VIEW NEAR ANTHONY’S NOSE,
HUDSON HIGHLANDS.
This mountain, “known to fame,” serves as a landmark to the industrious craft plying upon the Hudson, and thus fulfils a more useful destiny than is commonly awarded to spots bright in story. It stands amid a host of interesting localities, marked with the events of the Revolution, and has witnessed, with less damage than other noses, many a conflict by land and water.
On the opposite side of the river from the base of the mountain, lie the two forts Montgomery and Clinton, taken by the British in October, 1777. The commander-in-chief at New York was prompted to this expedition by two objects: to destroy a quantity of military stores which the Americans had collected in this neighbourhood, and to make a diversion in favour of General Burgoyne. For these purposes Sir Henry Clinton embarked between three and four thousand troops at New York, and sailed with them up the Hudson. On the 5th of October they landed at Verplank’s Point, a few miles below the entrance to the Highlands. The next morning, a part of the force landed on Stony Point, which projects into the river on the western side, just below the mountains; hence they marched into the rear of the fortresses.
General Putnam commanded at that time in this quarter. He had one thousand continental troops, a part of which only were effective, and a small body of militia. He believed the principal design of the enemy to be the destruction of the stores; and when he was informed of their main purpose, it was too late for him to resist with success. He supposed that they were aiming at Fort Independence, and directed his attention to its defence; the heavy firing on the other side of the river gave him the first decisive information of their real intentions. Mr. Clinton, at that time governor of the state, placed himself at this post on the first notice that he received of the enemy’s advancing. Having made the best disposition for the defence of the forts, he despatched an express to General Putnam to acquaint him with his situation; but when it reached his head quarters, that officer and General Parsons were reconnoitring the position of the enemy on the east side of the river.
Lieut.-Col. Campbell, in the mean time, proceeded with nine hundred men by a circuitous march to the rear of Fort Montgomery; while Sir Henry Clinton, with Generals Vaughan and Tryon, moved onwards towards Fort Clinton. Both fortresses were attacked at once, between four and five in the afternoon: they were defended with great resolution. This will be readily admitted, when it is remembered that the whole garrison consisted of but six hundred men. The conflict was carried on till dark, when the British had obtained absolute possession, and such of the Americans as were not killed or wounded had made their escape. The loss of the two garrisons amounted to about two hundred and fifty. Among the killed on the enemy’s side was Lieut.-Col. Campbell.
It has been thought that an addition of five or six hundred men to these garrisons would have saved the works; the correctness of this opinion may be doubted. Fifteen hundred soldiers would have been barely sufficient completely to man Fort Montgomery alone. The works themselves were imperfect, and the ground was probably chosen rather for the defence of the river, than because it was itself defensible.
Governor Clinton and his brother, General James Clinton, escaped after the enemy had possession of the forts; the former by crossing the river. The latter had been wounded in the thigh by a bayonet.
On the 8th, the English forces proceeded to the eastern side, where they found Fort Independence evacuated. A party then burnt the continental village, as it was called, a temporary settlement raised up by the war for the accommodation of the army. Here had been gathered a considerable number of those artisans, whose labours are particularly necessary for military purposes; and a considerable quantity of military stores. They then removed a chain which was stretched across the river at Fort Montgomery, and advancing up the river, removed another which was extended from Fort Constitution to the opposite shore at West Point. General Vaughan then advanced still further up the Hudson, and on the 13th reached the town of Kingston, which he burnt. On the 17th, took place the surrender of Burgoyne, and he returned down the Hudson with his fleet to New York.
Count Grabouski, a Polish nobleman, was killed in the assault on Fort Clinton, while acting as aid-de-camp to the British commander. He was buried on the spot, but his grave is now undiscoverable.
WASHINGTON’S MONUMENT AT BALTIMORE.
This fine monument stands at the end of a long street, forming an ascending perspective; and as its base crowns the summit of a considerable hill, it is fully relieved against the sky, and shows very nobly. The square which immediately surrounds it is newly divided into building-lots, and is becoming the “west end” of Baltimore. The Monument and the handsome buildings which are going up around are a mutual improvement of appearance.
