The Chautauquan takes back to his or her busy life in the school room,
the college chair, the pulpit, the sanctum, the parlor, and the kitchen,
many beautiful pictures of memory.
In fancy does one often see the branches of grand old trees, fit pillars
of one of God’s first temples, cross above one’s head, making a network
for the laughing, blue, summer skies; in imagination does one again see a
green landscape turn golden in the light of a fast setting sun. Ah! those
vistas about the Hall in the Grove; can not you see those leafy avenues
bending down to the lovely lake, now in the early morning stretching
glassy and waveless, now at noon, tumbling and tossing its white
caps abroad, now in the solemn night lying black and motionless, and
reflecting the light of stars? Can one who has seen the moon rise over
Long Point ever forget the sight? Recall now that midsummer night, when
drifting out in your boat you idly watched those masses of clouds shift,
part and separate to let the white glory of the moon shine through! How
serene and lofty she hung, poised in mid-heaven. Higher and higher she
climbed, pouring her wealth of light down upon the clouds heaped beneath
her, until they, massed and piled upon each other, seemed like the
glittering domes and towers of a city not made with hands. In vivid fancy
you could almost trace the shining streets of gold, the gates of pearl,
the walls of precious stones. The summer wind sighed softly around; the
murmuring waters rippled about the keel of your boat; on the shore the
lights danced and flickered like fireflies. Such a night is never to be
forgotten. It is a scene of enchantment, a mid-summer night’s dream.
“In such a night as this,
When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees
And they did make no noise in such a night,
Troilus methinks mounted the Trojan walls,
And sighed his soul toward the Grecian tents,
Where Cressid’ lay that night.
“In such a night,
Stood Dido with a willow in her hand,
Upon the wild sea banks, and waved her love
To come again to Carthage.”
Ah! these beautiful pictures “that hang on memory’s wall,” these day
dreams, by their potent magic, heal the heart and brain when life’s fret
and worry are hardly to be endured. A writer has truly said:
“’Tis well to dream.”
“I dream, and straightway there before me lies
A valley beautifully green and fair;
Bright, sparkling lakes, blue as the summer skies,
And trees and flowers dot it here and there.
“I wake, and straightway all familiar things
Display new beauty to my wondering gaze.
My soul refreshed by wandering, folds her wings
And finds contentment in life’s common ways.”
To all these beautiful pictures of memory many a Chautauquan adds the
remembrance of one indescribable scene—a look at the great fall.
A short trip to Niagara is indeed one of the features of a summer’s
sojourn at the city in the woods. Every week a crowd of excursionists
leaves with reluctance the delights of the fair lake and takes a day’s
jaunt to the Falls, which are distant about eighty miles from Chautauqua.
Many of you, my readers, remember that trip—the magnificent views of Lake
Erie, which you got from time to time, on the way to Buffalo. Then the
run down from that city along Niagara River, past Fort Erie and Black
Rock, historic names. You remember how your heart beat a little faster
when the brakeman called, “Niagara Falls,” and you realized that you were
soon to stand in sight of one of the wonders of the world. Of course you
remember the clamoring hackmen, once heard not easily forgotten. Then
have you forgotten that short walk or drive down a shaded street, past
many shops filled with feathers and Indian temptations? Do you recall
that dull, booming sound which suddenly broke upon your ear, and can you
not now sense that delicious, fresh smell of the water as you turned into
Prospect Park, and ah! can you ever forget when you at last stood within
hand reach of that awful presence, when your bewildered and startled
eyes glanced now at the shouting, leaping, laughing, maddening, scornful
rapids; now at that overwhelming mass which flung itself over that
tremendous precipice into a seemingly bottomless pit? Was it a pleasant
day when you were there? Do you then remember the exquisite coloring of
the water, the dazzling white, the vivid green, the pellucid blue? How
the sun seemed to catch up every drop of that vast volume, and shine
through it, giving a tiny rainbow effect to every crystalline particle?
How the rapids called aloud to each other in glee, and chased one another
in a mad race, as to which should first make that mighty leap? Or was it
a dull, gloomy day? Then did they not shriek aloud in horror, and hurl
themselves in black and hissing despair to their awful plunge?
Did you chance at nightfall to drive or walk about Goat Island, and hear
the chattering and cawing of myriads of crows, which blackened the tree
tops? This is their rendezvous, and the woods are alive with them, and
their weird sounds at dusk, added to that ever present, sullen roar,
produce an unearthly and fantastic effect. Did not your breath almost
forsake your body when you crossed to the three fair sisters lying so
peacefully far out in the midst of that seething, tumbling, foaming hell
of waters?
At night you saw the electric lights turned on the American Fall, playing
now with sulphuric effect, now giving a ghastly, blue appearance, and now
turning this white, pure Undine to a very Scarlet Woman. The day on which
you first saw these pictures will long be marked with a red letter in
your calendar.
