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[Illustration: W. H. BARTLETT.
 Handsigned: Yours truly
 W. H. Bartlett.]

                           AMERICAN SCENERY;

                                  OR,

                         LAND, LAKE, AND RIVER

                 ILLUSTRATIONS OF TRANSATLANTIC NATURE.

                    FROM DRAWINGS BY W. H. BARTLETT,

                ENGRAVED IN THE FIRST STYLE OF THE ART,

                                   BY

   R. WALLIS, J. COUSEN, WILLMORE, BRANDARD, ADLARD, RICHARDSON, &c.

                        THE LITERARY DEPARTMENT

                         BY N. P. WILLIS, ESQ.
   AUTHOR OF “PENCILLINGS BY THE WAY,” “INKLINGS OF ADVENTURE,” ETC.

                                VOL. I.

                                LONDON:
           G E O R G E   V I R T U E,  26,  I V Y   L A N E.
                                MDCCCXL.

                                LONDON:
               RICHARD CLAY, PRINTER. BREAD STREET HILL.

                                PREFACE.

Either Nature has wrought with a bolder hand in America, or the effect
of long continued cultivation on scenery, as exemplified in Europe, is
greater than is usually supposed. Certain it is that the rivers, the
forests, the unshorn mountain-sides and unbridged chasms of that vast
country, are of a character peculiar to America alone—a lavish and
large-featured sublimity, (if we may so express it,) quite dissimilar to
the picturesque of all other countries.

To compare the sublime of the Western Continent with the sublime of
Switzerland—the vales and rivers, lakes and waterfalls, of the New
World with those of the Old—to note their differences, and admire or
appreciate each by contrast with the other, was a privilege hitherto
confined to the far-wandering traveller. In the class of works, of which
this is a specimen, however, that enviable enjoyment is brought to the
fire-side of the home-keeping and secluded as well; and, sitting by the
social hearth, those whose lot is domestic and retired, can, with small
cost, lay side by side upon the evening table the wild scenery of
America, and the bold passes of the Alps—the leafy Susquehanna with its
rude raft, and the palace-gemmed Bosphorus with its slender caïque. So
great a gratification is seldom enjoyed at so little cost and pains.

In the Letter-press, it has been the Writer’s aim to assemble as much as
possible of that part of American story which history has not yet found
leisure to put into form, and which romance and poetry have not yet
appropriated—the legendary traditions and anecdotes, events of the
trying times of the Revolution, Indian history, &c. &c. It is
confidently hoped, that the attempt to assemble a mass of interesting
matter under this design, has not failed; and that, in the value of the
intellectual portion, as well as in the beauty and finish of the
embellishments, the Work will be thought worthy of the patronage of the
public.

                    CONTENTS AND LIST OF ENGRAVINGS
                              TO VOLUME I.

   _Ch._                                                        _Page_
         PORTRAIT of Mr. Bartlett. (Autographed)                     0
       1 MAP of the NORTH-EASTERN Parts of the UNITED STATES         1
       2 Niagara Falls, from the Ferry                               4
       3 View from West Point                                        6
       4 Trenton Falls, View down the Ravine                         8
       5 View from Mount Holyoke                                    10
       6 The Outlet of Niagara River                                12
       7 The Palisades, Hudson River                                14
       8 The Rapids above the Falls of Niagara                      16
       9 Saratoga Lake                                              18
      10 The Colonnade of Congress Hall, Saratoga Springs           20
      11 Albany                                                     22
      12 Crow’s Nest, from Bull Hill, West Point                    24
      13 View below Table Rock                                      26
      14 Lake Winipiseogee                                          28
      15 Kosciusko’s Monument                                       30
      16 The Horseshoe Falls at Niagara, with the Tower             32
      17 The Narrows, at Staten Island                              34
      18 View of the Capitol at Washington                          36
      19 View of the Ruins of Fort Ticonderoga                      38
      20 View from Fort Putnam                                      40
      21 View of State Street, Boston                               42
      22 Niagara Falls, from Clifton House                          45
      23 View from Hyde Park                                        47
      24 Village of Sing-Sing                                       49
      25 View from Ruggle’s House, Newburgh                         51
      26 Descent into the Valley of Wyoming                         53
      27 Boston, from Dorchester Heights                            55
      28 View of Faneuil Hall, Boston                               57
      29 New York Bay, from the Telegraph Station                   59
      30 Peekskill Landing                                          61
      31 Lighthouse near Caldwell Landing                           63
      32 Harper’s Ferry, from the Potomac side                      65
      33 Caldwell, Lake George                                      69
      34 Centre Harbour, Lake Winipiseogee                          71
      35 Yale College, at New Haven                                 74
      36 Willey House—White Mountains                               76
      37 Battle Monument, Baltimore                                 78
      38 Forest Scene on Lake Ontario                               80
      39 Viaduct on the Baltimore and Washington Rail-road          82
      40 The Indian Falls near Coldspring                           85
      41 Columbia Bridge, over the Susquehanna                      87
      42 The Genessee Falls, Rochester                              89
      43 The Ferry at Brooklyn, New York                            91
      44 Rail-road to Utica, Little Falls                           93
      45 Utica                                                      96
      46 The Landing, on the American side, Falls of Niagara        97
      47 View From Mount Washington                                 99
      48 Mount Washington, and the White Hills                     101
      49 The Park and City Hall, New York                          103
      50 The Two Lakes, and the Mountain House on the Catskills    105
      51 Trenton High Falls                                        106
      52 The Valley of the Shenandoah, from Jefferson’s Rock       108
      53 Lockport, Erie Canal                                      110
      54 The Tomb of Washington, Mount Vernon                      113
      55 Black Mountain, Lake George                               115
      56 Valley of the Connecticut, from Mount Holyoke             117
      57 View on the Erie Canal, near Little Falls                 119
      58 Hudson Highlands, from Bull Hill                          121
      59 Villa on the Hudson, near Weehawken                       123
      60 View of Meredith, New Hampshire                           125
      61 Ballston Springs                                          128
      62 The Narrows, from Fort Hamilton                           130
      63 The Notch House, White Mountains                          132
      64 Wilkesbarre, Vale of Wyoming                              134
      65 Squawm Lake, New Hampshire                                136
      66 Sabbath-Day Point, Lake George                            138

[Illustration: THE NORTH EASTERN PART OF THE UNITED STATES.]

                           AMERICAN SCENERY.

It strikes the European traveller, at the first burst of the scenery of
America on his eye, that the New World of Columbus is also a new world
from the hand of the Creator. In comparison with the old countries of
Europe, the vegetation is so wondrously lavish, the outlines and minor
features struck out with so bold a freshness, and the lakes and rivers
so even in their fulness and flow, yet so vast and powerful, that he may
well imagine it an Eden newly sprung from the ocean. The Minerva-like
birth of the republic of the United States, its sudden rise to
independence, wealth, and power, and its continued and marvellous
increase in population and prosperity, strike him with the same
surprise, and leave the same impression of a new scale of existence, and
a fresher and faster law of growth and accomplishment. The interest,
with regard to both the natural and civilized features of America, has
very much increased within a few years; and travellers, who have
exhausted the unchanging countries of Europe, now turn their steps in
great numbers to the novel scenery, and ever-shifting aspects of this.

The picturesque views of the United States suggest a train of thought
directly opposite to that of similar objects of interest in other lands.
There, the soul and centre of attraction in every picture is some ruin
of the _past_. The wandering artist avoids every thing that is modern,
and selects his point of view so as to bring prominently into his
sketch, the castle, or the cathedral, which history or antiquity has
hallowed. The traveller visits each spot in the same spirit—ridding
himself, as far as possible, of common and present associations, to feed
his mind on the historical and legendary. The objects and habits of
reflection in both traveller and artist undergo in America a direct
revolution. He who journeys here, if he would not have the eternal
succession of lovely natural objects—

                  “Lie like a load on the weary eye,”

must feed his imagination on the _future_. The American does so. His
mind, as he tracks the broad rivers of his own country, is perpetually
reaching forward. Instead of looking through a valley, which has
presented the same aspect for hundreds of years—in which live lords and
tenants, whose hearths have been surrounded by the same names through
ages of tranquil descent, and whose fields have never changed landmark
or mode of culture since the memory of man, he sees a valley laden down
like a harvest waggon with a virgin vegetation, untrodden and luxuriant;
and his first thought is of the villages that will soon sparkle on the
hill-sides, the axes that will ring from the woodlands, and the mills,
bridges, canals, and rail-roads, that will span and border the stream
that now runs through sedge and wild-flowers. The towns he passes
through on his route are not recognizable by prints done by artists long
ago dead, with houses of low-browed architecture, and immemorial trees;
but a town which has perhaps doubled its inhabitants and dwellings since
he last saw it, and will again double them before he returns. Instead of
inquiring into its antiquity, he sits over the fire with his paper and
pencil, and calculates what the population will be in ten years, how far
they will spread, what the value of the neighbouring land will become,
and whether the stock of some canal or rail-road that seems more
visionary than Symmes’s expedition to the centre of the earth, will, in
consequence, be a good investment. He looks upon all external objects as
exponents of the future. In Europe they are only exponents of the past.

There is a field for the artist in this country (of which this
publication reaps almost the first-fruits) which surpasses every other
in richness of picturesque. The great difficulty at present is, where to
choose. Every mile upon the rivers, every hollow in the landscape, every
turn in the innumerable mountain streams, arrests the painter’s eye, and
offers him some untouched and peculiar variety of an exhaustless nature.
It is in _river scenery_, however, that America excels all other lands:
and here the artist’s labour is not, as in Europe, to embellish and
idealise the reality; he finds it difficult to come up to it. How
represent the excessive richness of the foliage! How draw the vanishing
lines which mark the swells in the forest-ground, the round heaps of the
chestnut-tops, the greener belts through the wilderness which betray the
wanderings of the water-courses! How give in so small a space the
evasive swiftness of the rapid, the terrific plunge of the precipice, or
the airy wheel of the eagle, as his diminished form shoots off from the
sharp line of the summit, and cuts a circle on the sky!

The general architecture of the United States cannot pretend, of course,
to vie with that of older countries; yet, taken in connexion with the
beautiful position of the towns, no drawing will be found deficient in
beauty, while many of the public buildings especially are, as works of
art, well worthy the draughtman’s notice. The curiosity now generally
excited with regard to this country, by its own progress, and by the
late numerous books of travels, will throw a sufficient interest around
every point that the pencil could present.

        ——“The green land of groves, the beautiful waste,
        Nurse of full streams, and lifter up of proud
        Sky-mingling mountains that o’erlook the cloud.
        Erewhile, where yon gay spires their brightness rear,
        Trees waved, and the brown hunter’s shouts were loud
        Amid the forest; and the bounding deer
      Fled at the glancing plume, and the gaunt wolf yell’d near.

           “And where his willing waves yon bright blue bay
           Sends up, to kiss his decorated brim,
           And cradles, in his soft embrace, the gay
           Young group of grassy islands born of him,
           And, crowding nigh, or in the distance dim,
           Lifts the white throng of sails, that bear or bring
           The commerce of the world;—with tawny limb,
           And belt and beads in sunlight glistening,
         The savage urged his skiff like wild bird on the wing.

              *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

           “Look now abroad—another race has fill’d
           These populous borders—wide the wood recedes,
           And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are till’d;
           The land is full of harvests and green meads;
           Streams numberless, that many a fountain feeds,
           Shine, disembower’d, and give to sun and breeze
           Their virgin waters; the full region leads
           New colonies forth, that toward the western seas
         Spread, like a rapid flame, among the autumnal trees.

              *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

        “But thou, my country, thou shalt never fall,
        But with thy children—thy maternal care,
        Thy lavish love, thy blessing shower’d on all—
        These are thy fetters—seas and stormy air
        Are the wide barrier of thy borders, where
        Among thy gallant sons that guard thee well,
        Thou laugh’st at enemies: who shall then declare
        The date of thy deep-founded strength, or tell
      How happy, in thy lap, the sons of men shall dwell.”—BRYANT.

                     NIAGARA FALLS, FROM THE FERRY.

The best way to approach Niagara is to come up on the American shore,
and cross at the ferry. The descent of about two hundred feet by the
staircase, brings the traveller directly under the shoulder and edge of
the American fall—the most imposing scene, for a single object, that he
will ever have witnessed. The long column of sparkling water seems, as
he stands near it, to descend to an immeasurable depth, and the bright
sea-green curve above has the appearance of being let into the sky. The
tremendous power of the Fall, as well as the height, realizes here his
utmost expectations. He descends to the water’s edge, and embarks in a
ferry-boat, which tosses like an egg-shell on the heaving and convulsed
water; and in a minute or two he finds himself in the face of the vast
line of the Falls, and sees with surprise that he has expended his
fullest admiration and astonishment upon a mere thread of Niagara—the
thousandth part of its wondrous volume and grandeur. From the point
where he crosses, to Table Rock, the line of the Falls is measurable at
three quarters of a mile; and it is this immense extent which, more than
any other feature, takes the traveller by surprise. The tide at the
Ferry sets very strongly down, and the athletic men who are employed
here, keep the boat up against it with difficulty. Arrived near the
opposite landing, however, there is a slight counter-current, and the
large rocks near the shore serve as a breakwater, behind which the boat
runs smoothly to her moorings.

