Part 2

I have often thought, in passing, of the contrast between these numerous advents and the landing of Hendrick Hudson on this very spot, in his voyage of discovery up the river. He found here, he says, “a very loving people and a very old man,” by whom he and his crew were very kindly entertained. From the first step of a white man’s foot on the soil to the crowded rush of passengers from a steam-boat; from a savage wilderness to the height of civilization and science,—it is but a little more than two hundred years of rapid history. Compare the old Indian canoe in which Hudson went from his vessel to the land, with a steamer carrying on its deck near a thousand souls; compare the untutored population which then swarmed upon the shore, with the cultivated and refined crowds who come and go in thousands on the same spot,—and the contrast is as astonishing as the extinction of the aboriginal race is melancholy.

It is surprising how few details connected with the races that inhabited the older settlements of our country are reached even by the researches of Historical Societies. The materials for the future poets and historians of America are in this department singularly meagre, though it might almost be supposed that the very tracks of the retreating tribes might at this early day be still visible on the soil. Wherever any particulars of the intercourse between the first settlers and the Indians are preserved, they are highly curious, and often very diverting. In a book on the settlements of this country, written by Captain Nathaniel Uring, who visited it in 1709, there is an interesting story connected with the history of one of the forts, built, by permission of the Indians, to secure the settlers against sudden incursion.

“It happened one day,” says the Captain, relating the story as it was told to him by the Governor, “as the carpenter was cutting down a large timber-tree for the use of the fort, that great numbers of Indians stood round it, gazing, and admiring the wonderful dexterity of the carpenter, and greatly surprised at the manner of cutting it,—having, before the arrival of the Europeans, never seen an axe, or any such like tools. The carpenter, perceiving the tree ready to fall, gave notice to the Indians by language or signs to keep out of its reach when it fell; but either for want of understanding the carpenter, or by carelessness of the Indians, a branch of the tree in its fall struck one of them, and killed him; upon which they raised a great cry. The carpenter, seeing them much out of humor at the accident, made his escape into the fort; and soon after, the Indians gathered together in great numbers about it and demanded justice of the Europeans for the death of their brother, and desired to have the man who was the occasion of his being killed, that they might execute him, and revenge their brother’s death. The Governor endeavored to excuse the carpenter, by representing to them that he was not to blame; and told them that if their brother had observed the notice given him by the carpenter, he had not been hurt. But that answer would not satisfy the Indians; they increased their numbers about the fort, and nothing less than the execution of the carpenter would content them.

“The Europeans endeavored to spin out the time by treaty, and thought to appease them by presents, hoping those, and time together, might make them easy; but finding that would not do, and not being able longer to defend themselves against such numbers as besieged them, they consulted how to give the Indians satisfaction.

“The carpenter being a useful man, they considered that they could not spare him without the greatest inconvenience; but seeing there was an absolute necessity of doing something, they found out an expedient, which was this: There was in the fort an old weaver, who had been bed-rid a long time; _they concluded to hang up the weaver, and make the Indians believe it was the carpenter_.

“Having come to this resolution, the Governor let the Indians know that since nothing else would satisfy them, though their demand was unjust, yet to show them how ready they were to live in amity and friendship with them, in the morning they should see the carpenter hanging upon a certain tree in their view.

“In the night they carried the poor old weaver and hanged him in the room of the carpenter, which gave full satisfaction to the Indians; and they were again good friends.”

CATSKILL.

HOW reel the wildered senses at the sight! How vast the boundless vision breaks in view! Nor thought, nor word, can well depict the scene; The din of toil comes faintly swelling up From green fields far below; and all around The forest sea sends up its ceaseless roar, Like to the ocean’s everlasting chime. Mountains on mountains in the distance rise Like clouds along the far horizon’s verge, Their misty summits mingling with the sky, Till earth and heaven seem blended into one. So far removed from toil and bustling care, So far from earth, if heaven no nearer be, And gazing, as a spirit, from mid-air Upon the strife and tumult of the world, Let me forget the cares I leave behind, And with an humble spirit bow before The Maker of these everlasting hills.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

THE FERRY-BOAT.

