of West Point, overlooking the most beautiful scene on the most
beautiful river of our country. It commemorates the virtues of
Kosciusko, who, during his second sojourn in America, lived at West
Point, and cultivated his little garden, near the site of this tribute
to his memory. Kosciusko’s first laurels were gained in this country
under Washington. He was educated in the military school at Warsaw,
whence he was sent, as one of four, to complete his education at Paris.
On his return to Poland, he had a commission given him, but, being
refused promotion, he determined to come to America, and join the
colonies in their struggle for independence. With letters from Dr.
Franklin to General Washington, he presented himself to the great
patriot, and was immediately appointed his aid-de-camp, and later he
received the appointment to the engineers, with the rank of colonel. At
the close of the war, having distinguished himself by his courage and
skill, he returned to Poland, was appointed major-general in the army of
the diet, and served as general of division under the younger
Poniatowski. Finding, however, his efforts for freedom paralysed by the
weakness or treachery of others, he gave in his resignation, and went
into retirement at Leipsic. He was still there in 1793, when the Polish
army and people gave signs of being in readiness for insurrection. All
eyes were turned towards Kosciusko, who was at once chosen for their
leader, and messengers were sent to him from Warsaw to acquaint him with
the schemes and wishes of his compatriots. In compliance with the
invitation, he proceeded towards the frontiers of Poland; but
apprehensive of compromising the safety of those with whom he acted, he
was about to defer his enterprise, and set off for Italy. He was
fortunately persuaded to return, and, arriving at Cracow at the very
time when the Polish garrison had expelled the Russian troops, he was
chosen generalissimo, with all the power of a Roman dictator. He
immediately published an act, authorizing insurrection against the
foreign authorities, and proceeded to support Colonel Madalinski, who
was pursued by the Russians. Having joined that officer, they gained
their first victory, defeating the enemy with inferior numbers. His army
now increased to nine thousand men, the insurrection extended to Warsaw,
and in a few days the Russians were driven from that palatinate. He
obtained some advantage over the enemy in one more contest, but the king
of Prussia arriving to the assistance of the Russians, he was exposed to
great personal danger, and suffered a defeat. From this period he waged
a disadvantageous warfare against superior force, and at last at
Maczienice (or Maniejornice), fifty miles from Warsaw, an overwhelming
Russian force completely defeated Kosciusko. He fell from his horse
wounded, saying _Finis Poloniæ_, and was made prisoner.
Kosciusko was sent to Russia, and confined in a fortress near St.
Petersburgh, where he was kept till the accession of Paul I. This
monarch, through real or affected admiration for the character of the
great man, released him, and presented him with his sword: “_I have no
longer occasion for a sword, since I have no longer a country_,”
answered Kosciusko.
In 1797 he once more took his departure for the United States, where he
was received with honour and warm welcome by the grateful people whose
liberty he had aided to achieve. He was granted a pension by the
government, and elected to the society of the Cincinnati. He returned to
Europe the following year, bought an estate near Fontainebleau, and
lived there till 1814. He removed again to Switzerland, and established
himself at Soleure, where he died, in consequence of a fall with his
horse over a precipice near Vevay. Among the last acts of his life, were
the emancipation of the slaves on his own estate in Poland, and a
bequest for the emancipation and education of slaves in Virginia.
Kosciusko was never married. His body was removed to Cracow, and
deposited with great state in the tomb of the kings beneath the
cathedral. The oldest officers were his bearers; two beautiful young
girls with wreathes of oak leaves and cypress followed, and then came a
long procession of the general staff, senate, clergy, and people. Count
Wodsiki delivered a funeral oration on the hill of Wavel, and a prelate
delivered an eloquent address in the church. The senate decreed that a
lofty mound should be erected on the heights of Bronislawad. For three
years men of every age and class toiled gratuitously at this work, and
at last the _Mogila Kosziuszki_, the mound of Kosciusko, was raised to
the height of 3000 feet! A serpentine path leads to the top, from which
there is a noble view of the Vistula, and of the ancient city of the
Polish kings. The small monument at West Point has less pretension, but
it is the exponent of as deep a debt of gratitude, and of as grateful
and universal honour to his memory.