The design of this monument was conceived in 1809, when a company obtained leave of the legislature to raise 100,000 dollars for the purpose by a lottery. By the year 1815, funds sufficient to authorize the commencement of the work had been raised, and a plan had been furnished by Mr. Robert Mills. On the 4th of July, the corner stone was laid upon ground presented by Col. John E. Howard. The monument is a Doric column upon a square base, surmounted by a pedestal, upon which is placed a colossal statue of Washington. The base is fifty feet square, and is elevated twenty feet; the column, to the feet of the statue, is one hundred and sixty feet, and the statue is thirteen feet in height. The statue is the work of Causici, an Italian, and represents Washington at the instant when he resigned his commission after the Revolution.
There were three periods in Washington’s life, and either of the two first would alone have placed him in the highest roll of the names of great men. The close of his military life (here represented) terminated the first period. His civil career in the presidency terminated the second; and here all comparison between Washington and any other man that ever lived ceases entirely. With a fame as complete as his, on his second retirement to Mount Vernon, a sincere and ardent wish to pass the remainder of his days in peaceful seclusion, and domestic ties and attachments of the strongest character; with all this around him, to come out once more from his tent of glory, and at his country’s call to expose his bright name again to the hazards of failure, and to the eagerness of human envy and misconstruction,—this seems to me the sublimest moment of the life of Washington.
“You know, Sir,” he says in his letter to the President, accepting the office of commander-in-chief of the army, “what calculations I had made relative to the probable course of events on my retiring from office, and the determination with which I had consoled myself of closing the remnant of my days in my present peaceful abode. You will, therefore, be at no loss to conceive and appreciate the sensations I must have experienced to bring my mind to any conclusion that would pledge me, at so late a period of life, to leave scenes I sincerely love to enter upon the boundless field of public action, incessant trouble, and high responsibility.”
It is singular how all the contemporaneous judgments of Washington’s character unite in ascribing the difficulty of drawing his portrait to the unity, harmony, and perfectability of his character. Chastellux says very forcibly, “If you are presented with medals of Cæsar, of Trajan, or Alexander, on examining their features you will still be led to ask, what was their stature and the form of their persons; but if you discover in a heap of ruins the head or a limb of the Apollo, be not curious about the other parts, but rest assured that they were all conformable to those of a god. Let not this impression be attributed to enthusiasm. I wish only to express the impression that Washington has left on my mind: the idea of a perfect whole, that cannot be the produce of enthusiasm, which rather would reject it, since the effect of proportion is to diminish the idea of greatness.”
In a funereal eulogy pronounced by Mr. Ware at Hingham, occurs nearly the same sentiment.
“The image of this great man is not like that of most others who have shone with distinguished lustre in the annals of the world. It is not composed of some bright spots surrounded with dark shades, so as to dazzle without enlightening the beholder. His character is not an assemblage of great talents by the side of great defects, and splendid virtues contaminated by their vicinity to atrocious vices: he shone with a clear and steady lustre, which, if it seldom appeared with flashes of splendour to dazzle and astonish, was yet never mingled with shades, nor intercepted by clouds. The circumstance which seems to distinguish his name from that of all others, is not the pre-eminence of any one talent or virtue, but a unity of character resulting from the perfect combination and exact balancing of all those great and good qualities, which enter into the character of one who is to possess public esteem, guide public opinion, and command universal respect and confidence.”
EAST PORT, AND PASSAMAQUODDY BAY.
The people of this beautiful State are just now enduring a double share of the evils of border location, having not only the ill-directed “sympathy” with the insurrectionists of Canada to repress, but the excitement of the newly-vexed question ofboundary. As this last subject is one little understood, perhaps the history of the negotiations on the subject may not be unacceptable to the readers of theAmerican Scenery.
“In their endeavours to bring about the settlement of another contested point, the two governments were less successful than they had been with respect to the commercial intercourse between America and the West India Island. This point related to the fixing the north-eastern boundary of the United States.
