producing an effect at once brilliant and chaste. The broken foreground
is agreeably relieved by the sparkling transparency of the water: the
receding figures on the shore are judiciously introduced to mark the
perspective. The projecting bluff in the middle distance is thrown into
shadow, and stands out in fine contrast from the light horizon, while
the lights upon the solitary rock, the entrance gate, the mansion, and
the vessels, produce the effect of a setting sun; and the whole subject
is treated with masterly skill. We only regret that art has not power to
convey the kindly hospitalities hourly exercised in the interior of the
mansion.
To enumerate the matchless and minute beauties of Undercliff, would
occupy more space than the limits of our descriptive pages will permit.
Its superiority, however, may be summed up in one expressive sentence,
to which it is justly entitled, and which has been conceded to it by
common consent—“_The Gem of the Hudson River_.” To the belles-lettres
reader the “Gem” will acquire additional value by reflecting the light
of literature: it is the home of a fine poet, and graceful prose writer.
General Morris has been for many years the editor of the “New York
Mirror,” a weekly journal, which circulates more extensively among the
_élite_ than any other periodical in the country. The typographic
neatness of its execution, the talent of its original contributions, and
the elegance of its embellishments, have placed upon it a permanent seal
of popularity, and seem to have given a tone to taste, and a refinement
to fashion.
General Morris has recently published a volume of lyrical effusions,
called “The Deserted Bride, and other Poems.” Many of them have been
written among the fairy beauties of Undercliff, and under the
inspiration of that true poetic feeling which such enchanting scenes are
so likely to elicit. Where so many gems of genius enrich a work, it
becomes difficult to decide upon that most worthy of selection. It is
not our province or intention to review the volume, but we cannot resist
the inclination to make a few extracts, because they seem as beautiful
accessories to the subject, and create an added interest in the
engraving. Where scenes are so replete with the poetry of nature, they
are best illustrated by the poetry of numbers; but we were particularly
delighted with the following lines, addressed to his young daughter. The
natural simplicity of the subject is well expressed by the purity of its
poetic images, and breathes the refinement of paternal affection.
IDA.
“Where Hudson’s wave, o’er silvery sands,
Winds through the hills afar,
Old Cro’nest like a monarch stands,
Crowned with a single star:
And there, amid the billowy swells
Of rock-ribbed, cloud-capt earth,
My fair and gentle IDA dwells,
A nymph of mountain birth.
“The snow-curl that the cliff receives,
The diamonds of the showers,
Spring’s tender blossoms, buds and leaves,
The sisterhood of flowers:
Morn’s early beam, eve’s balmy breeze,
Her purity define;
But IDA’S dearer far than these,
To this fond breast of mine.
“My heart is on the hills. The shades
Of night are on my brow:
Ye pleasant haunts and silent glades,
My soul is with you now!
I bless the star-crowned islands where
My IDA’S footsteps roam:
Oh for a falcon’s wing to bear
Me onward to my home!”—MORRIS.
General Morris is not less successful in the lighter and livelier freaks
of poetic fancy, as we hope to prove by a quotation from “The New York
Mirror,” in which the moral of the lines is not their least merit. The
melodies of the various birds which roost among the wild recesses of the
rocks, or haunt the mountain forest, or sweep along the waters, are sent
forth hourly in sounds of “unwritten music.” But the cry “most musical,
most melancholy,” comes at the twilight hour from the clear throat of
the whip-poor-will, at intervals, through the summer’s night: nor is it
ever heard or seen by day; it may be called the sad unknown. The words,
“whip-poor-will,” are divided into three shrill, distinct notes, and
express the sounds as perfectly as if uttered by the human voice. The
poetry annexed, is equally expressive of the melancholy mystery which
seems to mark the mourning burden of its lonely song.
TO THE WHIP-POOR-WILL.
“Why dost thou come at set of sun,
Those pensive words to say?
Why whip poor Will?—What has he done?
And who is Will, I pray?
“Why come from you leaf-shaded hill,
A suppliant at my door?—
Why ask of me to whip poor Will?
