Read Ebook: American Scenery Vol. 2 (of 2) or Land lake and river illustrations of transatlantic nature by Willis Nathaniel Parker Bartlett W H William Henry Illustrator

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General Sir William Johnson lived not many miles below Little Falls, and from this spot to Canada Creek a tract of fourteen miles was given to him on his marriage with a Mohawk girl, by King Hendricks, the faithful Indian ally of the whites. It is a curious fact, that, during the war of the revolution, a son of Sir William Johnson, in the English service in Canada, made an incursion at the head of a party of hostile Indians on the very lands once owned by his father.

The Mohawks contended very fiercely for the honour of original descent. The Iroquois, who were more powerful, they considered as interlopers; and, in the following tradition, give the basis of their pedigree:--

It is possible that this is traditionary, but it is more probable that it was invented after the arrival of whites, and the introduction of blacks into the country, neither of which races the Indians had before seen.

BRIDGE AT NORWICH, CONNECTICUT.

Two Indian rivers, the Shetucket and Yautick, unite at this place to form the Thames, and in the fork of the junction lies the picturesque and prosperous town of Norwich. From the hilly nature of the ground, the buildings have a remarkably fine appearance, the streets rising one above the other, and the style of the houses denoting taste and opulence. In the rear of the hill on which the town stands is a level plain, on which are laid out several handsome streets, planted with avenues of trees. The prospects are extensive and various; and, altogether, there are few towns in the world which have so many advantages and attractions.

The Thames is navigable for large vessels as high as Norwich, and its trade with the West Indies was once considerable. That has declined, and the capital of the inhabitants is now invested principally in manufactories, for which the fine water-power of the neighbourhood furnishes peculiar facilities. As a birth-place of distinguished individuals, Norwich has produced Mrs. Sigourney, the sweetest of American poetesses; and it stands upon the natal ground and possessions of the celebrated Uncas, chief of the Mohegans. The burial-place of the kings of this warlike tribe is still to be seen here.

No spot could have been selected with more felicity than that on which Uncas formerly lived. It is a high point of land, commanding a noble and extensive view of the Thames, here a large river, and of the country on both sides. It was, therefore, well fitted for the discovery of an enemy's approach, and furnished every convenience to hostile excursions. At the same time, it bordered on a never-failing supply of provisions, furnished by the scale and shell-fish, with which both the river and the neighbouring ocean have ever been richly stored.

Uncas was originally a petty sachem; a Pequod by birth; a subject and a tributary to Sassacus. When the English made war upon the Pequods, Uncas was unfriendly to this chieftain, and would have quarrelled with him, had he not been kept in awe by the talents and prowess of this formidable warrior. Of the English he appears to have entertained, from the first, a very respectful opinion; and, when he saw them determined upon a war with his master, concluded to unite his forces and his fortune with theirs. His dread of Sassacus was, however, so great, that when Captain Mason marched against the Pequods, he did not believe him to be serious in his professed design of attacking that terrible nation, nor did he even engage in the conflict, until after Mason and his little band of heroes had stormed the Pequod fortress.

Upon the death of Sassacus, Uncas became the sachem of the remaining Pequods, as well as of the Mohegans. In this character he claimed, perhaps rightfully enough, as there was no other acknowledged heir, all the territory which had been possessed by that tribe. This tract included almost the whole of the eastern division of Connecticut, from the middle of the Syno range. He understood his own interest too well to quarrel with the English, and had a sufficient share of cunning to support his claims with very plausible reasons. They were, therefore, very generally allowed.

From this time he became the most formidable, and altogether the most prosperous Indian chieftain in Southern New England. Over his subjects he exercised a more efficacious and unresisted government than perhaps was ever exercised by any other sachem. Nor was his control confined to them; but extended, in a considerable degree, to several of the tribes on the western side of the Connecticut. To his enemies he became scarcely less formidable than Sassacus had been before him. At the head of four or five hundred men, he met Miantonomoh, a brave and sagacious chief of the Narrhagansetts, coming to attack him with twice the number; and, after having in vain challenged him to single combat, defeated his army, took him prisoner, and put him to death. On this occasion he cut a piece of flesh from his shoulder, roasted and eat it, and, with the true spirit of a savage, declared that it was the sweetest meat which he had ever tasted in his life.

