“10,000 acres of pine land on Egg Harbor River, the property of
Ebenezer Tucker, of Tuckerton, Burlington county, known by the name of
Judge Tucker. Should this land produce only ten cords to an acre, it
will be 1,000 to 100 acres, or 100,000 cords. The steam-boats from New
York will use 1,500 cords a year, or, for New York and Albany, 3,000
cords; thence 20 years would consume the wood of 6,000 acres, in which
time, the first cut would grow up, and thus this 10,000 acres would
perpetually supply the steamboats.”
The longest record in this account book (like all the others) is in
Fulton’s own handwriting, and entitled “_Livingston and Fulton vs. Lake
Champlain boat_.” It occupies four closely written pages, is dated
October 12, 1810, and signed by Robert R. Livingston. It is an
interesting document, but as the volume in question is about to be
presented to the New York Historical Society, I will leave it with that
honorable body to give it to the public in some of their interesting
publications.
But enough of this episode. Though Rock Creek may have been the
birthplace of Fulton’s steamboat idea, yet it is certain that, with all
his fiery monsters at our command, we could never ascend this beautiful
stream without the use of our legs, and we will therefore rejoin our
companion and continue our pedestrian pilgrimage.
Our next halting-place, after we left Kalorama, was at an old mill,
located in the centre of a secluded glen. With the humming music of its
wheels, with the polite attentions of the _floury_ miller, and the
rustic beauty of his cottage and children, we were well pleased, but
with the natural loveliness of the place we were delighted. A greater
variety of luxuriant foliage I never before witnessed in so limited a
nook of the country. From one point of view a scene presented itself
which was indeed exquisite. We were completely hemmed in from the great
world, and, in addition to the mill and the cottage, we had a full view
of the stream, which was spanned by a rustic foot bridge, upon which a
couple of children were standing and throwing pebbles in the water,
while a few paces beyond a man was pulling to the shore a small boat
laden with wood. On either hand, a number of proud-looking oaks towered
against the sky, and by the water’s edge in the distance stood a
stupendous silver willow, literally white with age; and, to complete the
picture, we had in one place a mysterious brick ruin, and in the
foreground a variety of mossy rocks, upon which, in a superb attitude,
stood our beautiful greyhound, watching a little army of minnows
sporting in a neighboring pool. And with what great name does our reader
imagine this beautiful place is associated? None other than that of the
late John Quincy Adams, who became its purchaser many years ago, and to
whose estate (as I believe) it now belongs. And many a time, in other
days, has that distinguished statesman spent his morning under the dome
of the capitol in political debate, and the afternoon of the same day in
this romantic glen, listening to the singing of a thousand birds, which
had built their nests in the branches of his own trees.
The roads which cross the channel of Rock Creek, and frequently run for
a long distance along its winding vale, are distinguished for their
loneliness, and of course well adapted to please the poetic mind. Along
many of them you might walk for miles without meeting a human being, but
then you would be sure to frighten many a rabbit, and destroy the
gossamery hammocks of unnumbered spiders. While passing along the road
which took us from Adams’ Mill further up the stream, we chanced to
overtake a small negro boy (who was almost without any rags on his back,
and whose straw hat looked as if the cows had feasted upon its brim),
with whom our companion held the following dialogue:—
“Boy, where are you going?”
“I’m gwine down to Mr. Pierce’s.”
And here—taking out his pencil, holding up his sketch-book, and looking
very fiercely at the darkie—our friend exclaimed, “I’ll sketch you, you
rascal.”
Whereupon the poor boy uttered a most frightful yell, and ran away in
the greatest consternation, as if we had been a pair of murderers.
Our next stopping-place was at a cider mill, where an old negro, with
the assistance of a mule, was grinding apples, and another man was
pressing the sweet juice into a mammoth tub. A lot of boys, who were out
on a chestnut gathering excursion, had discovered the mill, and having
initiated themselves into the good graces of the darkies, were evidently
enjoying a portion of Mr. Horace Greeley’s celebrated “good time.”
But it is now about noon, and we have reached that spot upon Rock Creek
known as Pierce’s Plantation. Here we found the ruins of an old
saw-mill, and while transferring a portrait of it to our sketch-book,
with its half decayed dam, and two or three hoary sycamores and elms, we
discovered a boy in the act of fishing. We bowed to him as to a brother
angler, and looking into his basket, we found snugly lying there no less
than half a dozen handsome fall[1] fish, weighing from six ounces to a
pound each. These we of course purchased, and then inquired of the boy
if he knew of a house in that vicinity where we could likely have the
fish cooked. He replied in the affirmative, whereupon we sent him to the
dwelling he mentioned for the purpose of warning the inmates of our
approach. On our arrival there we were warmly welcomed, and in due time
we had the satisfaction of enjoying as finely cooked fish as ever
tickled the palate of Izaak Walton or Sir Humphrey Davy. Not only were
we waited upon with marked politeness, but were treated with an
abundance of delicious currant wine and new cider, and for all this
truly southern hospitality we could make no return, excepting in the way
of gratitude.