But, sublime as is the physical beauty of Niagara, we have to deal
with quite another phase of her character; one of which the tourist,
limited by time, seldom thinks. It is only after becoming familiar with
every inch of her picturesque surroundings, after spending days and
weeks drinking in her superb beauty, content to sit, oblivious of time
or space, or sun or sky, that one at last remembers that for many miles
around the ground is covered with the footprints of history. Ground that
has echoed the thundering tread of armies, that has been drunken with
the blood of brave men, that now smiles peacefully, from which violets
spring, and on which children play.
“Once this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery hearts and armed hands
Encountered in the battle cloud.
“Now all is calm and fresh and still,
Alone the chirp of flitting bird
And talk of children on the hill,
And bell of wandering kine is heard.”
To say nothing of the French and Indian wars, the country about Niagara
was the scene of many of the fiercest struggles of the war of 1812, and
some of the sorest defeats to the American side. The battle of Queenston
Heights and Lundy’s Lane, or Bridgewater, were both disastrous to the
American cause, while Fort George, at the mouth of Niagara River, a hard
earned and costly acquisition of the Americans, was wrested from them by
General Drummond, who also laid waste Lewiston, Youngstown, Tuscarora,
and Manchester, then called, now the village of Niagara Falls. Those were
dark days for the Americans, when they fought not only Englishmen, but
crafty and treacherous Indians.
The first great battle of the campaign on the Niagara during the war
of 1812, was that of Queenston Heights, on the 13th of October. This
was the second attempted invasion of Canada, the first having been the
humiliating failure of Hull, at Detroit, in August previous. General
Stephen Van Rensselaer determined to capture Queenston Heights, and for
that purpose, early in the morning, sent two small columns down the
river, most of which succeeded in landing under a brisk fire from the
vigilant English. Captain John E. Wool led the Regulars up the hill, and
was met by the British on the broad plateau, where a sharp engagement
took place, ending in the Americans being forced back to the beach.
Here they were reinforced and ordered to scale the Heights. This order
was obeyed, and for a short time the Americans had the advantage, when
suddenly brave General Brock, who defeated Hull at Detroit, and who was
now at Fort George, at the mouth of the river, having ridden from thence
at full speed, appeared and took command. A furious contest followed, in
which the Americans, though fighting with the bravery of despair, were
driven to the extreme edge of the precipice, and in which Brock fell,
mortally wounded.
Then General Winfield Scott crossed the river and assumed command of the
American forces, expecting to be reinforced by the militia, but through
stubbornness and cowardice they fell back on their prerogative, and
refused to be taken out of the state. Twice was Scott attacked by the
British and Indians, and twice repelled them with the bayonet, but at the
third attack the Americans were obliged to retreat. Back, back, further
yet, over the edge of that awful chasm they went scrambling from ledge to
ledge, leaping from rock to rock, stumbling, falling, blindly catching
at twig, branch, stem, blade of grass, even, powder blackened, faint,
weary, bleeding, wounded, dying, only to reach the river to find no boats
waiting to succor them, compelled at last to surrender. Ah! dead heroes!
that was indeed a descent into Avernus.
In this engagement the Americans lost one thousand men.
Let the visitor to Niagara not leave until he has taken the drive to
Queenston Heights. It is only seven miles below the cataract, not a long
drive for a summer afternoon. A pretty drive, too, past many beautiful
farms and country seats. Once there one can drive to the top of the
broad plateau, on which the lofty and magnificent monument to General
Brock stands. Now leave your carriage, go to the front of the plateau,
and look. What a view! Directly at your feet lies old Queenstown; across
the river old Lewistown; for seven miles before you, peacefully and
languidly, as if weary from its terrible work up above, flows the green
river, flecked with foam. Yonder, at its mouth, lies Fort Niagara, on the
American side; the ruins of Forts George and Mississaga, on the Canadian
side, while beyond, far as the eye can reach, stretches Lake Ontario,
flooded with the light of a western sun—a sea of glass, mingled with fire.
In the spring of 1813, Isaac Chauncey, an American Commodore, after a
successful expedition against York, now Toronto, which he held for four
days and then abandoned, after firing the government buildings, captured
Fort George. The Americans held it until the following December, when
General Drummond appeared on the peninsula, between Lakes Ontario and
Erie. On his approach the American garrison abandoned Fort George and
fled across the river to Fort Niagara. As they went they ruthlessly
burned the village of Newark. One week after, the British captured Fort
Niagara, and killed eighty of the garrison, showing no quarter to the
sick in the hospital. Then followed the triumphant march of the British
up the American side of the river, burning and sacking Youngstown,
Lewistown, Tuscarora, Niagara Falls, even to Black Rock and Buffalo. All
the farms were laid waste, and desolation stalked relentlessly through
the entire region.
