lines of the British were then in the neighbourhood of Kingsbridge, and
those of the Americans at Byram river. The unhappy inhabitants were,
therefore, exposed to the depredations of both. Often they were actually
plundered, and always were liable to this calamity. They feared every
body whom they saw, and loved nobody. It was a curious fact to a
philosopher, and a melancholy one to hear their conversation. To every
question they gave such an answer as would please the inquirer; or, if
they despaired of pleasing, such a one as would not provoke him. Fear
was, apparently, the only passion by which they were animated. The power
of volition seemed to have deserted them. They were not civil, but
obsequious; not obliging, but subservient. They yielded with a kind of
apathy, and very quietly, what you asked, and what they supposed it
impossible for them to retain. If you treated them kindly, they received
it coldly; not as a kindness, but as a compensation for injuries done
them by others. When you spoke to them, they answered you without either
good or ill nature, and without any appearance of reluctance or
hesitation; but they subjoined neither questions nor remarks of their
own; proving to your full conviction that they felt no interest either
in the conversation or yourself. Both their countenances and their
motions had lost every trace of animation and of feeling. Their features
were smoothed, not into serenity, but apathy; and, instead of being
settled in the attitude of quiet thinking, strongly indicated, that all
thought beyond what was merely instinctive, had fled their minds for
ever.
“Their houses, meantime, were, in a great measure, scenes of desolation.
Their furniture was extensively plundered, or broken to pieces. The
walls, floors, and windows were injured both by violence and decay, and
were not repaired, because they had not the means to repair them, and
because they were exposed to the repetition of the same injuries. Their
cattle were gone. Their enclosures were burnt, where they were capable
of becoming fuel; and in many cases thrown down where they were not.
Their fields were covered with a rank growth of weeds and wild grass.
“Amid all this appearance of desolation, nothing struck my eye more
forcibly than the sight of the high road. Where I had heretofore seen a
continual succession of horses and carriages, life and bustle lending a
sprightliness to all the environing objects, not a single, solitary
traveller was seen, from week to week, or from month to month. The world
was motionless and silent, except when one of these unhappy people
ventured upon a rare and lonely excursion to the house of a neighbour no
less unhappy, or a scouting party, traversing the country in quest of
enemies, alarmed the inhabitants with expectations of new injuries and
sufferings. The very tracks of the carriages were grown over, and
obliterated; and where they were discernible, resembled the faint
impressions of chariot wheels, said to be left on the pavements of
Herculaneum. The grass was of full height for the scythe, and strongly
realized to my own mind, for the first time, the proper import of that
picturesque declaration in the Song of Deborah: ‘In the days of Shamgar,
the son of Anath, in the days of Jael, the highways were unoccupied, and
the travellers walked through by-paths. The inhabitants of the villages
ceased: they ceased in Israel.’”
West Chester is a rough county in natural surface, but since the days
when the above description was true, its vicinity to New York, and the
ready market for produce, have changed its character to a thriving
agricultural district. It is better watered with springs, brooks, and
mill-streams, than many other parts of New York, and, among other
advantages, enjoys, along the Hudson, a succession of brilliant and
noble scenery.
[Illustration]
VIEW FROM RUGGLE’S HOUSE, NEWBURGH, HUDSON RIVER.
* * * * *
Newburgh stands upon a pretty acclivity, rising with a sharp ascent from
the east bank of the Hudson; and, in point of trade and consequence, it
is one of the first towns on the river. In point of scenery, Newburgh is
as felicitously placed, perhaps, as any other spot in the world, having
in its immediate neighbourhood every element of natural loveliness; and,
just below, the sublime and promising Pass of the Highlands. From the
summit of the acclivity, the view over Wateaman and Fishkill is full of
beauty; the deep flow of the Hudson lying between, and the pretty
villages just named, sparkling with their white buildings and cheerful
steeples, beyond.
Newburgh has a considerable trade with the back country, and supports
two or three steam-boats, running daily and exclusively between its pier
and New York. If there were wanting an index of the wondrous advance of
enterprise and invention in our country, we need not seek farther than
this simple fact—a small intermediate town, on one river, supporting
such an amount of expensive navigation. Only thirty years ago Fulton
made his first experiment in steam on the Hudson, amid the unbelief and
derision of the whole country. Let any one stand for one hour on the
pier at Newburgh, and see those superb and swift palaces of motion shoot
past, one after the other, like gay and chasing meteors; and then read
poor Fulton’s account of his first experiment—and never again throw
discouragement on the kindling fire of genius.
