Is on the verge o the cliff, and he can hear
The low dash of the wave with startled ear,
“Like the death music of his coming doom,
And clings to the green turf with desperate force,
As the heart clings to life; and when resume
The currents in his veins their wonted course
There lingers a deep feeling, like the moan
Of wearied ocean when the storm is gone.
“In such an hour he turns, and on his view
Ocean, and earth, and heaven, burst before him;
Clouds slumbering at his feet, and the clear blue
Of summer’s sky in beauty bending o’er him;
The city bright below; and far away
Sparkling in light, his own romantic bay.
“Tall spire, and glittering roof, and battlement,
And banners floating in the sunny air,
And white sails o’er the calm blue waters bent,
Green isle, and circling shore, are blended there
In wild reality. When life is old,
And many a scene forgot, the heart will hold
“Its memory of this; nor lives there one
Whose infant breath was drawn, or boyhood’s days
Of happiness were passed beneath that sun,
That in his manhood’s prime can calmly gaze
Upon that bay, or on that mountain stand,
Nor feel the prouder of his native land.”[1]
Weehawken is the “Chalk Farm” of New York, and a small spot enclosed by
rocks, and open to observation only from the river, is celebrated as
having been the ground on which Hamilton fought his fatal duel with
Aaron Burr. A small obelisk was erected on the spot, by the St. Andrew’s
Society, to the memory of Hamilton, but it has been removed. His body
was interred in the churchyard of Trinity, in Broadway, where his
monument now stands.
It is to be regretted that the fashion of visiting Haboken and Weehawken
has yielded to an impression among the “fashionable” that it is a vulgar
resort. This willingness to relinquish an agreeable promenade because it
is enjoyed as well by the poorer classes of society, is one of those
superfine ideas which we imitate from our English ancestors, and in
which the more philosophic continentals are so superior to us. What
enlivens the Tuileries and St. Cloud at Paris, the Monte-Pincio at Rome,
the Volksgarten at Vienna, and the Corso and Villa Reale at Naples, but
the presence of innumerable “vulgarians?” They are considered there like
the chorus in a pantomime, as producing all the back-ground effect as
necessary to the _ensemble_. The place would be nothing—would be
desolate, without them; yet in England and America it is enough to
vulgarize any—the most agreeable resort, to find it frequented by the
“people!”
-----
[1] “Fanny,” a poem, by Fitz-Greene Halleck.
[Illustration]
PRESIDENT’S HOUSE,
(FROM THE RIVER.)
* * * * *
The residence of the Chief Magistrate of the United States resembles the
country-seat of an English nobleman, in its architecture and size; but
it is to be regretted that the parallel ceases when we come to the
grounds. By itself it is a commodious and creditable building, serving
its purpose without too much state for a republican country, yet likely,
as long as the country exists without primogeniture and rank, to be
sufficiently superior to all other dwelling-houses to mark it as the
residence of the nation’s ruler.
The President’s House stands near the centre of an area of some twenty
acres, occupying a very advantageous elevation, open to the view of the
Potomac, and about forty-four feet above high water, and possessing from
its balcony one of the loveliest prospects in our country—the junction
of the two branches of the Potomac which border the district, and the
swelling and varied shores beyond of the States of Maryland and
Virginia. The building is one hundred and seventy feet front, and
eighty-six deep, and is built of white freestone, with Ionic pilasters,
comprehending two lofty stories, with a stone balustrade. The north
front is ornamented with a portico, sustained by four Ionic columns,
with three columns of projection—the outer intercolumniation affording
a shelter for carriages to drive under. The garden-front on the river
(presented in the drawing) is varied by what is called a rusticated
basement-story, in the Ionic style, and by a semi-circular projecting
colonnade of six columns, with two spacious and airy flights of steps
leading to a balustrade on the level of the principal story.
The interior of the President’s House is well disposed, and possesses
one superb reception-room, and two oval drawing-rooms, (one in each
story,) of very beautiful proportions. The other rooms are not
remarkable; and there is an inequality in the furniture of the whole
house, (owing to the unwillingness and piecemeal manner with which
Congress votes any monies for its decoration,) which destroys its effect
as a comfortable dwelling. The oval rooms are carpeted with Gobelin
tapestry, worked with the national emblems; and are altogether in a more
consistent style than the other parts of the house. It is to be hoped
that Congress will not always consider the furniture of the President’s
House as the scape-goat of all sumptuary and aristocratic sins, and that
we shall soon be able to introduce strangers, not only to a comfortable
and well-appointed, but to a properly-served and neatly-kept,
presidential mansion.
At the present moment (the last month of General Jackson’s
administration) the venerable President is confined to his room, and
occupies a small chamber in the second story, near the centre of the
house, on the front presented in the drawing. In a visit made to him by
the writer a few days since, he was sitting at a table by the side of
his bed, with a loose dressing-gown drawn over his black coat, and a
sheet of half-written paper before him. He rose, with the pen in his
hand, to receive a lady from another country, whose introduction to him
was the principal object of the visit, and entered into conversation
with that grace and dignified ease which mark his manners so peculiarly.
He spoke of his approaching retirement, and the route he should pursue
to reach the Hermitage, (his seat in Tennessee,) and expressed a strong
wish to avoid all publicity in his movements, and to be suffered to pass
tranquilly to his retreat. General Jackson is much changed since a
reception given to the writer six years ago. He was then thin and spare,
but stood erect and firm, and had a look of iron vigour—the effect,
perhaps, of his military attitude, and the martial expression of face
which belongs to him. He has since lost several of his front teeth, and
though the bold and full under lip still looks as if it could hold up
the world on its firm arch, it is the mouth of an old man, and in any
other face would convey an idea of decrepitude. The fire still burns in
the old warrior’s eye, however, and his straight and abundant white
hair, which has been suffered to grow untrimmed during his illness, adds
to the stern energy which is never wanting even to his most quiet
expression. Peace and veneration go with him to his retirement!
[Illustration]
VIEW ON THE SUSQUEHANNA, AT LIVERPOOL.
* * * * *
The musical Indian name of this lovely river, spite of the canals,
rail-roads, and county towns, that have supplanted the wild forest, and
the rude wigwam in its valley, recalls irresistibly to the fancy the
associations of aboriginal life, and the swift but bloody transit from
an Indian hunting-ground to European civilization. In the county-town of
Liverpool may be found, at this day, all the transcendental marks of
national refinement—such as milliners who get the fashions from Paris,
farmers who drink champagne, lawyers who dream of the presidency, and
young ladies who read Shelley and Chateaubriand; but it is only
forty-five or fifty years ago that the Susquehanna and the head waters
of the Ohio were ranged by the warlike Shawanee; and there was scarce a
white man’s house west of Wyoming which had not been the scene, to a
greater or less extent, of the barbarities we now find it so difficult
to realize.
Among the authentic records of this region of country is a story of the
captivity and escape of two children, which seems to me one of the most
curious, and shows at the same time of what stuff the early settlers of
these borders were made.
The names of these boys were John and Henry Johnson, the former thirteen
years of age, the latter eleven. They had been rambling in the woods at
a short distance from home, and getting tired, sat down to rest upon a
log. After sitting a few minutes, two Indians approached, whom they took
for whites, till they were too close upon them to admit of escape, and
they were made prisoners. The sun set after they had followed their
captors for an hour, and the Indians kindled a fire, and sharing with
them their roasted meat and parched corn, lay down to sleep, each with
one of the boys folded in his arms.
Henry, the youngest, had abandoned himself to his grief as they
travelled on over the hills, but the elder kept a stout heart, and
encouraged him with the hope of yet eluding the vigilance of the
savages. The practice of terrifying children by threats of the red man
with his tomahawk and scalping-knife had filled the mind of the younger,
however, and he was only pacified when fatigue made the coarse food
welcome, and the heat of the fire and the accustomed hour for repose
overcame him with sleep. He lay down with the red arms of the savage
around him, and was soon lost in the deep slumbers of childhood.
John, too, lay down, and pretended to sleep; and in a few minutes, the
Indian, who had locked him in his arms, relaxed his hold. He disengaged
himself softly and walked to the fire; and to try the soundness of their
sleep, he stirred the half-burnt faggots, and rekindled the blaze. Not a
limb stirred, and not a breathing was interrupted. He gently pulled his
brother and awoke him, and they both stood by the fire, with their
captors sleeping soundly at their feet. “I think,” said John, smiling,
“we may go home now.” “They will catch us again,” said the younger,
despairingly. “Then, before we go, we’ll kill them,” said the other.
The Indians had one gun, which rested against a tree, with their
tomahawks on the ground beside it. John reflected a moment, and then,
getting a rest for the gun upon a decayed log near the head of one of
the savages, he cocked it, took aim at the ear of the sleeping man, and
then calling to Henry, placed his hand on the trigger. Ordering him to
pull without moving the gun when he gave him a sign, he took the
tomahawk, and stood astride the Indian in whose arms he had been
encircled. At the given signal he struck, and the gun was discharged.
The blow of the tomahawk descended on the back of his victim’s neck, and
he attempted to rise; but the bold boy repeated his blows, while the
younger one cried out, “Lay on!—I’ve done for this one!” and both the
savages were, in the next moment, lying motionless before them. The
discharge of the gun had carried away the jaw of the other, and stunned
him.
They started on their way back, taking with them the gun and tomahawk as
trophies, and arrived at home just before day-break. The neighbours had
all been in search for them, and when they told their tale, it was at
first disbelieved. John, however, had hung up his hat as a mark to find
the place, and led them back the way he had come, where they found the
tomahawked Indian lying in his blood. The other had disappeared, but was
tracked to a short distance, where, as the chronicle quietly expresses
it, “they agreed to leave him, _as he must die at any rate_.”
[Illustration]
DESERT ROCK LIGHTHOUSE, AND MOUNTAIN.
* * * * *
Very much the same sort of incredulity with which one reads a
traveller’s account of the deliciousness of the Russian summer comes
over him, (_malgré_ all the information to the contrary,) when it is
proposed to him to admire any thing so near the cradle of the east wind
as Penobscot River. We know, indeed, that spring visits that region of
the world—as far, at least, as the British boundary line. We could be
made, upon reflection, to presume that the grass grows, and the sun
shines there—the farmers are warm in haying-time, and the flowers come
to maturity in season for the bees to provide against winter; but, in
point of fact, when Penobscot River is mentioned, we shudder at our
remembrance of the acrid blasts that have swept over us from that
quarter, and image the scenery forth-drest in the drapery so well
described by the captain of the Penobscot whaler—a fog so thick, that
having driven his jack-knife into it on the eve of sailing for the
Pacific, he found it sticking in the same spot on his return from a
three years’ cruise.
There _is_ beautiful scenery in Maine, however; and Mr. Doughty, from
one of whose pictures the accompanying drawing was taken, made a tour in
search of it, and filled a portfolio with sketches which (the most of
them) might belong to any Tempo for their summer look. They were taken
from the neighbourhood of Desert Rock, and within view of Mount Desert,
(shown in the drawing,) though the names of their neighbours sound
unpromising.
Such spots as this are expected, like the knife-grinder, to have a story
to tell, and this, unlike the knife-grinder, answers to expectation. The
Light-house in the foreground stands upon a rock, about twelve miles
from land; and near it lies a low reef, hidden at high tides, with a
channel between it and the loftier rock. Some years before the erection
of the Light-house, a homeward-bound vessel ran upon the breakers in a
storm, and went to pieces. The storm having just commenced, and the sea
not running as yet very high, several of the crew succeeded in getting
upon the rock, where they found a partial shelter under a projecting
shelf to leeward. The storm increased in violence, and after three days
of unintermitted fury, during which they had seen no friendly sail even
in the distance, the miserable survivors, perishing with hunger,
abandoned themselves to despair. On the fourth night, they were crowded
together in their narrow place of shelter, their eyes fixed on the black
darkness covering the sea, when a vivid flash of lightning revealed to
them a large ship careering straight for the rock, and apparently in
complete ignorance of the danger. In the same instant all was black
again, and they waited in the most breathless agony for the shock. A
minute elapsed, and simultaneously, with a gleam that made the whole sea
as bright as day, the ship appeared on the crest of a mountain-wave
bounding over the reef, and with one cry from the man at the helm, as he
discovered the rock before him, she launched into the channel on the
breaking wave, and they heard her no more. They spoke of her to each
other as lost, and betook themselves again to their silent despair. The
tempest stilled toward morning, and the sun rose clear, and till noon
again they bore the gnawings of despairing hunger, and watched the
desolate sea in vain for a passing sail. Soon after noon a boat suddenly
pulled into the channel between the rocks, friendly voices hailed the
exhausted mariners, and with daring humanity they were successfully
taken off. The ship they had seen in the night was lying-to not far from
the opposite side of the rock, and they were soon on board of her,
where, with proper treatment, they recovered from their exhaustion, and
arrived safe in port. The pilot had seen them by the same gleam which
revealed to him his danger, and after being saved by the recoil of the
wave, which threw the ship into the current of the channel between the
reefs, he lay-to till morning, when finding the vessel had drifted far
south of the rock, he returned upon her course, and with the first
abatement of the waves, manned his boat for the dangerous service he
succeeded in.
Successful as Mr. Doughty is in sketches of this description, his forte
lies in scenery of a softer and inland character—in the lonely
forest-brook, the misty wood-lake, the still river, the heart of the
quiet wilderness. In painting these features of Nature, he has (in his
peculiar style) no rivals among American painters—perhaps none in
England. His landscapes can scarcely be appreciated by those who have
not seen the untouched and graceful wilderness of America; but of
travellers who have, they touch the heart and fill the memory afresh. He
is a most sweet and accomplished artist; and when the time comes for
America to be proud of her painters, Doughty will be remembered among
the first.
[Illustration]
WASHINGTON’S HOUSE, AT MOUNT VERNON.
* * * * *
The house erected on this consecrated spot is of wood, cut in imitation
of freestone. The centre part was built by Lawrence Washington, brother
to the General. The wings were added by General Washington. It is named
after Admiral Vernon, in whose expedition the former served. The house
is two stories high, and ninety-six feet in length, with a portico
fronting the river, extending the whole length of the house, surmounted
with a cupola. The grounds are in the same state as left by General
Washington.
The house contains on the ground floor, six rooms, and a spacious
passage: four of these are of the ordinary size. At the north-east is a
large room, with a handsomely sculptured ceiling, which contains a
marble mantel-piece, sent to General Washington from Italy, and a very
fine organ, on which instrument Mrs. Washington was an accomplished
performer. The room at the south-east end of the house is used as a
family dining-room, and contains busts of Necker, Paul Jones, and
General Washington; also a handsome library, fitted in the wall, with
glass cases. The books were chiefly collected by General Washington.
The house fronts north-west, the rear looking to the river. In front of
the house is a lawn, containing five or six acres of ground, with a
serpentine walk around it, fringed with shrubbery, and planted with
poplars. On each side of the lawn stands a garden; the one on the right
is a flower-garden, and contains two green-houses, (one built by General
Washington, the other by Judge Washington,) a hothouse, and a pinery. It
is laid out in handsome walks, with boxwood borders, remarkable for
their beauty. It contains also a quantity of fig-trees, producing
excellent fruit. The other is a kitchen-garden, containing only fruit
and vegetables.
About two hundred yards from the house, in a southerly direction, stands
a summer-house, on the edge of the river-bank, which is here lofty and
sloping, and clothed with wood to the water’s edge. The summer-house
commands a fine prospect of the river and the Maryland shore; also of
the White House, at a distance of five or six miles down the river,
where an engagement took place with the British vessels which ascended
the river during the last war.
The estate, as owned by Judge Washington, consisted of between three and
four thousand acres, since divided between his nephews. The timber of
the woods, in which the fallow deer once abounded, is composed of white
and black oak, with dog-wood, hickory, ash, cedar, &c. The soil is thin
and rather poor, cultivated chiefly in Indian corn, rye, barley, &c.
There are two fisheries on the place, where shad and herring are caught
in large quantities. Mount Vernon is healthy during all the year except
the autumn, when bilious fevers and agues prevail.
A distinguished writer visited Mount Vernon some years since, and gave a
more particular account of the grounds than is to be found elsewhere.
“We were conducted,” he says, “over long gravel walks, bordered with
box, which is arranged and trimmed into the most fanciful figures, and
which, at the age of twenty years and upwards, still possesses the
vigour and freshness of youth. At the extremity of these extensive
alleys and pleasure-grounds, ornamented with fruit-trees and shrubbery,
and clothed in perennial verdure, stands two hot-houses, and as many
green-houses, situated in the sunniest part of the garden, and shielded
from the northern winds by a long range of wooden buildings for the
accommodation of servants. From the air of a frosty December morning, we
were suddenly introduced into the tropical climate of these spacious
houses, where we long sauntered among groves of the coffee-tree, lemons
and oranges, all in full bearing, regaling our senses with the flowers
and odours of spring.
“One of the hot-houses is appropriated entirely to rearing the
pine-apple, long rows of which we saw in a flourishing and luxuriant
condition. Many bushels of lemons and oranges, of every variety, are
annually grown, which, besides furnishing the family with a supply of
these fruits at all seasons, are distributed as delicacies to their
friends, or used to administer to the comfort of their neighbours in
cases of sickness. The coffee-plant thrives well, yields abundantly,
and, in quality, is said to be equal to the best Mocha. The branches
under which we walked were laden with the fruit, fast advancing to
maturity. Among the more rare plants we saw the night-blowing cereas,
the guava, aloes of a gigantic growth, the West India plantain, the
sweet cassia in bloom, the prickly pear, and many others.
“At every step in these pleasure-grounds, the thought occurred that the
illustrious projector is no more. In passing the house, the chamber in
which he died was pointed out to us; and imagination, aided by these
memorials, soon presented the scene in such distinct and vivid colours,
that we seemed almost to follow his remains to the grave.”
[Illustration]
VILLAGE OF LITTLE FALLS, MOHAWK RIVER.
* * * * *
This thriving town sits above the north bank of the Mohawk, amid some of
the most exquisite scenery of the world. The falls afford great
facilities for manufactures of all kinds, and the Erie canal and
rail-road both pass through it, up the Valley of the Mohawk, making it
altogether the busiest spot, as it is the loveliest on the great route
westward. It is impossible to conquer the wildness of the scenery here,
however; and spite of mills and aqueducts, and smoking steam-engines,
the soul of the banished Mohawk might return and haunt with comfort the
bold precipices and impassive rocks that frown down upon his ancient
abode, and still find the water untamed, and the mountains beautiful.