And is Will really poor?
“If poverty’s his crime, let mirth
From out his heart be driven:
That is the deadliest sin on earth,
And never is forgiven!
“Art Will himself?—It must be so—
I learn it from thy moan,
For none can feel another’s woe
As deeply as his own.
“Yet wherefore strain thy tiny throat,
While other birds repose?
What means thy melancholy note?
The mystery disclose.
“Still ‘whip-poor-will!’—Art thou a sprite,
From unknown regions sent
To wander in the gloom of night,
And ask for punishment?
“Is thine a conscience sore beset
With guilt—or, what is worse,
Hast thou to meet writs, duns, and debt—
No money in thy purse?
“If this be thy hard fate indeed,
Ah well may’st thou repine:
The sympathy I give, I need—
The poet’s doom is thine.
“Art thou a lover, Will?—Hast proved
The fairest can deceive?
Thine is the lot of all who’ve loved
Since Adam wedded Eve.
“Hast trusted in a friend, and seen
No friend was he in need?
A common error—men still lean
Upon as frail a reed.
“Hast thou, in seeking wealth or fame,
A crown of brambles won?
O’er all the earth ’tis just the same
With every mother’s son!
“Hast found the world a Babel wide,
Where man to mammon stoops?
Where flourish arrogance and pride,
While modest merit droops?
“What, none of these?—Then, whence thy pain,
To guess it who’s the skill?
Pray have the kindness to explain
Why I should whip poor Will?
“Dost merely ask thy just desert?
What, not another word?—
Back to the woods again, unhurt—
I will not harm thee, bird!
“But treat thee kindly—for my nerves,
Like thine, have penance done;
Treat every man as he deserves—
Who shall ’scape whipping?’—None.
“Farewell, poor Will—not valueless
This lesson by thee given:
‘Keep thine own counsel, and confess
Thyself alone to heaven!’”—MORRIS.
We cannot close our description without one more extract from the
delightful volume before us.
THE OAK.
“Woodman, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
And I’ll protect it now.
’Twas my forefather’s hand
That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not!
“That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown
Are spread o’er land and sea,
And wouldst thou hack it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Oh spare that aged oak,
Now towering to the skies!
“When but an idle boy
I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy
Here, too, my sisters played.
My mother kissed me here;
My father pressed my hand—
Forgive this foolish tear,
But let that old oak stand!
“My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild-bird sing,
And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot;
While I’ve a hand to save,
Thy axe shall harm it not.”—MORRIS.
[Illustration]
BOSTON, AND BUNKER HILL,
(FROM THE EAST.)
* * * * *
This view is taken from a long cape, sometimes cut off by water
overflowing the marshes, and called William’s Island. Five or six years
ago, it was a thinly cultivated and neglected spot, scarce known, except
to adventurous boys, who pulled across from the city wharfs, and to the
one or two farmers who inhabited it. Now, with the suddenness which
attends speculation in our country, it is grown suddenly into a
consequential suburb, with a showy hotel and steam ferry, and citizens
and strangers resort to it to eat French dinners, and pass the hot weeks
of the summer.
Boston, from this point of view, is very picturesque. The town rises
gradually from the water’s edge to the height surmounted by the State
House, whose lofty cupola brings to a point all the ascending lines of
the picture; Dorchester Heights rise gracefully on the left limit of the
bay, and Bunker-Hill, famous in American story, breaks the horizon on
the right. In the centre lie the forest of shipping, and the fine ranges
of commercial buildings on the water side; and, turning from this view,
the harbour, with its many small islands, stretches away behind to the
sea, tracked by steamers, and sprinkled by craft of every size and
nation. Like every other bay in the world, that of Boston has been
compared to Naples; but it has neither its violet sky, nor its volcano,
yet it may be mentioned in the same day.
