THE BATTERY AND ITS PECULIARITIES--A LOVELY SCENE--SWEDE AND
DUTCHMAN TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO--OLD NAMES OF THE RIVER--INDIAN NAMES
GENERALLY--COOLEY'S BOY--HIS ADVENTURE IN CHURCH--THE LONG AND THE
SHORT OF IT--MR. COOLEY'S DOG AND OUR TROUBLES WITH IT.
[Illustration]
The closing hours of the long summer afternoon can be spent in no
pleasanter place than by the water's side. And after tea I like to
take my little group of Adelers out from the hot streets over the
grassy way which leads to the river shore, and to find a comfortable
loitering-place upon the Battery. That spot is adorned with a long row
of rugged old trees whose trunks are gashed and scarred by the penknives
of idlers. Their branches interlock overhead and form one great mass of
tender green foliage, here sweeping down almost to the earth, and there
hanging far out over the water, trembling and rustling in the breeze.
Beneath, there is a succession of hewn logs, suggesting the existence
of some sort of a wharf in the remote past, but now serving nicely for
seats for those who come here to spend a quiet hour. Around there is a
sod which grows lush and verdant, excepting where the tread of many feet
has worn a pathway backward to the village.
In front is as lovely a scene as any the eye can rest upon in this
portion of the world. Below us the rising and the ebbing tides hurl the
tiny ripples upon the pebbly beach, and the perpetual wash of the waves
makes that gentle and constant music which is among the most grateful of
the sounds of nature.
Away to the southward sweeps the Delaware shore line in a mighty curve
which gives the river here the breadth and magnificence of a great lake,
and at the end of the chord of the arc the steeples and the masts at
Delaware City rise in indistinct outline from the waves. To the left,
farther in the distance, old Fort Delaware lifts its battlements above
the surface of the stream. And see! A puff of white smoke rises close
by the flag-staff. And now a dull thud comes with softened cadence
across the wide interval. It is the sunset gun. Far, far beyond, a sail
glimmers with rosy light caught from the brilliant hues of the clouds
which make the western heavens glorious with their crimson drapery; and
while here as we gaze straight out through the bay there is naught in
the perspective but water and sky, to the right the low-lying land below
the island fortress seems, somehow, to be queerly suspended between
river and heaven, until as it recedes it grows more and more shadowy,
and at last melts away into the mist that creeps in from the ocean. It
is pure happiness to sit here beneath the trees and to look upon the
scene while the cool air pours in from the water and lifts into the
upper atmosphere the oppressive heat that has mantled the earth during
the day.
[Illustration: THE BATTERY]
I do not know why the place is called "the Battery." Perhaps a couple
of centuries ago the Swedes may have built here a breastwork with which
to menace their hated Dutch rivals who held the fort just below us
there upon the river bank. (We will walk over to the spot some day, Mrs.
Adeler.) And who can tell what strange old Northmen in jerkin and helmet
have marched up and down this very stretch of level sward, carrying
huge fire-lock muskets and swearing mighty oaths as they watched the
intruding Dutchman in his stronghold, caring little for the placid
loveliness of the view which the rolling tide of the majestic river ever
offered to their eyes!
[Illustration]
But some of those people could appreciate this beautiful panorama.
Some of them did not forget the grandeur of nature while their little
passions raged against the Dutchmen. It was Jasper Dankers who came here
from Sweden in 1676, and looked out from this Battery; returning home,
he wrote in his diary in this fashion:
"The town is situated upon a point which extends out with a sandy beach,
affording a good landing-place. It lies a little above the bay where the
river bends and runs south from there, so that you can see down the
river southwardly. The greater portion of it presents a beautiful view
in perspective, and enables you to see from a distance the ships come
out from the great bay and sail up the river."
The sandy beach is gone, and the ships which float upward from the bay
are not such craft as Dankers saw; but the stream has its ancient
majesty, and the wooded banks, I like to think, present to our eyes
nearly the same sweet picture that touched the soul of that old Swede
two long centuries ago.
Another thing has changed--yes, it has changed many times. The Indians,
Mrs. A., called the bay Poutaxat and the river Lenape Wihittuck. The
stream, too, was named the Arasapha, and also Mackerish Kitton--a title
pretty enough in its way, but oddly suggestive of mackerel and kittens.
