Part 4

I had forgotten that Cold Spring “plucks a glory on its head” from being honored with the frequent visits of Washington Irving, Halleck, and other lesser stars in the literary firmament. Now that these first lights above the horizon have set (Hesperus-like, first and brightest!), there lingers about the town many a tale of the days when Geoffrey Crayon talked in his gentle way with the ferryman who brought him to Cold Spring; or the now plethoric post-master, who in his character of librarian to the village enjoyed the friendship of Irving and Halleck, and received from their own hands the “author’s copies,” since curiously preserved in the execrable print and binding then prevalent in America. Perhaps even old Lipsey the ferryman, and his rival Andrews, will come in for their slice of immortality, little as they dream now, pulling close in for the counter-current under Our Lady’s skirts, of working at that slow oar for posthumous reputation.

THE GATES OF THE HUDSON.

So bright the day, so clear the sky, So grand the scene before me, My meaner life my soul puts by, And a better mood comes o’er me.

From under trees whose rustling leaves Wear all their autumn glory, I watch the brown fields far below, And the headlands, gray and hoary.

I see the beetling Palisades, Whose wrinkled brows forever, In calms and storms, in lights and shades, Keep watch along the river.

Such watch, of old, the Magi kept Along the sad Euphrates,— Our eyeless ones have never slept, And this their solemn fate is:

God built these hills in barrier long, And then He opened through them These gates of granite, barred so strong He only might undo them;

Through them He lets the Hudson flow For slowly counted ages, The while the nations fade and grow Around the granite ledges.

He bids these warders watch and wait, Their vigil ne’er forsaking, Forever standing by the gate, Not moving and not speaking.

So, all earth’s day, till night shall fall, When God shall send His orders, And summon at one trumpet-call The grim and patient warders.

The guards shall bow, the gates shall close Upon the obedient river, And then no more the Hudson flows Forever and forever.

WILLIAM OSBORN STODDARD.

NEW JERSEY.

THE BROWN-EYED GIRLS OF JERSEY.

BEFORE my bark the waves have curled As it bore me thrice around the world; And for forty years have met my eyes The beauties born under wide-spread skies. But though far and long may be my track, It is never too far for looking back; And I see them,—see them over the sea, As I saw them when youth still dwelt with me,— The brown-eyed girls of Jersey!

They are Quakers, half,—half maids of Spain; Half Yankees, with fiery Southern brain; They are English, French,—they are Irish elves; They are better than all, in being themselves! They are coaxing things,—then wild and coy; They are full of tears,—full of mirth and joy. They madden the brain like rich old wine: And no wonder at all if they’ve maddened mine, Those brown-eyed girls of Jersey!

Some day, when distant enough my track, To the Land of the Free I shall wander back; And if not too gray, both heart and hair, To win the regard of a thing so fair, I shall try the power of the blarney-stone In making some darling girl my own: Some darling girl, that still may be Keeping all her beauty and grace for me,— Some brown-eyed girl of Jersey!

HENRY MORFORD.

PEEKSKILL LANDING, HUDSON RIVER.

LIKE most of the _landings_ on the Hudson, Peekskill is a sort of outstretched hand from the interior of the country. It is about eighty miles from New York, and the produce from the country behind is here handed over to the trading sloops, who return into the waiting palm the equivalent in goods from the city. A sort of town naturally springs up at such a spot, and as a river-side is a great provocative of idleness, all the Dolph Heyligers of the country about seem to be collected at the landing.

The neighborhood of this spot is interesting from its association with the history of the Revolution. The headquarters of General Washington were just below, at Verplank’s Point; and the town of Peekskill, half a mile back from the river, was the depot of military stores, which were burned by General Howe in 1777.

“On my return southward in 1782,” says the translator of Chastellux, who has not given his name, “I spent a day or two at the American camp at Verplank’s Point, where I had the honor of dining with General Washington. I had suffered severely from an ague, which I could not get quit of, though I had taken the exercise of a hard-trotting horse, and got thus far to the north in the month of October. The General observing it, told me he was sure I had not met with a good glass of wine for some time,—an article then very rare,—but that my disorder must be frightened away. He made me drink three or four of his silver camp-cups of excellent Madeira at noon, and recommended to me to take a generous glass of claret after dinner,—a prescription by no means repugnant to my feelings, and which I most religiously followed. I mounted my horse the next morning, and continued my journey to Massachusetts, without ever experiencing the slightest return of my disorder.