Close under the eye of the spectator here, lies that part of the town
formerly the fashionable quarter, but now very much what Red Lion
Square, and its precincts, are to London. There is still existing (or
there was, some six or eight years since,) the house of Governor
Hutchinson, of which the mouldings were brought from London, and in
which the drawing-room panels were portraits of his family, in their
youth. This is still a very roomy and well-built, and must once have
been a rather luxurious house. We are apt to fancy that our strait-laced
ancestors from England lived parsimoniously, and denied themselves the
elegances of modern luxury; but antiquarian researches exhibit a
different state of things. “In the principal houses,” says the discourse
of a learned gentleman on this subject, “there was a great hall,
ornamented with pictures and a great lantern, and a velvet cushion in
the window-seat which looked into the garden. On either side was a great
parlour, a little parlour, or study. These were furnished with great
looking-glasses, Turkey carpets, window curtains and valance, pictures,
and a map, a brass clock, red leather-back chairs, and a great pair of
brass andirons. The chambers were well supplied with feather beds,
warming-pans, and every other article that would now be thought
necessary for comfort or display. The pantry was well filled with
substantial fare and dainties—prunes, marmalade, and Madeira wine.
Silver tankards, wine-cups, and other articles of plate, were not
uncommon; and the kitchen was completely stocked with pewter, iron, and
copper utensils. Very many families employed servants, and in one we see
a Scotch boy valued among the property, and invoiced at 14_l._”
In the matter of dress, our grandames seem to have pushed the ruling
passion of the sex even through the rigid crust of Puritanism. In a
tract, called the “Simple Cobler of Agawam,” some righteous round-head
thus expresses his indignation at their fashions:—
“Methinks it should break the hearts of Englishmen to see so many goodly
Englishwomen imprisoned in French cages, peering out of their hood-holes
for some men of mercy to help them with a little wit, and nobody
relieves them. We have about five or six of them in our colony; if I see
any of them accidentally, I cannot cleanse my phansie of them for a
month after.
“It is a more common than convenient saying, that ‘nine taylors make a
man:’ it were well if nineteen could make a woman to her mind. If
taylors were men, indeed, well furnished but with mere moral principles,
they would disdain to be led about like asses by such mymick marmosets.
It is a most unworthy thing for men that have bones in them, to spend
their lives in making fiddle-cases for women’s phansies.
“It is known more than enough that I am neither niggard nor cynic to the
true bravery of the true gentry. I am not much offended if I see a
trimme far trimmer than she that wears it; but when I hear a nugiperous
gentle dame inquire what dress the queen is in, with egge to be in it in
all haste, whatever it be, I look to her as the very gizzard of a
trifle, the product of a quarter of a cypher, the epitome of nothing,
fitter to be kickt, if she were of a kickable substance, than either
honoured, or humoured.”
[Illustration]
MOUNT JEFFERSON,
(FROM MOUNT WASHINGTON.)
* * * * *
In looking in this direction from the elevated summit of Mount
Washington, the eye drops upon a region of climate entirely different
from that on its south-eastern side. The towns of Lancaster and
Jefferson, though something north of the White Mountains, enjoy a
benign, tranquil atmosphere, such as is not known for two or three
hundred miles farther south, and with the beauty of the scenery and the
number of water-courses, it is a little Arcadia in the bosom of the
north. The peculiar climate felt here, is owing to the proximity of the
White Mountains, which form a wall of thirty miles from north to south,
either checking entirely the easterly winds, or elevating them into a
region far above the surface. The westerly winds, again, impinging
against the mountains, (but in an elevated part,) are arrested, leaving
the towns below in the same tranquillity as is felt by a person coming
near a large building in a high wind.
The snow rarely lies permanently here until after the tenth or fifteenth
of December, and generally leaves it about the middle of March: at this
time the earth is usually free from frost. A stick forced through the
snow in the month of February enters the earth without difficulty, the
snow falling so early as to prevent the frost from penetrating to any
depth, and dissolving the little which had previously existed. Hence the
pastures become suddenly green, and cattle are safely turned into them
in the middle of April; the time of pasturage is, therefore, as long
here as in Connecticut. In this manner that tedious period, known as the
breaking up of the frost, is here chiefly prevented; and the warm season
is annually lengthened, so far as the purposes of gardening and
agriculture are concerned, about a month every year.
