AMERICAN SCENERY;
OR,
LAND, LAKE, AND RIVER
ILLUSTRATIONS OF TRANSATLANTIC NATURE.
FROM DRAWINGS BY W. H. BARTLETT,
ENGRAVED IN THE FIRST STYLE OF THE ART,
BY
R. WALLIS, J. COUSEN, WILLMORE, BRANDARD, ADLARD, RICHARDSON, &c.
THE LITERARY DEPARTMENT
BY N. P. WILLIS, ESQ.
AUTHOR OF “PENCILLINGS BY THE WAY”, “INKLINGS OF ADVENTURE” ETC.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
G E O R G E V I R T U E, 26, I V Y L A N E.
MDCCCXL.
LONDON:—RICHARD CLAY, PRINTER,
BREAD STREET HILL.
CONTENTS AND LIST OF ENGRAVINGS
TO VOLUME II.
* * * * *
_Ch._ _Page_
1 The Catterskill Falls, from below 1
2 The Catterskill Falls, from above the Ravine 2
3 Winter Scene on the Catterskills 4
4 Rogers’ Slide, Lake George 7
5 The Gothic Church, Newhaven 9
6 Niagara Falls from the top of the Ladder on the American side 11
7 Saw-Mill at Centre Harbour, Lake Winnipiseogee 12
8 Little Falls, on the Mohawk 14
9 Bridge at Norwich, Connecticut 16
10 Undercliff, near Cold Spring 18
11 Boston, and Bunker Hill, from the East 23
12 Mount Jefferson, from Mount Washington 25
13 Mount Tom, and the Connecticut River 27
14 The Silver Cascade, in the Notch of the White Mountains 29
15 View of New York, from Weehawken 30
16 The President’s House from the River 32
17 View on the Susquehanna, at Liverpool 34
18 Desert Rock Light-house, Maine 36
19 Washington’s House, Mount Vernon 38
20 Village of Little Falls, Mohawk River 40
21 Harper’s Ferry, from the Blue Ridge 42
22 Barhydt’s Lake, near Saratoga 43
23 Fairmount Gardens, Philadelphia 45
24 Sing-Sing Prison, and Tappan Sea 47
25 Washington, from the President’s House 49
26 View of Baltimore 51
27 The Exchange and Girard’s Bank, Philadelphia 53
28 Principal Front of the Capitol, Washington 55
29 The Narrows, Lake George 57
30 Natural Bridge, Virginia 59
31 View of the Passaic Falls 61
32 View of Northumberland, on the Susquehanna 63
33 Pulpit Rock, White Mountains 65
34 View of Hudson City, and the Catskill Mountains 67
35 Scene among the Highlands on Lake George 69
36 Schuylkill Water Works, Philadelphia 71
37 The United States Bank, Philadelphia 73
38 Brock’s Monument, from the American Side 75
39 Village of Catskill 77
40 View from Gowanus’ Heights, Brooklyn 79
41 View on the Susquehanna, above Owago 81
42 Bridge at Glens Fall, on the Hudson 84
43 View from Mount Ida, near Troy 85
44 View from Glenmary Lawn, on the Owago 87
45 View near Anthony’s Nose, Hudson Highlands 90
46 Washington’s Monument, Baltimore 92
47 East Port, and Passamaquoddy Bay 94
48 Cemetery of Mount Auburn 97
49 Northampton, Massachusetts 98
50 Chapel of our Lady of Coldspring 100
51 The Mountain House, on the Catskills 102
52 Faneuil Hall, from the Water 104
AMERICAN SCENERY.
[Illustration: The Catterskill Falls, from below.]
[Illustration]
THE CATTERSKILL FALLS.
(FROM ABOVE THE RAVINE)
* * * * *
From the precipice whence our first view of this Fall is taken, the
descent is steep and slippery to the very brink of the torrent, which it
is necessary to cross on the wild blocks which lie scattered in its
rocky bed. From thence, literally buried in forest foliage, the tourist
will enjoy a very different, but, perhaps, more striking and picturesque
view than the other. The stream, at a vast height above him, is seen
leaping from ledge to ledge—sometimes lost, sometimes sparkling in
sunshine, till it courses impetuously beneath the rock on which he is
seated, and is lost in the deep unbroken obscurity of the forest. The
rocky ledges above, worn by time, have the appearance of deep caverns,
and beautifully relieve the fall of the light and silvery stream. In the
winter, the vast icicles which are suspended from the ledges of rock,
and shine like pillars against the deep obscurity of the caverns behind,
afford a most romantic spectacle, one which has afforded a subject to
Bryant for one of the most imaginative of his poems.
THE CATTERSKILL FALLS.
“Midst greens and shades the Catterskill leaps
From cliffs where the wood-flower clings;
All summer he moistens his verdant steeps
With the sweet light spray of the mountain springs;
And he shakes the woods on the mountain side,
When they drip with the rains of autumn-tide.
“But when, in the forest bare and old,
The blast of December calls,
He builds, in the starlight clear and cold,
A palace of ice where his torrent falls,
With turret, and arch, and fretwork fair,
And pillars blue as the summer air.
“For whom are those glorious chambers wrought,
In the cold and cloudless night?
Is there neither spirit nor motion of thought
In forms so lovely and hues so bright?
Hear what the grey-haired woodmen tell
Of this wild stream, and its rocky dell.