“When I was building my first steam-boat,” said he to Judge Story, “the
project was viewed by the public at New York either with indifference or
contempt, as a visionary scheme. My friends, indeed, were civil, but
they were shy. They listened with patience to my explanations, but with
a settled cast of incredulity on their countenances. I felt the full
force of the lamentation of the Poet:—
‘Truths would you teach, to save a sinking land,
All shun, none aid you, and few understand.’
As I had occasion to pass daily to and from the building-yard while my
boat was in progress, I have often loitered, unknown, near the idle
groups of strangers gathering in little circles, and heard various
inquiries as to the object of this new vehicle. The language was
uniformly that of scorn, sneer, or ridicule. The loud laugh rose at my
expense; the dry jest, the wise calculation of losses and expenditure;
the dull but endless repetition of “_the Fulton folly_.” Never did a
single encouraging remark, a bright hope, or a warm wish, cross my path.
“At length the day arrived when the experiment was to be made. To me it
was a most trying and interesting occasion. I wanted many friends to go
on board to witness the first successful trip. Many of them did me the
favour to attend, as a matter of personal respect; but it was manifest
they did it with reluctance, feigning to be partners of my
mortification, and not of my triumph. I was well aware that, in my case,
there were many reasons to doubt of my own success. The machinery was
new, and ill-made; and many parts of it were constructed by mechanics
unacquainted with such work; and unexpected difficulties might
reasonably be presumed to present themselves from other causes. The
moment arrived in which the word was to be given for the vessel to move.
My friends were in groups on the deck. There was anxiety mixed with fear
among them. They were silent, sad, and weary. I read in their looks
nothing but disaster, and almost repented of my efforts. The signal was
given, and the boat moved on a short distance, and then stopped, and
became immovable. To the silence of the preceding moment, now succeeded
murmurs of discontent and agitation, and whispers and shrugs. I could
hear distinctly repeated, “I told you so,—it is a foolish scheme.—I
wish we were well out of it.” I elevated myself on a platform, and
stated that I knew not what was the matter; but if they would be quiet,
and indulge me for half an hour, I would either go on or abandon the
voyage. I went below, and discovered that a slight maladjustment was the
cause. It was obviated. The boat went on; we left New York; we passed
through the Highlands; we reached Albany!—Yet even then, imagination
superseded the force of fact. _It was doubted if it could be done again,
or if it could be made, in any case, of any great value._”
What an affecting picture of the struggles of a great mind, and what a
vivid lesson of encouragement to genius, is contained in this simple
narration!
[Illustration]
DESCENT INTO THE VALLEY OF WYOMING.
* * * * *
In looking down on this lovely scene, made memorable by savage
barbarity, and famous by the poet’s wand of enchantment, it is natural
to indulge in resentful feelings towards the sanguinary race whose
atrocities make up its page in story. It is a pity, however, that they
too, had not a poet and a partial chronicler. Leaving entirely out of
view the ten thousand wrongs done by the white man to the Indian, in the
corruption, robbery, and rapid extinction of his race, there are
personal atrocities, on our own records, exercised toward that fated
people, which, in impartial history hereafter, will redeem them from all
charge except that of irresistible retaliation. The brief story of the
famous Cornstalk, Sachem of the Shawanees, and King of the Northern
Confederacy, is sermon enough on this text.
The north-western corner of Virginia, and that part of Pennsylvania
contiguous, on the south, to the valley represented in the drawing, was
the scene of some of the bloodiest events of Indian warfare.
Distinguished over all the other red men of this region, was Cornstalk.
