Forest, Rock, and Stream A series of twenty steel line-engravings — Themes and Context

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!”

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.

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.”

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.

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,— I read the riddle of each and all, And I knew their inner meaning then.

For while the beautiful moon arose, And drifted the boat in her yellow beams, My soul went down the river of thought, That flows in the mystic land of dreams!

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

INDIAN FALL, NEAR COLD-SPRING.

(Opposite West Point.)

THIS is a secluded and delicious bit of Nature, hidden amid rocks and woods, on the shore of the Hudson, but possessing a refinement and an elegance in its wildness which would almost give one the idea that it was an object of beauty in some royal park. One of the most secret streams that feed this finest of our rivers finds its way down through a winding and almost trackless channel; and after fretting over rocks, and loitering in dark and limpid pools for several miles, it suddenly bursts out over a precipice of fifty feet, and fills with its clear waters the sheltered basin seen in the drawing. Immense trees overhang it on every side, and follow the stream still on in its course; and in the depth of summer the foaming current scarcely catches a ray of the sun from its source to its outlet. The floor of the basin below the Fall is pebbly, the water is clear and cool, the spot secluded, and in all respects Nature has formed it for a bath. A fair and famous lady, residing a summer or two since at West Point, was its first known Musidora; and the limpid and bright basin is already called after her name.

A large party visiting at a hospitable house where the artist and his travelling companion were entertained during the heat of the last summer, proposed to accompany him on his visit to the Indian Fall. Excursions on the banks of the Hudson are usually made in boats; but it was necessary to see some points of view from the hills between, and we walked out to the stables to see what could be done for vehicles and cattle. A farm wagon, with its tail up in the air, built after an old Dutch fashion which still prevails in New York,—a sort of loosely jointed, long, lumbering vehicle, which was meant to go over any rock smaller than a beer-barrel without upsetting,—was the only “consarn,” as the “help” called it, which would hold the party. With straw in the bottom, and straps put across from peg to peg, it would carry eleven, and the driver.

Horses were the next consideration; and here we were rather staggered. A vicious old mare, that kept a wheelwright and a surgeon in constant employ, and a powerful young colt half broken, were the only steeds in stable. However either might be made to go alone, they had never been tried together; and the double-wagon harness was the worse for service. The “help” suggested very sensibly that the load would be too heavy to run away with; and that if the mare kicked, or the colt bolted, or in short if anything happened except backing over a precipice, we had only to sit still and let them do their “darndest.”

We cobbled the harness in its weak spots, shook down the straw for the ladies, nailed up the tail-board, which had lost its rods, got the cattle in, and brought up quietly to the door. The ladies and the champagne were put in, and the colt was led off by the bit, shaking his head and catching up his hind leg; while the demure old mare drew off tamely and steadily, “never wicked,” as the ploughman said, “till you got her dander up with a tough hill.” The driver had a chain with a list bottom, and having had some practice in Charing Cross and Fleet Street fingered his reins and flourished his maple whip through the village, evidently not thinking himself or his driving _de la petite bière_.

The road, which followed the ridges of the superb hills skirting the river opposite West Point, was in some places scarce fit even for a bridlepath; and at every few paces came a rock, which we believed passable when we had surged over it,—not before. The two ill-matched animals drew to a wonder; and the ladies and the champagne had escaped all damage, till, as the enemy of mankind would have it, our ambitious whip saw stretching out before him a fair quarter of a mile of more even road. A slight touch of the whip sent off the colt in a jump, carrying away the off trace with the first spring; the old mare struck into a gallop, and with the broken trace striking against the colt’s heels, and the whippletree parallel with the pole, away they went as nearly in a tandem as the remaining part of the harness would allow. The tail-board soon flew off, and let out two unsuspecting gentlemen, who had placed their backs and their reliance upon it; and the screams of the ladies added what was wanting to raise the “dander” of the old mare to its most unpleasant climax. The straps gave way, the ladies rolled together in the straw, the driver tossed about on his list-bottomed chain, the champagne corks flew,—and presently, as if we were driven by a battering-ram against a wall, we brought up with a tremendous crash, and stood still. We had come to a sharp turn in the road; and the horses, unable to turn, had leaped a low stone wall, and breaking clear of everything left us on one side, while they thrashed the ripe wheat with the whippletrees on the other.

The ladies were undamaged, fortunately; and, with one champagne bottle saved from the wreck, we completed the excursion to the Fall on foot, and were too happy to return by water.

THE GRAVEYARD AT WEST POINT.

ON this sweet Sabbath morning, let us wander From the loud music and the gay parade, Where sleeps the graveyard in its silence yonder, Deep in the mountain shade.

There, side by side, the dark green cedars cluster Like sentries watching by that camp of Death; There, like an army’s tents, with snow-white lustre The gravestones gleam beneath.

But, as we go, no posted guard or picket Stays our approach across the level grass, Nor hostile challenge at the simple wicket Through which our footsteps pass.

Sweet spot, by Nature’s primal consecration Sacred to peace and thought and calm repose, Well in thy breast that elder generation Their place of burial chose.

And well, to-day, whene’er the sad procession Moves o’er the plain, with slow and measured tread, Within thy silent and secure possession The living leave the dead.