[Illustration]
HORSESHOE FALLS, AT NIAGARA.
(SEEN FROM GOAT ISLAND.)
* * * * *
Niagara is the outlet of several bodies of water, covering, it is
estimated, 150,000 square miles! Dr. Dwight considers the Falls as part
of the St. Lawrence, following that river back to the sources near the
Mississippi; and, doing away with the intermediate names of St. Marie,
Detroit, St. Clair, Iroquois, and Cataraqui, he traces its course
through the lakes Superior, Huron, Erie, and Ontario, as the Rhone is
followed through the Lake of Geneva, and the Rhine through Lake
Constance. In this view the St. Lawrence is doubtless the first river in
the world. It meets the tide of the sea four hundred miles from its
mouth, which is ninety-five miles broad; and to this height fleets of
men of war may ascend and find ample room for an engagement. Merchantmen
of all sizes go up to Montreal, which is six hundred miles from the sea;
and its navigation for three thousand miles is only interrupted in three
places,—Niagara Falls, the rapids of the Iroquois, and the part called
the river St. Marie. The St. Marie is navigable for boats, though not
for larger vessels; a portage of ten miles (soon to be superseded by a
ship canal) conveys merchandise around the Falls of Niagara, and the
rapids of the Iroquois present so slight a hinderance, that goods are
brought from Montreal to Queenston for nearly the same price as they
would pay by unobstructed navigation.
It is necessary to remember the extent of the waters which feed Niagara,
to conceive, when standing for an hour only on the projecting rocks, how
this almighty wonder can go on so long. Even then,—that these inland
seas lie above, tranquil and unexhausted, scarce varying their
high-water mark perceptibly, from year to year, yet supplying, for
_every_ hour, the “ninety millions of tons,” which, it is estimated,
plunge over the cataract,—it affords you a standard for the extent of
those lakes, to which the utmost stretch of the mind seems scarcely
competent.
The accompanying view from Goat Island is of course only partial, as the
American fall is entirely left out of the picture. The Horseshoe Falls,
as a single object, however, is unquestionably the sublimest thing in
nature. To know that the angle of the cataract, from the British shore
to the tower, is near half a mile in length; that it falls so many feet
with so many tons of water a minute; or even to see it, as here,
admirably represented by the pencil; conveys no idea to the reader of
the impression produced on the spectator. One of the most remarkable
things about Niagara is entirely lost in the drawing—its _motion_. The
visitor to Niagara should devote one day exclusively to the observation
of this astonishing feature. The broad flood glides out of Lake Erie
with a confiding tranquillity that seems to you, when you know its
impending destiny, like that of a human creature advancing irresistibly,
but unconsciously, to his death. He embraces the bright islands that
part his arms for a caress; takes into his bosom the calm tribute of the
Tonewanta and Unnekuqua—small streams that come drowsing through the
wilderness—and flows on, till he has left Lake Erie far behind, bathing
the curving sides of his green shores with a surface which only the
summer wind ruffles. The channel begins to descend; the still
unsuspecting waters fall back into curling eddies along the banks, but
the current in the centre flows smoothly still. Suddenly the powerful
stream is flung with accumulated swiftness among broken rocks; and, as
you watch it from below, it seems tossed with the first shock into the
very sky. It descends in foam, and from this moment its agony commences.
For three miles it tosses and resists, and, racked at every step by
sharper rocks and increased rapidity, its unwilling and choked waves fly
back, to be again precipitated onward, and at last reach the glossy
curve, convulsed with supernatural horror. They touch the emerald arch,
and in that instant, like the calm that follows the conviction of
inevitable doom, the agitation ceases,—the waters pause,—the foam and
resistance subside into a transparent stillness,—and slowly and
solemnly the vexed and tormented sufferer drops into the abyss. Every
spectator, every child, is struck with the singular deliberation, the
unnatural slowness, with which the waters of Niagara take their plunge.
The laws of gravitation seem suspended, and the sublimity of the
tremendous gulf below seems to check the descending victim on the verge,
as if it paused in awe.
