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HOME AUTHOBS 
 
 HOME ARTISTS; 
 
 AMERICAN SCENERY, ART, AND LITERATURE. 
 
 COltPBISISG 
 
 A SERIES OF ESSAYS BY WASHINGTON IRVING, W. C. BRYANT, FENIMORE COOPER 
 
 .Miss COOPER, X. P. WILLIS, BAYARD TAYLOR, II. T. TUCKERMAN, 
 
 E. L. MAGOON, DR BETHUNE, A B. STREET, MISS FIELD, ETC. 
 
 WITH THIRTEEN ENGRAVINGS ON STEEL, 
 
 FROM ricil RES M EfflXEXT ARTISTS, 
 
 ENGRAVED EXPRESSLY FOR THIS WORK 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 L E A V I T T A N D A L L E N 
 
 27 DEY STREET. 
 
■ H 
 
 3S OS 2 
 
 - 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 AUTHORS 
 
 DEDICATION v 
 
 PI BUSKER'S NOTICE vii 
 
 SCENERY ANi> \IINH. . . . . . E. 1.. Ma 1 
 
 VIEW NEAR RONDOUT, to 
 
 AMERICAN AN"]) EUROPEAN SCENERY COMPARED, J. Fenimore Cooper 51 
 
 THE -CATSKILL MOUNTAINS, .... Washington Irving 71 
 
 A DISSOLVING VIEW, Miss Coo 79 
 
 THE SCENERY OE PENNSYLVANIA, . . . Bayard Taylor 95 
 
 THE HIGHLAND TERRACE, ABOVE WEST POINT NT. P. Willis L05 
 
 WA-WA-YAN-DAH LAKE, NEW JERSEY, 113 
 
 OVER THE MiM STTAINS, OR THE WESTERN PIONEER, H. T. Tm LIB 
 
 WEST ROOK, NEW HAVEN Maui E. Field L37 
 
 THE ERIE RAILROAD, ..... Bat mm. Taylor I 13 
 
 THE CHI RCH OF THE HOLY INNOCENTS, WEST POINT, . . 151 
 
 THE VALLEY OF THE HOUSATONIO, . . . Wm. C. Bryant LBS 
 
 THE ADIRONDACK MOUNTAINS, . . . Alfred B. Streei 161 
 
 SCHROON LAKE 
 
 ART IN THE UNITED STATES. . . . i ; w ; 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 THE BAY OF NEW-YORK, . 
 CASCADE BRIDGE ERIE RAILROAD, . 
 
 THE RONDOUT, 
 
 CATSRTLL SCENERY, .... 
 
 CATSKHX, l.V THE CLOVE, . 
 
 THE JTJNIATTA, PENN. 
 
 WA-WA-YAN-DAH LAKE 
 
 COWETA CREEK, NORTH CAROLINA, 
 
 WEST ROCK, NEW HAVEN, . 
 
 THE CHURCH OF THE HOLY INNOCENTS 
 
 WEST POINT, 
 
 THE HOUSATONIC VALLEY, 
 
 ADIRONDACK SCENERY, 
 
 SCHROON LAKE 
 
 l'AINTEK. 
 
 II. Beohwitu 
 J. Tali 
 
 D. HuNTDiOTON 
 
 J. F. Kexsett 
 
 A. B. DtJRAND 
 
 J. Talbot 
 J. F. Cropsey 
 
 T. A. RlCHARDS 
 
 F. E. Church 
 
 iVF.K. PAGE 
 
 H. BfiCKWlTH Front 
 
 J. II.W.I'IN 
 
 R. W. Weir 
 R, GlGNOl S 
 A. B. DUEAND 
 
 T. Cole 
 
 & V. Hint 
 II. Beckwitii 
 
 II. B» KW1IH 
 
 II. Beckwitii 
 
 S. V. HINT 
 
 S. Y. IkNT 
 
 S. V. Hu.vr 
 S. V. Him 
 
 J. Halfin 
 
 .1. Kirs 
 
 n. Beckwitii 
 
 l'.i 
 71 
 78 
 
 113 
 115 
 137 
 
 l.-.l 
 165 
 161 
 
 ll 
 
TO 
 
 A. B. DURAND, 
 
 in host of THE NATIONAL ACADEMY OF THE l"!\i: HITS, 
 
 THIS WORK, 
 
 INTENDED AS AN INITIATOR! BUGGE6TION FOR POPl'LAKIZING SOME OF THE CHARACTERISTH 
 
 Jlmrriniii ITnnttnrnpt nuil Smrrirnit M, 
 
 IS. 1', V PERMISSION, 
 
 I ! K S 1 ' K < ' T F II L L Y D E I) I C A T E D , 
 
 i;v THE PUBLISHER. 
 
PUBLISHER'S NOTICE 
 
 That American artists bave ample scope for tlie developmeirl of 
 genius, in the departmenl of landscape painting, is a truism too self- 
 evident to need any argumentative dissertations. A very laudable 
 degree of success in the cultivation of this genius, is also evident 
 in man] of our private drawing-rooms, as ■well as public exhibitions. 
 
 Believing thai ample material thus exists Cor illustrating the 
 picturesque beauties of American landscape, the publisher bas ven- 
 tured to undertake this volume as an experiment, to ascertain bow 
 far the taste of our people may warrant the production of bome- 
 manufactured presentation-books, and how far we can successfully 
 compete with those from abroad. In the higher range of orna- 
 mental books of this class, such as are sought for by our liberal, 
 gift-giving people, we bave heretofore depended almosl exclusively 
 upon our importations from Europe. 
 
 It is not to be pretended that this volume, even in its depart- 
 ment, has reached the highest degree of excellence. The engravi 
 are perhaps of too i lerate size to do anything like justice to the 
 
 inal pictures, and they are doubtless still capable of improve- 
 
8 PUBLISHERS NOTICE. 
 
 meat, although it will be conceded that the engravers have done 
 their part with taste and skill. 
 
 Whether the volume shows any progress, however, in American 
 book-making, must be left to the public decision. If that tribunal 
 affords the needful encouragement, this may be followed by future 
 volumes of similar import, but more worthy of the artists and of 
 the country. 
 
 The publisher begs leave to return his acknowledgments to those 
 who have so kindly aided him in making this experiment — particu- 
 larly to Mr. Durand, the distinguished president of the Academy, 
 and to Messrs. Huntington, Church, Kensett, "Weir, Talbot, Cropsey, 
 and Richards, all of whom have won so much distinction as land- 
 scape painters. To the gentlemen who have kindly loaned pictures 
 for engraving, the publisher is under special obligation, particularly 
 to Cyrus W. Field, Esq., for Mr. Church's charming picture of West 
 Rock ; to General J. A. Dix, for that of Rondout, by Huntington ; 
 to Mrs. Cole, for the picture of Schroon Lake, by her late husband ; 
 to Mr. C. H. Rogers for Mr. Talbot's "Juniata," and to Mr. J. W. 
 Whitefield for the same artist's " Cascade Bridge." 
 
 It is superfluous to refer to the eminent writers who have zealously 
 contributed to the substantial value of the volume by their able 
 essays. The reader can appreciate them without note or comment. 
 