It may be remarked, that the well-known stanzas on the “Fall of Terni,”
in the fourth canto of “Childe Harold,” are, in many respects,
singularly and powerfully descriptive of Niagara.

             “The roar of waters!—from the headlong height
             Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice;
             The fall of waters! rapid as the light
             The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss;
             The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss,
             And boil in endless torture; while the sweat
             Of their great agony, wrung out from this
             Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet
           That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set,

         “And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again
         Returns in an unceasing shower, which round,
         With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain,
         Is an eternal April to the ground,
         Making it all one emerald:—how profound
         The gulph! and how the giant element
         From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound,
         Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent
       With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent,

            “To the broad column which rolls on, and shows
            More like the fountain of an infant sea
            Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes
            Of a new world, than only thus to be
            Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly,
            With many windings through the vale:—Look back
            Lo! where it comes like an eternity,
            As if to sweep down all things in its track,
          Charming the eye with dread,—a matchless cataract,

            “Horribly beautiful! but on the verge,
            From side to side, beneath the glittering morn,
            An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge,
            Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn
            Its steady dyes, while all around is torn
            By the distracted waters, bears serene
            Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn:
            Resembling, ’mid the torture of the scene,
          Love watching Madness with unalterable mien.”—BYRON.

                         VIEW FROM WEST POINT.

Of the river scenery of America, the Hudson, at West Point, is doubtless
the boldest and most beautiful. This powerful river writhes through the
highlands in abrupt curves, reminding one, when the tide runs strongly
down, of Laocoon in the enlacing folds of the serpent. The different
spurs of mountain ranges which meet here, abut upon the river in bold
precipices from five to fifteen hundred feet from the water’s edge; the
foliage hangs to them, from base to summit, with the tenacity and bright
verdure of moss; and the stream below, deprived of the slant lights
which brighten its depths elsewhere, flows on with a sombre and dark
green shadow in its bosom, as if frowning at the narrow gorge into which
its broad-breasted waters are driven.

Back from the bluff of West Point extends a natural platform of near
half a mile square, high, level, and beautifully amphitheatred with wood
and rock. This is the site of the Military Academy, and a splendid
natural parade. When the tents of the summer camp are shining on the
field—the flag, with its blood-bright stripes, waving against the
foliage of the hills—the trumpet echoing from bluff to bluff, and the
compact batallion cutting its trim line across the greensward—there are
few more fairy spots in this working-day world.

On the extreme edge of the summit, overlooking the river, stands a
marble shaft, pointing like a bright finger to glory, the tomb of the
soldier and patriot Kosciusko. The military colleges and other buildings
skirt the parade on the side of the mountain; and forward, toward the
river, on the western edge, stands a spacious hotel, from the verandahs
of which the traveller gets a view through the highlands, that he
remembers till he dies. Right up before him, with the smooth curve of an
eagle’s ascent, rises the “old cro’ nest” of the culprit Fay, a bright
green mountain, that thrusts its topmost pine into the sky; the
Donderbarrak, or (if it is not sacrilege to translate so fine a name for
a mountain,) the _Thunder-chamber_, heaves its round shoulder beyond;
back from the opposite shore, as if it recoiled from these, leans the
bold cliff of Breknock; and then looking out, as if from a cavern, into
the sunlight, the eye drops beyond upon a sheet of wide-spreading water,
with an emerald island in its bosom; the white buildings of Newburgh
creeping back to the plains beyond, and in the far, far distance, the
wavy and blue line of the Kattskills, as if it were the dim-seen edge of
an outer horizon.

The passage through the highlands at West Point still bears the old name
of Wey-gat, or Wind-gate; and one of the prettiest moving dioramas
conceivable, is the working through the gorge of the myriad
sailing-craft of the river. The sloops which ply upon the Hudson, by the
way, are remarkable for their picturesque beauty, and for the enormous
quantity of sail they carry on in all weathers; and nothing is more
beautiful than the little fleets of from six to a dozen, all tacking or
scudding together, like so many white sea-birds on the wing. Up they
come, with a dashing breeze, under Anthony’s Nose, and the Sugar-Loaf,
and giving the rocky toe of West Point a wide berth, all down helm, and
round into the bay; when—just as the peak of Crow Nest slides its
shadow over the mainsail—slap comes the wind aback, and the whole fleet
is in a flutter. The channel is narrow and serpentine, the wind
baffling, and small room to beat; but the little craft are worked
merrily and well; and dodging about, as if to escape some invisible imp
in the air, they gain point after point, till at last they get the
Donderbarrak behind them, and fall once more into the regular current of
the wind.

                             TRENTON FALLS.
                        (VIEW DOWN THE RAVINE.)

Trenton Falls (called Cayoharie by the Indians) are formed by the
descent of a considerable stream, known by the name of West Canada
Creek, through a mountainous ravine of singular formation and beauty.
The Creek, which is swollen to a tremendous torrent by rains in the
mountains, or by the spring thaws, has evidently worn through the strata
which now enclose it, and runs at present over a succession of flat
platforms, descending by leaps of forty or fifty feet from one to the
other, and forming the most lovely chain of cascades for a length of
three or four hundred miles. The walls that shut it in are either
perpendicular, or overhanging it in broad table ledges; the wild
vegetation of the forest above, leaning over the chasm with an effect
like foliage of a bright translucent green, painted on the sky.

Although but fourteen miles distant from a town containing twelve or
fourteen thousand inhabitants, Trenton Falls were unknown till within a
very few years. They were discovered by an artist in search of the
picturesque, and are now visited, like Niagara and Terni. A quiet but
excellent inn, which contrasts strongly, by its respectful service, and
its neat and secluded air, with the noisy and carelessly kept hotels of
the country, stands on the edge of the pine forest, a little back from
the brink of the chasm; and being off the business line of travel, and
requiring a little time and expense to reach, it is frequented
principally by the better class of travellers, and forms a most
agreeable loitering-place, either for the invalid, or the lover of quiet
leisure.

In company with the artist to whom the public is indebted for these
admirable drawings, I lately visited the ravine by moonlight. We had
passed the day in rambling up and down the creek, (a term, by the way,
that, differing from its use in England, describes usually in America
the finer class of streams;) and I had already made myself familiar by
many visits in former years with every turn and phase of its matchless
waters, as seen by the light of day. The moon rose about ten, and lifted
her perfect orb, without a mist or a cloud, over the shoulder of the
mountain which turns the outlet of the ravine. The fine and majestic
wood, through which winds the narrow footpath to the Falls, let in the
white light in silvery and broken masses—sometimes sliding a long
argent line down the dark body of a pine, sometimes pouring in upon the
horizontal branches of the hemlock, like an open hand sprinkled with
snow; and here and there lighting up a broad circle upon the carpet of
tassels and dead leaves, which, in contrast with the heavy shadows of
the surrounding wood, looked illuminated with the special brightness of
a fairy ring.

We descended the long ladder leading into the ravine, and were soon
below the reach of the moonlight, which came slant as yet, and only
rimmed the black wall above us with a long strip of white, which, where
the wavy line of moss and creepers ran into it, resembled the edging of
lace upon a velvet coat in a dark old Flemish picture. The water in this
part of the gulf quite fills up the chasm, and rolls, even by day-light,
in a black and sullen stream between the bare cliffs which frown over
it. The only path here is a giddy ledge, half way up the precipice,
which is passed with the aid of a chain run along the rock; and, as we
stood on this, looking over into the uncertain darkness below, with the
murmur of the far-down and invisible current ascending faintly to our
ears, and the light of heaven ceasing so far above us, it seemed to us
not an inapt image of the infernal river. We crept on till we came to
the foot of the principal Fall, and sat down on the platform below, to
wait the gradual descent of the moon.

The mist over the Fall began to show like a film of gauze waving in the
air; the sharp angles and crevices in the precipice caught the light one
by one, and soon the whole upper ravine was illuminated, while through
the gorge below the stream still made its way darkly and solemnly to the
outlet.

No pencil, no language, can describe the splendour with which the moon
drew her light across the face of the Fall. The other objects in the
ravine drank her beams soberly, and gave back only their own calm
outlines to the eye; but, from this wall of waters, every spray-drop
gave back a diamond—every column of the descending element, a pillar of
silver. If there were gates to fairy-land opening from this world of
ours, and times when they are visible and recognizable by the chance
passing eye of man, I should have believed that we had fallen on the
hour, and that some inner and slowly opening portal was letting the
brightness of a fairy world through these curtains of crystal.

                        VIEW FROM MOUNT HOLYOKE.

Probably the richest view in America, in point of cultivation and
fertile beauty, is that from Mount Holyoke. The bald face of this
mountain, which is turned towards Northampton, is about one thousand one
hundred feet above the level of the Connecticut river, (or Quonnecticut,
as pronounced by the Indians,) and commands a radius of about sixty
miles. The ascent at the side is easy; and it is a fashionable climb for
tourists, whose patronage of ginger-beer and sunrises maintains a shanty
and a hermit on the top, and keeps in repair a series of scrambling but
convenient ladders at the difficult points of the enterprise. The view
immediately below presents a singular phase of the scenery of the river,
which seems here to possess a soul for beauty, and loiters, enamoured
and unwilling to flow on, in the bosom of a meadow which has no parallel
in New England for loveliness and fertility. Four times the amorous
stream turns to the west, and thrice to the east, threading its silver
tide through the tender verdure as capriciously as a vein in the neck of
beauty, and cheating twelve miles of direct course into twenty-four of
coil and current. The meadow is almost entirely unfenced, and the river
is fringed in all its windings with weeping elms, wild flowers and
shrubs, while up toward the town the fields rise in slightly swelling
terraces—forming a foreground to one of the most sunny and cheerful
villages in Massachusetts.

The more extended view embraces a great variety of mountain
range—Monadhoe in the north-east, Saddle Mountain in the north-west,
Mount Tom (between which and Mount Holyoke the Connecticut seems to have
broken with the outlet waters of an immense lake) close on the
south-west, and spurs of the Green Mountains advancing and receding in
the course of the Connecticut in the north. Geologists speculate
extensively on the lakes that once existed in the bosoms formed by these
mountains—but we have not time to go back to the deluge.

There is a small hamlet at the foot of Mount Holyoke, on the eastern
side of the river, called by the Indian name _Hoccanum_, and another at
the foot of Mount Tom, on the western side, called _Pascommuc_, both of
which were burnt by the savages in the early settlement of the country,
and the inhabitants killed or taken captive. The early history of all
these towns on the Connecticut river is filled with events of Indian
warfare. Northampton, by its rich alluvial land allured the first
settlers of Massachusetts long before most of the country between it and
the sea-coast possessed an inhabitant. These adventurous pilgrims seated
themselves in the midst of an unprotected wilderness, and surrounded by
populous Indian tribes; and, first purchasing the land at the Indians’
valuation, they defended themselves afterwards as they might from the
aggressions of these and others. The township of Northampton (called
Nonotuc by the aborigines) was first bought in 1653. It was conveyed to
John Pyncheon for the planters by Wawdillowa, Nenessahalant,
Nassicochee, and four others (one of whom was a married woman), who were
styled the “chief and proper owners.” The price was “one hundred fathom
of wampum by tale, and ten coats,” to which was added an agreement to
plough for the Indians, in the ensuing summer, sixteen acres of land on
the east side of Quonnecticut River. These “all bargained for
themselves, or the other owners by their consent.” All the aborigines of
this country, observes a correct writer on this subject, are owners of
the lands on which they dwell—men and women alike. This property in
lands, held by the Indian women, is a singular fact in the history of
the savage nations.

Three years after, a rich interval near Northampton, called Capawanke,
and containing eight or nine hundred acres, was sold to these same
planters by an Indian, named Lampancho, for fifty shillings, at two
payments, “to his entire satisfaction.”

These two purchases give a very fair idea of the Indian purchases made
by our forefathers. In the former, ninety square miles were sold for a
hundred fathom of wampum and ten coats! Within this tract were near five
thousand acres of interval land, worth at the present time perhaps eight
or nine hundred thousand dollars. Unjust as the transaction seems,
however, the price was ample to the Indian, who could not have got so
much by keeping it, and for whom there was no other purchaser.

The settlers of Nonotuc lived in comparative harmony with the tribe
about them; but in the subsequent Indian wars they lived in perpetual
fear and agitation. The town was surrounded with palisades, “the
meeting-house” was fortified, as were most of the private houses, and
several forts were built within the town. Still their dwellings were
often burnt, their women and children carried into captivity, and their
time was divided between war and agriculture.

                        OUTLET OF NIAGARA RIVER.