Of the small relics of Indian history that exist, there is a scrap which
proves the supremacy of the Mohawk over even the far-off tribes of
Connecticut. In the year 1656, a Podunk Indian, named Weaseapano,
murdered a Sachem, who lived near Mattabeseck, (now Middletown.)
Seaquassin, the existing Sachem of his tribe, complained of the outrage
to the magistracy of Connecticut, and said that the Podunk Indians
entertained the murderer, and protected him from the merited punishment.
Seaquassin, at the same time, engaged Uncas in his cause, who also
complained that Tontonimo enticed away many of his men, and protected an
Indian who had murdered a Mohegan. Upon these complaints, the
magistrates summoned the parties before them. Seaquassin and Uncas,
after observing that the murderer was a mean fellow, and that the man
murdered was a great Sachem, insisted that _ten men_, friends of
Weaseapano, should be delivered up to be put to death, as a satisfaction
for the crime. Tontonimo insisted that the satisfaction demanded was
excessive; particularly as the murdered Sachem had killed Weaseapano’s
uncle. The governor endeavoured to convince the complainants that the
demand was excessive, observing that the English, in cases of murder,
punished only the principal, and such as were accessary to the crime.
Tontonimo then proposed to make satisfaction by the payment of wampum,
but it was refused. They fell, however, in their demands from ten men to
six. The proposition was rejected by Tontonimo. The magistrates then
urged him to deliver up the murderer: this he promised to do. But while
the subject was in agitation, he privately withdrew from the court with
the rest of the Podunk Sachems, and retired to the fortress belonging to
his nation. Both the magistrates and the complainants were offended at
this behaviour of Tontonimo. However, the magistrates appointed a
committee to persuade the Indians to continue at peace with each other.
At their solicitation, Uncas at length consented to accept the murderer,
and promised to be satisfied if he should be delivered up; but the
Podunk Indians told the English that they could not comply with this
condition, because the friends of Weaseapano were numerous and powerful,
and would not agree to the proposal.
The governor then addressed them in form, urging them to continue in
peace, and endeavouring to persuade the complainants to accept of
wampum. This they again refused, and withdrew; after it had been agreed
on all hands that the English should not take any part in the
controversy, and after the Indians had promised that they would not
injure the persons or possessions of the English on either side the
river.
Soon after, Uncas assembled an army for the purpose of avenging his
wrongs; but being met near Hoccanum river by an equal number of the
Podunks, and considering the issue of a battle as doubtful, he prudently
retired, after having sent a message to Tontonimo, in which he declared,
that if the Podunk Sachem persisted in withholding the murderer from
justice, he would send to the Mohawks to come and destroy both him and
his people.
Not long after, the crafty Mohegan accomplished his purpose in the
following manner. He sent a trusty warrior, furnished with some Mohawk
weapons, to Podunk, directing him to set fire in the night to a house
near the fort, and then to leave the weapons on the ground in the
vicinity, and immediately return. The warrior executed his commission.
When the Podunks came in the morning to examine the ruins they found the
weapons, and knowing them to belong to the Mohawks, were so alarmed with
the apprehension that Uncas was about to execute his threat, that they
delivered up the murderer, and sued for peace.
[Illustration]
HARPER’S FERRY,
(FROM THE BLUE RIDGE.)
* * * * *
The scenery at Harper’s Ferry is, perhaps, the most singularly
picturesque in America. The Views already given display its beauties, as
seen from below. To attain that given in the present number, it was
necessary to climb the Blue Ridge, by a narrow winding path, immediately
above the bank of the Potomac. The view from this lofty summit amply
repays the fatigue incurred by its ascent. The junction of the two
rivers is immediately beneath the spectator’s feet; and his delighted
eye resting first upon the beautiful and thriving village of Harper’s
Ferry, wanders over the wide and woody plains, extending to the
Alleghany mountains. President Jefferson, who has given the name to a
beautiful rock immediately above the village, has left a powerful
description of the scenery of Harper’s Ferry, which we shall give to our
readers.
“The passage of the Potomac through the Blue Ridge, is, perhaps, one of
the most stupendous scenes in nature. You stand on a very high point of
land; on your right comes up the Shenandoah, having ranged along the
foot of the mountain a hundred miles to seek a vent. On your left
approaches the Potomac, in quest of a passage also; in the moment of
their junction, they rush together against the mountain, rend it
asunder, and pass off to the sea. The first glance of this scene hurries
our senses into the opinion that this earth has been created in time;
that the mountains were formed first, that the rivers began to flow
afterwards, that in this place particularly they have been dammed up by
the Blue Ridge of mountains, and have formed an ocean which filled the
whole valley; that, continuing to rise, they have at length broken over
at this spot, and have torn the mountain down from its summit to its
base. The piles of rock on each hand, but particularly on the
Shenandoah—the evident marks of their disrupture and avulsion from
their beds by the most powerful agents of nature, corroborate the
impression. But the distant finishing which nature has given to the
picture, is of a very different character; it is a true contrast to the
foreground; it is as placid and delightful as that is wild and
tremendous; for the mountain being cloven asunder, she presents to your
eye, through the cleft, a small catch of smooth blue horizon, at an
infinite distance in the plain country, inviting you, as it were, from
the riot and tumult roaring around, to pass through the breach and
participate of the calm below. Here the eye ultimately composes itself;
and that way, too, the road happens actually to lead. You cross the
Potomac above the junction, pass along its side through the base of the
mountain for three miles, its terrible precipices hanging in fragments
over you, and, within about twenty miles, reach Fredericktown, and the
fine country round that. This scene is worth a voyage across the
Atlantic; yet here, as in the neighbourhood of the Natural Bridge, are
people who have passed their lives within half a dozen miles, and have
never been to survey these monuments of a war between rivers and
mountains, which must have shaken the earth itself to its centre.”
[Illustration]
BARHYDT’S LAKE, NEAR SARATOGA.
* * * * *
I drove to Barhydt’s Lake, with the accomplished artist whose name is at
the bottom of the drawing, on one of the finest days of early September.
With a pair of crop ponies, whose _going_, simply, we acknowledged we
had never seen beaten on the smooth roads of England, and a day over our
heads of the most inspiriting freshness, we dashed through the pine
woods of Saratoga in a light waggon, and pulled up at Barhydt’s door in
twenty minutes from leaving the Springs.
The old man sat under his Dutch _stoup_, smoking his pipe, and suffered
us to tie our ponies to his fence without stirring; and in answer to our
inquiries if there was a boat on the lake, simply nodded an assent, and
pointed to the water’s edge. Whether this indifference to strangers is
indolence merely, or whether Herr Barhydt does not choose to be
considered an inn-keeper, no one is enough in his secrets to divine. He
will give you a dram, or cook you a dinner of trout, and seems not only
indifferent whether you like his fish or his liquor, but quite as
indifferent whether and what you pay him. In his way, Herr Barhydt is
kind and courteous.
We descended to the lake, and after pulling up to the upper extremity
where the view is taken, we returned to partake of the old Dutchman’s
hospitality, and have a little conversation with him. Among other
things, we asked him if he was aware that he had been put in a book.
“I’ve hearn tell on’t,” said he; “a Mr. Wilkins, or Watkins, has writ
something about me, but I don’t know why. _I never did him no harm as I
know on._”
We had not the book to show the injured old gentleman his picture, but
as it happens to lie by us now, and really contains a very literal
description of the spot, we will copy out the extract:—
“Herr Barhydt is an old Dutch settler, who, till the mineral springs of
Saratoga were discovered some four miles from his door, was buried in
the depth of a forest unknown to all but the prowling Indian. The sky is
supported above him, (or looks to be,) by a wilderness of straight
columnar pine-shafts, gigantic in girth, and with no foliage except at
the top, where they branch out like round tables spread for a banquet in
the clouds. A small ear-shaped lake, sunk as deep into the earth as the
firs shoot above it, and clear and unbroken as a mirror, save the
pearl-spots of the thousand lotuses holding up their cups to the blue
eye of heaven, sleeps beneath his window; and around him in the forest,
lies, still unbroken, the elastic and brown carpet of the faded
pine-tassels, deposited in yearly layers since the continent first rose
from the flood, and rotted a foot beneath the surface to a rich mould
that would fatten the Symplegades to a flower-garden. With his black
tarn well stocked with trout, his bit of a farm in the _clearing_ near
by, and an old Dutch Bible, Herr Barhydt lived a life of Dutch musing,
talked Dutch to his geese and chickens, sung Dutch psalms to the echoes
of the mighty forest, and, except on his far-between visits to Albany,
which grew rarer and rarer as the old Dutch inhabitants dropped faster
away, saw never a white human face from one maple-blossoming to another.
“A roving mineralogist tasted the waters of Saratoga, and, like the work
of a lath-and-plaster Aladdin, up sprung a thriving village around the
fountain’s lip; and hotels, tin-tumblers, and apothecaries, multiplied
in the usual proportion to each other, but out of all precedent with
every thing else for rapidity. Libraries, newspapers, churches,
livery-stables, and lawyers, followed in their train; and it was soon
established, from the plains of Abraham to the Savannahs of Alabama,
that no person of fashionable taste or broken constitution could exist
through the months of July and August without a visit to the chalybeate
springs and populous village of Saratoga. It contained seven thousand
inhabitants before Herr Barhydt, living in his forest seclusion only
four miles off, became aware of its existence. A pair of loons,
philandering about the forest on horseback, popped in upon him one June
morning, and thenceforth there was no rest for the soul of the Dutchman.
Everybody rode down to eat his trout, and make love in the dark shades
of his mirrored lagoon; and, at last, in self-defence, he added a room
or two to his shanty, enclosed his cabbage-garden, and set a price on
his trout dinners. The traveller, now-a-days, who has not dined at
Barhydt’s, with his own champagne cold from the tarn, and the
white-headed old settler ‘gargling’ Dutch about the house in his
maniform vocation of cook, ostler, and waiter, may as well not have seen
Niagara.”
[Illustration]
FAIR MOUNT GARDENS, PHILADELPHIA.
* * * * *
The walks here, though not extensive, are delightful, from the views
they command over the Schuylkill. In the early days of William Penn,
this side of the river was covered by a thick wood; and so late as
Franklin’s time, (who “frequented it,” says the annalist, “with his
companions, Osborne, Watson, and Ralph,”) the banks afforded a secluded
and rural retreat, much resorted to by swimmers. The name of Schuylkill,
given it by the Dutch, is said to express “Hidden River,” as its mouth
is not visible in ascending the Delaware. The Indians called it by a
name, meaning “The Mother;” and a small branch of the Schuylkill, higher
up, called “Maiden Creek,” was named by them, _Ontelaunee_, meaning “the
little daughter of a great mother.”
The Schuylkill and Delaware, in former days, were the scenes of feats in
swimming and skaiting, which are not emulated in these graver times. The
colonial annals record the achievements of George Tyson, a fat broker,
weighing one hundred and ninety pounds; and “Governor Mifflin, and Joe
Claypoole,” descend on the page of history as the best skaiters of
Pennsylvania. The annalist enters on this theme with great unction.
“During the old-fashioned winters, when about New-year’s day every one
expected to see or hear of an _ox-roast_ on the river, upon the
thick-ribbed ice, which, without causing much alarm among the thousands
moving in all directions upon its surface, would crack and rend itself
by its own weight without separating, in sounds like thunder, among the
then multitudinous throngs of promenaders, sliders, and skaiters,
visible all about the river, as far as the eye could reach. Of the many
varieties of skaiters of all colours and sizes mingled together, and
darting about here and there, upward and downward, mingled and
convolved, a few were at all times discernible as being decidedly
superior to the rest for dexterity, power, and grace; namely, Governor
Mifflin, Joe Claypoole, and others, not forgetting, by the way, a black
Othello, who, from his apparent muscle and powerful movement, might have
sprung, as did the noble Moor, from “men of royal size.” In swiftness he
had no competitor; he outstripped the wind; the play of his elbows in
alternate movement with his low-gutter skaites, while darting forward
and uttering occasionally a wild scream peculiar to the African race
while in active exertion of body, was very imposing in appearance and
effect. Of the gentlemen skaiters before enumerated, George Heyl took
the lead in graceful skaiting, and in superior dexterity in cutting
figures and _High Dutch_ within a limited space of ice. On a larger
field of glass he might be seen moving about elegantly, and at perfect
ease, in curve lines, with folded arms, being dressed in a red coat, as
was the fashion, and buckskin tights, his bright broad skaites in an
occasional turn flashing upon the eye. Then, again, to be pursued by
others, he might be seen suddenly changing to the back and heel-forward
movement, offering them his hand, and, at the same time, eluding their
grasp by his dexterous and instantaneous deviations to the right and
left, leaving them to their hard work of striking out after him with all
their might and main.”
Among the recorded amusements of Philadelphia, however, the “Meschianza”
is the most remarkable. This was a tilt and tournament, with other
entertainments, given to Sir William Howe, by the officers of his army,
on quitting his command to return to England. The company were embarked
on the Delaware, in a grand regatta of three divisions; and with a band
of music to each, and an outer line of barges to keep off the crowd of
the uninvited, they proceeded to the neighbouring country-seat of Mr.
Wharton. The tilting-ground was a lawn of one hundred and fifty yards on
each side, lined with troops, and faced with several pavilions; and in
front of each sat seven young ladies, dressed in Turkish costume, and
wearing on their turbans the prizes for the victors. At the sound of a
trumpet, “_seven white knights_, habited in white and red silk, and
mounted on grey chargers, richly caparisoned,” made their appearance,
followed by seven esquires, and a herald in his robe. After saluting the
ladies, the herald proclaimed their challenge in the name of the
“_Knights of the blended Rose_.” At the third repetition of the
challenge, a black herald made his appearance, and accepted the
challenge in the name of the “_Knights of the Burning Mountain_.”
Immediately after entered the black knights, with tunics representing a
mountain in flames, and the motto, “I burn for ever;” and the tournament
began. They fought with spears, pistols, and swords, and the contest was
long and desperate; but whether the white or black knights had the
victory is not recorded.
After the tilt, the company ascended a flight of steps to a
banqueting-room, and after the banquet, a ball-room was flung open,
“decked with eighty-five mirrors, festoons of flowers, and a light and
elegant style of painting.” Four drawing-rooms on the same floor
contained sideboards with refreshments. The knights and their ladies
opened the ball, and at twelve o’clock followed fireworks, and a supper,
which was spread in a saloon of two hundred and ten by forty feet,
ornamented with fifty-six large pier glasses, and containing alcoves
with side-tables. There were one hundred branch lights, eighteen
lustres, three hundred wax tapers on the supper tables, four hundred and
thirty covers, and twelve hundred dishes. They were waited on by a great
number of black slaves in oriental dresses, with silver collars and
bracelets.
The queen of the “Meschianza,” concludes the annalist, with a remark
which contains a moral, “was a once beautiful Mrs. L——, _now blind and
fast waning from the things that be_.”
[Illustration]
SING-SING PRISON, AND TAPPAN SEA.
* * * * *
An American prison is not often a picturesque object, and, till late
years, it suggested to the mind of the philanthropist only painful
reflections upon the abuses and thwarted ends of penitentiary
discipline. To the persevering humanity of Louis Dwight, and to the
liberal association that sustained him, we owe the change in these
institutions which enables us to look on them without pain and disgust
as places of repentance and reformation, rather than as schools for
vice, and abodes of neglect and idleness. It is a creditable thing to
our country to have led the way in these salutary changes; and there are
many who have felt their patriotism more flattered by the visits of
persons from Europe sent out by their governments to study our systems
of prison discipline, than by many an event sounded through the trumpet
of national glory.
The Tappan Sea spreads its broad waters at this part of the Hudson,
looking, like all scenes of pure natural beauty, as if it was made for a
world in which there could neither exist crime nor pain. Yet there
stands a vast and crowded prison on its shores to remind us of the
first—and for the latter, who ever entered upon these waters without a
recollection of poor André? It may be doubted whether in the history of
our country the fate of an individual has ever excited more sympathy
than his. The rare accomplishments which he possessed, the natural
elegance of his mind, the unfitness of his open character for the
degrading circumstances under which he was taken, and his mild constancy
at the approach of his melancholy fate, endear him, without respect to
party, to the memories of all who read his story. André was taken on the
eastern shore of the river at Tarrytown, and executed on the opposite
side, at Tappan.
The story of Captain Hale has been regarded as parallel to that of Major
André. This young officer had received a university education, and had
but recently taken his degree when the war of the revolution commenced.
He possessed genius, taste, ardour, was a distinguished scholar, and to
all this was added, in an eminent degree, the winning address and native
grace of a gentleman. No young man of his years put forth a finer
promise of usefulness and celebrity.
Upon the first news of the battle of Lexington, he obtained a commission
in the army, and marched with his company to Cambridge, where his
promptness, activity, and assiduous attention to discipline, were early
observed. After considerable service, the theatre of action was changed,
and the army was removed to the southward. The battle of Long Island was
fought, and the American forces were drawn together in the city of New
York. At this moment it became extremely important for Washington to
know the situation of the British army on the heights of Brooklyn, its
numbers, and the indications as to its future movements. Having
expressed a wish to this effect, Colonel Knowlton called together the
younger officers, stated to them the wish of the General, and left it to
their reflections, without naming any individual for the service. The
undertaking was particularly hazardous; but it was immediately
determined upon by Hale, who resisted all opposition on the part of his
friends, and crossed over the river to the enemy’s ground. His disguise
was well contrived, and he had obtained all necessary information, when
he was arrested in the boat by which he was attempting to return. He was
taken before the British commander, was condemned as a spy, and hanged
the following morning. The circumstances of his death, however, were
widely different from those of André. The Provost-marshal was a refugee,
and behaved towards him in the most unfeeling manner, refusing him the
attendance of a clergyman, and the use of a Bible in his last moments,
and destroying the letters he had written to his mother and friends. In
the midst of these barbarities Hale was collected and calm. To the last
he displayed his native elevation of soul, and his dignity of
deportment.
“But,” says a distinguished writer of biography, “whatever may have been
the parallel between these two individuals while living, it ceased with
their death. A monument was raised and consecrated to the memory of
André by the bounty of a grateful sovereign. His ashes have been removed
from their obscure resting-place, transported across the ocean, and
deposited with the remains of the illustrious dead in Westminster Abbey.
