For while the beautiful moon arose,And drifted the boat in her yellow beams,My soul went down the river of thought,That flows in the mystic land of dreams!Richard Henry Stoddard.
For while the beautiful moon arose,And drifted the boat in her yellow beams,My soul went down the river of thought,That flows in the mystic land of dreams!Richard Henry Stoddard.
For while the beautiful moon arose,And drifted the boat in her yellow beams,My soul went down the river of thought,That flows in the mystic land of dreams!Richard Henry Stoddard.
For while the beautiful moon arose,
And drifted the boat in her yellow beams,
My soul went down the river of thought,
That flows in the mystic land of dreams!
Richard Henry Stoddard.
(Opposite West Point.)
THIS is a secluded and delicious bit of Nature, hidden amid rocks and woods, on the shore of the Hudson, but possessing a refinement and an elegance in its wildness which would almost give one the idea that it was an object of beauty in some royal park. One of the most secret streams that feed this finest of our rivers finds its way down through a winding and almost trackless channel; and after fretting over rocks, and loitering in dark and limpid pools for several miles, it suddenly bursts out over a precipice of fifty feet, and fills with its clear waters the sheltered basin seen in the drawing. Immense trees overhang it on every side, and follow the stream still on in its course; and in the depth of summer the foaming current scarcely catches a ray of the sun from its source to its outlet. The floor of the basin below the Fall is pebbly, the water is clear and cool, the spot secluded, and in all respects Nature has formed it for a bath. A fair and famous lady, residing a summer or two since at West Point, was its first known Musidora; and the limpid and bright basin is already called after her name.
A large party visiting at a hospitable house where the artist and his travelling companion were entertained during the heat of the last summer, proposed to accompany him on his visit to the Indian Fall. Excursions on the banks of the Hudson are usually made in boats; but it was necessary to see some points of view from the hills between, and we walked out to the stables to see what could be done for vehicles and cattle. A farm wagon, with its tail up in the air, built after an old Dutch fashion which still prevails in New York,—a sort of loosely jointed, long, lumbering vehicle, which was meant to go over any rock smaller than a beer-barrel without upsetting,—was the only “consarn,” as the “help” called it, which would hold the party. With straw in the bottom, and straps put across from peg to peg, it would carry eleven, and the driver.
Horses were the next consideration; and here we were rather staggered. A vicious old mare, that kept a wheelwright and a surgeon in constant employ, and a powerful young colt half broken, were the only steeds in stable. However either might be made to go alone, they had never been tried together; and the double-wagon harness was the worse for service. The “help” suggested very sensibly that the load would be too heavy to run away with; and that if the mare kicked, or the colt bolted, or in short if anything happened except backing over a precipice, we had only to sit still and let them do their “darndest.”
We cobbled the harness in its weak spots, shook down the straw for the ladies, nailed up the tail-board, which had lost its rods, got the cattle in, and brought up quietly to the door. The ladies and the champagne were put in, and the colt was led off by the bit, shaking his head and catching up his hind leg; while the demure old mare drew off tamely and steadily, “never wicked,” as the ploughman said, “till you got her dander up with a tough hill.” The driver had a chain with a list bottom, and having had some practice in Charing Cross and Fleet Street fingered his reins and flourished his maple whip through the village, evidently not thinking himself or his drivingde la petite bière.
The road, which followed the ridges of the superb hills skirting the river opposite West Point, was in some places scarce fit even for a bridlepath; and at every few paces came a rock, which we believed passable when we had surged over it,—not before. The two ill-matched animals drew to a wonder; and the ladies and the champagne had escaped all damage, till, as the enemy of mankind would have it, our ambitious whip saw stretching out before him a fair quarter of a mile of more even road. A slight touch of the whip sent off the colt in a jump, carrying away the off trace with the first spring; the old mare struck into a gallop, and with the broken trace striking against the colt’s heels, and the whippletree parallel with the pole, away they went as nearly in a tandem as the remaining part of the harness would allow. The tail-board soon flew off, and let out two unsuspecting gentlemen, who had placed their backs and their reliance upon it; and the screams of the ladies added what was wanting to raise the “dander” of the old mare to its most unpleasant climax. The straps gave way, the ladies rolled together in the straw, the driver tossed about on his list-bottomed chain, the champagne corks flew,—and presently, as if we were driven by a battering-ram against a wall, we brought up with a tremendous crash, and stood still. We had come to a sharp turn in the road; and the horses, unable to turn, had leaped a low stone wall, and breaking clear of everything left us on one side, while they thrashed the ripe wheat with the whippletrees on the other.
The ladies were undamaged, fortunately; and, with one champagne bottle saved from the wreck, we completed the excursion to the Fall on foot, and were too happy to return by water.
THE GRAVEYARD AT WEST POINT.Onthis sweet Sabbath morning, let us wanderFrom the loud music and the gay parade,Where sleeps the graveyard in its silence yonder,Deep in the mountain shade.
THE GRAVEYARD AT WEST POINT.Onthis sweet Sabbath morning, let us wanderFrom the loud music and the gay parade,Where sleeps the graveyard in its silence yonder,Deep in the mountain shade.
THE GRAVEYARD AT WEST POINT.Onthis sweet Sabbath morning, let us wanderFrom the loud music and the gay parade,Where sleeps the graveyard in its silence yonder,Deep in the mountain shade.
THE GRAVEYARD AT WEST POINT.
Onthis sweet Sabbath morning, let us wander
From the loud music and the gay parade,
Where sleeps the graveyard in its silence yonder,
Deep in the mountain shade.
There, side by side, the dark green cedars clusterLike sentries watching by that camp of Death;There, like an army’s tents, with snow-white lustreThe gravestones gleam beneath.
There, side by side, the dark green cedars clusterLike sentries watching by that camp of Death;There, like an army’s tents, with snow-white lustreThe gravestones gleam beneath.
