 | The new mirror for travellers and guide to the
springs |  |
WEST POINT.
“If the traveller,” observes Alderman Janson, “intends
stopping here to visit the military academy, and
its admirable superintendent, I advise him to make his
will, before he ventures into the landing boat. That
more people have not been drowned, in this adventurous
experiment, can only be accounted for on the supposition
that miracles are growing to be but every day matters.
passengers from steam boats, but it is a singular fact
that laws will not execute themselves notwithstanding all
the wisdom of the legislature. Not that I mean to find
fault with the precipitation with which people and luggage
are tumbled together into the boat, and foisted ashore at
the rate of fifteen miles an hour. At least five minutes
is saved in this way in the passage to Albany, and so
much added to the delights of the tourist, who is thereby
enabled to spend five minutes more at the springs. Who
would not risk a little drowning, and a little scalding for
such an object? Certainly the most precious of all commodities
is time, especially to people who dont know
what to do with it, except indeed it be money to a miser
who never spends any. It goes to my heart to find fault
with any thing in this best of all possible worlds, where
the march of mind is swifter than a race horse or a steam
boat, and goes hand in hand with the progress of public
improvement, like Darby and Joan, or Jack and Gill,
blessing this fortunate generation, and preparing the way
for a world of steam engines, spinning jennies, and machinery:
insomuch that there would be no use at all for
such an animal as man in this world any more, if steam
engines and spinning jennies would only make themselves.
But the reader will I trust excuse me this once,
for venturing to hint with a modesty that belongs to my
nature, that all this hurry—this racing—this tumbling of
men, women, children and baggage into a boat, helter
skelter—and sending them ashore at the risk of their
lives—might possibly be excusable if it were done for
the public accommodation. But the fact is not so. It
to run down a rival boat, and get all, instead of
sharing with others. The public accommodation requires
that boats should go at different times of the day,
yet they prefer starting at the same hour; nay, the same
moment; eager to sweep off the passengers along the
river, and risking the lives of people at West Point, that
they may take up the passengers at Newburgh. The
truth is, in point of ease and comfort, convenience and
safety, the public is not now half so well off, as during
the existence of what the said public was persuaded to
call a great grievance—the exclusive right of Mr.
Fulton.
“There is a most comfortable hotel at West Point,
kept by Mr. Cozens, a most obliging and good humoured
man, to whom we commend all our readers, with an assurance
that they need not fear being cozened by him.
Nothing can be more interesting than the situation of
West Point, the grand object to which it is devoted, and
the magnificent views it affords in all directions. If
there be any inspiration in the sublime productions of
nature, or if the mind as some believe, receives an impulse
or direction from local situation, there is not perhaps
in the world, a spot more favourable to the production
of a race of heroes, and men of science. Secluded
from the effeminate, or vitious allurements of cities, both
mind and body, preserve a vigorous strength and freshness,
eminently favourable to the development of each
without enfeebling either. Manly studies and manly
exercise go hand in hand, and manly sentiments are the
natural consequence. Their bodies are invigorated by
strengthened, expanded and purified by the acquirement
of those high branches of science, those graces of literature,
and those elegant accomplishments, which when all
combined constitute the complete man. No one whose
mind is susceptible of noble emotions, can see these fine
young fellows going through their exercises on the plain
of West Point, to the sound of the bugle repeated by a
dozen echoes of the mountains, while all the magnificence
of nature combines to add beauty and dignity to the scene
and the occasion, without feeling his bosom swell and
glow with patriotic pride.
“If these young men require an example to warn or
to stimulate, they will find it in the universal execration
heaped upon the name, and the memory of Benedict
Arnold, contrasted with the reverential affection, that
will forever descend to the latest posterity as an heirloom,
with which every American pronounces the name
of Washington. It was at West Point that Arnold betrayed
his country and it was on the hills opposite West
Point, that Washington, wintered with his army, during
the most gloomy period of our revolution, rendered still
more gloomy by the treason of Arnold, so happily frustrated
by the virtue of the American yeomanry. The
remains of the huts are still to be seen on Redoubt Hill,
and its vicinity, and there is a fine spring on the banks of a
brook, nigh by, to this day called Washington's, from
being the spring whence the water was procured for his
drinking. It issues from the side of a bank, closely
embowered with trees and is excessively cold. The
old people in the vicinity who generally live a hundred
the attention of inquirers to it, with a feeling than
which nothing can more affectingly indicate the depth
of that devotion implanted in the heart of America
for her good father. Close to the spring are two
of the prettiest little cascades to be found any where.
