A TRIP TO SCHUYLERVILLE.
It wuz a lovely mornin’ when my companion and me sot out to visit
Schuylerville to see the monument that is stood up there in honor of
the Battle of Saratoga, one of 7 great decisive battles of the world.
Wall, the cars rolled on peacefully, though screechin’ occasionally,
for, as the poet says, “It is their nater to,” and rolled us away from
Saratoga. And at first there wuzn’t nothin’ particularly insperin’ in
the looks of the landscape, or ruther woodscape. It wuz mostly woods
and rather hombly woods too, kinder flat lookin’. But pretty soon the
scenery became beautiful and impressive. The rollin’ hills rolled down
and up in great billowy masses of green and pale blue, accordin’ as
they wuz fur or near, and we went by shinin’ water, and a glowin’
landscape, and pretty houses, and fields of grain and corn, etc., etc.
And anon we reached a place where “Victory Mills” wuz printed up high,
in big letters. When Josiah see this, he sez, “Haint that neighborly
and friendly in Victory to come over here and put up a mill? That
shows, Samantha,” sez he, “that the old hardness of the Revolution is
entirely done away with.”
He wuz jest full of Revolutionary thoughts that mornin’, Josiah Allen
wuz. And so wuz I too, but my strength of mind is such, that I reined
’em in and didn’t let ’em run away with me. And I told him that it
didn’t mean that. Sez I, “The Widder Albert wouldn’t come over here and
go to millin’, she nor none of her family.”
“But,” sez he, “the name must mean sunthin’. Do you s’pose it is where
folks get the victory over things? If it is, I’d give a dollar bill to
get a grist ground out here, and,” sez he, in a sort of a coaxin’ tone,
“le’s stop and get some victory, Samantha.”
And I told him, that I guessed when he got a victory over the world,
the flesh, or the—David, he would have to work for it, he wouldn’t get
it ground out for him. But anon, he cast his eyes on sunthin’ else and
so forgot to muse on this any further. It wuz a fair seen.
Anon, a big manufactory, as big as the hull side of Jonesville almost,
loomed up by the side of us. And anon, the fair, the beautiful country
spread itself out before our vision. While fur, fur away the pale blue
mountains peeked up over the green ones, to see if they too could see
the monument riz up to our National Liberty. It belonged to them, jest
as much as to the hill it wuz a standin’ on, it belongs to the hull
liberty-lovin’ world.
Wall, the cars stopped in a pretty little village, a clean, pleasant
little place as I ever see, or want to see. And Josiah and me wended
our way up the broad roomy street, up to where the monument seemed to
sort a beegon to us to come. And when we got up to it; we see it wuz a
sight, a sight to behold.
The curius thing on’t wuz, it kep a growin’ bigger and bigger all the
time we wuz approachin’ it, till, as we stood at its base, it seemed to
tower up into the very skies.
There wuz some flights of stun steps a leadin’ up to some doors in the
side on’t. And we went inside on’t after we had gin a good look at the
outside. But it took us some time to get through gazin’ at the outside
on’t.
Way up over our heads wuz some sort a recesses, some like the recess in
my spare bed-room, only higher and narrower, and kinder nobler lookin’.
And standin’ up in the first one, a lookin’ stiddy through storm and
shine at the North star, stood General Gates, bigger than life
considerable, but none too big; for his deeds and the deeds of all of
our old 4 fathers stand out now and seem a good deal bigger than life.
Yes, take ’em in all their consequences, a sight bigger.
Wall, there he stands, a leanin’ on his sword. He’ll be ready when the
enemy comes, no danger but what he will.
On the east side, is General Schuyler a horsback, ready to dash forward
against the foe, impetuous, ardent, gallant. But oh! the perils and
dangers that obstruct his pathway; thick underbrush and high, tall
trees stand up round him that he seemin’ly can’t get through.
But his gallant soldiers are a helpin’ him onward, they are a cuttin’
down the trees so’s he can get through ’em and dash at the enemy. You
see as you look on him that he will get through it all. No envy, nor
detraction, nor jealousy, no such low underbrush full of crawlin’
reptiles, nor no high solid trees, no danger of any sort can keep him
back. His big brave, generous heart is sot on helpin’ his country,
he’ll do it.
On the south side, is the saddest sight that a patriotic American can
see. On a plain slab stun, lookin’ a good deal like a permanent
grave-stun, sot up high there, for Americans to weep over forever,
bitter tears of shames, is the name, “Arnold.”
He wuz a brave soldier; his name ort to be there; it is all right to
have it there and jest where it is, on a gravestun. All through the
centuries it will stand there, a name carved by the hand of cupidity,
selfishness, and treachery.