But the Swedes came, and with that passion which burned in the bosoms of
all the early European immigrants for prefixing the word "new" to the
names of natural objects, they entitled the river New Swedeland Stream.
Then the Dutch obtained the mastery here, and it became the South River,
the Hudson being the North River, and finally the English obtained
possession, and called it Delaware.
What a pity it is that they didn't suffer one of the original titles to
remain! The Lenape would have been a beautiful name for the river--far
better than the Gallic compound that it bears now. The men who settled
this country seem to have had for Indian names the same intense dislike
that they entertained for the savages themselves, and as a rule they
rejected with scorn the soft, sweet syllables with which mountain and
forest and stream were crowned, substituting too often most barbarous
words therefor. Even Penn and his Quakers disdained the Indian names.
How much better Pennsylvania would have been treated if that grand old
State had been called Susquehanna or Juniata or Allegheny! And would it
not have been wiser if the city, instead of bringing its name from Asia,
had sought it among its own surroundings, and had grown to greatness as
Wissahickon or Wingohocking? The Indian names that still remain here and
there to designate a stream, a district or a town are the few distinctly
American words in existence. We have thrown away the others, although
they were a very precious part of the legacy which we received from the
race we have supplanted. One such word as Wyoming is worth an entire
volume of such names as New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Maryland and
the like; and I have always wondered at the blundering folly of the man
who, with such musical syllables at hand ready to be used, dubbed the
town of Wilkes Barre with that particularly poor name.
While we were sitting by the river discussing these and other matters,
Cooley's boy, a thoroughly disagreeable urchin, who had been playing
with some other boys upon the wharf near by, tumbled into the water.
There was a terrible screaming among his companions, and a crowd quickly
gathered upon the pier. For a few moments it seemed as if the boy would
drown, for no one was disposed to leap in after him, and there was not a
boat within saving distance. But fortunately the current swept him
around to the front of the Battery, where the water is shallow, and
before he was seriously hurt he was safely landed in the mud that
stretches below the low-water mark. Then the excitement, which had been
so great as to attract about half the population of the village, died
away, and people who had just been filled with horror at the prospect of
a tragedy began to feel a sense of disappointment because their fears
had not been realized. I cannot of course say that I was sorry to see
the youngster once more upon dry land; but if fate had robbed us of him,
we should have accepted the dispensation without grievous complaint.
[Illustration]
We did not leave all the nuisances behind us in the city. Cooley's dog
and his boy are two very sore afflictions which make life even here very
much sadder than it ought to be in a place that pretends to be something
in the nature of an earthly paradise. The boy not only preys upon my
melon-patch and fruit trees and upon those of my neighbors, but he has
an extraordinary aptitude for creating a disturbance in whatever spot
he happens to be. Only last Sunday he caused such a terrible commotion
in church that the services had to be suspended for several minutes
until he could be removed. The interior of the edifice was painted and
varnished recently, and I suppose one of the workmen must have left a
clot of varnish upon the back of Cooley's pew, which is directly across
the aisle from mine. Cooley's boy was the only representative of the
family at church upon that day, and he amused himself during the earlier
portions of the service by kneeling upon the seat and communing with Dr.
Jones's boy, who occupied the pew immediately in the rear. Sometimes,
when young Cooley would resume a proper position, Jones's boy would stir
him up afresh by slyly pulling his hair, whereupon Cooley would wheel
about and menace Jones with his fist in a manner which betrayed utter
indifference to the proprieties of the place and the occasion, as well
as to the presence of the congregation. When Cooley finally sank into a
condition of repose, he placed his head, most unfortunately, directly
against the lump of undried varnish, while he amused himself by reading
the commandments and the other scriptural texts upon the wall behind the
pulpit.
[Illustration]
In a few moments he attempted to move, but the varnish had mingled with
his hair, and it held him securely. After making one or two desperate
but ineffectual efforts to release himself, he became very angry; and
supposing that Jones's boy was holding him, he shouted:
"Leg go o' my hair! Leg go o' my hair, I tell you!"
[Illustration]
The clergyman paused just as he was entering upon consideration of
"secondly," and the congregation looked around in amazement, in time to
perceive young Cooley, with his head against the back of the pew, aiming
dreadful blows over his shoulder with his fist at some unseen person
behind him. And with every thrust he exclaimed:
"I'll smash yer nose after church! I'll go for you, Bill Jones, when I
ketch you alone! Leg go o' my hair, I tell you, or I'll knock the
stuffin' out o' yer," etc., etc.