There is a broad tract running across the State at this point, embracing
both sides of the mountains, which is generally called _Upper Coos_.
What the meaning of this term is, would be difficult to say; but Dwight
supposes, from its application to places where there are remarkable
alluvial intervals, and where there are no distinguishing objects,
except a peculiar winding of rivers, that one or the other of these must
be denoted by the term.
In the year 1776, a farmer planted himself on the richest and most
beautiful of these lands, a large share of which he left to his
descendants. Valuable as his acquisition has since become, however, his
first step required uncommon enterprise, industry, and perseverance. His
separation from society may be understood from the fact, that, for
several years after he came here to live, he carried all his corn one
hundred and twenty-four miles to be ground. There was not a single road
in the neighbourhood. All his communication with the world was either
through the wilderness, or down the channel of the Connecticut; and this
he was obliged to enter at the distance of twenty miles from his house.
When any member of his family was ill, he had neither physician nor
nurse, nor other medicine than his own limited stock.
Rains and snows, in this part of the country almost universally come
from the western side of the heavens, and chiefly from the north-west.
Snow falls here in a singular manner. A light fleecy shower descends
frequently for a few minutes in the morning, when the sky becomes
perfectly clear, and the day perfectly fine. In this manner it has been
known to fall thirty successive days, and yet to cover the ground
scarcely to the depth of six inches. By this gradual accumulation, it
has sometimes arisen in the forests to the height of thirty inches;
commonly it has not exceeded eighteen. Travelling in the winter,
therefore, is easy and pleasant in this neighbourhood, and the weather
generally delightful.
The imperfect state of settlements in a country still comparatively new,
prevents many persons from forming just views of the splendour of the
scenery. In a landscape of any great extent, the proportion of wild
forest throws a gloom over the whole, and the eye, accustomed to the
haunts of man, demands instinctively a more smiling scene of cultivation
and habitation. In a more limited view, the appearance of girdled trees,
of drowned woods, burnt or fallen stumps, rough enclosures, and stony
land, are blemishes which an unaccustomed eye can with difficulty
overcome. It requires the prospective glance of an American to see the
form of nature, which is now in dishabille, restored to her neat
drapery, glowing with vegetation, and decked with flowers. The outline
of her fair proportions is enough for him; and so that is beautiful, as
in this country it almost every where is, he can finish the portrait to
his fancy, and make a flowery Tempe of a prostrate wilderness.
[Illustration]
MOUNT TOM, AND CONNECTICUT RIVER.
* * * * *
This fine mountain rises nobly from the fertile Interval of the
Connecticut, giving a character of boldness and majesty to scenery that
were else merely soft and lovely. The river at this point broke down the
barrier that evidently at one time held it back from the sea; and the
broad lands that were then left bare by the liberated waters, were
destined to form a strip of verdure and fertility, extending the whole
length of New England.
The expansions of the Valley of the Connecticut on either side of Mount
Tom, are landscapes of great beauty. The word _interval_, which
describes the wide-spreading meadows extending from the banks of the
river in these expansions, has a peculiar use in America, and seems to
define a formation of alluvial land not seen to the same extent in other
countries. In the Southern States the same description of land is called
a _flat_, or a _bottom_. They are formed by the deposit of particles of
soil brought down into the main river by its tributaries, or by
occasional streams created by the melting of the snow, or heavy rains. A
shoal is first formed, which, as it accumulates, rises gradually above
the ordinary surface, while the stream itself, if it flows like the
Connecticut through a soft soil, is continually deepening its bed, and
leaving these newly-formed banks out of the reach of accidental floods.
The existence of some cause to check the current, is absolutely
necessary to the formation of intervals. Wherever such cause is found,
intervals are found proportioned to the room furnished on the side of
the stream for their formation, and the lightness of the soil about the
tributary streams. These causes exist on the Connecticut in falls and
points of land, and in the narrowness of the channel at particular parts
shut in by mountains.