Indeed the whole neighbourhood abounds in beautiful
views and romantic associations, worthy the pen or pencil,
and it is worth while to cross over in a boat from
West Point to spend a morning here in rambling,
during which the West Point foundry, the most complete
establishment of its kind in the new world, may
be visited.”
On the opposite side of the river from West Point, and
about two miles distant, lies Cold Spring, a pleasant
thriving little village, from whence, to Fishkill, is perhaps
the pleasantest ride in the whole country. A road
has been made along the foot of the mountains. On
one hand it is washed by the river—on the other overhung
by Bull and Breakneck Hills, whose bases
have been blown up in many places to afford room for it
to pass. The prospects on every hand are charming,
and at the turning at the base of Breakneck Hill, there
opens to the north and northwest a view, which when
seen will not soon be forgotten
Nearly opposite Cold Spring, at the foot of two mountains
inaccessible except from the river, lies the City of
Faith—a city by brevet; founded by an enterprising
person, with the intention of cutting out Washington,
and making it the capital of the United States—and
indeed of the new world. He has satisfied himself
point of navigation, to the great Northern Pacific, and
contemplates a rail road, from thence to the mouth of
Columbia River. This must necessarily concentrate
the intercourse on this fortunate spot. After which his
intention is to dig down the Crow's Nest and Butter Hill,
or decompose the rocks with vinegar, in order that travellers
may get at his emporium, by land, without breaking
their necks. He has already six inhabitants to
begin with, and wants nothing to the completion of this
great project, but a bank—a subscription of half a
dozen millions from the government—a loan of “the
credit of the state,” for about as much, and a little more
faith in the people. We think the prospect quite cheering,
and would rejoice in the prospective glories of the
City of Faith, were it not for the apprehension that it
will prove fatal to the Ohio and Chesapeake Canal, and
swallow up the Mamakating and Lacawaxan. This
business of founding cities in America is considered a
mere trifle. They make a great noise about Romulus
the founder of Rome, and Peter the founder of St. Petersburg!
We knew a man who had founded twelve
great cities, some of which like Rome are already in
ruins, and yet he never valued himself on that account.
As you emerge from the Highlands, a noble vista expands
itself gradually to the view. The little towns of
New Cornwall, New Windsor, and Newburgh, are
seen in succession along the west bank of the river,
which here as if rejoicing at its freedom from the mountain
barrier expands itself into a wide bay, with Fishkill
and Matteawan on the east, and the three little towns
on the west, the picturesque shores of which rise gradually
northwest by the blue summits of the Kaatskill Mountains.
Into this bay on the east enters Fishkill Creek,
a fine stream which waters some of the richest and most
beautiful vallies of Dutchess County. Approaching the
Hudson, it exhibits several picturesque little cascades,
which have lately been spoiled by dams and manufactories,
those atrocious enemies to all picturesque beauty,
as the prize poet exclaims in a fine burst of enthusiasm
—poetical enthusiasm, consisting in swearing roundly.
Who d—d a stream by damming it the first!”
On the west and nearly opposite, enters Murderer's
Creek, which after winding its way through the delightful
vale of Canterbury, as yet unvisited and undescribed,
by tourist or traveller, tumbles over a villanous
mill dam into the river. If the traveller has a mind for
a beautiful ride in returning from the springs, let him
land at Newburgh, and follow the turnpike road through
the village of Canterbury, on to the Clove, a pass of the
great range of mountains, through which the Ramapo
plunges its way, among the rocks. The ride through
this pass is highly interesting, and the spot where the
Ramapo emerges from the southern side of the mountains
and joining the Mauwy, courses its way through a
narrow vale of exquisite beauty, till it is lost in the
Pompton Plains in the river of that name, is highly
worthy of attention. The roads are as good as usual,
but the accommodations are not the best in the world,
and those who love good eating and good beds, better
than nature's beauties, (among which we profess ourselves,)
this route by way of variety, must by no means forget
the good house of Mynheer Roome at Pompton village,
famed in song, where they will meet with mortal store
of good things; sweetmeats of divers sorts, cakes innumerable
and unutterable, and hear the Dutch language
spoken in all its original purity, with the true Florentine
accent.