“By the treaty of 1783, which recognised their independence, it was declared that the eastern boundary of the United States, dividing them from Nova Scotia, should be ‘a line to be drawn along the middle of the river St. Croix, from its mouth in the bay of Fundy to its source, and from its source, directly north, to the highlands, which divide the rivers that fall into the Atlantic Ocean from those which fall into the river St. Lawrence.’ The northern line, separating Canada from the New States, was to commence ‘from the north-west angle of Nova Scotia; viz. that angle which is formed by a line drawn due north from the source of the St. Croix river to the highlands, along the said highlands, which divide those rivers that, empty themselves into the river St. Lawrence from those which fall into the Atlantic Ocean, to the north-westernmost head of Connecticut river; thence, descending along that river to the forty-fifth degree of latitude, thence due west on that latitude, until it strikes the river Iroquois or Cataruguy, thence along the middle of the said river into Lake Ontario,’ &c.
“Being for the most part marked out by mathematical, or by well-known natural lines, the frontier between the head of the Connecticut and Lake Ontario afforded but little ground for dispute. But such was not the case with the boundary from the head of the Connecticut to the sea. Untrodden, except perhaps by the foot of the hunter, all the northern division of the country between the Bay of Fundy and the St. Lawrence then consisted of a dense forest, scattered over with mountains and lakes, and intersected by streams of considerable magnitude. No survey of it appears ever to have been made, and the British ministers were, consequently, ignorant of its topographical features. Yet, even under these circumstances, they can scarcely be excused for having admitted such a vague description of the future limits, since, without much difficulty, sufficient information might have been obtained to prevent this defect. Their negligence gave birth to a controversy, which, after the expiration of half a century, yet remains undecided. Only a few years elapsed before a doubt arose respecting the river which was meant under the name of St. Croix; the Americans insisting that the St. John was the river which was intended. By the treaty of 1794, it was arranged that this point should be left to the decision of a joint commission. In 1798, the commission decided that the extreme source of the northern branch of the Scoodic river was the source of the St. Croix designated in the treaty; and a monument was erected there, to indicate the spot whence the line was to be drawn to the north. Thus far the question was satisfactorily set at rest. Not such, however, was the result of the subsequent proceedings. For some years, no further steps appear to have been taken by either of the governments. While the territory in question continued to be a wilderness, there was not much temptation to discuss its limits; but when the new state of Maine, and the British province of New Brunswick, began to extend their settlements into the interior, the case was materially altered. The line of demarcation claimed by the Americans would not only include an area of ten thousand square miles, but would entirely cut off all direct communication between New Brunswick and Lower Canada. From the source of the Scoodic river, they prolonged the line northward, as far as a chain of mountains distant less than thirty miles from the St. Lawrence; which chain, they contended, formed the highlands specified in the treaty of 1783.
“The British, on the contrary, maintained that the north-west angle of Nova Scotia was at Mars Hill, about forty miles from the source of the Scoodic; and that the northern frontier of Maine ought to pass from thence to the westward over a range of hills which lie at the sources of the Penobscot, Kennebec, and Androscoggin. Neither party would recede from its pretensions. In the treaty of Ghent, in 1814, it was agreed that two commissioners should be appointed to make surveys and settle the boundary. If they coincided in opinion, their decision was to be final; but if they disagreed, some friendly sovereign, or state, was to be chosen as umpire, and from his judgment there was to be no appeal.
