 | Letters from New York |  |
LETTER XXV.
Last week, for a single day, I hid myself in the green
sanctuary of Nature; and from the rising of the sun till the
going down of the moon, took no more thought of cities,
than if such excrescences never existed on the surface of
the globe. A huge wagon, traversing our streets, under
the midsummer sun, bearing in immense letters, the words,
Ice from Rockland Lake, had frequently attracted my
attention, and become associated with images of freshness
and romantic beauty. Therefore, in seeking the country
for a day, I said our course should be up the Hudson, to
Rockland Lake. The noontide sun was scorching, and our
heads were dizzy with the motion of the boat; but these
inconviences, so irksome at the moment, are faintly traced
on the tablet of memory. She engraves only the beautiful
in lasting characters; for beauty alone is immortal and divine.
We stopped at Piermont, on the widest part of Tappan
bay, where the Hudson extends itself to the width of three
miles. On the opposite side, in full view from the Hotel,
is Tarrytown, where poor Andre was captured. Tradition
says, that a very large white-wood tree, under which he
was taken, was struck by lightning, on the very day that
news of Arnold's death was received at Tarrytown. As I
sat gazing on the opposite woods, dark in the shadows of
moonlight, I thought upon how very slight a circumstance
often depends the fate of individuals, and the destiny of
nations. In the autumn of 1780, a farmer chanced to be
making cider at a mill, on the east bank of the Hudson,
near that part of Haverstraw Bay, called “Mother's Lap.”
Two young men, carrying muskets, as usual in those
seated themselves on a log to wait for it. The farmer found
them looking very intently on some distant object, and inquired
what they saw. “Hush! hush!” they replied;
“The red coats are yonder, just within the Lap,” pointing
to an English gun boat, with twenty-four men, lying on
their oars. Behind the shelter of a rock they fired into the
boat, and killed two persons. The British, returned a
random shot; but ignorant of the number of their opponents,
and seeing that it was useless to waste ammunition on a
hidden foe, they returned whence they came, with all possible
speed. This boat had been sent to convey Major
Andre to the British sloop-of-war, Vulture, then lying at
anchor off Teller's point. Shortly after, Andre arrived,
and finding the boat gone, he, in attempting to proceed
through the interior, was captured. Had not those men
stopped to drink sweet cider, it is probable that Andre
would not have been hung; the American revolution might
have terminated in quite different fashion; men now deified
as heroes, might have been handed down to posterity as
traitors; our citizens might be proud of claiming descent from
tories; and slavery have been abolished eight years ago,
by virtue of our being British colonies. So much may depend
on a draught of cider! But would England herself
have abolished slavery, had it not been for the impulse given
to free principles by the American revolution? Probably
not. It is not easy to calculate the consequences involved
even in a draught of cider; for no fact stands alone; each
has infinite relations.
A very pleasant ride at sunset brought us to Orangetown,
to the lone field where Major Andre was executed. It is
planted with potatoes, but the plough spares the spot on which
was once his gallows and his grave. A rude heap of stones,
with the remains of a dead fir tree in the midst, are all that
mark it; but tree and stones are covered with names. It
miles. I gazed on the surrounding woods, and remembered
that on this self same spot, the beautiful and accomplished
young man walked back and forth, a few minutes preceding
his execution, taking an earnest farewell look of earth and
sky. My heart was sad within me. Our guide pointed to
a house in full view, at half a mile's distance, which he
told us was at that time the head-quarters of General Washington.
I turned my back suddenly upon it. The last
place on earth where I would wish to think of Washington,
is at the grave of Andre. I know that military men not
only sanction, but applaud the deed; and reasoning according
to the maxims of war, I am well aware how much can
be said in its defence. That Washington considered it a
duty, the discharge of which was most painful to him, I
doubt not. But, thank God, the instincts of my childhood
are unvitiated by any such maxims. From the first hour I
read of the dead, until the present day, I never did, and
never could, look upon it as otherwise than cool, deliberate
murder. That the theory and practice of war commends
the transaction, only serves to prove the infernal nature of
war itself.