 The publisher would merely allude to the self-evident fact, that 
 this volume does not claim to represent the American landscape 
 painters in any thing like proper proportion. It was only practi- 
 cable to give in this such specimens as were accessible, of only a 
 small proportion of those artists who would worthily adorn such a 
 book. K we are permitted to proceed with another volume, a dozen 
 or two more names will at once occur to the reader as quite essen- 
 tial for such a purpose. 
 
 a. p. p. 
 
SCENERY AND MIND. 
 
 BY E. L. MAGOOH, A. \l. 
 
 " my Native Land ' 
 How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and liolj 
 To me, who from thy lakes and mountain hills, 
 Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas, 
 Have drunk in all my intellectual life, 
 All Bweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts, 
 All adoration of the *>"il in nature. 
 All lovely ami all honorable things, 
 Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel 
 The joy ami greatness of its future lieing ? 
 There lives nor form nor feeling in my soul 
 Unborrowed from my country." 
 
 Coleridgi 
 
 (J«»D made the human soul illustrious, and designed il for exalted 
 pursuits and a glorious destiny. To expand our finite faculties, and 
 afford them a culture both profound and elevating, Nature is spread 
 around u<, with all its stupendous proportions, and Revelation speaks to 
 as of an eternal augmentation of knowledge hereafter, for weal or woe. 
 
 1 
 
2 SCENERY AND MIND. 
 
 Above, beneath, and on every side, open the avenues of infinite pro- 
 gression, through which we are to advance without pause, and expand 
 without limit. Here, in this dim arena of earth, an immortal essence 
 throbs at our heart in harmony with the infinite and eternal. The 
 day-star of thought arises on the soul, and, with our first rational 
 exercise, begins an existence which may experience many vicissitudes, 
 may pass through many transitions, but can never terminate. The 
 soul, vivified with power to think, will outlive the universe which feeds 
 its thought, and will be still practising its juvenile excursions at the 
 mere outset of its opening career, while suns and systems, shorn of 
 their glories, shall sink, in shattered ruins, to the caverns of eternal 
 oblivion. The two great capacities, correspondent to the two great 
 natural elements alluded to above, — the power of perceiving the 
 beautiful and feeling the sul dime, — are at once the products and proofs 
 of inherent immortality. They indicate endowments which it is bliss 
 to improve, and a destiny which it will be fearful indeed to neglect. 
 
 All sentient beings may have an eye that can see, and an ear that 
 can hear ; but to be gifted with a heart that can feel, constitutes the 
 chief characteristic of a living soul. Animals are created perfect, 
 while mankind are made perfectible by virtue of loftier capacities. 
 Instinct is compelled to pause over what it dimly perceives, but mind 
 perpetually quickens its vision, as well as its speed, through the mag- 
 nificent unfoldings of its unbounded progress. The senses educate the 
 capabilities. Our lower nature is first susceptible to impression ; and 
 from this source, at a very early period, influences arise which, when 
 once stereotj ped upon the soul, are ineffaceable forever. What is the 
 destiny of that little stranger, just emerged from mysterious night 
 into life active and eternal ? What is to be the history of that glim- 
 mering spark, struck from nothingness by the all-creating rock, and 
 filled with a fulness of being that will shine when the stars are 
 
s c r \ i i: v a \ i> mind. 3 
 
 extinct? Soon its faculties will untold to external influences. A> ve1 
 its germs of consciousness lie smothered under the passive and mortal 
 powers ; bul as these are made the avenues of moral health or disease 
 in rarly culture, that tremendous existence which lies before the 
 unconscious babe will prove a blessing or a curse. In relation to 
 everj young denizen of earth, it is an important reflection, thai having 
 once felt, it retains that feeling; the emotion of pleasure it has expe- 
 rienced, thenceforth belongs to itself, and will recur with increased 
 energy; that the pain it has once known belongs to itself, and nun- 
 go on deepening it- pungency forever. Glory <>r infamy is bul a 
 different direction of the same capacities. Soon from that youthful 
 mind will come gleamings of thought and ebullitions of passion, and 
 those same effervescing endowments may form a Catiline or a Cicero. 
 The \eros and Herods, Newtons and Pauls, the scourges of earth, and 
 its greatest benefactors, were once helpless infants. 
 
 To our mind, this book on American Scenery has an import of the 
 highest order. The diversified landscapes of our country exert no 
 slight influence in creating our character as individuals, and in confirm- 
 ing our destiny as a nation. Oceans, mountains, rivers, cataracts, wild 
 woods, fragranl prairies, and melodious winds, are elements and exem- 
 plifications of that general harmony which subsists throughoul the 
 universe, and which is most potent over the most valuable minds. 
 Every material object was designed for the use and reward of genius, to 
 be turned into an intelligible hieroglyphic, and the memento of purest 
 love. How strong this early influence and affection may become, it is 
 dillicult to say. Hills, valleys, brooks, trees — our firsl and fondest 
 friends beyond the domestic hearth — are never forgotten. Memory 
 recalls the sunnj days of childhood and youth; and, like the green 
 -pot in the desert, in which the weary traveller lingers with delight, 
 bis toils and privations half forgotten, we love to ramble again amidsl 
 
SCENERY AND MIND. 
 
 the scenes of earliest emotion and purest thought, rejoicing still that, 
 wherever exiled, 
 
 " Trees, and flowers, and brooks, 
 Which do remember me of where I dwelt, 
 Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books, 
 Come as of yore upon me, and can melt 
 My heart with recognition of their looks." 
 
 We proceed to show that, in the physical universe, what is most 
 abundant, is most ennobling ; what is most exalted, is most influential 
 on the best minds ; and that, for these reasons, national intellect 
 receives a prevailing tone from the peculiar scenery that most 
 abounds. 
 
 First, in the kingdoms of matter around us, what is most abundant 
 in amount, is most ennobling in use. The mighty magician, Nature, 
 produces the greatest variety of striking effects with the fewest means. 
 There are only a sun, soil, rocks, trees, flowers, water, and an observing 
 soul. Every thing in use depends upon this last, whether to the con- 
 templator " love lends a precious seeing to the eye." Deep in the 
 concave of "heaven is the luminary revealing all ; and deep in the soid 
 of the illumined is a chord tenderly vibrating to the charms of all. 
 The voices of every order of moving things, the silvery tones of flow- 
 ing streams, the trembling tongues of leaves, the inarticulate melody 
 of flowers, the vibrations of mighty hills, and the dread music of the 
 spheres, all sublunary blending with all celestial notes, are not for a 
 moment lost to the heart that listens. The haip of Menmon is not 
 fabulous, properly interpreted. The devout lover of nature, seated on 
 the mountain, or by the ocean, bathed in the golden sheen of opening 
 day, will have his soul often stirred by melody divine as ever resound- 
 ed from the mysterious harmonicon by the waters of the Nile. 
 
