towards the mountain; on the right flows the Shenandoah: uniting
together at the foot of the mountain, they roll on through the gap; then
suddenly expanding to the breadth of about four hundred yards, they pass
on towards the sea, and are finally lost to the view amidst surrounding
hills. The rugged appearance of the sides of the mountain towards the
river, and the large rocks that lie scattered about at the bottom, many
of which have evidently been split asunder by some great convulsion,
“are monuments,” as Mr. Jefferson observes, of the “war that has taken
place at this spot between rivers and mountains; and at first sight they
lead us into an opinion that mountains were created before rivers began
to flow; that the waters of the Patowmac and Shenandoah were dammed up
for a time by the Blue Ridge, but continuing to rise, that they at
length broke through at this spot, and tore the mountain asunder from
its summit to its base.” Certain it is, that if the Blue Ridge could be
again made entire, an immense body of water would be formed on the
western side of it, by the Shenandoah and Patowmac rivers, and this body
of water would be deepest, and consequently would act with more force in
sapping a passage for itself through the mountain, at the identical spot
where the gap now is than at any other, for this is the lowest spot in a
very extended tract of country. A glance at the map will be sufficient
to satisfy any person on this point; it will at once be seen, that all
the rivers of the adjacent country bend their courses hitherwards.
Whether the ridge, however, was left originally entire, or whether a
break was left in it for the passage of the rivers, it is impossible at
this day to ascertain; but it is very evident that the sides of the gap
have been reduced to their present rugged state by some great
inundation. Indeed, supposing that the Patowmac and Shenandoah ever rose
during a flood, a common circumstance in spring and autumn, only equally
high with what James River did in 1795, that is fifteen feet above their
usual level, such a circumstance might have occasioned a very material
alteration in the appearance of the gap.
[Sidenote: ROCKS LOOSENED.]
The Blue Ridge, on each side of the Patowmac, is formed, from the
foundation to the summit, of large rocks deposited in beds of rich soft
earth. This earth is very readily washed away, and in that case the
rocks consequently become loose; indeed, they are frequently loosened
even by heavy showers of rain. A proof of this came within my own
observation, which I shall never forget. It had been raining excessively
hard the whole morning of that day on which I arrived at this place; the
evening however was very fine, and being anxious to behold the scene in
every point of view, I crossed the river, and attended the mountain at a
steep part on the opposite side, where there was no path, and many large
projecting rocks. I had walked up about fifty yards, when a large stone
that I set my foot upon, and which appeared to me perfectly firm, all at
once gave way; it had been loosened by the rain, and brought down such a
heap of others with it in its fall, with such a tremendous noise at the
same time, that I thought the whole mountain was coming upon me, and
expected every moment to be dashed to pieces. I slid down about twenty
feet, and then luckily caught hold of the branch of a tree, by which I
clung; but the stones still continued to roll down heap after heap;
several times, likewise, after all had been still for a minute or two,
they again began to fall with increased violence. In this state of
suspense I was kept for a considerable time, not knowing but that some
stone larger than the rest might give way, and carry down with it even
the tree by which I held. Unacquainted also with the paths of the
mountain, there seemed to me to be no other way of getting down,
excepting over the fallen stones, a way which I contemplated with
horror. Night however was coming on very fast; it was absolutely
necessary to quit the situation I was in, and fortunately I got to the
bottom without receiving any further injury than two or three slight
contusions on my hips and elbows. The people congratulated me when I
came back on my escape, and informed me, that the stones very commonly
gave way in this manner after heavy falls of rain; but on the
dissolution of a large body of snow, immense rocks, they said, would
sometimes roll down with a crash that might be heard for miles. The
consequences then of a large rock towards the bottom of the mountain
being undermined by a flood, and giving way, may be very readily
imagined: the rock above it, robbed of its support, would also fall;
this would bring down with it numbers of others with which it was
connected, and thus a disruption would be produced from the base to the
very summit of the mountain.
[Sidenote: IRON.]