Milton (stern moralist as he was, in many respects)
maintains, in his “Christian Doctrine,” that falsehoods are
sometimes not only allowable, but necessary. “It is
scarcely possible,” says he, “to execute any of the artifices
of war without openly uttering the greatest untruths,
with the undisputable intention of deceiving.” And because
war requires lies, we are told by a Christian moralist that
lies must, therefore, be lawful! It is observable that Milton
is obliged to defend the necessity of falsehoods in the same
way that fighting is defended; he makes many references
to the Jewish scriptures, but none to the Christian. Having
established his position, that wilful, deliberate deception
was a necessary ingredient of war, it is strange, indeed,
inference that war itself must be evil. It would have been
so, had not the instincts of heart and conscience been perverted
by the maxims of men, and the customs of that fierce
period.
The soul may be brought into military drill service, like
the limbs of the body; and such a one, perchance, might
stand on Andre's grave, and glory in his capture; but I
would rather suffer his inglorious death, than attain to such
a state of mind.
A few years ago, the Duke of York requested the British
consul to send the remains of Major Andre to England.
At that time, two thriving firs were found near the grave,
and a peach tree, which a lady in the neighbourhood had
planted there, in the kindness of her heart. The farmers,
who came to witness the interesting ceremony, generally
evinced the most respectful tenderness for the memory of
the unfortunate dead; and many of the women and children
wept. A few loafers, educated by militia trainings, and
Fourth of July declamation, begun to murmur that the
memory of General Washington was insulted by any respect
shown to the remains of Andre; but the offer of a
treat lured them to the tavern, where they soon became too
drunk to guard the character of Washington. It was a
beautiful day: and these disturbing spirits being removed,
the impressive ceremony proceeded in solemn silence. The
coffin was in good preservation, and contained all the
bones, with a small quantity of dust. The roots of the
peach tree had entirely interwoven the skull with their fine
network. His hair, so much praised for its uncommon
beauty, was tied, on the day of his execution, according
to the fashion of the times. When his grave was opened,
half a century afterward, the ribbon was found in perfect
preservation, and sent to his sister in England. When it
was known that the sarcophagus, containing his remains,
ladies sent garlands, and emblematic devices, to be wreathed
around it, in memory of the “beloved and lamented
Andre.” In their compassionate hearts, the teachings of
nature were unperverted by maxims of war, or that selfish
jealousy, which dignifies itself with the name of patriotism.
Blessed be God, that custom forbids women to electioneer
or fight. May the sentiment remain, till war and politics
have passed away. Had not women and children been
kept free from their polluting influence, the medium of communication
between earth and heaven would have been
completely cut off.
At the foot of the eminence where the gallows had been
erected, we found an old Dutch farm-house, occupied by a
man who witnessed the execution, and whose father often
sold peaches to the unhappy prisoner. He confirmed the
accounts of Andre's uncommon personal beauty; and had a
vivid remembrance of the pale, but calm, heroism with
which he met his untimely death. Everything about this
dwelling was antiquated. Two prim pictures of George III.
and his homely queen, taken at the period when we owed
allegiance to them, as “the government ordained of God,”
marked plainly the progress of Art since that period; for
the portraits of Victoria on our cotton-spools, are graceful
in comparison. An ancient clock, which has ticked uninterrupted
good time on the same ground for more than a
hundred years, stood in one corner of the little parlour. It
was brought from the East Indies, by an old Dutch sea
captain, great grandfather of the present owner. In those
nations, where opinions are transmitted unchanged, the
outward forms and symbols of thought remain so likewise.
The gilded figures, which entirely cover the body of this
old clock, are precisely the same, in perspective, outline,
and expression, as East India figures of the present day.
My observations, as a traveller, are limited to a very small
my lot to visit scenes so decidedly bearing the impress of
former days, as this Dutch county.