[Illustration]
THE NARROWS, AT STATEN ISLAND.
* * * * *
Almost any land looks beautiful after a long voyage; and it would not be
surprising if the Narrows, oftenest seen and described by those who have
just come off the passage of the Atlantic, should have this reputation.
It does not require an eye long deprived of verdure, however, to relish
the bold shores, the bright green banks, the clustering woods, and
tasteful villas, which make up the charms of this lovely strait.
Busier waters than the Narrows could scarcely be found; and it is
difficult to imagine, amid so much bustle and civilisation, the scene
that presented itself to Hendrick Hudson, when the little _Halve-Mane_
stole in on her voyage of discovery two hundred years ago. _Hoofden_, or
the Highlands, as he then named the hills in this neighbourhood, “were
covered with grass and wild-flowers, and the air was filled with
fragrance.” Groups of friendly natives, clothed in elk skins, stood on
the beach, singing, and offering him welcome, and, anchoring his little
bark, he explored with his boats the channel and inlets, and penetrated
to the mouth of the river which was destined to bear his name. It
appears, however, that the Indians on the Long Island side were less
friendly; and in one of the excursions into the Bay of Manhattan, his
boat was attacked by a party of twenty-nine savages of a ferocious
tribe, and an English sailor, named Colman, was killed by an arrow-shot
in the shoulder. Other unfriendly demonstrations from the same tribe,
induced Hudson to leave his anchorage at Sandy Hook, and he drew in to
the Bay of New York, which he found most safe and commodious, and where
he still continued his intercourse with the Indians of Staten Island,
receiving them on board his vessel, dressing them, to their extravagant
delight, in red coats, and purchasing from them fish and fruits in
abundance.
At this day there stands a villa on every picturesque point; a thriving
town lies on the left shore; hospitals and private sanitary
establishments extend their white edifices in the neighbourhood of the
quarantine-ground; and between the little fleets of merchantmen, lying
with the yellow flag at their peak, fly rapidly and skilfully a constant
succession of steam-boats, gaily painted and beautifully modelled,
bearing on their airy decks the population of one of the first cities of
the world. Yet of Manhattan Island, on which New York is built, Hudson
writes, only two hundred years ago, that “it was wild and rough; a thick
forest covered the parts where anything would grow; its beach was broken
and sandy, and full of inlets; its interior presented hills of stony and
sandy alluvion, masses of rock, ponds, swamps, and marshes.”
The gay description which an American would probably give of the
Narrows,—the first spot of his native land seen after a tedious
voyage,—would probably be in strong contrast with the impression it
produces on the emigrant, who sees in it only the scene of his first
difficult step in a land of exile. I remember noting this contrast with
some emotion, on board the packet-ship in which I was not long ago a
passenger from England. Among the crowd of emigrants in the steerage,
was the family of a respectable and well-educated man, who had failed as
a merchant in some small town in England, and was coming, with the wreck
of his fortune, to try the back-woods of America. He had a wife, and
eight or ten very fine children, the eldest of whom, a delicate and
pretty girl of eighteen, had contributed to sustain the family under
their misfortunes at home, by keeping a village school. The confinement
had been too much for her, and she was struck with consumption—a
disease which is peculiarly fatal in America. Soon after leaving the
British Channel, the physician on board reported her to the captain as
exceedingly ill, and suffering painfully from the close air of the
steerage; and by the general consent of the cabin passengers, a bed was
made up for her in the deck-house, where she received the kindest
attention from the ladies on board; and with her gentle manners and
grateful expressions of pleasure, soon made an interest in all hearts.
As we made the land, the air became very close and hot; and our patient,
perhaps from sympathy with the general excitement about her, grew
feverish and worse, hourly. Her father, and a younger sister, sat by
her, holding her hands and fanning her; and when we entered the Narrows
with a fair wind, and every one on board, forgetting her in their
admiration of the lovely scene, mounted to the upper deck, she was
raised to the window, and stood with the bright red spot deepening on
her cheek, watching the fresh green land without the slightest
expression of pleasure. We dropped anchor, the boats were lowered, and
as the steerage passengers were submitted to a quarantine, we attempted
to take leave of her before going on shore. A fit of the most passionate
tears, the paroxysms of which seemed almost to suffocate her, prevented
her replying to us; and we left that poor girl surrounded with her
weeping family, trying in vain to comfort her. Hers were feelings,
probably, which are often associated with a remembrance of the Narrows.