The passage of the rivers through the ridge at this place is certainly a
curious scene, and deserving of attention; but I am far from thinking
with Mr. Jefferson, that it is “one of the most stupendous scenes in
nature, and worth a voyage across the Atlantic;” nor has it been my lot
to meet with any person that had been a spectator of the scene, after
reading his description of it, but what also differed with him very
materially in opinion. To find numberless scenes more stupendous, it
would be needless to go farther than Wales. A river, it is true, is not
to be met with in that country, equal in size to the Patowmac; but many
are to be seen there rushing over their stony beds with much more
turbulence and impetuosity than either the Patowmac or Shenandoah: the
rocks, the precipices, and the mountains of the Blue Ridge at this place
are diminutive and uninteresting also, compared with those which abound
in that country. Indeed, from every part of Mr. Jefferson’s description,
it appears as if he had beheld the scene, not in its present state, but
at the very moment when the disruption happened, and when every thing
was in a state of tumult and confusion.
After crossing the Patowmac, I passed on to Frederic in Maryland, which
has already been mentioned, and from thence to Baltimore. The country
between Frederic and Baltimore is by no means so rich as that west of
the Blue Ridge, but it is tolerably well cultivated. Iron and copper are
found here in many places. No works of any consequence have as yet been
established for the manufacture of copper, but there are several
extensive iron works. The iron is of a remarkably tough quality; indeed,
throughout the states of Maryland, Virginia, and Pennsylvania, it is
generally so; and the utensils made of it, as pots, kettles, &c. though
cast much thinner than usual in England, will admit of being pitched
into the carts, and thrown about, without any danger of being broken.
The forges and furnaces are all worked by negroes, who seem to be
particularly suited to such an occupation, not only on account of their
sable complexions, but because they can sustain a much greater degree of
heat than white persons without any inconvenience. In the hottest days
in summer they are never without fires in their huts.
The farms and plantations in Maryland consist, in general, of from one
hundred to one thousand acres. In the upper parts of the state, towards
the mountains, the land is divided into small portions. Grain is what is
principally cultivated, and there are few slaves. In the lower parts of
the state, and in this part of the country between Frederic and
Baltimore, the plantations are extensive; large quantities of tobacco
are raised, and the labour is performed almost entirely by negroes. The
persons residing upon these large plantations live very similar to the
planters in Virginia: all of them have their stewards and overseers, and
they give themselves but little trouble about the management of the
lands. As in Virginia, the clothing for the slaves, and most of the
implements for husbandry, are manufactured on each estate. The quarters
of the slaves are situated in the neighbourhood of the principal
dwelling house, which gives the residence of every planter the
appearance of a little village, just the same as in Virginia. The houses
are for the most part built of wood, and painted with Spanish brown; and
in front there is generally a long porch, painted white.
[Sidenote: WEATHER.]
[Sidenote: CLIMATE.]
From Baltimore I returned to Philadelphia, where I arrived on the
fourteenth day of June, after having been absent about three months.
During the whole of that period the weather had been extremely variable,
scarcely ever remaining alike four days together. As early as the
fourteenth of March, in Pennsylvania, Fahrenheit’s thermometer stood at
65° at noon day, though not more than a week before it had been so low
as 14°. At the latter end of the month, in Maryland, I scarcely ever
observed it higher than 50° at noon: the evenings were always cold, and
the weather was squally and wet. In the northern neck of Virginia, for
two or three days together, during the second week in April, it rose
from 80° to 84°, in the middle of the day; but on the wind suddenly
shifting, it fell again, and remained below 70° for some days. As I
passed along through the lower parts of Virginia, I frequently
afterwards observed it as high as 80° during the month of April; but on
no day in the month of May, previous to the fourteenth, did it again
rise to the same height; indeed, so far from it, many of the days were
too cold to be without fires; and on the night of the ninth instant,
when I was in the neighbourhood of the South-west Mountains, so sharp a
frost took place, that it destroyed all the cherries, and also most of
the early wheat, and of the young shoots of Indian corn; in some
particular places, for miles together, the young leaves of the forest
trees even were all withered, and the country had exactly the appearance
of November. On the tenth instant, the day after the frost, the
thermometer was as low as 46° in the middle of the day; yet four days
afterwards it stood at 81°. During the remainder of the month, and
during June, until I reached Philadelphia, it fluctuated between 60° and
80°; the weather was on the whole fine, but frequently for a day or two
together the air felt extremely raw and disagreeable. The changes in the
state of the atmosphere were also sometimes very sudden. On the sixth
day of June, when on my way to Frederic-town, after passing the Patowmac
River, the most remarkable change of this nature took place which I ever
witnessed. The morning had been oppressively hot; the thermometer at
81°, and the wind S. S. W. About one o’clock in the afternoon, a black
cloud appeared in the horizon, and a tremendous gust came on,
accompanied by thunder and lightning; several large trees were torn up
by the roots by the wind; hailstones, about three times the size of an
ordinary pea, fell for a few minutes, and afterwards a torrent of rain
came pouring down, nearly as if a water-spout had broken over head. Just
before the gust came on, I had suspended my thermometer from a window
with a northern aspect, when it stood at 81°; but on looking at it at
the end of twenty-three minutes, by which time the gust was completely
over, I found it down to 59°, a change of 22°. A north-west wind now set
in, the evening was most delightful, and the thermometer again rose to
65°. In Pennsylvania the thermometer has been known to vary fifty
degrees in the space of twenty-six hours.
