Part 8

The mediation and protection of the Mohawk tribes, were, as usual, appealed to. But these shrewd politicians saw evidently the value of their protection to an unwarlike people, who made no effort to defend themselves; and who, distant from the source of authority, and contributing nothing to the support of government, were in a great measure neglected. They began also to observe, that their new friends were extending their possessions on every side, and conscious of their wealth and increasing numbers, did not so assiduously cultivate the good will of their faithful allies as formerly. These nations, savage as we may imagine them, were as well skilled in the arts of negociation as the most polite Europeans. They waged perpetual war with each other about their hunting grounds—each tribe laying claim to some vast wild territory, destined for that purpose, and divided from other districts by boundaries which we should consider as merely ideal, but which they perfectly understood. Yet these were not so distinctly defined as to preclude all dispute—and a casual encroachment on this imaginary deer park, was a sufficient ground of hostility; and this, not for the value of the few deer or bears which might be killed, but that they thought their national honour violated by such an aggression. That system of revenge, which subsisted with equal force among them all, admitted of no sincere conciliation till the aggrieved party had obtained at least an equal number of scalps and prisoners for those that they had lost. This bloody reckoning was not easily adjusted. After a short and hollow truce, the remaining balance on either side afforded a pretext for new hostilities, and time to solicit new alliances, for which last purpose much art and much persuasive power of eloquence were employed.

But the grand mystery of Indian politics was the flattery, the stratagem, and address employed in detaching other tribes from the alliance of their enemies. There could not be a stronger proof of the restless and turbulent nature of ambition, than these artful negociations, the consequences of perpetual hostility, where one would think there was so little ground for quarrel; and that amongst a people, who, individually, were by no means quarrelsome or covetous, and seemed, in their private transactions with each other, impressed with a deep sense of moral rectitude; who reasoned soundly, reflected deeply, and acted in most cases consequentially. Property there was none, to afford a pretext for war, excepting a little possessed by the Mohawks, which they knew so well how to defend, that their boundaries were never violated—

“For their awe and their fear were upon all nations round about.”

Territory could not be the genuine subject of contention in these thinly peopled forests, where the ocean and the pole were the only limits of their otherwise boundless domain. The consequence attached to the authority of chiefs, who, as such, possessed no more property than others, and had not the power to command a single vassal for their own personal benefit, was not such as to be the object of those wars. Their chief privilege was that of being first in every dangerous enterprise. They were loved and honoured, but never, that I have heard of, traduced, envied, or removed from their painful pre-eminence.

The only way in which these wars can be accounted for, is, first, from the general depravity of our nature, and from a singularly deep feeling of injury, and a high sense of national honour. They were not the hasty out-breakings of savage fury, but were commenced in the most solemn and deliberate manner, and not without a prelude of remonstrances from the aggrieved party, and attempts to sooth and conciliate from the other. This digression must not be considered as altogether from the purpose. To return to the Indians, whose history has its use in illustrating that of mankind: they now became fully sensible of the importance they derived from the increased wealth and undefended state of the settlement. They discovered, too, that they held the balance between the interior settlements of France and England, which, though still distant from each other, were daily approximating.

The Mohawks, though always brave and always faithful, felt a very allowable repugnance to expose the lives of their warriors in defence of those who made no effort to defend themselves; who were neither protected by the arms of their sovereign, nor by their own courage. They came down to hold a solemn congress, at which the heads of the Schuyler and Cuyler families assisted; and where it was agreed that hostilities should be delayed for the present—the hostile nations pacified by concessions and presents, and means adopted to put the settlement into a state of defence against future aggressions.

On all such occasions, when previously satisfied with regard to the justice of the grounds of quarrel, the Mohawks promised their hearty co-operation. This they were the readier to do, as their young brother Philip, (for so they styled Colonel Schuyler,) offered not only to head such troops as might be raised for this purpose, but to engage his two brothers, who were well acquainted with the whole frontier territory, to serve on the same terms. This was a singular instance of public spirit in a young patriot, who was an entire stranger to the profession of arms, and whose sedate equanimity of character was adverse to every species of rashness or enthusiasm. Meantime, the provisions of the above-mentioned treaty could not be carried into effect, till they were ratified by the assembly at New-York, and approved by the governor. Of this there was little doubt; the difficulty was to raise and pay the troops. In the interim, while steps were taking to legalize this project, in 1719, the marriage between Colonel Schuyler and his cousin took place under the happiest auspices.

CHAP. XVI.

Account of the three brothers.