“’Twas hither a youth of dreamy mood,
A hundred winters ago,
Had wandered over the mighty wood,
When the panther’s track was fresh on the snow;
And keen were the winds that came to stir
The long dark boughs of the hemlock fir.
“Too gentle of mien he seemed, and fair,
For a child of those rugged steeps;
His home lay low in the valley, where
The kingly Hudson rolls to the deeps;
But he wore the hunter’s frock that day,
And a slender gun on his shoulder lay.
“And here he paused, and against the trunk
Of a tall grey linden leant,
When the broad clear orb of the sun had sunk
From his path in the frosty firmament,
And over the round dark edge of the hill
A cold green light was quivering still.
“And the crescent moon, high over the green,
From a sky of crimson shone,
On that icy palace, whose towers were seen
To sparkle as if with stars of their own;
While the water fell, with a hollow sound,
’Twixt the glistening pillars ranged around.
“Is that a being of life, that moves
Where the crystal battlements rise?
A maiden, watching the moon she loves,
At the twilight hour, with pensive eyes?
Was that a garment which seemed to gleam
Betwixt the eye and the falling stream?
“‘Tis only the torrent tumbling o’er,
In the midst of those glassy walls,
Gushing, and plunging, and beating the floor
Of the rocky basin in which it falls:
'Tis only the torrent—but why that start?
Why gazes the youth with a throbbing heart?
“He thinks no more of his home afar,
Where his sire and sister wait;
He heeds no longer how star after star
Looks forth on the night, as the hour grows late.
He heeds not the snow-wreath, lifted and cast
From a thousand boughs, by the rising blast.
“His thoughts are alone of those who dwell
In the halls of frost and snow,
Who pass where the crystal domes upswell
From the alabaster floors below,
Where the frost-trees bourgeon with leaf and spray,
And frost-gems scatter a silvery day.
“‘And oh that those glorious haunts were mine!’
He speaks, and throughout the glen
Their shadows swim in the faint moonshine,
And take a ghastly likeness of men,
As if the slain by the wintry storms
Came forth to the air in their earthly forms.
“There pass the chasers of seal and whale,
With their weapons quaint and grim,
And bands of warriors in glimmering mail,
And herdsmen and hunters huge of limb—
There are naked arms, with bow and spear,
And furry gauntlets the carbine rear.
“There are mothers—and oh, how sadly their eyes
On their children’s white brows rest!
There are youthful lovers—the maiden lies
In a seeming sleep on the chosen breast;
There are fair wan women with moon-struck air,
The snow-stars flecking their long loose hair.
“They eye him not as they pass along,
But his hair stands up with dread,
When he feels that he moves with that phantom throng,
Till those icy turrets are over his head,
And the torrent’s roar, as they enter, seems
Like a drowsy murmur heard in dreams.
“The glittering threshold is scarcely passed,
When there gathers and wraps him round
A thick white twilight, sullen and vast,
In which there is neither form nor sound;
The phantoms, the glory, vanish all,
With the dying voice of the waterfall.
“Slow passes the darkness of that trance,
And the youth now faintly sees
Huge shadows and gushes of light that dance
On a rugged ceiling of unhewn trees,
And walls where the skins of beasts are hung,
And rifles glitter on antlers strung.
“On a couch of shaggy skins he lies;
As he strives to raise his head,
Hard-featured woodmen, with kindly eyes
Come round him and smooth his furry bed,
And bid him rest, for the evening star
Is scarcely set, and the day is for.
“They had found at eve the dreaming one,
By the base of that icy steep,
When over his stiffening limbs begun
The deadly slumber of frost to creep;
And they cherished the pale and breathless form,
Till the stagnant blood ran free and warm.”—BRYANT.
[Illustration]
WINTER SCENE ON THE CATTERSKILLS.
* * * * *
The great proportion of evergreen trees, shrubs, and creepers, in the
American mountains, make the winter scenery less dreary than would be at
first imagined; but even the nakedness of the deciduous trees is not
long observable. The first snow clothes them in a dress so feathery and
graceful, that, like a change in the costume of beauty, it seems
lovelier than the one put off; and the constant renewal of its freshness
and delicacy goes on with a variety and novelty which is scarce dreamed
of by those who see snow only in cities, or in countries where it is
rare.
The roads, in so mountainous a region as the Catterskills, are in winter
not only difficult, but dangerous. The following extracts from a sleigh
ride in a more level part of the country, will serve to give an idea of
it. “As we got farther on, the new snow became deeper. The occasional
farm-houses were almost wholly buried, the black chimney alone appearing
above the ridgy drifts; while the tops of the doors and windows lay
below the level of the trodden road, from which a descending passage was
cut to the threshold, like the entrance to a cave in the earth. The
fences were quite invisible. The fruit-trees looked diminished to
shrubberies of snow-flowers, their trunks buried under the visible
surface, and their branches loaded with the still falling flakes, till
they bent beneath the burden. Nothing was abroad, for nothing could stir
out of the road without danger of being lost; and we dreaded to meet
even a single sleigh, lest, in turning out, the horses should ’slump’
beyond their depth in the untrodden drifts. The poor animals began to
labour severely, and sank at every step over their knees in the clogging
and wool-like substance; and the long and cumbrous sleigh rose and fell
in the deep pits like a boat in a heavy sea. It seemed impossible to get
on. Twice we brought up with a terrible plunge, and stood suddenly
still; for the runners had struck in too deep for the strength of the
horses; and with the snow-shovels, which formed a part of the furniture
of the vehicle, we dug them from their concrete beds. Our progress at
last was reduced to scarce a mile in the hour, and we began to have
apprehensions that our team would give out between the post-houses.
