Part 5

His thoughts are alone of those who dwell In the halls of frost and snow, Who pass where the crystal domes upswell From the alabaster floors below, Where the frost-trees shoot with leaf and spray, And frost-gems scatter a silvery day.

“And, oh, that those glorious haunts were mine!” He speaks, and throughout the glen Thin shadows swim in the faint moonshine, And take a ghastly likeness of men, As if the slain by the wintry storms Came forth to the air in their earthly forms.

There pass the chasers of seal and whale With their weapons quaint and grim, And bands of warriors in glittering mail, And herdsmen and hunters huge of limb: There are naked arms, with bow and spear, And furry gauntlets the carbine rear.

There are mothers—and, oh, how sadly their eyes On their children’s white brows rest! There are youthful lovers: the maiden lies In a seeming sleep on the chosen breast; There are fair wan women with moon-struck air, The snow-stars flecking their long loose hair.

They eye him not as they pass along, But his hair stands up with dread, When he feels that he moves with that phantom throng, Till those icy turrets are over his head; And the torrent’s roar, as they enter, seems Like a drowsy murmur heard in dreams.

The glittering threshold is scarcely passed, When there gathers and wraps him round A thick white twilight, sullen and vast, In which there is neither form nor sound; The phantoms, the glory, vanish all, With the dying voice of the waterfall.

Slow passes the darkness of that trance,— And the youth now faintly sees Huge shadows and gushes of light that dance On a rugged ceiling of unhewn trees, And walls where the skins of beasts are hung, And rifles glitter on antlers strung.

On a couch of shaggy skins he lies; As he strives to raise his head, Hard-featured woodmen, with kindly eyes Come round him and smooth his furry bed, And bid him rest, for the evening star Is scarcely set, and the day is far.

They had found at eve the dreaming one By the base of that icy steep, When over his stiffening limbs begun The deadly slumber of frost to creep; And they cherished the pale and breathless form, Till the stagnant blood ran free and warm.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

TOWN 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 town 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 during the Revolution. 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 Revolutionary days:—

“In the autumn of 1777 I resided for some time in this county. The lines of the British were then in the neighborhood 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 everybody 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 forever.

“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 burned 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 continual succession of horses and carriages, life and bustle lending a sprightliness to all the environing objects, not a single solitary traveller was seen, from week to week or from month to month. The world was motionless and silent, except when one of these unhappy people ventured upon a rare and lonely excursion to the house of a neighbor no less unhappy, or a scouting party, traversing the country in quest of enemies, alarmed the inhabitants with expectations of new injuries and sufferings. The very tracks of the carriages were grown over and obliterated; and where they were discernible resembled the faint impressions of chariot wheels, said to be left on the pavements of Herculaneum. The grass was of full height for the scythe, and strongly realized to my own mind, for the first time, the proper import of that picturesque declaration in the Song of Deborah: ‘In the days of Shamgar, the son of Anath, in the days of Jael, the highways were unoccupied, and the travellers walked through by-paths. The inhabitants of the villages ceased: they ceased in Israel.’”

West Chester is a rough county in natural surface; but since the days when the above description was true, its vicinity to New York, and the ready market for produce have changed its character to a thriving agricultural district. It is better watered with springs, brooks, and mill-streams, than many other parts of New York, and among other advantages enjoys along the Hudson a succession of brilliant and noble scenery.

SLEEPY HOLLOW.

BENEATH these gold and azure skies The river winds through leafy glades, Save where, like battlements, arise The gray and tufted Palisades.

The fervor of this sultry time Is tempered by the humid earth, And zephyrs, born of summer’s prime, Give a delicious coolness birth.

They freshen this sequestered nook With constant greetings bland and free, The pages of the open book All flutter with their wayward glee.

As quicker swell their breathings soft, Cloud-shadows skim along the field; And yonder dangling woodbines oft Their crimson bugles gently yield.

The tulip-tree majestic stirs Far down the water’s marge beside, And now awake the nearer firs, And toss their ample branches wide.

How blithely trails the pendent vine! The grain-slope lies in green repose; Through the dark foliage of the pine And lofty elms the sunshine glows.

Like sentinels in firm array The trees-of-life their shafts uprear; Red cones upon the sumach play, And ancient locusts whisper near.