“The American camp here presented the most beautiful and picturesque appearance. It extended along the plain, on the neck of land formed by the winding of the Hudson, and had a view of this river to the south. Behind it, the lofty mountains, covered with wood, formed the most sublime background that painting could express. In the front of the tents was a regular continued portico, formed by the boughs of the trees in full verdure, decorated with much taste and fancy. Opposite the camp, and on distinct eminences, stood the tents of some of the general officers, over which towered predominant that of Washington. I had seen all the camps in England, from many of which drawings and engravings have been taken; but this was truly a subject worthy the pencil of the first artist. The French camp, during their stay in Baltimore, was decorated in the same manner. At the camp at Verplank’s Point we distinctly heard the morning and evening gun of the British at Knightsbridge.”

The curiosity seizes with avidity upon any accidental information which fills up the bare outline of history. The personal history of Washington more particularly, wherever it has been traced by those who were in contact with him, is full of interest. Some of the sketches given by the Marquis of Chastellux, who passed this point of the Hudson on his way to Washington’s headquarters below, are very graphic.

“The weather being fair on the 26th,” he says, “I got on horseback, after breakfasting with the General. He was so attentive as to give me the horse I rode on the day of my arrival. I found him as good as he is handsome; but, above all, perfectly well broke and well trained, having a good mouth, easy in hand, and stopping short in a gallop without bearing the bit. I mention these minute particulars because it is the General himself who breaks all his own horses. He is an excellent and bold horseman, leaping the highest fences, and going extremely quick without standing upon his stirrups, bearing on the bridle, or letting his horse run wild,—circumstances which our young men look upon as so essential a part of English horsemanship, that they would rather break a leg or an arm than renounce them.”

After passing some days at headquarters, this young nobleman thus admirably sums up his observations on Washington:—

“The strongest characteristic of this great man is the perfect union which reigns between his physical and moral qualities. Brave without temerity, laborious without ambition, generous without prodigality, noble without pride, virtuous without severity,—he seems always to have confined himself within those limits beyond which the virtues, by clothing themselves in more lively but more changeable colors, may be mistaken for faults. It will be said of him hereafter, that _at the end of a long civil war he had nothing with which he could reproach himself_. His stature is noble and lofty; he is well made and exactly proportioned; his physiognomy mild and agreeable, but such as to render it impossible to speak particularly of any of his features,—so that on quitting him, you have only the recollection of a fine face. He has neither a grave nor a familiar air; his brow is sometimes marked with thought, but never with inquietude; in inspiring respect he inspires confidence, and his smile is always the smile of benevolence.”

A SCENE ON THE BANKS OF THE HUDSON.

COOL shades and dews are round my way, And silence of the early day; ’Mid the dark rocks that watch his bed Glitters the mighty Hudson spread, Unrippled, save by drops that fall From shrubs that fringe his mountain wall; And o’er the clear still water swells The music of the Sabbath bells.

All, save this little nook of land, Circled with trees, on which I stand: All, save that line of hills which lie Suspended in the mimic sky,— Seems a blue void, above, below, Through which the white clouds come and go; And from the green world’s farthest steep I gaze into the airy deep.

Loveliest of lovely things are they, On earth, that soonest pass away. The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyond the sculptured flower; Even love, long tried and cherished long, Becomes more tender and more strong, At thought of that insatiate grave From which its yearnings cannot save.

River! in this still hour thou hast Too much of heaven on earth to last; Nor long may thy still waters lie An image of the glorious sky. Thy fate and mine are not repose; And ere another evening close, Thou to thy tides shalt turn again, And I to seek the crowd of men.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

VIEW FROM RUGGLE’S HOUSE, NEWBURGH, HUDSON RIVER.

NEWBURG stands upon a pretty acclivity, rising with a sharp ascent from the west bank of the Hudson; and in point of trade and consequence, it is one of the first towns on the river. In point of scenery Newburg is as felicitously placed, perhaps, as any other spot in the world, having in its immediate neighborhood every element of natural loveliness,—and just below, the sublime and promising Pass of the Highlands. From the summit of the acclivity, the view over Matteawan and Fishkill is full of beauty,—the deep flow of the Hudson lying between, and the pretty villages just named sparkling with their white buildings and cheerful steeples beyond.

Newburg has a considerable trade with the back country, and steamboats are running constantly between its pier and New York. If there were wanting an index of the wondrous advance of enterprise and invention in our country, we need not seek further than this simple fact,—a small intermediate town, on one river, supporting such an amount of expensive navigation. About seventy years ago Fulton made his first experiment in steam on the Hudson, amid the unbelief and derision of the whole country. Let any one stand for one hour on the pier at Newburg, and see those superb and swift palaces of motion shoot past, one after the other, like gay and chasing meteors, and then read poor Fulton’s account of his first experiment,—and never again throw discouragement on the kindling fire of genius.