There, side by side, the dark green cedars clusterLike sentries watching by that camp of Death;There, like an army’s tents, with snow-white lustreThe gravestones gleam beneath.
There, side by side, the dark green cedars cluster
Like sentries watching by that camp of Death;
There, like an army’s tents, with snow-white lustre
The gravestones gleam beneath.
But, as we go, no posted guard or picketStays our approach across the level grass,Nor hostile challenge at the simple wicketThrough which our footsteps pass.
But, as we go, no posted guard or picketStays our approach across the level grass,Nor hostile challenge at the simple wicketThrough which our footsteps pass.
But, as we go, no posted guard or picketStays our approach across the level grass,Nor hostile challenge at the simple wicketThrough which our footsteps pass.
But, as we go, no posted guard or picket
Stays our approach across the level grass,
Nor hostile challenge at the simple wicket
Through which our footsteps pass.
Sweet spot, by Nature’s primal consecrationSacred to peace and thought and calm repose,Well in thy breast that elder generationTheir place of burial chose.
Sweet spot, by Nature’s primal consecrationSacred to peace and thought and calm repose,Well in thy breast that elder generationTheir place of burial chose.
Sweet spot, by Nature’s primal consecrationSacred to peace and thought and calm repose,Well in thy breast that elder generationTheir place of burial chose.
Sweet spot, by Nature’s primal consecration
Sacred to peace and thought and calm repose,
Well in thy breast that elder generation
Their place of burial chose.
And well, to-day, whene’er the sad processionMoves o’er the plain, with slow and measured tread,Within thy silent and secure possessionThe living leave the dead.
And well, to-day, whene’er the sad processionMoves o’er the plain, with slow and measured tread,Within thy silent and secure possessionThe living leave the dead.
And well, to-day, whene’er the sad processionMoves o’er the plain, with slow and measured tread,Within thy silent and secure possessionThe living leave the dead.
And well, to-day, whene’er the sad procession
Moves o’er the plain, with slow and measured tread,
Within thy silent and secure possession
The living leave the dead.
Few are the graves, for here no populous cityFeeds with its myriad lives the hungry Fates,While hourly funerals, led by grief or pity,Crowd through the open gates.
Few are the graves, for here no populous cityFeeds with its myriad lives the hungry Fates,While hourly funerals, led by grief or pity,Crowd through the open gates.
Few are the graves, for here no populous cityFeeds with its myriad lives the hungry Fates,While hourly funerals, led by grief or pity,Crowd through the open gates.
Few are the graves, for here no populous city
Feeds with its myriad lives the hungry Fates,
While hourly funerals, led by grief or pity,
Crowd through the open gates.
Here Death is rarer, yet full many a tokenTells of his presence, on these grassy slopes,—The slab, the stone, the shaft, half reared and broken,Symbol of shattered hopes.
Here Death is rarer, yet full many a tokenTells of his presence, on these grassy slopes,—The slab, the stone, the shaft, half reared and broken,Symbol of shattered hopes.
Here Death is rarer, yet full many a tokenTells of his presence, on these grassy slopes,—The slab, the stone, the shaft, half reared and broken,Symbol of shattered hopes.
Here Death is rarer, yet full many a token
Tells of his presence, on these grassy slopes,—
The slab, the stone, the shaft, half reared and broken,
Symbol of shattered hopes.
Here sleep brave men, who in the deadly quarrelFought for their country, and their life-blood poured,Above whose dust she carves the deathless laurelWreathing the victor’s sword.
Here sleep brave men, who in the deadly quarrelFought for their country, and their life-blood poured,Above whose dust she carves the deathless laurelWreathing the victor’s sword.
Here sleep brave men, who in the deadly quarrelFought for their country, and their life-blood poured,Above whose dust she carves the deathless laurelWreathing the victor’s sword.
Here sleep brave men, who in the deadly quarrel
Fought for their country, and their life-blood poured,
Above whose dust she carves the deathless laurel
Wreathing the victor’s sword.
And here the young cadet, in manly beautyBorne from the tents which skirt those rocky banks,Called from life’s daily drill and perilous dutyTo these unbroken ranks.
And here the young cadet, in manly beautyBorne from the tents which skirt those rocky banks,Called from life’s daily drill and perilous dutyTo these unbroken ranks.
And here the young cadet, in manly beautyBorne from the tents which skirt those rocky banks,Called from life’s daily drill and perilous dutyTo these unbroken ranks.
And here the young cadet, in manly beauty
Borne from the tents which skirt those rocky banks,
Called from life’s daily drill and perilous duty
To these unbroken ranks.
Here too the aged man, the wife, the maiden,Together hushed, as on His faithful breastWho cried, “Come hither, all ye heavy-ladenAnd I will give you rest!”
Here too the aged man, the wife, the maiden,Together hushed, as on His faithful breastWho cried, “Come hither, all ye heavy-ladenAnd I will give you rest!”
Here too the aged man, the wife, the maiden,Together hushed, as on His faithful breastWho cried, “Come hither, all ye heavy-ladenAnd I will give you rest!”
Here too the aged man, the wife, the maiden,
Together hushed, as on His faithful breast
Who cried, “Come hither, all ye heavy-laden
And I will give you rest!”
And little gravestones through the grass are gleaming,Sown like the lilies over forms as fair,Of whom to-day what broken hearts are dreamingThrough Sabbath song and prayer!
And little gravestones through the grass are gleaming,Sown like the lilies over forms as fair,Of whom to-day what broken hearts are dreamingThrough Sabbath song and prayer!
And little gravestones through the grass are gleaming,Sown like the lilies over forms as fair,Of whom to-day what broken hearts are dreamingThrough Sabbath song and prayer!
And little gravestones through the grass are gleaming,
Sown like the lilies over forms as fair,
Of whom to-day what broken hearts are dreaming
Through Sabbath song and prayer!