WRECKS of clouds of a sombre gray, Like the ribbed remains of a mastodon, Were piled in masses along the west, And a streak of red stretched over the sun.

I stood on the deck of the ferry-boat, As the summer evening deepened to night, Where the tides of the river ran darkling past Through lengthening pillars of crinkled light.

The wind blew over the land and the waves With its salt sea breath and a spicy balm, And it seemed to cool my throbbing brain And lend my spirit its gusty calm.

The forest of masts, the dark-hulled ships, The twinkling lights, and the sea of men,— I read the riddle of each and all, And I knew their inner meaning then.

For while the beautiful moon arose, And drifted the boat in her yellow beams, My soul went down the river of thought, That flows in the mystic land of dreams!

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

INDIAN FALL, NEAR COLD-SPRING.

(Opposite West Point.) [Illustration]

THIS is a secluded and delicious bit of Nature, hidden amid rocks and woods, on the shore of the Hudson, but possessing a refinement and an elegance in its wildness which would almost give one the idea that it was an object of beauty in some royal park. One of the most secret streams that feed this finest of our rivers finds its way down through a winding and almost trackless channel; and after fretting over rocks, and loitering in dark and limpid pools for several miles, it suddenly bursts out over a precipice of fifty feet, and fills with its clear waters the sheltered basin seen in the drawing. Immense trees overhang it on every side, and follow the stream still on in its course; and in the depth of summer the foaming current scarcely catches a ray of the sun from its source to its outlet. The floor of the basin below the Fall is pebbly, the water is clear and cool, the spot secluded, and in all respects Nature has formed it for a bath. A fair and famous lady, residing a summer or two since at West Point, was its first known Musidora; and the limpid and bright basin is already called after her name.

A large party visiting at a hospitable house where the artist and his travelling companion were entertained during the heat of the last summer, proposed to accompany him on his visit to the Indian Fall. Excursions on the banks of the Hudson are usually made in boats; but it was necessary to see some points of view from the hills between, and we walked out to the stables to see what could be done for vehicles and cattle. A farm wagon, with its tail up in the air, built after an old Dutch fashion which still prevails in New York,—a sort of loosely jointed, long, lumbering vehicle, which was meant to go over any rock smaller than a beer-barrel without upsetting,—was the only “consarn,” as the “help” called it, which would hold the party. With straw in the bottom, and straps put across from peg to peg, it would carry eleven, and the driver.

Horses were the next consideration; and here we were rather staggered. A vicious old mare, that kept a wheelwright and a surgeon in constant employ, and a powerful young colt half broken, were the only steeds in stable. However either might be made to go alone, they had never been tried together; and the double-wagon harness was the worse for service. The “help” suggested very sensibly that the load would be too heavy to run away with; and that if the mare kicked, or the colt bolted, or in short if anything happened except backing over a precipice, we had only to sit still and let them do their “darndest.”

We cobbled the harness in its weak spots, shook down the straw for the ladies, nailed up the tail-board, which had lost its rods, got the cattle in, and brought up quietly to the door. The ladies and the champagne were put in, and the colt was led off by the bit, shaking his head and catching up his hind leg; while the demure old mare drew off tamely and steadily, “never wicked,” as the ploughman said, “till you got her dander up with a tough hill.” The driver had a chain with a list bottom, and having had some practice in Charing Cross and Fleet Street fingered his reins and flourished his maple whip through the village, evidently not thinking himself or his driving _de la petite bière_.

The road, which followed the ridges of the superb hills skirting the river opposite West Point, was in some places scarce fit even for a bridlepath; and at every few paces came a rock, which we believed passable when we had surged over it,—not before. The two ill-matched animals drew to a wonder; and the ladies and the champagne had escaped all damage, till, as the enemy of mankind would have it, our ambitious whip saw stretching out before him a fair quarter of a mile of more even road. A slight touch of the whip sent off the colt in a jump, carrying away the off trace with the first spring; the old mare struck into a gallop, and with the broken trace striking against the colt’s heels, and the whippletree parallel with the pole, away they went as nearly in a tandem as the remaining part of the harness would allow. The tail-board soon flew off, and let out two unsuspecting gentlemen, who had placed their backs and their reliance upon it; and the screams of the ladies added what was wanting to raise the “dander” of the old mare to its most unpleasant climax. The straps gave way, the ladies rolled together in the straw, the driver tossed about on his list-bottomed chain, the champagne corks flew,—and presently, as if we were driven by a battering-ram against a wall, we brought up with a tremendous crash, and stood still. We had come to a sharp turn in the road; and the horses, unable to turn, had leaped a low stone wall, and breaking clear of everything left us on one side, while they thrashed the ripe wheat with the whippletrees on the other.

