Coldspring, Putnam Cy. N.Y.
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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 town of Cold
Spring.
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 Morea 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. 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 of old Fort Putnam half way up the mountain, and the waving line
of wood and valley extending to the 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
honored with the frequent visits of Washington Irving, Halleck, and
other lesser stars in the literary firmament. Now that these first
lights above the horizon have set (Hesperus-like, first and brightest!),
there lingers about the town 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 “author’s 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.
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