“Life, on a soil inhabited in olden time, and once glorious
in its industry, activity, and attachment to noble pursuits,
has a peculiar charm,” says Novalis. “Nature seems
to have become there more human, more rational; a dim remembrance
throws back, through the transparent present,
the images of the world in marked outline; and thus you
enjoy a two-fold world, purged by this very process from
the rude and disagreeable, and made the magic poetry and
fable of the mind. Who knows whether also an indefinable
influence of the former inhabitants, now departed, does not
conspire to this end?”
The solemn impression, so eloquently described by Novalis,
is what I have desired above all things to experience;
but the times seen through “the transparent present” of
these thatched farm houses, and that red Dutch church, are
not far enough in the distance; far removed from us, it is
true; but still farther from mitred priest, crusading knight,
and graceful troubadour. “An indefinable influence of the
former inhabitants,” is indeed most visible; but then it needs
no ghost to tell us that these inhabitants were thoroughly
Dutch. Since the New-York and Erie railroad passed
through their midst, careful observers say, that the surface
of the stagnant social pool begins to ripple, in very small
whirlpools, as if an insect stirred the waters. But before
that period, a century produced no visible change in
theology, agriculture, dress, or cooking. They were the
very type of conservatism; immoveable in the midst of incessant
change. The same family live on the same home,
stead, generation after generation. Brothers married, and
came home to father's to live, so long as the old house
would contain wives and swarming children; and when house
and barn were both overrun, a new tenement, of the selfsame
an acre of land received from their fathers, would be downright
desecration. It is now literally impossible for a stranger
to buy of them at any price. A mother might be coaxed to
sell her babies, as easily as they to sell their farms. Consider
what consternation such a people must have been in,
when informed that the New-York and Erie railroad was
to be cut straight through their beloved, hereditary acres!
They swore, by “donner and blitzen,” that not a rail should
ever be laid on their premises. The railroad company,
however, by aid of chancery, compelled them to acquiesce;
and their grief was really pitiful to behold. Neighbours
went to each others' “stoops,” to spend a social evening;
and, as their wont had ever been, they sat and smoked at
each other, without the unprofitable interruption of a single
word of conversation: but not according to custom, they now
grasped each other's hands tightly at parting, and tears
rolled down their weather-beaten cheeks. The iron of
the railroad had entered their souls. And well it might;
for it not only divided orchards, pastures, and gardens;
but, in many instances, cut right through the old homesteads.
Clocks that didn't know how to tick, except on the
sinking floor where they had stood for years, were now
removed to other premises, and went mute with sorrow.
Heavy old tables, that hadn't stirred one of their countless
legs for half a century, were now compelled to budge: and
potatoes, whose grandfathers and great grandfathers had slept
together in the same bed, were now removed beyond nodding
distance. Joking apart, it was a cruel case. The
women and children wept, and some of the old settlers
actully died of a broken heart. Several years have elapsed
since the fire king first went whizzing through on his
wings of steam; but the Dutch farmers have not yet learned
to look on him without a muttered curse; with fear and
trembling, they guide their sleek horses and slow-and-sure
reduced to impalpable powder.
Poor old men! what will they say when railroads are
carried through all their old seed-fields of opinion, theological
and political? As yet, there are no twilight fore-shadowings
of such possibilities; but assuredly, the day will come,
when ideas, like potatoes, will not be allowed to sprout up
peaceably in the same hillock where their venerable progenitors
vegetated from time immemorial.
As yet, no rival spires here point to the same heaven.
There stands the Dutch Reformed Church, with its red
body, and low white tower, just where stood the small
stone church, in which Major Andre was tried and sentenced.
The modern church (I mean the building) is larger than
the one of olden time; but creed and customs, somewhat
of the sternest, have not changed one hair's breadth. I
thought of this, as I looked at the unsightly edifice; and
suddenly there rose up before me the image of some of our
modern disturbers, stalking in among these worshipping
antediluvians, and pricking their ears with the astounding
intelligence, that they were “a den of thieves,” and “a
hill of hell.” 'Tis a misfortune to have an imagination too
vivid. I cannot think of that red Dutch church, without a
crowd of images that make me laugh till the tears come.