Fortunately it was still warm, for the numbness of cold would have
paralyzed our already flagging exertions.
“We had reached the summit of a long hill with the greatest difficulty.
The poor beasts stood panting and reeking with sweat; the runners of the
sleigh were clogged with hard cakes of snow, and the air was close and
dispiriting. We came to a standstill, with the vehicle lying over almost
on its side; and I stepped out to speak to the driver and look forward.
It was a discouraging prospect; a long deep valley lay before us, closed
at the distance of a couple of miles by another steep hill, through a
cleft in the top of which lay our way. We could not even distinguish the
line of the road between. Our disheartened animals stood at this moment
buried to their breasts; and to get forward, without rearing at every
step, seemed impossible. The driver sat on his box, looking uneasily
down into the valley. It was one undulating ocean of snow—not a sign of
a human habitation to be seen—and even the trees indistinguishable from
the general mass by their whitened and overladen branches. The storm had
ceased, but the usual sharp cold that succeeds a warm fall of snow had
not yet lightened the clamminess of the new-fallen flakes, and they
clung around the foot like clay, rendering every step a toil.”
“We heaved out of the pit into which the sleigh had settled, and for the
first mile it was down hill, and we got on with comparative ease. The
sky was by this time almost bare, a dark slaty mass of clouds alone
settling on the horizon in the quarter of the wind; while the sun, as
powerless as moonlight, poured with dazzling splendour on the snow; and
the gusts came keen and bitter across the sparkling waste, rimming the
nostrils as if with bands of steel, and penetrating to the innermost
nerve with their pungent iciness. No protection seemed of any avail. The
whole surface of the body ached as if it were laid against a slab of
ice. The throat closed instinctively, and contracted its unpleasant
respiration. The body and limbs drew irresistibly together, to
economize, like a hedge-hog, the exposed surface. The hands and feet
felt transmuted to lead; and across the forehead, below the pressure of
the cap, there was a binding and oppressive ache, as if a bar of frosty
iron had been let into the skull. The mind, meantime, seemed freezing
up; unwillingness to stir, and inability to think of any thing but the
cold, becoming every instant more decided.
“From the bend of the valley our difficulties became more serious. The
drifts often lay across the road like a wall, some feet above the heads
of the horses; and we had dug through one or two, and had been once
upset, and often near it, before we came to the steepest part of the
ascent. The horses had by this time begun to feel the excitement of the
rum given them by the driver at the last halt, and bounded on through
the snow with continuous leaps, jerking the sleigh after them with a
violence that threatened momently to break the traces. The steam from
their bodies froze instantly, and covered them with a coat like
hoar-frost; and spite of their heat, and the unnatural and violent
exertions they were making, it was evident, by the pricking of their
ears, and the sudden crouch of the body when a stronger blast swept
over, that the cold struck through even their hot and intoxicated blood.
“We toiled up, leap after leap; and it seemed miraculous to me that the
now infuriated animals did not burst a blood-vessel, or crack a sinew,
with every one of those terrible springs. The sleigh plunged on after
them, stopping dead and short at every other moment, and reeling over
the heavy drifts like a boat in a surging sea. A finer crystallization
had meanwhile taken place upon the surface of the moist snow; and the
powdered particles flew almost insensibly on the blasts of wind, filling
the eyes and hair, and cutting the skin with a sensation like the touch
of needle-points. The driver, and his maddened but almost exhausted
team, were blinded by the glittering and whirling eddies; the cold grew
intenser every moment, the forward motion gradually less and less; and
when, with the very last effort apparently, we reached a spot on the
summit of the hill, which from its exposed situation had been kept bare
by the wind, the patient and persevering whip brought his horses to a
stand, and despaired, for the first time, of his prospects of getting
on.”
The description, which is too long to extract entire, details still
severer difficulties; after which the writer and driver mounted on the
leaders, and arrived, nearly dead with cold, at the tavern. Such cold as
is described here, however, is what is called “an old-fashioned spell,”
and occurs now but seldom.
[Illustration]
ROGERS'S SLIDE, LAKE GEORGE.
* * * * *
This is an almost perpendicular precipice of great height, abutting
directly upon the romantic waters of Lake George, and remarkable for the
escape of an American officer, Major Rogers, who, pursued closely by a
party of Indians when the lake was frozen over, descended this bluff,
and escaped upon the ice. To look at it, the feat seems incredible; and
so thought the pursuing Indians, who, arriving at the brow of the
precipice, and not seeing his body at the bottom, attributed his
disappearance to supernatural agency.