“Affairs remained in this state till 1827, when the commissioners being unable to agree, and some disputes as to questions of jurisdiction having rendered it desirable to bring the frontier controversy to an issue, a convention was concluded between the British and American government, by which it was arranged that the king of the Netherlands should be requested to act as arbitrator. To this request his majesty assented; and their statements and surveys were accordingly laid before him. The award of the sovereign umpire was not delivered till the 10th of January, 1831. It was not calculated to satisfy either of the claimants. Considering the pretensions of the two powers to be equally balanced, it proceeded to lay down new limits, upon principles of mutual convenience. The British frontier was to commence at the spot where the line drawn due north from the source of the Scoodic intersects the St. John, and was to pass up the latter river and the St. Francis, to the highlands which run parallel with the St. Lawrence. Though this award assigned to the Americans seven-eighths of the district which was contended for by Great Britain, yet, as it gave a direct communication between New Brunswick and Lower Canada, it was accepted by the British government. The United States was not so yielding. The award was immediately protested against by the American ministers at the Hague, on the ground of the arbiter having exceeded his authority. The State of Maine also entered its protest, and denied the right of the federal government to cede any portion of the litigated territory. The matter was finally brought before the senate by the President, and that body decided that the umpire having gone beyond his powers, his award was not binding; and that a new negotiation must be opened with Great Britain. Since that period, however, no steps have been taken to accomplish an arrangement.”
CEMETERY OF MOUNT AUBURN.
This picturesque and beautiful burial-place occupies a grove, formerly an academic and sylvan retreat for the students of Harvard College, near by. It is about five miles from Boston, and presents naturally a most agreeable mixture of hill, valley, and water, forming altogether the beau-ideal of a site for the purpose to which it is at present devoted.
If we are not mistaken, the people of the United States owe the most creditable and delicate taste, newly awakened throughout the country on the subject of sepulture, to one of their most distinguished poets, the Rev. John Pierpoint, author of the “Airs of Palestine.” By his exertions, mainly, a society was formed for the purchase, appropriation, and improvement, of the beautiful spot represented in the drawing; and, at present, most of the wealthier citizens of the capital of New England are possessors of verdant and flowery enclosures, which are ornamented even more tastefully than the celebrated cemeteries of Père la Chaise. In doing away thus with the neglectfulness and dreariness of the outer aspect of the grave, death, it seems to us, is divested of half its terrors, while a refined and salutary feeling is awakened in the bosoms of the living.
The example of this cemetery has been followed in other cities; and at Philadelphia, particularly, there is a most sweet spot selected upon the banks of the Schuylkill, and appropriated to this purpose. The refinement has spread all over the country; and in a few years, probably, the burial of the dead will be associated in the minds of the people of the United States only with sylvan repose, and the sacred loveliness of consecrated natural beauty.
NORTHAMPTON, MASSACHUSETTS.
It is recorded of the first settlers of Northampton, that in the tenth year of their establishment in the wilderness, in 1663, they paid for the support of a clergyman one hundred and twenty pounds sterling. According to the change in the value of money, and the circumstances of the persons who formed the congregation, this sum was equal to at least six times the amount of the present valuation. In this one fact is to be found a leaven which has pervaded the town ever since, preserving for its inhabitants the rigid morality, the religious feeling, and almost the stern manners of the Puritan pilgrims.
The inflexible justice practised among such men had its effect on the Indians among whom they settled; and Northampton, in consequence, was one of the last towns affected by the general hostilities of Philip’s war.
In their first purchases, they secured no less their own rights than the rights of the natives; and the latter were always considered as having a right to dwell and hunt in the lands they had sold. In the year 1664, they requested leave of the settlers to build themselves a fort within the town; and leave was granted on the following conditions:—
“That the Indians do not work, game, or carry burdens within the town on the Sabbath; norpowowhere, or anywhere else;
“Nor get liquor, nor cider, nor get drunk;
“Nor admit Indians from without the town;
“Nor break down the fences of the inhabitants;
“Nor let cattle or swine upon their fields; but go over a stile at one place;
“Nor admit among them the murderers, Calawane, Wuttowhan, and Pacquallant;
“Nor hunt, nor kill cattle, sheep, or swine, with their dogs.”
There is in these conditions an attention to the sobriety and morality of the Indians, which has been very seldom regarded in compacts with this injured race. The consequence was, a perpetual peace between them and the Indians of their immediate neighbourhood. On the breaking out of Philip’s war, however, they became liable to incursions from other tribes, and especially from the Canadians, French, and Indians. They fortified their “meeting-house;” and in every cluster of houses, one was fortified and pierced with holes for the discharge of muskets. The whole town was then enclosed with a palisado set up in a trench, and a guard of fifty persons perpetually kept.