This view is taken from the American side, and presents the _debouchure_
of the waters of Niagara into Lake Ontario, from a point of great
advantage. The vastness of the lake beyond, the tremendous agony which
the still foaming waters have just escaped at Niagara, and the remoter
journey of three thousand miles by which they have sought the sea from
their fountains in the west, form a back-ground of imagination to this
view, which, realised on the spot, give it a very thrilling interest. It
is in itself, however, a landscape of unusually bold character; and the
lofty and curving banks of the river are in keeping with its powerful
flow, and the immense volume it pours into the lake.

Fort Niagara, on the opposite side, was erected by the French so late as
1751, and was looked upon by them as the key to all these inland seas.
They had possession of it about eight years. In the beginning of July,
1759, General Prideaux, with his troops, reinforced by the Indian
auxiliaries under Sir William Johnson, advanced to Niagara without the
least hinderance—the enemy here not being in sufficient force to throw
any impediments in the way. About the middle of July he commenced the
siege, which he carried on with great vigour till the twentieth, when he
was killed in the trenches. Sir William Johnson, who succeeded him,
pressed the siege with great vigour. The enemy, alarmed with the
apprehension of losing a place of such importance, resolved to make a
last effort for its relief. For this purpose, they assembled about
twelve hundred men, drawn from Venango, Presque Isle, and Detroit; and
these, with some Indian auxiliaries, were detached, under the command of
M. d’Aubry, on an attempt to reinforce the garrison. Sir William Johnson
having received intelligence of their design, made a disposition to
intercept them in their march. He accordingly detached a considerable
body of troops for this service, who, falling in with the enemy very
near the lines of the besiegers, a battle was fought, which resulted in
the entire defeat of the French, with the capture of their commander,
and most of his officers. This battle happened the twenty-fourth of
July, and was fought in sight of the French garrison at Niagara. Sir
William Johnson immediately after sent Major Harvey to the commandant of
the fort, with an order, exhorting him to surrender, which being
complied with, the garrison, consisting of about six hundred men,
surrendered prisoners of war.”

The following letter from Sir William Johnson, reporting his victory, is
preserved in the Historical Journal kept by Captain Knox, and printed at
the time:—

“I have the honour to acquaint you, by Lieutenant Moncrief, that Niagara
surrendered to his Majesty’s arms, on the twenty-fifth instant. A
detachment of twelve hundred men, with a number of Indians, under the
command of Messieurs Aubry and Signery, collected from Detroit, Venango,
and Presqu’Isle, made an attempt to reinforce the garrison, the
twenty-fourth in the morning; but as I had intelligence of them, I made
a disposition to intercept them. The evening before, I ordered the light
infantry and piquets to take post on the road upon our left, leading
from Niagara Falls to the fort; in the morning, I reinforced these with
two companies of grenadiers, and part of the forty-sixth regiment. The
action began about half an hour after nine; but they were so well
received by the troops in front, and the Indians on their flank, that,
in an hour’s time, the whole was completely ruined, and all their
officers made prisoners, among whom are M. d’Aubry, de Signery, Marin,
Repentini, to the number of seventeen. I cannot ascertain the number
killed, they are so dispersed among the woods; but their loss is great.
As this happened under the eyes of the garrison, I thought proper to
send my last summons to the commanding officer, for his surrendering,
which he listened to. I inclose you the capitulation: M. Moncrief will
inform you of the state of our ammunition and provisions; I hope care
will be taken to forward an immediate supply of both to Oswego. As the
troops that were defeated yesterday were drawn from those posts which
lie in General Stanwig’s route, I am in hopes it will be of the utmost
consequence to the success of his expedition. The public stores of the
garrison, that can be saved from the Indians, I shall order the
Assistant Quarter-Master General, and the Clerk of the stores, to take
an account of, as soon as possible. As all my attention at present is
taken up with the Indians, that the capitulation I have agreed to may be
observed, your Excellency will excuse my not being more particular.
Permit me to assure you, in the whole progress of the siege, which was
severe and painful, the officers and men behaved with the utmost
cheerfulness and bravery. I have only to regret the loss of General
Prideaux and Colonel Johnson; I endeavoured to pursue the late General’s
vigorous measures, the good effects of which he deserved to enjoy.”

                      THE PALISADES—HUDSON RIVER.

The first feature of the celebrated banks of the Hudson, which arrests
the eye of the traveller after leaving New York, is this singular wall
of rock, extending as far onward as he can see, and forming a bold
barricade against the river on the side of New Jersey. This singular
precipice varies in height from fifty to two hundred feet, and presents
a naked front of columnar strata, which gives it its descriptive name.
The small sloops which lie along under the shore, loading with building
stone from its base, and an occasional shed, diminished to the size of a
dog-kennel, across the breadth of the river, are the only marks of life
and habitation it presents to the traveller’s eye.

With most persons, to mention the Palisades is to recall only the
confusion of a steamer’s deck, just off from the wharf, with a freight
of seven or eight hundred souls hoping to “take tea” in Albany. The
scene is one of inextricable confusion, and it is not till the twenty
miles of the Palisades are well passed, that the bewildered passenger
knows rightly whether his wife, child, or baggage, whichever may be his
tender care, is not being left behind at the rate of fifteen miles in
the hour.

I have often, when travelling alone, (for “reflection with folded arms”
consorts only with the childless and baggageless bachelor), I have often
flung my valise into a corner, and sure that the whole of my person and
personal effects was under way, watched the maniform embarrassments and
troubles that beset the uninitiated voyager on the Hudson. Fifteen
minutes before the starting of the boat, there is not a passenger on
board; “time is moving,” and the American counting it as part of the
expense, determines to pay only “on demand.” He arrives on the narrow
pier at the same instant with seven hundred men, ladies, and children,
besides lapdogs, crammed baskets, uncut novels, and baggage for the
whole. No commissioner in the world would guarantee to get all this
freight on board in the given time, and yet it is done, to the daily
astonishment of newspaper hawkers, orange-women, and penny-a-liners
watching for dreadful accidents. The plank is drawn in, the wheels begin
to paw like foaming steeds impatient to be off, the bell rings as if it
was letting down the steps of the last hackney-coach, and away darts the
boat, like half a town suddenly slipping off and taking a walk on the
water. The “hands,” (who follow their nomenclature literally, and have
neither eyes nor bowels) trip up all the little children and astonished
maids, in coiling up the hawser; the black head-waiter rings a hand-bell
as if he were crazy, exhorting “them passengers as hasn’t settled to
step to the Cap’n’s office, _and_ settle,” and angry people who have
lost sight of their portmanteaus, and selfish people who _will not_ get
up to let the young gentleman see if his penny trumpet is not under
them, play in a real-life farce better than Keeley or Liston. A painted
notice and a very fat black woman in the door-way, inform the gentleman
who has not seen his wife since the boat started, and is not at all sure
that she is on board, that “no gentleman is permitted to enter the
ladies’ cabin,” and spite of his dreadful uncertainty, he is obliged to
trust to this dark Hebe to find her, among three hundred ladies, by
description, and amuses all the listeners with his inventory of her
dress, features, and general appearance. The negress disappears, is
called twenty ways in twenty seconds, and an hour after, the patient
husband sees the faithless messenger pass with a glass of lemonade,
having utterly forgotten him and the lady in the black bonnet and grey
eyes, who may be, for ought he knows to the contrary, wringing her hands
at that moment on the wharf at New York. By this time, the young ladies
are tired of looking at the Palisades, and have taken out their novels,
the old gentlemen are poring over their damp newspapers, and the captain
has received his fourteen hundred or two thousand dollars, locked up his
office, and gone up to smoke with the black funnel and the engineer. The
broad waters of the Tappan Sea open before the flying cut-water; those
who have never been up the river before, think of poor André as they
pass Tappan and Parrytown, and those who love gentle worth and true
genius begin to look out for Sleepy Hollow, and the house of Washington
Irving. It is a quiet little spot, buried in trees, and marked with an
old Dutch vane. May his latter days, when they shall come, find there
the reverence and repose which are his due!

                 THE RAPIDS ABOVE THE FALLS OF NIAGARA.

During the last Canadian war, General Putnam, the famous partisan
soldier, made the first descent upon Goat Island. A wager had been laid,
that no man in the army would dare to cross the Rapids from the American
side; and with the personal daring for which he was remarkable, above
all the men of that trying period, he undertook the feat. Selecting the
four stoutest and most resolute men in his corps, he embarked in a
batteau just above the island, and with a rope attached to the
ring-bolt, which was held by as many muscular fellows on the shore, he
succeeded by desperate rowing in reaching his mark. He most easily towed
back, and the feat has since been rendered unnecessary by the
construction of the bridge from which the accompanying view is taken.

Many years since, a Tonemanta chief, after a violent quarrel with his
squaw, lay down to sleep in his canoe. The little bark was moored just
out of the tide of Niagara river, at the inlet to the creek which takes
its name from his tribe, and the half-drunken chief, with his bottle of
rum in his bosom, was soon fast asleep among the sedges. The enraged
squaw, finding, after several attempts, that she could not get
possession of the bottle without waking him, unmoored the canoe, and
swimming out of the creek, pushed it before her into the swift tide of
the river. She then turned its head toward the Falls and regained the
shore. The canoe floated down very tranquilly till it struck the first
ridge of the rapids. Nearly upset by the shock, she was flung from side
to side by the contending waters, and the chief started from his
slumbers. The first glance convinced him that effort would be vain; and
keeping the canoe upright with instinctive skill, he drew his bottle
from his bosom, and put it to his lips. The draught lasted him till he
reached the turn of the cataract; and, as the canoe shot over the glassy
curve, he was seen sitting upright, with his head thrown back, and both
hands pressed to the bottle.

Not long ago it was advertised that, on a certain day, a large vessel,
freighted with two or three menageries of wild beasts, and some domestic
animals, would be sent down the Rapids. The announcement drew together
an immense concourse of people from every part of the country, and, at
the time specified, the vessel was towed into the stream and abandoned,
with the animals loose on her deck. She kept her way very gallantly till
she got to the Rapids, when, after a tremendous pitching for a few
minutes, she stuck fast in the cleft of a rock. The bears and monkeys
were seen in the rigging, but the other animals, not being climbers,
were invisible from the shore. To the great disappointment of many
thousands, she went over the Falls in the night, and of her whole crew
the sole survivor was a goose, who was picked up the next day with no
damage but a broken wing, and has since been exhibited as a curiosity.

The Rapids are far from being the least interesting feature of Niagara.
There is a violence and a power in their foaming career, which is seen
in no other phenomenon of the same class. Standing on the bridge which
connects Goat Island with the Main, and looking up towards Lake Erie,
the leaping crests of the rapids form the horizon, and it seems like a
battle-charge of tempestuous waves, animated and infuriated, against the
sky. No one who has not seen this spectacle of turbulent grandeur can
conceive with what force the swift and overwhelming waters are flung
upwards. The rocks, whose soaring points show above the surface, seem
tormented with some supernatural agony, and fling off the wild and
hurried waters, as if with the force of a giant’s arm. Nearer the plunge
of the Fall, the Rapids become still more agitated; and it is almost
impossible for the spectator to rid himself of the idea, that they are
conscious of the abyss to which they are hurrying, and struggle back in
the very extremity of horror. This propensity to invest Niagara with a
soul and human feelings is a common effect upon the minds of visitors,
in every part of its wonderful phenomena. The torture of the Rapids, the
clinging curves with which they embrace the small rocky islands that
live amid the surge, the sudden calmness at the brow of the cataract,
and the infernal writhe and whiteness with which they reappear,
powerless from the depths of the abyss, all seem, to the excited
imagination of the gazer, like the natural effects of impending ruin,
desperate resolution, and fearful agony, on the minds and frames of
mortals.

                             SARATOGA LAKE.

A singular feature of American scenery is the great number and beauty of
its small fresh-water lakes, from one mile to twenty in circumference,
fed universally by subjacent and living springs, with outlet rivers
which carry off all that is superfluous, and with shores always richly
fringed with foliage, and oftenest hilly and picturesque. They lie in
the midst of the wild forests, like silver mirrors, tranquil and lovely,
mingling a refinement and an elegance with the bold character of the
scenery, which contrasts, like Una, with the couchant Lion. Most of them
are feeders to the great lakes and rivers. There are counted fifteen
which send their waters into Lake Ontario, from the side of New York
alone,—a fact which gives a fair idea of their numbers, while it shows
the resources, so difficult to conceive, of those vast plains of water.

Saratoga Lake must depend for celebrity on the campaigns of General
Burgoyne, and its fish dinners. Of the first, the history has been
written and read. Of the last, the traditions are oral; but while
appetite returns, and trout venture to the angler’s hook, the memory
will be renewed. The Springs are distant only three miles; and hither
drive the more luxurious visitors of Saratoga, to dine in
parties,—those coming early who prefer sympathy with the catastrophe of
the fish, and broiling themselves, during the morning, in a
flat-bottomed boat among the trout-catchers.