[Illustration]
VIEW OF THE CAPITOL AT WASHINGTON.
* * * * *
There are many favourable points of view for this fine structure,
standing, as it does, higher than the general level of the country.
Besides those presented in the different drawings in this work, there
are views from the distant eminences, which are particularly fine, in
which the broad bosom of the Potomac forms the back-ground. The effect
of the building is also remarkably imposing when the snow is on the
ground, and the whole structure, rising from a field of snow, with its
dazzling whiteness, looks like some admirable creation of the frost. All
architecture, however, is very much improved by the presence of a
multitude of people, and the Capitol looks its best on the day of
inauguration. The following description, written after viewing the
ceremony of Mr. Van Buren’s induction into office, will give an idea of
the effect of this solemnity on the architecture:—
“The sun shone out of heaven without a cloud on the inaugural morning.
The air was cold, but clear and life-giving, and the broad avenues of
Washington for once seemed not too large for the thronging population.
The crowds who had been pouring in from every direction for several days
before, ransacking the town for but a shelter from the night, were
apparent on the spacious side walks, and the old campaigners of the
winter seemed but a thin sprinkling among the thousands of new and
strange faces. The sun shone alike on the friends and opponents of the
new administration; and, as far as one might observe in a walk to the
Capitol, all were made cheerful alike by its brightness. It was another
augury, perhaps, and may foretell a more extended fusion under the light
of the luminary new-risen. In a whole day, passed in a crowd composed of
all classes and parties, I heard no remark that the president would have
been unwilling to hear.
“I was at the Capitol a half-hour before the procession arrived, and had
leisure to study a scene for which I was not at all prepared. The noble
staircase of the east front of the building leaps over three arches;
under one of which carriages pass to the basement door; and, as you
approach from the gate, the eye cuts the ascent at right angles, and the
sky, broken by a small spire at a short distance, is visible beneath.
Broad stairs occur at equal distances, with corresponding projections,
and from the upper platform rise the outer columns of the portico, with
ranges of columns three deep extending back to the pilasters. I had
often admired this front, with its many graceful columns and its superb
flight of stairs, as one of the finest things I had seen in the world.
Like the effect of the assembled population of Rome waiting to receive
the blessing before the front of St. Peter’s, however, the assembled
crowd on the steps and at the base of the Capitol, heightened
inconceivably the grandeur of the design. They were piled up like the
people on the temples of Babylon in one of Martin’s sublime
pictures—every projection covered, and an inexpressible soul and
character given by their presence to the architecture. Boys climbed
about the bases of the columns, single figures stood on the posts of the
surrounding railings in the boldest relief against the sky, and the
whole thing was exactly what Paul Veronese would have delighted to draw.
“I was in the crowd thronging the opposite side of the court, and lost
sight of the principal actors in this imposing drama till they returned
from the Senate Chamber. A temporary platform had been laid and railed
in on the broad stair which supports the portico, and, for all
preparation for one of the most important and most meaning and solemn
ceremonies on earth—for the inauguration of a chief magistrate over a
republic of fifteen millions of freemen—the whole addition to the open
air and the presence of the people, was a volume of Holy Writ. In
comparing the impressive simplicity of this consummation of the wishes
of a mighty people, with the ceremonial and hollow show which embarrass
a corresponding event in other lands, it was impossible not to feel that
the moral sublime was here—that a transaction so important, and of such
extended and weighty import, could borrow nothing from drapery or
decoration, and that the simple presence of the sacred volume,
consecrating the act, spoke more thrillingly to the heart than the
trumpets of a thousand heralds.
