set his foot on the green grass, and mount the rocks for a view of our
new-sprung Babylon and its waters. There is no part of “the country”
which “God made” so blest in its offices of freshening the spirit, and
giving health to the blood, as the rural suburb of a metropolis. The
free breath drawn there, the green herb looked on before it is trodden
down, the tree beautiful simply for the freedom of its leaves from the
dust of the street, the humblest bird or the meanest butterfly, are
dispensers of happiness in another measure than falls elsewhere to their
lot. Most such humble ministers of large blessings have their virtue for
“its own reward;” but it has fallen to the lot of Weehawken to find a
minstrel, and no mean one, among those for whose happiness and
consolation it seems made to bloom. A merchant-poet, whose “works” stand
on shelves in Wall Street, but whose rhymes for pastime live in
literature, and in the hearts of his countrymen, thus glorifies his
suburban Tempe:—
“Weehawken! in thy mountain scenery yet,
All we adore of Nature in her wild
And frolic hour of infancy, is met,
And never has a summer morning smiled
Upon a lovelier scene than the full eye
Of the enthusiast revels on—when high
“Amid thy forest-solitudes he climbs
O’er crags that proudly tower above the deep,
And knows that sense of danger, which sublimes
The breathless moment—when his daring step
Is on the verge o the cliff, and he can hear
The low dash of the wave with startled ear,
“Like the death music of his coming doom,
And clings to the green turf with desperate force,
As the heart clings to life; and when resume
The currents in his veins their wonted course
There lingers a deep feeling, like the moan
Of wearied ocean when the storm is gone.
“In such an hour he turns, and on his view
Ocean, and earth, and heaven, burst before him;
Clouds slumbering at his feet, and the clear blue
Of summer’s sky in beauty bending o’er him;
The city bright below; and far away
Sparkling in light, his own romantic bay.
“Tall spire, and glittering roof, and battlement,
And banners floating in the sunny air,
And white sails o’er the calm blue waters bent,
Green isle, and circling shore, are blended there
In wild reality. When life is old,
And many a scene forgot, the heart will hold
“Its memory of this; nor lives there one
Whose infant breath was drawn, or boyhood’s days
Of happiness were passed beneath that sun,
That in his manhood’s prime can calmly gaze
Upon that bay, or on that mountain stand,
Nor feel the prouder of his native land.”[1]
Weehawken is the “Chalk Farm” of New York, and a small spot enclosed by
rocks, and open to observation only from the river, is celebrated as
having been the ground on which Hamilton fought his fatal duel with
Aaron Burr. A small obelisk was erected on the spot, by the St. Andrew’s
Society, to the memory of Hamilton, but it has been removed. His body
was interred in the churchyard of Trinity, in Broadway, where his
monument now stands.
It is to be regretted that the fashion of visiting Haboken and Weehawken
has yielded to an impression among the “fashionable” that it is a vulgar
resort. This willingness to relinquish an agreeable promenade because it
is enjoyed as well by the poorer classes of society, is one of those
superfine ideas which we imitate from our English ancestors, and in
which the more philosophic continentals are so superior to us. What
enlivens the Tuileries and St. Cloud at Paris, the Monte-Pincio at Rome,
the Volksgarten at Vienna, and the Corso and Villa Reale at Naples, but
the presence of innumerable “vulgarians?” They are considered there like
the chorus in a pantomime, as producing all the back-ground effect as
necessary to the _ensemble_. The place would be nothing—would be
desolate, without them; yet in England and America it is enough to
vulgarize any—the most agreeable resort, to find it frequented by the
“people!”
-----
[1] “Fanny,” a poem, by Fitz-Greene Halleck.
[Illustration]
PRESIDENT’S HOUSE,
(FROM THE RIVER.)
* * * * *
The residence of the Chief Magistrate of the United States resembles the
country-seat of an English nobleman, in its architecture and size; but
it is to be regretted that the parallel ceases when we come to the
grounds. By itself it is a commodious and creditable building, serving
its purpose without too much state for a republican country, yet likely,
as long as the country exists without primogeniture and rank, to be
sufficiently superior to all other dwelling-houses to mark it as the
residence of the nation’s ruler.