“When I was building my first steam-boat,” said he to Judge Story, “the project was viewed by the public at New York either with indifference or contempt, as a visionary scheme. My friends, indeed, were civil, but they were shy. They listened with patience to my explanations, but with a settled cast of incredulity on their countenances. I felt the full force of the lamentation of the poet,—

“‘Truths would you teach, to save a sinking land?— All shun, none aid you, and few understand.’

“As I had occasion to pass daily to and from the building-yard while my boat was in progress, I have often loitered, unknown, near the idle groups of strangers gathering in little circles, and heard various inquiries as to the object of this new vehicle. The language was uniformly that of scorn, sneer, or ridicule. The loud laugh rose at my expense, the dry jest, the wise calculation of losses and expenditure, the dull but endless repetition of ‘_the Fulton folly_.’ Never did a single encouraging remark, a bright hope, or a warm wish, cross my path.

“At length the day arrived when the experiment was to be made. To me it was a most trying and interesting occasion. I wanted many friends to go on board to witness the first successful trip. Many of them did me the favor to attend, as a matter of personal respect; but it was manifest they did it with reluctance, fearing to be partners of my mortification and not of my triumph. I was well aware that in my case there were many reasons to doubt of my own success. The machinery was new and ill-made, and many parts of it were constructed by mechanics unacquainted with such work; and unexpected difficulties might reasonably be presumed to present themselves from other causes. The moment arrived in which the word was to be given for the vessel to move. My friends were in groups on the deck. There was anxiety mixed with fear among them; they were silent, sad, and weary; I read in their looks nothing but disaster, and almost repented of my efforts. The signal was given, and the boat moved on a short distance, and then stopped and became immovable. To the silence of the preceding moment now succeeded murmurs of discontent and agitation, and whispers and shrugs. I could hear distinctly repeated, ‘I told you so! It is a foolish scheme; I wish we were well out of it.’ I elevated myself on a platform, and stated that I knew not what was the matter; but if they would be quiet, and indulge me for half an hour, I would either go on or abandon the voyage. I went below, and discovered that a slight maladjustment was the cause. It was obviated. The boat went on. We left New York; we passed through the Highlands; we reached Albany! Yet even then imagination superseded the force of fact. _It was doubted if it could be done again, or if it could be made, in any case, of any great value!_”

What an affecting picture of the struggles of a great mind, and what a vivid lesson of encouragement to genius, is contained in this simple narrative!

THE DELAWARE WATER-GAP.

OUR western land can boast no lovelier spot. The hills which in their ancient grandeur stand Piled to the frowning clouds, the bulwarks seem Of this wild scene, resolved that none but Heaven Shall look upon its beauty. Round their breast A curtained fringe depends of golden mist, Touched by the slanting sunbeams; while below The silent river, with majestic sweep, Pursues his shadowed way,—his glassy face Unbroken, save when stoops the lone wild swan To float in pride, or dip his ruffled wing. Talk ye of solitude? It is not here. Nor silence. Low, deep murmurs are abroad. Those towering hills hold converse with the sky That smiles upon their summits; and the wind Which stirs their wooded sides whispers of life, And bears the burden sweet from leaf to leaf, Bidding the stately forest-boughs look bright, And nod to greet his coming! And the brook, That with its silvery gleam comes leaping down From the hillside, has too a tale to tell; The wild bird’s music mingles with its chime, And gay young flowers that blossom in its path Send forth their perfume as an added gift. The river utters, too, a solemn voice, And tells of deeds long past, in ages gone, When not a sound was heard along his shores, Save the wild tread of savage feet, or shriek Of some expiring captive, and no bark E’er cleft his gloomy waters. Now, his waves Are vocal often with the hunter’s song; Now visit, in their glad and onward course, The abodes of happy men,—gardens and fields, And cultured plains,—still bearing, as they pass, Fertility renewed and fresh delights. . . . . . . . . .

ELIZABETH F. ELLETT.

LAKE ERIE.

THESE lovely shores! how lone and still! A hundred years ago The unbroken forest stood above, The waters dashed below,— The waters of a lonely sea Where never sail was furled, Embosomed in a wilderness, Which was itself a world.

A hundred years! go back, and, lo! Where, closing in the view, Juts out the shore, with rapid oar Darts round a frail canoe: ’Tis a white voyager, and see, His prow is westward set O’er the calm wave! Hail to thy bold, World-seeking bark, Marquette!