The climate of the middle and southern states is extremely variable; the
seasons of two succeeding years are seldom alike; and it scarcely ever
happens that a month passes over without very great vicissitudes in the
weather taking place. Doctor Rittenhouse remarked, that whilst he
resided in Pennsylvania, he discovered nightly frosts in every month of
the year excepting July, and even in that month, during which the heat
is always greater than at any other time of the year, a cold day or two
sometimes intervene, when a fire is found very agreeable.
The climate of the state of New York is very similar to that of
Pennsylvania, excepting that in the northern parts of that state,
bordering upon Canada, the winters are always severe and long. The
climate of New Jersey, Delaware, and the upper parts of Maryland, is
also much the same with that of Pennsylvania; in the lower parts of
Maryland the climate does not differ materially from that of Virginia to
the eastward of the Blue Ridge, where it very rarely happens that the
thermometer is as low as 6° above cipher.
In Pennsylvania, the range of the mercury in Fahrenheit’s thermometer
has been observed to be from 24° below cipher to 105° above it; but it
is an unusual occurrence for the mercury to stand at either of these
extreme points; in its approach towards them it commonly draws much
nearer to the extreme of heat than to that of cold. During the winter of
1795, and the three preceding years, it did not sink lower than 10°
above cipher; a summer however seldom passes over that it does not rise
to 96°. It was mentioned as a singular circumstance, that in 1789 the
thermometer never rose higher than 90°.
[Sidenote: CLIMATE.]
Of the oppression that is felt from the summer heats in America, no
accurate idea can be formed without knowing the exact state of the
hygrometer as well as the height of the thermometer. The moisture of the
air varies very much in different parts of the country; it also varies
in all parts with the winds; and it is surprising to find what a much
greater degree of heat can be borne without inconvenience when the air
is dry than when it is moist. In New England, in a remarkably dry air,
the heat is not found more insupportable when the thermometer stands at
100°, than it is in the lower parts of the southern states, where the
air is moist, when the thermometer stands perhaps at 90°, that is,
supposing the wind to be in the same quarter in both places. In speaking
of Virginia I have taken notice of the great difference that is found
between the climate of the mountains and the climate of the low country
in that state. The case is the same in every other part of the country.
From the mountains in New England, along the different ridges which run
through New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Maryland, and the southern
states, even to the extremity of Georgia, the heat is never found very
oppressive; whilst as far north as Pennsylvania and New York, the heat
in the low parts of the country, between the mountains and the ocean, is
frequently intolerable.
[Sidenote: WEATHER.]