There was a gay party on this lake some six or eight years since,
fishing and airing their wit, under the auspices of a belle of some fame
and authority. The boat had been pulled into water of five or six feet
depth, on the eastern side, and the ladies sat at the ends of their
rods, about forty yards from the shore, watching their floats, which lay
on the surface of the glassy water like sleeping flies, but, as the old
fisherman in the bow could have told them, laughing loud enough to
fright even the eels from their appetites. After several hours’ bobbing,
without bite or nibble, the belle above mentioned discovered that her
hook was caught at the bottom. She rose in the stern, to draw it up more
easily, and, all the party leaning over at the same time, she lost her
balance, and, in falling overboard, upset the boat. For the first minute
it was a scene of some terror. The gentlemen were very near drowning the
ladies, and the ladies the gentlemen; but the old fisherman, a tall
fellow who knew the ground, and was just within his depth, quietly
walked about, picking them up one by one, and giving them a hold of the
inverted gunwale, and so pushed them safely to shore, suspended round
the boat, like herrings on a hoop. Nobody caught cold; other people had
caught fish; they dined merrily, and the principal actor in the scene
has since been known by the sobriquet of the _diving belle_.

There is an Indian superstition attached to this lake, which probably
had its source in its remarkable loneliness and tranquillity. The
Mohawks believed that its stillness was sacred to the Great Spirit, and
that, if a human voice uttered a sound upon its waters, the canoe of the
offender would instantly sink. A story is told of an Englishwoman, in
the early days of the first settlers, who had occasion to cross this
lake with a party of Indians, who, before embarking, warned her most
impressively of the spell. It was a silent, breathless day, and the
canoe shot over the smooth surface of the lake like a shadow. About a
mile from the shore, near the centre of the lake, the woman, willing to
convince the savages of the weakness of their superstition, uttered a
loud cry. The countenances of the Indians fell instantly to the deepest
gloom. After a moment’s pause, however, they redoubled their exertions,
and, in frowning silence, drove the light bark like an arrow over the
waters. They reached the shore in safety, and drew up the canoe, and the
woman rallied the chief on his credulity. “The Great Spirit is
merciful,” answered the scornful Mohawk; “He knows that a white woman
cannot hold her tongue.”

Saratoga Lake is eight miles in length, and a little over two miles
broad. It is about eight miles west of Hudson River, which receives its
outlet waters under the name of Fish Creek. The same stream, before its
entrance into the lake, is called by the sesquipedalian title of
Kayaderosseras River. With its pretty maiden name it loses its beauty,
and flows forth from its union with the lake, in a dull and murky
stream, and so drops sluggishly into the Hudson. Ah! many an edifying
homily has been read from a blinder text.

                    THE COLONNADE OF CONGRESS HALL.
                          (SARATOGA SPRINGS.)

Congress Hall has for many years held the palm of fashion among the
rival Hotels of Saratoga. It is an immense wooden caravanserai, with no
pretensions to architecture beyond what is seen in the drawing, and
built with the sole view of affording the average accommodations of
packed herrings to an indefinite number of persons. The roominess and
liberal proportions of the Colonnade are one of those lies of
architecture common to the hotels of this country. The traveller passes
from the magnificent promise of the outside, to a chamber ten feet by
four, situated in a remote gallery, visited once a day by the “boots”
and chambermaid. His bed, chair, and wash-stand, resemble those articles
as seen in penitentiaries; and if he chance to be ill at night, he might
die like a Pagan, “without bell or candle.” The arrangements of the
house are, of necessity, entirely gregarious. A bell rings at half-past
seven in the morning, at which every body who intends to breakfast,
_must_ get up; another bell at eight, to the call of which, if he
prefers hot omelette to cold, he must be punctual. Dinner and tea exact
the same promptitude; and the latter, which in other countries is a
thing of no circumstance or importance, becomes, where you dine at two,
a meal not willingly missed. “Tea” is at six or half past, and consists
of cold meats, hot rolls, Indian cakes, all other kinds of cakes, all
kinds of berries, pies, sweetmeats, and jellies, coffee and tea. This is
not a matter to be slighted after a fast of four hours; and home hurry
beaux and belles from their abbreviated drives, with a loss of sentiment
and sunset, and with profit to the keepers of stables, who let their
horses “by the afternoon.”

After tea, the gentlemen who dressed for dinner and “undressed” for
their drive, dress once more for the evening, and the spacious Colonnade
is thronged with the five hundred guests of the house, who pace to and
fro for an hour, or, if it is a ball night, till the black band have
made an orchestra of the tables in the dining-room, and struck up “Hail,
Columbia!” A hoop, bound with evergreens, and stuck full of candles,
hangs in the centre of the hall (_ci-devant_ dining-room); an audience
of all the negroes in the establishment sweetens the breath of heaven as
it steals in at the windows; and, as the triumphant music returns a
second time to the refrain, the lady Patroness enters on the arm of the
gentleman who has the most stock in the Bank, followed in couples by all
the gentlemen and ladies who intend to dance or play wall-flower. The
black musicians “vex their instruments,” and keep time with their heads
and heels, as if all their extremities had been hired; the beaux who
were interrupted in their declarations by the last _chassé_, (if they
wish to go on with it,) lead out their partners to take the air and a
cold,—perhaps a heart,—on the Colonnade; and at eleven, champagne goes
round for the ladies, and the gentlemen take “summat to drink” at “the
bar;” after which the candles burn brighter, and every body is much more
agreeable.

Congress Hall is built very near the principal Spring, which lies in the
westerly edge of a swamp. It was first discovered by the tracks of the
deer, who frequented it so much as to wear paths to it from the
surrounding woods. The mineral water is highly medicinal, and is not
unpleasant to the taste. It formerly rose in the bed of a small brook,
but it is now hid under the floor of an open colonnade, and discharges
nearly a gallon a minute. The disengaged gas breaks through in limpid
globules, giving to the surface the appearance of an active simmer.
Here, before breakfast, creep the few who come to Saratoga for health;
and here, before dinner, saunter those who are in need of a walk, or who
wish a tonic for the coming meal. A busy varlet, with a capital of a
hooked stick and two tin tumblers, drives a thriving trade here, fishing
up the sparkling waters at a cent a glass, for all comers. When the
gentleman has swallowed his muriate and four carbonates[1] in proper
quantity, a smooth serpentine walk leads to the summit of a prettily
wooded hill, where he may either grind himself round a circular
rail-road in a self-moving chair, or ramble off to the shade, for a
little meditation.

-----

[1] The analysis of a gallon of Congress water is thus stated:—

                  Muriate of soda       471.600 grains.
                  Carbonate of lime     178.474    —
                  Carbonate of soda      16.500    —
                  Carbonate of magnesia   3.356    —
                  Carbonate of iron       6.168    —
                                           ————
                  Total                 676.000    —

                                ALBANY.

Albany is the second city in the State of New York, in population,
wealth, and commerce. It stands on the west bank of the Hudson, and
about one hundred and forty-five miles from New York by the river, and
near the head of sloop navigation. It is built just over the pitch of an
extensive plain, lying between the Mohawk and the Hudson, and has very
much the look of a city sliding down hill.

The history of Albany is not very definite, touching its first
settlement. The probability seems, that, in 1614, the Dutch erected a
fort and trading-house on an island just below the city; and also, in
nine years after, a fort, which they called Fort Orange, on the present
site. It would appear to have been canonically christened, and has been
called at different periods Auralia, Beverwyck, and Williamstadt. “All
this time,” says the historian, “it was known also by the name of ‘_The
Fuyck_.’” The Indian appellation in which it rejoiced was
Schaunaugh-ta-da, or _Once the pine plains_.

Albany is the residence of several of the oldest and wealthiest families
in the State; but except this, it is a mere centre of transit—the
channel through which passes the vast tide of commerce and travel to the
north and west. The Erie and Champlain canals here meet the Hudson; and
that which is passed up by this long arm from the sea, is handed over to
the great lakes by the other two,—as if old Enceladus had been turned
into a “worky,” and stood with his long arms between salt water and
fresh.

The association most people have with Albany, is that of having lost a
portmanteau there. The north-river steam-boats land you with from three
to seven hundred passengers upon a narrow pier, in the dusk of the
evening, where you find from three to seven hundred individuals (more or
less), each of whom seems to have no other object in life, than to
persuade you, at that particular instant, to go by a certain conveyance,
or to stop at a certain hotel. Upon setting your foot on shore, you find
yourself among five or six infuriated gentlemen, two or three of whom
walk backward before you, and all talking at the pitch which is
necessary to drown the deepening hiss of the escape-valve and each
other’s voices. If you attempt to reason, you have no sooner satisfied
the aforesaid six, that your route, your baggage, and your choice of an
hotel, are matters in which they cannot be of the slightest assistance
to you, than six more take their places, who must be satisfied as well;
and so on in the same order. If you resolutely shut your lips, silence
is taken for consent; your baggage is seized, and disappears before you
have recovered from your amazement; and your only course is to follow
the most importunate of your remaining five persecutors to an hotel;
advertise in the next morning’s paper for your portmanteau; and wait in
Albany till it returns from Canada or Lake Erie, or till you are
reconciled to its loss.

One of the most amusing scenes in the world, if it were not so
distressing, is to see a large family of rather respectable emigrants
landed by the steamer in Albany. It is their first step inland; and with
all the confidence of those who are accustomed to countries where a
man’s person and property are outwardly respected, they yield their
children and baggage to the persuasive gentlemen who assure them that
all is right; and if a passing wonder crosses the mind of the sufferer,
that his route should be so immediately comprehended by a perfect
stranger, it is chased away the next moment by his surprise at the scene
of bustle and confusion. At the end of five minutes the crowd thins a
little, and he looks about for his family and effects. A stage coach is
dashing off at top-speed in one direction, with his eldest daughter
stretching out of the window, and crying in vain that there is some
mistake; his two youngest are on board a steam-boat just off from the
pier, and bound eight miles further up the river: the respectable part
of his baggage has entirely disappeared; and nothing but his decrepit
grandmother and the paternal bedstead (both indebted for their escape to
being deaf, and not portable,) remain of his family and chattels. For
his comfort, the gentry around inform him that his children may be got
back in a day or two, and he may find his baggage somewhere on his route
to the west—offering, for a consideration not very trifling, to send
off an express for either one or the other.

Albany is the seat of government, and has a State House, of which the
historian of New York remarks: “In the structure of this edifice, the
rules of architecture, whether Egyptian, Hindoo, Chinese, Grecian,
Roman, Saracenic, Gothic, or Composite, have been violated.” Lately,
however, a taste for a better style of architecture seems to prevail;
and in North Pearl-street we lately noticed a façade (we think, of a new
church,) in a very pure and beautiful style. The private houses of
Albany are built, many of them, very expensively; and the city is
remarkable for its hospitality.

                 CROW NEST, FROM BULL HILL, WEST POINT.

It is true of the Hudson, as of all other rivers, that, to be seen to
advantage, it should form the middle, not the foreground of the picture.
Those who go to Albany by steam have something the same idea of the
scenery of West Point, that an inside passenger may have of the effect
of the Brighton coach at top-speed. It is astonishing how much
foreground goes for in landscape; and there are few passes of scenery
where it is more naturally beautiful than those of the Hudson. In the
accompanying drawing, the picturesque neighbourhood of Undercliff, the
seat of Colonel Morris, lies between the river and the artist, and
directly opposite stands the peak of Crow Nest, mentioned in the
description of West Point.

Crow Nest is one of the most beautiful mountains of America for shape,
verdure, and position; and when the water is unruffled, and the moon
sits on his summit, he looks like a monarch crowned with a single pearl.
This is the scene of the first piece-work of fancy which has come from
the practical brain of America,—the poem of The Culprit Fay. The
opening is so descriptive of the spot, that it is quite in place here;
and to those who have not seen the poem (as most European readers have
not) it will convey an idea of a production which, in my opinion, treads
close on the heels of the Midsummer Night’s Dream:—

          “’Tis the 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 Crow Nest,
          She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast
          And seems his huge grey form to throw
          In a silver cone on the wave below;
          His sides are broken by spots of shade,
          By the walnut boughs 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.

            The stars are on the moving stream,
            And fling, as its ripples gently flow,
            A burnish’d length of wavy beam,
            In an eel-like, spiral line below.
            The winds are whist, and the owl is still,
            The bat in the shelvy rock is hid;
            And nought is heard on the lonely hill
            But the cricket’s chirp and the answer shrill
              Of the gauze-wing’d raty-did;
            And the plaints of the mourning whip-poor-will,
            Who mourns unseen, and ceaseless sings
            Ever a note of wail and wo,
            Till morning spreads her rosy wings,
            And earth and skies in her glances glow.

          ’Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell:
          The wood-tick has kept the minutes well;
          He has counted them all with click and stroke
          Deep in the heart of the mountain-oak;
          And he has awakened the sentry-elve,
          Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree,
          To bid him ring the hour of twelve,
          And call the fays to their revelry.