The avarice, ambition, and restlessness of this man, frequently embroiled him with his neighbours, and were sometimes troublesome to his English allies. The natives considered them as the friends of Uncas, and implicated them more or less in his mischievous conduct. When he found the English resentful, and himself severely censured, he made such submissions, promises, and presents as he thought necessary to restore their good-will, and secure his future peace. But he was not indebted for these advantages to his address alone. On several occasions he rendered them real and important assistance; and to their interests he adhered faithfully and uniformly. No Indian among the New England tribes, except Massasait, exhibited an equally steady attachment to the Colonists, or so regular an adherence to his engagements. Hence he enjoyed their public friendship, and the good-will of individuals among them, until the day of his death.

Uncas died at an advanced age, in his own house, and left his power and his property to his children. Onecho, his eldest son, commanded a party of Mohegans in a war which the English carried on against the Narrhagansetts in 1676. The family, however, soon declined in their importance by the general declension of their tribe, and the sale of their property to the English. Some years since, a man, descended from Uncas, came from North Carolina, or Tennessee, where he was settled, and obtained permission of the Connecticut legislature to sell his patrimonial share in this tract. This man had received a military commission from the British government; and it is said, was well dressed, well informed, sensible, and gentlemanly in his deportment. He was probably the only respectable descendant of Uncas then living.

UNDERCLIFF, NEAR COLD-SPRING, THE SEAT OF GENERAL MORRIS.

The pen of the poet and the pencil of the artist have so frequently united to record the grandeur and sublimity of the Hudson, and with such graphic fidelity, that little of interest remains unsaid or unsketched. But when every point of its bold and beautiful scenery might be made the subject of a picture, and every incident of its past history the theme of a poem, it requires no great research to discover new and prominent objects of attraction. Perhaps there is no portion of this beautiful river which partakes more of the picturesque, or combines more of the wild and wonderful, than the vicinity of the present View; and when time shall touch the history of the present with the wand of tradition, and past events shall live in the memory of the future as legends, romance will never revel in a more bewitching region. Fiction shall then fling its imaginative veil over the things we have seen--covering, but not concealing them--and, in the plenitude of poetic genius, people the drama of futurity with a thousand exquisite creations, clothed in the venerated garb of antiquity.

UNDERCLIFF, the mansion of GENERAL GEORGE P. MORRIS, which forms the principal object in the engraving, is situated upon an elevated plateau, rising from the eastern shore of the river; and the selection of such a commanding and beautiful position at once decides the taste of its intellectual proprietor. In the rear of the villa, cultivation has placed her fruit and forest trees with a profuse hand, and fertilized the fields with a variety of vegetable products. The extent of the grounds is abruptly terminated by the base of a rocky mountain, that rises nearly perpendicular to its summit, and affords in winter a secure shelter from the bleak blasts of the north. In front, a circle of greensward is refreshed by a fountain in the centre, gushing from a Grecian vase, and encircled by ornamental shrubbery; from thence a gravelled walk winds down a gentle declivity to a second plateau, and again descends to the entrance of the carriage road, which leads upwards along the left slope of the hill, through a noble forest, the growth of many years, until suddenly emerging from its sombre shades, the visitor beholds the mansion before him in the bright blaze of day. A few openings in the wood afford an opportunity to catch a glimpse of the water, sparkling with reflected light; and the immediate transition from shadow to sunshine is peculiarly pleasing.

Although the sunny prospects from the villa, of the giant mountains in their eternal verdure--the noble stream, when frequent gusts ruffle its surface into a thousand waves--the cluster of white cottages collected into the distant village, are glorious; it is only by the lovely light of the moon, when nature is in repose, that their magic influence is fully felt. We were fortunate in having an opportunity to contemplate the scene at such an hour: the moon had risen from a mass of clouds which formed a line across the sky so level that fancy saw her ascending from the dark sea, and her silvery light lay softened on the landscape; silence was over all, save where the dipping of a distant oar was echoed from the deep shadows of the rocks. Sometimes the white sail of a sloop would steal into sight from the deep gloom, like some shrouded spirit gliding from the confines of a giant's cavern, and recalled the expressive lines by Moore:--

"The stream is like a silvery lake, And o'er its face each vessel glides Gently, as if it feared to wake The slumber of the silent tides."