The lonely bird, that picks his food Where rise the waves and sink, At their strange coming, with shrill scream, Starts from the sandy brink; The fishhawk, hanging in mid sky, Floats o’er on level wing, And the savage from his covert looks, With arrow on the string.

A hundred years are past and gone, And all the rocky coast Is turreted with shining towns,— An empire’s noble boast; And the old wilderness is changed To cultured vale and hill; And the circuit of its mountains An empire’s numbers fill!

EPHRAIM PEABODY.

THE TWO LAKES ON THE CATSKILLS.

AT this elevation you may wear woollen, and sleep under blankets in midsummer; and that is a pleasant temperature where much hard work is to be done in the way of pleasure-hunting. No place is so agreeable as Catskill after one has been parboiled in the city. New York is at the other end of that long thread of a river, running away south from the base of the mountain; and you may change your climate in so brief a transit, that the most enslaved broker in Wall Street may have half his home on Catskill. The cool woods, the small silver lakes, the falls, the mountain-tops, are all delicious haunts for the idler-away of the hot months; and to the credit of our taste, it may be said they are fully improved. Catskill is a “resort.”

From Catskill the busy and all-glorious Hudson is seen winding half its silver length,—towns, villas, and white spires sparkling on the shores, and snowy sails and gaily-painted steamers specking its bosom. It is a constant diorama of the most lively beauty; and the traveller as he looks down upon it sighs to make it a home. Yet a smaller and less-frequented stream would best fulfil desires born of a sigh. There is either no seclusion on the Hudson, or there is so much that the conveniences of life are difficult to obtain. Where the steamers come to shore,—twenty a day, with each from one to seven hundred passengers,—it is certainly far from secluded enough; yet away from the landing-places servants find your house too lonely, and your table, without unreasonable expense and trouble, is precarious and poor. These mean and _menus plaisirs_ reach, after all, the very citadel of philosophy. Who can live without a cook or a chamber-maid, and dine seven days in the week on veal, consoling himself with the beauties of a river-side?

On the smaller rivers these evils are somewhat ameliorated; for in the rural and uncorrupt villages of the interior you may find servants born on the spot, and content to live in the neighborhood. The market is better, too, and the society less exposed to the evils that result from too easy an access to the metropolis. No place can be rural, in all the _virtues_ of the phrase, where a steamer will take the villager to the city between noon and night, and bring him back between midnight and morning. There is a suburban look and character about all the villages on the Hudson which seem out of place among such scenery. They are suburbs; in fact, steam has destroyed the distance between them and the city.

THE CATTERSKILL FALLS.

’Midst greens and shades the Catterskill leaps From cliffs where the wood-flower clings; All summer he moistens his verdant steeps With the sweet light spray of the mountain springs; And he shakes the woods on the mountain side, When they drip with the rains of autumn-tide.

But when in the forest bare and old The blast of December calls, He builds, in the starlight clear and cold, A palace of ice where his torrent falls, With turret and arch and fretwork fair, And pillars blue as the summer air.

For whom are those glorious chambers wrought, In the cold and cloudless night? Is there neither spirit nor motion of thought In forms so lovely and hues so bright? Hear what the gray-haired woodmen tell Of this wild stream, and its rocky dell:

’Twas hither a youth of dreamy mood, A hundred winters ago, Had wandered over the mighty wood When the panther’s track was fresh on the snow; And keen were the winds that came to stir The long dark boughs of the hemlock-fir.

Too gentle of mien he seemed, and fair, For a child of those rugged steeps; His home lay low in the valley, where The kingly Hudson rolls to the deeps; But he wore the hunter’s frock that day, And a slender gun on his shoulder lay.

And here he paused, and against the trunk Of a tall gray linden leant, When the broad clear orb of the sun had sunk From his path in the frosty firmament, And over the round dark edge of the hill A cold green light was quivering still.

And the crescent moon, high over the green, From a sky of crimson shone On that icy palace, whose towers were seen To sparkle as if with stars of their own; While the water fell, with a hollow sound, ’Twixt the glistening pillars ranged around.

Is that a being of life, that moves Where the crystal battlements rise? A maiden, watching the moon she loves, At the twilight hour, with pensive eyes? Was that a garment which seemed to gleam Betwixt his eye and the falling stream?

’Tis only the torrent tumbling o’er, In the midst of those glassy walls, Gushing and plunging and beating the floor Of the rocky basin in which it falls: ’Tis only the torrent—but why that start? Why gazes the youth with a throbbing heart?

He thinks no more of his home afar, Where his sire and sister wait: He heeds no longer how star after star Looks forth on the night, as the hour grows late. He heeds not the snow-wreaths lifted and cast From a thousand boughs by the rising blast.