Where is the memento of the virtues, the patriotic sacrifice, the early
fate of Hale?”
[Illustration]
WASHINGTON,
(FROM THE PRESIDENT’S HOUSE.)
* * * * *
Distance lends more enchantment to a view of Washington than to most
other views. Covering a good deal of ground, possessing two or three
very fine points in itself, and lying in the centre of a superb outer
circle of scenery, it has all the qualities which a draftsman could
desire for his sketch. Thus much was seen or anticipated by the
sagacious eye of the great patriot whose name it bears. Every one knows,
however, that the location of the President’s House was the result of
after speculation, or rather the result of a dispute between the owners
of estates, two miles distant from each other, each desirous of locating
all the public buildings on his own land, but who, like children
quarrelling for a sugar-toy, pulled the subject of dispute in two. The
Capitol was already placed on one elevation, and the President’s House
carried off two miles to another. The consequence is, that the town
itself, which, being a merely legislative metropolis, could never be
very large, stretches and straddles between these two distant points,
trying in vain to grow into compactness, and form the continuous and
close-built street of a city.
The common sagacity acquired by travel is of little use to the stranger
arriving for the first time in Washington. Visiting it during the
session of Congress, he thinks himself very safe in requesting to be set
down at the hotel nearest the Capitol, presuming, naturally, that this
must be the great centre of convenience, as well as of interest. He
accordingly takes a pigeon-hole at Gadsby’s Hotel, a vast white wooden
caravanserai, accommodating many hundreds of people; and on the first
day, walks half a mile to the Capitol, and wonders why the deuce the
hotel was not built on some of the waste lots immediately at the foot of
the hill. In a day or two, however, the secretaries and diplomatists
begin to call on him, and the party-giving inhabitants shower upon him
the “small rain” of pink billets. He sets apart a day for returning his
visits; and, inquiring the addresses of his friends, is told that it is
impossible to direct him, but _the hackney coachmen all know_. He calls
a carriage, and the first thing is a drive of two miles directly away
from the Capitol. He passes the President’s House, and getting off the
Macadamized road, begins to pitch and plunge through miry lanes and
waste lots, passing occasionally a house which lacks nothing of being in
the country but trees, garden, and fences. It looks as if it had rained
naked brick houses upon an open plain, and every man had made a street
with reference to his own front door. The much shaken and more
bewildered victim consumes his morning and his temper, and has made by
dinner-time but six out of forty calls, all imperatively due, and all to
be traced through the same irregular and ill-defined geography. He pays
a price for his hackney coach which would keep a chariot and two posters
for twice the time in London, and the next day moves into the disjointed
settlement on the other side of President’s Square, abandons the
Capitol, except on great occasions, and makes all visits by proxy that
are not for a dance, or a dinner.
_Malgré_ all these inconveniences, however, Washington is by much the
most agreeable place in the United States for winter society. The great
deficiency in all our cities, the company of highly cultivated and
superior men, is here supplied. Female society, in any city or village,
is seldom wanting in interest or cultivation; for women refine and
elevate themselves with or without the advantages of metropolitan
intercourse. But the men of our cities, devoted usually to one
engrossing and depressing pursuit, have little time and less inclination
to form themselves for intellectual intercourse. The ordeal through
which a legislator must have come who finds himself at Washington,
however, implies force of character at least, and oftenest, high talent;
while the leaders and principal opposers of the ruling party, are, more
necessarily than in any other country, men of exalted abilities and
great experience of men and the world. The smaller lines which define
polished society in May Fair, and the Faubourg St. Germain, may be
wanting, but the stamen and spirit of high and cultivated intercourse,
such as may well please the most fastidious, is seen in all the society
in which the stranger would mingle during the session.
[Illustration]
VIEW OF BALTIMORE.
* * * * *
The hospitable and wealthy metropolis of Maryland owes its location to
the principle, that “second thoughts are best.” The two brothers of Lord
Baltimore, one of whom, Leonard Calvert, had been appointed governor of
the province, landed with his two hundred colonists on the north side of
the Potomac, and there founded the town of St. Mary’s, the intended
capital of Maryland. Little remains of St. Mary’s now, though it enjoyed
its prospective honours for several years; and, as the historian says,
“the worthy burghers cleared the adjacent lands, lived at peace with
their Indian neighbours, and dozed away life, amid their tobacco-fields,
with a comfortable and satisfactory sense of their own mark and
importance.” The principal event in its history, is an attack upon it by
a certain Captain Ingle, who, in the course of a rebellion, seized upon
the public records, and drove the governor over the Potomac into
Virginia.
The first settler within the limits of the present capital, was a Mr.
Gorsuch, who, twenty-eight years after the founding of St. Mary’s,
_patented_ some land on Whetstone Point, the present review-ground for
the Baltimore militia. Among the earliest who followed, was Charles
Carroll, of Carrollton, whose descendant and namesake signed the
Declaration of Independence. It is recorded that Charles and Daniel
Carroll sold the sixty most eligible acres in the town for forty
shillings an acre, which the commissioners paid for in tobacco, at a
penny a pound. It was then surrounded with a board-fence, with two gates
for carriages, and one for foot passengers; and “provision was made to
keep this notable rampart in repair.” Thus Baltimore grew and prospered,
till at this day it is one of the most enlightened and agreeable
capitals of the United States, the third in size, and with a population
rising eighty thousand. A humorous antiquarian gives the following
sketchy account of it in one of its phases.
“It was a treat to see this little Baltimore town just at the
termination of the war of Independence—so conceited, bustling, and
_débonair_—growing up like a saucy chubby boy, with his dumpling cheeks
and short grinning face, fat and mischievous, and bursting,
incontinently, out of his clothes in spite of all the allowance of tucks
and broad selvages. Market Street had shot, like a Nuremberg snake out
of its toy-box, as far as Congress Hall, with its line of low-browed,
hipped-roofed, wooden houses, in disorderly array, standing forward and
back, after the manner of a regiment of militia, with many an interval
between the files;—some of these structures were painted blue and
white, and some yellow; and here and there sprang up a more magnificent
mansion of brick, with windows like a multiplication table, and great
wastes of wall between the stories, with occasional court-yards before
them, and reverential locust-trees, under whose shade bevies of truant
school-boys, ragged little negroes, and grotesque chimney-sweeps, _shyed
coppers_, and disported themselves at marbles.
“This avenue was enlivened with apparitions of grave matrons and
stirring damsels, moving erect in stately transit, like the wooden and
pasteboard figures of a puppet-show; our present grandmothers, arrayed
in gorgeous brocade and taffeta, luxuriantly displayed over hoops, with
comely bodices, laced around that ancient piece of armour, the stay,
disclosing most perilous waists; and with sleeves that clung to the arm
as far as the elbow, where they took a graceful leave, in ruffles that
stood off like the feathers of a bantam. And such faces as they bore
along with them!—so rosy, so spirited, and sharp!—with the hair all
drawn back over a cushion, until it lifted the eyebrows, giving an
amazingly fierce and supercilious tone to the countenance, and falling
in cataracts upon the shoulders. Then they stepped away with such a
mincing gait, in shoes of many colours, with formidable points to the
toes, and high and tottering heels, fancifully cut in wood; their
tower-built hats garnished with tall feathers that waved
aristocratically backward at each step, as if they took a pride in the
slow paces of the wearer.
“In the train of these goodly groups came the beaux and gallants, who
upheld the chivalry of the age; cavaliers of the old school, full of
starch and powder, most of them the iron gentlemen of the revolution,
with leather faces—old campaigners, renowned for long stories, fresh
from the camp, with their military erectness and daredevil swagger;
proper roystering blades, who had just got out of the harness, and began
to affect the manners of civil life. Who but they!—jolly fellows,
fiery, and loud!—with stern glances of the eye, and a brisk turn of the
head, and a swashbuckler strut of defiance, like game cocks; all in
three-cornered hats and wigs, and light-coloured coats, with narrow
capes and marvellous long backs, with the pockets on each hip, and
small-clothes that hardly reached the knee; and striped stockings, with
great buckles in their shoes, and their long steel chains that hung
conceitedly, half way to the knee, with seals in the shape of a sounding
board to a pulpit. And they walked with such a stir, striking their
canes so hard upon the pavement, as to make the little town ring again.
I defy all modern coxcombry to produce any thing like it. There was such
a relish about it—and particularly when one of these weather-beaten
gallants accosted a lady in the street, with a bow that required a whole
side pavement to make it in, with the scrape of his foot, and his cane
thrust with a flourish under his left arm till it projected behind,
along with his cue, like the pallisades of a _chevaux-de-frize_; and
nothing could be more piquant than the lady, as she reciprocated the
salutation with a curtsey that seemed to carry her into the earth, with
her chin bridled to her breast—and such a volume of dignity!”
[Illustration]
VIEW OF THE EXCHANGE AND GIRARD’S BANK,
PHILADELPHIA.
* * * * *
The most accomplished architect of the United States, William
Strickland, Esq., is a citizen of Philadelphia; and to his excellent
taste is the city in a great measure indebted for its superiority over
the other capitals of our country in the architecture of public
buildings. The view seen in the drawing is taken from Third Street, in
the business-part of the city, and presents the rear of the Exchange, a
new structure by Mr. Strickland, and the façade of a much older
building, a chaste and beautiful specimen of the Corinthian order,
occupied many years by the United States Bank. It has since been
appropriated to the uses of a bank, of which the entire capital was
furnished by Stephen Girard, the wealthiest citizen of Philadelphia,
lately deceased. The Exchange (of which a minute description is given in
another part of the work) is a copy of the choragic monument at Athens,
commonly called the Lantern of Demosthenes.
Philadelphia is, and ever has been, fortunate in her citizens; and it
may be said with truth that there is not a metropolis in the world where
the effects of a liberal and enterprising public spirit are so clearly
manifest. This is particularly true of all that ministers to the comfort
of the inhabitant—such as excellence of markets, abundance of water,
cleanliness of streets, baths, public conveyances, &c. The wooden, or
block pavement, common in Russia, is now under experiment in the
principal street, and promises to add another to the luxuries of the
city; and among the later instances of liberal and refined taste, is the
purchase by the city of a beautiful estate on the banks of the
Schuylkill, and its appropriation to the purposes of a cemetery. It
occupies very high ground, of an uneven surface, plentifully shaded with
venerable trees, and is already, perhaps, the most lovely burial-place
in the world, after the Necropolis of Scutari.
Philadelphia is the favourite residence of foreigners among us; and
though, in all its features, unlike foreign capitals, it possesses more
than all other cities of the United States, the advantage of highly
educated and refined society. I speak here of that which is constant and
resident; as Washington, during the Session of Congress, and Boston,
during one or two of the hot months, become in turn the focus of the
foreign and floating society of the country. Perhaps the climate of
Philadelphia may have had its effect in making it the home of those
accustomed to the equable temperatures of the continent; for Boston,
nine months of the year, is uninhabitable from its acrid winds and
clammy cold; and Washington, on the other hand, is unhealthy during a
considerable part of the summer. New York, though the metropolis of the
country, is more a place of transit than residence, to those not engaged
in its business or commerce—a result partly of the unhealthfulness of
its water and the effluvia of its streets, but partly, too, of the
unsettled and shifting character of its society.
The commercial prospects of Philadelphia have brightened lately with the
success of Atlantic steam navigation. Hitherto the delay in getting up
the Delaware to a city so far from the sea, has made competition with
New York in the sailing-packet lines impossible; but with vessels
independent of winds and tides, the difficulty is obviated, and the
enterprise of her merchants is already at work—companies formed and
capital advanced for building steam-ships—and Philadelphia promises
fair to vie with New York as a grand commercial emporium. The vast
internal improvements of Pennsylvania, which have gone on nobly for the
last few years, will now have double value, and aptly meet the wants of
the new accession of trade.
It has always been a subject of regret that the noble design of William
Penn to extend a broad pier along the Delaware, the length of the city,
was never carried into effect: it is the one objection to the admirable
arrangement of Philadelphia. It is to be hoped that, in the new need for
wharf-room, the liberal spirit of the merchants will remember the wish
of the great founder, and remove the unsightly edifices which now crowd
into the river. With a man like Mr. Biddle in the municipality, no good
or great change need be despaired of.
[Illustration]
VIEW OF THE PRINCIPAL FRONT OF THE
CAPITOL AT WASHINGTON.
* * * * *
The Capitol presents a very noble appearance, as the spectator advances
to it in the point of view taken by the artist; and from what is shown
of the proportions and size of the building, a very imposing effect is
produced. Its height, the ascending terraces, the monument and its
fountain, the grand balustrade of freestone which protects the offices
below, and the distinct object which it forms, standing alone on its
lofty site, combine to make up the impression of grandeur, in which its
architectural defects are lost or forgotten.
The waste lands which lie at the foot of Capitol Hill might be marshes
in the centre of a wilderness for any trace of cultivation about them;
but they are appropriated for a botanical garden, when Congress shall
find time to order its arrangement and cultivation. This, however, and
other features of desolation which belong to so thinly settled a
metropolis, are said, by the defenders of Washington’s foresight, to
answer one of his chief ends, in the location of the Capitol far from
any commercial centre—that to prevent intimidation or interference from
the people, the legislative capital should be thinly peopled, and in the
power exclusively of the legislators themselves. The district of
Columbia, accordingly, which was presented and set apart to the General
Congress, by the different states, has a sort of civic government, of
which the President of the United States held, in the first instance,
the office of Mayor, and by its distance from the sea, and the natural
independence of its position, it is impossible it should ever become a
commercial or a thickly populated mart.
In a little volume written by a descendant of Washington, an account is
given of the first survey of the Potomac, by the great patriot, with
reference to the navigation above tide-water.
“The canoe, or pirogue,” says the author, “in which General Washington
and a party of friends first made the survey of the Potomac, was
hollowed out of a large poplar tree, on the estate of Colonel Johnson,
of Frederick county, Maryland. This humble bark was placed upon a
waggon, hauled to the margin of the Monocacy river, launched into the
stream, and there received its honoured freight. The General was
accompanied by Governor Johnson, one of the first commissioners for the
location of the city of Washington, and several other gentlemen. At
nightfall, it was usual for the party to land and seek quarters of some
of the planters, or farmers, who lived near the banks of the river, in
all the pride and comfort of old-fashioned kindliness and hospitality.
Putting up for a night at a respectable farmer’s, the General and the
two Johnsons were shown into a room, having but two beds. ‘Come,
gentlemen!’ said Washington, ‘who will be my bedfellow?’ Both declined.
Colonel Johnson often afterwards declared, that greatly as he should
have felt honoured by such intimacy, the awe and reverence with which
the chief had—inspired him, even in their daily and unreserved
intercourse, would have made the liberty seem little short of
profanation.
“While the party were exploring in the vicinity of Harper’s Ferry, news
arrived of the burning at the stake of Colonel Crawford, by the Indians
at Sandusky. Washington became excited to tears at hearing the recital,
for Crawford had been one of the companions of his early life, and had
often been his rival in athletic exercises. The unfortunate man was
brave as a lion, and had served with great distinction in the war of the
revolution. Tears soon gave way to indignation, and Washington, pointing
to a lofty rock which juts over the stream, at its remarkable passage
through the mountain, exclaimed, with a voice tremulous from feeling,
‘By Heaven, were I the sole judge of these Indians, it would be slight
retaliation to hurl every spectator of his death from that height into
the abyss.’”
To the reader who venerates the name of the great Patriot, no anecdote,
however trifling, told in connexion with the monuments of his greatness,
can be unappropriate or uninteresting.
[Illustration]
THE NARROWS, LAKE GEORGE.
* * * * *
Between some of its beautiful islands, and between the islands and the
main, Lake George assumes the character of calm river scenery. From the
undisturbed state of the vegetation on the shore, however, and the
absence of the deposit left by the freshets, to which running streams
are liable, the scenery is lovelier than that of most rivers, and
differs from them, as the shores of the tideless Mediterranean differ
from those of the disturbed Atlantic. There is scarce one of these
beautiful islands that has not some association or legend of interest,
and this story is recorded of Diamond Island, the one most visited and
admired:—A party of pleasure had been visiting the island on a little
sailing excursion, and having lingered longer upon that beautiful spot
than they were conscious of, as night drew on, concluded to encamp for
the night,—it being already too late to return to the fort. “From the
shore where we lay hid,” said Cane, “it was easy to watch their motions;
and perceiving their defenceless situation, as soon as it was dark we
set off for the island, where we found them asleep by their fire, and
discharged our guns among them. Several were killed, among whom was one
woman, who had a sucking child, which was not hurt. This we put to the
breast of its dead mother, and so we left it. But Major Hopkins was only
wounded, his thigh-bone being broken; he started from his sleep to a
rising posture, when I struck him,” said Barney Cane, “with the butt of
my gun, on the side of his head; he fell over, but caught on one hand; I
then knocked him the other way, when he caught with the other hand; a
third blow, and I laid him dead. These were all scalped except the
infant. In the morning, a party from the fort went and brought away the
dead, together with one they found alive, although he was scalped, and
the babe, which was hanging and sobbing at the bosom of its lifeless
mother.”
Even this tale of barbarity to a mother, yields in horror to the
sufferings of Massy Harbisson, from whose journal of captivity, take for
example the following passages;—“The Indians, when they had flogged me
away along with them, took my oldest boy, a lad of about five years of
age, along with them, for he was still at the door by my side. My middle
little boy, who was about three years of age, had by this time obtained
a situation by the fire in the house, and was crying bitterly to me not
to go, and making bitter complaints of the depredations of the savages.
“But these monsters were not willing to let the child remain behind
them; they took him by the hand to drag him along with them, but he was
so very unwilling to go, and made such a noise by crying, that they took
him up by the feet, and dashed his brains out against the threshold of
the door. They then scalped and stabbed him, and left him for dead. When
I witnessed this inhuman butchery of my own child, I gave a most
indescribable and terrific scream, and felt a dimness come over my eyes
next to blindness, and my senses were nearly gone. The savage then gave
me a blow across my head and face, and brought me to my sight and
recollection again. During the whole of this agonizing scene, I kept my
infant in my arms.
“As soon as their murder was effected, they marched me along to the top
of the bank, about forty or sixty rods, and there they stopped and
divided the plunder they had taken from our house; and here I counted
their number, and found them to be thirty-two, two of whom were white
men, painted as Indians.