SCENERY AND MINI). 5 
 
 Every rational inhabitant of earth is a focal point in the universe, 
 a profoundly deep centre around which everj thing beautiful and 
 sublime is arranged, and towards which, through the exercise of admi- 
 ration, every refining influence is drawn. Wonderful, indeed, is the 
 radiant thread that runs through every realm of outward creation, and 
 enlinks all their diversified influences with the innermost fibres of the 
 soul. This is the vital nerve by virtue of which the individual is 
 related to the universe, and the universe is equally related to the indi- 
 vidual. Through this, all physical powers combine to relieve spiritual 
 wants. Earth contributes her fulness of wealth and majesty ; air 
 ministers in all the Protean aspects of beauty and sublimity : lire, 
 permeating e'v ery thing graceful and fair, gleams before the scrutinizing 
 eye with a light more vivid than the lightning's Maze; and water is 
 not only "queen of a thousand rills that fall in silver from the dewy 
 stone," diffusing a "dulcet and harmonious breath" from the mosl 
 sylvan haunts of man to his most crowded borne, but from continent 
 to continent " pours the deep, eternal liass in nature's anthem, making 
 music such as charms the ear of God." 
 
 In this abundance there is an infinite variety, adapted to eveiy 
 grade of intellect, and every condition in life. The hook of nature, 
 which is the art of God, as Revelation is the word of his divinity, 
 unfolds its innumerable leaves, all illuminated with glorious imagery, 
 to the vision of his creature, man, and is designed t<i elevate op mm. the 
 him by such influences a- emanate from foaming cataracts, glassy lakes, 
 ami floating mists. For this beneficent purpose, fields bloom, forests 
 wave, mountain- -oar, caverns open their jewelled mine-, constellations 
 sparkle, clouds spread their variegated drapery, the sun radiates from 
 horizon to zenith, and billows roll from pole to pole. In spring, all is 
 vivacious with an overflowing newness of lite; in summer, gorgeous is 
 the world to eveiy eye; autumn mellows at once the landscape with 
 
C» SCENERY AND MIND. 
 
 its harvests, and the hearts that love every form of matured and pro- 
 lific worth ; even winter, deserted as may be her temple of the 
 thoughtless and vain, suggests, through hoar-frost and withered leaves, 
 lessons of greatest value to votaries who evermore aspire to be truly 
 wise. 
 
 Sir Joshua Reynolds has said that " Nature denies her instructions 
 to none who desire to become her pupils;" but a great deal depends 
 upon the motives with which we enter her school. It will be to a low 
 purpose, surely, if our investigations are conducted in a predominantly 
 utilitarian spirit, recognizing in the laws according to which the 
 Divinity works merely the handmaids to sensual indulgence, rather 
 than the instruments of the noblest use. It is thus that nature is 
 made to present herself to gross minds, not as a quiet and awful tem- 
 ple, but as a plenteous kitchen, or voluptuous bancpieting-hall. By 
 this we do not mean that the sentiments which elevate are ever unna- 
 tural. Nature is most truly herself when she stands revealed to her 
 votary in the most refined and suggestive form. The Apollo Belvidere 
 is indescribably more natural than any rustic of Teniers, or any alle- 
 gorical figure of Bubens. The master-scenes of nature, however, like 
 the masterpieces of transcendent art, require for the inexperienced, 
 yet earnest admirer, an interpreter ; to the lukewarm and careless 
 they are ever partially, if not completely, incomprehensible. Like 
 certain delicate plants, their essential beauties shrink under rough 
 handling, and become dimness to the profanity of a casual glance; 
 they unveil themselves most fully to the enraptured, and pour the 
 etl'ulgence of their splendid mysteries into the fixed eye of him only 
 who gazes on the charms he has studiously sought, and adores for 
 their own dear sake. Thus employed, the most copious productions 
 of God exert the most ennobling influence. They quicken thought 
 and inspire humility, thus verifying the experience of the poet: 
 
SC K N K l: V A ND MIND. i 
 
 " 1 moved on 
 In low and languid mood : for I had found 
 Thai outward forms, the loftiest, still receive 
 Their finer influence from the Life within." 
 
 In viewing magnificent scenes, the soul, expanded and sublimed, is 
 imbued with a spirit of divinity, and appeals, as it were, associated 
 with the Deitj himself. For, as the shepherd feels himself ennobled, 
 while communing with his sovereign, the beholder, in a far nobler 
 degree, feels himself advanced to a higher scale in the creation, in 
 being permitted to sec and admire the grandest of nature's works. 
 All vigorous souls prize most highly that healthy and expansive exer- 
 cise of mind which is attained chiefly by traversing rugged paths and 
 scaling celestial heights, in order to breathe pure and bracing air. To 
 the querj whether beneficial effects actually attend such excursions, 
 let Sydney Smith reply: "I, for one, strongly believe in the affirma- 
 tive of the question,— that Nature speaks to the mind of man imme- 
 diately in beautiful and sublime language; that she astonishes him 
 with magnitude, appals him with darkness, .leer- him with splendor, 
 soothes him with harmony, captivates him with emotion, enchants him 
 with fame; she never intended man should walk among her dowers, 
 and her fields, and her streams, unmoved ; nor did she rear the 
 strength of the hills in vain, or mean that we should look with a 
 stupid heart on the wild glory of the torrent, bursting from the dark- 
 le- of the forest, and dashing over the crumbling rock. I would as 
 soon deny hardness, or softness, or figure, to he qualities of matter, as 
 I would denj beauty or sublimity to belong to its qualities." 
 
 Mind is itself the strongest agency over mind ; and ne\t to this, 
 in dignity and worth, is the potency of such inanimate productions as 
 are pleasing in their aspect, or awe-inspiring in their form. This is 
 
8 SCENEEYAND MIND. 
 
 an influence which effectively appeals to the spirits of our race in 
 every condition of life. Wherever the faintest ray of intelligence has 
 dawned, thither does it come, and there with ever increasing dominion 
 dwell. The savage is not too rude, nor the child too infantile, to be 
 either refined or fortified by its lessons. Nature is an element which 
 cannot be excluded, and which ought to be so directed as to produce 
 the most agreeable and beneficent results. True, venerable mountains 
 and verdant plains, with all their terrors and all their glories, are but 
 pictures to the blind and music to the deaf, when a perceiving eye and 
 appreciating soul are wanting. But with these endowments in exer- 
 cise, however dim, dwellers in the midst of bold scenery are harder 
 workers, greater readers, and better thinkers, than persons of equal 
 rank elsewhere. Through the serene medium of their lofty elevation, 
 they are less impressed by the pettiness of man and his affairs, than 
 by the graceful magnitude of what the Almighty has spread through 
 infinite fields around. Living with supreme delight far above a Lilli- 
 putian standard, the mind swells into something of the colossal gran- 
 deur it admires. A majestic landscape, often scanned and truly loved, 
 imparts much of its greatness to the mind and heart of the spectator ; 
 so that while the species may dwindle in relative worth, the individual 
 is ennobled by the expansion he has received. Even a transient visit 
 to localities strongly characterized by what is intrinsically elegant or 
 grand, leaves the noblest impression on susceptible souls. Charles 
 Lamb relates, with his accustomed happy style, that on returning to 
 his desk at the India House, after a brief sojourn amidst the Hdls and 
 Lakes of Westmoreland, he thought much less highly of himself than 
 while invested with the mingled beauty and majesty of magnificent 
 mountain scenery. Well might his loving school-fellow and great 
 brother in devotion to Nature's el i an ns, Coleridge, say, in addressing 
 his little child : 
 
SC 1. N E K V A N 1» M INI). J 
 
 •• I was reai d 
 In ihr great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim, 
 An.l saw naughl lovel) but the sky and stare. 
 Hut thou, my babe, shall wander like a brei a 
 By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags 
 Of ancient mountain, ami beneath tin- clouds, 
 Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores 
 And mountain crags : so shalt thou see and hear 
 The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible 
 01' that eternal language, which thy God 
 Utters, who from eternity doth teach 
 Himself in all, and all things in himself : 
 Great universal teacher ! lb' shall mould 
 Thy spirit, and by giving make il ask." 
 