These lands are subject to many changes. Every new obliquity of the
current wears away some part of the Interval, against which its force is
directed. In the progress of such changes, the inhabitants of the
Connecticut have already seen large tracts gradually removed from one
side to the other. The former channel in the mean time has been filled
up, so as, in many instances, to leave no trace of its existence, and a
new one has been made through the solid ground.
The soil of the intervals is, of course, of the richest quality: there
is, however, a material difference in their fertility. The parts which
are lowest are commonly the best, as being the most frequently
overflowed, and therefore most enriched by the successive deposits of
slime. Of these parts, that division which is farthest down the river is
the most productive, as consisting of finer particles, and being more
plentifully covered with this manure. In the spring, these grounds are
regularly overflowed. In the months of March and April, the snows, which
in the northern parts of New England are usually deep, and the rains,
which at this time of the year are generally copious, raise the river
from fifteen to twenty feet, and extend the breadth of its waters in
some places a mile and a half, or two miles. Almost all the slime
conveyed down the current at this season is deposited on these lands;
for here, principally, the water becomes quiescent, and permits the
earthy particles to subside. This deposit is a rich manure. The lands
dressed with it are preserved in their full strength, and being
regularly enriched by the hand of nature, cannot but be highly valuable.
The form of these lands is naturally beautiful. A river passing through
them becomes almost, of course, winding. The border is necessarily
curved, from the evenness of the impression of the river on a soft soil;
and the edge is fringed with shrubs. A great part of them are formed
into meadows, which are more profitable, and, at the same time, more
agreeable to the eye than any other mode of culture. The magnificent
elms, for which this country is remarkable, stand singly in the fields;
while orchards and groves serve to break the uniformity. As they are
seldom enclosed for miles together, there is a look also of extent and
wildness about them, as if they produced their vegetation, “ploughed
only by the sunbeams,” like a paradise spontaneously verdant and
fertile.
Valuable as these intervals on the Connecticut have become, they were
bought cheaply enough by the first proprietors. One of the first
settlers of the neighbourhood of Mount Tom, was a tailor, who, for a
trifling consideration, purchased a tract on the river, forming a square
of three miles on a side. A carpenter came to settle in the valley, and
having constructed a rude wheelbarrow, the tailor offered him for it,
_either a suit of clothes, or the whole of his land_! He accepted the
latter, and became the possessor of one of the finest farms on the bank
of the Connecticut.
[Illustration]
SILVER CASCADE,
IN THE NOTCH OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS.
* * * * *
For a mountainous region, usually fertile in such accidents of nature,
the neighbourhood of the “White Hills” has few waterfalls; of those that
are met with in the “Notch,” the Silver Cascade is by far the most
beautiful; but to be seen to advantage it should be visited after heavy
rains. The stream is scanty, but its course from among the deep forest,
whence its springs issue into the light, is one of singular beauty.
Buried beneath the lofty precipices of the gorge, after ascending
towards the Pulpit Rock, by the side of the turbulent torrent of the
Saco, the ear is suddenly saluted by soft dashings of this sweetest of
cascades; and a glance upwards reveals its silver streams issuing from
the loftiest crests of the mountain, and leaping from crag to crag, or
spread in a broad thin sheet of liquid light over the edge of some
projecting ledge, till it reaches the road, across which it passes,
forming a still and transparent pool immediately beneath, before it
joins the Saco in the depths of the gorge. It is a beautiful vision in
the midst of the wildest and most dreary scenery; and its sudden
appearance—for nothing of it is seen till the tourist is immediately
under it—is a moment of deep delight to him from the suddenness of the
contrast. The lover of nature loves to linger among the wild beauties of
this region; and some of the finest ideas of the American painters have
been gleaned amongst its solitudes. We believe that the engraving, from
a painting by Doughty, will be very interesting to our subscribers.
[Illustration]
VIEW OF NEW YORK, FROM WEEHAWKEN.
* * * * *
Weehawken is slighted by the traveller ascending to the bolder and
brighter glories of the Highlands above; and few visit it except—
“The prisoner to the city’s pent-up air,”