The ladies were undamaged, fortunately; and, with one champagne bottle saved from the wreck, we completed the excursion to the Fall on foot, and were too happy to return by water.

THE GRAVEYARD AT WEST POINT.

ON this sweet Sabbath morning, let us wander From the loud music and the gay parade, Where sleeps the graveyard in its silence yonder, Deep in the mountain shade.

There, side by side, the dark green cedars cluster Like sentries watching by that camp of Death; There, like an army’s tents, with snow-white lustre The gravestones gleam beneath.

But, as we go, no posted guard or picket Stays our approach across the level grass, Nor hostile challenge at the simple wicket Through which our footsteps pass.

Sweet spot, by Nature’s primal consecration Sacred to peace and thought and calm repose, Well in thy breast that elder generation Their place of burial chose.

And well, to-day, whene’er the sad procession Moves o’er the plain, with slow and measured tread, Within thy silent and secure possession The living leave the dead.

Few are the graves, for here no populous city Feeds with its myriad lives the hungry Fates, While hourly funerals, led by grief or pity, Crowd through the open gates.

Here Death is rarer, yet full many a token Tells of his presence, on these grassy slopes,— The slab, the stone, the shaft, half reared and broken, Symbol of shattered hopes.

Here sleep brave men, who in the deadly quarrel Fought for their country, and their life-blood poured, Above whose dust she carves the deathless laurel Wreathing the victor’s sword.

And here the young cadet, in manly beauty Borne from the tents which skirt those rocky banks, Called from life’s daily drill and perilous duty To these unbroken ranks.

Here too the aged man, the wife, the maiden, Together hushed, as on His faithful breast Who cried, “Come hither, all ye heavy-laden And I will give you rest!”

And little gravestones through the grass are gleaming, Sown like the lilies over forms as fair, Of whom to-day what broken hearts are dreaming Through Sabbath song and prayer!

Peace to the sleepers! may the bud and blossom, Spring’s early bloom and Summer’s sweet increase, Fail not, while Nature on her tender bosom Folds them and whispers, Peace!

And here at last who could not rest contented? Beneath,—the river, with its tranquil flood; Around,—the breezes of the morning, scented With odors from the wood;

Above,—the eternal hills, their shadows blending With morn and noon and twilight's deepening pall; And overhead,—the infinite heavens, attending Until the end of all!

WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER.

VIEW NEAR ANTHONY’S NOSE, HUDSON HIGHLANDS.

THIS mountain, “known to fame,” serves as a landmark to the industrious craft plying upon the Hudson, and thus fulfils a more useful destiny than is commonly awarded to spots bright in story. It stands amid a host of interesting localities marked by the events of the Revolution, and has witnessed, with less damage than other noses, many a conflict by land and water.

On the opposite side of the river from the base of the mountain lie the two forts—Montgomery and Clinton—taken by the British in October, 1777. The commander-in-chief at New York was prompted to this expedition by two objects,—to destroy a quantity of military stores which the Americans had collected in this neighborhood, and to make a diversion in favor of General Burgoyne. For these purposes Sir Henry Clinton embarked between three and four thousand troops at New York, and sailed with them up the Hudson. On the 5th of October they landed at Verplank’s Point, a few miles below the entrance to the Highlands. The next morning, a part of the force landed on Stony Point, which projects into the river on the western side, just below the mountains; hence they marched to the rear of the fortresses.