Peace to the sleepers! may the bud and blossom,Spring’s early bloom and Summer’s sweet increase,Fail not, while Nature on her tender bosomFolds them and whispers, Peace!
Peace to the sleepers! may the bud and blossom,Spring’s early bloom and Summer’s sweet increase,Fail not, while Nature on her tender bosomFolds them and whispers, Peace!
Peace to the sleepers! may the bud and blossom,Spring’s early bloom and Summer’s sweet increase,Fail not, while Nature on her tender bosomFolds them and whispers, Peace!
Peace to the sleepers! may the bud and blossom,
Spring’s early bloom and Summer’s sweet increase,
Fail not, while Nature on her tender bosom
Folds them and whispers, Peace!
And here at last who could not rest contented?Beneath,—the river, with its tranquil flood;Around,—the breezes of the morning, scentedWith odors from the wood;
And here at last who could not rest contented?Beneath,—the river, with its tranquil flood;Around,—the breezes of the morning, scentedWith odors from the wood;
And here at last who could not rest contented?Beneath,—the river, with its tranquil flood;Around,—the breezes of the morning, scentedWith odors from the wood;
And here at last who could not rest contented?
Beneath,—the river, with its tranquil flood;
Around,—the breezes of the morning, scented
With odors from the wood;
Above,—the eternal hills, their shadows blendingWith morn and noon and twilight's deepening pall;And overhead,—the infinite heavens, attendingUntil the end of all!William Allen Butler.
Above,—the eternal hills, their shadows blendingWith morn and noon and twilight's deepening pall;And overhead,—the infinite heavens, attendingUntil the end of all!William Allen Butler.
Above,—the eternal hills, their shadows blendingWith morn and noon and twilight's deepening pall;And overhead,—the infinite heavens, attendingUntil the end of all!William Allen Butler.
Above,—the eternal hills, their shadows blending
With morn and noon and twilight's deepening pall;
And overhead,—the infinite heavens, attending
Until the end of all!
William Allen Butler.
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 by 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 neighborhood, and to make a diversion in favor 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 to 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. George 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 dispatched an express to General Putnam to acquaint him with his situation; but when it reached Putnam’s headquarters, that officer and General Parsons were reconnoitring the position of the enemy on the east side of the river.
Lieutenant-Colonel 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 Lieutenant-Colonel 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 burned 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 labors 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 farther up the Hudson, and on the 13th reached the town of Kingston, which he burned. On the 17th took place the surrender of Burgoyne, and General Vaughan 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 an aid-de-camp to the British commander. He was buried on the spot, but his grave is now undiscoverable.
LAKE CANEPO.Whencradled on thy placid breastIn hushed content I loved to muse,Too full the heart, too sweet the rest,For thought and speech to interfuse.
LAKE CANEPO.Whencradled on thy placid breastIn hushed content I loved to muse,Too full the heart, too sweet the rest,For thought and speech to interfuse.
LAKE CANEPO.Whencradled on thy placid breastIn hushed content I loved to muse,Too full the heart, too sweet the rest,For thought and speech to interfuse.
LAKE CANEPO.
Whencradled on thy placid breast
In hushed content I loved to muse,
Too full the heart, too sweet the rest,
For thought and speech to interfuse.
But now, when thou art shrined afar,Like Nature’s chosen urn of peace,Remembrance, like the evening star,Begins a vigil ne’er to cease.
But now, when thou art shrined afar,Like Nature’s chosen urn of peace,Remembrance, like the evening star,Begins a vigil ne’er to cease.
But now, when thou art shrined afar,Like Nature’s chosen urn of peace,Remembrance, like the evening star,Begins a vigil ne’er to cease.
But now, when thou art shrined afar,
Like Nature’s chosen urn of peace,
Remembrance, like the evening star,
Begins a vigil ne’er to cease.
Each mossy rock, each fairy isle,Inlets with thickets overhung,The cloud’s rose-tint or fleecy pile,And Echo’s wildly frolic tongue;
Each mossy rock, each fairy isle,Inlets with thickets overhung,The cloud’s rose-tint or fleecy pile,And Echo’s wildly frolic tongue;
Each mossy rock, each fairy isle,Inlets with thickets overhung,The cloud’s rose-tint or fleecy pile,And Echo’s wildly frolic tongue;
Each mossy rock, each fairy isle,
Inlets with thickets overhung,
The cloud’s rose-tint or fleecy pile,
And Echo’s wildly frolic tongue;
The light and shade that o’er thee playThe ripple of thy moonlit wave,The long, calm, dreamy summer day,The very stones thy waters lave;
The light and shade that o’er thee playThe ripple of thy moonlit wave,The long, calm, dreamy summer day,The very stones thy waters lave;
The light and shade that o’er thee playThe ripple of thy moonlit wave,The long, calm, dreamy summer day,The very stones thy waters lave;
The light and shade that o’er thee play
The ripple of thy moonlit wave,
The long, calm, dreamy summer day,
The very stones thy waters lave;
The converse frank, the harmless jest,The reverie without a sigh,The hammock’s undulating rest,With fair companions seated by
The converse frank, the harmless jest,The reverie without a sigh,The hammock’s undulating rest,With fair companions seated by
The converse frank, the harmless jest,The reverie without a sigh,The hammock’s undulating rest,With fair companions seated by
The converse frank, the harmless jest,
The reverie without a sigh,
The hammock’s undulating rest,
With fair companions seated by
Yet linger, as if near thee stillI heard upon the fitful breezeThe locust and the whippoorwill,Or rustle of the swaying trees.
Yet linger, as if near thee stillI heard upon the fitful breezeThe locust and the whippoorwill,Or rustle of the swaying trees.
Yet linger, as if near thee stillI heard upon the fitful breezeThe locust and the whippoorwill,Or rustle of the swaying trees.