               *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

            They come from beds of lichen green,
            They creep from the mullen’s velvet screen;
            Some on the backs of beetles fly
            From the silver tops of moon-touch’d trees,
            Where they swing in their cob-web hammocks high,
            And rock’d about in the evening breeze;
            Some from the hum-bird’s downy nest,
            They had driven him out by elfin power,
            And pillow’d on plumes of his rainbow breast,
            Had slumber’d there till the charmed hour;
            Some had lain in a scarp of the rock,
            With glittering rising-stars inlaid,
            And some had open’d the four-o’clock,
            And stolen within its purple shade:
            And now they throng the moonlight glade,
            Above—below—on every side,
            Their little minion forms arrayed
            In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride.’

The general assembly of the fairies is at last complete, and they
proceed to the trial of the culprit fay, who has extinguished his elfin
lamp and paralyzed his wings by a love for a mortal maid. He is
condemned to penances, which are most exquisitely described, and
constitute the greater part of the poem; and he finally expiates his
sins, and is forgiven. There is a fineness of description, and a
knowledge of the peculiarities of American nature, in birds, fishes,
flowers, and the phenomena of this particular region, which constitute
this little poem a book of valuable information as well as an exquisite
work of fancy.

Just under Crow Nest, buried in the heavy leaves of a ravine, springs a
waterfall like a Naiad from the depths of the forest, and plunges down
into the river. The rambles in and about its neighbourhood are cool and
retired; and it is a favourite place for lovers from New York, who run
up in the steamer in three hours, and find the honeymoon goes swimmingly
off there,—the excellent hotel within half a mile supplying the _real_,
without which the _ideal_ is found to be very trumpery. The marble tomb
of a cadet, who was killed by the bursting of a gun, forms a picturesque
object, and gives a story to the spot.

                         VIEW BELOW TABLE ROCK.

The interest of the view under this impending cliff is somewhat
heightened by the probability that it will fall into the abyss sometime
within the next six months. Since the fall of the most projecting part
of it, two or three winters since, a large and very deep crack has
widened around the remaining area of the platform above, and it is
thought that it will scarce survive the next frost. At present, spite of
the threat, troops of ladies and gentlemen crowd its broad summit at all
hours, walking, drawing, gazing, and philandering, in the fullest
confidence that rocks have bases. And so it will go on, probably, till
the “one (thunder) too many” hammers through its crack of doom.

The path leading behind the sheet of Horse Shoe Fall, runs close under
the cliff of Table Rock; and between the spray and the small rivulets
that trickle over the sharp edge, or find their way out of the numerous
crevices on the face of the precipice, it is as wet as the lawn blessed
with “perpetual rain” by the Witch of Atlas. We were of a considerable
party that visited this Naiad’s palace in the close of the last summer.
A small shanty stands at the head of the staircase, kept by a very civil
Englishman, who, with the assistance of his daughter and two sons, keeps
a reading-room and registry, vends curious walking-sticks cut at
Niagara, minerals, spars, and stuffed scorpions, besides officiating as
guide under the Falls, and selling brandy and water to those who survive
the expedition.

The ladies of the party were taken into a small apartment to change
their dresses preparatory to their descent; and the two smart lads of
our conductor soon metamorphosed their cavaliers into as brigand-looking
a set of tatterdemallions as could be found in the Abruzzi. Rough duck
trowsers, long jackets of green painted cloth, oil-skin hats, and
flannel shirts,—the whole turn-out very much like the clothes of the
drowned exhibited for recognition at the Moague in Paris,—constituted
our habiliments. The difference of the female costume consisted in the
substitution of a coarse petticoat for the trowsers, and a string tied
over the broad-brimmed hat;—and, flattery aside, our friends would have
looked at home in Billingsgate. Quite the most formidable part of the
expedition, to them, was passing in review before some twenty curious
persons collected on the way.

The guide went before, and we followed close under the cliff. A cold
clammy wind blew strong in our faces from the moment we left the shelter
of the staircase; and a few steps brought us into a pelting, fine rain,
that penetrated every opening of our dresses, and made our foothold very
slippery and difficult. We were not yet near the sheet of water we were
to walk through; but one or two of the party gave out and returned,
declaring it was impossible to breathe; and the rest, imitating the
guide, bent nearly double to keep the beating spray from their nostrils,
and pushed on, with enough to do to keep sight of his heels. We arrived
near the difficult point of our progress; and in the midst of a
confusion of blinding gusts, half deafened, and more than half drowned,
the guide stopped to give us a hold of his skirts and a little counsel.
All that could be heard amid the thunder of the cataract beside us was
an injunction to push on when it got to the worst, as it was shorter to
get beyond the sheet than to go back; and with this pleasant statement
of our dilemma, we faced about with the longest breath we could draw,
and encountered the enemy. It may be supposed that every person who has
been draped through the column of water which obstructs the entrance to
the cavern behind this cataract, has a very tolerable idea of the pains
of drowning. What is wanting in the density of the element is more than
made up by the force of the contending winds, which rush into the mouth,
eyes, and nostrils, as if flying from a water-fiend. The “courage of
worse behind” alone persuades the gasping sufferer to take one desperate
step more.

It is difficult enough to breathe within; but with a little self-control
and management, the nostrils may be guarded from the watery particles in
the atmosphere, and then an impression is made upon the mind by the
extraordinary pavilion above and around, which never loses its
vividness. The natural bend of the falling cataract, and the backward
shelve of the precipice, form an immense area like the interior of a
tent, but so pervaded by discharges of mist and spray, that it is
impossible to see far inward. Outward the light struggles brokenly
through the crystal wall of the cataract; and when the sun shines
directly on its face, it is a scene of unimaginable glory. The footing
is rather unsteadfast, a small shelf composed of loose and slippery
stones; and the abyss below boils like—it is difficult to find a
comparison. On the whole, this undertaking is rather pleasanter to
remember than to achieve.

                           LAKE WINIPISEOGEE,
                  (THE BEAUTIFUL LAKE OF THE INDIANS,)
                             NEW HAMPSHIRE.

The Indian fights of the celebrated Captain Lovewell, which took place
near the borders of this lake, were not the only feats of courage the
early inhabitants of this part of the country were called upon to
display. Bears, wolves, and catamounts, were enemies as constantly found
in their path as the unfriendly Indian, and were almost as dangerous.
The descriptions contained in the grave historical records of the State,
of encounters, with bears more particularly, are sometimes sufficiently
amusing; and, indeed, whatever the peril to the man, there is a
conventional drollery about the bear which throws a spice of fun into
all his contests with mankind. This animal, in the early days of New
Hampshire, often destroyed the husbandman’s hopes by his depredations on
the green maize, of the milky ear of which he is especially fond. Sweet
fruits, honey, and other simple but “_toothsome_” productions of the
orchard and farm, suited bruin equally well, and he had never recourse
to animal food while these were to be procured. The kind of bear most
mischievous in this way was the small American bear, with a long and
pointed nose, remarkable for his alertness in ascending and descending
trees. They were often found in hollow trunks, and in clefts of rocks,
and were considered delicious meat by the hunters. Among the adventures
with this class of their enemies recorded of the first settlers of the
State, is an encounter of a Mr. Annis with a bear.

“One day, late in March,” says the narrator, “the snow being deep, he
mounted his snow-shoes, and in company with Abner Watkins and their
dogs, set off towards the Mink Hills for a hunt, armed with an axe and
gun. In the neighbourhood of the hills, the dogs were perceived to be
very much excited with something in a ledge of rocks. Annis left his
companion, Watkins, and ascended a crag twenty or thirty feet to where
the dogs were, having no other weapon with him but his staff, which was
pointed with iron. After exploring a little, he concluded there was no
game there of more consequence than a hedge-hog or some other small
animal, and being fatigued laid down in the snow on his back to rest,
reclining his head upon the place he had been examining; he had but just
laid down when he heard a snuffling under his ear; he started up, and
turning round, found an old bear pressing her head up through the old
leaves and snow which filled the mouth of her den; he thrust his
spear-pointed staff at the bear’s briskets, and thus held the bear which
was pressing towards him at his staff’s length distance, and called to
his companion Watkins to come up with the axe and kill the bear, which,
after some little time, was effected. After the action was over, Annis
complained of Watkins’ dilatoriness, but Watkins excused himself by
saying he could not get his gun off, that he had snapt, snapt, snapt
several times. Where did you take sight? said Annis, knowing that he was
directly between him and the bear; _I took sight between your legs_,
said Watkins.”

Many years ago a cub bear was caught by a stout lad near the borders of
Lake Winipiseogee, carried into town, and after proper drilling, became
the playfellow of the boys of the village, and often accompanied them to
the school-house. After passing a few months in civilized society, he
made his escape to the woods, and after a few years was almost
forgotten. The school-house meantime had fallen from the schoolmaster’s
to the schoolmistress’s hands, and in the room of large boys and girls
learning to write and cipher, small boys and girls were taught in the
same place knitting and spelling. One winter’s day, after a mild fall of
snow, the door had been left ajar by some urchin going out, when to the
unutterable horror of the spectacled dame and her fourscore hopeful
abecedarians, an enormous bear walked in, in the most familiar manner in
the world, and took a seat by the fire. Huddling over the benches with
what expedition they might, the children crowded about their
schoolmistress, who had fled to the farthest corner of the room, and
stood crying and pushing to escape the horror of being eaten first. The
bear sat snuffing and warming himself by the fire, however, exhibiting
great signs of satisfaction, but deferring his meal till he had warmed
himself thoroughly. The screams of the children continued, but the
school-house was far from any other habitation, and the bear did not
seem at all embarrassed by the outcry. After sitting and turning himself
about for some time, Bruin got up on his hind legs, and shoving to the
door, began to take down, one by one, the hats, bonnets, and satchels,
that hung on several rows of pegs behind it. His memory had not deceived
him, for they contained, as of old, the children’s dinners, and he had
arrived before the recess. Having satisfied himself with their cheese,
bread, pies, dough-nuts, and apples, Bruin smelt a little at the
mistress’s desk, but finding it locked, gave himself a shake of
resignation, opened the door and disappeared. The alarm was given, and
the amiable creature was pursued and killed,—very much to the regret of
the townspeople, when it was discovered by some marks on his body that
it was their old friend and playfellow.

                         KOSCIUSKO’S MONUMENT.

A pretty marble shaft stands on the edge of the broad highland esplanade
of West Point, overlooking the most beautiful scene on the most
beautiful river of our country. It commemorates the virtues of
Kosciusko, who, during his second sojourn in America, lived at West
Point, and cultivated his little garden, near the site of this tribute
to his memory. Kosciusko’s first laurels were gained in this country
under Washington. He was educated in the military school at Warsaw,
whence he was sent, as one of four, to complete his education at Paris.
On his return to Poland, he had a commission given him, but, being
refused promotion, he determined to come to America, and join the
colonies in their struggle for independence. With letters from Dr.
Franklin to General Washington, he presented himself to the great
patriot, and was immediately appointed his aid-de-camp, and later he
received the appointment to the engineers, with the rank of colonel. At
the close of the war, having distinguished himself by his courage and
skill, he returned to Poland, was appointed major-general in the army of
the diet, and served as general of division under the younger
Poniatowski. Finding, however, his efforts for freedom paralysed by the
weakness or treachery of others, he gave in his resignation, and went
into retirement at Leipsic. He was still there in 1793, when the Polish
army and people gave signs of being in readiness for insurrection. All
eyes were turned towards Kosciusko, who was at once chosen for their
leader, and messengers were sent to him from Warsaw to acquaint him with
the schemes and wishes of his compatriots. In compliance with the
invitation, he proceeded towards the frontiers of Poland; but
apprehensive of compromising the safety of those with whom he acted, he
was about to defer his enterprise, and set off for Italy. He was
fortunately persuaded to return, and, arriving at Cracow at the very
time when the Polish garrison had expelled the Russian troops, he was
chosen generalissimo, with all the power of a Roman dictator. He
immediately published an act, authorizing insurrection against the
foreign authorities, and proceeded to support Colonel Madalinski, who
was pursued by the Russians. Having joined that officer, they gained
their first victory, defeating the enemy with inferior numbers. His army
now increased to nine thousand men, the insurrection extended to Warsaw,
and in a few days the Russians were driven from that palatinate. He
obtained some advantage over the enemy in one more contest, but the king
of Prussia arriving to the assistance of the Russians, he was exposed to
great personal danger, and suffered a defeat. From this period he waged
a disadvantageous warfare against superior force, and at last at
Maczienice (or Maniejornice), fifty miles from Warsaw, an overwhelming
Russian force completely defeated Kosciusko. He fell from his horse
wounded, saying _Finis Poloniæ_, and was made prisoner.

Kosciusko was sent to Russia, and confined in a fortress near St.
Petersburgh, where he was kept till the accession of Paul I. This
monarch, through real or affected admiration for the character of the
great man, released him, and presented him with his sword: “_I have no
longer occasion for a sword, since I have no longer a country_,”
answered Kosciusko.