The whole campaign on the Niagara had been a series of blunders, and was
most disastrous to the American cause.
The old town of Niagara, at the mouth of the river, is to-day an
interesting and picturesque place to visit. Here the tourist takes the
steamer for Toronto, and if he have an hour or two to wait, let him
stroll about through the beautifully shaded streets, past the elegant
hotels and private country seats, for the old town is a famous summer
resort now, and is likely to be still more attractive, for a little
Chautauqua is soon to spring up within stone-throw of the ruined
breastworks of old Fort George.
From the round tower of Fort Mississaga, which commanded the harbor, one
gets a superb view of the lake and of Fort Niagara, just over the border
on the American side. Fort and lighthouse are in capital condition, and
the sight of the flutter of the stars and stripes against the blue sky is
very dear to the American who stands on British soil, and, thinking of
all it has cost to preserve that flag, realizes that it is still there.
In 1814, the Secretary of War having persisted in his project to invade
Canada, determined, as a first step, to take Kingston. In order to
conceal this movement, and also that there might be no enemy left in the
rear, Major-General Brown, of the American forces, commenced operations
on the peninsula, between Lakes Erie and Ontario.
On the 2nd of July he left Buffalo, and captured Fort Erie, on the
opposite side of the river. He then pursued his way down the river until
he reached Chippewa Creek. He then fell back a little to Street’s Creek,
and waited for the main body of the force, which arrived on the morning
of the 5th.
General Scott’s camp was located on a little plain lying mid-way between
these two creeks. In the afternoon he ordered out his brigade for a
dress parade. Approaching the bridge he was met by General Brown, who
informed him that a battle was imminent. The head of Scott’s column
had scarcely reached the bridge when the British opened fire from the
extensive forests that surrounded the creek. Riall, the British General,
sneered contemptuously at the “Buffalo militia,” as he believed them
when they first came in sight, but when he saw them cross the bridge
steadily under fire, he discovered they were Regulars. General Peter B.
Porter had command on Scott’s left, and his men fought well until charged
by the bayonet, when they gave way. Major Jesup, however, covered the
exposed flank, and the fighting became hot and furious along the entire
front. After a time the right wing of the British disengaged from the
line and charged against Jesup. Scott was quick to observe this, and in
his turn charged against the exposed flank. Simultaneously Leavenworth
attacked the left wing of the British, and through the gap between these
two attacking columns, Towson’s battery poured in its canister with
speedy effect, and the British soon retreated in great confusion, and the
Americans had won their only decisive victory on Niagara.
Chippewa is to-day a tumbledown, uninteresting spot, attractive only to
the student of history. There are some beautiful private residences near
the town, on the banks of the river, and just below the village the river
breaks into the rapids. After the well fought battle of Chippewa, the
invasion of Canada seemed more feasible. General Brown was very sanguine
of success, providing he could secure Commodore Chauncey’s assistance,
with his fleet. He wrote urgently to Chauncey, assuring him that the
British force at Kingston was very light, and that between their two
forces they could conquer Canada in two months, if they were active and
vigilant. But those qualities Chauncey did not possess; besides, he was
ill, and thought he had more important business on hand than to carry
provisions for the troops, and therefore did nothing. Nearly opposite the
American Fall a road runs back over the hill, past the Clifton House and
the Canada Southern Railroad Depot. The tourist following this road, and
turning to the left after passing the depot, will soon find himself in a
beautiful little village. Cottages of quaint and old fashioned design,
nearly covered with vines and roses, and narrow lanes in lieu of streets,
are its distinguishing features. Up a hill you go past a brick church,
and a graveyard, in which you may find many curious inscriptions. The
top of the hill is reached. Look back down that pleasant street, where
old trees stretch out their long arms to meet each other. See those
comfortable happy homes on each side. Hear that group of children laugh
at their play; and listen, from that little brick Methodist church, on
a soft summer evening, come the solemn strains of an old time hymn. No
more peaceful, pastoral scene in the world, and yet the spot on which we
stand was the scene of frightful carnage, terrific struggle, horrible
bloodshed; here was fought the famous battle of Lundy’s Lane. At noon
of July 25, 1814, General Brown received intelligence at Chippewa,
that General Drummond had reached Fort George the night previous, with
reinforcements, with which he intended to capture the stores of the
Americans at Fort Schlosser, which was located just above the rapids,
on the American side. Scott—now a Brigadier-General—was ordered forward
to divert the enemy from this project. He had advanced about two miles
when he was confronted by the entire British force, drawn up in Lundy’s
Lane. Scott engaged the right wing of the British, ordering Jesup to look
after the left. These movements were successful, Jesup capturing many
prisoners, among whom was General Riall. After the battle was well under
way, General Brown arrived from Chippewa with reinforcements. The British
held an eminence on which were planted seven guns. General Brown saw at
once that unless this battery could be captured no impression could be
made.