 Thus tar our first point, namely, that, in the outward creation, 
 whatever is most abundant is most ennobling in its influence on our 
 inner faculties. In the second place, we proceed t<> show, thai the 
 Qoblesl aspects and energies of nature have tin- finest and firmesl con- 
 trol over the besl minds. 
 
 AH eminent geniuses are close observers of rural objects, and 
 enthusiastic admirers of imposing scenery. There can lie no approxi- 
 mation towards universal development, save as one lays tin- entire 
 universe under contribution to his personal cultivation, lie must 
 absorb into his expanded soul resources from every kingdom com- 
 petent to render him a sovereign indeed over the realms oi emo- 
 tion and thought. He that would fortifj a onanl arm to -ever an 
 isthmus or tunnel mountains, as a pathway for the nation-, or wield a 
 gianl mind that can quicken and mould the sentiment- of other men 
 gigantic like himself, must habitually feed on that aliment which i- 
 won in stray gifts by whosoever will find, and which, when attained, 
 constitutes "a perpetual feast of nectar'd sweets where no crude surfeil 
 
1 S C E X E E Y AND JI I N D . 
 
 reigns." Tlie public man whose sphere is most comprehensive, and 
 whose exhausting toils are most distracting, will probably be indebted 
 to youthful and serener avocations in humbler scenes for his sweetest 
 solace and most enduring strength. The experience and sagacity of a 
 great philosopher justify this assertion : " I speak, sir, of those who, 
 though bred up under our unfavorable system of education, have yet 
 held, at times, some intercourse with Nature, and with those great 
 minds whose works have been moulded by the spirit of Nature : who, 
 therefore, when they pass from the seclusion and constraint of early 
 study, bring with them, into the new scene of the world, much of the 
 pure sensibility which is the spring of all that is greatly good in 
 thought and action." 
 
 All great passions are fed, and all great systems are projected in 
 solitude. Wide and dense masses of mankind form the appropriate 
 held whereon superior talents are to be exercised ; but, to the aspir- 
 ing, the distraction and attrition of large cities are rather evils to be 
 shunned, since they vitiate if not destroy that purity and calm which 
 are essential to the best growth of mind. The predestined hero in 
 moral warfare will avoid the broad and boisterous way, if he be wise ; 
 and, like the Pythagoreans of old, he will betake himself to some 
 sequestered spot, there alone to mature the vigor of his thoughts. If 
 he would elicit a train of sentiments the profoundest and best, let him 
 wander through the shady walks and silent groves of the country, 
 where all things tend to arm and elevate the soul. The song of birds 
 and hum of bees will not profitless fall on his ear. Fields enamelled 
 with verdure, and trees clothed in garments almost divine, the stdlness 
 of nature in her secret glens, and the awful import of her more vocal 
 majesty, must recall the universal Creator in modes the most palpable 
 to a meditative pupil in this university for all designed, and at the 
 same time will most imbue him with the immense repose with which 
 
S< i \ 1: i: v a n i> m i n i). 1] 
 
 creation is crowned. Forma of -lory hovering over foresl and field 
 on tin- river's bank, the lake's brim, ocean's strand, or around moun- 
 tain-peaks, create glorious forms in admiring souls. Thej confer .'11) 
 inspiration which kindles afresh over each now objecl worth] of 
 esteem, and forever keep burning on the altar of the heart a flame 
 which infinitude perpetually draws near hoth to purify and feed. It 
 'w our bliss to cherish those early recollections, without which all 
 other- are null and void, and which should be wedded to memory 
 foiv\ er. 
 
 " You of all names the sweetest and the best : 
 You Muses, Books, and Liberty, and Rest : 
 Vim Gardens, Fields, and W Is." 
 
 It i- no valid objection to our argument to remind us thai some 
 "misuse the bounteous Pan, and think the gods amiss." That is to 
 quote the perversion of a prih ilege, and not its legitimate use. Petrarch, 
 for instance, only aggravated the fires thai consumed him, when he 
 buried himself in the lonely recesses of Vaucluse. Bu1 had he gone 
 there to study "the quahrl mossiness of aged roots" by day, and at nighl 
 gazed with acutest sympathy upon "the star of Jove, so beautiful and 
 large,"- instead of tamely succumbing before "the patient brilliance 
 of the moon ;" had he been ambitious rather to "live in the rainbow 
 and play in the plighted clouds," he might, on the bleakesl summit, 
 and with a richer facility than in the pampered palace, have created 
 " Eschylean shape- of the sublime," and been imbued with energies 
 uobler tar than ever graced the marble porch where wisdom was wonl 
 to teach with Socrates and 'Fully. It has been annum' deserts, on 
 islands, in caverns, or when hidden by other drapers of seclusion the 
 most opaque, thai philosophers, statesmen, and heroes, have obtained 
 
12 SCENERY AND MIND. 
 
 that faith and fervor by wMch they secured triumphant success in the 
 end, even though martyrdom was their road. 
 
 The best education consists in the most thorough training of natu- 
 ral energy. In all moral architecture, as in material, the elegant 
 should rest on the substantial, and clearly indicate the firmness it 
 adorns. Large portions of a temple admit of being highly polished, 
 but he would not be a very wise builder who should set about his 
 structure with nothing but polishings. They who have "yellowed 
 themselves among rolls and records" are not generally the persons 
 who exert the most salutary influence, and make the most indelible 
 impress on mankind. On the contrary, happiest and mightiest are 
 they who are bom and reared where free course is allowed to the 
 influences with which creative power has beuignantly surrounded us. 
 u Happy they who are located in the true infant-school of God ami 
 Nature; on whom this grand moving panorama sheds all its changing 
 lights, and bestows all its successive scenes ; who watch the revolving 
 stars, and the progression of bright constellations, in no bounded 
 horizon; for whom there are the infinite effects, daily and nightly, of 
 sunlight and moonlight, over hill and plain, — -better still if the vast 
 ocean add its shifting colors and the accompaniment of its continuous 
 ami resounding anthem; to whom a hundred birds and plants, in 
 rapid succession, tell of advancing spring; whose months the flowers 
 calendar; whose autumn is infallibly marked by the ripened grain and 
 the sheaves of joyous harvest ; who make an era in the few years of 
 their chronology by some more memorable storm or severer frost ; 
 and who change their sports and occupations with changing nature, 
 receiving through every inlet the influences of God's spirit, and 
 rejoicing in all. Not that children can feel the beaut}- or the gran- 
 deur, still le-s dive into the wisdom of this mighty scheme of things, 
 but ///- stimulus is on them, the novelty is adapted to and excites 
 
s c E N K i: V A N D MIND. 1 .". 
 
 tli-iii ; Nature has her way within fchem as well as parents and teach- 
 ers ; and the senses do Buch duty as in the crowded city school-n 
 
 they never yet performed nor ever can. And thus they goon from 
 infancy to youth, growing in the best knowledge of humanity : a 
 knowledge of the world in which God has placed them ; and thereby 
 becoming lit to grapple with the difficulties and triumph in the moral 
 conflicts thai will present themselves in maturer life, as they come into 
 the world that man has fashioned." 
 
