_Narrative of Lieutenant_ HALL'S _Journey from Niagara to
Philadelphia._
Mr. Hall crossed the river from _Fort Erie_, and proceeded to _Buffalo_,
one of the frontier villages which had been burnt during the great
American war. Not a house had been left standing; yet, when Mr. Hall was
there, it was not merely a flourishing village, but a considerable town,
with good shops and hotels. The celerity with which Buffalo had risen
from its ashes, indicates the juvenile spirit of life and increase,
which so eminently distinguishes the American population.
As Mr. Hall proceeded on his journey, he found the country thickly
settled, but dull and uniform in feature; being an entire flat. The
autumn had been dry, and water was, in many places, extremely scarce.
This is an evil not uncommon in newly-settled districts. Draining
follows clearing; the creeks, no longer fed by the swamps, disencumbered
also of fallen trunks of trees, and other substances, by which their
waters were, in a great degree, stayed, easily run dry in summer, and
soon fail altogether.
The principal inn at _Batavia_ is large, and yet constructed upon an
economical principle; for one roof covers hotel, prison, court-house,
and assembly-room. The inhabitants were, at this time, building, by
subscription, an episcopal church, the cost of which was to be twenty
thousand dollars.
_Caledonia_ is a small, but flourishing village, which has a handsome
inn, with very comfortable accommodations; and, close to the road, is a
large sheet of water, from which a clear and rapid stream descends,
through a pleasing valley, into Allen's Creek, before the latter unites
with the _Genesee River_. The banks of this creek are adorned with
natural groves and copses, in which Mr. Hall observed the candleberry
myrtle in great abundance: but a more interesting sight was afforded by
numerous organic remains, with which the blocks of limestone, scattered
through the low ground around it, are encrusted, as if with rude
sculpture. These blocks are mixed with nodules of granite, and present
innumerable forms, both of shells and aquatic plants. This district had
been settled fifteen years; and, when Mr. Hall was here, cleared land
was worth fifty dollars, and uncleared land about fifteen dollars per
acre. At _Avon_ Mr. Hall quitted the main road, and followed the right
bank of the Genesee. The scenery, in the vicinity of this place, began
to improve, but the roads were proportionally deteriorated. Wild even to
savageness, mountain heights branched thickly across the country, with
no seeming order or direction. The only level ground was in the narrow
valleys, along the course of the streams.
The woods in the vicinity of the Genesee abound in large black
squirrels, some of which are as big as a small cat. They are destructive
to grain, and are, therefore, keenly pursued by sportsmen, who
frequently make parties to kill them, and who destroy several thousands
at one chase: their flesh is considered a great delicacy. These animals
migrate, at different seasons; and have the credit of ingeniously
ferrying themselves over rivers, by using a piece of bark for a raft,
and their tails for sails.
_Bath_ is embosomed in wild mountains. The principal houses are
constructed round the three sides of a square, or green; and, as most of
them were at this time new, white, and tastefully finished, they had a
lively appearance, and were agreeably contrasted with the dark adjacent
mountain scenery.
The road from Bath to _Painted Post_, though stony, is tolerably level.
The adjacent mountains have a slaty appearance, with horizontal strata.
Mr. Hall was disappointed at Painted Post, to find the post gone,
broken down or rotted, within the last few years. It had been an Indian
memorial, either of triumph or death, or of both.
When he was at Ancaster, this gentleman had been shown the grave of an
Indian, among the woods, near the head of the stream: it was covered
with boards, and a pole was erected at each end, on which a kind of
dance was rudely painted with vermilion. The relatives of the deceased
brought offerings to it daily, during their stay in the neighbourhood.
After passing through some other villages, Mr. Hall reached the banks of
the _Susquehanna_: these have no great variety of scenery, though they
frequently present grand features. The space betwixt the mountains and
the river is often so narrow, that it barely suffices for one carriage
to pass; and, in many places, the road, for a mile or two, seems to have
been hewn from the rock. Near the creeks there is tolerable land, and
two or three pleasant villages. The face of the landscape is no where
naked: mountain and vale are alike clothed with pine and dwarf
oak-trees; the swamp lands are covered with hemlock-trees, and the
bottoms of the woods with rhododendrons.