Not far from the church is a small stone building, used
as a tavern. Here they showed me the identical room
where Andre was imprisoned. With the exception of new
plastering, it remains the same as then. It is long, low,
and narrow, and being without furniture or fireplace, it still
has rather a jail-like look. I was sorry for the new plastering;
for I hoped to find some record of prison thoughts cut
in the walls. Two doves were cuddled together on a
bench in one corner, and looked in somewhat melancholy
mood. These mates were all alone in that silent apartment,
where Andre shed bitter tears over the miniature of
is too often for them a pilgrimage of sorrow.
The miniature, which Andre made such strong efforts to
preserve, when everything else was taken from him, and
which he carried next his heart till the last fatal moment,
is generally supposed to have been a likeness of the beautiful,
graceful, and highly-gifted Honora Sneyd, who married
Richard Lovel Edgeworth, and thus became step-mother
to the celebrated Maria Edgeworth. A strong youthful
attachment existed between her and Major Andre; but for
some reason or other they separated. He entered the
army, and died the death of a felon. Was he a felon?
No. He was generous, kind, and brave. His noble nature
was perverted by the maxims of war; but the act he committed
for the British army was what an American officer
would have gloried in doing for his own. Washington
employed spies; nor is it probable that he, or any other
military commander, would have hesitated to become one,
if by so doing so he could get the enemy completely into
his power. It is not therefore a sense of justice, but a
wish to inspire terror, which leads to the execution of spies.
War is a game, in which the devil plays at nine-pins with
the souls of men.
Early the next morning, we rose before the sun, and took
a wagon ride, of ten miles, to Rockland Lake. The road
was exceedingly romantic. On one side, high, precipitous
hills, covered with luxuriant foliage, or rising in perpendicular
masses of stone, singularly like the façade of some
ruined castle; on the other side, almost near enough to dip
our hands in its waters, flowed the broad Hudson, with a
line of glittering light along its edge, announcing the coming
sun. Our path lay straight over the high hills, full of
rolling stones, and innumerable elbows; for it went round
about to avoid every rock, as a good, old-fashioned Dutch
path should, in prophetic contempt of railroads. But all
have been well content to wind round and round among
those picturesque hills, like Peter Rugg, in his everlasting
ride, had not the advancing sun given premonitory symptoms
of the fiercest heat. We plainly saw that he was pulling
the corn up by the hair of its head, and making the grass
grow with a forty horse power. At last, the lake itself
opened upon us, with whole troops of lilies. This pure
sheet of water, more than a mile long, is inclosed by a
most graceful sweep of hills, verdant with foliage,
and dotted with golden grain. It is as beautiful a scene
as my eye ever rested on. “A piece of heaven let
fall to earth.” At the farm where we lodged, a summer
house was placed on a verdant curve, which swelled
out into the lake, as if a breeze had floated it there in
play. There I sat all day long, too happy to talk. Never
did I thus throw myself on the bosom of Nature, as it were
on the heart of my dearest friend. The cool rippling of the
water, the whirring of a humming-bird, and the happy notes
of some little warbler, tending her nest directly over our
heads, was all that broke silence in that most beautiful
temple.
After a while, our landlord came among us. He had
been a sailor, soldier, Indian doctor, and farmer; but the
incidents of his changing life had for him no deeper significance
than the accumulation of money.
I sighed, that man alone should be at discord with the
harmony of nature. But the bird again piped a welcome
to her young; and no other false note intruded on the universal
hymn of earth, and air, and sky.
At twilight, we took boat, and went paddling about among
the shadows of the green hills. I wept when I gave a
farewell look to Rockland Lake; for I had no hope that I
should ever again see her lovely face, or listen to her friendly
voice; and none but Him, who speaks through Nature,
ear, that happy summer's day.
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