The President’s House stands near the centre of an area of some twenty
acres, occupying a very advantageous elevation, open to the view of the
Potomac, and about forty-four feet above high water, and possessing from
its balcony one of the loveliest prospects in our country—the junction
of the two branches of the Potomac which border the district, and the
swelling and varied shores beyond of the States of Maryland and
Virginia. The building is one hundred and seventy feet front, and
eighty-six deep, and is built of white freestone, with Ionic pilasters,
comprehending two lofty stories, with a stone balustrade. The north
front is ornamented with a portico, sustained by four Ionic columns,
with three columns of projection—the outer intercolumniation affording
a shelter for carriages to drive under. The garden-front on the river
(presented in the drawing) is varied by what is called a rusticated
basement-story, in the Ionic style, and by a semi-circular projecting
colonnade of six columns, with two spacious and airy flights of steps
leading to a balustrade on the level of the principal story.
The interior of the President’s House is well disposed, and possesses
one superb reception-room, and two oval drawing-rooms, (one in each
story,) of very beautiful proportions. The other rooms are not
remarkable; and there is an inequality in the furniture of the whole
house, (owing to the unwillingness and piecemeal manner with which
Congress votes any monies for its decoration,) which destroys its effect
as a comfortable dwelling. The oval rooms are carpeted with Gobelin
tapestry, worked with the national emblems; and are altogether in a more
consistent style than the other parts of the house. It is to be hoped
that Congress will not always consider the furniture of the President’s
House as the scape-goat of all sumptuary and aristocratic sins, and that
we shall soon be able to introduce strangers, not only to a comfortable
and well-appointed, but to a properly-served and neatly-kept,
presidential mansion.
At the present moment (the last month of General Jackson’s
administration) the venerable President is confined to his room, and
occupies a small chamber in the second story, near the centre of the
house, on the front presented in the drawing. In a visit made to him by
the writer a few days since, he was sitting at a table by the side of
his bed, with a loose dressing-gown drawn over his black coat, and a
sheet of half-written paper before him. He rose, with the pen in his
hand, to receive a lady from another country, whose introduction to him
was the principal object of the visit, and entered into conversation
with that grace and dignified ease which mark his manners so peculiarly.
He spoke of his approaching retirement, and the route he should pursue
to reach the Hermitage, (his seat in Tennessee,) and expressed a strong
wish to avoid all publicity in his movements, and to be suffered to pass
tranquilly to his retreat. General Jackson is much changed since a
reception given to the writer six years ago. He was then thin and spare,
but stood erect and firm, and had a look of iron vigour—the effect,
perhaps, of his military attitude, and the martial expression of face
which belongs to him. He has since lost several of his front teeth, and
though the bold and full under lip still looks as if it could hold up
the world on its firm arch, it is the mouth of an old man, and in any
other face would convey an idea of decrepitude. The fire still burns in
the old warrior’s eye, however, and his straight and abundant white
hair, which has been suffered to grow untrimmed during his illness, adds
to the stern energy which is never wanting even to his most quiet
expression. Peace and veneration go with him to his retirement!
[Illustration]
VIEW ON THE SUSQUEHANNA, AT LIVERPOOL.
* * * * *
The musical Indian name of this lovely river, spite of the canals,
rail-roads, and county towns, that have supplanted the wild forest, and
the rude wigwam in its valley, recalls irresistibly to the fancy the
associations of aboriginal life, and the swift but bloody transit from
an Indian hunting-ground to European civilization. In the county-town of
Liverpool may be found, at this day, all the transcendental marks of
national refinement—such as milliners who get the fashions from Paris,
farmers who drink champagne, lawyers who dream of the presidency, and
young ladies who read Shelley and Chateaubriand; but it is only
forty-five or fifty years ago that the Susquehanna and the head waters
of the Ohio were ranged by the warlike Shawanee; and there was scarce a
white man’s house west of Wyoming which had not been the scene, to a
greater or less extent, of the barbarities we now find it so difficult
to realize.
Among the authentic records of this region of country is a story of the
captivity and escape of two children, which seems to me one of the most
curious, and shows at the same time of what stuff the early settlers of
these borders were made.
The names of these boys were John and Henry Johnson, the former thirteen
years of age, the latter eleven. They had been rambling in the woods at
a short distance from home, and getting tired, sat down to rest upon a
log. After sitting a few minutes, two Indians approached, whom they took
for whites, till they were too close upon them to admit of escape, and
they were made prisoners. The sun set after they had followed their
captors for an hour, and the Indians kindled a fire, and sharing with
them their roasted meat and parched corn, lay down to sleep, each with
one of the boys folded in his arms.