_Wilksbarre_ is a neat town, regularly laid out, on the left bank of the
Susquehanna. Its locality is determined by the direction of one of the
Alleghany ridges, which recedes from the course of the river, a few
miles above the town, and, curving south-west, encloses a semicircular
plot of land, towards the centre of which the town is built. Its
neighbourhood abounds in coal. The pits are about a mile distant. They
lie under a stratum of soft clay slate, which contains impressions of
ferns, oak-leaves, and other vegetables, usually found in such
situations. The town itself, in consequence of the frequent separation
of its streets and houses, by grass-fields and gardens, has a quiet and
rural aspect. It contains a neat church, appropriated to the alternate
use of episcopalians and presbyterians. Wilkesbarre is built on the
site of _Wyoming_: a small mound, near the river, is pointed out, as
that on which the fort stood; and the incursion of the Indians, when
most of the inhabitants fell, in an unsuccessful battle, is still
remembered. Some few escaped, by swimming across the stream, and fled,
naked, through the woods, for several days, till they reached the
nearest settlement; and this is all the record that exists of Albert and
Gertrude, the foundation of Campbell's poem of Gertrude of Wyoming.
At Wilkesbarre the road quits the Susquehanna, and, ascending a ridge of
the Alleghany Mountains, crosses through deep forests and hemlock
swamps, sparingly interspersed with settlements. The Pokono Mountain,
over which Mr. Hall passed, is famous with the sportsmen and epicures of
Philadelphia, for its grouse. Mr. Hall crossed the _Blue Ridge_, at the
stupendous fissure of the _Wind Gap_, where the mountain seems forcibly
broken through, and is strewed with the ruin of rocks. There is a
similar aperture, some miles north-east, called the Water Gap. This
affords a passage to the Delaware; and all the principal rivers of the
states, that rise in the Alleghanys, pass through similar apertures.
Betwixt the Blue Ridge and the Lehigh River, are two Moravian
settlements, called _Bethlehem_ and _Nazareth_. [The inhabitants of the
former constitute a large society, and occupy several farms. They have a
spacious apartment, in which they all daily assemble, for the purpose of
public worship. The single men and women have each a separate dwelling.
The women are occupied in various domestic employments; in fancy and
ornamental works; and, occasionally, in musical practice, under the
direction of a superintendant. The walls of the large hall, where the
society dine, are adorned with paintings, chiefly Scripture pieces,
executed by members. Various branches of trade and manufacture are
carried on, the profits of which go to the general stock; and, from
this, all are supplied with the necessaries of life. Their whole time
is spent in labour, and in prayer; except an hour in the evening, which
is allotted for a concert. Among the Moravians marriage is contracted in
a singular manner. If a young man has an inclination to marry, he makes
application to the priest, who presents a young woman, designated by the
superintendant as the next in rotation for marriage. Having left the
parties together for an hour, the priest returns, and, if they consent
to live together, they are married the next day; if otherwise, each is
put at the bottom of the list, containing perhaps sixty or seventy
names; and, on the part of the girl, there is no chance of marriage,
unless the same young man should again feel disposed for matrimony. When
united, a neat habitation, with a pleasant garden, is provided; and
their children, at the age of six years, are placed in the seminary. If
either of the parties die, the other returns to the apartment of the
single people. In the Moravian establishment at Bethlehem, there is a
tavern, with extensive and excellent accommodations.]
Madame de Stael, in describing the Moravians, says, "Their houses and
streets are peculiarly neat. The women all dress in the same manner,
conceal their hair, and surround their heads with a ribbon, the colour
of which indicates whether they are single, married, or widows. The men
dress in brown, somewhat like quakers. A mercantile industry occupies
nearly the whole community; and all their labours are performed with
peculiar regularity and tranquillity." Mr. Hall attended one of the
meetings which the inhabitants of Bethlehem commonly hold every evening,
for the joint purposes of amusement and devotion. The women were ranged
at one end of the room, and the men at the other. Their bishop presided:
he was an old man, dressed in the plainest manner, and possessed a
countenance singularly mild and placid. He gave out a psalm, and led the
choir; and the singing was alternately in German and English.
There is another Moravian settlement about a mile and a half from
Nazareth. This, though small, exceeds both the others, in the calm and
pensive beauty of its appearance. The houses are built of limestone:
they are all on a similar plan, and have their window-frames, doors, and
other wood-work, painted fawn-colour: before each house are planted
weeping willows, whose luxuriant shade seems to shut out worldly glare,
and throws an air of monastic repose over the whole village.