In 1797 he once more took his departure for the United States, where he
was received with honour and warm welcome by the grateful people whose
liberty he had aided to achieve. He was granted a pension by the
government, and elected to the society of the Cincinnati. He returned to
Europe the following year, bought an estate near Fontainebleau, and
lived there till 1814. He removed again to Switzerland, and established
himself at Soleure, where he died, in consequence of a fall with his
horse over a precipice near Vevay. Among the last acts of his life, were
the emancipation of the slaves on his own estate in Poland, and a
bequest for the emancipation and education of slaves in Virginia.

Kosciusko was never married. His body was removed to Cracow, and
deposited with great state in the tomb of the kings beneath the
cathedral. The oldest officers were his bearers; two beautiful young
girls with wreathes of oak leaves and cypress followed, and then came a
long procession of the general staff, senate, clergy, and people. Count
Wodsiki delivered a funeral oration on the hill of Wavel, and a prelate
delivered an eloquent address in the church. The senate decreed that a
lofty mound should be erected on the heights of Bronislawad. For three
years men of every age and class toiled gratuitously at this work, and
at last the _Mogila Kosziuszki_, the mound of Kosciusko, was raised to
the height of 3000 feet! A serpentine path leads to the top, from which
there is a noble view of the Vistula, and of the ancient city of the
Polish kings. The small monument at West Point has less pretension, but
it is the exponent of as deep a debt of gratitude, and of as grateful
and universal honour to his memory.

                      HORSESHOE FALLS, AT NIAGARA.
                        (SEEN FROM GOAT ISLAND.)

Niagara is the outlet of several bodies of water, covering, it is
estimated, 150,000 square miles! Dr. Dwight considers the Falls as part
of the St. Lawrence, following that river back to the sources near the
Mississippi; and, doing away with the intermediate names of St. Marie,
Detroit, St. Clair, Iroquois, and Cataraqui, he traces its course
through the lakes Superior, Huron, Erie, and Ontario, as the Rhone is
followed through the Lake of Geneva, and the Rhine through Lake
Constance. In this view the St. Lawrence is doubtless the first river in
the world. It meets the tide of the sea four hundred miles from its
mouth, which is ninety-five miles broad; and to this height fleets of
men of war may ascend and find ample room for an engagement. Merchantmen
of all sizes go up to Montreal, which is six hundred miles from the sea;
and its navigation for three thousand miles is only interrupted in three
places,—Niagara Falls, the rapids of the Iroquois, and the part called
the river St. Marie. The St. Marie is navigable for boats, though not
for larger vessels; a portage of ten miles (soon to be superseded by a
ship canal) conveys merchandise around the Falls of Niagara, and the
rapids of the Iroquois present so slight a hinderance, that goods are
brought from Montreal to Queenston for nearly the same price as they
would pay by unobstructed navigation.

It is necessary to remember the extent of the waters which feed Niagara,
to conceive, when standing for an hour only on the projecting rocks, how
this almighty wonder can go on so long. Even then,—that these inland
seas lie above, tranquil and unexhausted, scarce varying their
high-water mark perceptibly, from year to year, yet supplying, for
_every_ hour, the “ninety millions of tons,” which, it is estimated,
plunge over the cataract,—it affords you a standard for the extent of
those lakes, to which the utmost stretch of the mind seems scarcely
competent.

The accompanying view from Goat Island is of course only partial, as the
American fall is entirely left out of the picture. The Horseshoe Falls,
as a single object, however, is unquestionably the sublimest thing in
nature. To know that the angle of the cataract, from the British shore
to the tower, is near half a mile in length; that it falls so many feet
with so many tons of water a minute; or even to see it, as here,
admirably represented by the pencil; conveys no idea to the reader of
the impression produced on the spectator. One of the most remarkable
things about Niagara is entirely lost in the drawing—its _motion_. The
visitor to Niagara should devote one day exclusively to the observation
of this astonishing feature. The broad flood glides out of Lake Erie
with a confiding tranquillity that seems to you, when you know its
impending destiny, like that of a human creature advancing irresistibly,
but unconsciously, to his death. He embraces the bright islands that
part his arms for a caress; takes into his bosom the calm tribute of the
Tonewanta and Unnekuqua—small streams that come drowsing through the
wilderness—and flows on, till he has left Lake Erie far behind, bathing
the curving sides of his green shores with a surface which only the
summer wind ruffles. The channel begins to descend; the still
unsuspecting waters fall back into curling eddies along the banks, but
the current in the centre flows smoothly still. Suddenly the powerful
stream is flung with accumulated swiftness among broken rocks; and, as
you watch it from below, it seems tossed with the first shock into the
very sky. It descends in foam, and from this moment its agony commences.
For three miles it tosses and resists, and, racked at every step by
sharper rocks and increased rapidity, its unwilling and choked waves fly
back, to be again precipitated onward, and at last reach the glossy
curve, convulsed with supernatural horror. They touch the emerald arch,
and in that instant, like the calm that follows the conviction of
inevitable doom, the agitation ceases,—the waters pause,—the foam and
resistance subside into a transparent stillness,—and slowly and
solemnly the vexed and tormented sufferer drops into the abyss. Every
spectator, every child, is struck with the singular deliberation, the
unnatural slowness, with which the waters of Niagara take their plunge.
The laws of gravitation seem suspended, and the sublimity of the
tremendous gulf below seems to check the descending victim on the verge,
as if it paused in awe.

                     THE NARROWS, AT STATEN ISLAND.

Almost any land looks beautiful after a long voyage; and it would not be
surprising if the Narrows, oftenest seen and described by those who have
just come off the passage of the Atlantic, should have this reputation.
It does not require an eye long deprived of verdure, however, to relish
the bold shores, the bright green banks, the clustering woods, and
tasteful villas, which make up the charms of this lovely strait.

Busier waters than the Narrows could scarcely be found; and it is
difficult to imagine, amid so much bustle and civilisation, the scene
that presented itself to Hendrick Hudson, when the little _Halve-Mane_
stole in on her voyage of discovery two hundred years ago. _Hoofden_, or
the Highlands, as he then named the hills in this neighbourhood, “were
covered with grass and wild-flowers, and the air was filled with
fragrance.” Groups of friendly natives, clothed in elk skins, stood on
the beach, singing, and offering him welcome, and, anchoring his little
bark, he explored with his boats the channel and inlets, and penetrated
to the mouth of the river which was destined to bear his name. It
appears, however, that the Indians on the Long Island side were less
friendly; and in one of the excursions into the Bay of Manhattan, his
boat was attacked by a party of twenty-nine savages of a ferocious
tribe, and an English sailor, named Colman, was killed by an arrow-shot
in the shoulder. Other unfriendly demonstrations from the same tribe,
induced Hudson to leave his anchorage at Sandy Hook, and he drew in to
the Bay of New York, which he found most safe and commodious, and where
he still continued his intercourse with the Indians of Staten Island,
receiving them on board his vessel, dressing them, to their extravagant
delight, in red coats, and purchasing from them fish and fruits in
abundance.

At this day there stands a villa on every picturesque point; a thriving
town lies on the left shore; hospitals and private sanitary
establishments extend their white edifices in the neighbourhood of the
quarantine-ground; and between the little fleets of merchantmen, lying
with the yellow flag at their peak, fly rapidly and skilfully a constant
succession of steam-boats, gaily painted and beautifully modelled,
bearing on their airy decks the population of one of the first cities of
the world. Yet of Manhattan Island, on which New York is built, Hudson
writes, only two hundred years ago, that “it was wild and rough; a thick
forest covered the parts where anything would grow; its beach was broken
and sandy, and full of inlets; its interior presented hills of stony and
sandy alluvion, masses of rock, ponds, swamps, and marshes.”

The gay description which an American would probably give of the
Narrows,—the first spot of his native land seen after a tedious
voyage,—would probably be in strong contrast with the impression it
produces on the emigrant, who sees in it only the scene of his first
difficult step in a land of exile. I remember noting this contrast with
some emotion, on board the packet-ship in which I was not long ago a
passenger from England. Among the crowd of emigrants in the steerage,
was the family of a respectable and well-educated man, who had failed as
a merchant in some small town in England, and was coming, with the wreck
of his fortune, to try the back-woods of America. He had a wife, and
eight or ten very fine children, the eldest of whom, a delicate and
pretty girl of eighteen, had contributed to sustain the family under
their misfortunes at home, by keeping a village school. The confinement
had been too much for her, and she was struck with consumption—a
disease which is peculiarly fatal in America. Soon after leaving the
British Channel, the physician on board reported her to the captain as
exceedingly ill, and suffering painfully from the close air of the
steerage; and by the general consent of the cabin passengers, a bed was
made up for her in the deck-house, where she received the kindest
attention from the ladies on board; and with her gentle manners and
grateful expressions of pleasure, soon made an interest in all hearts.
As we made the land, the air became very close and hot; and our patient,
perhaps from sympathy with the general excitement about her, grew
feverish and worse, hourly. Her father, and a younger sister, sat by
her, holding her hands and fanning her; and when we entered the Narrows
with a fair wind, and every one on board, forgetting her in their
admiration of the lovely scene, mounted to the upper deck, she was
raised to the window, and stood with the bright red spot deepening on
her cheek, watching the fresh green land without the slightest
expression of pleasure. We dropped anchor, the boats were lowered, and
as the steerage passengers were submitted to a quarantine, we attempted
to take leave of her before going on shore. A fit of the most passionate
tears, the paroxysms of which seemed almost to suffocate her, prevented
her replying to us; and we left that poor girl surrounded with her
weeping family, trying in vain to comfort her. Hers were feelings,
probably, which are often associated with a remembrance of the Narrows.

                   VIEW OF THE CAPITOL AT WASHINGTON.

There are many favourable points of view for this fine structure,
standing, as it does, higher than the general level of the country.
Besides those presented in the different drawings in this work, there
are views from the distant eminences, which are particularly fine, in
which the broad bosom of the Potomac forms the back-ground. The effect
of the building is also remarkably imposing when the snow is on the
ground, and the whole structure, rising from a field of snow, with its
dazzling whiteness, looks like some admirable creation of the frost. All
architecture, however, is very much improved by the presence of a
multitude of people, and the Capitol looks its best on the day of
inauguration. The following description, written after viewing the
ceremony of Mr. Van Buren’s induction into office, will give an idea of
the effect of this solemnity on the architecture:—

“The sun shone out of heaven without a cloud on the inaugural morning.
The air was cold, but clear and life-giving, and the broad avenues of
Washington for once seemed not too large for the thronging population.
The crowds who had been pouring in from every direction for several days
before, ransacking the town for but a shelter from the night, were
apparent on the spacious side walks, and the old campaigners of the
winter seemed but a thin sprinkling among the thousands of new and
strange faces. The sun shone alike on the friends and opponents of the
new administration; and, as far as one might observe in a walk to the
Capitol, all were made cheerful alike by its brightness. It was another
augury, perhaps, and may foretell a more extended fusion under the light
of the luminary new-risen. In a whole day, passed in a crowd composed of
all classes and parties, I heard no remark that the president would have
been unwilling to hear.

“I was at the Capitol a half-hour before the procession arrived, and had
leisure to study a scene for which I was not at all prepared. The noble
staircase of the east front of the building leaps over three arches;
under one of which carriages pass to the basement door; and, as you
approach from the gate, the eye cuts the ascent at right angles, and the
sky, broken by a small spire at a short distance, is visible beneath.
Broad stairs occur at equal distances, with corresponding projections,
and from the upper platform rise the outer columns of the portico, with
ranges of columns three deep extending back to the pilasters. I had
often admired this front, with its many graceful columns and its superb
flight of stairs, as one of the finest things I had seen in the world.
Like the effect of the assembled population of Rome waiting to receive
the blessing before the front of St. Peter’s, however, the assembled
crowd on the steps and at the base of the Capitol, heightened
inconceivably the grandeur of the design. They were piled up like the
people on the temples of Babylon in one of Martin’s sublime
pictures—every projection covered, and an inexpressible soul and
character given by their presence to the architecture. Boys climbed
about the bases of the columns, single figures stood on the posts of the
surrounding railings in the boldest relief against the sky, and the
whole thing was exactly what Paul Veronese would have delighted to draw.

“I was in the crowd thronging the opposite side of the court, and lost
sight of the principal actors in this imposing drama till they returned
from the Senate Chamber. A temporary platform had been laid and railed
in on the broad stair which supports the portico, and, for all
preparation for one of the most important and most meaning and solemn
ceremonies on earth—for the inauguration of a chief magistrate over a
republic of fifteen millions of freemen—the whole addition to the open
air and the presence of the people, was a volume of Holy Writ. In
comparing the impressive simplicity of this consummation of the wishes
of a mighty people, with the ceremonial and hollow show which embarrass
a corresponding event in other lands, it was impossible not to feel that
the moral sublime was here—that a transaction so important, and of such
extended and weighty import, could borrow nothing from drapery or
decoration, and that the simple presence of the sacred volume,
consecrating the act, spoke more thrillingly to the heart than the
trumpets of a thousand heralds.