It is scarcely possible to convey, to a mind that has not reflected on the subject, a fair idea of the difficulties, hazards, and horrors, that beset the first adventurers for religious liberty in New England. Beside all the usual evils of pioneering—the separation from friends, the hardships, the privations, the loss of all communication with the civilized world, these settlers had to encounter the most diabolical warfare recorded in history.
“The first announcement of an Indian war,” says a diffuse writer on this subject, “is its terrible commencement. In the hour of security and sleep, when your deadly enemies are supposed to be friends, quietly fishing and hunting—when they are believed to be far off, and thoughtless of you and yours, your sleep is suddenly broken by the war-whoop, your house and village set on fire, your family and friends butchered, and yourself escape only to be carried into captivity, and wrung with every species of torture. If you go out to the fields, you may be shot down by an unseen enemy in the woods, or return in the evening and find your house consumed to ashes, and your family carried into captivity.”
During the last part of what is called Philip’s war, to the Indians’ treachery, cruelty, and cunning, was added the instigation, the sustenance, and the wealth of the civilized French. A price was paid for English scalps; European officers planned and assisted to execute schemes of devastation and slaughter; and, in short, nothing was wanting to develop, in its fullest ferocity, the Indian’s love of blood.
It is curious to reflect how wide and immortal would have been the fame of the king of the Wampanoags, had he succeeded, (as he came very near doing,) in exterminating the Whites, and restoring the land of his forefathers to his subjects and children. The experiment of settlement would scarcely have been soon repeated; and, perhaps, to this day, the Indian, confident in his tried strength, would have possessed and defended the lands from which he has so utterly disappeared; while the name of Philip would justly have been associated with those of Gustavus Vasa, and Alfred of England. The difference between him and these great lights of history, is, that he failed.
CHAPEL OF “OUR LADY OF COLD SPRING.”
The Hudson bends out from Crow-Nest into a small bay; and, in the lap of the crescent thus formed, lies snug and sheltered, the little village of Cold Spring. It is not much of a place for its buildings, history, or business; but it has its squire and post-master, its politics and scandal, and a long disappointed ambition to become a regular landing-place for the steamers. Then there are cabals between the rival ferrymen, on which the inhabitants divide; the vote for the president, on which they agree (for Van Buren); and the usual religious sects, with the usual schisms. The Presbyterians and Methodists, as usual, worship in very ugly churches; and the Catholics, as usual, in a very picturesque and beautiful one. (Videthe Drawing.)
It is a pity (picturesquely speaking) that the boatmen on the river are not Catholics; it would be so pretty to see them shorten sail off Our Lady of Cold Spring, and uncover for an Ave-Maria. This little chapel, so exquisitely situated on the bluff overlooking the river, reminds me of a hermit’s oratory and cross which is perched similarly in the shelter of a cliff on the desolate coast of Sparta. I was on board a frigate, gliding slowly up the Ægean, and clinging to the shore for a land-wind, when I descried the white cross at a distance of about half a mile, strongly relieved against the dark rock in its rear. As we approached, the small crypt and altar became visible; and, at the moment the ship passed, a tall monk, with a snow-white beard, stepped forth like an apparition upon the cliffs, and spread out his arms to bless us. In the midst of the intense solitude of the Ægean, with not a human dwelling to be seen on the whole coast from Moron to Napoli, the effect of this silent benediction was almost supernatural. He remained for five minutes in this attitude, his long cowl motionless in the still air, and his head slowly turning to the ship as she drew fast round the little promontory on her course. I would suggest to Our Lady of Cold Spring, that a niche under the portico of her pretty chapel, with a cross to be seen from the river by day, and a lamp by night, would make at least a catholic impression on the passer by, though we are not all children of St. Peter.