The _Lehigh Mountain_ is the last of the Allegheny Ridges; the country
is thenceforth level, fertile, and thickly inhabited, by steady Germans,
who wear broad hats, and purple breeches; and whose houses and villages
have the antique fashion of Flemish landscape. German is so generally
spoken here, that the newspapers and public notices are all printed in
that language.
The approach to Philadelphia is announced by a good turnpike road.
_German Town_ is a large suburb to the city, and the traveller here
feels himself within the precincts of a populous and long-established
capital.
_A Description of Philadelphia._
The first impressions, on entering this city, are decidedly favourable.
It possesses a character essentially different from that of New York. It
has not so much business, nor so much animation; but there is, in
Philadelphia, a freedom from mere display; an evidence of solidity, of
which its more commercial rival is nearly destitute.
All the _streets_ are spacious; the names of many of them, as Sassafras,
Chesnut, and Locust, record their sylvan origin: rows of Lombardy
poplars are planted in them. The private _houses_ are characterized by
elegant neatness; the steps and window-sills of many of them are of grey
marble, and they have large mats placed before the doors. The streets
are carefully swept, as well as the foot-paths, which are paved with
brick. The _shops_ do not yield, in display, to those of London. The
principal street is one hundred feet wide; and the others vary from
eighty to fifty. In the foot-paths a great inconvenience is experienced
by the injudicious mode in which cellars are constructed, the openings
of which project into the street; and also by the slovenly practice of
the store or shopkeepers placing great quantities of loose goods on the
outside of their doors.
Philadelphia stands on the bank of the river _Delaware_; and, in 1795,
when Mr. Weld was there, its appearance, as approached from the water,
was not very prepossessing. Nothing was visible but confused heaps of
wooden store-houses, crowded upon each other, and wharfs, which
projected a considerable way into the river. The wharfs were built of
wood; they jutted out, in every direction, and were well adapted for the
accommodation of shipping; the largest merchant vessels being able to
lie close alongside of them. Behind the wharfs, and parallel to the
river, runs a street called _Water-street_. This is the first street
which the stranger in America usually enters, after landing; and (says
Mr. Weld) it will not give him a very favourable opinion either of the
neatness or commodiousness of the public ways of Philadelphia. Such
stenches, at times, prevail in it, owing in part to the quantity of
filth and dirt that is suffered to remain on the pavement, and in part
to what is deposited in waste-houses, of which there are several in the
street, that it is really dreadful to pass through it. It was here, in
the year 1793, that the malignant yellow fever broke out, which made
such terrible ravages among the inhabitants; and, in the summer season,
in general, this street is extremely unhealthy.
Few of the _public buildings_ in Philadelphia pretend to great
architectural merit. The churches are neat, but plain. The Masonic Hall
is an unsightly combination of brick and marble, in the Gothic style.
The Philadelphia bank is in a similar style. The United States and
Pennsylvania banks are the finest edifices in the city: the first has a
handsome portico, with Corinthian columns of white marble, and the
latter is a miniature representation of the temple of Minerva at Athens,
and is the purest specimen of architecture in the states: the whole
building is of marble.
The _State House_ is a plain brick building, which was finished in 1735,
at the cost of L.6000. The most interesting recollections of America are
attached to this edifice. The Congress sat in it during the greatest
part of the war; and the Declaration of Independence was read, from its
steps, on the 4th of July, 1776. The Federal Convention also sat in it,
in 1787. It is now occupied by the supreme and district courts below,
and by Peale's Museum above. This museum, among other articles, contains
an immense fossil skeleton of the great Mastodon, or American Mammoth,
which, some years ago, was publicly exhibited in London.
The _University_ of Pennsylvania was instituted several years ago, by
some of the citizens of Philadelphia; among whom was Dr. Franklin, who
drew up the original plan. It is governed by a provost and vice-provost.
In 1811, the number of students amounted to five hundred. The lectures
commence the first Monday in November, and end on the first day of
March. Among others, are professors of anatomy, surgery, midwifery,
chemistry, moral philosophy, mathematics, and natural philosophy, belles
lettres, and languages.