In the course of the few days that I have spent in Philadelphia during
this month, the thermometer has risen repeatedly to 86° and for two or
three days it stood at 93°. During these days no one stirred out of
doors that was not compelled to do so; those that could make it
convenient with their business always walked with umbrellas to shade
them from the sun; light white hats were universally worn, and the young
men appeared dressed in cotton or linen jackets and trowsers; every
gleam of sunshine seemed to be considered as baneful and destructive;
the window shutters of each house were closed early in the morning, so
as to admit no more light than what was absolutely necessary for
domestic business; many of the houses, indeed, were kept so dark, that
on going into them from the street, it was impossible at first entrance
to perceive who was present. The best houses in the city are furnished
with Venetian blinds, at the outside, to the windows and hall doors,
which are made to fold together like common window shutters. Where they
had these they constantly kept them closed, and the windows and doors
were left open behind them to admit air. A very different scene was
presented in the city as soon as the sun was set; every house was then
thrown open, and the inhabitants all crowded into the streets to take
their evening walks, and visit their acquaintance. It appeared every
night as if some grand spectacle was to be exhibited, for not a street
or alley was there but what was in a state of commotion. This varied
scene usually lasted till about ten o’clock; at eleven there is no city
in the world, perhaps, so quiet all the year round; at that hour you may
walk over half the town without seeing the face of a human being, except
the watchmen. Very heavy dews sometimes fall after these hot days, as
soon as the sun is down, and the nights are then found very cold; at
other times there are no dews, and the air remains hot all the night
through. For days together in Philadelphia, the thermometer has been
observed never to be lower than 80° during any part of the twenty-four
hours.
I observe now that meat can never be kept, but in an ice house or a
remarkable cold cellar, for one day, without being tainted. Milk
generally turns sour in the course of one or two hours after it comes
from the cow. Fish is never brought to market without being covered with
lumps of ice, and notwithstanding that care, it frequently happens that
it is not fit to be eat. Butter is brought to market likewise in ice,
which they generally have in great plenty at every farm house; indeed it
is almost considered as a necessary of life in these low parts of the
country. Poultry intended for dinner is never killed till about four
hours before the time it is wanted, and then it is kept immersed in
water, without which precaution it would be tainted. Notwithstanding all
this, I have been told, that were I to stay in Philadelphia till the
latter end of July or beginning of August, I should find the heat much
more intolerable than it has been hitherto. Most of the other large
sea-port towns, south of Philadelphia, are equally hot and disagreeable
in summer; and Baltimore, Norfolk, and some others, even more so.
The winds in every part of the country make a prodigious difference in
the temperature of the air. When the north-west wind blows, the heat is
always found more tolerable than with any other, although the
thermometer should be at the same height. This wind is uncommonly dry,
and brings with it fresh animation and vigour to every living thing.
Although this wind is so very piercing in winter, yet I think the people
never complain so much of cold as when the north-east wind blows; for my
own part I never found the air so agreeable, let the season of the year
be what it would, as with the north-west wind. The north-east wind is
also cold, but it renders the air raw and damp. That from the south-east
is damp but warm. Rain or snow usually falls when the wind comes from
any point towards the east. The south-west wind, like the north-west, is
dry; but it is attended generally with warm weather. When in a southerly
point, gusts, as they are called, that is, storms attended with thunder,
lightning, hail, and rain, are common.
[Sidenote: WINDS.]
It is a matter of no difficulty to account for these various effects of
the winds in America. The north-west wind, from coming over such an
immense tract of land, must necessarily be dry; and coming from regions
eternally covered with mounds of snow and ice, it must also be cold. The
north-east wind, from traversing the frozen seas, must be cold likewise;
but from passing over such a large portion of the watry main afterwards,
it brings damps and moistures with it. All those from the east are damp,
and loaded with vapours, from the same cause. Southerly winds, from
crossing the warm regions between the tropics, are attended with heat;
and the south-west wind, from passing, like the north-west, over a great
extent of land, is dry at the same time; none however is so dry as that
from the north-west. It is said, but with what truth I cannot take upon
me to say, that west of the Alleghany and Appalachian mountains, which
are all in the same range, the south-west winds are cold and attended
with rain. Those great extremes of heat and cold, observable on the
eastern side of the mountains, are unknown to the westward of them.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
+LETTER + XIX.
_Travelling in America without a Companion not pleasant.—Meet
two English Gentlemen.—Set out together for Canada.—Description
of the Country between Philadelphia and New
York.—Bristol.—Trenton.—Princeton.—College there.—Some Account of
it.—Brunswick.—Posaik Water-fall.—Copper Mine.—Singular Discovery
thereof.—New York.—Description of the City.—Character and Manners of
the Inhabitants.—Leave it abruptly on Account of the Fevers.—Passage
up North River from New York to Albany.—Great Beauty of the North
River.—West Point.—Highlands.—Gusts of Wind common in passing
them.—Albany.—Description of the City and Inhabitants.—Celebration of
the 4th of July.—Anniversary of American Independence._
MY DEAR SIR, Albany, July.