On the west side, General Morgan is standin’ up with his hands over his
eyes; lookin’ away into the sunset. He looked jest like that when he
wuz a lookin’ after prowlin’ red skins and red coats; when the sun wuz
under dark clouds, and the day wuz dark 100 years ago.
But now, all he has to do is to stand up there and look off into the
glowin’ heavens, a watchin’ the golden light of the sun of Liberty a
rollin’ on westward. He holds his hand over his eyes; its rays most
blind him, he is most lost a thinkin’ how fur, how fur them rays are a
spreadin’, and a glowin’,way, way off, Morgan is a lookin’ onto our
future, and it dazzles him. Its rays stretch off into other lands; they
strike dark places; they burn! they glow! they shine! they light up the
world!
Hold up your head, brave old General, and your loyal steadfast eyes.
You helped to strike that light. Its radience half-frights you. It is
so heavenly bright, its rays, may well dazzle you. Brown old soldiers,
I love to think of you always a standin’ up there, lifted high up by a
grateful Nation, a lookin’ off over all the world, a lookin’ off
towards the glowin’ west, toward our glorious future.
On the inside too, it wuz a noble seen. After you rose up the steps and
went inside, you found yourself in a middlin’ big room all surrounded
by figures in what they called Alto Relief, or sunthin’ to that effect.
I don’t know what Alto they meant. I don’t know nobody by that name,
nor I don’t know how they relieved him. But I s’pose Alto when he wuz
there wuz relieved to think that the figures wuz all so noble and
impressive. Mebby he had been afraid they wouldn’t suit him and the
nation. But they did, they must have. He must have been hard to suit,
Alto must, if he wuzn’t relieved, and pleased with these.
On one side wuz George the 3d of England, in his magnificent palace,
all dressed up in velvet and lace, surrounded by his slick drestup
nobles, and all of ’em a sittin’ there soft and warm, in the lap of
Luxury, a makin’ laws to bind the strugglin’ colonies.
And right acrost from that, wuz a picture of them Colonists, cold and
hungry, a havin’ a Rally for Freedom, and a settin’ up a Town meetin!
right amongst the trees, and under-brush that hedged ’em all in and
tripped ’em up at every step; and savages a hidin’ behind the trees,
and fears of old England, and dread of a hazerdous unknown future, a
hantin’ and cloudin’ every glimpse of sky that came down on ’em through
the trees. But they looked earnest and good, them old 4 fathers did,
and the Town meetin’ looked determined, and firm principled as ever a
Town meetin’ looked on the face of the earth.
Then there wuz some of the women of the court, fine ladies, all silk,
and ribbons, and embroideries, and paint, and powder, a leanin’ back in
their cushioned arm-chairs, a wantin’ to have the colonies taxed still
further so’s to have more money to buy lace with and artificial
flowers. And right acrost from ’em wuz some of our old 4 mothers, in a
rude, log hut, not strong enough to keep out the cold, or the Injuns.
One wuz a cardin’ wools, one of ’em wuz a spinnin’ ’em, a tryin’ to
make clothes to cover the starved, half-naked old 4 fathers who wuz a
tramplin’ round in the snow with bare feet and shiverin’ lims. And one
of ’em had a gun in her hand. She had smuggled the children all in
behind her and she wuz a lookin’ out for the foe. These wimmen hadn’t
no ribbons on, no, fur from it.
And then there wuz General Schuyler a fellin’ trees to obstruct the
march of the British army. And Miss Schuyler a settin’ fire to a field
of wheat rather than have it help the enemy of her country. Brave old 4
mother, worthy pardner of a grand man, she wuz a takin’ her life in her
hand and a destroyin’ her own property for the sake of the cause she
loved. A emblem of the way men and women sot fire to their own hopes,
their own happiness, and burnt ’em up on the altar of the land we love.
And there wuz some British wimmen a follerin’ their husbands through
the perils of danger and death, likely old 4 mothers they wuz, and
thought jest as much of their pardners as I do of my Josiah. I could
see that plain. And could see it a shinin’ still plainer in another one
of the pictures—Lady Aukland a goin’ over the Hudson in a little canoe
with the waves a dashin’ up high round her, to get to the sick bed of
her companion. The white flag of truce wuz a wavin’ over her head and
in her heart wuz a shinin’ the clear white light of a woman’s deathless
devotion. Oh! there wuz likely wimmen amongst the British, I haint a
doubt of it, and men too.