He was equally a terror to the men of his own tribe, (whom he did not
hesitate to hew down with his tomahawk if they showed any cowardice in
fight,) and a formidable opponent to our troops, from his military
talents and personal daring. He was, at the same time, more than all the
other chiefs of the confederacy, a friend to the whites; and, energetic
as he was when once engaged in battle, never took up arms willingly
against them. After the bloody contest at Point Pleasant, in which
Cornstalk had displayed his generalship and bravery, to the admiration
of his foes, he came in to the camp of Lord Dunmore, to make
negotiations for peace. Colonel Wilson, one of the staff, thus describes
his oratory:—“When he arose, he was in no wise confused or daunted, but
spoke in a distinct and audible voice, without stammering or repetition,
and with peculiar emphasis. His looks, while addressing Dunmore, were
truly grand and majestic, yet graceful and attractive. I have heard many
celebrated orators, but never one whose powers of delivery surpassed
those of Cornstalk on this occasion.”
In the spring of 1777, it was known that an extensive coalition was
forming among the tribes, and that it only waited the consent and
powerful aid of the Shawanees, to commence war upon the whites. At this
critical time, Cornstalk, accompanied by Red Hawk, came on a friendly
visit to the Fort at Point Pleasant, communicated the intentions of the
tribes, and expressed his sorrow that the tide set so strongly against
the colonists, that he must go with it, in spite of all his endeavours.
Upon receiving this information, given by the noble savage in the spirit
of a generous enemy, the commander of the garrison seized upon Cornstalk
and his companion as hostages for the peaceful conduct of his nation,
and set about availing himself of the advantage he had gained by his
suggestions. During his captivity, Cornstalk held frequent conversations
with the officers, and took pleasure in describing to them the geography
of the west, then little known. One afternoon, while he was engaged in
drawing on the floor a map of the Missouri territory, with its
water-courses and mountains, a halloo was heard from the forest, which
he recognised as the voice of his son Ellinipsico, a young warrior,
whose courage and address was almost as celebrated as his own.
Ellinipsico entered the fort, and embraced his father most
affectionately, having been uneasy at his long absence, and come hither
in search of him.
The day after his arrival, a soldier went out from the fort on a hunting
excursion, and was shot by Indians. His infuriated companions instantly
resolved to sacrifice Cornstalk and his son. They charged upon
Ellinipsico that the offenders were in his company, but he declared that
he had come alone, and with the sole object of seeking his father. When
the soldiers came within hearing, the young warrior appeared agitated.
Cornstalk encouraged him to meet hits fate composedly, and said to him,
“My son, the Great Spirit has sent you here that we may die together!”
He turned to meet his murderers the next instant, and receiving seven
bullets in his body, expired without a groan.
When Cornstalk had fallen, Ellinipsico continued still and passive, not
even raising himself from his seat. He met death in that position with
the utmost calmness. “The other Indian,” says the chronicle, “was
murdered piecemeal, and with all those circumstances of cruelty with
which the savage wreaks his vengeance on his enemy.”
The day before his death, Cornstalk had been present at a council of the
officers, and had spoken to them on the subject of the war, with his own
peculiar eloquence. In the course of his remarks, he expressed something
like a presentiment of his fate. “When I was young,” he said, “and went
out to war, I often thought each would be my last adventure, and I
should return no more. I still lived. Now I am in the midst of you, and,
if you choose, you may kill me. I can die but once. It is alike to me
whether now or hereafter!”
His atrocious murder was dearly expiated. The Shawanees, the most
warlike tribe of the West, became thenceforward the most deadly and
implacable foes to the white man.
[Illustration]
BOSTON, FROM DORCHESTER HEIGHTS.
* * * * *
The pretty peninsula of Dorchester Heights, which seems to throw its arm
protectingly around the southern bay of Boston, was settled by a company
of pilgrims who came out to New England during the administration of
Governor Winthrop, in Massachusetts. The party consisted of two Puritan
clergymen, “with many godly families and people” from Devonshire and
Somersetshire, who embarked in the “Mary John,” in the spring of 1630.
The historian states that they had some difficulty in the passage with
the master of the vessel, Captain Squibb, “who, like a merciless man,
put them and their goods ashore on Nantasket Point, notwithstanding his
engagement was to bring them up Charles river.” They obtained a boat,
however, and, having laden her with goods, and manned her with able men
(“not more than ten, well armed, under Captain Southcot, a brave
Low-country soldier,”) they followed the river for about ten miles.