COLONEL SCHUYLER and his two brothers, all possessed a superior degree of intellect, and uncommon external advantages. Peter, the only one remaining when I knew the family, was still a comely and dignified looking old gentleman, and I was told his brothers were at least equal to him in this respect. His youngest brother, Jeremiah, who was much beloved for a disposition, frank, cheerful, and generous to excess, had previously married a lady from New-York, with whom he obtained some fortune—a thing then singular in that country. This lady, whom, in her declining years, I knew very well, was the daughter of a wealthy and distinguished family of French protestants. She was lively, sensible, and well-informed.

Peter, the second, was married to a native of Albany. She died early, but left behind two children, and the reputation of much worth, and great attention to her conjugal and maternal duties. All these relations lived with each other, and with the new-married lady, in habits of the most cordial intimacy and perfect confidence. They seemed, indeed, actuated by one spirit—having in all things similar views and similar principles. Looking up to the colonel as the head of the family, whose worth and affluence reflected consequence upon them all, they never dreamt of envying either his superior manners, or his wife’s attainments, which they looked upon as a benefit and ornament to the whole.

Soon after their marriage they visited New-York, which they continued to do once a year, in the earlier period of their marriage, on account of their connexion in that city, and the pleasing and intelligent society that was always to be met with there, both on account of its being the seat of government, and the residence of the commander in chief on the continent, who was then necessarily invested with considerable power and privileges, and had, as well as the governor for the time being, a petty court assembled round him. At a very early period, a better style of manners, greater ease, frankness, and polish prevailed at New-York, than in any of the neighbouring provinces. There was, in particular, a Brigadier General Hunter, of whom I have heard Mrs. Schuyler talk a great deal, as coinciding with her uncle and husband successively, in their plans, either of defence or improvement. He, I think, was then governor—and was as acceptable to the Schuylers for his colloquial talents and friendly disposition, as estimable for his public spirit and application to business, in which respects he was not equalled by any of his successors. In his circle, the young couple were much distinguished. There were, too, among those leading families, the Livingstons and Rensselaers, friends connected with them both by blood and attachment. There was, also, another distinguished family, to whom they were allied, and with whom they lived in cordial intimacy; these were the De Laneys, of French descent, but by subsequent intermarriages, blended with the Dutch inhabitants. Of these there were many then in New-York, as will be hereafter explained; but as these conscientious exiles were persons allied in religion to the primitive settlers, and regular and industrious in their habits, they soon mingled with and became a part of that society, which was enlivened by their sprightly manners, and benefited by the useful arts they brought along with them. In this mixed society, which must have had attraction for young people of superior, and in some degree, cultivated intellect, this well-matched pair took great pleasure; and here, no doubt, was improved that liberality of mind and manners, which so much distinguished them from the less enlightened inhabitants of their native city. They were so much caressed in New-York, and found so many charms in the intelligent and comparatively polished society, of which they made a part, that they had at first some thoughts of residing there. These, however, soon gave way to the persuasions of the old colonel, with whom they principally resided till his death, which happened in 1721, two years after. This union was productive of all that felicity which might be expected to result from entire congeniality, not of sentiment only, but of original dispositions, attachments, and modes of living and thinking. He had been accustomed to consider her as a child with tender endearment. She had been used to look up to him from infancy, as the model of manly excellence, and they drew knowledge and virtue from the same fountain; in the mind of that respected parent whom they equally loved and revered.

CHAP. XVII.

The house and rural economy of the Flats—Birds and insects.

I HAVE already sketched a general outline of that pleasant home to which the colonel was now about to bring his beloved.

Before I resume my narrative, I shall indulge myself in a still more minute account of the premises, the mode of living, &c., which will afford a more distinct idea of the country; all the wealthy and informed people of the settlement living on a smaller scale, pretty much in the same manner. Be it known, however, that the house I had so much delight in recollecting, had no pretension to grandeur, and very little to elegance. It was a large brick house, of two, or rather three stories, (for there were excellent attics,) besides a sunk story, finished with the most exact neatness. The lower floor had two spacious rooms, with large, light closets: on the first there were three rooms, and in the upper one four. Through the middle of the house was a very wide passage, with opposite front and back doors, which in summer, admitted a stream of air, peculiarly grateful to the languid senses. It was furnished with chairs and pictures, like a summer parlour. Here the family usually sat in hot weather, when there were no ceremonious strangers.