And then we clim a long flight of stairs and we see some more pictures,
all round that room. Alto relieved agin, or he must have been relieved,
and happified to see ’em, they wuz so impressive. I myself had from 25
to 30 emotions a minute while I stood a lookin’ at em—big lofty
emotions too.
There waz Jennie McCrea a bein’ dragged offen her horse, and killed by
savages. A dreadful sight—a woman settin’ out light-hearted toward
happiness and goin’ to meet a fearful doom. Dreadful sight that has
come down through the centuries, and happens over and over agin amongst
female wimmen. But here it wuz fearful impressive for the savages that
destroyed her wuz in livin’ form, they haint always materialized.
Yes, it wuz a awful seen. And jest beyond it, wuz Burgoyne a scoldin’
the savages for the cruelty of the deed. Curius, haint it? How the acts
and deeds of a man that he sets to goin’, when they have come to full
fruition skare him most to death, horrify him by the sight. I’ll bet
Burgoyne felt bad enough, a lookin’ on her dead body, if it wuz his
doin’s in the first place, in lettin’ loose such ignerance and savagery
onto a strugglin’ people.
Yes, Mr. Burgoyne felt bad and ashamed, I haint a doubt of it. His poet
soul could suffer as well as enjoy—and then I didn’t feel like sayin’
too much aginst Mr. Burgoyne, havin’ meditated so lately in the
treachery of Arnold, one of our own men doin’ a act that ort to keep us
sort a humble-minded to this day.
And then there wuz the killin’ and buryin’ of Frazier both impressive.
He wuz a gallant officer and a brave man. And then there wuz General
Schuyler (a good creeter) a turnin’ over his command to Gates. And I
methought to myself as I looked on it, that human nater wuz jest about
the same then; it capered jest about as it duz now in public affairs
and offices. Then there wuz the surrender of Burgoyne to Gates. A sight
impressive enough to furnish one with stiddy emotions for weeks and
weeks. A thinkin’ of all he surrendered to him that day, and all that
wuz took.
The monument is dretful high. Up, up, up, it soars as if it wuz bound
to reach up into the very heavens, and carry up there these idees of
ourn about Free Rights, and National Liberty. It don’t go clear up,
though. I wish it did. If it had, I should have gone up the high ladder
clear to the top. But I desisted from the enterprise for 2 reasons, one
wuz, that it didn’t go, as I say, clear up, and the other wuz that the
stairs wuzn’t finished.
Josiah proposed that he should go up as he clim up our well, with one
foot on each side on’t. He said he wuz tempted to, for he wanted
dretfully to look out of them windows on the top. And he said it would
probable be expected of him. And I told him that I guessed that the
monument wouldn’t feel hurt if he didn’t go up; I guessed it would
stand it. I discouraged the enterprise.
And anon we went down out of the monument, and crossed over to the
good-lookin’ house where the man lives who takes care of the monument,
and shows off its good traits, a kind of a guardian to it. And we got a
first-rate dinner there, though such is not their practice. And then he
took us in a likely buggy with 2 seats, and a horse to draw it, and we
sot out to see what the march of 100 years has left us of the doin’s of
them days.
Time has trampled out a good many of ’em, but we found some. We found
the old Schuyler mansion, a settin’ back amongst the trees, with the
old knocker on it, that had been pulled by so many a old 4 father,
carryin’ tidin’s of disappointment, and hope, and triumph, and
encouragement, and everything. We went over the threshold wore down by
the steps that had fell there for a hundred years, some light, some
heavy steps.
We went into the clean, good-lookin’ old kitchen, with the platters,
and shinin’ dressers and trays; the old-fashioned settee, half-table
and half-seat. And we see the cup General Washington drinked tea out
of, good old creeter. I hope the water biled and it wuz good tea, and
most probable it wuz. And we see lots of arms that had been carried in
the war, and cannon balls, and shells, and tommy-hawks, and hatchets,
and arrows, and etc., etc. And down in one room all full of other
curiosities and relicts, wuz the skull of a _traitor_. I should judge
from the looks on’t that besides bein’ mean, he wuz a hombly man.
Somebody said folks had made efforts to steal it. But Josiah whispered
to me, that there wuzn’t no danger from him, for he would rather be
shet right up in the Tombs than to own it, in any way.
And I felt some like him. Some of his teeth had been stole, so they
said. Good land! what did they want with his teeth! But it wuz a
dretful interestin’ spot. And I thought as I went through the big
square, roomy rooms that I wouldn’t swap this good old house for dozens
of Queen Anns, or any other of the fashionable, furbelowed houses of
to-day. The orniments of this house wuz more on the inside, and I
couldn’t help thinkin’ that this house, compared with the modern
ornimental cottages, wuz a good deal like one of our good old-fashioned
foremothers in her plain gown, compared with some of the grandma’s of
to-day, all paint, and furbelows, and false hair.