Half way between the mountain and our Lady’s shrine, stands, on a superb natural platform, the romantic estate of Undercliff, the seat of Colonel Morris. Just above it rises the abrupt and heavily wooded mountain, from which it derives its name; a thick grove hides it from the village at its foot; and, from the portico of the mansion, extend views in three directions unparalleled for varied and surprising beauty. A road, running between high-water mark and the park gate, skirts the river in eccentric windings for five or six miles; the brows of the hills descending to the Hudson in the west and north, are nobly wooded and threaded with circuitous paths, and all around lies the most romantic scenery of the most romantic river in the world.
The only fault of the views from West Point, is, that West Point itself is lost as a feature in the landscape. The traveller feels the same drawback which troubled the waiting-maid when taken to drive by the footman in her mistress’s chariot—“How I wish I could stand by the road side and see myself go by!” From Undercliff, which is directly opposite, and about at the same elevation, the superb terrace of the Military School is seen to the greatest advantage. The white barracks of Camptown, the long range of edifices which skirt the esplanade, the ruins half way up the mountain of old Fort Putnam, and the waving line of wood and valley extending to Mr. Cozzen’s estate of “Stoney Lonesome,” form a noble feature in the view from Undercliff.
I had forgotten that Cold Spring “plucks a glory on its head” from being honoured with the frequent visits of Washington Irving, Halleck, and other lesser stars in the literary firmament; when these first lights above the horizon shall have set, (Hesperus-like—first and brightest!) there will linger about this little village—by that time, perhaps, arrived at the dignity of a landing-place—many a tale of the days when Geoffrey Crayon talked in his gentle way with the ferryman who brought him to Cold Spring; or the now plethoric post-master, who, in his character of librarian to the village, enjoyed the friendship of Irving and Halleck, and received from their own hands the “authors’ copies,” since curiously preserved in the execrable print and binding then prevalent in America. Perhaps even old Lipsey the ferryman, and his rival Andrews, will come in for their slice of immortality, little as they dream now, pulling close in for the counter-current under our Lady’s skirts, of working at that slow oar for posthumous reputation.
VIEW FROM THE MOUNTAIN HOUSE, CATSKILL.
In the following masterly description, by Miss Martineau, is said all, and the best that can be said, of the glorious view from the Mountain-House at Catskill.
“After tea, I went out upon the platform in front of the house, having been warned not to go too near the edge, so as to fall an unmeasured depth into the forest below. I sat upon the edge as a security against stepping over unawares. The stars were bright overhead, and had conquered half the sky, giving promise of what we ardently desired, a fine morrow. Over the other half, the mass of thunder-clouds was, I supposed, heaped together; for I could at first discern nothing of the champaign which I knew must be stretched below. Suddenly, and from that moment incessantly, gushes of red lightning poured out from the cloudy canopy, revealing, not merely the horizon, but the course of the river, in all its windings through the valley. This thread of river, thus illuminated, looked like a flash of lightning caught by some strong hand and laid along in the valley.
“All the principal features of the landscape might, no doubt, have been discerned by this sulphureous light; but my whole attention was absorbed by the river, which seemed to come out of the darkness, like an apparition, at the summons of my impatient will. It could be borne only for a short time—this dazzling, bewildering alternation of glare and blackness, of vast reality and nothingness. I was soon glad to draw back from the precipice, and seek the candle-light within.