“Here I beheld another hard scene, for as soon as we had landed, my
little boy, who was still mourning and lamenting about his little
brother, and who complained that he was injured by the fall in
descending the bank, _was murdered_.
“One of the Indians ordered me along, probably that I should not see the
horrid deed about to be perpetrated. The other then took his tomahawk
from his side, and with this instrument of death _killed and scalped
him_. When I beheld this second scene of inhuman butchery, I fell to the
ground senseless, with my infant in my arms, it being under, and its
little hands in the hair of my head. How long I remained in this state
of insensibility, I know not.
“The first thing I remember was my raising my head from the ground, and
my feeling myself exceedingly overcome with sleep. I cast my eyes
around, and saw the scalp of my dear little boy, fresh bleeding from his
head, in the hand of one of the savages, and sunk down to the earth
again, upon my infant child. The first thing I remember after witnessing
this spectacle of woe, was the severe blows I was receiving from the
hands of the savages, though at this time I was unconscious of the
injury I was sustaining. After a severe castigation, they assisted me in
getting up, and supported me when up.
“In the morning one of them left us, to watch the trail or path we had
come, to see if any white people were pursuing us. During the absence of
the Indian, who was the one that claimed me, the other, who remained
with me, and who was the murderer of my last boy, took from his bosom
his scalp, and prepared a hoop, and stretched the scalp upon it. Those
mothers who have not seen the like done by one of the scalps of their
own children, (and few, if any, ever had so much misery to endure,) will
be able to form but faint ideas of the feelings which then harrowed up
my soul!”
[Illustration]
THE NATURAL BRIDGE, VIRGINIA.
* * * * *
The description of Jefferson first attracted the attention of travellers
to this remarkable spot, unequalled probably in the world. Of recent
descriptions the best is that by Miss Martineau, which is so
characteristic and interesting, that we can add nothing to it.
“At a mile from the bridge, the road turns off through a wood. While the
stage rolled and jolted along the extremely bad road, Mr. L—— and I
went prying about the whole area of the wood, poking our horses’ noses
into every thicket, and between any two pieces of rock, that we might be
sure not to miss our object; the driver smiling after us, whenever he
could spare attention from his own not very easy task, of getting his
charge along. With all my attention, I could see no precipice, and was
concluding to follow the road without any more vagaries, when Mr. L——,
who was a little in advance, waived his whip, as he stood beside his
horse, and said, ‘Here is the bridge!’ I then perceived that we were
nearly over it, the piled rocks on either hand forming a barrier, which
prevents a careless eye from perceiving the ravine which it spans. I
turned to the side of the road, and rose in my stirrup to look over; but
I found it would not do. I went on to the inn, deposited my horses and
returned on foot to the bridge.
“With all my efforts, I could not look down steadily into what seemed
the bottomless abyss of foliage and shadow. From every point of the
bridge I tried, and all in vain. I was heated and extremely hungry, and
much vexed at my own weakness. The only way was to go down and look up;
though where the bottom could be, was past my imagining, the view from
the top seeming to be of foliage below foliage for ever.
“The way to the glen is through a field opposite the inn, and down a
steep, rough, rocky path, which leads under the bridge, and a few yards
beyond it. I think the finest view of all is from this path, just before
reaching the bridge. The irregular arch of rock, spanning a chasm of one
hundred and sixty feet in height, and from sixty to ninety in width, is
exquisitely tinted with every shade of grey and brown; while trees
encroach from the sides, and overhang from the top; between which and
the arch there is an additional depth of fifty-six feet. It was now
early in July; the trees were in their brightest and thickest foliage;
and the tall beeches under the arch contrasted their verdure with the
grey rock, and received the gilding of the sunshine, as it slanted into
the ravine, glittering in the drip from the arch, and in the splashing
and tumbling waters of Cedar Creek, which ran by our feet. Swallows were
flying about under the arch. What others of their tribe can boast of
such a home?
“We crossed and re-crossed the creek on stepping-stones, searching out
every spot to which any tradition belonged. Under the arch, thirty feet
from the water, the lower part of the letters G. W. may be seen, carved
in the rock. When Washington was a young man, he climbed up hither, to
leave this record of his visit. There are other inscriptions, of the
same kind; and above them a board, on which are painted the names of two
persons, who have thought it worth while thus to immortalize their feat
of climbing highest. But their glory was but transient, after all. They
have been outstripped by a traveller, whose achievement will probably
never be rivalled; for he would not have accomplished it, if he could by
any means have declined the task. Never was a wonderful deed more
involuntarily performed. There is no disparagement to the gentleman in
saying this: it is only absolving him from the charge of foolhardiness.
“This young man, named Blacklock, accompanied by two friends, visited
the Natural Bridge; and, being seized with the ambition appropriate to
the place, of writing his name highest, climbed the rock opposite to the
part selected by Washington, and carved his initials. Others have
perhaps seen what Mr. Blacklock had overlooked—that it was a place easy
to ascend, but from which it is impossible to come down. He was forty
feet or more from the path; his footing was precarious; he was weary
with holding on, while carving his name, and his head began to swim when
he saw the impossibility of getting down again. He called to his
companions that his only chance was to climb up upon the bridge, without
hesitation or delay. They saw this, and with anguish agreed between
themselves that the chance was a very bare one. They cheered him, and
advised him to look neither up nor down. On he went, slanting upwards
from under the arch, creeping round a projection, on which no foothold
is visible from below, and then disappearing in a recess filled up with
foliage. Long and long they waited, watching for motion, and listening
for crashing among the trees. He must have been now one hundred and
fifty feet above them. At length their eyes were so strained that they
could see no more; and they had almost lost all hope. There was little
doubt that he had fallen while behind the trees, where his body would
never be found. They went up to try the chance of looking for him from
above. They found him lying insensible on the bridge. He could just
remember reaching the top, when he immediately fainted. One would like
to know whether the accident left him a coward, in respect of climbing,
or whether it strengthened his confidence in his nerves.”
[Illustration]
VIEW OF THE PASSAIC FALLS.
* * * * *
A description of these beautiful Falls having been given in another page
of the work, it may be worth while to step a little aside from the
immediate subject of the drawing, in search of historic incident. The
annals of New Jersey present nothing more interesting than the military
operations of Washington, within its border; and among these stands
conspicuous the battle at Monmouth Court House. On the news of the
alliance between America and France, the British Government ordered its
forces to be concentrated at New York. The royal army, in consequence,
evacuated Philadelphia, and took up their march through New Jersey,
where Washington resolved to hazard a battle. “The British army,” says
the historian, “marched in two divisions,—the van commanded by General
Knyphausen, and the rear by Lord Cornwallis; but the British
commander-in-chief, judging that the design of the American General was
to make an attempt on his baggage, put it under the care of General
Knyphausen, that the rear division, consisting of the flower of the
British army, might be ready to act with vigour. This arrangement being
made, General Knyphausen’s division marched, in pursuance of orders, at
break of day, on the 28th of June; but the other division, under Lord
Cornwallis, attended by the Commander-in-chief, did not move until
eight, that it might not press too closely on the baggage. General Lee
appeared on the heights of Freehold, soon after the British had left
them; and, following them into the plain, made dispositions for
intercepting their covering party in the rear. While he was advancing to
the front of a wood, adjoining the plain, to reconnoitre the enemy in
person, Sir Henry Clinton was marching back his whole rear division, to
attack the Americans. Lee now perceived that he had mistaken the force
which formed the rear of the British; but he still proposed to engage on
that ground. While both armies were preparing for action, General Scott,
mistaking an oblique march of an American column for a retreat, left his
position, and repassed a morass in his rear. Lee, dissatisfied with the
ground on which the army was drawn up, did not correct the error of
Scott, but directed the whole detachment to repass the morass, and
regain the heights. During this retrograde movement, the rear of the
army, which at the first firing had thrown off their packs, and advanced
rapidly to the support of the front, approached the scene of action; and
General Washington, riding forward, met the advanced corps, to his
extreme mortification and astonishment, retiring before the enemy. On
coming up to Lee, he spoke to him in terms of disapprobation; but,
though warm, he lost not for a moment that self-command, than which, at
so critical a moment, nothing could be more essential to the command of
others. He instantly ordered Colonel Stewart’s and Lieutenant-Colonel
Ramsay’s battalions to form on a piece of ground, which he judged
suitable for giving a check to the enemy; and, having directed General
Lee to take proper measures with the residue of his force to stop the
British columns on that ground, he rode back himself to arrange the rear
division of the army. His orders were executed with firmness. A sharp
conflict ensued; and though Lee was forced from the ground on which he
had been placed, he brought off his troops in good order, and was then
directed to form in the rear of Englishtown. The check which he had
given to the enemy procured time to make a disposition of the left wing,
and second line of the American army, in the wood, and on the eminence
to which Lee was retreating. Lord Stirling, who commanded the left wing,
placed some cannon on the eminence, which, with the cooperation of some
parties of infantry, effectually stopped the advance of the British in
that quarter. The enemy attempted to turn the left flank of the
Americans, but were repulsed. They also made a movement to the right,
but were there repelled by General Greene, who had taken a very
advantageous position. Wayne, advancing with a body of troops, kept up
so severe and well-directed a fire, that the British soon gave way, and
took the position which Lee had before occupied, where the action
commenced immediately after the arrival of General Washington. Here the
British line was formed on very strong ground. Both flanks were secured
by the woods and morasses, and their front could only be reached through
a narrow pass. The day had been intensely hot, and the troops were
greatly fatigued; yet General Washington resolved to renew the
engagement. He ordered Brigadier-General Poor, with his own and the
Carolina brigade, to gain the enemy’s right flank, while Woodford, with
his brigade, should turn their left. The artillery was ordered at the
same time to advance and play on them in front. These orders were
promptly obeyed; but there were so many impediments to be overcome, that
before the attack could be commenced, it was nearly dark. It was
therefore thought most advisable to postpone further operations until
morning; and the troops lay on their arms in the field of battle.
General Washington, who had been exceedingly active through the day, and
entirely regardless of personal danger, reposed himself at night in his
cloak, under a tree, in the midst of his soldiers. His intention of
renewing the battle was frustrated. The British troops marched about
midnight, in such profound silence, that the most advanced posts, and
those very near, knew nothing of their departure until morning.”
[Illustration]
NORTHUMBERLAND, ON THE SUSQUEHANNA.
(AT THE JUNCTION OF THE EAST AND WEST BRANCHES.)
* * * * *
The comfort and prosperity of the towns on this and other central
rivers, in the middle states, have been dearly bought by the sacrifices
of the pioneers, who went in advance of civilization, and over whose
graves the grass is hardly yet matted with time. It is necessary to look
back constantly to the recent date of the chronicles of those border
contests, to realize that centuries have not elapsed since these
flourishing fields were contended for, hand to hand, by the white and
the red man.
It was only in 1778, that the increasing inroads on the settlements in
this part of the country compelled many of the inhabitants to abandon
their farms, and congregate at the rude forts scattered along the
frontier, where they could resist, to more advantage, the dangers which
threatened them. An exciting tale is recorded of a contest between an
old man and two Indians, under the following circumstances.
David Morgan, the hero of the story, was upwards of sixty years of age.
He owned a small farm about a mile from one of the forts; and on the day
of the adventure, not feeling very well, he had sent his son and
daughter to feed the cattle, at the deserted barn, and had gone to bed,
in the fort. As he slept, he dreamed that he saw his children making
towards him, scalped. The fancy was so vivid, that he started from his
sleep, and, finding they had not returned, took his gun, and walked out
rapidly to find them. He reached the farm in great agitation, but the
children were there, and he sat down on a log to recover his composure.
He had not sat long, before two Indians came out of the house, and made
towards his son and daughter, who were at a little distance, preparing
the ground for melons. Fearing to alarm them too much, and thus deprive
them of the power of escaping, he kept his seat; and, in his usual tone
of voice, apprised them of their danger, and told them to run towards
the fort. The savages raised a terrific cry, and started in pursuit: but
the old man showing himself at the same instant, they took to the
shelter of the trees. Morgan then attempted to follow his children; but
in a minute or too, finding that the savages gained upon him, he turned
to fire. They instantly sprang behind trees, and the old man did the
same, taking aim at one of the Indians, whose refuge, a small sapling,
did not entirely cover his body. As he was on the point of firing, the
savage felt his exposure, and dropped behind a prostrate log, close at
his feet. The next instant the reserved shot took effect, beneath the
log, and the Indian rolled over, stabbing himself twice in the breast.
Having disposed of one of his foes, Morgan abandoned the shelter of his
tree, and took to flight. The Indian pursued, and the race was continued
about sixty yards, when, looking over his shoulder, the old man saw the
gun raised, within a few paces of him. He sprang aside, and the ball
whizzed harmlessly by. It was now a more equal contest; and Morgan
struck at the Indian with his gun, receiving at the same instant a blow
from a tomahawk, which severed one of the fingers from his left hand.
They closed immediately, and the Indian was thrown; but overturned the
old man, with a powerful effort; and, sitting on his breast, uttered his
yell of victory, and felt for his knife. A woman’s apron, which he had
stolen from the farm-house, and tied around his waist, embarrassed him;
and Morgan seized one of his hands between his teeth, and, getting hold,
himself, of the handle of the knife, drew it so sharply through the
Indian’s fingers, as to wound him severely. In the struggle, they
regained their feet, and still retaining his hold on the fingers in his
mouth, Morgan gave him a stab, which decided the contest. The savage
fell, and, afraid that others of the tribe might be lurking near, the
exhausted old man made the best of his way to the fort.
A party immediately went out to the spot where the struggle had taken
place, but the fallen Indian was not to be seen. They tracked him by his
blood to a fallen tree, where he was endeavouring to stanch his wounds
with the stolen apron. On their approaching him, he affected to smile,
and endeavoured to conciliate them, crying out, in his broken English,
“How do, broder? how do, broder?” There was little mercy in store for
him, however. To the shame of our white race, it is recorded that “they
tomahawked and scalped him: and afterwards flaying both him and his
companion, they converted their skins into saddle-seats and pouches!”
[Illustration]
PULPIT ROCK, WHITE MOUNTAINS.
* * * * *
The name given to this fine fragment of the White Mountains, indicates
very fairly the favourite vein of association in the minds of the first
Puritan settlers of New Hampshire; but it looks as much like a pulpit as
many other rocks in the bold scenery of New England, of which we know at
least a dozen by the same name. Settled by the same class of stern
religionists as Massachusetts, New Hampshire has not upon its history
the same blot of fanaticism. The tragical era of persecution for
witchcraft in Massachusetts had no corresponding abomination in New
Hampshire. The two or three cases on record are rather
amusing—particularly that inserted in the historical collections, under
the title of “The Complaint of Susan Trimmings, of Little Harbour,
Piscatagua.” The complaint and evidence were as follows:—
“On Lord’s-day, 30th of March, at night, going home with Goodwife
Barton, she separated from her at the freshet next her house. On her
return, between Goodman Evens’s and Robert Davis’s, she heard a rustling
in the woods, which she at first thought was occasioned by swine; and
presently after, there did appear to her a woman, whom she apprehended
to be old Goodwife Walford. She asked me where my consort was; I
answered, I had none. She said, thy consort is at home by this time:
lend me a pound of cotton. I told her I had but two pounds in the house,
and I would not spare any to my mother. She said I had better have done
it; that my sorrow was great already, and it should be greater; for I
was going a great journey, but should never come there. She then left
me; and I was struck _as with a clap of fire_ on the back, and she
vanished towards the water-side, in my apprehension, in the _shape of a
cat_. She had on her head a white linen hood tied under her chin, and
her waistcoat and petticoat were red, with an old green apron, and a
black hat upon her head.”—Taken upon oath, 18th April, 1656.
“Her husband (Oliver) says, she came home in a sad condition. She passed
by me with her child in her arms, laid the child on the bed, sat down on
the chest, and leaned upon her elbow. Three times I asked her how she
did. She could not speak. I took her in my arms and held her up, and
repeated the question. She forced breath, and something stopped in her
throat as if it would have stopped her breath. I unlaced her clothes,
and soon she spake and said, ‘Lord, have mercy upon me, this wicked
woman will kill me.’ I asked her what woman? she said, Goodwife Walford.
I tried to persuade her it was only her weakness. She told me no; and
related as above, that her back was as a flame of fire, and her lower
parts were as it were numb, and without feeling. I pinched her, and she
felt not. She continued that night, and the day and night following,
very ill, and is still bad of her limbs, and complains still daily of
it.
“A witness deposed, June 1656, that he was at Goodman Walford’s, 30th
March, 1656, at the time mentioned by Mrs. Trimmings, and that Goodwife
Walford was at home till quite dark, as well as she ever was in her
life.
“_Nicholas Rowe_ testified that Jane Walford, shortly after she was
accused, came to the deponent in bed in the evening, and put her hand
upon his breast, so that he could not speak, and was in great pain till
the next day. By the light of the fire in the next room it appeared to
be Goody Walford, but she did not speak. She repeated her visit about a
week after, and did as before, but said nothing.
“_Eliza Barton_ deposed that she saw Susannah Trimmings at the time she
was ill, and her face was coloured and spotted with several colours. She
told the deponent the story, who replied, that it was nothing but her
_fantasy_; her eyes looked as if they had been scalded.
“_John Puddington_ deposed that three years since, Goodwife Walford came
to his mother’s. She said that her own husband called her an old witch;
and when she came to her cattle, her husband would bid her begone, for
she did overlook the cattle; which is as much as to say, in our country,
_bewitching_.
“_Agnes Puddington_ deposes, that, on the 11th of April, 1656, the wife
of W. Evens came to her house, and lay there all night; and a little
after sun-set, the deponent saw a yellowish cat; and Mrs. E. said she
was followed by a cat wherever she went. John came and saw a cat in the
garden—took down his gun to shoot her; the cat got up on a tree, and
the gun would not take fire, and afterwards would not stand cocked. She
afterwards saw three cats; the yellow one vanished away on a plain
ground; she could not tell which way they went.
“_John Puddington_ testifies to the same effect.
“Three other deponents say they heard Eliza, the wife of Nicholas Rowe,
say, that _there were three men witches at Strawberry Bank_; one was
Thomas Lurpin, who was drowned; another, old Hans; and the third should
be ‘nameless,’ because he should be blameless. Goodwife Walford was
bound over to the next Court.