After landing their goods on a steep bank, they were alarmed by the
information that there was encamped near them a body of three hundred
savages. Fortunately they had been joined by an old planter, who knew
enough of the Indian tongue and disposition to persuade the chiefs not
to attack the party till morning. At day-break, some of the savages made
their appearance, but stood awhile at a distance. At last one of them
held out a bass, and the pilgrims sent a man with a biscuit to exchange
for it, and thus a friendly intercourse was established. Not liking the
neighbourhood, however, they descended the river again, and an exploring
party having discovered some good pasture at Mattapau (present
Dorchester) they settled there.
The neighbouring peninsula of Shawmut (now Boston) was destined to be
the principal settlement, and Dorchester is at this day a rural suburb
of the capital of New England. The fort which crowns its summit (from
which this view is taken) is the scene of an important chapter in the
history of the Revolution.
Boston had been occupied for some time by the British army under General
Gage, who sailed for England in October 1776, leaving General Howe in
command. After the battle of Bunker’s Hill, both armies remained quiet
for several months; General Washington occupying both sides of the
Charles river with about fourteen thousand men; and the English,
besieged in their quarters within the town, amusing themselves with
private theatricals in Faneuiel Hall, varied occasionally with feats of
horsemanship from a squadron of cavalry, who had turned the old South
Church into a circus. As the cold became severe, the North
“meeting-house,” an immense wooden building, was torn down and consumed
for fuel, and the soldiers had made a holiday of felling a gigantic
Liberty-tree for the same purpose.
Washington became impatient of this inactive situation; and as soon as
the ice in the bay and river became firm enough to allow the passage of
troops, he called a council of war, and proposed an attack on Boston.
The opinion against the measure was unanimous, and he reluctantly
abandoned it. He soon after determined to take possession of Dorchester
Heights, which command both harbour and town,—a step which he knew must
bring on a general action, during which he intended to cross over to
Cambridge with a few chosen men, and force an entrance into the town.
During the two or three preceding nights, he bombarded the town heavily
from his camp, to divert the attention of the garrison; and on the night
of the 4th of March, a large detachment took possession of Dorchester
Heights, and immediately commenced throwing up an intrenchment. The
night was mild, but the ground was frozen almost impenetrably hard; and
it was with excessive labour that a sufficient bulwark was presented by
day-light, to cover them from the shot of the enemy.
The morning broke,—and a thin haze, which magnified the size of the
works, overspread the landscape. The astonishment of General Howe, at
discerning this phantom fortification looming up through the mist, upon
heights which had been bare and desolate at sunset, was without bounds.
The position was so commanding that the town could not be held unless
the Americans were dislodged; but this seemed, from the advantages of
the ground in favour of the Provincials, next to impossible. The British
commander undertook it with great spirit, and two thousand troops were
embarked on the same day to cross the harbour to the attack. The
transports fell down to the Castle, a small island just below the town;
but a tremendous storm suspended their operations. The next day a
council of war was held, and it was thought advisable to evacuate the
town immediately. The provincials went on completing their
fortifications, undisturbed; and in a few days General Howe embarked
with all his forces, accompanied by those Americans who adhered to the
royal cause. The embarkation commenced at four in the morning of the
17th of March, and at ten in the forenoon General Washington entered the
city at the head of his army. The English fleet sailed for Halifax. They
were ten thousand strong, including the marines; and left stores to the
value of 30,000_l._ with several pieces of cannon, mortars, &c. &c.
The view of Boston from these heights is very commanding. The bay, with
its fortified islands, stretches away to the right, beautiful from its
shape and from the brightness of its water; the city, clustering upon
its heights, rises in graceful lines to the pinnacled State House; and
the country to the left is all that is lovely in cultivation, sprinkled
here and there with gay and thrifty-looking villages. The calenture of
speculation is just now at its height in America; and Dorchester, like
other places, is laid out in lots, and busy with the builders of fancy
cottages and hotels. If calculation has not overreached itself, the
suburbs of Boston will soon sparkle with villas on every hill side
within the horizon.
[Illustration]
VIEW OF FANEUIL HALL, AND ADJACENT BUILDINGS, BOSTON.