From wave and meadow, cliff and sky, Let thy stray vision homeward fall; Behold the mist-bloom floating nigh, And hollyhock white-edged and tall;

Its gaudy leaves, though fanned apart, Round thick and mealy stamens spring, And nestled to its crimson heart The sated bees enamored cling.

Mark the broad terrace flecked with light That peeps through trellises of rose, And quivers with a vague delight As each pale shadow comes and goes.

The near, low gurgle of the brook, The wren’s glad chirp, the scented hay, And e’en the watch-dog’s peaceful look Our vain disquietudes allay. . . . . . . . . .

HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN.

VIEW FROM FORT PUTNAM, HUDSON RIVER.

THIS fort—which commands the military position of West Point, and which was considered so important during the Revolutionary war—is now in ruins, but is visited by all travellers in this region 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 forever, 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 downstairs, 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.

Meantime Washington, having finished his inspection of the redoubt, arrived at Arnold’s house, received his 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 that 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 fact of 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 favorite 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?”

WYOMING.

THOU com’st in beauty on my gaze at last, “On Susquehanna’s side, fair Wyoming!” Image of many a dream in hours long past, When life was in its bud and blossoming, And waters, gushing from the fountain spring Of pure enthusiast thought, dimmed my young eyes, As by the poet borne on unseen wing, I breathed in fancy ‘neath thy cloudless skies The summer’s air, and heard her echoed harmonies.

I then but dreamed: thou art before me now In life, a vision of the brain no more. I’ve stood upon the wooded mountain’s brow That beetles high thy lovely valley o’er; And now, where winds thy river’s greenest shore, Within a bower of sycamores am laid; And winds as soft and sweet as ever bore The fragrance of wild-flowers through sun and shade Are singing in the trees, whose low boughs press my head.

Nature hath made thee lovelier than the power Even of Campbell’s pen hath pictured: he Had woven, had he gazed one sunny hour Upon thy smiling vale, its scenery With more of truth, and made each rock and tree Known like old friends, and greeted from afar: And there are tales of sad reality In the dark legends of thy border war, With woes of deeper tint than his own Gertrude’s are.

But where are they, the beings of the mind, The bard’s creations, moulded not of clay, Hearts to strange bliss and suffering assigned,— Young Gertrude, Albert, Waldegrave,—where are they? We need not ask. The people of to-day Appear good, honest, quiet men enough, And hospitable too,—for ready pay; With manners like their roads, a little rough, And hands whose grasp is warm and welcoming, though tough.

. . . . . . . . .

There is a woman, widowed, gray, and old, Who tells you where the foot of Battle stepped Upon their day of massacre. She told Its tale, and pointed to the spot, and wept, Whereon her father and five brothers slept Shroudless, the bright-dreamed slumbers of the brave, When all the land a funeral mourning kept. And there wild laurels, planted on the grave By Nature’s hand, in air their pale red blossoms wave.

And on the margin of yon orchard hill Are marks where time-worn battlements have been, And in the tall grass traces linger still Of “arrowy frieze and wedged ravelin.” Five hundred of her brave that valley green Trod on the morn in soldier-spirit gay; But twenty lived to tell the noonday scene,— And where are now the twenty? Passed away. Has Death no triumph-hours, save on the battle-day?

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

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 a stage-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 neighborhood of Undercliff, the seat of General 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 gray 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-winged katy-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 sky 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 neighborhood are cool and retired; and it is a favorite 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.

HORICON.

IN the midst of the mountains all bosky and wooded, Its bosom thick-gemmed with the loveliest isles, Its borders with vistas of Paradise studded,— Looking up to the heaven sweet Horicon smiles. Thick set are its haunts with old legend and story, That, woven by genius, still cluster and blend; But its beauty will cling, like a halo of glory, When legend and record with ages shall end.

. . . . . . . . .

Far down in the waters the pebbles are gleaming,— Far down in the clear waves that nothing can hide; So, beauty of youth, comes the name you are dreaming,— Too pure for concealment, too gentle for pride; So smiles on your faces the sunshine of heaven,— The blessing distilled in the gardens of air,— A smile of contentment from Paradise given That woman and lake have been fashioned so fair.