“The crowd of diplomatists and senators in the rear of the columns made
way, and the ex-President and Mr. Van Buren advanced with uncovered
heads. A murmur of feeling rose up from the moving mass below, and the
infirm old man, emerged from a sick chamber which his physician had
thought it impossible he should leave, bowed to the people, and, still
uncovered in the cold air, took his seat beneath the portico. Mr. Van
Buren then advanced, and with a voice remarkably distinct, and with
great dignity, read his address to the people.

“When the address was closed, the Chief Justice advanced and
administered the oath. As the book touched the lips of the new
President, there arose a general shout, an expression of feeling common
enough in other countries, but drawn with difficulty from an American
assemblage. The sons and immediate friends of Mr. Van Buren then closed
around him, the ex-President and others gave him the hand in
congratulation, and the ceremony was over.”

                 VIEW OF THE RUINS OF FORT TICONDEROGA.

Three weeks before the first battle of the revolution at Lexington, an
emissary was sent to Canada by the Committee of Correspondence in
Boston, to ascertain the feelings of the people, and to make such
reports as his observations might suggest. His first advice was that
Ticonderoga should be seized as quickly as possible.

The “Green Mountain Boys” were at this time fresh from their resistance
to the _new grants_, and were immediately fixed upon as the best force
to achieve this object. The little army, already organized under the
famous Ethan Allen, assembled at Castleton, and the main body,
consisting of one hundred and forty men, marched directly to the shore
of the lake, opposite Ticonderoga. It was important to have a guide who
was acquainted with the ground around the fortress and the places of
access. Allen made inquiries as to these points of Mr. Beman, a farmer
residing near the lake, who answered that he seldom crossed the
Ticonderoga, and was little acquainted with the particulars of its
situation; but that his son, Nathan, a young lad, passed much of his
time there in company with the boys of the garrison.

The boy was called, and appeared by his answers to be familiar with
every nook in the fort, and every passage and by-path by which it could
be approached. In the eye of Allen, he was the very person to thread out
the best avenue; and by the consent of the father, and a little
persuasion, he was engaged to be the guide of the party.

The next step was to procure boats, which were very deficient in number.
Eighty-three men only had crossed when the day began to dawn; and while
the boats were sent back for the rear division, Allen resolved to move
immediately against the fort.

He drew up his men in three ranks, addressed them in a short harangue,
and, placing himself at the head of the centre file, led them silently,
but with a quick step, up the heights of the fortress. Before the sun
rose, he had entered the gate, and formed his men on the parade between
the barracks. As Allen passed the gate, a sentinel snapped his fusee at
him, and then retreated under a covered way. Another sentinel made a
thrust at an officer with his bayonet, and slightly wounded him, but
Allen cut him over the head with his sword, and he threw down his musket
and asked for quarter. Standing on the parade-ground they gave three
huzzas and aroused the sleepers. Allen inquired the way to the
commandant’s apartment, hastily ascended the stairs, and called out with
his stentorian voice at the door, ordering the astonished captain
instantly to appear. Startled at so strange and unexpected a summons, he
sprang from his bed and opened the door, when the first salutation of
his boisterous and unseasonable visitor was an order immediately to
surrender the fort. Rubbing his eyes, and trying to collect his
scattered senses, the Frenchman asked by what authority he presumed to
make such a demand. “In the name of the Great Jehovah and the
Continental Congress!” replied Allen.

Not accustomed to hear much of the Continental Congress in this remote
corner, nor to respect its authority when he did, the commandant began
to speak; but Allen cat shore the thread of his discourse by lifting his
sword over his head, and reiterating the demand for an instant
surrender. Having neither permission to argue, nor power to resist,
Captain De la Place submitted, ordering his men to parade without arms,
and the garrison was given up to the victors.

This surprise was effected about four o’clock in the morning on the 10th
of May. The remainder of the troops arrived after the fort was taken,
and the prisoners, consisting of a captain, a lieutenant, and
forty-eight subalterns and privates, were sent on to Hartford under an
escort.

As soon as the bustle was over, Allen sent off a detachment to take
Crown Point, a small fortress higher up the lake. Strong head winds
drove back the boats, and the party returned the same evening. The
attempt was renewed a day or two afterwards, and the garrison,
consisting of a serjeant and eleven men, were brought in prisoners.

The principal advantage of these captures, besides the possession of the
posts, was the acquisition, at Ticonderoga, of one hundred and twenty
pieces of cannon, some swivels, mortars, and small arms; and at Crown
Point, of sixty-one cannon and some small stores.

The Green Mountain Boys were at this time under sentence of outlawry
from the Provincial Government; but after the good service they had done
at Ticonderoga, they were formed into a separate regiment, and permitted
to nominate their own officers. Their services to the cause of
Independence are well known.

                         VIEW FROM FORT PUTNAM.

This fort, which commands the military position of West Point, and which
was considered so important during the revolutionary war, is now in
ruins, and is visited by all travellers for the superb view which it
affords of the sublime pass of the Highlands. This was the great key
which Arnold’s treachery intended to give into the hands of the English;
and, associated with the memory of the unfortunate André, and with other
painful events of the conspiracy, it possesses an interest which is
wanting to other objects of the same description in our country.

Washington’s visit of inspection to Fort Putnam, and the other redoubts
on this side the river, was made only two or three hours before his
discovery of the treason of Arnold, at that moment as he supposed in
command at West Point. The commander-in-chief was expected to arrive the
evening before, and had he done so, Arnold would probably never have
escaped. Having accidentally met the French minister, M. de Lucerne, at
Fishkill, however (eight miles above), he was induced to pass the night
there for the purpose of some conference, and set off early in the
morning on horseback, sending on a messenger to Mrs. Arnold that himself
and suite would be with her to breakfast. Arriving opposite West Point,
near a small redoubt called Fort Constitution, Washington turned his
horse from the road. Lafayette, who was then in his suite, called out,
“General, you are going in the wrong direction; you know Mrs. Arnold is
waiting breakfast for us.” “Ah,” answered Washington, “I know you young
men are all in love with Mrs. Arnold, and wish to get where she is as
soon as possible. Go and take your breakfast with her, and tell her not
to wait for me: I must ride down and examine the redoubts on this side
the river.” Two of the aides rode on, found breakfast waiting, and sat
down at once with General Arnold and his family. While they were at
table, a messenger came in with a letter for Arnold, which announced the
capture of André, and the failure and betrayal, of course, of the whole
conspiracy. Showing little or no emotion, though his life hung upon a
thread, he merely said to one of his aides that his presence was
required at West Point; and, leaving word for General Washington that he
was called over the river, but would return immediately, he ordered a
horse and sent for Mrs. Arnold to her chamber. He then informed her
abruptly that they must part, possibly for ever, and that his life
depended on his reaching the enemy’s lines without delay. Struck with
horror at this intelligence, she swooned and fell senseless. In that
state he left her, hurried down stairs, mounted a horse belonging to one
of his aides that stood saddled at the door, and rode with all speed to
the bank of the river. A boat with six men was in waiting; and,
pretending that he was going with a flag of truce, he pulled down the
stream, and arrived safe on board the Vulture sloop of war, lying some
miles below.

Having finished his inspection of the redoubt, Washington arrived at
Arnold’s house, received the message, and concluded to cross immediately
and meet Arnold at West Point. As the whole party were seated in the
barge moving smoothly over the water, with the majestic scenery of the
highlands about them, Washington said, “Well, gentlemen, I am glad, on
the whole, that General Arnold has gone before us, for we shall now have
a salute; and the roaring of the cannon will have a fine effect among
these mountains.” The boat drew near to the beach, but no cannon were
heard, and there was no appearance of preparation to receive them.
“What!” said Washington, “do they not intend to salute us!” At this
moment an officer was seen making his way down the hill to meet them,
who seemed confused at their arrival, and apologized for not being
prepared to receive such distinguished visitors. “How is this, Sir,”
said Washington, “is not General Arnold here?” “No, Sir,” replied the
officer, “he has not been here these two days, nor have I heard from him
within that time.” “This is extraordinary,” said Washington; “we were
told he had crossed the river, and that we should find him here.
However, our visit must not be in vain. Since we have come, we must look
round a little, and see in what state things are with you.” He then
ascended the hill, examined Fort Putnam and the other fortifications,
and returned to Arnold’s house, where the treason was at once revealed.
This had occupied two or three hours, however, and Arnold was beyond
pursuit. Washington retained his usual calmness, though Arnold was one
of his favourite officers, and had been placed at West Point by his own
personal influence with Congress. He called Lafayette and Knox, showed
them the proofs, and only said to the former, “Whom can we trust now!”

                     VIEW OF STATE STREET, BOSTON.

Boston is situated at the head of Massachusetts bay, on a peninsula
about four miles in circumference, and is about three miles in length,
and one mile and twenty-five rods, where widest, in breadth, and is
connected with the main land at the south end by a narrow isthmus,
called the Neck, leading to Roxbury. The town is built in an irregular
circular form round the harbour, which is studded with about forty small
islands, many of which afford excellent pasture; and are frequented in
summer by numerous parties of pleasure. The harbour is formed by Nahant
Point on the north, and Point Alderton on the south, and is so capacious
as to allow five hundred vessels to ride at anchor in a good depth of
water, while the entrance is so narrow as scarcely to admit two ships
abreast. The entrance is defended by Fort Independence, belonging to the
United States, on Castle Island, and by Fort Warren, on Governor’s
Island. There is another fort, called Fort Strong, on Noddle’s Island.

Alterations and additions have of late years greatly improved the
appearance of Boston. The streets, which were formerly almost without an
exception narrow and crooked, have been in a great degree rendered wide
and commodious; the old wooden structures have in the greater part of
the city been replaced by handsome buildings of stone or brick. In the
western part, particularly, there is much neatness and elegance. The
splendour of the private buildings here, is not equalled in any other
part of the Union.

The literary institutions of this city are of the first order. The
public libraries contain 70,000 volumes. The Boston Athenæum is the
finest establishment of its kind in the United States; its library
contains above 25,000 volumes, and a reading-room, in which the most
esteemed periodicals, from all parts of the world, may be found. If we
add to these the library of Harvard College, in the neighbourhood, of
40,000 volumes, making the number of books within the reach of the
citizens 110,000, it must be allowed that Boston offers to the scholar a
more advantageous residence than any other spot in the western world.

STATE STREET, called King Street in the days of Stamp-acts and “the
Regulars,” is the main artery of the heart of New England. The old State
House, which stands at the head of it, was called the Town House, and
was first erected in 1660. It is honourably mentioned in a book of
travels, written in a pleasant vein, by “John Josselyn, Gent.” who
visited the colonies in 1663. “There is also a Town House,” he says,
“built upon pillars, where the merchants may confer. In the chambers
above they hold their monthly courts. Here is the dwelling of the
Governor (Bellingham). On the south there is a small but pleasant
common, where the gallants, a little before sunset, walk with their
marmalet madams, as we do in Moorfields, till the nine o’clock bell
rings them home to their respective habitations; when presently, the
constables walk the rounds to see good order kept, and to take up loose
people.” The State House has been twice burnt, and rebuilt. A council
chamber, ornamented with full-length portraits of Charles II. and James
II. formerly occupied the east end; and it was in this chamber that
James Otis declared before a court of admiralty, that “taxation without
representation is tyranny,”—a phrase which became, before long, a
slogan in the mouths of the people. “Then and there,” writes President
Adams, “was the first scene of the first act of opposition to the
arbitrary claims of Great Britain. Then and there, the child
Independence was born.” It was upon a trial of the question of “Writs
for Assistance,” a power which was required by the Board of Trade to
enforce some new and rigorous Acts of Parliament touching trade; and
Otis opposed the Attorney-General. “As soon as he had concluded,” says
the historian, “Otis burst forth as with a flame of fire, with a
promptitude of classical allusion, a depth of research, a rapid summary
of historical events, a profusion of legal authorities, a prophetic
glance into futurity, and a torrent of impetuous eloquence, which
carried all before him.” This was the preparation for the resistance to
the Stamp Act, and the Revolution soon followed.