 The superiority of nature over art, as a source of pleasure and 
 profit, is worthy of special note. When we enter magnificent monu- 
 ments of human skill, we are at lirst struck with the costbj decorations 
 of wood, pigments, marble, and gold. But after repeated view-, we 
 feel no longer charmed, ami the mental pleasure received at the lir-t 
 glance i> continually decreased. Whereas, in contemplating the works 
 of nature, from the minutest specimen to the most majestic, and most 
 powerfully when the sense of perception is armed with greatesl clear- 
 ness and force, the devotee feels that the luxury of observation i- con- 
 stantly enhanced. The prospect of the country never satiates us; the 
 
 landscape, with all its changes, is ever new, and every day invests it 
 
 with some fresh aspect to delight and invigorate the mind. Love of 
 natural objects, and especially a preference lor whatever makes scenery 
 of the wilder or more romantic kind, is a prevailing element in all 
 character of the most marked and practical use. There is down upon 
 the breasl of eagles; and the strongest men have usually the gentlesl 
 natures, because they habitually live in intimate and affectionate alli- 
 ance with the mildest as well as mightiest influence. As an elephanl 
 crashes through jungles and over crags, whetting his tu>ks, and as the 
 imperial bird of prej seeks some storm-worn summit to sharpen his 
 talon-, so every one, quick to feel ami invincible to subdue, like 
 Achilles, will court retirement in great nature's quiet nook-, where he 
 
14 MENEBY AND WIND. 
 
 may recruit his mental strength and string his how. Archimedes, a 
 man of stupendous genius, was accustomed to say, that, next to the 
 solution of a problem, was the pleasure of an evening walk in the 
 suburbs of Syracuse. Descartes, having settled the place of a planet 
 in the morning, would amuse himself in the evening by weeding and 
 watering a lied of flowers. Gray, one of the most intellectual and 
 fastidious of men, says, "Happy they who can create a rose-tree, or 
 erect a honey-suckle ; who can watch the brood of a hen, or a fleet of 
 their own ducklings as they sail upon the water." The love of nature 
 is, indeed, instinctive in all superior minds. Philosophers living in the 
 time of Philostratus were accustomed to retire to the shades of Mount 
 Athos, where " Meditation might think down hours to moments. 1 ' 
 Catullus, Martial, and Statins were ardent admirers of rural life; 
 especially so were Atticus, Tacitus, and Epictetus. Cicero, who valued 
 himself more upon his taste for the cultivation of philosophy, than 
 upon his talents for oratory, had no less than eighteen different coun- 
 try residences in various parts of his beautiful native land. He speaks 
 of them in terms of fondest attachment ; and they were all situated 
 in such delightful points of view, as to deserve being called " the eyes 
 of Italy." The retreat of Tusculum was his favorite residence. It 
 was the most elegant mansion of that elegant age ; and the beauty of 
 the landscape around it, adding a higher worth to the site than all 
 tlie charms Atticus could purchase tor its master at Athens, to the 
 highest degree refined the taste of its accomplished possessor. When, 
 fatigued with business, and happy in being allowed the indulgence of 
 sequestered recreation, the great master of the Forum, " from whose 
 lips sweet eloquence distilled, as honey from the bee," could mingle in 
 the unrestrained companionship of such friends as Scipio and Atticus 
 and Laelius, at Caieta and Laurentum, they together strove to grow 
 boys again in their amusements, and derived no ignoble pleasure from 
 
SCE \ i: i; V AND MINK. ] .", 
 
 gathering shells upon the sea-shore. Simplicity and dignity always 
 coalesce with the utmost gentleness and good-nature, in the persons 
 and amusements of the truly great. They are equal to the society of 
 the mosl refined and erudite, in all the delicate sobrietj of exalted 
 life; and, with equal spontaneity of native greatness and acquired 
 -face, can run, shout, ami leap, with juvenile thoughts and limbs. It 
 is nut in the least surprising i<> find Cicero so often urging us to studj 
 the natural beauties of the country in which we live. lie asserts it to 
 lie the mosl auspicious pleasure of youth, and the most soothing j"\ of 
 serene old age. Livy and Sallust were also vividly conscious of such 
 impressions, and of the worth they confer. Pliny the younger declared 
 himself never to have been happier than when he was indulging him- 
 self at his country seats, where in healthful leisure he wrote his works, 
 and celebrated the views which his villas afforded. "If life were not. 
 too short," says Sir William Jones, "for the complete discharge of all 
 our respective duties, public and private, and for the acquisition of 
 uecessary knowledge in any degree of perfection, with how much 
 pleasure and improvement might a great pari of it he spent, in admir- 
 ing the beauties of this wonderful orb!" The graces willingly lend 
 their /.one to embellish and fortify the passions of a uoble breast. 
 Assi mil ating to himself the richest contributions from all sources of 
 the beautiful, the true, ami the sublime, the severest student and most 
 useful citizen secures to himself the delightful companionship of that 
 potent and infallible guide described by Campbell: 
 
 " Taste, like the silent dial's power, 
 Which, iv ben supernal light is given, 
 Can measure inspiration's hour, 
 An.! tell its height in heaven!" 
 
 We have now considered two positions, assumed at the outset: 
 
16 SCENERY AND WIND. 
 
 first, what is most abundant in nature is most ennobling in its effects ; 
 and, secondly, that the best minds are most influenced by natural 
 excellence. It remains to indicate, thirdly, how character, as stamped 
 on literature, has ever been toned by the predominant characteristics 
 of native scenery. 
 
 In portraying the influence which the inanimate creation exerts 
 upon mind and letters every where, we employ what has been univer- 
 sally felt and acknowledged. The wise man in his lonely turret, high 
 among the palaces of Bali) Ion, and the unsophisticated shepherd as he 
 watched his flocks at midnight on the plains of Chaldea, recognized in 
 the aspects and movements of the planetary world an intimate relation 
 to the mysterious vicissitudes of human life, and the otherwise unre- 
 vealed determinations of human destiny. In the constitution of man- 
 kind, the religious instinct and literary taste are intimately allied, and 
 seem, indeed, to a great extent, the same. "The untutored negro, 
 wlu-n he prostrates himself on the reedy bank of his native stream, 
 and adores the Deity of the stream in the shape of the crocodile, or 
 bows before the poison tree, in reverence to the God of poisons, obeys 
 this native impulse of humanity, no less than the disciple of Zoroaster 
 who climbs the highest mountain tops, uusoiled by the profane foot- 
 steps of trade or of curiosity, where the air is ever pure, and the sun 
 greets the earth with its earliest light, to pay his vows and offer his 
 incense to the visible symhols of Divinity, to his mind themselves 
 divinities; or the outcast Guebre, Avho with forbidden and untold of 
 rites, worships an ever burning flame — to him the elemental principle 
 of nature." The character of the early patriarchs was no doubt chiefly 
 moulded by the peculiarity of their habitation and pursuits. Their 
 manner of life upon the great oceans of wilderness and pasture, gave 
 breadth and elasticity to their intellects. The free mountain winds 
 had leave t<> blow against them, their eyes drank the rivers with 
 
s c e N i: i: v a n i) m i x D. 17 
 
 delight, and the vault of heaven under which they dwelt, with all its 
 mightj stars, elevated their feelings no less than it expanded their 
 minds. 
 