The Philadelphia _prison_ is a more interesting object to humanity than
the most gorgeous palaces. Its exterior is simple, and has rather the
air of an hospital than a gaol: a single grated door separates the
interior from the street. On entering the court, Mr. Hall found it full
of stone-cutters, employed in sawing and preparing large blocks of stone
and marble; smiths' forges were at work on one side, and the whole
court was surrounded by a gallery and a double tier of work-shops, in
which were brush-makers, tailors, shoemakers, weavers, all at their
several occupations, labouring, not only to defray, to the public, the
expenses of their confinement, but to provide the means of their own
honest subsistence for the future. It had none of the usual features of
a prison; neither the hardened profligacy which scoffs down its own
sense of guilt, nor the hollow-eyed sorrow which wastes away in a living
death of unavailing expiation: there was neither the clank of chains,
nor the yell of execration; but a hardworking body of men were seen,
who, though separated by justice from society, were not supposed to have
lost the distinctive attribute of human nature: they were treated as
rational beings, were operated upon by rational motives; and they repaid
this treatment by improved habits, by industry, and submission. They had
been profligate, they were now sober and decent in their behaviour; they
had been idle, they were now actively and usefully employed; they had
disobeyed the laws, they now submitted (armed as they were with all
kinds of utensils) to the government of a single turnkey, and the
barrier of a single grating.
The _markets_ of Philadelphia are well supplied; and the price of
provisions is considerably lower than in London. No butchers are
permitted to slaughter cattle within the city, nor are live cattle
permitted to be driven to the city markets.
The _inhabitants_ of this city are estimated at one hundred and twenty
thousand, and many of them live in houses which would adorn any city in
the world. They have, universally, a pallid and sallow countenance,
except the younger females; and many of these, even quakers, adopt the
disgusting practice of ornamenting their faces with rouge. In their
dress, the gentlemen follow the fashions of England, and the ladies
those of France. Mr. Fearon perceived here, what, he says, pervades the
whole of the new world, an affectation of splendour, or, what may be
called style, in those things that are intended to meet the public eye;
with a lamentable want, even of cleanliness, in such matters as are
removed from that ordeal. To this may be added an appearance of
uncomfortable extravagance, and an ignorance of that kind of order and
neatness, which, in the eyes of those who have once enjoyed it,
constitute the principal charm of domestic life. The Philadelphians
consist of English, Irish, Scotch, Germans, and French; and of
American-born citizens, descended from people of those different
nations. It is a remark very generally made, not only by foreigners, but
also by persons from distant parts of the United States, that they are
extremely deficient in hospitality and politeness towards strangers.
Among the uppermost circles in Philadelphia, pride, haughtiness, and
ostentation, are conspicuous; and, in the manners of the people in
general, there is much coldness and reserve.
Philadelphia is the grand residence of the quakers in America, but their
number does not now bear the same proportion to that of the other
citizens, which it formerly did. This, however, is not occasioned by a
diminution of quakers, so much as by the great influx, into the city, of
persons of a different persuasion.
In this city _funerals_ are uniformly attended by large walking
processions. The newspapers frequently contain advertisements, stating
the deaths of individuals, and inviting all friends to attend the
burial. The dead are seldom kept more than two days. At the time
appointed, intimate friends enter the house; others assemble on the
outside, and fall into the procession when the body is brought out.
With regard to the _climate_ of Philadelphia, it is observed that the
heats of summer are excessive; and that the cold of winter is equally
extreme. During the few days which Mr. Weld spent at Philadelphia, in
the month of June, 1795, the heat was almost intolerable. For two or
three days the thermometer stood at 93 deg., and, during these days, no one
stirred out of doors who was not compelled to do so. Light white hats
were universally worn, and the young men appeared dressed in cotton or
linen jackets and trowsers. The window-shutters of the houses were
closed early in the mornings, so as to admit no more light than what was
absolutely necessary for domestic business. Indeed, many of the houses
were kept so dark, that, on going into them from the street, it was
impossible, at first entrance, to perceive who was present. The best
houses in the city are furnished with Venetian blinds, at the outside,
to the windows and hall doors, which are made to fold together like
common window-shutters. A very different scene was presented after
sunset. Every house was then thrown open, and all the inhabitants
crowded into the streets, to take their evening walks, and to visit
their acquaintance. This usually lasted till about ten o'clock: at
eleven all was quiet; and a person might have passed over half the town
without seeing a single human being, except the watchmen. Heavy dews
sometimes fall after the sun is down, and the nights are then very cold:
at other times there are no dews, and the air continues hot all the
night through. At this season of the year meat cannot be kept sweet,
even for a single day, except in an icehouse or a remarkably cold
cellar. Milk generally turns sour in an hour or two; and fish is never
brought to market without being covered with lumps of ice. Poultry,
intended for dinner, is never killed till about four hours before it is
wanted, and even then it is kept immersed in water.