Much as we are in the habit of extolling the athletic make and superior
physical qualities of the Indians of our country, the early annals prove
the superiority in strength, and even in address, which was their strong
point, to have been oftenest on the side of the white settlers. There
are two or three very stirring examples in the annals of a small town in
New Hampshire:—
“Early in the morning of the 23d April, Ephraim Dorman left the fort to
search for his cow. He went northwardly, along the borders of what was
then a hideous and almost impervious swamp, lying east of the fort,
until he arrived near to the place where the turnpike now is. Looking
into the swamp, he perceived several Indians lurking in the bushes. He
immediately gave the alarm, by crying, “Indians! Indians!” and ran
towards the fort. Two, who were concealed in the bushes between him and
the fort, sprang forward, aimed their pieces at him, and fired; but
neither hit him. They then, throwing away their arms, advanced towards
him: one he knocked down by a blow, which deprived him of his senses;
the other he seized, and being a strong man, an able wrestler, tried his
strength and skill in his favourite mode of ‘trip and twitch.’ He tore
his antagonist’s blanket from his shoulders, leaving him nearly naked.
He then seized him by the arms and body, but, as he was painted and
greased, he slipped from his grasp. After a short struggle, Dorman
quitted him, ran towards the fort, and reached it in safety.
“Mrs. Clark was at a barn, near the Todd-house, about fifty rods
distant. Leaving it, she espied an Indian near her, who threw away his
gun, and advanced to make her prisoner. She gathered her clothes around
her waist, and started for the fort. The Indian pursued: the woman,
animated by cheers from her friends, out-ran her pursuer, who skulked
back for his gun. Nathan Blake was at his barn, near where his son’s
house now stands. Hearing the cry of Indians, and presuming his barn
would be burnt, he determined that his cattle should not be burnt with
it. Throwing open his stable door, he let them loose, and presuming his
retreat to the fort was cut off, went out at a back door, intending to
place himself in ambush at the only place where the river could be
crossed. He had gone but a few steps, when he was hailed by a party of
Indians, concealed in a shop between him and the street. Looking back,
he perceived several guns pointed at him, and at this instant several
Indians started up from their places of concealment near him; upon
which, feeling himself in their power, he gave himself up. He was then
conducted to Lucbee, and thence to an Indian village, several miles
north of that place, called Conissadawga. He was a strong, athletic man,
and possessed many qualities which procured him the respect of the
savages. He could run with great speed; and in all the trials to which
he was put, (and they were many and severe,) he beat every antagonist.
“Not long after his arrival at the village, the tribe lost a chief by
sickness. As soon as his decease was made known, the women repaired to
his wigwam, and with tears, sobs, and clamorous lamentations, mourned
his death. The funeral ceremonies performed, the men sought Blake,
dressed him in the Indian costume, and invested him with all the
authority and privileges of the deceased, as one of the chiefs of the
tribe, and as husband of the widow. In the family to which he now stood
in the relation of father, there were, as he had often remarked, several
daughters of uncommon beauty. Yet notwithstanding this good fortune, he
still had difficulties to encounter. The tribe was divided into two
parties, his friends and his enemies. The former consisted of the great
mass of the tribe, who respected him for qualities to which they had not
equal pretensions; the latter, of those who were envious of his success,
and had been worsted in their contests with him. These, to humble his
pride, sent far into the northern wilderness, and procured a celebrated
Indian runner, to run against him. At the time assigned, the whole tribe
assembled to witness the race; and a Frenchman, from Quebec, happened to
be present. Perceiving the excitement among them, he advised Blake to
permit himself to be beaten, intimating that fatal consequences might
ensue if he did not. The race was run; and Blake, as advised by the
Frenchman, permitted his antagonist to reach the goal a moment before he
did. He persisted, however, after his return from captivity, in
declaring that he might have beaten him, if he had tried. The event of
the race restored harmony to the tribe, and Blake was permitted to live
in peace.”
[Illustration]
THE GOTHIC CHURCH, NEW HAVEN.
* * * * *
The area occupied by the town of New Haven is estimated to be six times
as great as that of a European town with the same number of inhabitants.
It was originally laid out in parallelograms, and the houses are built
upon the outer sides of the squares, with large gardens meeting in the
centre. Almost every house stands separate, and surrounded by shrubbery
and verdure; and it is the great peculiarity of the town, that all its
streets are planted with rows of elms, grown at this day to remarkable
size and luxuriance. It has the appearance of a town roofed in with
leaves; and it is commonly said, that, but for the spires, a bird flying
over would scarce be aware of its existence. Nothing could be more
beautiful than the effect of this in the streets; for, standing where
any of the principal avenues cross at right angles, four embowered
aisles extend away as far as the eye can follow, formed of the straight
stems and graceful branches of the drooping elm, the most elegant and
noble of the trees of our country. The roads below are kept moist and
cool with the roof overhead; the side-walks, between the trees and the
rural dwellings, are broad and shady; the small gardens in front of most
of the houses are bright with flowering shrubs; and the whole scene,
though in the midst of a city, breathes of nature.
The style of domestic architecture in New Haven favours the rural
character of the town. Built, as was remarked before, in the midst of a
garden, each house looks like what would be termed in England a cottage,
or, in streets where a more ambitious style prevails, like the sort of
white villa common at watering places. The green Venetian blind is
universal; the broad, open hall extends through the house, showing the
gay alley of a garden in the rear; and, living in the midst of a
primitive and friendly community, the inhabitants sit at their low
windows along the street, or promenade, without fear of rude
observation, on the shady pavement before their dwellings, preserving
for the place altogether that look of out-of-doors life and gaiety
which, with less elegance, distinguishes Naples and other cities of
southern Europe. The prettiest of English rural towns have a general
resemblance to it.
In the centre of New Haven were originally laid out two open squares,
divided by a street kept sacred from private buildings. The upper green
is a beautiful slope, edged with the long line of the college edifices.