Henry, the youngest, had abandoned himself to his grief as they
travelled on over the hills, but the elder kept a stout heart, and
encouraged him with the hope of yet eluding the vigilance of the
savages. The practice of terrifying children by threats of the red man
with his tomahawk and scalping-knife had filled the mind of the younger,
however, and he was only pacified when fatigue made the coarse food
welcome, and the heat of the fire and the accustomed hour for repose
overcame him with sleep. He lay down with the red arms of the savage
around him, and was soon lost in the deep slumbers of childhood.
John, too, lay down, and pretended to sleep; and in a few minutes, the
Indian, who had locked him in his arms, relaxed his hold. He disengaged
himself softly and walked to the fire; and to try the soundness of their
sleep, he stirred the half-burnt faggots, and rekindled the blaze. Not a
limb stirred, and not a breathing was interrupted. He gently pulled his
brother and awoke him, and they both stood by the fire, with their
captors sleeping soundly at their feet. “I think,” said John, smiling,
“we may go home now.” “They will catch us again,” said the younger,
despairingly. “Then, before we go, we’ll kill them,” said the other.
The Indians had one gun, which rested against a tree, with their
tomahawks on the ground beside it. John reflected a moment, and then,
getting a rest for the gun upon a decayed log near the head of one of
the savages, he cocked it, took aim at the ear of the sleeping man, and
then calling to Henry, placed his hand on the trigger. Ordering him to
pull without moving the gun when he gave him a sign, he took the
tomahawk, and stood astride the Indian in whose arms he had been
encircled. At the given signal he struck, and the gun was discharged.
The blow of the tomahawk descended on the back of his victim’s neck, and
he attempted to rise; but the bold boy repeated his blows, while the
younger one cried out, “Lay on!—I’ve done for this one!” and both the
savages were, in the next moment, lying motionless before them. The
discharge of the gun had carried away the jaw of the other, and stunned
him.
They started on their way back, taking with them the gun and tomahawk as
trophies, and arrived at home just before day-break. The neighbours had
all been in search for them, and when they told their tale, it was at
first disbelieved. John, however, had hung up his hat as a mark to find
the place, and led them back the way he had come, where they found the
tomahawked Indian lying in his blood. The other had disappeared, but was
tracked to a short distance, where, as the chronicle quietly expresses
it, “they agreed to leave him, _as he must die at any rate_.”
[Illustration]
DESERT ROCK LIGHTHOUSE, AND MOUNTAIN.
* * * * *
Very much the same sort of incredulity with which one reads a
traveller’s account of the deliciousness of the Russian summer comes
over him, (_malgré_ all the information to the contrary,) when it is
proposed to him to admire any thing so near the cradle of the east wind
as Penobscot River. We know, indeed, that spring visits that region of
the world—as far, at least, as the British boundary line. We could be
made, upon reflection, to presume that the grass grows, and the sun
shines there—the farmers are warm in haying-time, and the flowers come
to maturity in season for the bees to provide against winter; but, in
point of fact, when Penobscot River is mentioned, we shudder at our
remembrance of the acrid blasts that have swept over us from that
quarter, and image the scenery forth-drest in the drapery so well
described by the captain of the Penobscot whaler—a fog so thick, that
having driven his jack-knife into it on the eve of sailing for the
Pacific, he found it sticking in the same spot on his return from a
three years’ cruise.
There _is_ beautiful scenery in Maine, however; and Mr. Doughty, from
one of whose pictures the accompanying drawing was taken, made a tour in
search of it, and filled a portfolio with sketches which (the most of
them) might belong to any Tempo for their summer look. They were taken
from the neighbourhood of Desert Rock, and within view of Mount Desert,
(shown in the drawing,) though the names of their neighbours sound
unpromising.
