Sing-Sing Prison and Tappan Zee.
Forest, Rock, and Stream
A SERIES OF
TWENTY STEEL LINE-ENGRAVINGS
By W. H. BARTLETT AND OTHERS
WITH DESCRIPTIVE TEXT BY N. P. WILLIS AND OTHERS
INCLUDING POEMS BY AMERICAN AND FOREIGN AUTHORS
BOSTON
ESTES AND LAURIAT
1886
Copyright, 1885,
By Estes and Lauriat.
CONTENTS.
[SING-SING PRISON AND TAPPAN ZEE]
[VIEW OF HUDSON AND THE CATSKILL MOUNTAINS]
[TOWN OF CATSKILL, HUDSON RIVER]
[INDIAN FALL, OPPOSITE WEST POINT]
[VIEW NEAR ANTHONY’S NOSE, HUDSON HIGHLANDS]
[VIEW FROM MOUNT IDA, NEAR TROY, NEW YORK]
[HUDSON HIGHLANDS, FROM BULL HILL]
[VILLA ON THE HUDSON, NEAR WEEHAWKEN]
[CHAPEL OF “OUR LADY OF COLD SPRING”]
[VIEW FROM RUGGLE’S HOUSE, NEWBURGH, HUDSON RIVER]
[THE TWO LAKES ON THE CATSKILLS]
[CROW NEST, FROM BULL HILL, WEST POINT]
[THE CATTERSKILL FALLS (FROM BELOW)]
[UNDERCLIFF, THE SEAT OF THE LATE GENERAL MORRIS]
[WINTER SCENE ON THE CATTERSKILLS]
VIEW OF HUDSON CITY AND THE CATSKILL MOUNTAINS.
A WEDGE-SHAPED promontory, or bluff, pushes forward to the river at this spot; and on its summit, which widens into a noble plain, stands the city of Hudson.
It is supposed that the “Halve-Mane,” the vessel in which the great discoverer made his first passage up the Hudson, reached no farther than two leagues above the city which bears his name, and that the remainder of the exploring voyage was made in the shallop. His reception here was in the highest degree hospitable. “He went on shore in one of their canoes, with an old Indian, who was the chief of forty men and seventeen women: these he saw in a house made of the bark of trees, exceedingly smooth and well-finished within and without. He found a great quantity of Indian corn and beans, enough of which were drying near the house to have loaded three ships, besides what was growing in the fields. On coming to the house two mats were spread to sit on, eatables were brought in, in red bowls well made, and two men were sent off with bows and arrows, who soon returned with two pigeons. They also killed a fat dog, and skinned it with shells. They expected their visitors would remain during the night, but the latter determined to return on board. The natives were exceedingly kind and good-tempered; for when they discovered Hudson’s determination to proceed on board, they, imagining it proceeded from fear of their bows and arrows, broke them to pieces and threw them into the fire.”
On his return down the river, Hudson stopped again for four days opposite the site of the future city. The historical collections give a very particular account of every day’s movements in this interesting voyage. “On the report of those whom he had sent to explore the river,” says the historian, “Hudson found that it would be useless to proceed with his ship any farther, or to delay his return. He had passed several days in a profitable traffic and a friendly intercourse with the natives, among whom were probably those from each side of the river,—the Mahicanni, as well as the Mohawks. At noon of the 23d of September, he therefore went down six miles to a shoal; having but little wind, the tide laid his ship on the bar until the flood came, when she crossed it, and was anchored for the night.
“The next day, after proceeding seven or eight leagues, she grounded on a bank of ooze in the middle of the river, where she was detained till the ensuing morning, when the flood, at ten o’clock, enabled Hudson to anchor her in deep water. Thus the ship once more was interrupted in her passage opposite the spot where a city now commemorates the name of Hudson.