“Can you take that battery?” he asked Colonel James Miller.
“I’ll try, sir,” was the memorable answer of Miller—and he tried. It was
now night, and the approach of Miller’s men was hidden by a high fence.
The gunners held their lighted matches in their hands when Miller’s men
thrust their muskets through the fence, shot down the men at the guns,
rushed forward and captured the battery.
The British made two valiant attempts to retake the battery, but were not
successful. Generals Brown, Scott, and Major Jesup were all wounded, and
the command devolved upon the inefficient Ripley, who, after idly waiting
half an hour, anticipating another attack, instead of following up the
advantage already gained, withdrew from the field. The British returned,
took possession of the field and the battery which Miller had captured.
The American forces were obliged to beat a retreat to Chippewa for food
and water, and the British claimed the victory as the last occupants of
the field. The loss of men on both sides was about equal.
Drummond followed the Americans to Fort Erie, opposite Buffalo, and
there ensued a regular siege until the 17th of September, when the
Americans made a sudden sortie and destroyed the works of the enemy.
This was accomplished only by terrific fighting on both sides, in which
the Americans lost five hundred men, and the British nine hundred.
Drummond now abandoned the siege, and in October the Americans destroyed
Fort Erie, and returned to their own side of the river. Thus ended the
campaign on the Niagara. It had been productive of no results save the
digging of thousands of graves, and proving to the British that the raw
Yankee troops were able to give the trained English soldiers some hard
work.
Just above Goat Island, where the river breaks into rapids, on the
American side, the tourist notices the ruins of Fort Schlosser, of which
we have spoken before as containing stores and provisions on which
General Drummond had designs. Later history has something to say of this
fort. Here occurred a circumstance out of which grew results which for
a time threatened a third war between England and the United States. In
1837, just after the close of the second Seminole war, a rebellion broke
out in Canada. Great sympathy was felt on the American side, for the
insurgents. Despite the fact that the United States made great efforts
to preserve neutrality, a small American steamer, the “Caroline,” made
regular trips across to Navy Island, carrying supplies to a party of five
hundred insurgents, who were staying there. In December, one Captain
Drew was sent out from Chippewa with a force to capture this steamer. He
did not find her at Navy Island, as he expected, and so crossed to Grand
Island, which was American territory, boarded her, killed twelve men on
board, towed her out in the stream, set her on fire, and left her to
drift down the river and go over the Falls.
The United States promptly demanded redress, but could obtain no
satisfaction for three years. In 1840, one McLeod, who had boasted of his
part in this affair, came over to the American side, where he was under
indictment for murder. He was seized and held for trial.
The British government demanded his release on the ground that he had
participated in an act of war, and therefore could not for that act
be tried before a civil court. The President answered that as yet the
United States had received no answer to the question whether the burning
of the “Caroline” had been an authorized act of war. In all events the
administration could not interfere with a state court, and prevent it
from trying any one indicted within its limits. England threatened war
unless McLeod was released; but the trial proceeded. The two countries
would doubtless have been brought into conflict had not McLeod been
acquitted. It was proved that he was asleep in Chippewa at the time the
“Caroline” was burned, and that a vain desire for notoriety had caused
him to inculpate himself. There was great excitement in 1841, over
this trial, which was augmented by the indifferent attitude of acting
President Tyler. A District Attorney of New York was allowed to act as
McLeod’s counsel, and retain his office, thus presenting the astonishing
spectacle of a government officer attempting to prove, in such a question
as this, which was liable to result in war, his own government to be in
the wrong.
Nothing now remains of Fort Schlosser but a tall, gaunt chimney, which
has weathered for many long years the terrific winds which sweep down the
river.
Throughout this fair and smiling region there are but few traces of these
fierce battles.
“No solemn host goes trailing by
The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain;
Men start not at the battle cry,—
O, be it never heard again.”
No blackened farms and desolated villages; no rattle of musketry and roar
of cannon; the sword is turned into plow-share and pruning hook; from
the soil watered with the blood of heroes spring thrifty orchards and
sweet flowers; in the place of fire from the blazing torch of red handed
war rises the smoke of prosperous town and thriving hamlet; Canada and
the United States stretching out friendly hands to each other; the Union
Jack and the Stars and Stripes floating side by side; peace, plenty, and
prosperity on both sides the broad river. Everything is changed save the
great Falls themselves. Unceasingly they do their awful work; unceasingly
their thunders sound; unceasingly their mists roll heavenward.