Yet linger, as if near thee still
I heard upon the fitful breeze
The locust and the whippoorwill,
Or rustle of the swaying trees.
Hills rise in graceful curves around,Here dark with tangled forest shade,There yellow with the harvest-ground,Or emerald with the open glade;
Hills rise in graceful curves around,Here dark with tangled forest shade,There yellow with the harvest-ground,Or emerald with the open glade;
Hills rise in graceful curves around,Here dark with tangled forest shade,There yellow with the harvest-ground,Or emerald with the open glade;
Hills rise in graceful curves around,
Here dark with tangled forest shade,
There yellow with the harvest-ground,
Or emerald with the open glade;
Primeval chestnuts line the strand,And hemlocks every mountain side,While, by each passing zephyr fanned,Azalea flowers kiss the tide.
Primeval chestnuts line the strand,And hemlocks every mountain side,While, by each passing zephyr fanned,Azalea flowers kiss the tide.
Primeval chestnuts line the strand,And hemlocks every mountain side,While, by each passing zephyr fanned,Azalea flowers kiss the tide.
Primeval chestnuts line the strand,
And hemlocks every mountain side,
While, by each passing zephyr fanned,
Azalea flowers kiss the tide.
We nestle in the gliding barge,And turn from yon unclouded skyTo watch, along the bosky marge,Its image in thy waters nigh;
We nestle in the gliding barge,And turn from yon unclouded skyTo watch, along the bosky marge,Its image in thy waters nigh;
We nestle in the gliding barge,And turn from yon unclouded skyTo watch, along the bosky marge,Its image in thy waters nigh;
We nestle in the gliding barge,
And turn from yon unclouded sky
To watch, along the bosky marge,
Its image in thy waters nigh;
Or, gently darting to and fro,The insects on their face explore,With speckled minnows poised below,And tortoise on the pebbly floor;
Or, gently darting to and fro,The insects on their face explore,With speckled minnows poised below,And tortoise on the pebbly floor;
Or, gently darting to and fro,The insects on their face explore,With speckled minnows poised below,And tortoise on the pebbly floor;
Or, gently darting to and fro,
The insects on their face explore,
With speckled minnows poised below,
And tortoise on the pebbly floor;
Or turn the prow to some lone bay,Where thick the floating leaves are spread,—How bright and queen-like the arrayOf lilies in their crystal bed!Henry Theodore Tuckerman.
Or turn the prow to some lone bay,Where thick the floating leaves are spread,—How bright and queen-like the arrayOf lilies in their crystal bed!Henry Theodore Tuckerman.
Or turn the prow to some lone bay,Where thick the floating leaves are spread,—How bright and queen-like the arrayOf lilies in their crystal bed!Henry Theodore Tuckerman.
Or turn the prow to some lone bay,
Where thick the floating leaves are spread,—
How bright and queen-like the array
Of lilies in their crystal bed!
Henry Theodore Tuckerman.
THE scenery in this neighborhood is exceedingly beautiful. The junction of the Mohawk and Hudson, the Falls of the Cohoes, the gay and elegant town of Troy, Albany in the distance, and a foreground of the finest mixture of the elements of landscape, compose a gratification to the eye equalled by few other spots in this country. “Think,” says one of our noblest and best writers, speaking of a similar scene,—“think of the country for which the Indians fought! Who can blame them? As the river chieftains, the lords of the waterfalls and the mountains, ranged this lovely valley, can it be wondered at that they beheld with bitterness the forest disappearing beneath the settler’s axe, the fishing-place disturbed by his saw-mills? Can we not fancy the feelings with which some strong-minded savage, who should have ascended the summit of the mountain in company with a friendly settler, contemplating the progress already made by the white man, and marking the gigantic strides with which he was advancing into the wilderness, should fold his arms and say: ‘White man, there is eternal war between me and thee! I quit not the land of my fathers but with my life! In those woods where I bent my youthful bow, I will still hunt the deer; over yonder waters I will still glide unrestrained in my bark canoe; by those dashing waterfalls I will still lay up my winter’s food; on these fertile meadows I will still plant my corn. Stranger, the land is mine! I understand not these paper rights; I gave not my consent when, as thou sayest, those broad regions were purchased for a few baubles of my fathers. They could sell what was theirs; they could sell no more. How could my father sell that which the Great Spirit sent me into the world to live upon? They knew not what they did. The stranger came, a timid suppliant, few and feeble, and asked to lie down on the red man’s bear-skin, and warm himself at the red man’s fire, and have a little piece of land to raise corn for his women and children; and now he is become strong and mighty and bold, and spreads out his parchment over the whole, and says, It is mine! Stranger, there is not room for us both. The Great Spirit has not made us to live together. There is poison in the white man’s cup; the white man’s dog barks at the red man’s heels. If I should leave the land of my fathers, whither shall I fly? Shall I go to the south, and dwell among the groves of the Pequots? Shall I wander to the west?—the fierce Mohawk, the man-eater, is my foe. Shall I fly to the east?—the great water is before me. No, stranger, here have I lived, and here will I die; and if here thou abidest, there is eternal war between me and thee! Thou hast taught me thy arts of destruction,—for that alone I thank thee. And now take heed to thy steps; the red man is thy foe. When thou goest forth by day, my bullet shall whistle by thee; when thou liest down at night, my knife is at thy throat. The noonday sun shall not discover thy enemy, and the darkness of midnight shall not protect thy rest. Thou shalt plant in terror, and I will reap in blood; thou shalt sow the earth with corn, and I will strew it with ashes; thou shalt go forth with the sickle, and I will follow after with the scalping-knife; thou shalt build, and I will burn, till the white man or the Indian shall cease from the land. Go thy way for this time in safety; but remember, stranger, there is eternal war between thee and me!’”