“The next day was Sunday. I shall never forget, if I live to a hundred, how the world lay at our feet one Sunday morning. I rose very early, and looked abroad from my window, two stories above the platform. A dense fog, exactly level with my eyes, as it appeared, roofed in the whole plain of the earth—a dusky firmament, in which the stars had hidden themselves for the day. Such is the account which an antediluvian spectator would probably have given of it. This solid firmament had spaces in it, however, through which gushes of sun-light were poured, lighting up the spires of white churches, and clusters of farm-buildings, too small to be otherwise distinguished; and especially the river, with its sloops, floating like motes in the sun-beam. The firmament rose and melted, or parted off into the likeness of snowy sky-mountains, and left the cool Sabbath to brood brightly over the land. What human interest sanctifies a bird’s-eye view! I suppose this is its peculiar charm; for its charm is found to deepen in proportion to the growth of mind. To an infant, a champaign of a hundred miles is not so much as a yard square of gay carpet. To the rustic, it is less bewitching than a paddock with two cows. To the philosopher, what is it not? As he casts his eye over its glittering towns, its scattered hamlets, its secluded homes, its mountain ranges, church spires, and untrodden forests, it is a picture of life; an epitome of the human universe; the complete volume of moral philosophy for which he has sought in vain in all libraries. On the left horizon, are the green mountains of Vermont; and at the right extremity sparkles the Atlantic. Beneath lies the forest where the deer are hiding, and the birds rejoicing in song. Beyond the river, he sees spread the rich plains of Connecticut; there, where a blue expanse lies beyond the triple range of hills, are the churches of religious Massachusetts sending up their sabbath-psalms—praise which he is too high to hear, while God is not. The fields and waters seem to him to-day no more truly property than the skies which shine down upon them; and to think how some below are busying their thoughts this Sabbath-day about how they shall hedge in another field, or multiply their flocks on yonder meadows, gives him a taste of the same pity which Jesus felt in his solitude, when his followers were contending about which should be greatest. It seems strange to him now that man should call any thinghisbut the power which is in him, and which can create somewhat more vast and beautiful than all that this horizon encloses. Here he gains the conviction, to be never again shaken, that all that is real is ideal; that the joys and sorrows of men do not spring up out of the ground, or fly abroad on the wings of the wind, or come showered down from the sky; that good cannot be hedged in, nor evil barred out; even that light does not reach the spirit through the eye alone, nor wisdom through the medium of sound or silence only. He becomes of one mind with the spiritual Berkeley, that the face of nature itself, the very picture of woods, and streams, and meadows, is a hieroglyphic writing in the spirit itself, of which the retina is no interpreter. The proof is just below him, (at least, it came under my eye,) in the lady (not American) who, after glancing over the landscape, brings her chair into the piazza, and turning her back to the champaign, and her face to the wooden walls of the hotel, begins the study, this Sunday morning, of her lap-full of newspapers. What a sermon is thus preached to him at this moment from a very hackneyed text! To him that hath much—that hath the eye, and ear, and wealth, of the spirit, shall more be given—even a replenishing of this spiritual life from that which, to others, is formless and dumb; while, from him that hath little, who trusts in that which lies about him rather than in that which lives within him, shall be taken away, by natural decline, the power of perceiving and enjoying what is within his own domain. To him who is already enriched with large divine and human revelations, this scene is, for all its stillness, musical with divine and human speech; while one who has been deafened by the din of worldly affairs can hear nothing in this mountain solitude.”
FANEUIL HALL,
FROM THE WATER.
Two noble streets, and a market, perhaps the finest in the world, have been projected in front of the old Faneuil Hall, which stood a very few years ago close to the water’s edge. The new land was made, and the plan carried into effect during the mayoralty of Josiah Quincy, Esq., to whose enterprise and sagacity the city is indebted for these great improvements.
Faneuil Hall, which in the view from the water stands in the rear of these fine structures of granite, is the dearest spot connected with American freedom. It was used as a town-hall in the time of the Revolution; and within its walls arose the first murmur, which, stirred by the daring eloquence of Adams and Otis, terminated in the Declaration of Independence. The name by which it is best known, is, “the Cradle of Liberty.”
In the year 1740, Peter Faneuil (a Huguenot) made an offer to build, at his own expense, “an edifice on the town’s land in Dock Square, to be improved for a hall and market, for the sole use, benefit, and advantage of the town, provided that the town would authorize it, and lay the same under such proper regulations as should be thought necessary, and support the same constantly for said use.” A vote of thanks was immediately passed to Mr. Faneuil, the work was commenced, and two years afterwards, “Mr. Samuel Ruggles, who was employed in building said house, waited on the select-men, by order of P. Faneuil, Esq., and delivered them the key of said house.” A meeting was then held in the hall, and a motion was made that the thanks of the town be given to Peter Faneuil, Esq., for his generous benefaction of the Market-House to the town; and resolutions were drawn up and passed to that effect. A large committee of the first citizens waited on him, “and, in the name of the town, rendered their most hearty thanks for so bountiful a gift, with their prayers that this and other expressions of his bounty and charity might be abundantly recompensed with the divine blessing.”