State Street has been the scene of most of the events of a very public
nature, which are recorded in the annals of Boston. The balcony of the
State House is the popular pulpit, and hence was read the Declaration of
Independence, and from hence declaimed Colonel David Crockett, who
“could lick his weight in wild-cats.” In 1770 the “Boston massacre” took
place in State Street. For several days preceding the event, there had
been disturbances between the king’s soldiers and the townspeople, which
had put the officers on the alert. The soldiers were collected into the
barracks before night, and sentinels were placed around them at all
hours to prevent difficulty. One of these sentinels was stationed in a
narrow alley, and was striking fire against the walls with his sword,
for amusement, when two or three young men attempted to pass him. Having
orders to let no one pass, a struggle ensued, and one of the young men
received a wound on the head. The noise of the rencontre drew together a
considerable crowd, and as but few could enter the narrow scene of
action, the remainder listened to an inflammatory speech from “a tall
man, with a red cloak, and a white wig,” in the adjacent square. At the
close of the oration there was a general cry “To the main guard!” and
the crowd rushed tumultuously toward its station in State Street. On
their way they passed the Custom House, before the door of which stood a
single sentinel. Alarmed at their approach, he retreated up the steps,
and, the people collecting around, he sent word to the barracks, near
by, that he was attacked, and a company in a few moments arrived to his
assistance, and formed a half circle round the steps. The captain of the
day, named Preston, followed immediately, and the Custom House, which
stood at the corner of State and Exchange Streets, was soon thronged by
a considerable multitude. The soldiers were soon pressed upon very
closely by the mob, who were mostly armed with clubs; and those at a
distance soon began to throw snowballs, followed by fragments of ice,
stones and sticks, while from every side came the cry, “_Fire, if you
dare!_” The soldiers soon heard, or thought they heard, the order, and
they fired in quick succession from right to left. Two or three of the
guns flashed, but the rest were fatal. Three persons were killed on the
spot, two received wounds of which they died next day, and others were
more slightly injured. The people immediately dispersed, leaving the
dead bodies in the street, but returned in a few minutes; when the
soldiers aimed once more at them, but the commanding officer struck up
the guns with his sword. The drum was beat to arms, and several of the
officers, on their way to join the guard, were knocked down, and their
swords taken from them. Order was soon restored, and Captain Preston
delivered himself up for trial. The dead were buried with some pomp, and
when the excitement had subsided a little, Preston was tried and
acquitted.

State Street is at present a street of banks, insurance offices, and
similar institutions; and its side walk serves for the merchants’
exchange. The buildings are of granite, and some of them, particularly a
new bank, lately erected near Kilby Street, present very creditable
specimens of city architecture.

                   NIAGARA FALLS, FROM CLIFTON HOUSE.

The most comprehensive view of Niagara is, no doubt, that from the
galleries of this hotel; but it is, at the same time, for a first view,
one of the most unfavourable. Clifton House stands nearly opposite the
centre of the irregular crescent formed by the Falls; but it is so far
back from the line of the arc, that the height and grandeur of the two
cataracts, to an eye unacquainted with the scene, are deceptively
diminished. After once making the tour of the points of view, however,
the distance and elevation of the hotel are allowed for by the eye, and
the situation seems most advantageous. This is the only house at Niagara
where a traveller, on his second visit, would be content to live.

Clifton House is kept in the best style of hotels in this country; but
the usual routine of such places, going on in the very eye of Niagara,
weaves in very whimsically with the eternal presence and power of the
cataract. We must eat, drink, and sleep, it is true, at Niagara as
elsewhere; and indeed, what with the exhaustion of mind and fatigue of
body, we require at the Falls perhaps more than usual of these three
“blessed inventions.” The leaf that is caught away by the Rapids,
however, is not more entirely possessed by this wonder of nature, than
is the mind and imagination of the traveller; and the arrest of that
leaf by the touch of the overhanging tree, or the point of a rock amid
the breakers, is scarce more momentary than the interruption to the
traveller’s enchantment by the circumstances of daily life. He falls
asleep with its surging thunders in his ear, and wakes—to wonder, for
an instant, if his yesterday’s astonishment was a dream. With the
succeeding thought, his mind refills, like a mountain channel, whose
torrent has been suspended by the frost, and he is overwhelmed with
sensations that are almost painful, from the suddenness of their return.
He rises and throws up his window, and there it flashes, and thunders,
and agonizes—the same almighty miracle of grandeur for ever going on;
and he turns and wonders—What the deuce can have become of his
stockings! He slips on his dressing-gown, and commences his toilet. The
glass stands in the window, and with his beard half achieved, he gets a
glimpse of the foam-cloud rising majestically over the top of the
mahogany frame. Almost persuaded, like Queen Christina at the fountains
of St. Peter’s, that a spectacle of such splendour is not intended to
last, he drops his razor, and with the soap drying unheeded on his chin,
he leans on his elbows, and watches the yeasty writhe in the abysm, and
the solemn pillars of crystal eternally falling, like the fragments of
some palace-crested star, descending through interminable space. The
white field of the iris forms over the brow of the cataract, exhibits
its radiant bow, and sails away in a vanishing cloud of vapour upon the
wind; the tortured and convulsed surface of the caldron below shoots out
its frothy and seething circles in perpetual torment; the thunders are
heaped upon each other, the earth trembles, and—the bell rings for
breakfast! A vision of cold rolls, clammy omelettes, and tepid tea,
succeeds these sublime images, and the traveller completes his toilet.
Breakfast over, he resorts to the colonnade, to contemplate untiringly
the scene before him, and in the midst of a calculation of the progress
of the Fall towards Lake Erie,—with the perspiration standing on his
forehead, while he struggles to conceive the junction of its waters with
Lake Ontario,—the rocks rent, the hills swept away, forests prostrated,
and the islands uprooted in the mighty conflux,—some one’s child
escapes from its nurse, and seizing him by the legs, cries out
“_Da-da_.”

The _ennui_ attendant upon public-houses can never be felt at Clifton
House. The most common mind finds the spectacle from its balconies a
sufficient and untiring occupation. The loneliness of uninhabited
parlours, the discord of baby-thrummed pianos, the dreariness of great
staircases, long entries, and bar-rooms filled with strangers, are pains
and penalties of travel never felt at Niagara. If there is a vacant
half-hour to dinner, or if indisposition to sleep create that sickening
yearning for society, which sometimes comes upon a stranger in a strange
land, like the calenture of a fever,—the eternal marvel going on
without is more engrossing than friend or conversation, more beguiling
from sad thought than the Corso in carnival-time. To lean over the
balustrade and watch the flying of the ferry-boat below, with its
terrified freight of adventurers, one moment gliding swiftly down the
stream in the round of an eddy, the next, lifted up by a boiling wave,
as if it were tossed up from the scoop of a giant’s hand beneath the
water; to gaze hour after hour into the face of the cataract, to trace
the rainbows, delight like a child in the shooting spray-clouds, and
calculate fruitlessly and endlessly by the force, weight, speed, and
change of the tremendous waters,—is amusement and occupation enough to
draw the mind from any thing,—to cure madness or create it.

                          VIEW FROM HYDE PARK.

The Hudson at Hyde Park is a broad, tranquil, and noble river, of about
the same character as the Bosphorus above Roumeli-bissar, or the
Dardanelles at Abydos. The shores are cultivated to the water’s edge,
and lean up in graceful, rather than bold elevations; the eminences
around are crested with the villas of the wealthy inhabitants of the
metropolis at the river’s mouth; summer-houses, belvideres, and
water-steps, give an air of enjoyment and refreshment to the banks, and,
without any thing like the degree of the picturesque which makes the
river so remarkable thirty or forty miles below, it is, perhaps, a more
tempting character of scenery to build and live among.

All along, in this part of the river, occur the “landings,” which are
either considerable towns in themselves, or indicate a thickly settled
country in the rear. The immense steamers that ply on the Hudson leave
and receive passengers at all these points, and, to a person making the
passage for the first time, the manner and expedition of this operation
is rather startling. In the summer time, the principal steam boats
average from five to seven hundred passengers, and there is usually a
considerable number to go ashore and come off at each place. A mile or
two before reaching the spot, a negro makes the tour of the boat, with a
large hand-bell, and, in an amusing speech, full of the idioms of his
own race, announces the approach, and requests those who are going
ashore to select their baggage. This done, the steamer, gliding over the
smooth water at the rate of fifteen or twenty miles in the hour, sheers
in toward the shore, and the small boat is lowered, with the captain in
her at the helm; the passengers are put on board, and away she shoots at
the end of a line gradually loosened, but still kept tight enough to
send her, like an arrow to her mark. The moment she touches the pier,
the loose line is let out from the steamer, which still keeps on her
way, and between that moment and the exhaustion of the line, perhaps
thirty seconds, the baggage is thrown out, and taken in, passengers jump
ashore, and embark, and away shoots the little boat again, her bow
rising clear over the crest of her own foam, with the added velocity of
the steamer at full speed, and the rapid hauling in of the crew. I never
have failed to observe a look of astonishment on the part of the
subjects of this hurried transfer, however used to it by frequent
repetition; and a long sigh of relief, as they look about on the broad
and steady deck, or tread the ground beneath them if they have gone
ashore, follows as invariably. As the boat is hauled up again, the negro
crier reappears with his bell, and, looking the newly arrived group
close in the face, cries out, as if they were a mile off, “All pas’ng’rs
as hasn’t paid their passage, please walk to the cap’n’s office and
settLE-E-E!!”—the whole sentence recited in the most monotonous tone
till the last syllable, which rises suddenly to a ludicrous scream,
prolonged as long as his breath will continue it.

Many fatal accidents occurred formerly from this practice; but there is
now more care and time taken about it, and the accidents, if any, are
rather ludicrous than serious. I was going to Albany, some years ago, on
board a very crowded boat, and among the passengers were a German and
his wife, emigrants of the lower class. They had been down stairs at
dinner, and the husband came up in search of his wife, who had preceded
him, just as a crowded boatful were going ashore at Poughkeepsie. Either
fancying it the end of his journey, or misunderstanding the man who was
busy with the baggage, he threw in his bundle, and was peeping through
the crowd of ladies on the stern for his wife; when one of the men,
impatient of his delay, drew him in, and away he flew to the pier. He
sprang ashore with the rest, his bundle was thrown after him, and, as
the steamer sped away, we saw him darting about in the crowd to find his
_vrouw_, who by this time had missed him, and was running from side to
side, in quite as great embarrassment on board. The poor woman’s
distress was quite pitiable, and when, at last, one of the passengers,
who had observed them together, pointed out to her her husband, in his
flat cap and foreign _bleuse_, standing on the receding pier, with his
hands stretched out after the boat, her agony could no longer be
controlled. She was put ashore at the next landing to return by the
“down boat;” but as another boat up the river arrived soon after at
Poughkeepsie, the probability was, that he would embark again to follow
her, and they would thus cross each other by the way; with scarce a word
of English, and probably very little money, they may be hunting each
other to this day.

                         VILLAGE OF SING-SING.

Sing-Sing is famous for its marble, of which there is an extensive
quarry near by; for its State prison, of which the discipline is of the
most salutary character; and for its academy, which has a high
reputation. It may be said, altogether, to do the State some service.

The county of West Chester, of which this is the principal village on
the Hudson, has been made the scene of, perhaps, the best historical
novel of our country, and, more than any other part of the United
States, suffered from the evils of war. The character and depredations
of the “cow-boys” and “skinners,” whose fields of action were on the
skirts of this neutral ground, are familiar to all who have read “the
Essay” of Mr. Cooper. A distinguished clergyman gives the following very
graphic picture of West Chester county in those days:—

“In the autumn of 1777, I resided for some time in this county. The
lines of the British were then in the neighbourhood of Kingsbridge, and
those of the Americans at Byram river. The unhappy inhabitants were,
therefore, exposed to the depredations of both. Often they were actually
plundered, and always were liable to this calamity. They feared every
body whom they saw, and loved nobody. It was a curious fact to a
philosopher, and a melancholy one to hear their conversation. To every
question they gave such an answer as would please the inquirer; or, if
they despaired of pleasing, such a one as would not provoke him. Fear
was, apparently, the only passion by which they were animated. The power
of volition seemed to have deserted them. They were not civil, but
obsequious; not obliging, but subservient. They yielded with a kind of
apathy, and very quietly, what you asked, and what they supposed it
impossible for them to retain. If you treated them kindly, they received
it coldly; not as a kindness, but as a compensation for injuries done
them by others. When you spoke to them, they answered you without either
good or ill nature, and without any appearance of reluctance or
hesitation; but they subjoined neither questions nor remarks of their
own; proving to your full conviction that they felt no interest either
in the conversation or yourself. Both their countenances and their
motions had lost every trace of animation and of feeling. Their features
were smoothed, not into serenity, but apathy; and, instead of being
settled in the attitude of quiet thinking, strongly indicated, that all
thought beyond what was merely instinctive, had fled their minds for
ever.

“Their houses, meantime, were, in a great measure, scenes of desolation.
Their furniture was extensively plundered, or broken to pieces. The
walls, floors, and windows were injured both by violence and decay, and
were not repaired, because they had not the means to repair them, and
because they were exposed to the repetition of the same injuries. Their
cattle were gone. Their enclosures were burnt, where they were capable
of becoming fuel; and in many cases thrown down where they were not.
Their fields were covered with a rank growth of weeds and wild grass.

“Amid all this appearance of desolation, nothing struck my eye more
forcibly than the sight of the high road. Where I had heretofore seen a