University of Virginia Library

STONY POINT.

This is a rough picturesque point pushing boldly out
into the river, directly opposite to Verplanck's Point on
the east side. The remains of a redoubt are still to be
seen on its brow, and here was the scene of one of the
boldest exploits of one of the boldest spirits of a revolution
fruitful in both. The fort was carried at midnight
at the point of the bayonet, by a party of Americans
under General Anthony Wayne, the fire eater of
his day. In order to judge of this exploit, it is necessary

to examine the place and see the extreme difficulty
of its approach. The last exploit of “Mad Anthony,”
as he was christened by his admiring soldiers who would
follow him any where, was the decisive defeat of the
indians at the battle of Miami in 1794, which gave rest
to a long harassed and extensive frontier, and led to
the treaty of Greenville, by which the United States
acquired an immense accession of territory. He died
at Presque Isle on Lake Erie, in the fifty-second year
of his age. It is believed that Pennsylvania yet owes
him a monument.

There is a light house erected here on the summit of
the point. We have heard people laugh at it as entirely
useless, but doubtless they did not know what
they were talking about. Light houses are of two
kinds, the useful and the ornamental. The first are to
guide mariners, the others to accommodate the lovers
of the picturesque. The light house at Stony Point is
of this latter description. It is a fine object either in
approaching or leaving the Highlands, and foul befall
the carping Smelfungus, who does not thank the public
spirited gentleman, (whoever he was,) to whom we of
the picturesque order are indebted for the contemplation
of this beautiful superfluity. Half the human race,
(we mean no disparagement to the lasses we adore,)
and indeed half the world, is only made to look at, and
why not a light house? The objections are untenable,
for if a light house be of no other use, it affords a snug
place for some lazy philosopher to loll out the rest of
his life on the feather bed of a snug sinecure.

We now approach the Highlands, and advise the

reader to shut himself up in the cabin and peruse the
following pages attentively, as it is our intention to give
a sketch of this fine scenery, so infinitely superior to
the reality, that Nature will not be able to recognise
herself in our picture.

Genius of the picturesque sublime, or the sublime
picturesque, inspire us! Thou that didst animate the
soul of John Bull, insomuch that if report says true, he
did once get up from dinner, before it was half discussed,
to admire the sublime projection of Antony's Nose.
Thou that erewhile didst allure a first rate belle and
beauty from adjusting her curls at the looking glass, to
gaze for more than half a minute, at beauties almost
equal to her own. Thou that dost sometimes actually
inspirit that last best work of the ninth part of a man—
the dandy—actually to yawn with delight at the Crow's
Nest, and pull up his breeches at sight of Fort Putnam.
Thou genius of travellers, and tutelary goddess of
bookmaking, grant us a pen of fire, ink of lightning,
and words of thunder, to do justice to the mighty
theme!

First comes the gigantic Donderbarrack—all mountains
are called gigantic, because the ancient race of
giants was turned into mountains, which accounts for
the race being extinct—first comes the mighty Donderbarrack,
president of hills—we allow of no king mountains
in our book—whose head is hid in the clouds,
whenever the clouds come down low enough; at whose
foot dwells in all the feudal majesty (only a great deal
better) of a Rhoderick Dhu, the famous highland chieftain,
Caldwell, lord of Donderbarrack, and all the little

hills that grow out of his ample sides like warts on a
giant's nose. To this mighty chieftain, all the steam
boats do homage, by ringing of bells, stopping their
machinery, and sending their boats ashore to carry him
the customary tribute, to wit, store of visiters, whom it
is his delight to entertain at his hospitable castle. This
stately pile is of great antiquity; its history being lost
in the dark ages of the last century, when the indian
prowled about these hills, and shot his deer, ere the
rolling wave of the white man swept him away forever.
Above—as the prize poet sings—

Turning the base of Donderbarrack, the nose of all
noses, Antony's Nose, gradually displays itself to the
enraptured eye, which must be kept steadily fixed on
these our glowing pages. Such a nose is not seen
every day. Not the famous hero of Slawkemburgius,
whose proboscis emulated the steeple of Strasburg,
ever had such a nose to his face. Taliacotius himself
never made such a nose in his life. It is worth while
to go ten miles to hear it blow—you would mistake it
for a trumpet. The most curious thing about it is, that
it looks no more like a nose than my foot. But now
we think of it, there is still something more curious
connected with this nose. There is not a soul born
within five miles of it, but has a nose of most jolly
dimensions—not quite as large as the mountain, but
pretty well. Nay, what is still more remarkable, more
than one person has recovered his nose, by regularly

blowing the place where it ought to be, with a white
pocket handkerchief, three times a day, at the foot of
the mountain, in honour of St. Antony. In memory
of these miraculous restorations, it is the custom for
the passengers in steam boats, to salute it in passing
with a universal blow of the nose: after which, they
shake their kerchiefs at it, and put them carefully in
their pockets. No young lady ever climbs to the top
of this stately nose, without affixing her white cambric
handkerchief to a stick, placing it upright in the ground,
and leaving it waving there, in hopes that all her posterity
may be blessed with goodly noses.

Immediately on passing the Nose the Sugar Loaf appears;
keep your eye on the book for your life—you
will be changed to a loaf of sugar if you dont. This has
happened to several of the followers of Lot's wife, who
thereby became even sweeter than they were before.
Remember poor Eurydice, whose fate was sung in burlesque
by an infamous outcast bachelor, who it is said
was afterwards punished, by marrying a shrew who made
him mix the mustard every day for dinner.