Between the two squares stand three churches, at equal distances; two of
the common order of architecture for places of public worship in this
country (immense brick buildings, with tall white spires); and a third,
which is presented in the drawing, a Gothic episcopal church, of
singular purity and beauty. Behind and before it, spread away the
verdant carpets of the two enclosed “greens;” above its turret and
windows hang the drooping fans of elms, half disclosing and half
concealing its pointed architecture; and to its door, from every
direction, tend aisles of lofty trees, overhanging the paths with
shadow, as if the first thought of the primitive settlers had been to
create visible avenues to the house of God. There is scarce a more
beautiful place of worship, take it all in all, in the whole of
Christendom.
The trees in the magnificent avenue in front of these churches were
planted by a single individual, the Hon. James Hillhouse. His example
decided the character of the town, for it was followed in every street.
To the enterprise of the same public-spirited gentleman, New Haven owes
one of the most beautiful cemeteries in the world. The square in the
rear of the churches was formerly, according to the English custom, used
as a churchyard, and encumbered with graves, which soon threatened to
overrun its limits. Mr. Hillhouse, some years since, purchased a field
in the western skirt of the town, laid it out and planted it, and
subsequently removed to it all the tombstones and remains from the
Green; among them the headstone of the regicide Goffe. It is now one of
the most beautiful of burial-places. The monuments are of white marble,
or of a very rich _verd antique_ found in the neighbourhood; and the
natural elegance of the place has induced a taste and elegance into
these monuments for the dead, found in no other spot of the same
character.
The interior of the episcopal church is purely Gothic, and esteemed in
the best taste. The material of the exterior is a brownish trap-rock
from the neighbouring mountains, which, from its colour, resembles a
very weather-beaten and time-worn stone, and gives a look of antiquity
to the edifice. The cornices and abutments are of what a distinguished
writer on the subject calls a sprightly freestone.
[Illustration]
NIAGARA FALLS,
(FROM THE TOP OF THE LADDER ON THE AMERICAN SIDE.)
* * * * *
This is often the first near and general view of the Falls, and it is
well calculated to produce the most astonishing impression on any one
suddenly introduced to it. Supposing him to have arrived from Lockport,
by a tedious progress through the forests, the visitor is conducted
through a beautiful wood, presenting scenery of the softest character.
But, with the roar of the cataract in his ear, he hurries rapidly
through, till he stands on the very verge of the Fall, at the point
where its mighty waters descend in one solemn unbroken mass into a gulf
of spray, rising in clouds from the tortured waves beneath, and driven
about by the gusts, till sometimes the whole river beneath, and the
opposite shores, are momentarily concealed. As this misty curtain is
withdrawn, the whole scene is disclosed. Beyond the American fall, which
is immediately before him, and the wooded steeps of Goat Island, he sees
the sublime curve of the Horse-shoe Fall; from below the centre of
which, where the greatest mass of water descends, arises a tall and
beautiful column of silvery vapour far into the sky.
At this spot is the entrance of the long covered ladder by which the
descent to the ferry is accomplished. At an opening in it, half way down
the precipice, people usually stop (in spite of their hurry, and that
absorbing matter, the care of their baggage) to enjoy the only view,
perhaps, which brings them near to the falling column in the midst of
its descent. It is, indeed, “horribly beautiful.” No one has better
described the effect sometimes produced on the mind at Niagara, than
Basil Hall.
“On Sunday night, the 8th of July, we returned to the Falls, and walked
down to the Table Rock, to view them by moonlight. Our expectations, as
may be supposed, were high, but the sight was more impressive than we
had expected. It possessed, it is true, what may be called a more sober
kind of interest than that belonging to the wild scene behind the sheet
of water above described. I may mention one curious effect:—it seemed
to the imagination not impossible that the Fall might swell up, and
grasp us in its vortex. The actual presence of any very powerful moving
object is often more or less remotely connected with a feeling that its
direction may be changed; and when the slightest variation would
evidently prove fatal, a feeling of awe is easily excited. At all
events, as I gazed upon the cataract, it more than once appeared to
increase in its volume, and to be accelerated in its velocity, till my
heated fancy became strained, alarmed, and so much over-crowded with new
and old images,—all exaggerated; and in spite of the conviction that
the whole was nonsense, I felt obliged to draw back from the edge of the
rock; and it required a little reflection, and some resolution, to
advance again to the brink.
“During the delightful period that the Falls formed our head-quarters,
we made various excursions to several interesting objects in the
neighbourhood. Of these, the most amusing were, a trip to Buffalo, a
flourishing American town at the eastern end of Lake Erie, where the
great New York canal commences; and a visit to the Welland canal, which
joins Lake Erie with Lake Ontario.”
[Illustration]
SAW-MILL AT CENTRE HARBOUR,
LAKE WINIPISEOGEE.
* * * * *
In the early records of the first settlement of Keene, in this state, on
the river Asduelot, (in the Indian language, _a collection of many
waters_,) is an account of some of their difficulties; among which was
the establishment of a saw-mill. “A vote was passed,” says the record,
“offering one hundred acres of middling good land, and twenty-five
pounds, to any person or persons who would engage to build a saw-mill,
and saw boards for the proprietors at twenty shillings per thousand.”