 The Hebrew prophets of a later day lived equally in the eye of 
 nature. Says (liltillan : " We always figure them with cheeks em- 
 browned by the nouns of the East. The sun had looked on them, 
 but it was Lovingly — the moon had ' smitten ' them, but it was with 
 poetry, uot madness — they had drunk in fire, the fire of Eastern day, 
 from a hundred sources — from the lukewarm brooks of their land, 
 from the rich colors of their vegetation, from their mornings of 
 unclouded brightness, from their afternoons of thunder, from the large 
 stars of their evenings and nights. The heat of their climate was 
 strong enough to enkindle hut not to enervate their frames, inured as 
 they were to toil, fatigue, fasting, and frequent travel. They dwelt, in 
 a land of hills and valleys, of brooks and streams, of spots of exube- 
 rant vegetation, of iron-ribbed rocks and mountains — a land, on one 
 side, dipping down in the Mediterranean Sea, on another, floating up 
 into Lebanon, and on the others, edged by deserts, teeming at once 
 with dreadful scenerj andsecrets- — through which had passed of old 
 
 time the march of the Almighty, and where his anger had left for its 
 
 memorials, here, the sandj sepulchre of those thousands whose car- 
 casses fell in the wilderness, and there, a whole head Sea of vengeance, 
 lowering amid a desolation lit to be the very gateway to hell: — • 
 standing between their song and subject-matter, and such a fiery clime, 
 and such stern scenery, the Hebrew bards were enabled to indite a 
 languaOi more deeply dyed in the colors of the sun, more intensely 
 metaphorical, more faithfully transcriptive of nature, a simple!', and 
 
 yet larger utterance, than ever before or since rushed out from the 
 
 heart and tongue of man." 
 
 But no where do the instincts of man, in their alliance with his 
 
]S s (' E X E R Y A N D MIND. 
 
 noblest productions, appear more strongly marked by the influence of 
 surrounding scenery, than in the early training and national literature 
 of "pagan Greece." That wonderful people seem fully to Lave under- 
 stood that man was made to grow up harmoniously, with simultaneous 
 expansion of trunk, branch, and foliage, as grows a tree ; the sap of 
 immortal energy must circulate without hindrance in every fibre, 
 maturing fruits perennial and divine. 
 
 Two laws manifestly govern the constitution of our being, a clue 
 regard to which is indispensable to our highest welfare. In the first 
 place, in proportion as the physical nature of man is developed by 
 suitable discipline, winning the greatest vigor of limb, and the greatest 
 acuteness of sense, he will derive important aids to the intellect and 
 moral powers from the perfections of his outward frame. Moreover, 
 by a delightful reaction, the mind, in proportion as it is invigorated 
 and beautified, gives strength and elegance to the body, and enlarges 
 the sphere of action and enjoyment. These laws have been observed 
 by the best educators of the world. At Athens, the gymnasia became 
 temples of the Graces. In these appropriate fields of moral training, 
 the refined Greek could -ratify his fondness for the beautiful, sur- 
 rounded ou every hand by the combined charms of nature and art. 
 Every festival of childhood was rendered enchanting with flowers and 
 music; the barge, as it was pushed in boyish sport on the lake, was 
 crowned with garlands ; the oars were moved to the sound of "sweet 
 recorders," and the patriotic mother at home sang an inspiring lullaby, 
 as she rocked her infant to sleep in the broad shield of its robust 
 father. There were wrestlings for all classes in the palaestra, as well 
 as races and heroic contests for the foremost ranks; there were gay 
 revels on the mountain-sides, and moonlight dances in the groves. 
 The popular games described in the twenty-fourth book of the Ihad, 
 and the eighth of the Odyssey, all relate to important elements in 
 
- < I IB E K V A N I) MIND. 1 '.I 
 
 national education. Those ancient festivals had the finesl influence 
 upon the inhabitants of the metropolis, and upon those who dwelt the 
 most remote. Every pilgrim through such land-, to such shrines, 
 became Briareus-handed and Argus-eyed. The beautiful scenes, full 
 of patriotic and refined associations, which every where arrested his 
 attention, gave him the traveller's " thirstj eye," filled his mind with 
 thri lli n g reminiscences, and caused him to return to his home glov ing 
 with brilliant descriptions and burdened with exalted thoughts. It 
 was thus that the youthful Greek mingled with his studies pedestrian 
 exercise and acute observation, formed his hod}- to fatigue, while he 
 stored his mind with the choicest ideas, and became equally skilled in 
 handling a sword, subduing a horse, or building a temple. Such was 
 the education found in the Lyceum where Aristotle lectured, and in 
 
 •• 'Hi.- olive-grove of Academe, 
 Plato's retirement, where the attic bird 
 Trills ber thick-warbled notes the summer long: 
 There flowery liil! Hymettus, with tin' sound 
 Of bees' industrious murmur, oft invites 
 To studious musingr." 
 
 No Grecian city was without its public squares, airy colonnades, 
 
 Bpacious halls, and shadj groves; herein the ] pie lived, transacted 
 
 their business, passed their leisure, and improved their minds. The 
 serene heaven which that land enjoys, was the best-loved roof of its 
 population; the grateful breeze, resounding sea, and brilliant sun, were 
 their perpetual recreation and delight. The country was looked upon 
 
 •'- affording th dy happy home. Large towns were regarded as 
 
 huge prisons, but these were made as rural as possible. Whatever 
 splendors mighl -lean: from the Capitol, Tan and his rustic train were 
 
20 SCENERY AND MIND. 
 
 most fascinating to the popular intellect and heart. Familiar as the 
 sensibilities and imagination of the people were with the outward 
 world, and connecting the changing seasons and fruits of earth with 
 some occult power that regulated and produced them, their enthusiasm 
 created and sustained presiding deities, propitions in the calm, and 
 adverse in the storm. Every gushing fountain was the dwelling of a 
 nymph; dryads shared with man the shelter and repose of groves; on 
 each hill an oread presided benignantly over the shepherds and their 
 flocks ; while a goddess, more fruitful than " the silver-shafted cpieen, 
 for ever chaste," glided before the reapers, and shook the golden har- 
 vest from her lap on every plain. Speakers and writers the most 
 popular, were so because they shared most, and expressed most clearly, 
 the popular feeling. Of all literatures, the Grecian is most clearly 
 marked with a thoroughly out-of-door character. Fresh morning ah 
 breathes through and glows about its twin first-births of Poetry and 
 Philosophy, like the clear sky which still hangs above the two lofty 
 peaks of Parnassus. One of the most delightful treatises that antiquity 
 has transmitted to us, is the GCcononiics of Xenophon, in which the 
 pursuits and pleasures of husbandry are described in that beautiful 
 manner which best befits the subject. And Pindar, as if expressing 
 the universal conviction, as well as the most cherished affection of his 
 race, has said, that " he deserves to be called the most excellent, who 
 knows much of nature." 
 