“_Court of Associates, June_, 1656.
“Jane Walford being brought to this court upon suspicion of being a
witch, is to continue bound until the next court, to be responsive.
“This complaint was probably _dropped_ at the _next term_. Goodwife
Walford brought an action of slander in the County Court, 22d of March,
1669, against one Robert Coutch, and laid her damages at one thousand
pounds.
“Declaration in an action of slander for saying that the said Jane was a
witch, and he could prove her one, which is greatly to her damage.
“Verdict for plaintiff, Walford, five pounds, and costs of court.”
[Illustration]
VIEW OF HUDSON, AND THE CATSKILL MOUNTAINS.
* * * * *
A wedge-shaped promontory, or bluff, pushes forward to the river at this
spot; and on its summit, which widens into a noble plain, stands the
city of Hudson. The business of the place is chiefly done in a simple
street, which runs at eight angles from the river. Its growth at first
was remarkably rapid; but the resources of the surrounding country were
found inadequate to second its prosperity, and its trade has accordingly
been nearly stationary for a number of years. The enterprise of the
citizens, however, has found a new source of wealth in the whale
fishery.
It is supposed that the Halve-Mane, the vessel in which the great
discoverer made his first passage up the Hudson, reached no farther than
two leagues above the city which bears his name, and that the remainder
of the exploring voyage was made in the shallop. His reception here was
in the highest degree hospitable. “He went on shore in one of their
canoes, with an old Indian, who was the chief of forty men, and
seventeen women; these he saw in a house made of the bark of trees,
exceedingly smooth and well-finished within and without. He found a
great quantity of Indian corn and beans, enough of which were drying
near the house to have loaded three ships, besides what was growing on
the fields. On coming to the house, two mats were spread to sit on,
eatables were brought in, in red bowls, well made; and two men were sent
off with bows and arrows, who soon returned with two pigeons. They also
killed a fat dog, and skinned it with shells. They expected their
visitors would remain during the night, but the latter determined to
return on board. The natives were exceedingly kind and good-tempered;
for when they discovered Hudson’s determination to proceed on board,
they, imagining it proceeded from fear of their bows and arrows, broke
them to pieces, and threw them into the fire.”
On his return down the river, Hudson stopped again for four days
opposite the site of the future city. The historical collections give a
very particular account of every day’s movements in this interesting
voyage. “On the report of those whom he had sent to explore the river,”
says the historian, “Hudson found that it would be useless to proceed
with his ship any farther, or to delay his return. He had passed several
days in a profitable traffic, and a friendly intercourse with the
natives; among whom were probably those from each side of the river—the
_Mahicanni_, as well as the Mohawks. At noon of the 23d of September, he
therefore went down six miles to a shoal: having but little wind, the
tide laid his ship on the bar until the flood came, when she crossed it,
and was anchored for the night.
“The next day, after proceeding seven or eight leagues, she grounded on
a bank of ooze in the middle of the river, where she was detained till
the ensuing morning, when the flood, at ten o’clock, enabled Hudson to
anchor her in deep water. Thus the ship once more was interrupted in her
passage opposite the spot where a city now commemorates the name of
Hudson.
“Here he remained, by reason of adverse winds, four days. On the day of
his arrival, ‘they went on land and gathered good store of chestnuts;’
but whether on the east or west side of the river, is not mentioned. But
the day following they went on land, ‘to walk on the west side of the
river, and found good ground for corn, and other garden herbs, with good
store of goodly oaks and walnut-trees, and chestnut-trees, yew-trees,
and trees of sweet wood, in great abundance, and great store of _slate
for houses, and other good stones_.’ Nothing is said of any inhabitants
while they were thus visiting the site, which is now that of the village
of Athens, opposite Hudson. But, next morning (26th), after the
carpenter, mate, and four of the company, had gone on shore to cut wood,
while the vessel lay at anchor, two canoes came up the river from the
place where they first found ‘loving people,’ (Catskill landing,) and in
one of them was the old chief whom Hudson had caused to be made
intoxicated at Albany. He had followed our strange visitors thirty
miles, to the base of the Catskill mountains, with the double view of
again testifying to Hudson the sincerity of his friendship, and of
gratifying the love of the marvellous, by relating his own adventures to
the mountaineers, and drawing them from their retreat to witness the
floating phenomenon. The old chief now introduced with him ‘an old man,
who brought more stropes of beads, and gave them to our master, and
showed him all the country thereabout, as though it were at his
command!’ They tarried, greatly pleased with the unaccountable
curiosities they discovered on board. Hudson ‘made the two old men dine
with him, and the old man’s wife; for they brought two old women, and
two young maidens of the age of sixteen or seventeen years with them,
who behaved themselves very modestly.’
“After dinner, and upon exchange of presents, the guests retired,
inviting Hudson by signs to come down to them; for the ship was within
two leagues of the place where they dwelt.”
The concluding circumstances of this interesting return down the Hudson,
will accompany another view in the series.
[Illustration]
SCENE AMONG THE HIGHLANDS,
ON LAKE GEORGE.
* * * * *
Having dwelt upon the scenery of this celebrated Lake in other pages of
this work, let us glance here at the events which took place upon its
borders during the war between the French and the British colonies, in
1755.
The Baron de Dieskau had arrived from France, in company with De
Vaudreuil, Governor General of Canada, bringing with him three thousand
regular troops, destined to make war on the English colonies. Landing at
Quebec, his first instructions were to reduce Osnego, but intelligence
reaching the Governor that a considerable force was collecting at Lake
Sacrament (now Lake George) with the probable intention of invading
Canada, Baron Dieskau changed his route, and proceeded up Lake
Champlain.
The provincial army was commanded by Colonel, afterwards Sir William,
Johnson; and it was in alliance with a considerable body of Indians,
under the command of the celebrated chief Hendrick, the great Mohawk
Sachem. In Johnson’s official report he is called “a valiant warrior,
and a faithful friend.”
After a fruitless attempt to surprise and take Fort Edward, Dieskau
advanced toward the head of Lake George. On the first intimation of his
approach, a council of war was called by Colonel Johnson, and it was
determined that a party should go out to meet him. The number of men
fixed upon was mentioned by Johnson to Hendrick. The Sachem replied, “If
they are to fight, they are too few; if they are to be killed, they are
too many.” The number was accordingly increased. General Johnson, also,
proposed to divide them into three parties. Hendrick took three sticks,
and putting them together, said to him, “Put these together, and you
cannot break them; take them one by one, and you will break them
easily.” The hint succeeded, and Hendrick’s sticks probably saved the
whole army from destruction.
The detached party consisted of twelve hundred, commanded by Colonel
Williams. He met the enemy about four miles from Lake George. Dieskau
had been informed of his approach by scouts, and arranged his men on
both sides of the road in a half-moon, to receive him. The whole country
was a forest, and Williams impetuously marched directly into the hollow.
At the same instant, a tremendous fire was opened on him in front, and
on both his flanks; and Johnson and Hendrick fell among the heaps of the
slain, the latter displaying the highest courage and valour. His death
was embittered by the disgrace of receiving the mortal wound in his
back, and his last breath was spent in lamenting it.
The overpowered detachment fell back in good order upon the
entrenchments, and the enemy advanced to the position of General
Johnson, which was upon the shore of Lake George. They began the
engagement by firing in platoons upon the centre, but did little injury.
After an hour or two of manœuvering and skirmishing, the English leaped
over their breast-works, and charged upon the enemy. They broke, and
fled in every direction; and Dieskau was found by a soldier, resting on
a stump, with scarcely an attendant. As he was feeling for his watch to
give it to the soldier, the man, thinking he was feeling for a pistol,
discharged his musket through his hips. He was carried into camp in a
blanket by eight men, with the greatest care and tenderness, but in
extreme agony. For some reason or other, the flying enemy was not
pursued, and few were taken prisoners. They had fought with great
bravery, and had kept the field till one-third of their number was cut
down—a thousand being left dead on the field.
On their retreat, the French army was met by a party of provincial
militia, amounting in all to a hundred and fifty men. With the loss of
only six men, (among whom was the second in command, Captain M’Ginnes,)
this small body of men succeeded in driving the French from their
ground, and possessing themselves of all the ammunition and baggage of
the flying army. His Majesty was so well pleased with the result of this
battle, that he created General Johnson a baronet, and Parliament voted
him a present of 5000_l._
The Sachem Hendrick had lived a life of unsullied bravery, and died
fighting gallantly. He was at this time from sixty to seventy years of
age. His head was covered with white locks, and, what is uncommon among
Indians, he was corpulent. Immediately before the march, he mounted a
rock and addressed his people. He had a voice of great depth and power,
and could be heard distinctly half a mile. His eloquence is represented
as fiery and impressive to a degree, unusual even among this nation of
orators. It is said, that when his death was announced to his son, the
young chief gave a single groan; but immediately recovered himself, and
striking his hand on his breast, rose with great dignity and said, his
father was still alive in his son’s bosom.
Dieskau was conveyed from Albany to New York, and thence to England,
where he soon after died.
[Illustration]
SCHUYLKILL WATER-WORKS, AT PHILADELPHIA.
* * * * *
The Water-works of Philadelphia rank among the most noble public
undertakings of the world. The paucity of water in the city first set to
work the sagacious mind of Dr. Franklin, who, by will, bequeathed a
portion of a long accumulated legacy to bring a greater supply of this
necessary element from Wissahiccon Creek. This was found, after a while,
to be insufficient; and a plan was proposed, and carried into operation,
to form a reservoir on the east bank of the Schuylkill, from which water
was to be thrown by a steam-engine into a tunnel, conveyed to a central
position, and raised by a second engine to a higher reservoir, which
supplied all the pipes in the city. An experience of ten years satisfied
the corporation that a sufficient supply could not be obtained by this
method. The steam-engines were liable to frequent accidents, and the
derangement of one stopped the supply of the whole city. After several
other futile experiments, the present extensive yet simple water-works
were proposed, and three hundred and fifty thousand dollars voted at
once by the city corporation for the commencement of the undertaking.
The Schuylkill opposite Philadelphia, is about nine hundred feet in
breadth. It is subject to sudden _freshets_, (an American word, unknown
in this use in England, and meaning an overflow of a river current,) but
its average depth is thirty feet at high water. It was necessary to back
the river up about six miles; and a dam was then created by cribs and
masonry, running diagonally across, with several ingenious contrivances
to prevent damage by ice and spring freshets. A overfall of one thousand
two hundred and four feet, forming a beautiful feature of the scenery,
is thus created, and a water-power upon the wheels sufficient to raise
eleven millions of gallons in twenty-four hours. The reservoirs,
elevated above the top of the highest house in the city, crown the
ornamental hill which overhangs the river at this place; and water can
thus be conveyed to every quarter of Philadelphia, and made to spring,
as if by a magic touch, in the highest chamber of the inhabitant. It is
of a deliciously soft and pleasant quality; and those who are habituated
to wash in the “city of brotherly love,” are spoiled for the less
agreeable lavations afforded by other towns in America.
Fair Mount is a beautiful spot; and standing, as it does, just on the
skirt of the town, it serves the additional use of a place of pleasant
and healthful public resort. The buildings containing the pump-rooms
have considerable pretensions to architecture; and the _façades_ and
galleries extend along the river, forming a showy object from every
point of view, but from the absence of any grand design in the whole,
failing of a general fine effect, and presenting what a Londoner would
call rather a teagardenish appearance. Steps and terraces conduct to the
reservoirs, and thence the view over the ornamented grounds of the
country seats opposite, and of a very picturesque and uneven country
beyond, is exceedingly attractive. Below, the court of the principal
building is laid out with gravel walks, and ornamented with fountains
and flowering trees; and within the edifice there is a public
drawing-room, of neat design and furniture; while in another wing are
elegant refreshment-rooms—and, in short, all the appliances and means
of a place of public amusement.
It may as well be remarked here, that this last advantage is less
improved in America than it would be in any other country. The
Water-works of Fair Mount, though within fifteen minutes’ walk of every
citizen’s dwelling in Philadelphia, are (comparatively to its
capacities) unfrequented. In several visits made to them in fine
weather, we scarce saw more than three or four persons in the grounds;
and those seemed looking for other company, more than enjoying the
refreshing fountains and lovely prospects around them. As a people, we
have no habit of amusement in America. Business and repose are the only
two states of existence we know. How far Europeans have the better of us
in this respect—how much our morals improve, or our health suffers,
from the distaste for places of public relaxation and resort, are
questions the political economists have not yet condescended to settle.
[Illustration]
VIEW OF THE UNITED STATES BANK,
PHILADELPHIA.
* * * * *
This is one of those chaste and beautiful buildings which have given the
public architecture of Philadelphia a superiority over that of every
other city of our country. It needs but that its fair marble should be
weather-fretted and stained, to express perfectly to the eye the model
of one of the most graceful temples of antiquity. The severe simplicity
of taste which breathes through this Greek model, however, is not
adapted to private buildings; and in a certain kind of simplicity, or
rather of want of ornament, lies the fault found by every eye in the
domestic architecture of this city. The chess-board regularity of the
streets, so embarrassing to a stranger, as well as tiresome to the gaze,
require a more varied, if not a more ornate style. The hundreds of
houses that resemble each other in every distinguishable particular,
occasion a bewilderment and fatigue to the unaccustomed eye, which a
citizen of Philadelphia can scarcely comprehend.
The uniformity and plainness which William Penn has bequeathed in such
an abiding legacy to Philadelphia, however, is seen but by a faint
_penumbra_ in the dress of the inhabitants, or in their equipages, style
of living, and costliness of furniture and entertainment. A faint shadow
of original simplicity there still certainly exists, visible through all
the departures from the spirit of Quakerism; and it is a leaven of taste
and elegance in the ferment of luxury which has given Philadelphia
emphatically a character for refinement. A more delightful temper and
tone of society, a more enjoyable state of the exercise and mode of
hospitality, or a more comfortable metropolis to live in, certainly does
not exist this side the water. A European would prefer Philadelphia to
every other residence in the United States.
Is it possible to realize, that, on the site of this refined capital,
only a hundred and fifty years ago, lived a people in such strong
contrast to the above, (save only in hospitality,) as are described by
William Penn in the following terms!—
“The natives I shall consider in their persons, language, manners,
religion, and government, with my sense of their original. For their
persons, they are generally tall, straight, well-built, and of singular
proportion; they tread strong and clever, and mostly walk with a lofty
chin. Of complexion, black, but by design, as the gypsies in England:
they grease themselves with bear’s fat, clarified; and using no defence
against sun or weather, their skins must needs be swarthy. Their eye is
little and black, not unlike a straight-looked Jew. The thick lip and
flat nose, so frequent with the East Indians and Blacks, are not common
to them; many of them have fine Roman noses.
“Their language is lofty, yet narrow; but like the Hebrew, in
signification full. Like short-hand in writing, one word serveth in the
place of three, and the rest are supplied by the understanding of the
hearer; imperfect in their tenses, wanting in their moods, participles,
adverbs, conjunctions, and interjections.
“Of their customs and manners there is much to be said: I will begin
with children. So soon as they are born, they wash them in water; and
while very young, and in cold weather, they plunge them in the rivers,
to harden and embolden them. The children will go very young—at nine
months, commonly: if boys, they go a fishing till ripe for the woods,
which is about fifteen; then they hunt, and after having given some
proofs of their manhood by a good return of skins, they may marry; else
it is a shame to think of a wife. The girls stay with their mothers, and
help to hoe the ground, plant corn, and carry burdens: and they do well
to use them to that young, which they must do when they are old; for the
wives are the true servants of the husbands, otherwise the men are very
affectionate to them.
“When the young women are fit for marriage, they wear something upon
their heads for an advertisement, but so as their faces are hardly to be
seen but when they please. The age they marry at, if women, is about
thirteen and fourteen; if men, seventeen and eighteen; they are rarely
elder.
“Their houses are mats, or barks of trees, set on poles, in the fashion
of an English barn, but out of the power of the winds, for they are
hardly higher than a man: they lie on reeds, or grass. In travel, they
lodge in the woods, about a great fire, with the mantle of duffils they
wear by day wrapt about them, and a few boughs stuck round them.
“Their diet is maize, or Indian corn, divers ways prepared; sometimes
roasted in the ashes; sometimes beaten and boiled with water, which they
call _homine_; they also make cakes not unpleasant to eat. They have
likewise several sorts of beans and peas that are good nourishment; and
the woods and rivers are their larder.”
[Illustration]
BROCK’S MONUMENT
FROM THE AMERICAN SIDE.
* * * * *
Lewiston is seldom seen to advantage by the traveller, who, in his
eagerness to reach Niagara, if going thither, or in the fulness of his
recollections, if returning, pays it very little attention. The village
itself is as dull and indifferent-looking a place as one would chance to
see; but it stands at the outlet of Niagara river into Lake Ontario, and
its neighbourhood on all sides is picturesque and beautiful.
Across the river, on the heights of Queenstown, stands the Monument of
General Brock, who died fighting very gallantly on this spot. A slight
_resumer_ of the hard-fought battle of Queenstown, which was creditable
to the courage and spirit of both countries, will be in place
accompanying this view.
The American forces on the Niagara river consisted of about five
thousand eight hundred men, under the command of Colonel Van Rensselaer.
Eighteen hundred of these were at Black Rock, twenty-eight miles
distant, and the remainder at Fort Niagara, under the General’s personal
command. Several skirmishes on the St. Lawrence had resulted in favour
of the Americans, and the forces at Lewiston were very anxious to have
an opportunity for action.
Directly opposite to the camp, on the other side of the river, lay
Queenstown, strongly fortified, and garrisoned by a large force, waiting
the orders of General Brock, then in Michigan. It was supposed that
preparations were making for a general attack on the frontier. The
possession of this place was considered very important to the Americans,
as it was the port for all the merchandise of the country above, and a
depôt of public stores for the line of English posts on Niagara and
Detroit rivers. It has besides, an excellent harbour, and good
anchorage.
An attack on Queenstown was projected for the night of the 11th of
October. It failed, however, in consequence of a tremendous storm, and
of the loss of a boat containing all the oars for the ferriage. Better
arrangements were completed by the night of the 12th, and on the morning
of the 13th, three hundred regular troops, and three hundred militia,
were ready at dawn of day to cross to the attack.