As the same writer afterward observes, however, the Pilgrim Fathers “purchased the land of those who claimed it, and paid for it,—often, more than once. They purchased it for a consideration trifling to the European, but valuable to the Indian. There is no overreaching in giving but little for that which in the hands of the original proprietors is worth nothing.”
THE FALLS OF THE MONGAUP.Strugglingalong the mountain path,We hear amid the gloom,Like a roused giant’s voice of wrath,A deep-toned, sullen boom:Emerging on the platform high,Burst sudden to the startled eyeRocks, woods, and waters, wild and rude,—A scene of savage solitude.
THE FALLS OF THE MONGAUP.Strugglingalong the mountain path,We hear amid the gloom,Like a roused giant’s voice of wrath,A deep-toned, sullen boom:Emerging on the platform high,Burst sudden to the startled eyeRocks, woods, and waters, wild and rude,—A scene of savage solitude.
THE FALLS OF THE MONGAUP.Strugglingalong the mountain path,We hear amid the gloom,Like a roused giant’s voice of wrath,A deep-toned, sullen boom:Emerging on the platform high,Burst sudden to the startled eyeRocks, woods, and waters, wild and rude,—A scene of savage solitude.
THE FALLS OF THE MONGAUP.
Strugglingalong the mountain path,
We hear amid the gloom,
Like a roused giant’s voice of wrath,
A deep-toned, sullen boom:
Emerging on the platform high,
Burst sudden to the startled eye
Rocks, woods, and waters, wild and rude,—
A scene of savage solitude.
Swift as an arrow from the bow,Headlong the torrent leaps,Then tumbling round, in dazzling snowAnd dizzy whirls it sweeps;Then, shooting through the narrow aisleOf this sublime cathedral pile,Amid its vastness, dark and grim,It peals its everlasting hymn.
Swift as an arrow from the bow,Headlong the torrent leaps,Then tumbling round, in dazzling snowAnd dizzy whirls it sweeps;Then, shooting through the narrow aisleOf this sublime cathedral pile,Amid its vastness, dark and grim,It peals its everlasting hymn.
Swift as an arrow from the bow,Headlong the torrent leaps,Then tumbling round, in dazzling snowAnd dizzy whirls it sweeps;Then, shooting through the narrow aisleOf this sublime cathedral pile,Amid its vastness, dark and grim,It peals its everlasting hymn.
Swift as an arrow from the bow,
Headlong the torrent leaps,
Then tumbling round, in dazzling snow
And dizzy whirls it sweeps;
Then, shooting through the narrow aisle
Of this sublime cathedral pile,
Amid its vastness, dark and grim,
It peals its everlasting hymn.
Pyramid on pyramid of rockTower upward wild and riven,As piled by Titan hands to mockThe distant smiling heaven.And where its blue streak is displayed,Branches their emerald network braidSo high, the eagle in his flightSeems but a dot upon the sight.
Pyramid on pyramid of rockTower upward wild and riven,As piled by Titan hands to mockThe distant smiling heaven.And where its blue streak is displayed,Branches their emerald network braidSo high, the eagle in his flightSeems but a dot upon the sight.
Pyramid on pyramid of rockTower upward wild and riven,As piled by Titan hands to mockThe distant smiling heaven.And where its blue streak is displayed,Branches their emerald network braidSo high, the eagle in his flightSeems but a dot upon the sight.
Pyramid on pyramid of rock
Tower upward wild and riven,
As piled by Titan hands to mock
The distant smiling heaven.
And where its blue streak is displayed,
Branches their emerald network braid
So high, the eagle in his flight
Seems but a dot upon the sight.
Here columned hemlocks point in airTheir cone-like fringes green;Their trunks hang knotted, black, and bare,Like spectres o’er the scene;Here, lofty crag and deep abyss,And awe-inspiring precipice;There, grottos bright in wave-worn gloss,And carpeted with velvet moss.
Here columned hemlocks point in airTheir cone-like fringes green;Their trunks hang knotted, black, and bare,Like spectres o’er the scene;Here, lofty crag and deep abyss,And awe-inspiring precipice;There, grottos bright in wave-worn gloss,And carpeted with velvet moss.
Here columned hemlocks point in airTheir cone-like fringes green;Their trunks hang knotted, black, and bare,Like spectres o’er the scene;Here, lofty crag and deep abyss,And awe-inspiring precipice;There, grottos bright in wave-worn gloss,And carpeted with velvet moss.
Here columned hemlocks point in air
Their cone-like fringes green;
Their trunks hang knotted, black, and bare,
Like spectres o’er the scene;
Here, lofty crag and deep abyss,
And awe-inspiring precipice;
There, grottos bright in wave-worn gloss,
And carpeted with velvet moss.
No wandering ray e’er kissed with lightThis rock-walled sable pool,Spangled with foam-gems thick and white,And slumbering deep and cool;But where yon cataract roars down,Set by the sun, a rainbow crownIs dancing o’er the dashing strife,—Hope glittering o’er the storm of life.
No wandering ray e’er kissed with lightThis rock-walled sable pool,Spangled with foam-gems thick and white,And slumbering deep and cool;But where yon cataract roars down,Set by the sun, a rainbow crownIs dancing o’er the dashing strife,—Hope glittering o’er the storm of life.
No wandering ray e’er kissed with lightThis rock-walled sable pool,Spangled with foam-gems thick and white,And slumbering deep and cool;But where yon cataract roars down,Set by the sun, a rainbow crownIs dancing o’er the dashing strife,—Hope glittering o’er the storm of life.
No wandering ray e’er kissed with light
This rock-walled sable pool,
Spangled with foam-gems thick and white,
And slumbering deep and cool;
But where yon cataract roars down,
Set by the sun, a rainbow crown
Is dancing o’er the dashing strife,—
Hope glittering o’er the storm of life.