But let the traveller beware of talking to him about
turnpikes, rail ways or canals, all which he abhorreth.
In particular avoid the subject of the Morris Canal,
at the very name of which Mynheer's pipe will be seen
to pour forth increasing volumes of angry smoke, and
like another Vesuvius, he will disgorge whole torrents
of red hot Dutch lava. In truth Mynheer Roome has
an utter contempt for modern improvements, and we
dont know but he is half right—“Dey always cost more
dan dey come to,” he says, and those who contemplate
the sober primitive independence of the good Mynheer,
and see his fat cattle, his fat negroes, and his fat self,
encompassed by rich meadows, and smiling fields, all
unaided by the magic of modern improvements, will be
apt to think with Mynheer “dat one half dese tings dey
call improvements,” add little if any, to human happiness,
or domestic independence.
Within a couple of hundred yards of Mynheer Roome's
door, the Pompton, Ramapo and Ringwood, three little
rivers, in whose very bottoms you can see your face
unite their waters, gathered from the hills to the north
and west, and assuming the name of the first, wind
through the extensive plain in many playful meanders,
disappear, through a break in the hills towards the
south. From Pompton there is a good road to Hoboken,
by diverging a little from which, the traveller may
visit the falls of Passaic, which were once the pride
of nature, who has lately resigned them to her rival art
and almost disowns them now. But it is high time to
return to Murderer's Creek and Canterbury Vale, which
hath been sung by the prize poet so often quoted, in the
following strains, which partake of the true mystical
metaphysical sublime.
I met twelve hay cocks in a fury,
When as I gaz'd a hieroglyphic bat
Skimm'd o'er the zenith in a slip shod hat.”
an idea of the singular charms of this vale, as from
most descriptions in prose or verse.
The name of Murderer's Creek is said to be derived
from the following incidents.
Little more than a century ago, the beautiful region
watered by this stream, was possessed by a small tribe
of indians, which has long since become extinct or been
incorporated with some other savage nation of the west.
Three or four hundred yards from where the stream discharges
itself into the Hudson, a white family of the
name of Stacey, had established itself, in a log house,
by tacit permission of the tribe, to whom Stacey had
made himself useful by his skill in a variety of little arts
highly estimated by the savages. In particular a friendship
Naoman, who often came to his house and partook of
his hospitality. The indians never forgive injuries or
forget benefits. The family consisted of Stacey, his
wife, and two children, a boy and girl, the former five,
the latter three years old.
One day Naoman, came to Stacey's log hut,
in his absence, lighted his pipe and sat down.
He looked very serious, sometimes sighed deeply,
but said not a word. Stacey's wife asked him what
was the matter, and if he was sick. He shook his
head, sighed, but said nothing, and soon went away.
The next day he came again, and behaved in the same
manner. Stacey's wife began to think strange of this,
and related it to her husband, who advised her to urge
the old man to an explanation the next time he came.
Accordingly when he repeated his visit the day after, she
was more importunate than usual. At last the old
indian said, “I am a red man, and the pale faces are
our enemies—why should I speak?” But my husband
and I are your friends; you have eaten salt with us a
thousand times, and my children have sat on your knee
as often. If you have any thing on your mind tell it
me. “It will cost me my life if it is known, and the
white-faced women are not good at keeping secrets,”
replied Naoman. Try me, and see. “Will you swear
by your Great Spirit, you will tell none but your husband?”
I have none else to tell. “But will you
swear?” I do swear by our Great Spirit, I will tell
none but my husband. “Not if my tribe should kill
for not telling.