Such spots as this are expected, like the knife-grinder, to have a story
to tell, and this, unlike the knife-grinder, answers to expectation. The
Light-house in the foreground stands upon a rock, about twelve miles
from land; and near it lies a low reef, hidden at high tides, with a
channel between it and the loftier rock. Some years before the erection
of the Light-house, a homeward-bound vessel ran upon the breakers in a
storm, and went to pieces. The storm having just commenced, and the sea
not running as yet very high, several of the crew succeeded in getting
upon the rock, where they found a partial shelter under a projecting
shelf to leeward. The storm increased in violence, and after three days
of unintermitted fury, during which they had seen no friendly sail even
in the distance, the miserable survivors, perishing with hunger,
abandoned themselves to despair. On the fourth night, they were crowded
together in their narrow place of shelter, their eyes fixed on the black
darkness covering the sea, when a vivid flash of lightning revealed to
them a large ship careering straight for the rock, and apparently in
complete ignorance of the danger. In the same instant all was black
again, and they waited in the most breathless agony for the shock. A
minute elapsed, and simultaneously, with a gleam that made the whole sea
as bright as day, the ship appeared on the crest of a mountain-wave
bounding over the reef, and with one cry from the man at the helm, as he
discovered the rock before him, she launched into the channel on the
breaking wave, and they heard her no more. They spoke of her to each
other as lost, and betook themselves again to their silent despair. The
tempest stilled toward morning, and the sun rose clear, and till noon
again they bore the gnawings of despairing hunger, and watched the
desolate sea in vain for a passing sail. Soon after noon a boat suddenly
pulled into the channel between the rocks, friendly voices hailed the
exhausted mariners, and with daring humanity they were successfully
taken off. The ship they had seen in the night was lying-to not far from
the opposite side of the rock, and they were soon on board of her,
where, with proper treatment, they recovered from their exhaustion, and
arrived safe in port. The pilot had seen them by the same gleam which
revealed to him his danger, and after being saved by the recoil of the
wave, which threw the ship into the current of the channel between the
reefs, he lay-to till morning, when finding the vessel had drifted far
south of the rock, he returned upon her course, and with the first
abatement of the waves, manned his boat for the dangerous service he
succeeded in.
Successful as Mr. Doughty is in sketches of this description, his forte
lies in scenery of a softer and inland character—in the lonely
forest-brook, the misty wood-lake, the still river, the heart of the
quiet wilderness. In painting these features of Nature, he has (in his
peculiar style) no rivals among American painters—perhaps none in
England. His landscapes can scarcely be appreciated by those who have
not seen the untouched and graceful wilderness of America; but of
travellers who have, they touch the heart and fill the memory afresh. He
is a most sweet and accomplished artist; and when the time comes for
America to be proud of her painters, Doughty will be remembered among
the first.
[Illustration]
WASHINGTON’S HOUSE, AT MOUNT VERNON.
* * * * *
The house erected on this consecrated spot is of wood, cut in imitation
of freestone. The centre part was built by Lawrence Washington, brother
to the General. The wings were added by General Washington. It is named
after Admiral Vernon, in whose expedition the former served. The house
is two stories high, and ninety-six feet in length, with a portico
fronting the river, extending the whole length of the house, surmounted
with a cupola. The grounds are in the same state as left by General
Washington.
The house contains on the ground floor, six rooms, and a spacious
passage: four of these are of the ordinary size. At the north-east is a
large room, with a handsomely sculptured ceiling, which contains a
marble mantel-piece, sent to General Washington from Italy, and a very
fine organ, on which instrument Mrs. Washington was an accomplished
performer. The room at the south-east end of the house is used as a
family dining-room, and contains busts of Necker, Paul Jones, and
General Washington; also a handsome library, fitted in the wall, with
glass cases. The books were chiefly collected by General Washington.
The house fronts north-west, the rear looking to the river. In front of
the house is a lawn, containing five or six acres of ground, with a
serpentine walk around it, fringed with shrubbery, and planted with
poplars. On each side of the lawn stands a garden; the one on the right
is a flower-garden, and contains two green-houses, (one built by General
Washington, the other by Judge Washington,) a hothouse, and a pinery. It
is laid out in handsome walks, with boxwood borders, remarkable for
their beauty. It contains also a quantity of fig-trees, producing
excellent fruit. The other is a kitchen-garden, containing only fruit
and vegetables.
About two hundred yards from the house, in a southerly direction, stands
a summer-house, on the edge of the river-bank, which is here lofty and
sloping, and clothed with wood to the water’s edge. The summer-house
commands a fine prospect of the river and the Maryland shore; also of
the White House, at a distance of five or six miles down the river,
where an engagement took place with the British vessels which ascended
the river during the last war.