Beyond, the smooth and mirrored sheetSo gently steals along,The very ripples, murmuring sweet,Scarce drown the wild bee’s song;The violet from the grassy sideDips its blue chalice in the tide;And, gliding o’er the leafy brink,The deer unfrightened stoops to drink.
Beyond, the smooth and mirrored sheetSo gently steals along,The very ripples, murmuring sweet,Scarce drown the wild bee’s song;The violet from the grassy sideDips its blue chalice in the tide;And, gliding o’er the leafy brink,The deer unfrightened stoops to drink.
Beyond, the smooth and mirrored sheetSo gently steals along,The very ripples, murmuring sweet,Scarce drown the wild bee’s song;The violet from the grassy sideDips its blue chalice in the tide;And, gliding o’er the leafy brink,The deer unfrightened stoops to drink.
Beyond, the smooth and mirrored sheet
So gently steals along,
The very ripples, murmuring sweet,
Scarce drown the wild bee’s song;
The violet from the grassy side
Dips its blue chalice in the tide;
And, gliding o’er the leafy brink,
The deer unfrightened stoops to drink.
Myriads of man’s time-measured raceHave vanished from the earth,Nor left a memory of their trace,Since first this scene had birth;These waters, thundering now along,Joined in Creation’s matin-song;And only by their dial-treesHave known the lapse of centuries!Alfred Billings Street.
Myriads of man’s time-measured raceHave vanished from the earth,Nor left a memory of their trace,Since first this scene had birth;These waters, thundering now along,Joined in Creation’s matin-song;And only by their dial-treesHave known the lapse of centuries!Alfred Billings Street.
Myriads of man’s time-measured raceHave vanished from the earth,Nor left a memory of their trace,Since first this scene had birth;These waters, thundering now along,Joined in Creation’s matin-song;And only by their dial-treesHave known the lapse of centuries!Alfred Billings Street.
Myriads of man’s time-measured race
Have vanished from the earth,
Nor left a memory of their trace,
Since first this scene had birth;
These waters, thundering now along,
Joined in Creation’s matin-song;
And only by their dial-trees
Have known the lapse of centuries!
Alfred Billings Street.
THIS view out from the gorge of the Highlands presents a foreground of cliff and shadow, with their reflections almost folded across in the bosom of the river, and a middle ground of the village of Newburg and the gently-undulating country in the rear. The blue and far-off line of the Catskills shuts in the horizon.
There is some very romantic scenery hidden among the undulations just mentioned, embracing several small rivers, and also a romantic stream called Murderer’s Creek,—a tributary of the Hudson. Mr. Paulding, in his “New Mirror for Travellers,” gives the following interesting legend in explanation of the name:—
“Little more than a century ago, the beautiful region watered by this stream was possessed by a small tribe of Indians, which has long since become extinct, or been incorporated with some other savage nation of the West. Three or four hundred yards from where the stream discharges itself into the Hudson, a white family of the name of Stacey had established itself in a log-house by tacit permission of the tribe, to whom Stacey had made himself useful by his skill in a variety of little arts highly estimated by the savages. In particular, a friendship existed between him and an old Indian called Naoman, who often came to his house and partook of his hospitality. The Indians never forgive injuries or forget benefits. The family consisted of Stacey, his wife, and two children,—a boy and girl; the former five, the latter three years old.”
The legend goes on to say that Naoman, in grateful friendship, gave the wife of Stacey a secret warning that a massacre of the whites was resolved on, exacting from her a solemn pledge of secrecy, and advising instant escape across the river.
“The daily visits of old Naoman and his more than ordinary gravity had excited suspicion in some of the tribe, who had accordingly paid particular attention to the movements of Stacey. One of the young Indians, who had kept on the watch, seeing the whole family about to take their boat, ran to the little Indian village, about a mile off, and gave the alarm. Five Indians collected, ran down to the river side where their canoes were moored, jumped in and paddled after Stacey, who by this time had got some distance out into the stream. They gained on him so fast that twice he dropped his paddle and took up his gun. But his wife prevented his shooting, by telling him that if he fired, and they were afterwards overtaken, they would meet no mercy from the Indians. He accordingly refrained, and plied his paddle till the sweat rolled in big drops down his forehead. All would not do; they were overtaken within a hundred yards of the shore, and carried back with shouts of yelling triumph.
“When they got ashore, the Indians set fire to Stacey’s house, and dragged himself, his wife, and children to their village. Here the principal old men, and Naoman among the rest, assembled to deliberate on the affair. The chief among them stated that some one of the tribe had undoubtedly been guilty of treason in apprising Stacey the white man of the designs of the tribe, whereby he took the alarm and had well nigh escaped. He proposed to examine the prisoners as to who gave the information. The old men assented to this, and Naoman among the rest. Stacey was first interrogated by one of the old men who spoke English, and interpreted to the others. Stacey refused to betray his informant. His wife was then questioned, while at the same moment two Indians stood threatening the two children with tomahawks in case she did not confess. She attempted to evade the truth, by declaring she had a dream the night before which had alarmed her, and that she had persuaded her husband to fly. ‘The Great Spirit never deigns to talk in dreams to a white face,’ said the old Indian. ‘Woman! thou hast two tongues and two faces: speak the truth, or thy children shall surely die.’ The little boy and girl were then brought close to her, and the two savages stood over them, ready to execute their bloody orders.
‘Wilt thou name,’ said the old Indian, ‘the red man who betrayed his tribe? I will ask thee three times.’ The mother answered not. ‘Wilt thou name the traitor? This is the second time.’ The poor mother looked at her husband, and then at her children, and stole a glance at Naoman, who sat smoking his pipe with invincible gravity. She wrung her hands and wept, but remained silent. ‘Wilt thou name the traitor? ’Tis the third and last time.’ The agony of the mother waxed more bitter; again she sought the eye of Naoman, but it was cold and motionless. A pause of a moment awaited her reply, and the next moment the tomahawks were raised over the heads of the children, who besought their mother not to let them be murdered.