In the view of Undercliff, the artist has been peculiarly happy in producing an effect at once brilliant and chaste. The broken foreground is agreeably relieved by the sparkling transparency of the water: the receding figures on the shore are judiciously introduced to mark the perspective. The projecting bluff in the middle distance is thrown into shadow, and stands out in fine contrast from the light horizon, while the lights upon the solitary rock, the entrance gate, the mansion, and the vessels, produce the effect of a setting sun; and the whole subject is treated with masterly skill. We only regret that art has not power to convey the kindly hospitalities hourly exercised in the interior of the mansion.

General Morris has recently published a volume of lyrical effusions, called "The Deserted Bride, and other Poems." Many of them have been written among the fairy beauties of Undercliff, and under the inspiration of that true poetic feeling which such enchanting scenes are so likely to elicit. Where so many gems of genius enrich a work, it becomes difficult to decide upon that most worthy of selection. It is not our province or intention to review the volume, but we cannot resist the inclination to make a few extracts, because they seem as beautiful accessories to the subject, and create an added interest in the engraving. Where scenes are so replete with the poetry of nature, they are best illustrated by the poetry of numbers; but we were particularly delighted with the following lines, addressed to his young daughter. The natural simplicity of the subject is well expressed by the purity of its poetic images, and breathes the refinement of paternal affection.

IDA. "Where Hudson's wave, o'er silvery sands, Winds through the hills afar, Old Cro'nest like a monarch stands, Crowned with a single star: And there, amid the billowy swells Of rock-ribbed, cloud-capt earth, My fair and gentle IDA dwells, A nymph of mountain birth.

"The snow-curl that the cliff receives, The diamonds of the showers, Spring's tender blossoms, buds and leaves, The sisterhood of flowers: Morn's early beam, eve's balmy breeze, Her purity define; But IDA'S dearer far than these, To this fond breast of mine.

"My heart is on the hills. The shades Of night are on my brow: Ye pleasant haunts and silent glades, My soul is with you now! I bless the star-crowned islands where My IDA'S footsteps roam: Oh for a falcon's wing to bear Me onward to my home!"--MORRIS.

General Morris is not less successful in the lighter and livelier freaks of poetic fancy, as we hope to prove by a quotation from "The New York Mirror," in which the moral of the lines is not their least merit. The melodies of the various birds which roost among the wild recesses of the rocks, or haunt the mountain forest, or sweep along the waters, are sent forth hourly in sounds of "unwritten music." But the cry "most musical, most melancholy," comes at the twilight hour from the clear throat of the whip-poor-will, at intervals, through the summer's night: nor is it ever heard or seen by day; it may be called the sad unknown. The words, "whip-poor-will," are divided into three shrill, distinct notes, and express the sounds as perfectly as if uttered by the human voice. The poetry annexed, is equally expressive of the melancholy mystery which seems to mark the mourning burden of its lonely song.

TO THE WHIP-POOR-WILL. "Why dost thou come at set of sun, Those pensive words to say? Why whip poor Will?--What has he done? And who is Will, I pray?

"Why come from you leaf-shaded hill, A suppliant at my door?-- Why ask of me to whip poor Will? And is Will really poor?

"If poverty's his crime, let mirth From out his heart be driven: That is the deadliest sin on earth, And never is forgiven!

"Art Will himself?--It must be so-- I learn it from thy moan, For none can feel another's woe As deeply as his own.

"Yet wherefore strain thy tiny throat, While other birds repose? What means thy melancholy note? The mystery disclose.

"Still 'whip-poor-will!'--Art thou a sprite, From unknown regions sent To wander in the gloom of night, And ask for punishment?

"Is thine a conscience sore beset With guilt--or, what is worse, Hast thou to meet writs, duns, and debt-- No money in thy purse?

"If this be thy hard fate indeed, Ah well may'st thou repine: The sympathy I give, I need-- The poet's doom is thine.