The estate, as owned by Judge Washington, consisted of between three and
four thousand acres, since divided between his nephews. The timber of
the woods, in which the fallow deer once abounded, is composed of white
and black oak, with dog-wood, hickory, ash, cedar, &c. The soil is thin
and rather poor, cultivated chiefly in Indian corn, rye, barley, &c.
There are two fisheries on the place, where shad and herring are caught
in large quantities. Mount Vernon is healthy during all the year except
the autumn, when bilious fevers and agues prevail.
A distinguished writer visited Mount Vernon some years since, and gave a
more particular account of the grounds than is to be found elsewhere.
“We were conducted,” he says, “over long gravel walks, bordered with
box, which is arranged and trimmed into the most fanciful figures, and
which, at the age of twenty years and upwards, still possesses the
vigour and freshness of youth. At the extremity of these extensive
alleys and pleasure-grounds, ornamented with fruit-trees and shrubbery,
and clothed in perennial verdure, stands two hot-houses, and as many
green-houses, situated in the sunniest part of the garden, and shielded
from the northern winds by a long range of wooden buildings for the
accommodation of servants. From the air of a frosty December morning, we
were suddenly introduced into the tropical climate of these spacious
houses, where we long sauntered among groves of the coffee-tree, lemons
and oranges, all in full bearing, regaling our senses with the flowers
and odours of spring.
“One of the hot-houses is appropriated entirely to rearing the
pine-apple, long rows of which we saw in a flourishing and luxuriant
condition. Many bushels of lemons and oranges, of every variety, are
annually grown, which, besides furnishing the family with a supply of
these fruits at all seasons, are distributed as delicacies to their
friends, or used to administer to the comfort of their neighbours in
cases of sickness. The coffee-plant thrives well, yields abundantly,
and, in quality, is said to be equal to the best Mocha. The branches
under which we walked were laden with the fruit, fast advancing to
maturity. Among the more rare plants we saw the night-blowing cereas,
the guava, aloes of a gigantic growth, the West India plantain, the
sweet cassia in bloom, the prickly pear, and many others.
“At every step in these pleasure-grounds, the thought occurred that the
illustrious projector is no more. In passing the house, the chamber in
which he died was pointed out to us; and imagination, aided by these
memorials, soon presented the scene in such distinct and vivid colours,
that we seemed almost to follow his remains to the grave.”
[Illustration]
VILLAGE OF LITTLE FALLS, MOHAWK RIVER.
* * * * *
This thriving town sits above the north bank of the Mohawk, amid some of
the most exquisite scenery of the world. The falls afford great
facilities for manufactures of all kinds, and the Erie canal and
rail-road both pass through it, up the Valley of the Mohawk, making it
altogether the busiest spot, as it is the loveliest on the great route
westward. It is impossible to conquer the wildness of the scenery here,
however; and spite of mills and aqueducts, and smoking steam-engines,
the soul of the banished Mohawk might return and haunt with comfort the
bold precipices and impassive rocks that frown down upon his ancient
abode, and still find the water untamed, and the mountains beautiful.
Of the small relics of Indian history that exist, there is a scrap which
proves the supremacy of the Mohawk over even the far-off tribes of
Connecticut. In the year 1656, a Podunk Indian, named Weaseapano,
murdered a Sachem, who lived near Mattabeseck, (now Middletown.)
Seaquassin, the existing Sachem of his tribe, complained of the outrage
to the magistracy of Connecticut, and said that the Podunk Indians
entertained the murderer, and protected him from the merited punishment.
Seaquassin, at the same time, engaged Uncas in his cause, who also
complained that Tontonimo enticed away many of his men, and protected an
Indian who had murdered a Mohegan. Upon these complaints, the
magistrates summoned the parties before them. Seaquassin and Uncas,
after observing that the murderer was a mean fellow, and that the man
murdered was a great Sachem, insisted that _ten men_, friends of
Weaseapano, should be delivered up to be put to death, as a satisfaction
for the crime. Tontonimo insisted that the satisfaction demanded was
excessive; particularly as the murdered Sachem had killed Weaseapano’s
uncle. The governor endeavoured to convince the complainants that the
demand was excessive, observing that the English, in cases of murder,
punished only the principal, and such as were accessary to the crime.