[Sidenote: PLEASURES OF A COMPANION.]
I Was on the point of leaving Philadelphia for New York, intending from
thence to proceed to Canada, when chance brought me into the company of
two young gentlemen from England, each of whom was separately preparing
to set off on a similar excursion. A rational and agreeable companion,
to whom you might communicate the result of your observations, and with
whom you might interchange sentiments on all occasions, could not but be
deemed a pleasing acquisition, I should imagine, by a person on a
journey through a foreign land. Were any one to be found, however, of a
different opinion, I should venture to affirm, that ere he travelled far
through the United States of America, where there are so few inhabitants
in proportion to the extent of the country; where, in going from one
town to another, it is frequently necessary to pass for many miles
together through dreary woods; and where, even in the towns, a few of
those sea-ports indeed excepted which are open to the Atlantic, there is
such sameness in the customs, manners, and conversation of the
inhabitants, and so little amongst them that interests either the head
or the heart; he would not only be induced to think that a companion
must add to the pleasure of a journey, but were absolutely necessary to
prevent its appearing insipid, and at times highly irksome to him.
For my own part, I had fully determined in my own mind, upon returning
from my tour beyond the Blue Mountains, never again to set out on a
journey alone through any part of America, if I could possibly procure
an agreeable companion. The gentlemen I met with had, as well as myself,
travelled widely through different parts of the United States, and
formed nearly the same resolution; we accordingly agreed to go forward
to Canada together, and having engaged a carriage for ourselves as far
as New York, we quitted the close and disagreeable city of Philadelphia
on the twentieth of June.
The road, for the first twenty-five miles, runs very near the River
Delaware, which appears to great advantage through openings in the woods
that are scattered along its shores. From the town of Bristol in
particular, which stands on an elevated part of the banks, twenty miles
above Philadelphia, it is seen in a most pleasing point of view. The
river, here about one mile wide, winds majestically round the point
whereon the town is built, and for many miles, both upwards and
downwards, it may be traced through a rich country, flowing gently
along: in general it is covered with innumerable little sloops and
schooners. Opposite to Bristol stands the city of Burlington, one of the
largest in New Jersey, built partly upon an island and partly on the
main shore. It makes a good appearance, and adds considerably to the
beauty of the prospect from Bristol.
Ten miles farther on, opposite to Trenton, which stands at the head of
the sloop navigation, you cross the river. The falls or rapids, that
prevent boats from ascending any higher, appear in full view as you
pass, but their prospect is in no way pleasing; beyond them, the
navigation may be pursued for upwards of one hundred miles in small
boats. Trenton is the capital of New Jersey, and contains about two
hundred houses, together with four churches. The streets are commodious,
and the houses neatly built. The state house, in which congress met for
some time during the war, is a heavy clumsy edifice.
[Sidenote: PRINCETON.]
Twelve miles from Trenton, stands Princeton, a neat town, containing
about eighty dwellings in one long street. Here is a large college, held
in much repute by the neighbouring states. The number of students
amounts to upwards of seventy; from their appearance, however, and the
course of studies they seem to be engaged in, like all the other
American colleges I ever saw, it better deserves the title of a grammar
school than a college. The library, which we were shewn, is most
wretched, consisting, for the most part, of old theological books, not
even arranged with any regularity. An orrery, contrived by Mr.
Rittenhouse, whose talents are so much boasted of by his countrymen,
stands at one end of the apartment, but it is quite out of repair, as
well as a few detached parts of a philosophical apparatus, enclosed in
the same glass case. At the opposite end of the room are two small
cupboards, which are shewn as the museum. These contain a couple of
small stuffed alligators, and a few singular fishes, in a miserable
state of preservation, the skins of them being tattered in innumerable
places, from their being repeatedly tossed about. The building is very
plain, and of stone; it is one hundred and eighty feet in front, and
four stories high.
[Sidenote: NEW JERSEY.]