“Here he remained, by reason of adverse winds, four days. On the day of his arrival ‘they went on land and gathered good store of chestnuts,’ but whether on the east or west side of the river is not mentioned. But the day following they went on land ‘to walk on the west side of the river, and found good ground for corn and other garden herbs, with good store of goodly oaks and walnut-trees, and chestnut-trees, yew-trees, and trees of sweet wood in great abundance, and great store of slate for houses and other good stones.’ Nothing is said of any inhabitants while they were thus visiting the site, which is now that of the village of Athens, opposite Hudson. But next morning (26th), after the carpenter, mate, and four of the company had gone on shore to cut wood, while the vessel lay at anchor, two canoes came up the river from the place where they first found ‘loving people’ (Catskill landing); and in one of them was the old chief whom Hudson had caused to be made intoxicated at Albany. He had followed our strange visitors thirty miles, to the base of the Catskill Mountains, with the double view of again testifying to Hudson the sincerity of his friendship, and of gratifying the love of the marvellous, by relating his own adventures to the mountaineers, and drawing them from their retreat to witness the floating phenomenon. The old chief now introduced with him ‘an old man, who brought more stropes of beads and gave them to our master, and showed him all the country thereabout, as though it were at his command!’ They tarried, greatly pleased with the unaccountable curiosities they discovered on board. Hudson ‘made the two old men dine with him, and the old man’s wife; for they brought two old women and two young maidens of the age of sixteen or seventeen years with them, who behaved themselves very modestly.’
“After dinner, and upon exchange of presents, the guests retired, inviting Hudson by signs to come down to them; for the ship was within two leagues of the place where they dwelt.”
The concluding circumstances of this interesting return down the Hudson, will accompany another view in the series.
CATSKILL MOUNTAINS.
And, lo! the Catskills print the distant sky,
And o’er their airy tops the faint clouds driven,
So softly blending that the cheated eye
Forgets or which is earth or which is heaven.
Sometimes, like thunder-clouds, they shade the even,
Till, as you nearer draw, each wooded height
Puts off the azure hues by distance given,
And slowly break upon the enamored sight
Ravine, crag, field, and wood, in colors true and bright.
Mount to the cloud-kissed summit! Far below
Spreads the vast champaign like a shoreless sea.
Mark yonder narrow streamlet feebly flow,
Like idle brook that creeps ingloriously!
Can that the lovely, lordly Hudson be,
Stealing by town and mountain? Who beholds
At break of day this scene, when silently
Its map of field, wood, hamlet, is unrolled,
While in the east the sun uprears his locks of gold,—
Till earth receive him, never can forget.
Even when returned amid the city’s roar,
The fairy vision haunts his memory yet,
As in the sailor’s fancy shines the shore.
Imagination cons the moment o’er,
When first-discovered, awe-struck and amazed,
Scarce loftier Jove—whom men and Gods adore—
On the extended earth beneath him gazed,
Temple, and tower, and town, by human insect raised.
Blow, scented gale, the snowy canvas swell;
And flow, thou silver, eddying current, on!
Grieve we to bid each lovely point farewell,
That ere its graces half are seen, is gone.
By woody bluff we steal, by leaning lawn,
By palace, village, cot,—a sweet surprise
At every turn the vision breaks upon;
Till to our wondering and uplifted eyes
The Highland rocks and hills in solemn grandeur rise.
. . . . . . . . .
Theodore S. Fay.
THE NARROWS, FROM FORT HAMILTON.
ALMOST any land looks beautiful after a long voyage; and it would not be surprising if the Narrows, oftenest seen and described by those who have just come off the passage of the Atlantic, should have this reputation. It does not require an eye long deprived of verdure, however, to relish the bold shores, the bright green banks, the clustering woods, and tasteful villas which make up the charms of this lovely strait.
Busier waters than the Narrows could scarcely be found; and it is difficult to imagine, amid so much bustle and civilization, the scene that presented itself to Hendrick Hudson, when the little “Halve-Mane” stole in on her voyage of discovery two hundred years ago. Hoofden, or the Highlands, as he then named the hills in this neighborhood, “were covered with grass and wild-flowers, and the air was filled with fragrance.” Groups of friendly natives, clothed in elk-skins, stood on the beach, singing and offering him welcome; and anchoring his little bark, he explored with his boats the channel and inlets, and penetrated to the mouth of the river which was destined to bear his name. It appears, however, that the Indians on the Long Island side were less friendly; and in one of the excursions into the Bay of Manhattan his boat was attacked by a party of twenty-nine savages of a ferocious tribe, and an English sailor, named Colman, was killed by an arrow-shot in the shoulder. Other unfriendly demonstrations from the same tribe induced Hudson to leave his anchorage at Sandy Hook, and he drew in to the Bay of New York, which he found most safe and commodious, and where he still continued his intercourse with the Indians of Staten Island, receiving them on board his vessel, dressing them, to their extravagant delight, in red coats, and purchasing from them fish and fruits in abundance.
At this day there stands a villa on every picturesque point; a thriving town lies on the left shore; hospitals and private sanitary establishments extend their white edifices in the neighborhood of the quarantine-ground; and between the little fleets of merchantmen, lying with the yellow flag at their peak, fly rapidly and skilfully a constant succession of steamboats, gaily painted and beautifully modelled, bearing on their airy decks the population of one of the first cities of the world. Yet of Manhattan Island, on which New York is built, Hudson writes, only two hundred years ago, that “it was wild and rough; a thick forest covered the parts where anything would grow; its beach was broken and sandy, and full of inlets; its interior presented hills of stony and sandy alluvion, masses of rock, ponds, swamps, and marshes.”
The gay description which an American would probably give of the Narrows,—the first spot of his native land seen after a tedious voyage,—would probably be in strong contrast with the impression it produces on the emigrant, who sees in it only the scene of his first difficult step in a land of exile. I remember noting this contrast with some emotion, on board the packet-ship in which I was not long ago a passenger from England. Among the crowd of emigrants in the steerage was the family of a respectable and well-educated man, who had failed as a merchant in some small town in England, and was coming, with the wreck of his fortune, to try the backwoods of America. He had a wife and eight or ten very fine children, the eldest of whom, a delicate and pretty girl of eighteen, had contributed to sustain the family under their misfortunes at home by keeping a village school. The confinement had been too much for her, and she was struck with consumption,—a disease which is peculiarly fatal in America. Soon after leaving the British Channel, the physician on board reported her to the captain as exceedingly ill, and suffering painfully from the close air of the steerage; and by the general consent of the cabin passengers a bed was made up for her in the deck-house, where she received the kindest attention from the ladies on board; and with her gentle manners and grateful expressions of pleasure soon made an interest in all hearts. As we made the land, the air became very close and hot; and our patient, perhaps from sympathy with the general excitement about her, grew feverish and worse, hourly. Her father and a younger sister sat by her, holding her hands and fanning her; and when we entered the Narrows with a fair wind, and every one on board, forgetting her in their admiration of the lovely scene, mounted to the upper deck, she was raised to the window, and stood with the bright red spot deepening on her cheek, watching the fresh green land without the slightest expression of pleasure. We dropped anchor, the boats were lowered, and as the steerage passengers were submitted to a quarantine, we attempted to take leave of her before going on shore. A fit of the most passionate tears, the paroxysms of which seemed almost to suffocate her, prevented her replying to us; and we left that poor girl surrounded by her weeping family, trying in vain to comfort her. Hers were feelings, probably, which are often associated with a remembrance of the Narrows.
THE WRECKER’S OATH ON BARNEGAT.
One night mid swarthy forms I lay,
Along a wild southeastern bay,
Within a cabin rude and rough,
Formed out of drift-wood, wrecker’s stuff,
And firelight throwing rosy flame
From up-heaped masses of the same,—
Waiting the turning of the tide
To launch the surf-boats scattered wide,
And try the fisher’s hardy toil
For bass, and other finny spoil.
One gray old man, of whom I heard
No more than this descriptive word,
“Old Kennedy,”—he rattled on,
Of men and things long past and gone,
And seemed without one careful thought,—
Till spark to tinder some one brought
By hinting that he launched no more,
Of late, his surf-boat from the shore,
However wind and storm were rife
And stranded vessels perilled life.
“No! by the God who made this tongue!”
And up in angry force he sprung,—
“No!—never, while my head is warm,
However wild beat sea and storm,
Launch I a boat, one life to save,
If half creation finds a grave!”
A fearful oath!—I thought; and so
Thought others, for a murmur low
Ran round the circle, till at length
The wondering feeling gathered strength,
And some, who had not known him long,
Declared them words of cruel wrong,
And swore to keep no friendly troth
With one who framed so hard an oath.
“You will not, mates?” the old man said,
His words so earnest, dense, and dread
That something down my back ran cold
As at the ghostly tales of old.
“You will not? Listen, then, a word!
And if, when you have fairly heard,
You say a thoughtless oath I swore,
I never fish beside you more!
“You know me, mates,—at least the most,—
From Barnegat, on Jersey coast.
’Tis time you listened something more,
That drove me to another shore.
“Twelve years ago, at noon of life,
I had a fond and faithful wife;
Two children,—boy and girl; a patch;
A drift-wood cabin roofed with thatch;
And thought myself the happiest man
The coast had known since time began.
“One night a large ship drove ashore
Not half a mile beyond my door.
I saw the white surf breaking far;
I saw her beating on the bar;
I knew she could not live one hour
By wood and iron’s strongest power.
“I was alone, except my boy,—
Sixteen,—my wife’s best hope and joy;
And who can doubt, that is not mad,
He was the proudest pride I had!
I let him take the vacant oar;
I took him with me from the shore;
I let him try help save a life:
I drowned him,—and it killed my wife!
“Somebody stole a cask or bale,
At least so ran the pleasant tale.
And while my boy was lying dead,
My wife’s last breath as yet unfled,
The city papers reeked with chat
Of ‘pirate bands on Barnegat.’
My name was branded as a thief,
When I was almost mad with grief;
And what d’ye think they made me feel,
When the last falsehood ground its heel,—
‘I had rowed out, that night, to steal!’
“No! if I ever row again
To save the lives of perilled men,
Body and soul at once go down,
And Heaven forget me as I drown!”
Henry Morford.
VIEW FROM WEST POINT, HUDSON RIVER.
OF the river scenery of America, the Hudson at West Point is doubtless the boldest and most beautiful. This powerful river writhes through the Highlands in abrupt curves, reminding one, when the tide runs strongly down, of Laocoön in the enlacing folds of the serpent. The different spurs of mountain ranges which meet here, abut upon the river in bold precipices from five to fifteen hundred feet from the water’s edge; the foliage hangs to them, from base to summit, with the tenacity and bright verdure of moss; and the stream below, deprived of the slant lights which brighten its depths elsewhere, flows on with a sombre and dark-green shadow on its bosom, as if frowning at the narrow gorge into which its broad-breasted waters are driven.
Back from the bluff of West Point extends a natural platform of near half a mile square, high, level, and beautifully amphitheatred with wood and rock. This is the site of the Military Academy, and a splendid natural parade. When the tents of the summer camp are shining on the field; the flag, with its blood-bright stripes, waving against the foliage of the hills; the trumpet echoing from bluff to bluff, and the compact battalion cutting its trim line across the green-sward,—there are few more fairy spots in this working-day world.
On the extreme edge of the summit, overlooking the river, stands a marble shaft, pointing like a bright finger to glory,—the tomb of the soldier and patriot Kosciusko. The military colleges and other buildings skirt the parade on the side of the mountain; and forward, toward the river, on the western edge, stands a spacious hotel, from the verandahs of which the traveller gets a view through the Highlands that he remembers till he dies. Right up before him, with the smooth curve of an eagle’s ascent, rises the “old cro’ nest” of the culprit Fay,—a bright green mountain, that thrusts its topmost pine into the sky; the Donderbarrak, or (if it is not sacrilege to translate so fine a name for a mountain), the Thunder-chamber, heaves its round shoulder beyond; back from the opposite shore, as if it recoiled from these, leans the bold cliff of Breknock; and then looking out, as if from a cavern, into the sun-light, the eye drops beyond upon a sheet of wide-spreading water, with an emerald island on its bosom; the white buildings of Newburg creeping back to the plains beyond, and in the far, far distance the wavy and blue line of the Catskills, as if it were the dim-seen edge of an outer horizon.
The passage through the Highlands at West Point still bears the old name of Wey-gat, or Wind-gate; and one of the prettiest moving dioramas conceivable is the working through the gorge of the myriad sailing-craft of the river. The sloops which ply upon the Hudson, by the way, are remarkable for their picturesque beauty, and for the enormous quantity of sail they carry on in all weathers; and nothing is more beautiful than the little fleets of from six to a dozen, all tacking or scudding together, like so many white sea-birds on the wing. Up they come, with a dashing breeze, under Anthony’s Nose and the Sugar-Loaf, and giving the rocky toe of West Point a wide berth, all down helm, and round into the bay; when—just as the peak of Crow Nest slides its shadow over the main-sail—slap comes the wind aback, and the whole fleet is in a flutter. The channel is narrow and serpentine, the wind baffling, and small room to beat; but the little craft are worked merrily and well; and dodging about, as if to escape some invisible imp in the air, they gain point after point, till at last they get the Donderbarrak behind them, and fall once more into the regular current of the wind.
WEST POINT.
Wild umbrage far around me clings
To breezy knoll and hushed ravine,
And o’er each rocky headland flings
Its mantle of refreshing green.
The echoes that so boldly rung
When cannon flashed from steep to steep,
And Freedom’s airy challenge flung,
In each romantic valley sleep.
His counsels here our chieftain breathed,
Here roved his mild, undaunted eye,
When yon lone fort, with thickets wreathed,
Held captive Britain’s gallant spy.
Fit home to rear a nation’s youth
By self-control to nerve the will,
Through knowledge gain expansive truth,
And with high aims life’s circle fill.
How grateful is the sudden change
From arid pavements to the grass,
From narrow streets that thousands range,
To meadows where June’s zephyrs pass!
Beneath the cliffs the river steals
In darksome eddies to the shore,
But midway every sail reveals,
Reflected on its crystal floor.
In tranquil mood the cattle walk
Along the verdant marge to feed,
While poised upon the mullein stalk
The chirping redbird picks the seed.
Low murmurs in the foliage bred,
The clear horizon’s azure line,
Fresh turf elastic to the tread,
And leafy canopies are thine.
White fleecy clouds move slowly by,
How cool their shadows fall to day!
A moment on the hills they lie,
And then like spirits glide away.
Amid the herbage, yesternight,
His web the cunning spider threw,
And now, as sparkling diamonds bright,
It glistens with the pendent dew.
Gay butterflies dart on and sink
O’er the sweet blossoms of the pea,
And from the clover’s globe of pink
Contented hums the downy bee.
In all this varied beauty glows
Deep meaning for the thoughtful heart,
As it were fain to teach repose,
And lofty confidence impart.
How vivid to my fancy now,
Uprise the forms that life redeem!
The ardent eye, the open brow,
And tender smile beside me seem.
For Nature’s presence gathers back
The deeds that grace, the loves that cheer,
And as her holy steps we track,
Hope’s rainbow breaks through sorrow’s tear.
Henry Theodore Tuckerman.
TOWN OF CATSKILL, HUDSON RIVER.
CATSKILL is more known as the landing-place for travellers bound to the mountains above, than for any remarkable events in its own history, or any singular beauties in itself. It is a thrifty town, in which the most prosperous vocations are those of inn-keeper and stage-proprietor; and during the summer months these two crafts at Catskill entertain and transport to the hotel on the mountain half the population of the United States,—more or less. The crowded steamers stop at the landing on their way up and down; and a busier scene than is presented on the wharf daily could not easily be found.
I have often thought, in passing, of the contrast between these numerous advents and the landing of Hendrick Hudson on this very spot, in his voyage of discovery up the river. He found here, he says, “a very loving people and a very old man,” by whom he and his crew were very kindly entertained. From the first step of a white man’s foot on the soil to the crowded rush of passengers from a steam-boat; from a savage wilderness to the height of civilization and science,—it is but a little more than two hundred years of rapid history. Compare the old Indian canoe in which Hudson went from his vessel to the land, with a steamer carrying on its deck near a thousand souls; compare the untutored population which then swarmed upon the shore, with the cultivated and refined crowds who come and go in thousands on the same spot,—and the contrast is as astonishing as the extinction of the aboriginal race is melancholy.
It is surprising how few details connected with the races that inhabited the older settlements of our country are reached even by the researches of Historical Societies. The materials for the future poets and historians of America are in this department singularly meagre, though it might almost be supposed that the very tracks of the retreating tribes might at this early day be still visible on the soil. Wherever any particulars of the intercourse between the first settlers and the Indians are preserved, they are highly curious, and often very diverting. In a book on the settlements of this country, written by Captain Nathaniel Uring, who visited it in 1709, there is an interesting story connected with the history of one of the forts, built, by permission of the Indians, to secure the settlers against sudden incursion.
“It happened one day,” says the Captain, relating the story as it was told to him by the Governor, “as the carpenter was cutting down a large timber-tree for the use of the fort, that great numbers of Indians stood round it, gazing, and admiring the wonderful dexterity of the carpenter, and greatly surprised at the manner of cutting it,—having, before the arrival of the Europeans, never seen an axe, or any such like tools. The carpenter, perceiving the tree ready to fall, gave notice to the Indians by language or signs to keep out of its reach when it fell; but either for want of understanding the carpenter, or by carelessness of the Indians, a branch of the tree in its fall struck one of them, and killed him; upon which they raised a great cry. The carpenter, seeing them much out of humor at the accident, made his escape into the fort; and soon after, the Indians gathered together in great numbers about it and demanded justice of the Europeans for the death of their brother, and desired to have the man who was the occasion of his being killed, that they might execute him, and revenge their brother’s death. The Governor endeavored to excuse the carpenter, by representing to them that he was not to blame; and told them that if their brother had observed the notice given him by the carpenter, he had not been hurt. But that answer would not satisfy the Indians; they increased their numbers about the fort, and nothing less than the execution of the carpenter would content them.
“The Europeans endeavored to spin out the time by treaty, and thought to appease them by presents, hoping those, and time together, might make them easy; but finding that would not do, and not being able longer to defend themselves against such numbers as besieged them, they consulted how to give the Indians satisfaction.
“The carpenter being a useful man, they considered that they could not spare him without the greatest inconvenience; but seeing there was an absolute necessity of doing something, they found out an expedient, which was this: There was in the fort an old weaver, who had been bed-rid a long time; they concluded to hang up the weaver, and make the Indians believe it was the carpenter.
“Having come to this resolution, the Governor let the Indians know that since nothing else would satisfy them, though their demand was unjust, yet to show them how ready they were to live in amity and friendship with them, in the morning they should see the carpenter hanging upon a certain tree in their view.
“In the night they carried the poor old weaver and hanged him in the room of the carpenter, which gave full satisfaction to the Indians; and they were again good friends.”
CATSKILL.
How reel the wildered senses at the sight!
How vast the boundless vision breaks in view!
Nor thought, nor word, can well depict the scene;
The din of toil comes faintly swelling up
From green fields far below; and all around
The forest sea sends up its ceaseless roar,
Like to the ocean’s everlasting chime.
Mountains on mountains in the distance rise
Like clouds along the far horizon’s verge,
Their misty summits mingling with the sky,
Till earth and heaven seem blended into one.
So far removed from toil and bustling care,
So far from earth, if heaven no nearer be,
And gazing, as a spirit, from mid-air
Upon the strife and tumult of the world,
Let me forget the cares I leave behind,
And with an humble spirit bow before
The Maker of these everlasting hills.
Bayard Taylor.
THE FERRY-BOAT.
Wrecks of clouds of a sombre gray,
Like the ribbed remains of a mastodon,
Were piled in masses along the west,
And a streak of red stretched over the sun.
I stood on the deck of the ferry-boat,
As the summer evening deepened to night,
Where the tides of the river ran darkling past
Through lengthening pillars of crinkled light.
The wind blew over the land and the waves
With its salt sea breath and a spicy balm,
And it seemed to cool my throbbing brain
And lend my spirit its gusty calm.
The forest of masts, the dark-hulled ships,
The twinkling lights, and the sea of men,—