HE love of country, springing up from the rich soil of the domestic affections, is a feeling coexistent and coextensive with social n itself. Although a dreary climate, barren lands, and unrighteous laws, wickedly administered, may repress the luxuriant growth of this sentiment, it will still maintain firm root in the heart, and hear with patience the most cruel wrongs. Man loves the soil that gave him birth as the child loves the mother, and from the same inherent impulses. When exiled from his father-land, he yearns for it as a child yearns for home; and though he may, by legal oath, disclaim allegiance to his own and swear fealty to another government, the invisible links of patriotism which hind him to his country can not be severed; his lips and hand hear false witness against his truthful heart.
Stronger far is this sentiment in the bosom of him whose country is a pleasant land, where nature in smiling beauty and rich beneficence woos him on every side; where education quickens into refining activity the intellect of society; and where just laws, righteously administered, impress all possession, whether of property or of character, with the broad seal of security. An honest, justified pride elevates the spirit of the citizen of a land so favored; makes him a vigilant guardian of its rights and honor, and inspires him with a profound reverence for the men and deeds consecrated by the opinions of the just as the basis upon which its glory rests.
Classic Localities.— Departure for Saratoga.— Voyage up the Hudson.
It was under the influence of this sentiment, so natural to every American, and a strong desire to make a personal visit to the classic grounds of my country, and portray their features before every ancient lineament should he effaced, that, during the sultriness of midsummer, I left behind me the cares of business life within the confines of our commercial metropolis, and commenced a pilgrimage to the most important localities connected with the events of the war for our national independence. For many years, as I occasionally saw some field consecrated by revolutionary blood, or building Hallowed as a shelter of the heroes of that war, I have felt emotions of shame, such as every American ought to feel, on seeing the plow leveling the breast-works and batteries where our fathers bled, and those edifices, containing the council-chambers of men who planned the attack, the ambuscade, or the retreat, crumbling into utter ruin. While England erects a monument in honor of the amputated leg of a hero who fought for personal renown, we allow these relics, sanctified by the deeds of soldiers who were more than heroes as the world regards heroism, to pass away and be forgotten. Acquisitiveness is pulling down walled fortresses; the careless agriculturist, unmindful of the sacredness of the ditch and mound that scar his fields, is sowing and reaping where marble monuments should stand; and improvement, a very Cambyses among achievements of labor of former times, under the fair mask of refined taste, is leveling nearly all that remains of the architecture of the Revolution. To delineate with pen and pencil what is left of the physical features of that period, and thus to rescue from oblivion, before it should be too late, the mementoes which another generation will appreciate, was my employment for several months; and a desire to place the result of those journeyings, with a record of past events inseparably connected with what I have delineated, in an enduring form before my countrymen, has given birth to these pages.
I resolved to visit the scenes of the northern campaigns during the summer and early autumn. With the exception of the historic grounds lying around New York and among the Hudson Highlands, the fields of Saratoga, in point of importance and distance, invited the initial visit.
1848 I left New York on the evening of the 24th of July for Poughkeepsie, on the banks of the Hudson, there to be joined by a young lady, my traveling companion for the summer. For many days the hot sun had been unclouded, and neither shower nor dew imparted grateful moisture to town or country.
"The whispering waves were half asleep,
The clouds were gone to play,
And on the woods and on the deep