 Respecting the harmony of the physical temperature, landscapes, 
 and literature of Greece, an intelligent traveller has recently testified 
 as follows : " The beauty of the scenery, so far as my experience 
 extends, was unsurpassed by any in the world. For no where are 
 land and water mixed together in such just proportions ; islands and 
 bays break the monotony of the one, and relieve and repeat the beau- 
 ties of the other; and no where do soft valleys fade more insensibly 
 
SC E \ E i: v AND M i \ i). 21 
 
 into sublime mountains: ami when one of these was crowned by 
 forests, and the other richlj cultivated ami studded with gardens and 
 habitations, it must have surpassed all other lauds, ami almost doe- so 
 now." It is evident that, it' the climate was not so luxurious as that 
 of Egypt, it was far more exhilarating, ami instead of tending to ener- 
 vate, was sufficiently severe always to invigorate, while it was at the 
 same time so genial as to invesl the general aspect of nature with the 
 loveliesl charm, and to awaken all the more delicate emotions of the 
 human heart. We know from her admiring writers, that in that land 
 of the cicada and the nightingale, each sound was melody, and all the 
 hues of earth and heaven were harmonious, like the leaves of " Spring's 
 sweetest book, the rose." Fine thought was spontaneous and vet per- 
 fect, as the song of nature's own melodists, "singing of summer in full- 
 throated ease;" and the softest combinations of articulate expression 
 were but echoes of the notes which joyous zephyrs elicited along the 
 dirt's of I'arnes, or wafted from the groves of Colonus. The deification 
 of enthusiasm, embodied in the worship of Dionysos, cannot, under 
 such circumstances, excite surprise. Among a people so full of in-pi- 
 ration, adoration under some form was a grateful vent, ami a primary 
 necessity. The agrarian religion of the Pelasgic herdsmen to the last 
 occupied the Athenian acropolis, while the later and more delicate 
 system of Ionian mythology spread its temples over the subjacent 
 plains. This latter is known to modern times in the literature of clas- 
 sical paganism. The pleasing ritual which the beech-woods of Thrace 
 contributed to that system, in the worship of Apollo and the Muses, 
 was a romantic element which found easj access to the Greek mind, 
 and was welcome there. Oracular places testified that earth was the 
 vehicle of revelations to man, whether it were by her own vaporous 
 breath, whispering in the oak branches, the ftight ami voices of her 
 creature-, or the sportive cycles into which inscribed leaves were 
 
22 SCENERY AND MIND. 
 
 strown by the wind. Hence arose the pantheism of antiquity, which 
 worshiped earth herself as the supreme divinity ; a self-originated 
 storehouse of all power and knowledge, in whose awful centre, over 
 which Delphi stood, all beneficent and malignant virtues were permit- 
 ted to contend and awe the world with the sublime mystery of their 
 strife. 
 
 The Greek mythology exhibits much more appreciation of, and 
 minuter inquisiti< >n into natural phenomena than the literature of the 
 Romans. To the mind of the latter nation every thing was more 
 objective; and yet the master-spirits among them were far from being 
 indifferent to the beauties and sublimities of the material world. The 
 fact of Catullus having a villa so far from Rome as the peninsula of 
 Sermione, where he could look at rugged Alps, is but one of many 
 instances we have of Romans in love with natural beauty. The best 
 minds there, as elsewhere, knew that the true method of viewing all 
 created things, is to unite poetry to science, and to enlist both in the 
 pursuit of truth, in order that both may purify the heart and aggran- 
 dize the mind. Said Cicero, "There is nothing so delightful in litera- 
 ture as that branch which enables us to discern the immensity of 
 nature ; and which, teaching us magnanimity, rescues the soul from 
 obscurity." The practice of this great man comported with his theory, 
 and substantiated it. He tells us in his letters, that when most crushed 
 with professional cares, he would retire for weeks together from public 
 life, and recreate himself in his quiet Cnman villa, where he enjoyed 
 fresh breezes from the Tuscan ocean, that rolled beneath his windows, 
 and where, thus invigorated, he wrote his famous six books upon 
 Government. Such thinkers ever derive their finest inspiration and 
 firmest strength from great nature, whose every kingdom they pant to 
 explore; their imperial career is "known to every star and every 
 wind that blows," giving the assurance that what they say and do will 
 
SC E \ E K V A Ml M I N II. 23 
 
 survive in perpetually augmented power, "when tyrants' crests and 
 tombs of brass are spent." In all their purposes ami pursuits, they 
 aspire only to a place 
 
 "Amid ili' august and never-dying light 
 Of constellated spirits, who have gained 
 A name in heaven, by power >>\' heavenly deeds." 
 
 No writer, among the Romans, has shown a greater relish for 
 natural beauty, than Horace. He might well rank himself among: the 
 •■ lovers of the country ;" not only as his works abound in its praises, 
 but because he could prefer his Sabine retreat to a distinguished posi- 
 tion at the court of Augustus. The odes of this accurate observer of 
 men and things abound with exquisite pictures of rural pursuits, con- 
 nected with the diversified incidents and manners of life. If he cele- 
 brates the powers of wine, the pleasure of sitting under the umbrageous 
 foliage and luscious clusters is not forgotten. If the charms of his 
 mistress lie the theme of his soul;', the rose is nut more beautiful, nor 
 has the Mulct a perfume more sweet. When war is pint raxed, he for- 
 gets not to contrasl its pains and its bloody horrors with the tranquil 
 and innocent pleasures of a smiling landscape, enlivened with the hum 
 of rural sport and prolific cultivation. The woods and fields he loved 
 were enjoyed as often as pos>il>le; and when confined to his couch at 
 Home, he still delights in the remembrance of vernal and vintage inci- 
 dent-, when vigorous husbandmen urge their team, and bappy peasants 
 shoul the harvest-home. " Ah !" exclaims he, " how delighted lam, 
 when wandering among steep rocks and the sombre wilderness; since 
 the shades of forests and the murmuring of waters inspire my fancy, 
 and will render me renowned. Sing, oh! ye virgins, the beauties of 
 Thessalian Tempe, and the wandering isle of Delos : celebrate, oh ! 
 
24 S C E X E R Y AND MIND. 
 
 ye youths, the charms of that goddess, who delights in flowing rivers 
 mid the shades of trees; who lives on the mountain of Algidus, among 
 the impenetrable woods of Erymanthus, and on the green and fertile 
 Cragus." 
 
 Virgil alludes less frequently to the climate and scenery of Italy, 
 1 rat he was thoroughly imbued with the mild splendor which adorns 
 that beautiful clime. Though he seems always wishing for the cool 
 valleys of rheums, and is most acutely appreciative of the more clas- 
 sical regions of Greece, he was by no means indifferent to the diversi- 
 fied charms of his native land. This we know from his history, can 
 perceive it in his writings, and have felt it most when standing amid 
 the glories that mantle his chosen grave. 
 