The _carriages_ used in Philadelphia consist of coaches, chariots,
chaises, coachees, and light waggons. The equipages of a few individuals
are extremely ostentatious; but there does not appear, in any, that
neatness and elegance which might be expected among people who are
desirous of imitating the fashions of England, and who are continually
procuring models from that country. The coachee is a carriage peculiar
to America; the body of it is somewhat longer than that of a coach, but
of the same shape. In front it is left quite open, down to the bottom,
and the driver sits on a bench under the roof. It has two seats for the
passengers, who sit with their faces towards the horses. The roof is
supported by small props, which are placed at the corners. On each side
of the doors, above the pannels, it is quite open; and, to guard against
bad weather, there are curtains, which are made to let down from the
roof, and which fasten to buttons, placed for the purpose, on the
outside. There is also a leathern curtain, to hang occasionally between
the driver and passengers.
The light waggons are on the same construction, but are calculated to
accommodate from four to twelve people. The only difference between a
small waggon and a coachee, is, that the latter is better finished, has
varnished pannels, and doors at the side. The former has no doors; but
the passengers scramble in, the best way they can, over the seat of the
driver. These waggons are universally used for stage-carriages.
The accommodations at the _taverns_, in Philadelphia, are very
indifferent; as, indeed, with very few exceptions, they are throughout
the country. The mode of conducting them is nearly the same every where.
The traveller, on his arrival, is shown into a room, which is common to
every person in the house, and which is generally the one set apart for
breakfast, dinner, and supper. All the strangers that are in the house
sit down, to these meals, promiscuously; and, excepting in the large
towns, the family of the house also forms a part of the company. It is
seldom that a private parlour or drawing-room can be procured at
taverns, even in the towns; and it is always with reluctance that
breakfast or dinner is served up separately to any individual. If a
separate bed-room can be procured, more ought not to be expected; and it
is not always that even this is to be had; and persons who travel
through the country must often submit to be crammed into rooms where
there is scarcely sufficient space to walk between the beds.
The _Delaware_, on the banks of which this city is built, rises in the
state of New York. At Philadelphia it is thirteen hundred and sixty
yards wide, and is navigable for vessels of any burden. It is frozen in
the winter months; a circumstance which materially affects the
commercial interests of Philadelphia, and gives a great advantage to New
York. The tide reaches as high as the falls of Trenton, thirty-five
miles above Philadelphia, and one hundred and fifty-five miles from the
sea. Six or seven steam-boats, of large size, ply on the Delaware, and
form a communication with New York, by Trenton and Bordentown; and with
Baltimore, by Wilmington and Newcastle. These vessels are all fitted up
in an elegant manner.
Over the river _Schuylkil_, near Philadelphia, there is a singular
bridge of iron wire. It is four hundred feet in length, and extends,
from the window of a wire factory, to a tree on the opposite shore. The
wires which form the curve are six in number; three on each side, and
each three-eighths of an inch in diameter. The floor of the bridge is
elevated sixteen feet above the water; and the whole weight of the wires
is about four thousand seven hundred pounds. It is possible to construct
a bridge of this kind in the space of a fortnight; and the whole expense
would not exceed three hundred dollars.
* * * * *
About thirty miles north-east of Philadelphia, and betwixt that city and
New York, is _Trenton_, the capital of New Jersey. Mr. Weld visited this
place in the year 1796; and he says that it then contained only about
eighty dwellings, in one long street. It had a college, which was in
considerable repute. The number of students was about seventy; but, from
their appearance, and the course of their studies, it more correctly
deserved the appellation of a grammar-school, than a college. The
library was a miserable one; and, for the most part, contained only old
theological books. There were an orrery out of repair, and a few
detached parts of philosophical apparatus. At the opposite end of the
room were two small cupboards, which were shown as the museum. These
contained two small alligators, stuffed, and a few fishes, in a wretched
state of preservation.
Not far from Trenton, and on the bank of the Delaware, is the residence
of Joseph Buonaparte, who, since the re-establishment of the ancient
families on the thrones of Europe, has retired to America. The estate on
which he lives he purchased for ten thousand dollars; and he is said to
have expended, twenty thousand more in finishing the buildings, and
laying out the grounds in a splendid style. At present it has much the
appearance of the villa of a country gentleman in England.
Fifth Day's Instruction.