The next year “another meeting was appointed at the _house lot_ of
Joseph Fisher, but was adjourned to the _house_ of Nathan Blake, the
first erected in the township.” A committee was here appointed, “to
agree with a man to build a great mill, and they were authorized to
offer not exceeding forty pounds encouragement therefor.” These early
annals are highly interesting, and we cannot better associate drawings
of scenes of cultivated life at the present day, than by portraying some
of the steps by which the comfort and civilization of the state have
been attained.
“No person,” says the record, “had hitherto attempted to remain through
the winter on the township. Those who came in the summer to clear their
lands, brought their provisions with them, and erected temporary huts to
shelter them from the weather. In the summer of 1736, at least one house
was erected; and three persons, Nathan Blake, Seth Heaton, and William
Smeed, (the two first from Wrentham, and the last from Deerfield,) made
preparations to pass the winter in the wilderness. Their house was at
the lower end of the street. Blake had a pair of oxen and a horse, and
Heaton a horse. For the support of these, they collected grass in the
open spots; and in the first part of the winter they employed them in
drawing logs to the saw-mill, which had just been completed. Blake’s
horse fell through the ice of Beaver-brook, and was drowned. In the
beginning of February their own provisions were exhausted, and, to
obtain a supply of meal, Heaton was despatched to Northfield. There were
a few families at Winchester, but none able to furnish what was wanted.
Heaton procured a quantity of meal; but before he left Northfield, the
snow began to fall; and when, on his return, he arrived at Winchester,
it was uncommonly deep, and covered by a sharp crust. He was told ‘that
he might as well expect to die in Northfield and rise again in Upper
Ashnelot, as ride thither on horseback.’ Recollecting the friends he had
left there, he nevertheless determined to make the attempt; but had
proceeded only a short distance when he found that it would be
impossible to succeed. He then returned, and directed his course towards
Wrentham. Blake and Smeed, hearing nothing from Heaton, gave the oxen
free access to the hay, left Ashnelot, and, on snow-shoes, proceeded
either to Deerfield or Wrentham. Anxious for their oxen, they returned
early in the spring. They found them near the Branch, south-east of
Carpenter’s, much emaciated, but feeding upon twigs and such grass as
was bare. The oxen recognised their owner, and exhibited such pleasure
at the meeting as drew tears from his eyes.
“About this time, John Andrews came from Boxford to settle in Upper
Ashnelot. He sent back Ephraim Donnan and Joseph Ellis with a team of
eight oxen and a horse, to bring up his furniture. The route they came,
which was probably then the best, if not the only one, led through
Concord, Worcester, Brookfield, Belchertown, Hadley, Hatfield,
Deerfield, Northfield, Winchester, Swanzey, and on the banks of the
Ashnelot, to the house lots. When they passed through Swanzey, it rained
hard, and they did not reach the station until night. As it continued to
rain, was very dark, and as the water, which already covered the
meadows, rose rapidly, they, apprehensive of being drowned, unyoked
their oxen, chained their cart to a tree, and hastened to the
settlement, then a mile distant. As soon as day-light appeared, the next
morning, a boat was despatched in search of the cattle and furniture;
when, passing over Bullard’s Island, a man cried to them for help. It
was Mark Ferry, the hermit. Wearied with the noise and bustle of the
settlement, he had retired to a cave, which he had dug into the bank of
the river, where he constantly resided. The water had now driven him
from his dwelling, and compelled him to seek refuge on a stump, where he
then sat, with a calf in his arms, over which he had drawn a shirt. The
boatman answered, “we must take care of the _neat cattle_ first,” and
passed on. They soon came to the cart, which was afloat. Proceeding
further, and guided by the sound of the bells, which the cattle as usual
wore, they found them on several little hillocks—some with only their
heads out of water. They forced them into the water, and guided them,
swimming, to high land, where they left them until the flood subsided.
Hearing cries for help below them, they proceeded to Crissen’s House, in
the borders of Swanzey, to the chamber and to the top of which the
family had been driven. These they took off, and, on their return home,
took Ferry and his calf into the canoe. This, which was known by the
name of Andrew’s flood, was the highest ever known in the township. The
water came within a few feet of the street north of Captain Blake’s old
house.”
[Illustration]
THE LITTLE FALLS ON THE MOHAWK.
* * * * *
The cavities worn in the rocks about these Falls, afford great matter of
speculation to the geologist. The rock is _gneiss_, and these circular
pots are worn evidently by the attrition stones kept in agitation by the
current of a river. The astonishing part of it is, that these cavities
are, some of them, more than a hundred feet above the present level of
the Mohawk, proving that river to have been thus much higher in former
times, and of course a lake, whose waters must have extended far and
wide over the broad interval above. The narrow passage which it makes
through the hills just below, shut in by perpendicular precipices on
each side, would be sufficient to have made the theory probable without
the assistance of these appearances.
These cavities are very numerous, and the largest are about eight feet
deep, and fifteen in diameter. The rocks exhibit evidences of having
been washed by water still higher. There are analogous traces of lakes
on the Connecticut and Hudson rivers, which break through the mountains
in a similar manner, the first between Mount Tom and Mount Holyoke, and
the latter at the Highlands; but the depth and number of these rock-worn
cavities are peculiar to Little Falls.