“The crowd of diplomatists and senators in the rear of the columns made
way, and the ex-President and Mr. Van Buren advanced with uncovered
heads. A murmur of feeling rose up from the moving mass below, and the
infirm old man, emerged from a sick chamber which his physician had
thought it impossible he should leave, bowed to the people, and, still
uncovered in the cold air, took his seat beneath the portico. Mr. Van
Buren then advanced, and with a voice remarkably distinct, and with
great dignity, read his address to the people.
“When the address was closed, the Chief Justice advanced and
administered the oath. As the book touched the lips of the new
President, there arose a general shout, an expression of feeling common
enough in other countries, but drawn with difficulty from an American
assemblage. The sons and immediate friends of Mr. Van Buren then closed
around him, the ex-President and others gave him the hand in
congratulation, and the ceremony was over.”
[Illustration]
VIEW OF THE RUINS OF FORT TICONDEROGA.
* * * * *
Three weeks before the first battle of the revolution at Lexington, an
emissary was sent to Canada by the Committee of Correspondence in
Boston, to ascertain the feelings of the people, and to make such
reports as his observations might suggest. His first advice was that
Ticonderoga should be seized as quickly as possible.
The “Green Mountain Boys” were at this time fresh from their resistance
to the _new grants_, and were immediately fixed upon as the best force
to achieve this object. The little army, already organized under the
famous Ethan Allen, assembled at Castleton, and the main body,
consisting of one hundred and forty men, marched directly to the shore
of the lake, opposite Ticonderoga. It was important to have a guide who
was acquainted with the ground around the fortress and the places of
access. Allen made inquiries as to these points of Mr. Beman, a farmer
residing near the lake, who answered that he seldom crossed the
Ticonderoga, and was little acquainted with the particulars of its
situation; but that his son, Nathan, a young lad, passed much of his
time there in company with the boys of the garrison.
The boy was called, and appeared by his answers to be familiar with
every nook in the fort, and every passage and by-path by which it could
be approached. In the eye of Allen, he was the very person to thread out
the best avenue; and by the consent of the father, and a little
persuasion, he was engaged to be the guide of the party.
The next step was to procure boats, which were very deficient in number.
Eighty-three men only had crossed when the day began to dawn; and while
the boats were sent back for the rear division, Allen resolved to move
immediately against the fort.
He drew up his men in three ranks, addressed them in a short harangue,
and, placing himself at the head of the centre file, led them silently,
but with a quick step, up the heights of the fortress. Before the sun
rose, he had entered the gate, and formed his men on the parade between
the barracks. As Allen passed the gate, a sentinel snapped his fusee at
him, and then retreated under a covered way. Another sentinel made a
thrust at an officer with his bayonet, and slightly wounded him, but
Allen cut him over the head with his sword, and he threw down his musket
and asked for quarter. Standing on the parade-ground they gave three
huzzas and aroused the sleepers. Allen inquired the way to the
commandant’s apartment, hastily ascended the stairs, and called out with
his stentorian voice at the door, ordering the astonished captain
instantly to appear. Startled at so strange and unexpected a summons, he
sprang from his bed and opened the door, when the first salutation of
his boisterous and unseasonable visitor was an order immediately to
surrender the fort. Rubbing his eyes, and trying to collect his
scattered senses, the Frenchman asked by what authority he presumed to
make such a demand. “In the name of the Great Jehovah and the
Continental Congress!” replied Allen.
Not accustomed to hear much of the Continental Congress in this remote
corner, nor to respect its authority when he did, the commandant began
to speak; but Allen cat shore the thread of his discourse by lifting his
sword over his head, and reiterating the demand for an instant
surrender. Having neither permission to argue, nor power to resist,
Captain De la Place submitted, ordering his men to parade without arms,
and the garrison was given up to the victors.
This surprise was effected about four o’clock in the morning on the 10th
of May. The remainder of the troops arrived after the fort was taken,
and the prisoners, consisting of a captain, a lieutenant, and
forty-eight subalterns and privates, were sent on to Hartford under an
escort.
As soon as the bustle was over, Allen sent off a detachment to take
Crown Point, a small fortress higher up the lake. Strong head winds
drove back the boats, and the party returned the same evening. The
attempt was renewed a day or two afterwards, and the garrison,
consisting of a serjeant and eleven men, were brought in prisoners.