“‘Stop!’ cried Naoman. All eyes were turned upon him. ‘Stop!’ repeated he in a tone of authority. ‘White woman, thou hast kept thy word with me to the last moment. I am the traitor. I have eaten of the salt, warmed myself at the fire, shared the kindness of these Christian white people; and it was I that told them of their danger. I am a withered, leafless, branchless trunk; cut me down if you will. I am ready.’ A yell of indignation sounded on all sides. Naoman descended from the little bank where he sat, shrouded his face with his mantle of skins, and submitted to his fate. He fell dead at the feet of the white woman by a blow of the tomahawk.”
THE HUDSON.’Twasa vision of childhood that came with its dawn,Ere the curtain that covered life’s day-star was drawn;The nurse told the tale when the shadows grew long,And the mother’s soft lullaby breathed it in song.
THE HUDSON.’Twasa vision of childhood that came with its dawn,Ere the curtain that covered life’s day-star was drawn;The nurse told the tale when the shadows grew long,And the mother’s soft lullaby breathed it in song.
THE HUDSON.’Twasa vision of childhood that came with its dawn,Ere the curtain that covered life’s day-star was drawn;The nurse told the tale when the shadows grew long,And the mother’s soft lullaby breathed it in song.
THE HUDSON.
’Twasa vision of childhood that came with its dawn,
Ere the curtain that covered life’s day-star was drawn;
The nurse told the tale when the shadows grew long,
And the mother’s soft lullaby breathed it in song.
“There flows a fair stream by the hills of the West,”—She sang to her boy as he lay on her breast,—“Along its smooth margin thy fathers have played,Beside its deep waters their ashes are laid.”
“There flows a fair stream by the hills of the West,”—She sang to her boy as he lay on her breast,—“Along its smooth margin thy fathers have played,Beside its deep waters their ashes are laid.”
“There flows a fair stream by the hills of the West,”—She sang to her boy as he lay on her breast,—“Along its smooth margin thy fathers have played,Beside its deep waters their ashes are laid.”
“There flows a fair stream by the hills of the West,”—
She sang to her boy as he lay on her breast,—
“Along its smooth margin thy fathers have played,
Beside its deep waters their ashes are laid.”
I wandered afar from the land of my birth,I saw the old rivers, renowned upon earth,But fancy still painted that wide-flowing streamWith the many-hued pencil of infancy’s dream.
I wandered afar from the land of my birth,I saw the old rivers, renowned upon earth,But fancy still painted that wide-flowing streamWith the many-hued pencil of infancy’s dream.
I wandered afar from the land of my birth,I saw the old rivers, renowned upon earth,But fancy still painted that wide-flowing streamWith the many-hued pencil of infancy’s dream.
I wandered afar from the land of my birth,
I saw the old rivers, renowned upon earth,
But fancy still painted that wide-flowing stream
With the many-hued pencil of infancy’s dream.
I saw the green banks of the castle-crowned Rhine,Where the grapes drink the moonlight and change it to wine;I stood by the Avon, whose waves as they glideStill whisper his glory who sleeps at their side.
I saw the green banks of the castle-crowned Rhine,Where the grapes drink the moonlight and change it to wine;I stood by the Avon, whose waves as they glideStill whisper his glory who sleeps at their side.
I saw the green banks of the castle-crowned Rhine,Where the grapes drink the moonlight and change it to wine;I stood by the Avon, whose waves as they glideStill whisper his glory who sleeps at their side.
I saw the green banks of the castle-crowned Rhine,
Where the grapes drink the moonlight and change it to wine;
I stood by the Avon, whose waves as they glide
Still whisper his glory who sleeps at their side.
But my heart would still yearn for the sound of the wavesThat sing as they flow by my forefathers’ graves;If manhood yet honors my cheek with a tear,I care not who sees it,—no blush for it here!
But my heart would still yearn for the sound of the wavesThat sing as they flow by my forefathers’ graves;If manhood yet honors my cheek with a tear,I care not who sees it,—no blush for it here!
But my heart would still yearn for the sound of the wavesThat sing as they flow by my forefathers’ graves;If manhood yet honors my cheek with a tear,I care not who sees it,—no blush for it here!
But my heart would still yearn for the sound of the waves
That sing as they flow by my forefathers’ graves;
If manhood yet honors my cheek with a tear,
I care not who sees it,—no blush for it here!
Farewell to the deep-bosomed stream of the West!I fling this loose blossom to float on its breast;Nor let the dear love of its children grow cold,Till the channel is dry where its waters have rolled!Oliver Wendell Holmes.
Farewell to the deep-bosomed stream of the West!I fling this loose blossom to float on its breast;Nor let the dear love of its children grow cold,Till the channel is dry where its waters have rolled!Oliver Wendell Holmes.
Farewell to the deep-bosomed stream of the West!I fling this loose blossom to float on its breast;Nor let the dear love of its children grow cold,Till the channel is dry where its waters have rolled!Oliver Wendell Holmes.
Farewell to the deep-bosomed stream of the West!
I fling this loose blossom to float on its breast;
Nor let the dear love of its children grow cold,
Till the channel is dry where its waters have rolled!