In approaching this part of the Mohawk from the east, the stranger is
first delighted with the bold abutments on the river of two dark
precipices, whose summits are laden with foliage, and which rise so
abruptly from the undulating banks of the Mohawk, that they seem
designed as barriers to the pass. The river glides between, darkened by
their shadow; and close under the face of one precipice shoots the
rail-car, while as close under the opposing one glides the silent
passage-boat of the canal. Emerging to the sunshine beyond, the river
spreads out in its thousand windings, as if rejoicing in the space of
which it is so soon to be deprived, and in a moment or two (if you are
travelling by steam) your course is arrested amid the foaming and busy
scenery of the Falls, the picturesque and the hideous, the wildly
beautiful and the merely useful, so huddled together that the artist who
would draw either the architecture or the scenery by itself, would
scarce find a bit large enough for a vignette.
Alluring as the picturesque and fertile valley of the Mohawk must have
been, it was not till after the revolution that it was sought by white
men with a view to settle. For some years after the war, it was still
the beaver country of the aborigines, or the place of their wigwams; and
the country round about, now stocked with villages, and without a
red-face to be seen, was a hunting-ground, in which ranged bears, foxes,
wolves, deer, and other game, the Indians themselves calling it
_couxsachraga_, or the dismal wilderness. The town of Mohawk, where the
tribe dwelt up to the year 1780, is but thirty-six miles west of Albany.
General Sir William Johnson lived not many miles below Little Falls, and
from this spot to Canada Creek a tract of fourteen miles was given to
him on his marriage with a Mohawk girl, by King Hendricks, the faithful
Indian ally of the whites. It is a curious fact, that, during the war of
the revolution, a son of Sir William Johnson, in the English service in
Canada, made an incursion at the head of a party of hostile Indians on
the very lands once owned by his father.
The Mohawks contended very fiercely for the honour of original descent.
The Iroquois, who were more powerful, they considered as interlopers;
and, in the following tradition, give the basis of their pedigree:—
“Before man existed, there were three great and good spirits; of whom
one was superior to the other two, and is emphatically called the Great
and Good Spirit. At a certain time, this exalted being said to one of
the others, ‘_Make a man!_’ He obeyed; and taking _chalk_, formed a
paste of it, and moulding it into the human shape, infused into it the
animating principle and brought it to the Great Spirit. He, after
surveying it, said, ‘_It is too white!_’
“He then directed the other to make a trial of his skill. Accordingly,
taking _charcoal_, he pursued the same process, and brought the result
to the Great Spirit; who, after surveying it, said, ‘It is too black!’
“Then said the Great Spirit, ‘I will now try myself.’ And, taking _red
earth_, he formed a human being in the same manner, surveyed it and
said, ‘This is a proper man!’”
It is possible that this is traditionary, but it is more probable that
it was invented after the arrival of whites, and the introduction of
blacks into the country, neither of which races the Indians had before
seen.
[Illustration]
BRIDGE AT NORWICH, CONNECTICUT.
* * * * *
Two Indian rivers, the Shetucket and Yautick, unite at this place to
form the Thames, and in the fork of the junction lies the picturesque
and prosperous town of Norwich. From the hilly nature of the ground, the
buildings have a remarkably fine appearance, the streets rising one
above the other, and the style of the houses denoting taste and
opulence. In the rear of the hill on which the town stands is a level
plain, on which are laid out several handsome streets, planted with
avenues of trees. The prospects are extensive and various; and,
altogether, there are few towns in the world which have so many
advantages and attractions.
The Thames is navigable for large vessels as high as Norwich, and its
trade with the West Indies was once considerable. That has declined, and
the capital of the inhabitants is now invested principally in
manufactories, for which the fine water-power of the neighbourhood
furnishes peculiar facilities. As a birth-place of distinguished
individuals, Norwich has produced Mrs. Sigourney, the sweetest of
American poetesses; and it stands upon the natal ground and possessions
of the celebrated Uncas, chief of the Mohegans. The burial-place of the
kings of this warlike tribe is still to be seen here.
No spot could have been selected with more felicity than that on which
Uncas formerly lived. It is a high point of land, commanding a noble and
extensive view of the Thames, here a large river, and of the country on
both sides. It was, therefore, well fitted for the discovery of an
enemy’s approach, and furnished every convenience to hostile excursions.
At the same time, it bordered on a never-failing supply of provisions,
furnished by the scale and shell-fish, with which both the river and the
neighbouring ocean have ever been richly stored.
Uncas was originally a petty sachem; a Pequod by birth; a subject and a
tributary to Sassacus. When the English made war upon the Pequods, Uncas
was unfriendly to this chieftain, and would have quarrelled with him,
had he not been kept in awe by the talents and prowess of this
formidable warrior. Of the English he appears to have entertained, from
the first, a very respectful opinion; and, when he saw them determined
upon a war with his master, concluded to unite his forces and his
fortune with theirs. His dread of Sassacus was, however, so great, that
when Captain Mason marched against the Pequods, he did not believe him
to be serious in his professed design of attacking that terrible nation,
nor did he even engage in the conflict, until after Mason and his little
band of heroes had stormed the Pequod fortress.
Upon the death of Sassacus, Uncas became the sachem of the remaining
Pequods, as well as of the Mohegans. In this character he claimed,
perhaps rightfully enough, as there was no other acknowledged heir, all
the territory which had been possessed by that tribe. This tract
included almost the whole of the eastern division of Connecticut, from
the middle of the Syno range. He understood his own interest too well to
quarrel with the English, and had a sufficient share of cunning to
support his claims with very plausible reasons. They were, therefore,
very generally allowed.