General Putnam commanded at that time in this quarter. He had one thousand continental troops, a part of which only were effective, and a small body of militia. He believed the principal design of the enemy to be the destruction of the stores; and when he was informed of their main purpose, it was too late for him to resist with success. He supposed that they were aiming at Fort Independence, and directed his attention to its defence: the heavy firing on the other side of the river gave him the first decisive information of their real intentions. George Clinton, at that time governor of the State, placed himself at this post on the first notice that he received of the enemy’s advancing. Having made the best disposition for the defence of the forts, he dispatched an express to General Putnam to acquaint him with his situation; but when it reached Putnam’s headquarters, that officer and General Parsons were reconnoitring the position of the enemy on the east side of the river.

Lieutenant-Colonel Campbell, in the mean time, proceeded with nine hundred men by a circuitous march to the rear of Fort Montgomery; while Sir Henry Clinton, with Generals Vaughan and Tryon, moved onwards towards Fort Clinton. Both fortresses were attacked at once, between four and five in the afternoon: they were defended with great resolution. This will be readily admitted, when it is remembered that the whole garrison consisted of but six hundred men. The conflict was carried on till dark, when the British had obtained absolute possession, and such of the Americans as were not killed or wounded had made their escape. The loss of the two garrisons amounted to about two hundred and fifty. Among the killed on the enemy’s side was Lieutenant-Colonel Campbell.

It has been thought that an addition of five or six hundred men to these garrisons would have saved the works; the correctness of this opinion may be doubted. Fifteen hundred soldiers would have been barely sufficient completely to man Fort Montgomery alone. The works themselves were imperfect, and the ground was probably chosen rather for the defence of the river than because it was itself defensible.

Governor Clinton and his brother, General James Clinton, escaped after the enemy had possession of the forts,—the former by crossing the river; the latter had been wounded in the thigh by a bayonet.

On the 8th, the English forces proceeded to the eastern side, where they found Fort Independence evacuated. A party then burned the continental village as it was called,—a temporary settlement raised up by the war for the accommodation of the army. Here had been gathered a considerable number of those artisans whose labors are particularly necessary for military purposes, and a considerable quantity of military stores. They then removed a chain which was stretched across the river at Fort Montgomery, and advancing up the river removed another, which was extended from Fort Constitution to the opposite shore at West Point. General Vaughan then advanced still farther up the Hudson, and on the 13th reached the town of Kingston, which he burned. On the 17th took place the surrender of Burgoyne, and General Vaughan returned down the Hudson with his fleet to New York.

Count Grabouski, a Polish nobleman, was killed in the assault on Fort Clinton, while acting as an aid-de-camp to the British commander. He was buried on the spot, but his grave is now undiscoverable.

LAKE CANEPO.

WHEN cradled on thy placid breast In hushed content I loved to muse, Too full the heart, too sweet the rest, For thought and speech to interfuse.

But now, when thou art shrined afar, Like Nature’s chosen urn of peace, Remembrance, like the evening star, Begins a vigil ne’er to cease.

Each mossy rock, each fairy isle, Inlets with thickets overhung, The cloud’s rose-tint or fleecy pile, And Echo’s wildly frolic tongue;

The light and shade that o’er thee play The ripple of thy moonlit wave, The long, calm, dreamy summer day, The very stones thy waters lave;

The converse frank, the harmless jest, The reverie without a sigh, The hammock’s undulating rest, With fair companions seated by

Yet linger, as if near thee still I heard upon the fitful breeze The locust and the whippoorwill, Or rustle of the swaying trees.

Hills rise in graceful curves around, Here dark with tangled forest shade, There yellow with the harvest-ground, Or emerald with the open glade;

Primeval chestnuts line the strand, And hemlocks every mountain side, While, by each passing zephyr fanned, Azalea flowers kiss the tide.

We nestle in the gliding barge, And turn from yon unclouded sky To watch, along the bosky marge, Its image in thy waters nigh;

Or, gently darting to and fro, The insects on their face explore, With speckled minnows poised below, And tortoise on the pebbly floor;

Or turn the prow to some lone bay, Where thick the floating leaves are spread,— How bright and queen-like the array Of lilies in their crystal bed!

HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN.

VIEW FROM MOUNT IDA, NEAR TROY, NEW YORK.