[Illustration]
Meanwhile, Jones's boy sat up at the very end of his pew, far away from
Cooley, and looked as solemn as if the sermon had made a deep impression
upon him. Then the sexton came running up, with the idea that the boy
had fallen asleep and had nightmare, while Mrs. Dr. Magruder sallied out
from her pew and over to Cooley's, convinced that he had a fit. When the
cause of the disturbance was ascertained, the sexton took out his
knife, and after sawing off enough of Cooley's hair to release him,
dragged him out of church. The victim retreated unwillingly, glancing
around at Jones's boy and shaking his fist at that urchin as if to
indicate that he cherished a deadly purpose against Jones.
[Illustration]
Then the sermon proceeded. I suppose a contest between the two boys has
been averted, for only yesterday I saw Jones and Cooley, the younger,
playing hop-scotch together in the street in apparent forgetfulness of
the sorrows of the sanctuary.
Judge Pitman tells me that one of the reasons why Cooley and his wife
disagree is that there is such a difference in their height. Cooley is
tall, and Mrs. Cooley is small. Mrs. Cooley told Mrs. Pitman, if the
judge is to be believed, that Cooley continually growled because she
could not keep step with him. They always start wrong, somehow, when
they go out together, and then, while he tries to catch step with her,
she endeavors to get in with him. After both have been shuffling about
over the pavement for several minutes in a perfectly absurd manner, they
go ahead out of step just as before.
[Illustration]
When Cooley tried to take short steps like hers, his gait was so
ridiculous as to excite remark; while if she tried to make such long
strides as his, people stopped and looked at her as if they thought she
was insane. Then she would strive to take two steps to his one, but she
found that two and a half of hers were equal to one of his; and when she
undertook to make that fractional number in order to keep up with him,
he would frown at her and say,
"Mrs. Cooley, if you are going to dance the polka mazourka upon the
public highway, I'm going home."
I do not receive this statement with implicit confidence in its
truthfulness. Pitman's imagination sometimes glows with unnatural heat,
and he may have embellished the original narrative of Mrs. Cooley.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
I shall probably never receive from any member of the Cooley family a
correct account of the causes of the unpleasant differences existing
therein, for we are on worse terms than ever with Cooley. His dog became
such an intolerable nuisance because of his nocturnal vociferation that
some practical humanitarian in the neighborhood poisoned him. Cooley
apparently cherished the conviction that I had killed the animal, and he
flung the carcass over the fence into my yard. I threw it back. Cooley
returned it. Both of us remained at home that day, and spent the morning
handing the inanimate brute to each other across the fence. At noon I
called my man to take my place, and Cooley hired a colored person to
relieve him. They kept it up until nightfall, by which time I suppose
the corpse must have worn away to a great extent, for at sundown my man
buried the tail by my rose-bush and came in the house, while Cooley's
representative resigned and went home.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The departed brute left behind him but one pleasant recollection; and
when I recall it, I feel that he fully avenged my wrongs upon his
master. Cooley went out a week or two ago to swim in the creek, and he
took the dog with him to watch his clothing. While Cooley bathed the dog
slept; but when Cooley emerged from the water, the dog did not recognize
him in his nude condition, and it refused to let him come near his
garments. Whenever Cooley would attempt to seize a boot or a stocking
or a shirt, the dog flew at him with such ferocity that he dared not
attempt to dress himself. So he stood in the sun until he was almost
broiled; then he went into the water and remained there, dodging up and
down for the purpose of avoiding the people who passed occasionally
along the road. At last the dog went to sleep again, and Cooley,
creeping softly behind the brute, caught it suddenly by the tail and
flung it across the stream. Before the dog could recover its senses and
swim back, Cooley succeeded in getting some of his clothing on him, and
then the dog came sidling up to him looking as if it expected to be
rewarded for its extraordinary vigilance. The manner in which Cooley
kicked the faithful animal is said to have been simply dreadful.
[Illustration]
I should have entertained a positive affection for that dog if it had
not barked at night. But I am glad it is gone. We came here to have
quietness, and that was unattainable while Cooley's dog remained within
view of the moon.
[Illustration]