Naoman then proceeded to tell her that, owing to
some encroachments of the white people below the
mountains, his tribe had become irritated, and were resolved
that night to massacre all the white settlers within
their reach. That she must send for her husband,
inform him of the danger, and as secretly and speedily
as possible take their canoe, and paddle with all haste
over the river to Fishkill for safety. “Be quick, and
do nothing that may excite suspicion,” said Naoman as
he departed. The good wife sought her husband, who
was down on the river fishing, told him the story, and
as no time was to be lost, they proceeded to their boat,
which was unluckily filled with water. It took some
time to clear it out, and meanwhile Stacey recollected
his gun which had been left behind. He proceeded to
the house and returned with it. All this took up considerable
time, and precious time it proved to this poor
family.
The daily visits of old Naoman, and his more than
ordinary gravity, had excited suspicion in some of the
tribe, who had accordingly paid particular attention to
the movements of Stacey. One of the young indians
who had been kept on the watch, seeing the whole family
about to take their boat, ran to the little indian village,
about a mile off, and gave the alarm. Five indians
collected, ran down to the river side where their
canoes were moored, jumped in, and paddled after
Stacey, who by this time had got some distance out into
the stream. They gained on him so fast, that twice he
prevented his shooting, by telling him, that if he fired,
and they were afterwards overtaken, they would meet no
mercy from the indians. He accordingly refrained,
and plied his paddle, till the sweat rolled in big drops
down his forehead. All would not do; they were overtaken
within a hundred yards of the shore, and carried
back with shouts of yelling triumph.
When they got ashore, the indians set fire to Stacey's
house, and dragged himself, his wife and children,
to their village. Here the principal old men, and Naoman
among the rest, assembled to deliberate on the
affair. The chief among them, stated that some one of
the tribe had undoubtedly been guilty of treason, in apprising
Stacey the white man of the designs of the
tribe, whereby they took the alarm, and had well nigh
escaped. He proposed to examine the prisoners, as to
who gave the information. The old men assented to
this; and Naoman among the rest. Stacey was first
interrogated by one of the old men, who spoke English,
and interpreted to the others. Stacey refused to betray
his informant. His wife was then questioned, while at
the same moment, two indians stood threatening the
two children with tomahawks in case she did not confess.
She attempted to evade the truth, by declaring that
she had a dream the night before which had alarmed
her, and that she had persuaded her husband to fly.
“The Great Spirit never deigns to talk in dreams to a
white face,” said the old indian: “Woman, thou hast
two tongues and two faces. Speak the truth, or thy
children shall surely die.” The little boy and girl were
over them, ready to execute their bloody orders.
“Wilt thou name,” said the old indian, “the red man
who betrayed his tribe. I will ask thee three times.”
The mother answered not. “Wilt thou name the traitor?
This is the second time.” The poor mother
looked at her husband, and then at her children, and
stole a glance at Naoman, who sat smoking his pipe
with invincible gravity. She wrung her hands and
wept; but remained silent. “Wilt thou name the
traitor? 'tis the third and last time.” The agony of the
mother waxed more bitter; again she sought the eye of
Naoman, but it was cold and motionless; a pause of a
moment awaited her reply, and the next moment the
tomahawks were raised over the heads of the children,
who besought their mother not to let them be murdered.
“Stop,” cried Naoman. All eyes were turned upon
him. “Stop,” repeated he, in a tone of authority.
“White woman, thou hast kept thy word with me to
the last moment. I am the traitor. I have eaten of
the salt, warmed myself at the fire, shared the kindness
of these Christian white people, and it was I that told
them of their danger. I am a withered, leafless, branchless
trunk; cut me down if you will. I am ready.” A
yell of indignation sounded on all sides. Naoman descended
from the little bank where he sat, shrouded his
face with his mantle of skins and submitted to his fate.
He fell dead at the feet of the white woman by a blow
of the tomahawk.
But the sacrifice of Naoman, and the firmness of the
Christian white woman, did not suffice to save the lives
to say; and the memory of their fate has been preserved
in the name of the pleasant stream on whose
banks they lived and died, which to this day is called
Murderer's Creek.
| The new mirror for travellers and guide to the
springs | |