But, pleasant as was our reception and repast at this Rock Creek
cottage, our own mind was more deeply impressed with the exquisitely
charming appearance of the cottage itself and surrounding buildings. It
struck us as one of the most comfortable and poetical nooks that we ever
beheld. It seemed to have everything about it calculated to win the
heart of a lover of nature and rural life. Though situated on the side
of a hill and embowered in trees, it commands a pleasing landscape; and
as it was built upwards of one hundred years ago, it is interesting for
its antiquity. Surmounted as it is with a pointed roof, green with the
moss of years, and flanked by a vine-covered porch, the vegetation which
clusters around it is so abundant that you can hardly discover its real
proportions. And all the out-buildings are in strict keeping with the
cottage itself. It is, upon the whole, one of the most interesting nooks
to be found anywhere within an hour’s ride of the capitol; and we can
fully understand what a certain wealthy gentleman _felt_ when he made
the remark that this Rock Creek cottage was the only place he had ever
seen which he would prefer to his own, albeit his own residence is one
of the most costly and beautiful in the District of Columbia.
The scenery of Rock Creek for several miles above the Pierce Plantation
is chiefly distinguished for its simple and quiet beauty. The whole vale
in fact is remarkably luxuriant, and probably contains as great a
variety of foliage as can be found in the same space in any section of
the country. For miles and miles do the trees come together as if for
the purpose of protecting the murmuring stream from the kisses of the
sunlight, and even in September birds and flowers are quite abundant;
for here it is (it would seem) that summer lingers longest in the lap of
autumn. And such vines, too, as cluster along the margin of this stream!
The graceful net-work which they have formed over the tiny waterfalls
and the deep dark pools, with all their tendrils, are graceful beyond
compare; and while happy children go there at times to gather the
luscious grapes, we are certain that the little people of fairyland are
well content with their allotted privilege of using the swing of the
vine, while in the enjoyment of their midnight revels.
But we find that we are getting to be decidedly too poetical for our own
safety and the comfort of our readers, and as the sun has long since
passed the meridian, it is time that we should think of returning home.
And, besides, as we shall return to the city by a different route from
the one we came, we purpose to introduce to our readers one or two more
“places of note” which are identified with Rock Creek.
And first as to the Rock Creek church, which lies somewhere between one
and two miles eastward of the stream from which it derives its name. The
original Rock Creek chapel was founded in the year 1719, and the bricks
employed in its construction were brought from England. It became a
parish church in 1726, at which time the glebe land (as at the present
time, I believe) amounted to one hundred acres. It was rebuilt in the
year 1768, and many improvements added in the year 1808. The first
rector of the church was the Rev. George Murdock, who officiated for
thirty-four years; his successors were Rev. Alexander Williamson, Rev.
Thomas Read, Rev. Alfred Henry Dashields, Rev. Thomas G. Allen, Rev.
Henry C. Knight, Rev. Levin I. Gills, Rev. Edward Waylen, and the
present incumbent, Rev. William A. Harris. Of Mr. Read it is recorded
that he presided over the church for forty years, during the whole of
which time he was absent only _thirty_ months; and with regard to Mr.
Waylen, it may be stated that he compiled an interesting history of the
Parish, which was published in 1845.
The appearance of Rock Creek church as it now stands is simply that of
an old-fashioned but very comfortable brick church. It occupies the
summit of a gentle hill, and is completely surrounded with a brotherhood
of fine oak and chestnut-trees. On every side of it tombs and
grave-stones are quite abundant, and some of them are so very old as to
be almost entirely hidden in the earth. Although we spent nearly an hour
in this city of the dead deciphering the various epitaphs, we only
stumbled upon one which attracted our particular attention; it was a
simple stone slab, covered with moss, upon which was this touching
record:—
“_Grant, Lord, when I from death do wake,
I may of endless life partake.
J. R._
1802.”
And now, by way of variety, suppose our readers tarry with us for a few
moments at the residence of a certain retired banker, which lies only a
short distance from the Rock Creek church. With the elegant mansion and
highly cultivated grounds, everybody must of necessity be pleased, for
we believe that a more tasteful and superb place is not to be found in
the country. It caps the summit of the loftiest hill in the vicinity of
Washington, and while in one direction it commands a view of the
Allegheny Mountains, in another lies spread out a complete panoramic
view of the metropolis of the land, with a magnificent reach of the
Potomac extending a distance of at least forty miles. To comment upon
the spirits who preside over the mansion to which we have alluded is not
our purpose, but we may mention in passing that among the numerous
productions of art which adorn the interior are two capital pictures by
Morland, and a very fine landscape by Gainsborough. But enough. The sun
is already near the horizon, and even now the latter half of our walk
home must be by the light of the moon. And so much for a vagabondizing
day on Rock Creek.