"Art thou a lover, Will?--Hast proved The fairest can deceive? Thine is the lot of all who've loved Since Adam wedded Eve.

"Hast trusted in a friend, and seen No friend was he in need? A common error--men still lean Upon as frail a reed.

"Hast thou, in seeking wealth or fame, A crown of brambles won? O'er all the earth 'tis just the same With every mother's son!

"Hast found the world a Babel wide, Where man to mammon stoops? Where flourish arrogance and pride, While modest merit droops?

"What, none of these?--Then, whence thy pain, To guess it who's the skill? Pray have the kindness to explain Why I should whip poor Will?

"Dost merely ask thy just desert? What, not another word?-- Back to the woods again, unhurt-- I will not harm thee, bird!

"But treat thee kindly--for my nerves, Like thine, have penance done; Treat every man as he deserves-- Who shall 'scape whipping?'--None.

"Farewell, poor Will--not valueless This lesson by thee given: 'Keep thine own counsel, and confess Thyself alone to heaven!'"--MORRIS.

We cannot close our description without one more extract from the delightful volume before us.

THE OAK. "Woodman, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me, And I'll protect it now. 'Twas my forefather's hand That placed it near his cot; There, woodman, let it stand, Thy axe shall harm it not!

"That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea, And wouldst thou hack it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke! Cut not its earth-bound ties; Oh spare that aged oak, Now towering to the skies!

"When but an idle boy I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy Here, too, my sisters played. My mother kissed me here; My father pressed my hand-- Forgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand!

"My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend! Here shall the wild-bird sing, And still thy branches bend. Old tree! the storm still brave! And, woodman, leave the spot; While I've a hand to save, Thy axe shall harm it not."--MORRIS.

BOSTON, AND BUNKER HILL,

This view is taken from a long cape, sometimes cut off by water overflowing the marshes, and called William's Island. Five or six years ago, it was a thinly cultivated and neglected spot, scarce known, except to adventurous boys, who pulled across from the city wharfs, and to the one or two farmers who inhabited it. Now, with the suddenness which attends speculation in our country, it is grown suddenly into a consequential suburb, with a showy hotel and steam ferry, and citizens and strangers resort to it to eat French dinners, and pass the hot weeks of the summer.

Boston, from this point of view, is very picturesque. The town rises gradually from the water's edge to the height surmounted by the State House, whose lofty cupola brings to a point all the ascending lines of the picture; Dorchester Heights rise gracefully on the left limit of the bay, and Bunker-Hill, famous in American story, breaks the horizon on the right. In the centre lie the forest of shipping, and the fine ranges of commercial buildings on the water side; and, turning from this view, the harbour, with its many small islands, stretches away behind to the sea, tracked by steamers, and sprinkled by craft of every size and nation. Like every other bay in the world, that of Boston has been compared to Naples; but it has neither its violet sky, nor its volcano, yet it may be mentioned in the same day.

In the matter of dress, our grandames seem to have pushed the ruling passion of the sex even through the rigid crust of Puritanism. In a tract, called the "Simple Cobler of Agawam," some righteous round-head thus expresses his indignation at their fashions:--

"Methinks it should break the hearts of Englishmen to see so many goodly Englishwomen imprisoned in French cages, peering out of their hood-holes for some men of mercy to help them with a little wit, and nobody relieves them. We have about five or six of them in our colony; if I see any of them accidentally, I cannot cleanse my phansie of them for a month after.

"It is a more common than convenient saying, that 'nine taylors make a man:' it were well if nineteen could make a woman to her mind. If taylors were men, indeed, well furnished but with mere moral principles, they would disdain to be led about like asses by such mymick marmosets. It is a most unworthy thing for men that have bones in them, to spend their lives in making fiddle-cases for women's phansies.

"It is known more than enough that I am neither niggard nor cynic to the true bravery of the true gentry. I am not much offended if I see a trimme far trimmer than she that wears it; but when I hear a nugiperous gentle dame inquire what dress the queen is in, with egge to be in it in all haste, whatever it be, I look to her as the very gizzard of a trifle, the product of a quarter of a cypher, the epitome of nothing, fitter to be kickt, if she were of a kickable substance, than either honoured, or humoured."

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