The river here is one sheet of violent eddies, and the boating very
difficult and laborious. A battery, mounting two eighteen-pounders and
two sixes, protected the embarkation, and the boats put off. The enemy
had been apprised of these preparations, and a brisk fire of musquetry
immediately opened along the shore, on the Canada side, which, from the
slow progress of the boats, did great execution. One of the boats was
hit by a grape shot, which threw the pilot and oarsmen into such
confusion, that they were carried down by the stream and obliged to
return, and two others dropped below the landing, and fell into the
hands of the enemy. Colonel Van Rensselaer, however, succeeded in
landing with about a hundred men, under a tremendous fire, and
immediately ascended the precipitous bank of the river. Before reaching
the summit, he received four balls, and two of his officers were killed,
and three wounded. Retiring under the shelter of the bank, Colonel Van
Rensselaer had still sufficient strength to give the order for storming
the fort; and about sixty men, commanded by Captain Ogilvie, seconded by
Captain Wool, who was previously wounded, mounted the rocks on the right
of the fort, gave three cheers, and with three desperate charges
obtained entire possession; they then carried the heights, and spiked
the cannon.
Reinforcements had by this time crossed the river, and the Americans
formed on the heights, under the command of Colonel Christie. General
Brock, who was on his way to Queenstown, having been met by an express,
arrived with a reinforcement of regulars from Fort George, and
immediately led his men into the rear of the captured battery. Captain
Wool detached one hundred and sixty men to meet him, but the detachment
was driven back. It was reinforced once more, and driven again to the
brow of the precipice overhanging the river. An American officer at this
time, despairing of the attempt, was about raising a white handkerchief
on a bayonet, when Captain Wool tore it off, and ordered the men once
more to charge. At this moment, Colonel Christie came up with a
reinforcement, and repeating Captain Wool’s orders, the American force,
amounting then to about three hundred, pushed forward and entirely
routed the British 49th, who were aided by the 41st, and who had
hitherto been called the Egyptian Invincibles. General Brock was
attempting to rally these two regiments, when he received three balls,
and died almost immediately.
The British formed again in an hour or two, and were reinforced by
several hundred Indians from Chippeway, and other regiments of their own
from other posts. Attempting to re-embark and retreat before a force so
much superior, the boats were found insufficient, and the American
regiments, after fighting nearly twelve hours, surrendered prisoners of
war, to the number of seven hundred.
On the burial of General Brock the succeeding day, the batteries on the
American side fired during the ceremony, as a tribute of respect to a
gallant soldier.
[Illustration]
VILLAGE OF CATSKILL, HUDSON RIVER.
* * * * *
Catskill is more known as the landing-place for travellers bound to the
mountains above, than for any remarkable events in its own history, or
any singular beauties in itself. It is a thrifty little village, in
which the most prosperous vocations are those of inn-keeper and
stage-proprietor, and, during the summer months, these two crafts at
Catskill entertain and transport to the hotel on the mountain half the
population of the United States—more or less. The crowded steamers stop
at the landing on their way up and down; and a busier scene than is
presented on the wharf twice in the day, for a minute and a half, could
not easily be found.
I have often thought in passing, of the contrast between these numerous
advents and the landing of Hendrick Hudson on this very spot, in his
voyage of discovery up the river. He found here, he says, “a very loving
people, and a very old man,” by whom he and his crew were very kindly
entertained. From the first step of a white man’s foot on the soil to
the crowded rush of passengers from a steam-boat—from a savage
wilderness to the height of civilization and science, it is but a little
more than two hundred years of rapid history. Compare the old Indian
canoe in which Hudson went from his vessel to the land, with a steamer
carrying on its deck near a thousand souls; compare the untutored
population which then swarmed upon the shore to the cultivated and
refined crowds who come and go in thousands on the same spot, and the
contrast is as astonishing as the extinction of the aboriginal race is
melancholy.
It is surprising how few details connected with the races that inhabited
the older settlements of our country are reached even by the researches
of Historical Societies. The materials for the future poets and
historians of America, are, in this department, singularly meagre,
though it might almost be supposed that the very tracks of the
retreating tribes might at this early day be still visible on the soil.
Wherever any particulars of the intercourse between the first settlers
and the Indians are preserved, they are highly curious, and often very
diverting. In a book on the settlements of this country, written by
Capt. Nathaniel Uring, who visited it in 1709, there is an amusing story
connected with the history of one of the forts, built, by permission of
the Indians, to secure the settlers against sudden incursion.
“It happened one day,” says the Captain, relating the story as it was
told him by the Governor, “as the carpenter was cutting down a large
timber-tree for the use of the fort, that great numbers of Indians stood
round it, gazing, and admiring the wonderful dexterity of the carpenter,
and greatly surprised at the manner of cutting it; having, before the
arrival of the Europeans, never seen an axe, or any such like tools. The
carpenter, perceiving the tree ready to fall, gave notice to the Indians
by language or signs to keep out of its reach when it fell; but either
for want of understanding the carpenter, or by carelessness of the
Indians, a branch of the tree, in its fall, struck one of them, and
killed him; upon which they raised a great cry. The carpenter, seeing
them much out of humour at the accident, made his escape into the fort;
and soon after, the Indians gathered together in great numbers about it,
and demanded justice of the Europeans for the death of their brother,
and desired to have the man who was the occasion of his being killed,
that they might execute him, and revenge their brother’s death. The
governor endeavoured to excuse the carpenter, by representing to them
that he was not to blame, and told them that if their brother had
observed the notice given him by the carpenter, he had not been hurt;
but that answer would not satisfy the Indians; they increased their
numbers about the fort, and nothing less than the execution of the
carpenter would content them.
“The Europeans endeavoured to spin out the time by treaty, and thought
to appease them by presents, hoping those, and time together, might make
them easy; but finding that would not do, and not being able longer to
defend themselves against such numbers as besieged them, they consulted
how to give the Indians satisfaction.
“The carpenter being a useful man, they considered that they could not
spare him without the greatest inconvenience; but seeing there was an
absolute necessity of doing something, they found out an expedient,
which was this:—there was in the fort an old weaver who had been
bed-rid a long time; _they concluded to hang up the weaver, and make the
Indians believe it was the carpenter_.
“Having come to this resolution, the governor let the Indians know,
that, since nothing else would satisfy them, though their demand was
unjust, yet, to show them how ready they were to live in amity and
friendship with them, that in the morning they should see the carpenter
hanging upon a certain tree in their view.
“In the night they carried the poor old weaver and hanged him in the
room of the carpenter, which gave full satisfaction to the Indians, and
they were again good friends.”
[Illustration]
VIEW FROM GOWAN’S HEIGHTS, BROOKLYN.
* * * * *
The Bay of New York and Staten Island, are, from this elevated point of
view, laid out beautifully beneath the eye, but the picturesque interest
of the spot yields to the historic. Directly below these heights was
fought the battle so disastrous to the revolutionary forces, between the
detachments commanded by Sullivan and Putnam, and the English army,
under Generals Howe and Clinton. As the defence of Long Island was
intimately connected with that of New York, Washington had stationed a
brigade at Brooklyn; and an extensive camp had been marked out and
fortified, fronting the main land of Long Island, and stretching quite
across the peninsula occupied by the village of Brooklyn. When the
movements of General Howe threatened an immediate attack on this
position, Major-General Putnam was directed to take the command, with a
reinforcement of six regiments; and the day previous to the action
Washington passed entirely at Brooklyn, inspecting the works, and
encouraging the soldiers.
The Hessians, under General De Heister, composed the centre of the
British army at Flatbush. Major-General Grant commanded the left wing,
which extended to the coast, and the greater part of the forces under
General Clinton. Earl Percy and Lord Cornwallis turned short to the
right, and approached the opposite coast of Flatland.
On the night previous to the action, General Clinton was successful in
seizing a pass through the heights, leading into the level country
between them and Brooklyn. Before this movement was completed, General
Grant advanced along the coast, at the head of the left wing, with ten
pieces of cannon. As his first object was to draw the attention of the
Americans from their left, he moved slowly, skirmishing as he advanced,
with the light parties stationed on that road.
This movement was soon communicated to General Putnam, who reinforced
the parties which had been advanced in front; and as General Grant
continued to gain ground, still stronger detachments were employed in
this service. About three in the morning, Brigadier-General Lord
Stirling was directed to meet the enemy, with the two nearest regiments,
on the road leading from the Narrows. Major-General Sullivan, who
commanded all the troops without the lines, advanced at the head of a
strong detachment on the road leading directly to Flatbush; while
another detachment occupied the heights between that place and Bedford.
About the break of day, Lord Stirling reached the summit of the hills,
where he was joined by the troops which had been already engaged, and
were retiring slowly before the enemy, who almost immediately appeared
in sight. A warm cannonade was commenced on both sides, which continued
for several hours; and some sharp but not very close skirmishing took
place between the infantry. Lord Stirling being anxious only to defend
the pass he guarded, could not descend in force from the heights; and
General Grant did not wish to drive him from them until that part of the
plan which had been entrusted to Sir Henry Clinton should be executed.
About half-past eight, the British right having then reached Bedford, in
the rear of Sullivan’s left, General De Heister ordered Colonel Donop’s
corps to advance to the attack of the hill, following himself with the
centre of the army. The approach of Clinton was now discovered by the
American left, which immediately endeavoured to regain the camp at
Brooklyn. While retiring from the woods by regiments, they encountered
the front of the British. About the same time the Hessians advanced from
Flatbush, against that part of the detachment which occupied the direct
road to Brooklyn. Here General Sullivan commanded in person; but he
found it difficult to keep his troops together long enough to sustain
the first attack. The firing heard towards Bedford had disclosed the
alarming fact that the British had turned their left flank, and were
getting completely into their rear. Perceiving at once the full danger
of their situation, they sought to escape it by regaining the camp with
the utmost possible celerity. The sudden rout of this party enabled De
Heister to detach a part of his force against those who were engaged
near Bedford. In that quarter, too, the Americans were broken, and
driven back into the woods; and the front of the column led by General
Clinton continuing to move forward, intercepted and engaged those who
were retreating along the direct road from Flatbush. Thus attacked both
in front and rear, and alternately driven by the British on the
Hessians, and by the Hessians back again on the British, a succession of
skirmishes took place in the woods, in the course of which, some part of
the corps forced their way through the enemy and regained the lines of
Brooklyn, and several individuals saved themselves under cover of the
woods; but a great proportion of the detachment was killed, or taken.
The fugitives were pursued up to the American works; and such is
represented to have been the ardour of the British soldiers, that it
required the authority of their cautious commander to prevent an
immediate assault.
The fire towards Brooklyn gave the first intimation to the American
right that the enemy had gained their rear. Lord Stirling perceived the
danger, and that he could only escape it by retreating instantly across
the creek. After one other gallant attempt, however, upon a British
corps under Lord Cornwallis, the brave men he commanded were no longer
able to make opposition, and those who survived were, with their
general, made prisoners of war.
The British army were masters of the field, but before morning,
Washington had won one of his brightest military laurels in the safe
withdrawal, unperceived by the enemy, of his defeated and dispirited
troops to the opposite shore of New York.
[Illustration]
VIEW ON THE SUSQUEHANNA,
(ABOVE OWAGO, OR AT GRAND ISLAND.)
* * * * *
The spectator in this view looks up the Susquehanna, with the river
behind as well as before him; for the mountain on which he stands is
almost encircled by the bend with which it turns downward to Owago. It
is, perhaps, the best view that could be taken to express the etymology
of its name, (Crooked River,) besides being one of singular beauty. I
regretted only when the artist was there, that the rafts and arks with
which the river is for a great part of the year enlivened, were, from
the low state of the water, entirely wanting. The wild navigation of
these crafts gives the Susquehanna a picturesque character, which, to do
it pictorial justice, should not be omitted in the drawing. Perhaps the
amends may be.
[Illustration]
BRIDGE AT GLEN’S-FALLS, ON THE HUDSON.
* * * * *
Few of our readers who will not consider this subject as one of the most
picturesque in our collection, and yet many of them we fear have passed
over the bridge in our View unconscious of the proximity of so
extraordinary a scene as the Falls of the Hudson at this spot.
This was, at least, our own case when first visiting Lake George, from
Saratoga; and we would counsel every one to steal a few moments, even if
travelling by the stage, to descend from the covered bridge to the rocky
bed of the river. Miss Martineau observes—“We were all astonished at
the splendour of Glen’s Falls. The full, though narrow Hudson, rushes
along amidst enormous masses of rock, and leaps sixty feet down the
chasms and precipices which occur in the passage, sweeping between dark
banks of shelving rocks below, its current speckled with foam. The noise
is so tremendous, that I cannot conceive how people can fix their
dwellings in the immediate neighbourhood. There is a long bridge over
the roaring floods, which vibrates incessantly; and clusters of
saw-mills deform the scene. There is stone-cutting as well as planking
done at these mills. The fine black marble of the place is cut into
slabs, and sent down to New York to be polished. It was the busiest
scene that I saw near any water-power in America.”
Her description is excellent, but, as regards the mills, we cannot agree
with her; they certainly add much to the picturesque effect of the
scene.
[Illustration]
VIEW FROM MOUNT IDA,
NEAR TROY, NEW YORK.
* * * * *
The scenery in this neighbourhood is exceedingly beautiful. The junction
of the Mohawk and Hudson, the Falls of the Cohocs, the gay and elegant
town of Troy, Albany in the distance, and a foreground of the finest
mixture of the elements of landscape, compose a gratification to the eye
equalled by few other spots in this country. “Think,” says one of our
noblest and best writers, speaking of a similar scene—“think of the
country for which the Indians fought! Who can blame them? As the river
chieftains, the lords of the waterfalls and the mountains, ranged this
lovely valley, can it be wondered at that they beheld with bitterness
the forest disappearing beneath the settler’s axe—the fishing-place
disturbed by his saw-mills? Can we not fancy the feelings with which
some strong-minded savage, who should have ascended the summit of the
mountain in company with a friendly settler, contemplating the progress
already made by the white man, and marking the gigantic strides with
which he was advancing into the wilderness, should fold his arms and
say, ‘White man, there is eternal war between me and thee! I quit not
the land of my fathers but with my life! In those woods where I bent my
youthful bow, I will still hunt the deer; over yonder waters I will
still glide unrestrained in my bark canoe. By those dashing waterfalls I
will still lay up my winter’s food; on these fertile meadows I will
still plant my corn. Stranger, the land is mine! I understand not these
paper rights; I gave not my consent when, as thou sayest, those broad
regions were purchased for a few baubles of my fathers. They could sell
what was theirs; they could sell no more. How could my father sell that
which the Great Spirit sent me into the world to live upon? They knew
not what they did. The stranger came, a timid suppliant, few and feeble,
and asked to lie down on the red man’s bear-skin, and warm himself at
the red man’s fire, and have a little piece of land to raise corn for
his women and children; and now he is become strong, and mighty, and
bold, and spreads out his parchment over the whole, and says, ‘It is
mine.’ Stranger, there is not room for us both. The Great Spirit has not
made us to live together. There is poison in the white man’s cup; the
white man’s dog barks at the red man’s heels. If I should leave the land
of my fathers, whither shall I fly? Shall I go to the south, and dwell
among the groves of the Pequots? Shall I wander to the west? the fierce
Mohawk—the man-eater—is my foe. Shall I fly to the east?—the great
water is before me. No, stranger, here have I lived, and here will I
die! and if here thou abidest, there is eternal war between me and thee!
Thou hast taught me thy arts of destruction, for that alone I thank
thee; and now take heed to thy steps; the red man is thy foe. When thou
goest forth by day, my bullet shall whistle by thee; when thou liest
down at night, my knife is at thy throat. The noon-day sun shall not
discover thy enemy, and the darkness of midnight shall not protect thy
rest. Thou shalt plant in terror, and I will reap in blood! thou shalt
sow the earth with corn, and I will strew it with ashes! thou shalt go
forth with the sickle, and I will follow after with the scalping-knife!
thou shalt build, and I will burn, till the white man or the Indian
shall cease from the land. Go thy way for this time in safety, but
remember, stranger, there is eternal war between me and thee!’”
As the same writer afterwards observes, however, the Pilgrim Fathers
“purchased the land of those who claimed it, and paid for it—often,
more than once. They purchased it for a consideration, trifling to the
European, but valuable to the Indian. There is no overreaching in giving
but little for that which, in the hands of the original proprietors, is
worth nothing.”
[Illustration]
VIEW FROM GLENMARY LAWN,
THE RESIDENCE OF N. P. WILLIS.
(AT THE JUNCTION OF THE OWAGA AND SUSQUEHANNA.)
* * * * *
The Owaga here is scarce a quarter of a mile from its junction with the
Susquehanna, and the lawn of Glenmary is the western limit of the star
of interval land formed by the union of two broad valleys. The river
here is a secluded stream, shadowed originally with dark forest trees,
and running deep and still. The farm of Glenmary, part of which is
presented in the drawing, was once an Indian burial-place—warrant
enough for its possessing the highest rural beauty. The plough has
turned up many skeletons in the fields above, and a small museum of
Indian weapons and domestic implements was collected by the gentleman
from whom the land was bought by the writer. Off to the left of the
drawing, (too far off to be brought into the sketch,) a bright and
brawling brook comes leaping down from the hills, and passing by the
cottage door crosses the meadow to pay tribute to the Owaga; and back
from the meadow, by broad and easy terraces, the land rises to the
summit of a mountain ridge, crowned with primeval and gigantic forest
trees. Having possessed the reader thus of the principal features of the
spot, I may be excused for filling a page from an epistle to a friend,
descriptive of the artist’s visit, to Glenmary.
“This is not a very prompt answer to your last, my dear doctor, for I
intended to have taken my brains to you bodily, and replied to all your
‘whether-or-noes’ over a broiled oyster at Downing’s. Perhaps I may
bring this in my pocket. A brace of ramblers, brothers of my own,
detained me for a while, but are flitting to-day; and Bartlett has been
here a week, to whom, more particularly, I wish to do the honours of the
scenery. We have climbed every hill-top that has the happiness of
looking down on the Owaga and Susquehanna, and he agrees with me that a
more lovely and habitable valley has never sat to him for its picture.