Another vote was then passed unanimously, “that, in testimony of the town’s gratitude to Peter Faneuil, Esq., and to perpetuate his memory, the hall over the market-place be named Faneuil Hall, and at all times hereafter be called by that name.” And as a further testimony of respect, it was voted “that Mr. Faneuil’s picture be drawn at full length, at the expense of the town, and placed in the hall; and the select-men were charged with the commission, which was accordingly executed.”
“The building was of brick, two stories in height, and measured one hundred feet by forty. It was esteemed one of the best pieces of workmanship, and an ornament to the town. The hall would contain one thousand persons; there were convenient apartments for the officers of the town, besides a room for the naval office, and a notary public.”
Mr. Faneuil did not long live to enjoy the gratitude of his townsmen. He died suddenly, a year after the completion of the building. His funeral oration, delivered by Mr. John Lovell, Master of the Grammar School, was the first specimen of eloquence uttered in the “Cradle of Liberty.” It was, in some of its sentiments, very unlike the orations which followed, and far from prophetic.
“What now remains,” he concludes, “but my ardent wishes (in which I know you will all concur with me) that this hall may be ever sacred to the interests of truth, of justice, ofloyalty, and honour. May no private views nor party broils ever enter within these walls; but may the same public spirit that glowed in the breast of the generous founder influence all your debates, that society may reap the benefit of them.
“May liberty always spread its joyful wings over this place—liberty, that opens men’s hearts to beneficence, and gives the relish to those who enjoy the effects of it; andmay loyalty to a king, under whom we enjoy this liberty, ever remain our character—a character always justly due to this land, and of which our enemies have in vain attempted to rob us.”
The family of Faneuil had been more than fifty years in America, and had fled from persecution in France to find a refuge in the wilderness. The Faneuil arms were subsequently placed in the hall, elegantly carved and gilt.
Eight or nine years after the erection of Faneuil Hall, it took fire from a neighbouring conflagration, and was nearly burnt to the ground. It was on one of the coldest nights of January, and the water froze so rapidly, that it was impossible to work the engines. The walls were left standing, and it was rebuilt and enlarged soon after.
Just against the end of Faneuil Hall, in a broad dock, now filled up and built upon, used to lie a cluster of oyster-boats, that were half house, half vessel, floating oyster-shops—in short, of the most canonical rudeness and simplicity. It was as necessary to go to them to eat oysters in perfection, as it is to go to Blackwall for white-bait; and no true gourmand pretended to have elsewhere found the relish. They are gone, alas! and with the old hulks are gone the amphibious venders—the rude, high-booted, superannuated oyster-openers, dressing, for years after they had given up the vocation, just as if they were embarking for the mud-bank, and talking in the same hoarse tone as if their words were meant to struggle, as of yore, with a nor’wester. So flee away before the advances of improvement all that reminded us of other days; and it is by this resolute plucking up of old associations, and resolute modernizing and improving, even upon the most sacred habits and usages of our forefathers, that this new nation keeps its unchecked headway, with neither rooted superstition nor cherished prejudice to restrain it. When it ceases to be so, we shall have the age of poetry; but adieu, then, to the age of improvement!
THE END.
PRINTED BY RICHARD CLAY, BREAD-STREET-HILL.
TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings of names occur, the majority spelling was used. Changes include:
— Renssellaer to Rensselaer
— and Susquehannah to Susquehanna.
Inconsistencies in punctuation have been maintained.
Some illustrations moved to facilitate page layout.
A cover was created for this eBook.
[The end ofAmerican Scenery, Volume II, by N. P. (Nathaniel Parker) Willis.]