* * * * *
There are very few remaining of the many covered, gable-ended,
top-heavy, old houses which constituted the compact centre of Boston in
the days of English governors. The finest specimens long stood in the
neighbourhood of Faneuiel Hall; but, with one exception, we believe,
their picturesque heaps of triangles have dropped beneath the merciless
hand of speculation and improvement. Boston has not grown so thriftily,
or rather so miraculously, as the capitols of other States, through
which the flood of emigration rolls more directly; but it is certainly
the handsomest town in the United States, and probably its prosperity is
more permanent and solid. Its granite houses and fine public buildings
are in strong contrast with the description given of it by John
Josselyn, Gent. who visited it in 1638, and afterwards favoured the
world with his observations under the title of “New England Rarities.”
“Having refreshed myself for a day or two on an island in the bay,” he
says, “I crossed the harbour in a small boat to Boston, which was then
rather a village than a town, there not being more than above twenty or
thirty houses: and presented my respects to Mr. Muthrop the governor,
and to Mr. Cotton the teacher of Boston Church, to whom I delivered from
Mr. Francis Quarles, the poet, the translation of several Psalms in
English metre for his approbation.”
A facetious bookseller, John Dunton, visited Boston some fifty years
afterwards; and, in a book upon his “Life and Errors,” gives a humorous
account of its inhabitants in his time. The passage, which is now
commonly made in from sixteen to twenty-five or thirty days, occupied
the unfortunate bibliopole four months; and he was reduced, at the
latter part of it, to one bottle of water for four days.
“When we came within view of Boston,” he writes, “we were all overjoyed,
being just upon the point of starving; we put off to land in the long
boat, and came ashore near the Castle, which stands about a mile from
Boston. The country appeared at first a barren waste, but we found
humanity enough when we came among the inhabitants. We lodged the first
night at the Castle, and next morning we found our way to Boston Bay
over the ice, which was but cold comfort to us after we had been stowed
up so many months in a cabin. The air of New England was sharper than at
London; which, with the temptation of fresh provisions, made me eat like
a second Mariot of Gray’s Inn. The first person that welcomed me to
Boston was Mr. Burroughs. He heaped upon me more civilities than I can
reckon up, offered to lend me moneys, and made me his bedfellow till I
had provided lodgings.”
Dunton’s book would have sold merrily in our scandal-loving days. Its
personalities are delightful. The following list of his acquaintance is
as good as a portrait gallery.
“Mr. Phillips, my old correspondent.—He treated me with a noble dinner,
and (if I may trust my eyes) is blest with a pretty, obliging wife. I’ll
say that for Sam (after dealing with him for some hundred pounds), he is
very just, and (as an effect of that) very thriving. I shall add to his
character, that he is young and witty, and the most beautiful man in the
town of Boston.
“The next was Mr. King.—Love was the cause of this gentleman’s long
ramble hither. Sure his mistress was made of stone, for King had a voice
would have charmed the spheres; he sang “_All hail to the Myrtle
Shades_” with a matchless grace.
“Another acquaintance was Mr. York. He had his soft minutes as well as
other men; and when he unbent his bow, (for he was very industrious,) he
treated the fair sex with so much courtship and address, as if loving
had been all his trade.
“I pass to my good friend Dr. Bullivant—both a gentleman and a
physician. As a gentleman, he came of noble family, but his good
qualities exceed his birth. He never practises new experiments on his
patients, except in dangerous cases, where death must be expelled by
death. This is also praiseworthy in him, that to the poor he always
prescribes cheap medicines; _not curing them of a consumption in their
bodies and sending it into their purses_, nor yet directing them to the
East Indies for drugs, when they may have better out of their own
gardens.
“I proceed in the next place to Mr. Gouge, a linen-draper from London.
He is owner of a deal of wit; his brain is a quiver of smart jests. He
pretends to live a bachelor, but is no enemy to a pretty woman.”
Dunton winds up his list with an apostrophe to Mrs. Comfort, the married
daughter of his landlady. “You may well take it amiss,” he says, “if I
should forget your favours to me in your father’s house, your pleasant
company to Ipswich, your assistance when I was ill, and the noble
looking-glass you sent my dear, and all with a world of innocence.”
“Kind Boston, adieu! part we must, though ’tis pity,
But I’m made for mankind: the world is my city.
Look how on the shore they whoop and they holloa,
Not for joy I am gone, _but for grief they can’t follow_.”
[Illustration]
VIEW FROM THE TELEGRAPH SIGNAL, NEW YORK BAY.
* * * * *