Fortunately, on the day of his arrival, the dust of a six-weeks’ drought
was washed from its face, and, barring the _wilt_ that precedes Autumn,
the hill-sides were in holiday green, and looked their fairest. He has
enriched his portfolio with four or five delicious sketches, and if
there were gratitude or sense of renown in trees and hills, they would
have nodded their tops to the two of us. It is not every valley and
pine-tree that finds painter and historian, but these are as insensible
as beauty and greatness were ever to the claims of their trumpeters.
“How long since was it that I wrote to you of Bartlett’s visit to
Constantinople? Not more than four or five weeks, it seems to me; and
yet here he is, on his return from a professional trip to _Canada_, with
all its best scenery snug in his portmanteau! He steamed to Turkey and
back, and steamed again to America, and will be once more in England in
some twenty days—having visited and sketched the two extremities of the
civilized world. Why, I might farm it on the Susquehanna, and keep my
town-house in Constantinople, (with money.) It seemed odd to me to turn
over a drawing-book, and find on one leaf a freshly pencilled sketch of
a mosque, and on the next a view of Glenmary—my turnip-field in the
foreground. And then the man himself—pulling a Turkish para and a
Yankee shin-plaster from his pocket with the same pinch—shuffling to
breakfast in my abri on the Susquehanna, in a pair of peaked slippers of
Constantinople, that smell as freshly of the bazaar as if they were
bought yesterday—waking up with “_pekke! pekke!_ my good fellow!” when
William brings him his boots—and never seeing a blood-red maple (just
turned with the frost), without fancying it the sanguine flag of the
Bosphorus or the bright jacket of a Greek! All this unsettles me
strangely. The phantasmagoria of my days of vagabondage flit before my
eyes again. This, ‘By-the-by, do you remember, in Smyrna?’ and, ‘The
view you recollect from the Seraglio!’ and such like slip-slop of
travellers, heard within reach of my corn and pumpkins, affects me like
the mad poet’s proposition,
‘To twitch the rainbow from the sky,
And splice both ends together.’
“I have amused my artist friend since he has been here, with an
entertainment not quite as expensive as the Holly Lodge fireworks, but
quite as beautiful—the burning of log-heaps. Instead of gossipping over
the tea-table these long and chilly evenings, the three or four young
men who have been staying with us, were very content to tramp into the
woods, with a bundle of straw and a match-box; and they have been
initiated into the mysteries of ‘picking and piling,’ to the
considerable improvement of the glebe of Glenmary. Shelly says,
‘Men scarcely know how beautiful fire is,’
and I am inclined to think that there are varieties of glory in its
phenomena which would make it worth even your metropolitan while to come
to the west and ‘burn fallow.’ At this season of the year—after the
autumn droughts, that is to say—the whole country here is covered with
a thin smoke, stealing up from the fires on every hill, in the depths of
the woods, and on the banks of the river; and what with the graceful
smoke-wreaths by day, and the blazing heavens all around the horizon by
night, it adds much to the variety, and I think, more to the beauty of
our western October. It edifies the traveller who has bought wood by the
pound in Paris, or stiffened for the want of it in the disforested
Orient, to stand off a rifle-shot from a crackling wood, and toast
himself by a thousand cords burnt for the riddance. What experience I
have had of these holocausts on my own land, has not diminished the
sense of waste and wealth with which I first watched them. Paddy’s dream
of ‘rolling in a bin of gould guineas,’ could scarcely have seemed more
luxurious.
“Bartlett and I, and the rest of us, in our small way, burnt up enough,
I dare say, to have made a comfortable drawing-room of Hyde Park in
January, and the effects of the white light upon the trees above and
around were glorious. But our fires were piles of logs and brush—small
beer of course to the conflagration of a forest. I have seen one that
was like the Thousand Columns of Constantinople, ignited to a red heat,
and covered with carbuncles and tongues of flame. It was a temple of
fire—the floor living coals—the roof a heaving drapery of crimson—the
aisles held up by blazing and innumerable pillars, and sometimes swept
by the wind till they stood in still and naked redness, while the eye
could see far into their depths, and again covered and wreathed and
laved in ever-changing billows of flame. We want an American Tempesta or
‘Savage Rosa’ to ‘wreak’ such pictures on canvass; and perhaps the first
step to it would be the painting of the foliage of an American Autumn.”
[Illustration]
VIEW NEAR ANTHONY’S NOSE,
HUDSON HIGHLANDS.
* * * * *
This mountain, “known to fame,” serves as a landmark to the industrious
craft plying upon the Hudson, and thus fulfils a more useful destiny
than is commonly awarded to spots bright in story. It stands amid a host
of interesting localities, marked with the events of the Revolution, and
has witnessed, with less damage than other noses, many a conflict by
land and water.
On the opposite side of the river from the base of the mountain, lie the
two forts Montgomery and Clinton, taken by the British in October, 1777.
The commander-in-chief at New York was prompted to this expedition by
two objects: to destroy a quantity of military stores which the
Americans had collected in this neighbourhood, and to make a diversion
in favour of General Burgoyne. For these purposes Sir Henry Clinton
embarked between three and four thousand troops at New York, and sailed
with them up the Hudson. On the 5th of October they landed at Verplank’s
Point, a few miles below the entrance to the Highlands. The next
morning, a part of the force landed on Stony Point, which projects into
the river on the western side, just below the mountains; hence they
marched into the rear of the fortresses.
General Putnam commanded at that time in this quarter. He had one
thousand continental troops, a part of which only were effective, and a
small body of militia. He believed the principal design of the enemy to
be the destruction of the stores; and when he was informed of their main
purpose, it was too late for him to resist with success. He supposed
that they were aiming at Fort Independence, and directed his attention
to its defence; the heavy firing on the other side of the river gave him
the first decisive information of their real intentions. Mr. Clinton, at
that time governor of the state, placed himself at this post on the
first notice that he received of the enemy’s advancing. Having made the
best disposition for the defence of the forts, he despatched an express
to General Putnam to acquaint him with his situation; but when it
reached his head quarters, that officer and General Parsons were
reconnoitring the position of the enemy on the east side of the river.
Lieut.-Col. Campbell, in the mean time, proceeded with nine hundred men
by a circuitous march to the rear of Fort Montgomery; while Sir Henry
Clinton, with Generals Vaughan and Tryon, moved onwards towards Fort
Clinton. Both fortresses were attacked at once, between four and five in
the afternoon: they were defended with great resolution. This will be
readily admitted, when it is remembered that the whole garrison
consisted of but six hundred men. The conflict was carried on till dark,
when the British had obtained absolute possession, and such of the
Americans as were not killed or wounded had made their escape. The loss
of the two garrisons amounted to about two hundred and fifty. Among the
killed on the enemy’s side was Lieut.-Col. Campbell.
It has been thought that an addition of five or six hundred men to these
garrisons would have saved the works; the correctness of this opinion
may be doubted. Fifteen hundred soldiers would have been barely
sufficient completely to man Fort Montgomery alone. The works themselves
were imperfect, and the ground was probably chosen rather for the
defence of the river, than because it was itself defensible.
Governor Clinton and his brother, General James Clinton, escaped after
the enemy had possession of the forts; the former by crossing the river.
The latter had been wounded in the thigh by a bayonet.
On the 8th, the English forces proceeded to the eastern side, where they
found Fort Independence evacuated. A party then burnt the continental
village, as it was called, a temporary settlement raised up by the war
for the accommodation of the army. Here had been gathered a considerable
number of those artisans, whose labours are particularly necessary for
military purposes; and a considerable quantity of military stores. They
then removed a chain which was stretched across the river at Fort
Montgomery, and advancing up the river, removed another which was
extended from Fort Constitution to the opposite shore at West Point.
General Vaughan then advanced still further up the Hudson, and on the
13th reached the town of Kingston, which he burnt. On the 17th, took
place the surrender of Burgoyne, and he returned down the Hudson with
his fleet to New York.
Count Grabouski, a Polish nobleman, was killed in the assault on Fort
Clinton, while acting as aid-de-camp to the British commander. He was
buried on the spot, but his grave is now undiscoverable.
[Illustration]
WASHINGTON’S MONUMENT AT BALTIMORE.
* * * * *
This fine monument stands at the end of a long street, forming an
ascending perspective; and as its base crowns the summit of a
considerable hill, it is fully relieved against the sky, and shows very
nobly. The square which immediately surrounds it is newly divided into
building-lots, and is becoming the “west end” of Baltimore. The Monument
and the handsome buildings which are going up around are a mutual
improvement of appearance.
The design of this monument was conceived in 1809, when a company
obtained leave of the legislature to raise 100,000 dollars for the
purpose by a lottery. By the year 1815, funds sufficient to authorize
the commencement of the work had been raised, and a plan had been
furnished by Mr. Robert Mills. On the 4th of July, the corner stone was
laid upon ground presented by Col. John E. Howard. The monument is a
Doric column upon a square base, surmounted by a pedestal, upon which is
placed a colossal statue of Washington. The base is fifty feet square,
and is elevated twenty feet; the column, to the feet of the statue, is
one hundred and sixty feet, and the statue is thirteen feet in height.
The statue is the work of Causici, an Italian, and represents Washington
at the instant when he resigned his commission after the Revolution.
There were three periods in Washington’s life, and either of the two
first would alone have placed him in the highest roll of the names of
great men. The close of his military life (here represented) terminated
the first period. His civil career in the presidency terminated the
second; and here all comparison between Washington and any other man
that ever lived ceases entirely. With a fame as complete as his, on his
second retirement to Mount Vernon, a sincere and ardent wish to pass the
remainder of his days in peaceful seclusion, and domestic ties and
attachments of the strongest character; with all this around him, to
come out once more from his tent of glory, and at his country’s call to
expose his bright name again to the hazards of failure, and to the
eagerness of human envy and misconstruction,—this seems to me the
sublimest moment of the life of Washington.
“You know, Sir,” he says in his letter to the President, accepting the
office of commander-in-chief of the army, “what calculations I had made
relative to the probable course of events on my retiring from office,
and the determination with which I had consoled myself of closing the
remnant of my days in my present peaceful abode. You will, therefore, be
at no loss to conceive and appreciate the sensations I must have
experienced to bring my mind to any conclusion that would pledge me, at
so late a period of life, to leave scenes I sincerely love to enter upon
the boundless field of public action, incessant trouble, and high
responsibility.”
It is singular how all the contemporaneous judgments of Washington’s
character unite in ascribing the difficulty of drawing his portrait to
the unity, harmony, and perfectability of his character. Chastellux says
very forcibly, “If you are presented with medals of Cæsar, of Trajan, or
Alexander, on examining their features you will still be led to ask,
what was their stature and the form of their persons; but if you
discover in a heap of ruins the head or a limb of the Apollo, be not
curious about the other parts, but rest assured that they were all
conformable to those of a god. Let not this impression be attributed to
enthusiasm. I wish only to express the impression that Washington has
left on my mind: the idea of a perfect whole, that cannot be the produce
of enthusiasm, which rather would reject it, since the effect of
proportion is to diminish the idea of greatness.”
In a funereal eulogy pronounced by Mr. Ware at Hingham, occurs nearly
the same sentiment.
“The image of this great man is not like that of most others who have
shone with distinguished lustre in the annals of the world. It is not
composed of some bright spots surrounded with dark shades, so as to
dazzle without enlightening the beholder. His character is not an
assemblage of great talents by the side of great defects, and splendid
virtues contaminated by their vicinity to atrocious vices: he shone with
a clear and steady lustre, which, if it seldom appeared with flashes of
splendour to dazzle and astonish, was yet never mingled with shades, nor
intercepted by clouds. The circumstance which seems to distinguish his
name from that of all others, is not the pre-eminence of any one talent
or virtue, but a unity of character resulting from the perfect
combination and exact balancing of all those great and good qualities,
which enter into the character of one who is to possess public esteem,
guide public opinion, and command universal respect and confidence.”
[Illustration]
EAST PORT, AND PASSAMAQUODDY BAY.
* * * * *
The people of this beautiful State are just now enduring a double share
of the evils of border location, having not only the ill-directed
“_sympathy_” with the insurrectionists of Canada to repress, but the
excitement of the newly-vexed question of _boundary_. As this last
subject is one little understood, perhaps the history of the
negotiations on the subject may not be unacceptable to the readers of
the AMERICAN SCENERY.
“In their endeavours to bring about the settlement of another contested
point, the two governments were less successful than they had been with
respect to the commercial intercourse between America and the West India
Island. This point related to the fixing the north-eastern boundary of
the United States.
“By the treaty of 1783, which recognised their independence, it was
declared that the eastern boundary of the United States, dividing them
from Nova Scotia, should be ‘a line to be drawn along the middle of the
river St. Croix, from its mouth in the bay of Fundy to its source, and
from its source, directly north, to the highlands, which divide the
rivers that fall into the Atlantic Ocean from those which fall into the
river St. Lawrence.’ The northern line, separating Canada from the New
States, was to commence ‘from the north-west angle of Nova Scotia; viz.
that angle which is formed by a line drawn due north from the source of
the St. Croix river to the highlands, along the said highlands, which
divide those rivers that, empty themselves into the river St. Lawrence
from those which fall into the Atlantic Ocean, to the north-westernmost
head of Connecticut river; thence, descending along that river to the
forty-fifth degree of latitude, thence due west on that latitude, until
it strikes the river Iroquois or Cataruguy, thence along the middle of
the said river into Lake Ontario,’ &c.
“Being for the most part marked out by mathematical, or by well-known
natural lines, the frontier between the head of the Connecticut and Lake
Ontario afforded but little ground for dispute. But such was not the
case with the boundary from the head of the Connecticut to the sea.
Untrodden, except perhaps by the foot of the hunter, all the northern
division of the country between the Bay of Fundy and the St. Lawrence
then consisted of a dense forest, scattered over with mountains and
lakes, and intersected by streams of considerable magnitude. No survey
of it appears ever to have been made, and the British ministers were,
consequently, ignorant of its topographical features. Yet, even under
these circumstances, they can scarcely be excused for having admitted
such a vague description of the future limits, since, without much
difficulty, sufficient information might have been obtained to prevent
this defect. Their negligence gave birth to a controversy, which, after
the expiration of half a century, yet remains undecided. Only a few
years elapsed before a doubt arose respecting the river which was meant
under the name of St. Croix; the Americans insisting that the St. John
was the river which was intended. By the treaty of 1794, it was arranged
that this point should be left to the decision of a joint commission. In
1798, the commission decided that the extreme source of the northern
branch of the Scoodic river was the source of the St. Croix designated
in the treaty; and a monument was erected there, to indicate the spot
whence the line was to be drawn to the north. Thus far the question was
satisfactorily set at rest. Not such, however, was the result of the
subsequent proceedings. For some years, no further steps appear to have
been taken by either of the governments. While the territory in question
continued to be a wilderness, there was not much temptation to discuss
its limits; but when the new state of Maine, and the British province of
New Brunswick, began to extend their settlements into the interior, the
case was materially altered. The line of demarcation claimed by the
Americans would not only include an area of ten thousand square miles,
but would entirely cut off all direct communication between New
Brunswick and Lower Canada. From the source of the Scoodic river, they
prolonged the line northward, as far as a chain of mountains distant
less than thirty miles from the St. Lawrence; which chain, they
contended, formed the highlands specified in the treaty of 1783.
“The British, on the contrary, maintained that the north-west angle of
Nova Scotia was at Mars Hill, about forty miles from the source of the
Scoodic; and that the northern frontier of Maine ought to pass from
thence to the westward over a range of hills which lie at the sources of
the Penobscot, Kennebec, and Androscoggin. Neither party would recede
from its pretensions. In the treaty of Ghent, in 1814, it was agreed
that two commissioners should be appointed to make surveys and settle
the boundary. If they coincided in opinion, their decision was to be
final; but if they disagreed, some friendly sovereign, or state, was to
be chosen as umpire, and from his judgment there was to be no appeal.
“Affairs remained in this state till 1827, when the commissioners being
unable to agree, and some disputes as to questions of jurisdiction
having rendered it desirable to bring the frontier controversy to an
issue, a convention was concluded between the British and American
government, by which it was arranged that the king of the Netherlands
should be requested to act as arbitrator. To this request his majesty
assented; and their statements and surveys were accordingly laid before
him. The award of the sovereign umpire was not delivered till the 10th
of January, 1831. It was not calculated to satisfy either of the
claimants. Considering the pretensions of the two powers to be equally
balanced, it proceeded to lay down new limits, upon principles of mutual
convenience. The British frontier was to commence at the spot where the
line drawn due north from the source of the Scoodic intersects the St.
John, and was to pass up the latter river and the St. Francis, to the
highlands which run parallel with the St. Lawrence. Though this award
assigned to the Americans seven-eighths of the district which was
contended for by Great Britain, yet, as it gave a direct communication
between New Brunswick and Lower Canada, it was accepted by the British
government. The United States was not so yielding. The award was
immediately protested against by the American ministers at the Hague, on
the ground of the arbiter having exceeded his authority. The State of
Maine also entered its protest, and denied the right of the federal
government to cede any portion of the litigated territory. The matter
was finally brought before the senate by the President, and that body
decided that the umpire having gone beyond his powers, his award was not
binding; and that a new negotiation must be opened with Great Britain.
Since that period, however, no steps have been taken to accomplish an
arrangement.”
[Illustration]
CEMETERY OF MOUNT AUBURN.
* * * * *
This picturesque and beautiful burial-place occupies a grove, formerly
an academic and sylvan retreat for the students of Harvard College, near
by. It is about five miles from Boston, and presents naturally a most
agreeable mixture of hill, valley, and water, forming altogether the
beau-ideal of a site for the purpose to which it is at present devoted.
If we are not mistaken, the people of the United States owe the most
creditable and delicate taste, newly awakened throughout the country on
the subject of sepulture, to one of their most distinguished poets, the
Rev. John Pierpoint, author of the “Airs of Palestine.” By his
exertions, mainly, a society was formed for the purchase, appropriation,
and improvement, of the beautiful spot represented in the drawing; and,
at present, most of the wealthier citizens of the capital of New England
are possessors of verdant and flowery enclosures, which are ornamented
even more tastefully than the celebrated cemeteries of Père la Chaise.
In doing away thus with the neglectfulness and dreariness of the outer
aspect of the grave, death, it seems to us, is divested of half its
terrors, while a refined and salutary feeling is awakened in the bosoms
of the living.
The example of this cemetery has been followed in other cities; and at
Philadelphia, particularly, there is a most sweet spot selected upon the
banks of the Schuylkill, and appropriated to this purpose. The
refinement has spread all over the country; and in a few years,
probably, the burial of the dead will be associated in the minds of the
people of the United States only with sylvan repose, and the sacred
loveliness of consecrated natural beauty.
[Illustration]
NORTHAMPTON, MASSACHUSETTS.
* * * * *
It is recorded of the first settlers of Northampton, that in the tenth
year of their establishment in the wilderness, in 1663, they paid for
the support of a clergyman one hundred and twenty pounds sterling.
According to the change in the value of money, and the circumstances of
the persons who formed the congregation, this sum was equal to at least
six times the amount of the present valuation. In this one fact is to be
found a leaven which has pervaded the town ever since, preserving for
its inhabitants the rigid morality, the religious feeling, and almost
the stern manners of the Puritan pilgrims.
The inflexible justice practised among such men had its effect on the
Indians among whom they settled; and Northampton, in consequence, was
one of the last towns affected by the general hostilities of Philip’s
war.
In their first purchases, they secured no less their own rights than the
rights of the natives; and the latter were always considered as having a
right to dwell and hunt in the lands they had sold. In the year 1664,
they requested leave of the settlers to build themselves a fort within
the town; and leave was granted on the following conditions:—
“That the Indians do not work, game, or carry burdens within the town on
the Sabbath; nor _powow_ here, or anywhere else;
“Nor get liquor, nor cider, nor get drunk;
“Nor admit Indians from without the town;
“Nor break down the fences of the inhabitants;
“Nor let cattle or swine upon their fields; but go over a stile at one
place;
“Nor admit among them the murderers, Calawane, Wuttowhan, and
Pacquallant;
“Nor hunt, nor kill cattle, sheep, or swine, with their dogs.”
There is in these conditions an attention to the sobriety and morality
of the Indians, which has been very seldom regarded in compacts with
this injured race. The consequence was, a perpetual peace between them
and the Indians of their immediate neighbourhood. On the breaking out of
Philip’s war, however, they became liable to incursions from other
tribes, and especially from the Canadians, French, and Indians. They
fortified their “meeting-house;” and in every cluster of houses, one was
fortified and pierced with holes for the discharge of muskets. The whole
town was then enclosed with a palisado set up in a trench, and a guard
of fifty persons perpetually kept.
It is scarcely possible to convey, to a mind that has not reflected on
the subject, a fair idea of the difficulties, hazards, and horrors, that
beset the first adventurers for religious liberty in New England. Beside
all the usual evils of pioneering—the separation from friends, the
hardships, the privations, the loss of all communication with the
civilized world, these settlers had to encounter the most diabolical
warfare recorded in history.
“The first announcement of an Indian war,” says a diffuse writer on this
subject, “is its terrible commencement. In the hour of security and
sleep, when your deadly enemies are supposed to be friends, quietly
fishing and hunting—when they are believed to be far off, and
thoughtless of you and yours, your sleep is suddenly broken by the
war-whoop, your house and village set on fire, your family and friends
butchered, and yourself escape only to be carried into captivity, and
wrung with every species of torture. If you go out to the fields, you
may be shot down by an unseen enemy in the woods, or return in the
evening and find your house consumed to ashes, and your family carried
into captivity.”
During the last part of what is called Philip’s war, to the Indians’
treachery, cruelty, and cunning, was added the instigation, the
sustenance, and the wealth of the civilized French. A price was paid for
English scalps; European officers planned and assisted to execute
schemes of devastation and slaughter; and, in short, nothing was wanting
to develop, in its fullest ferocity, the Indian’s love of blood.
It is curious to reflect how wide and immortal would have been the fame
of the king of the Wampanoags, had he succeeded, (as he came very near
doing,) in exterminating the Whites, and restoring the land of his
forefathers to his subjects and children. The experiment of settlement
would scarcely have been soon repeated; and, perhaps, to this day, the
Indian, confident in his tried strength, would have possessed and
defended the lands from which he has so utterly disappeared; while the
name of Philip would justly have been associated with those of Gustavus
Vasa, and Alfred of England. The difference between him and these great
lights of history, is, that he failed.
[Illustration]
CHAPEL OF “OUR LADY OF COLD SPRING.”
* * * * *
The Hudson bends out from Crow-Nest into a small bay; and, in the lap of
the crescent thus formed, lies snug and sheltered, the little village of
Cold Spring. It is not much of a place for its buildings, history, or
business; but it has its squire and post-master, its politics and
scandal, and a long disappointed ambition to become a regular
landing-place for the steamers. Then there are cabals between the rival
ferrymen, on which the inhabitants divide; the vote for the president,
on which they agree (for Van Buren); and the usual religious sects, with
the usual schisms. The Presbyterians and Methodists, as usual, worship
in very ugly churches; and the Catholics, as usual, in a very
picturesque and beautiful one. (_Vide_ the Drawing.)
It is a pity (picturesquely speaking) that the boatmen on the river are
not Catholics; it would be so pretty to see them shorten sail off Our
Lady of Cold Spring, and uncover for an Ave-Maria. This little chapel,
so exquisitely situated on the bluff overlooking the river, reminds me
of a hermit’s oratory and cross which is perched similarly in the
shelter of a cliff on the desolate coast of Sparta. I was on board a
frigate, gliding slowly up the Ægean, and clinging to the shore for a
land-wind, when I descried the white cross at a distance of about half a
mile, strongly relieved against the dark rock in its rear. As we
approached, the small crypt and altar became visible; and, at the moment
the ship passed, a tall monk, with a snow-white beard, stepped forth
like an apparition upon the cliffs, and spread out his arms to bless us.
In the midst of the intense solitude of the Ægean, with not a human
dwelling to be seen on the whole coast from Moron to Napoli, the effect
of this silent benediction was almost supernatural. He remained for five
minutes in this attitude, his long cowl motionless in the still air, and
his head slowly turning to the ship as she drew fast round the little
promontory on her course. I would suggest to Our Lady of Cold Spring,
that a niche under the portico of her pretty chapel, with a cross to be
seen from the river by day, and a lamp by night, would make at least a
catholic impression on the passer by, though we are not all children of
St. Peter.
Half way between the mountain and our Lady’s shrine, stands, on a superb
natural platform, the romantic estate of Undercliff, the seat of Colonel
Morris. Just above it rises the abrupt and heavily wooded mountain, from
which it derives its name; a thick grove hides it from the village at
its foot; and, from the portico of the mansion, extend views in three
directions unparalleled for varied and surprising beauty. A road,
running between high-water mark and the park gate, skirts the river in
eccentric windings for five or six miles; the brows of the hills
descending to the Hudson in the west and north, are nobly wooded and
threaded with circuitous paths, and all around lies the most romantic
scenery of the most romantic river in the world.
The only fault of the views from West Point, is, that West Point itself
is lost as a feature in the landscape. The traveller feels the same
drawback which troubled the waiting-maid when taken to drive by the
footman in her mistress’s chariot—“How I wish I could stand by the road
side and see myself go by!” From Undercliff, which is directly opposite,
and about at the same elevation, the superb terrace of the Military
School is seen to the greatest advantage. The white barracks of
Camptown, the long range of edifices which skirt the esplanade, the
ruins half way up the mountain of old Fort Putnam, and the waving line
of wood and valley extending to Mr. Cozzen’s estate of “Stoney
Lonesome,” form a noble feature in the view from Undercliff.
I had forgotten that Cold Spring “plucks a glory on its head” from being
honoured with the frequent visits of Washington Irving, Halleck, and
other lesser stars in the literary firmament; when these first lights
above the horizon shall have set, (Hesperus-like—first and brightest!)
there will linger about this little village—by that time, perhaps,
arrived at the dignity of a landing-place—many a tale of the days when
Geoffrey Crayon talked in his gentle way with the ferryman who brought
him to Cold Spring; or the now plethoric post-master, who, in his
character of librarian to the village, enjoyed the friendship of Irving
and Halleck, and received from their own hands the “authors’ copies,”
since curiously preserved in the execrable print and binding then
prevalent in America. Perhaps even old Lipsey the ferryman, and his
rival Andrews, will come in for their slice of immortality, little as
they dream now, pulling close in for the counter-current under our
Lady’s skirts, of working at that slow oar for posthumous reputation.
[Illustration]
VIEW FROM THE MOUNTAIN HOUSE, CATSKILL.
* * * * *
In the following masterly description, by Miss Martineau, is said all,
and the best that can be said, of the glorious view from the
Mountain-House at Catskill.
“After tea, I went out upon the platform in front of the house, having
been warned not to go too near the edge, so as to fall an unmeasured
depth into the forest below. I sat upon the edge as a security against
stepping over unawares. The stars were bright overhead, and had
conquered half the sky, giving promise of what we ardently desired, a
fine morrow. Over the other half, the mass of thunder-clouds was, I
supposed, heaped together; for I could at first discern nothing of the
champaign which I knew must be stretched below. Suddenly, and from that
moment incessantly, gushes of red lightning poured out from the cloudy
canopy, revealing, not merely the horizon, but the course of the river,
in all its windings through the valley. This thread of river, thus
illuminated, looked like a flash of lightning caught by some strong hand
and laid along in the valley.
“All the principal features of the landscape might, no doubt, have been
discerned by this sulphureous light; but my whole attention was absorbed
by the river, which seemed to come out of the darkness, like an
apparition, at the summons of my impatient will. It could be borne only
for a short time—this dazzling, bewildering alternation of glare and
blackness, of vast reality and nothingness. I was soon glad to draw back
from the precipice, and seek the candle-light within.
“The next day was Sunday. I shall never forget, if I live to a hundred,
how the world lay at our feet one Sunday morning. I rose very early, and
looked abroad from my window, two stories above the platform. A dense
fog, exactly level with my eyes, as it appeared, roofed in the whole
plain of the earth—a dusky firmament, in which the stars had hidden
themselves for the day. Such is the account which an antediluvian
spectator would probably have given of it. This solid firmament had
spaces in it, however, through which gushes of sun-light were poured,
lighting up the spires of white churches, and clusters of
farm-buildings, too small to be otherwise distinguished; and especially
the river, with its sloops, floating like motes in the sun-beam. The
firmament rose and melted, or parted off into the likeness of snowy
sky-mountains, and left the cool Sabbath to brood brightly over the
land. What human interest sanctifies a bird’s-eye view! I suppose this
is its peculiar charm; for its charm is found to deepen in proportion to
the growth of mind. To an infant, a champaign of a hundred miles is not
so much as a yard square of gay carpet. To the rustic, it is less
bewitching than a paddock with two cows. To the philosopher, what is it
not? As he casts his eye over its glittering towns, its scattered
hamlets, its secluded homes, its mountain ranges, church spires, and
untrodden forests, it is a picture of life; an epitome of the human
universe; the complete volume of moral philosophy for which he has
sought in vain in all libraries. On the left horizon, are the green
mountains of Vermont; and at the right extremity sparkles the Atlantic.
Beneath lies the forest where the deer are hiding, and the birds
rejoicing in song. Beyond the river, he sees spread the rich plains of
Connecticut; there, where a blue expanse lies beyond the triple range of
hills, are the churches of religious Massachusetts sending up their
sabbath-psalms—praise which he is too high to hear, while God is not.
The fields and waters seem to him to-day no more truly property than the
skies which shine down upon them; and to think how some below are
busying their thoughts this Sabbath-day about how they shall hedge in
another field, or multiply their flocks on yonder meadows, gives him a
taste of the same pity which Jesus felt in his solitude, when his
followers were contending about which should be greatest. It seems
strange to him now that man should call any thing _his_ but the power
which is in him, and which can create somewhat more vast and beautiful
than all that this horizon encloses. Here he gains the conviction, to be
never again shaken, that all that is real is ideal; that the joys and
sorrows of men do not spring up out of the ground, or fly abroad on the
wings of the wind, or come showered down from the sky; that good cannot
be hedged in, nor evil barred out; even that light does not reach the
spirit through the eye alone, nor wisdom through the medium of sound or
silence only. He becomes of one mind with the spiritual Berkeley, that
the face of nature itself, the very picture of woods, and streams, and
meadows, is a hieroglyphic writing in the spirit itself, of which the
retina is no interpreter. The proof is just below him, (at least, it
came under my eye,) in the lady (not American) who, after glancing over
the landscape, brings her chair into the piazza, and turning her back to
the champaign, and her face to the wooden walls of the hotel, begins the
study, this Sunday morning, of her lap-full of newspapers. What a sermon
is thus preached to him at this moment from a very hackneyed text! To
him that hath much—that hath the eye, and ear, and wealth, of the
spirit, shall more be given—even a replenishing of this spiritual life
from that which, to others, is formless and dumb; while, from him that
hath little, who trusts in that which lies about him rather than in that
which lives within him, shall be taken away, by natural decline, the
power of perceiving and enjoying what is within his own domain. To him
who is already enriched with large divine and human revelations, this
scene is, for all its stillness, musical with divine and human speech;
while one who has been deafened by the din of worldly affairs can hear
nothing in this mountain solitude.”
[Illustration]
FANEUIL HALL,
FROM THE WATER.
* * * * *
Two noble streets, and a market, perhaps the finest in the world, have
been projected in front of the old Faneuil Hall, which stood a very few
years ago close to the water’s edge. The new land was made, and the plan
carried into effect during the mayoralty of Josiah Quincy, Esq., to
whose enterprise and sagacity the city is indebted for these great
improvements.
Faneuil Hall, which in the view from the water stands in the rear of
these fine structures of granite, is the dearest spot connected with
American freedom. It was used as a town-hall in the time of the
Revolution; and within its walls arose the first murmur, which, stirred
by the daring eloquence of Adams and Otis, terminated in the Declaration
of Independence. The name by which it is best known, is, “_the Cradle of
Liberty_.”
In the year 1740, Peter Faneuil (a Huguenot) made an offer to build, at
his own expense, “an edifice on the town’s land in Dock Square, to be
improved for a hall and market, for the sole use, benefit, and advantage
of the town, provided that the town would authorize it, and lay the same
under such proper regulations as should be thought necessary, and
support the same constantly for said use.” A vote of thanks was
immediately passed to Mr. Faneuil, the work was commenced, and two years
afterwards, “Mr. Samuel Ruggles, who was employed in building said
house, waited on the select-men, by order of P. Faneuil, Esq., and
delivered them the key of said house.” A meeting was then held in the
hall, and a motion was made that the thanks of the town be given to
Peter Faneuil, Esq., for his generous benefaction of the Market-House to
the town; and resolutions were drawn up and passed to that effect. A
large committee of the first citizens waited on him, “and, in the name
of the town, rendered their most hearty thanks for so bountiful a gift,
with their prayers that this and other expressions of his bounty and
charity might be abundantly recompensed with the divine blessing.”
Another vote was then passed unanimously, “that, in testimony of the
town’s gratitude to Peter Faneuil, Esq., and to perpetuate his memory,
the hall over the market-place be named Faneuil Hall, and at all times
hereafter be called by that name.” And as a further testimony of
respect, it was voted “that Mr. Faneuil’s picture be drawn at full
length, at the expense of the town, and placed in the hall; and the
select-men were charged with the commission, which was accordingly
executed.”
“The building was of brick, two stories in height, and measured one
hundred feet by forty. It was esteemed one of the best pieces of
workmanship, and an ornament to the town. The hall would contain one
thousand persons; there were convenient apartments for the officers of
the town, besides a room for the naval office, and a notary public.”
Mr. Faneuil did not long live to enjoy the gratitude of his townsmen. He
died suddenly, a year after the completion of the building. His funeral
oration, delivered by Mr. John Lovell, Master of the Grammar School, was
the first specimen of eloquence uttered in the “Cradle of Liberty.” It
was, in some of its sentiments, very unlike the orations which followed,
and far from prophetic.
“What now remains,” he concludes, “but my ardent wishes (in which I know
you will all concur with me) that this hall may be ever sacred to the
interests of truth, of justice, of _loyalty_, and honour. May no private
views nor party broils ever enter within these walls; but may the same
public spirit that glowed in the breast of the generous founder
influence all your debates, that society may reap the benefit of them.
“May liberty always spread its joyful wings over this place—liberty,
that opens men’s hearts to beneficence, and gives the relish to those
who enjoy the effects of it; and _may loyalty to a king, under whom we
enjoy this liberty_, ever remain our character—a character always
justly due to this land, and of which our enemies have in vain attempted
to rob us.”
The family of Faneuil had been more than fifty years in America, and had
fled from persecution in France to find a refuge in the wilderness. The
Faneuil arms were subsequently placed in the hall, elegantly carved and
gilt.
Eight or nine years after the erection of Faneuil Hall, it took fire
from a neighbouring conflagration, and was nearly burnt to the ground.
It was on one of the coldest nights of January, and the water froze so
rapidly, that it was impossible to work the engines. The walls were left
standing, and it was rebuilt and enlarged soon after.
Just against the end of Faneuil Hall, in a broad dock, now filled up and
built upon, used to lie a cluster of oyster-boats, that were half house,
half vessel, floating oyster-shops—in short, of the most canonical
rudeness and simplicity. It was as necessary to go to them to eat
oysters in perfection, as it is to go to Blackwall for white-bait; and
no true gourmand pretended to have elsewhere found the relish. They are
gone, alas! and with the old hulks are gone the amphibious venders—the
rude, high-booted, superannuated oyster-openers, dressing, for years
after they had given up the vocation, just as if they were embarking for
the mud-bank, and talking in the same hoarse tone as if their words were
meant to struggle, as of yore, with a nor’wester. So flee away before
the advances of improvement all that reminded us of other days; and it
is by this resolute plucking up of old associations, and resolute
modernizing and improving, even upon the most sacred habits and usages
of our forefathers, that this new nation keeps its unchecked headway,
with neither rooted superstition nor cherished prejudice to restrain it.
When it ceases to be so, we shall have the age of poetry; but adieu,
then, to the age of improvement!
THE END.
PRINTED BY RICHARD CLAY, BREAD-STREET-HILL.
TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple
spellings of names occur, the majority spelling was used. Changes
include:
— Renssellaer to Rensselaer
— and Susquehannah to Susquehanna.
Inconsistencies in punctuation have been maintained.
Some illustrations moved to facilitate page layout.
A cover was created for this eBook.
[The end of _American Scenery, Volume II_, by N. P. (Nathaniel Parker)
Willis.]
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