The old 4 mothers orniments wuz on the inside, and the others wuz more
up on the roof, scalloped off and gingerbreaded, and criss-crossed.
The old house wuz full of rooms fixed off beautiful. It wuz quite a
treat to walk throngh’em. But the old fireplaces, and mantle tray
shelves spoke to our hearts of the generations that had poked them
fires, and leaned up against them mantle trays. They went ahead on us
through the old rooms; I couldn’t see ’em, but I felt their presence,
as I follered ’em over the old thresholts their feet had worn down a
hundred years ago. Their feet didn’t make no sound, their petticoats
and short gowns didn’t rustle against the old door ways and stair
cases.
The dear old grandpas in their embroidered coats, didn’t cast no shadow
as they crossed the sunshine that came in through the old-fashioned
window panes. No, but with my mind’s eye (the best eye I have got, and
one that don’t wear specks) I see ’em, and I follerd ’em down the
narrow, steep stair case, and out into the broad light of 4 P. M.,
1886.
Ghosts of the Past
Anon, or shortly after, we drove up on a corner of the street jest
above where the Fish creek empties into the Hudson, and there, right on
a tall high brick block, wuz a tablet, showin’ that a tree once stood
jest there, under which Burgoyne surrendered. And agin, when I thought
of all that he surrendered that day, and all that America and the world
gained, my emotions riz up so powerful, that they wuzn’t quelled down a
mite, by seein’ right on the other side of the house wrote down these
words, “Drugs, Oils, etc.”
No, oil couldn’t smooth ’em down, nor drugs drug ’em; they wuz too
powerful. And they lasted jest as soarin’ and eloquent as ever till we
turned down a cross street, and arrove at the place, jest the identical
spot where the British stacked their arms (and stacked all their pride,
and their ambitious hopes with ’em). It made a high pile.
Wall, from there we went up to a house on a hill, where poor Baroness
Riedesel hid with her three little children, amongst the wounded and
dyin’ officers of the British army, and stayed there three days and
three nights, while shots and shells wuz a bombardin’ the little
house—and not knowin’ but some of the shots had gone through her lover
husband’s heart, before they struck the low ruff over her head.
What do you s’pose she wuz a thinkin’ on as she lay hid in that suller
all them three days and three nights with her little girls’ heads in
her lap? Jest the same thoughts that a mother thinks to-day, as she
cowers down with the children she loves, to hide from danger; jest the
same thoughts that a wife thinks today when her heart is out a facing
danger and death, with the man she loves.
She faced danger, and died a hundred deaths in the thought of the
danger to them she loved. I see the very splinters that the cruel
shells and cannon balls split and tore right over her head. Good
honorable splinters and not skairful to look at today, but hard, and
piercin’, and harrowin’ through them days and nights.
Time has trampled over that calash she rode round so much in (I wish I
could a seen it); but Time has ground it down into dust. Time’s hand,
quiet but heavy, rested down on the shinin’ heads of the three little
girls, and their Pa and Ma, and pushed ’em gently but firmly down out
of sight; and all of them savages who used to follow that calash as it
rolled onwards, and all their canoes, and war hoops, and snowshoes,
etc., etc.
Yes, that calash of Miss Riedesel has rolled away, rolled away years
ago, carryin’ the three little girls, their Pa and Ma and all the
fears, and hopes, and dreads, and joys, and heartaches of that time it
has rolled on with ’em all; on, on, down the dusty road of Oblivion,—it
has disappeared there round the turn of road, and a cloud of dust comes
up into our faces, as we try to follow it. And the Injuns that used to
howl round it, have all follered on the trail of that calash, and gone
on, on, out of sight. Their canoes have drifted away down the blue
Hudson, away off into the mist and the shadows. Curius, haint it?
And there the same hills and valleys lay, calm and placid, there is the
same blue sparklin’ Hudson. Dretful curius, and sort a heart breakin’
to think on’t—haint it? Only jest a few more years and we, too, shall
go round the turn of the road, out of sight, out of sight, and a cloud
of dust will come up and hide us from the faces of them that love us,
and them, too, from the eyes of a newer people.
All our hopes, all our ambitious, all our loves, our joys, our
sorrows,—all, all will be rolled away or floated away down the river,
and the ripples will ripple on jest as happy; the Sunshine will kiss
the hills jest as warmly, and lovin’ly; but other eyes will look on
’em, other hearts will throb and burn within ’em at the sight.
Kinder sad to think on, haint it?
The Butgoynes