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
FROM this admirably chosen spot, the Bay of New York appears with every accessory of beauty. The city itself comes into the left of the picture to an advantage seen from no other point of view. The flocks of river-craft scud past in all directions; men-of-war, merchantmen, steamers, and ferry-boats fill up the moving elements of the panorama; and far away beyond stretches the broad harbor, with its glassy or disturbed waters, in all the varieties of ever-changing sea-view. It was on this side that Hudson, who had felt the hostility of the Manhattan Indians, found a friendlier tribe, and made his first amicable visit on shore. The Indian tradition springing from that visit, and describing the first intoxication they had ever experienced, is extremely amusing.[1]
“A long time ago, before men with a white skin had ever been seen, some Indians, fishing at a place where the sea widens, espied something at a distance moving upon the water. They hurried ashore, collected their neighbors, who together returned and viewed intensely this astonishing phenomenon. What it could be, baffled all conjecture. Some supposed it to be a large fish or animal; others that it was a very big house floating on the sea. Perceiving it moving towards land, the spectators concluded that it would be proper to send runners in different directions to carry the news to their scattered chiefs, that they might send off for the immediate attendance of their warriors. These arriving in numbers to behold the sight, and perceiving that it was actually moving towards them (that is, coming into the river or bay), they conjectured that it must be a remarkably large house, in which the Manitto (or Great Spirit) was coming to visit them. They were much afraid, and yet under no apprehension that the Great Spirit would injure them. They worshipped him. The chiefs now assembled at York Island, and consulted in what manner they should receive their Manitto. Meat was prepared for a sacrifice; the women were directed to prepare the best of victuals; idols or images were examined and put in order; a grand dance they thought would be pleasing, and, in addition to the sacrifice, might appease him, if angry. The conjurers were also set to work to determine what this phenomenon portended, and what the result would be. To these, men, women, and children looked up for advice and protection. Utterly at a loss what to do, and distracted alternately by hope and fear, in this confusion a grand dance commenced. Meantime fresh runners arrived, declaring it to be a great house of various colors, and full of living creatures. It now appeared certain that it was their Manitto, probably bringing some new kind of game. Others arriving, declared it positively to be full of people of different color and dress from theirs, and that one in particular appeared altogetherred. This then must be the Manitto. They were lost in admiration; could not imagine what the vessel was, whence it came, or what all this portended. They are now hailed from the vessel in a language they cannot understand; they answer by a shout or yell in their way. The house (or large canoe, as some render it) stops. A smaller canoe comes on shore, with the red man in it; some stay by his canoe to guard it. The chiefs and wise men form a circle, into which the red man and two attendants enter. He salutes them with friendly countenance, and they return the salute after their manner. They are amazed at the color and dress of the strangers, particularly with him who glittering in red wore something (perhaps lace or buttons) they could not comprehend. Hemustbe the great Manitto, they thought; but why should he have awhite skin? A large eleganthockhack(gourd; that is, bottle, decanter, etc.) is brought by one of the supposed Manitto’s servants, from which a substance is poured into a small cup or glass and handed to the Manitto. He drinks, has the glass refilled, and handed to the chief near him; he takes it, smells it, and passes it to the next, who does the same. The glass in this manner is passed round the circle, and is about to be returned to the red-clothed man when one of them, a great warrior, harangues them on the impropriety of returning the cup unemptied. It was handed to them, he said, by the Manitto, to drink out of as he had. To follow his example would please him; to reject it might provoke his wrath; and if no one else would, he would drink it himself, let what would follow,—for it was better for one even to die than a whole nation to be destroyed. He then took the glass, smelled at it, again addressed them, bidding adieu, and drank the contents. All eyes were now fixed on the first Indian in New York who had tasted the poison which has since affected so signal a revolution in the condition of the native Americans. He soon began to stagger; the women cried, supposing him in fits; he rolled on the ground; they bemoan his fate; they thought him dying. He fell asleep; they at first thought he had expired, but soon perceived he still breathed. He awoke, jumped up, and declared he never felt more happy. He asked for more; and the whole assembly, imitating him, became intoxicated.”
In descending the river, after he had penetrated to Albany, Hudson ran his little craft ashore at Weehawken; but the ground was a soft ooze, and she was got off without damage, and proceeded to sea.
THE HUDSON.’Tisthe middle watch of a summer’s night,—The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright;Nought is seen in the vault on highBut the moon and the stars and the cloudless sky,And the flood which rolls its milky hue,—A river of light on the welkin blue.The moon looks down on old Cronest,She mellows the shades on his shaggy breastAnd seems his huge gray form to throwIn a silver cone on the wave below;His sides are broken by spots of shade,By the walnut bough and the cedar made,And through their clustering branches darkGlimmers and dies the firefly’s spark,—Like starry twinkles that momently breakThrough the rifts of the gathering tempest rack.
THE HUDSON.’Tisthe middle watch of a summer’s night,—The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright;Nought is seen in the vault on highBut the moon and the stars and the cloudless sky,And the flood which rolls its milky hue,—A river of light on the welkin blue.The moon looks down on old Cronest,She mellows the shades on his shaggy breastAnd seems his huge gray form to throwIn a silver cone on the wave below;His sides are broken by spots of shade,By the walnut bough and the cedar made,And through their clustering branches darkGlimmers and dies the firefly’s spark,—Like starry twinkles that momently breakThrough the rifts of the gathering tempest rack.
THE HUDSON.’Tisthe middle watch of a summer’s night,—The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright;Nought is seen in the vault on highBut the moon and the stars and the cloudless sky,And the flood which rolls its milky hue,—A river of light on the welkin blue.The moon looks down on old Cronest,She mellows the shades on his shaggy breastAnd seems his huge gray form to throwIn a silver cone on the wave below;His sides are broken by spots of shade,By the walnut bough and the cedar made,And through their clustering branches darkGlimmers and dies the firefly’s spark,—Like starry twinkles that momently breakThrough the rifts of the gathering tempest rack.
THE HUDSON.
’Tisthe middle watch of a summer’s night,—
The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright;
Nought is seen in the vault on high
But the moon and the stars and the cloudless sky,
And the flood which rolls its milky hue,—
A river of light on the welkin blue.
The moon looks down on old Cronest,
She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast
And seems his huge gray form to throw
In a silver cone on the wave below;
His sides are broken by spots of shade,
By the walnut bough and the cedar made,
And through their clustering branches dark
Glimmers and dies the firefly’s spark,—
Like starry twinkles that momently break
Through the rifts of the gathering tempest rack.