Valuable furniture, (though, perhaps, not very well chosen or assorted,) was the favourite luxury of these people; and in all the houses I remember, except those of the brothers, who were every way more liberal, the mirrors, the paintings, the china, but above all, the state bed, were considered as the family seraphim, secretly worshiped, and only exhibited on very rare occasions. But in Colonel Schuyler’s family, the rooms were merely shut up to keep the flies (which in that country are an absolute nuisance) from spoiling the furniture. Another motive was, that they might be pleasantly cool when opened for company. This house had also two appendages, common to all those belonging to persons in easy circumstances there. One was a large portico at the door, with a few steps leading up to it, and floored like a room; it was open at the sides, and had seats all around. Above was either a slight wooden roof, painted like an awning, or a covering of lattice-work, over which a transplanted wild vine spread its luxuriant leaves and numerous clusters. These, though small, and rather too acid till sweetened by the frost, had a beautiful appearance. What gave an air of liberty and safety to these rustic porticos, which always produced in my mind a sensation of pleasure that I know not how to define, was the number of little birds domesticated there. For their accommodation there was a small shelf built round, where they nestled, sacred from the touch of slaves and children, who were taught to regard them as the good genii of the place, not to be disturbed with impunity.

I do not recollect sparrows there, except the wood sparrow. These little birds were of various kinds, peculiar to the country; but the one most frequent and familiar, was a pretty little creature, of a bright cinnamon colour, called a wren, though little resembling the one to which we give that name, for it is more sprightly, and flies higher. Of these and other small birds, hundreds gave and received protection around this hospitable dwelling. The protection they received consisted merely in the privilege of being let alone. That which they bestowed was of more importance than any inhabitant of Britain can imagine. In these new countries, where man has scarce asserted his dominion, life swarms abundant on every side; the insect population is numerous beyond belief, and the birds that feed on them are in proportion to their abundance. In process of time, when their sheltering woods are cleared, all these recede before their master, but not before his empire is fully established. These minute aerial foes are more harassing than the terrible inhabitants of the forest, and more difficult to expel. It is only by protecting, and in some sort domesticating, these little winged allies, who attack them in their own element, that the conqueror of the lion and tamer of the elephant, can hope to sleep in peace, or eat his meals unpolluted. While breakfasting or drinking tea in the airy porticos, which was often the scene of these meals, birds were constantly gliding over the table with a butterfly, grasshopper, or cicada in their bills, to feed their young, who were chirping above. These familiar inmates brushed by without ceremony, while the chirping swallow, the martin, and other hirundines in countless numbers, darted past in pursuit of this aerial population, while the fields resounded with the ceaseless chirping of many gay insects, unknown to our more temperate summers. These were now and then mingled with the animated and not unpleasing cry of the tree-frog, a creature of that species, but of a light, slender form, almost transparent, and of a lively green; it is dry to the touch, and has not the dank moisture of its aquatic relations; in short, it is a pretty, lively creature, with a singular and cheerful note. This loud and not unpleasing insect-chorus, with the swarms of gay butterflies, in constant motion, enliven scenes, to which the prevalence of woods, rising “shade above shade,” on every side, would otherwise give a still and solemn aspect. Several objects, which, with us, are no small additions to the softened changes and endless charms of rural scenery, it must be confessed, are wanting there. No lark welcomes the sun that rises to gild the dark forests and gleaming lakes of America; no mellow thrush or deep-toned blackbird warbles through these awful solitudes, or softens the balmy hour of twilight with

“The liquid language of the groves.”

Twilight itself, the mild and shadowy hour, so soothing to every feeling, every pensive mind; that soft transition from day to night, so dear to peace, so due to meditation, is here scarce known, at least only to have its shortness regretted. No daisy hastens to meet the spring, or embellishes the meads in summer. Here no purple heath exhales its wholesome odour, or decks the arid waste with the chastened glow of its waving bells. No bonny broom, such as enlivens the narrow vales of Scotland with its gaudy bloom, nor flowering furze, with its golden blossoms, defying the cold blasts of early spring, animates their sandy wilds. There the white-blossomed sloe does not forerun the orchard’s bloom, nor the pale primrose shelter its modest head beneath the tangled shrubs. Nature, bountiful yet not profuse, has assigned her various gifts to various climes, in such a manner, that none can claim a decided pre-eminence; and every country has peculiar charms, which endear it to the natives beyond any other. I have been tempted by lively recollections into a digression, rather unwarrantable. To return:

At the back of the large house was a smaller and lower one, so joined to it as to make the form of a cross. There one or two lower and smaller rooms below, and the same number above, afforded a refuge to the family during the rigours of winter, when the spacious summer rooms would have been intolerably cold, and the smoke of prodigious wood fires would have sullied the elegantly clean furniture. Here, too, was a sunk story, where the kitchen was immediately below the eating parlour, and increased the general warmth of the house. In summer, the negroes resided in slight outer kitchens, where food was dressed for the family. Those who wrought in the fields often had their simple dinner cooked without, and ate it under the shade of a great tree. One room, I should have said, in the greater house only, was opened for the reception of company—all the rest were bedchambers for their accommodation, while the domestic friends of the family occupied neat little bed-rooms in the attics, or in the winter-house. This house contained no drawing-room; that was an unheard-of luxury. The winter rooms had carpets—the lobby had oil-cloth, painted in lozenges, to imitate blue and white marble. The best bed-room was hung with family portraits, some of which were admirably executed; and in the eating-room, which, by the by, was rarely used for that purpose, were some fine scripture paintings:—that which made the greatest impression on my imagination, and seemed to be universally admired, was one of Esau, coming to demand the anticipated blessings. The noble, manly figure of the luckless hunter, and the anguish expressed in his comely though strong-featured countenance, I shall never forget. The house fronted the river, on the brink of which, under shades of elm and sycamore, ran the great road towards Saratoga, Stillwater, and the northern lakes; a little, simple avenue of morello cherry trees, inclosed with a white rail, led to the road and river, not three hundred yards distant. Adjoining to this, on the south side, was an inclosure, subdivided into three parts, of which the first was a small hay field, opposite the south end of the house; the next, not so long, a garden; and the third, by far the largest, an orchard. These were surrounded by simple deal fences. Now let not the genius that presides over pleasure-grounds, nor any of his elegant votaries, revolt with disgust, while I mention the unseemly ornaments which were exhibited on the stakes to which the deals of these same fences were bound. Truly they consisted of the skeleton heads of horses and cattle in as great numbers as could be procured, stuck upon the aforesaid poles. The jaws are fixed on the pole, and the skull uppermost. The wren, on seeing a skull thus placed, never fails to enter by the orifice, which is too small to admit the hand of an infant, lines the pericranium with small twigs and horse-hair, and there lays her eggs in full security. It is very amusing to see the little creatures carelessly go out and in at this aperture, though you should be standing immediately beside it. Not satisfied with providing these singular asylums for their feathered friends, the negroes never fail to make a small, round hole in the crown of every old hat they can lay their hands on, and nail it to the end of the kitchen, for the same purpose. You often see in such a one, at once, thirty or forty of these odd little domicils, with the inhabitants busily going out and in.

Besides all these salutary provisions for the domestic comfort of the birds, there was, in clearing the way for their first establishment, a tree always left in the middle of the back yard, for their sole emolument; this tree being purposely pollarded at midsummer, when all the branches were full of sap. Wherever there had been a branch, the decay of the inside produced a hole, and every hole was the habitation of a bird. These were of various kinds, some of which had a pleasing note, but, on the whole, their songsters are far inferior to ours. I rather dwell on these minutiæ, as they not only mark the peculiarities of the country, but convey very truly the image of a people, not too refined for happiness, which, in the process of elegant luxury, is apt to die of disgust.

CHAP. XVIII.

Description of Colonel Schuyler’s barn—the common, and its various uses.

ADJOINING to the orchard, was the most spacious barn I ever beheld, which I shall describe for the benefit of such of my readers as have never seen a building constructed on a plan so comprehensive. This barn, which, as will hereafter appear, answered many beneficial purposes, besides those usually allotted for such edifices, was of a vast size, at least an hundred feet long, and sixty wide. The roof rose to a very great height in the midst, and sloped down till it came within ten feet of the ground, when the walls commenced, which, like the whole of this vast fabric, were formed of wood. It was raised three feet from the ground, by beams resting on stone—and on these beams was laid, in the middle of the building, a very massive oak floor. Before the door was a large sill, sloping downwards, of the same materials. About twelve feet in breadth, on each side of this capacious building, were divided off for cattle; on one side ran a manger, at the above-mentioned distance from the wall, the whole length of the building, with a rack above it; on the others, were stalls for the other cattle, running also the whole length of the building. The cattle and horses stood with their hinder parts to the wall, and their heads projecting towards the threshing floor. There was a prodigious large box or open chest in one side built up, for holding the corn after it was threshed; and the roof, which was very lofty and spacious, was supported by large cross beams; from one to the other of these was stretched a great number of long poles, so as to form a sort of open loft, on which the whole rich crop was laid up. The floor of those parts of the barn, which answered the purposes of a stable and cow-house, was made of thick slab deals, laid loosely over the supporting beams; and the mode of cleaning those places, was by turning the boards, and permitting the dung and litter to fall into the receptacles left open below for the purpose; from thence, in spring, they were often driven down to the river—the soil, in its original state, not requiring the aid of manure. In the front[3] of this vast edifice, there were prodigious folding doors, and two others that opened behind.

Footnote 3: