University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
THE JOURNEY.

On the twenty-fifth day of April, in the year
one thousand eight hundred and ten, Major Willoughby,
with his two children, commenced their
journey. Willoughby and Amelia rode in a light
covered waggon, drawn by a pair of young bay
mares, and driven by a lad who had, for some

time, served them in capacity of cowherd and
ostler. George was mounted on a spirited black
gelding, which his father had given him on his
last birth-day.

The morning was fine, and the early flowers of
spring were here and there peeping through the
tender verdure that covered the earth. Their
course was nearly east, and the sun, just emerging
from the dusky forests before them, seemed a
golden beacon to direct them. All nature was
awake, vivified, and happy. The sound of the
axe was heard from the woods, and every thicket
was vocal with the matins of their feathered
tenants. Our hero and his courser were both
elated, and the whole party alive to the beauties
around them. On the left, further than the eye
could reach, was spread the unruffled waters of
Erie, and on the right, the scene was pleasingly
diversified with farms and cottages, leafy groves,
and lengthened prairies, cornfields and orchards,
hills and vallies. The lilac was in bloom, and
its fragrance sweetened the air.

They stopped to take leave of Fleming, whom
they found alone in his garden; his wife and
daughter were gone to the village, so that George,
Catharine, and Amelia, were spared the pain of
a formal parting. George dismounted and entered
the house, where he found his old tutor
playing his favorite Ad ccoidreac ma bin tu. They
parted with mutual regret.

The travellers proceeded on their journey.
As they ascended a little eminence which was
soon to conceal from their view the dear scenes
of their childhood, George and Amelia often
looked back, while various recollections crowded
on their susceptible minds. The road began to

descend, and the party continued sunk in musing
silence for several miles. The major first awoke,
struck with the wonderful improvements which
the country exhibited.

Fourteen years before, he had travelled over
the same tract, when scarce a mark of civilization
cheered his solitary way. Then, journeying with
pack-horses, his party could scarcely penetrate
the dark and tangled forests, or ford the impetuous
streams. Now all was changed. A good
road was levelled before them, and the streams
were arched with substantial bridges. He was
prepared to behold a great alteration, but it far
exceeded his anticipations. The yell of the
savage had given place to the cheerful note of
industry; the solitary canoe of the Indian was no
longer seen stealing along the bank of a river in
quest of his game; but instead thereof, vessels of
considerable magnitude, loaded with the produce
of the soil, were sailing majestically towards the
lake, destined for the Canadian market.

They had provided a stock of provisions in the
carriage, as a remedy against the probable
scarcity of inns on this unfrequented road, so
that they might take refreshment on any pleasant
spot, in the open air; but for lodging they depended
on the hospitality of the scattered settlers.

Soon after mid-day they reached the banks of
Chagrin River, on which they found a most beautiful
spot, where they alighted for refreshment and
repose. A spring of pure water gushed from the
foot of a rock, and after meandering over a path
of gravel, fell into the bosom of the river. A natural
shelf, on the side of this rock, served them
for a table, and banks of moss furnished them
with seats far richer than velvet. Their repast

was moistened with some exhilirating American
wine, from the vineyards of New-Switzerland,
in the Indiana Territory, where the enterprising
Swiss emigrants had been very successful in its
manufacture. At a short distance below them
was a fine farm, and an orchard of thriving fruit
trees; herds of cattle were seen reposing in the
shade, or browzing in the thicket; the rapid
clicking of a distant mill, serenaded them on one
hand, and the tinkling of a sheep-bell was heard
on the other.

After finishing their meal, and feeding their
horses, they resumed their journey along the
banks of this rapid stream, to an indifferent
bridge, on which they crossed, and travelled onward
through a country more thickly settled
than any they had yet passed, since leaving the
vicinity of Cayahoga. Lake Erie was no longer
visible, the road lying about three miles from its
shores; but the sylvan prospect still continued
delightful. In a few hours they reached the bank
of Grand-River, where they found a commodious
inn, at which they determined to pass the night.

Here they met with a venerable old missionary
from New-England, who had been on a visit to
New-Salem, a Moravian settlement of Christian
Indians, on the western bank of Huron-River,
about forty miles from Mulberry-Grove. He was
now on his return, but had been detained several
days at Grand-River, by an attack of the fever
and ague. He was, however, so far recovered,
as to be able to proceed in company with the Willoughby
party, who resumed their journey on the
following morning.

Their road lay along the left bank of the river,
to the lake shore, of which they now had a beautiful

and uninterrupted view. Here they crossed
the river on a handsome wooden bridge, and proceeded
along the margin of the lake, on a road of
sand—level, smooth, and so firm, that their
horses feet left no traces in its unyielding surface.

The morning was clear and beautiful, the lake
unruffled, and the road delightful. High on their
right, rose the almost inaccessible bank, like a
wall or parapet, varying in its height from thirty
to seventy feet, and extending, both before and
behind them, as far as the eye could reach. For
above fourteen miles no human habitation saluted
their view.

The good old missionary was a valuable acquisition
to the party; his conversation was improving
and entertaining, and he appeared to be perfectly
well acquainted with the road they were
travelling; describing every prominent feature of
the country, between Cleveland and Erie. He
gave his companions a brief history of the people
to whom he had been preaching, and related
many ancedotes which had occurred during his
stay among them. He also described many natural
curiosities, and Indian antiquities, which he
had visited and inspected; among the latter, he
mentioned the numerous remains of ancient fortifications,
with which the western country abounds,
burrows for the dead, images, inscriptions, and
curious utensils. The most of these, however,
were familiar to his auditors.

“The fortified camps,” observed the missionary.
“I consider the greatest curiosity of all, and
am sometimes almost induced to believe that nations
have existed in this country, all traces of
whom are now lost. At any rate, we are certain
that the erection of such works as those appear

to have been, was never the result of savage ingenuity
or labor. What is your opinion, Major?”

“On this subject,” replied Willoughby, “conjecture
may weary itself in vain. At what period,
by what people, and for what purpose, these
works were constructed, no one living can inform
us. The oldest natives have lost all tradition
respecting them, and their history must for ever
lie buried in oblivion.”

“One tradition respecting them,” replied the
missionary, “is yet extant among the tribe with
whom I have been residing. It is by them believed,
that some thousand moons ago, their forefathers
had become so monstrously degenerate,
and abominably wicked, that the Great Spirit
sent an entirely new species of beasts among
them, which destroyed them by thousands; and
their description of these animals exactly corresponds
with the skeleton of the mammoth, several
of which, you know, have been dug up in different
parts of the western country. The number of
these monsters, they say, was small, but their
size and strength so prodigious, that a whole
family would scarcely serve as a breakfast for the
least of them; and such was the extent of their
ravages, that the world was rapidly becoming
depopulated.

“In the midst of the general consternation,
one old sachem alone, esteemed by his tribe as a
prophet, appeared cool, collected, and undismayed.
He had often exhorted them to abstain
from their enormities, and had predicted the punishment
which their evil deeds were drawing upon
their devoted race. But they heeded him not,
until too fatally convinced of their folly. He
now preached to them with more effect and success,

and persuaded them to repent of their misdeeds,
reform their lives, and boldly unite in a
system of defence against the common enemy,
instead of deserting their wigwams, and leaving
their squaws and papooses a prey to the ruthless
devourers. They listened to his remonstrances,
and all united in the work of defence, with so
much industry and zeal, that in a few days a hundred
of these forts were erected and provisioned,
into which they all retreated on the next approach
of the enemy, and there sustained a regular siege,
until their besiegers famished for the want of
food.”

“And could not those mighty animals carry such
a fortress by storm?” asked George with a smile.

“I think not,” replied the missionary. “If
you ever visit Peale's Museum, in Philadelphia,
and examine the skeleton of the mammoth, you
will think so too. He must have been even more
unwieldy than the elephant, which, I believe,
has never been celebrated for his agility in leaping.
No, sir; allowing the tradition to be
founded on fact, the poor mammoth must have
stood gazing wishfully over the wall, and starved
with plenty in view. They say that he was
created expressly to prey on man, and that human
flesh was his only food. If such was the
case, he must have circumambulated the parapet
in despair; feasting his eyes with dainties, which
were beyond the reach of his jaws.”

“If it was thus that the race became extinct,
how happens it,” asked George, “that their
bones are not always found near these fortifications?”

“That is also accounted for,” returned the
missionary. “It is supposed that many of them,

as a last resort, applied to the salt-licks for relief,
and there expired; and it is thought by some,
that all wild animals resort thither, merely for the
medicinal virtues contained in the salt. One late
traveller, indeed, has gone so far as to assert that
the air of this state is `impregnated with a poisonous
exhalation, so offensive, even to the brute
creation, as to compel them to migrate several
hundred miles, annually, in search of an antidote,
which he takes to be the real cause of their
visits to the salt-licks and springs.”

“The travels of Mr. Ashe,” replied Willoughby,
“lately published in some of the eastern
states, from which your quotation is made, is
a work calculated to give very erroneous impressions
to the minds of foreigners, and for that purpose
alone was it written; a pitiful attempt,
among many others, to arrest the current of emigration.
We who reside in the regions he affects
to describe, know the work to be a tissue of falsehood
and contradiction, and I lament the prostitution
of that press through which it has gained its
ephemeral existence.”

“You express yourself, sir, rather warmly on
the subject,” observed the missionary; “but I
agree with you in opinion; and could easily point
out to your recollection a gross libel for every
page. The investigation, however, would furnish
no reward for the trouble.”

By this time our travellers had reached an
aperture in the palisade which led into the country,
and a plantation opened on their view. Here
they stopped to feed their horses, and partake
of some refreshment. They then again set forward,
still pursuing their journey along the banks
of the lake, and, about sun-set, arrived at Ashtabula-River,

which they crossed in a large flat-bottomed
boat, and were hospitably entertained,
at the boatman's house, on the opposite bank.

On the morning they resumed their journey,
and, after travelling about seventeen miles, entered
the state of Pennsylvania. Here the country
gradually became more elevated, the settlements
more numerous, and the roads far better.
Towards the close of the day, they reached a
beautiful turnpike, which led them to the town of
Erie, where they arrived at about eight o'clock
in the evening.

Here Major Willoughby found a distant relation,
with whom he had frequently corresponded,
and who was so rejoiced to see the party, that he
insisted on their spending a week at his house.
This invitation was, however, declined, and
after reposing two days beneath his hospitable
roof, and taking leave of their fellow traveller,
they again set forward, and arrived at Maysville,
a thriving little village at the head of Chataque
Lake, in the state of New-York. This
beautiful lake is about eighteen miles in length,
and about three in width, surrounded by groves
of oak, chesnut, and hickory, here and there interspersed
with cottages and farms; the face of
the country agreeably undulated with gentle
swells and fertile vallies, and well watered with
springs and brooks.

On the following morning they left this village,
and proceeded, on an indifferent road, towards
Bath, a post-town in Steuben county, a distance
of more than one hundred miles, which they
reached on the third day, at noon, and where they
again enjoyed a few hours' repose. From Bath
they travelled through Catharine's Town to Ithaea,

a small village of about fifty houses, near the
south end of Cayuga Lake. Here they reposed
one night, and then proceeded, on a fine new
turnpike, to Owego, a considerable town in
Broome county, where they dined, and arrived
at Unadilla late in the evening. This was the
most pleasant route they had yet travelled, being
along the banks of the Susquehanna River,
abounding with beautiful and romantic scenery.

The next morning they continued their course
on the Appian Way Turnpike, which stretches
among the lofty hills through which the Susquehanna
flows, and crossed that delightful stream
at the Great Bend, where stands a handsome little
village; then travelled through the valley formed
by the Salt Lick Creek, and left the river far behind
them. After crossing the north-east corner
of Pennsylvania state, and the river Delaware,
they slept at Bethel, in Sullivan County. On the
following evening they arrived at the village of
Newburgh, pleasantly situated on the bank of the
majestic Hudson.

Here the major sold his rustic equipage, and
George was, with great reluctance, persuaded
to part with his favorite horse. The mode of travelling,
however, in this part of the country, had
become so easy and delightful, that the remainder
of their journey required no such auxiliaries.
They embarked on board of the North River
Steam-boat, on the following morning, for New-York.

The admiration of our back-woods party was
considerably excited on seeing the “huge canoe”
propelled along by the irresistible power of
steam; but their attention was soon diverted from
the wonders of art to the beauties of nature, who

appears to have chosen the borders of this stream
for the boldest strokes of her pencil. The rude
and solitary grandeur of West-Point, inspired
George and Amelia with ideas of sublimity which
the shores of Lake Erie had never suggested.
With the rocks near the mouth of Cayahoga,[1]
which for several miles project over the lake,
rising seventy feet perpendicular from the water,
they were indeed familiar; but their effect was
not so striking as that produced by the present
scene. What they now beheld was a fit subject
for the pencil of a Salvator, or the pen of a Radcliffe:

To Willoughby the scene was familiar, and
recalled to his mind events that were long past,
while he pointed out the interesting objects to his
children. There stood the fortress from whose
impregnable walls the storm of war was rolled
back upon our invaders; where the traitor Arnold
plotted his country's ruin, and where the patriot
Washington toiled for her safety. The narrator's
bosom glowed with sensations to which he had
for some time been a stranger, and the manly
tear trembled in his noble eye.

As they glided along between these stupendous
piles of mountains, a kind of silent awe insensibly
crept through the hearts of our admiring
young strangers; a feeling which the sullen majesty
of the scene is admirably fitted to inspire.

The “banner of freedom” was waving in the
clouds, above the frowning ramparts of Fort
Clinton; and George's bosom bounded with a
sudden glow of enthusiasm as it caught his eye.
At that moment the distant roll of the drum floated
to his ear, and he shouted his feelings in a rapturous
huzza!

As they proceeded down the river, his father
pointed out the spot where the Vulture, a British
sloop of war, had been stationed, to facilitate the
treasonable negociations of Arnold, and where
the unfortunate Major Andre had been landed to
communicate with the traitor. Fortunately for
America, but unhappily for the gallant Andre,
the Vulture shifted her position while he was on
shore, and the boatmen refused to conduct him on
board, as she lay exposed to the fire of a cannon
which had been sent to annoy her. In attempting
to effect his escape by land, he was taken, and
suffered death as a spy. Arnold escaped on
board the Vulture, and was conveyed to New-York,
then occupied by the enemy.

In a few hours our travellers found themselves
in the first commercial city in the United States,
where they tarried long enough to adapt their
costume to the prevailing fashion, to visit the
public places of amusement, and to inspect every
object calculated to excite or gratify curiosity.
On the twentieth day of May they embarked on
board a New-England packet, and after a pleasant
voyage of twelve hours, arrived at Newport,
in the state of Rhode-Island.