From this time he became the most formidable, and altogether the most
prosperous Indian chieftain in Southern New England. Over his subjects
he exercised a more efficacious and unresisted government than perhaps
was ever exercised by any other sachem. Nor was his control confined to
them; but extended, in a considerable degree, to several of the tribes
on the western side of the Connecticut. To his enemies he became
scarcely less formidable than Sassacus had been before him. At the head
of four or five hundred men, he met Miantonomoh, a brave and sagacious
chief of the Narrhagansetts, coming to attack him with twice the number;
and, after having in vain challenged him to single combat, defeated his
army, took him prisoner, and put him to death. On this occasion he cut a
piece of flesh from his shoulder, roasted and eat it, and, with the true
spirit of a savage, declared that it was the sweetest meat which he had
ever tasted in his life.
The avarice, ambition, and restlessness of this man, frequently
embroiled him with his neighbours, and were sometimes troublesome to his
English allies. The natives considered them as the friends of Uncas, and
implicated them more or less in his mischievous conduct. When he found
the English resentful, and himself severely censured, he made such
submissions, promises, and presents as he thought necessary to restore
their good-will, and secure his future peace. But he was not indebted
for these advantages to his address alone. On several occasions he
rendered them real and important assistance; and to their interests he
adhered faithfully and uniformly. No Indian among the New England
tribes, except Massasait, exhibited an equally steady attachment to the
Colonists, or so regular an adherence to his engagements. Hence he
enjoyed their public friendship, and the good-will of individuals among
them, until the day of his death.
Uncas died at an advanced age, in his own house, and left his power and
his property to his children. Onecho, his eldest son, commanded a party
of Mohegans in a war which the English carried on against the
Narrhagansetts in 1676. The family, however, soon declined in their
importance by the general declension of their tribe, and the sale of
their property to the English. Some years since, a man, descended from
Uncas, came from North Carolina, or Tennessee, where he was settled, and
obtained permission of the Connecticut legislature to sell his
patrimonial share in this tract. This man had received a military
commission from the British government; and it is said, was well
dressed, well informed, sensible, and gentlemanly in his deportment. He
was probably the only respectable descendant of Uncas then living.
[Illustration]
UNDERCLIFF, NEAR COLD-SPRING,
THE SEAT OF GENERAL MORRIS.
* * * * *
The pen of the poet and the pencil of the artist have so frequently
united to record the grandeur and sublimity of the Hudson, and with such
graphic fidelity, that little of interest remains unsaid or unsketched.
But when every point of its bold and beautiful scenery might be made the
subject of a picture, and every incident of its past history the theme
of a poem, it requires no great research to discover new and prominent
objects of attraction. Perhaps there is no portion of this beautiful
river which partakes more of the picturesque, or combines more of the
wild and wonderful, than the vicinity of the present View; and when time
shall touch the history of the present with the wand of tradition, and
past events shall live in the memory of the future as legends, romance
will never revel in a more bewitching region. Fiction shall then fling
its imaginative veil over the things we have seen—covering, but not
concealing them—and, in the plenitude of poetic genius, people the
drama of futurity with a thousand exquisite creations, clothed in the
venerated garb of antiquity.
UNDERCLIFF, the mansion of GENERAL GEORGE P. MORRIS, which forms the
principal object in the engraving, is situated upon an elevated plateau,
rising from the eastern shore of the river; and the selection of such a
commanding and beautiful position at once decides the taste of its
intellectual proprietor. In the rear of the villa, cultivation has
placed her fruit and forest trees with a profuse hand, and fertilized
the fields with a variety of vegetable products. The extent of the
grounds is abruptly terminated by the base of a rocky mountain, that
rises nearly perpendicular to its summit, and affords in winter a secure
shelter from the bleak blasts of the north. In front, a circle of
greensward is refreshed by a fountain in the centre, gushing from a
Grecian vase, and encircled by ornamental shrubbery; from thence a
gravelled walk winds down a gentle declivity to a second plateau, and
again descends to the entrance of the carriage road, which leads upwards
along the left slope of the hill, through a noble forest, the growth of
many years, until suddenly emerging from its sombre shades, the visitor
beholds the mansion before him in the bright blaze of day. A few
openings in the wood afford an opportunity to catch a glimpse of the
water, sparkling with reflected light; and the immediate transition from
shadow to sunshine is peculiarly pleasing.
Although the sunny prospects from the villa, of the giant mountains in
their eternal verdure—the noble stream, when frequent gusts ruffle its
surface into a thousand waves—the cluster of white cottages collected
into the distant village, are glorious; it is only by the lovely light
of the moon, when nature is in repose, that their magic influence is
fully felt. We were fortunate in having an opportunity to contemplate
the scene at such an hour: the moon had risen from a mass of clouds
which formed a line across the sky so level that fancy saw her ascending
from the dark sea, and her silvery light lay softened on the landscape;
silence was over all, save where the dipping of a distant oar was echoed
from the deep shadows of the rocks. Sometimes the white sail of a sloop
would steal into sight from the deep gloom, like some shrouded spirit
gliding from the confines of a giant’s cavern, and recalled the
expressive lines by Moore:—
“The stream is like a silvery lake,
And o’er its face each vessel glides
Gently, as if it feared to wake
The slumber of the silent tides.”