 The Romans, not less than the Greeks, in feeling their way 
 through mythologic gloom, were conscious of a preternatural awe 
 which gleamed upon them from cavernous waters and darkened from 
 shaggy hills. " Where is a lofty and deeply-shaded grove," writes 
 Seneca, " filled with venerable trees, whose interlacing boughs shut out 
 the face of heaven, the grandeur of the wood, the silence of the place, 
 the shade so dense and uniform, infuse into the breast the notion of a 
 divinity.' 1 Hence the cpiickened imagination of the ancients, striving 
 to supply a void which nature had created but could not fill, peopled 
 each grove, fountain, or grotto, with a captivating train of sylvan 
 deities. Intercourse with these, in the scenes which they sanctified, 
 was deemed more auspicious to health and morals, than the arid and 
 vitiating influence of crowded towns. Plutarch, for instance, after 
 asserting that the troubled life of cities is injurious to the study of 
 philosophy, and that solitude is the school of wisdom, proceeds to 
 show, that the pure air of the country, and the absence of all disturb- 
 ance from within, conduce most to the instruction and purification 
 of the soul. "On this account, also," he adds, "the temples of the 
 
S E x E i: v a \ D m i \ i>. 25 
 
 .-'■"Is, as many as were constructed in ancient times vvere always in 
 solitary places, especially the temples of the Muses ami of Pan, and 
 of the .\\ mphs of Apollo, and of as many as were guides of harmony : 
 judging, I suppose, that cities were necessarilj fearful ami polluted 
 places for the education of youth." 
 
 In contemplating the relative influence of scenerj on mind, we 
 shall probably conclude that mountains exert the greatest ami most 
 salutary power. The intellect of a people, in its primitive unfoldings 
 amid elemental grandeurs, lies as it were in Nature's arms, feeds at her 
 breast, looks up into her face, smiles at her smiles, shudders at her 
 frowns, is adorned with her ^acefulness, and fortified with her 
 strength. Beauty ami sublimity are thus interfused and commingled 
 with the whole substance of the mind, as the --low of perfect health 
 mixes itself with the whole substance of the body, unthought of, it 
 may lie, until the world is reminded of its potent fascination in deeds 
 the mightiest and most beneficent. The mind and works of individuals 
 tend strongly to assimilate with the nature of their parent soil. Dr. 
 Clarke thought that the lofty genius of Alexander was nourished l>\ 
 the majestic presence of mount Olympus, under the shadow of which 
 he may be said to have been born and bred. Grand natural scenery 
 tend- permanently to affect the character of those cradled in its 
 bosom, is the nurserj of patriotism the mosl firm and eloquence the 
 mos1 thrilling. Elastic as the air they breathe, five and joyous as the 
 torrents that dash through their rural possessions, strong as the granite 
 highlands from which they wring a hardy livelihood, the enterprising 
 children of the hills, noble and high-minded bj original endowment, 
 are like the glorious regions of rugged adventure they love to occupy. 
 This is an universal rule. The Foulahs dwelling on the high Alps of 
 Africa, are as superior to the tribes living beneath, as the inhabitants 
 of Cashmere are above the Hindoos, or as the Tyrolese are nobler 
 
 4 
 
26 SCENERY AND MIND. 
 
 than the Arab race. The physical aspect and moral traits of nations 
 are in a great measure influenced by their local position, circumstances 
 of climate, popular traditions, and the scenery in the midst of which 
 they arise. The transition from the monotonous plains of Lombardy 
 to the bold precipices of Switzerland is, in outward nature, exactly 
 like that, in inward character, from the crouching and squalid appear- 
 ance of the brutalized peasant, to the independent air and indomitable 
 energy of the free-born and intelligent mountaineer. The athletic 
 form and fearless eye of the latter bespeaks the freedom he has won to 
 enjoy and perpetuate, the invigorating elements he buffets in hardy 
 toil, and the daring aspirations he is fearless and fervid to indulge. 
 Liberty has ever preferred to dwell in high places, and thence comes 
 she down through fields and towns, revealing the glory of her counte- 
 nance, and diffusing her inspiration through undaunted breasts. 
 
 " Of old sat Freedom on the heights, 
 The thunders breaking at her feet : 
 Above her shook the starry lights : 
 She heard the torrents meet. 
 
 Within her palace she did rejoice. 
 
 Self-gathered in her prophet-mind ; 
 But fragments of her mighty voice 
 
 Came rolling on tin- wind." 
 
 There is in the. elements of our humanity a perpetual sympathy 
 with the accompaniments of its hrst development. Nearly all the 
 heroism, moral excellence, and ennobling literature of the world, litis 
 been produced by those who, in infancy and youth, were fostered by 
 the influence of exalted regions, where rocks and Avilderness are piled 
 in l>old and inimitable shapes of savage, grandeur, tinged with the hues 
 
S< E N E i: V AND MIND. 27 
 
 of untold centuries, and over which awe-inspiring storms often sweep 
 with thunders in their train. This is the influence which more than 
 half created the Shakspeares, Miltons, Wordsworths, Scotts, Coleridges, 
 [rvings, Coopers, Bryants, and Websters of the world; and without 
 much pei"sona] acquaintance with such scenes, it is impossible for a 
 reader to comprehend their highest individualitj of character so as 
 fully to relish the best qualities of their works. 
 
 Nearest allied to mountains in their natural effects, is the influence 
 of oceans on national mind. The infinite is ino-t palpably impressed 
 upon the boundless deep; and wherever thought is accustomed with 
 unimpeded wing to soar from plains, or traverse opening \ istas through 
 towering hills, that it may Lover over the azure waste of waters 
 
 becalmed, or outs] d their foam-crested billows in wildest storms, 
 
 there will literature present the brightest lineaments and possess the 
 richest "Worth. The Greek was a hardy mountaineer, with the mosl 
 delicate faculties of body and soul, but lie was not imprisoned by his 
 mountains. Whenever lie sealed a height, old Ocean, gleaming with 
 eternal youth, wooed him to her embrace, in older to hear him to 
 some happy island of her far-otf domain. < >n every hand constantly 
 appeared tin- two greatest stimulants on earth to emotion and thought. 
 The voice of the .Mountains, and the voice of the Sea, "each a mighty 
 voice,' were r\rr rousing and guiding him; each counteracting the 
 ultra influence of its opposite. The sea expanded the range and scope 
 of his thoughts, which the mountain-valleys might have hurtfulK 
 restrained. For want of this salutary blending of excitement and 
 control, it is, perhaps, mainly owing that neither Tyre nor Carthage, 
 Dotwithstanding their power and wealth, occupies any notable place in 
 the intellectual history of mankind. But to the Greeks, the waste of 
 water- was an inexhaustible mine of mental wealth. They were an 
 amphibious race, lords of land and sea. On shore and afloat the\ 
 
28 SCENERY AND MIND. 
 
 were eager listeners to the two great heralds, " Liberty's chosen music," 
 calling them to freedom ; and nol >ly did they answer to the call, when 
 the sound of the mighty Pan was ringing on their soul, at Marathon 
 and Therniopyla?, at Salamis and Platea. 
 
 Thirlwall, and Frederic Schlegel, have both called attention to 
 the fact, that the literature of the West is differenced from the litera- 
 ture of the East, by the same character which distinguishes Europe 
 from its neighboring continents, — the great range of its coasts, com- 
 pared with the extent of its surface. And Goethe suggests that " per- 
 haps it is the sight of the sea from youth upward, that gives English 
 and Spanish poets such an advantage over those of inland countries." 
 Herein the great German undoubtedly spoke from his own feelings ; 
 for he never saw the sea till he went to Italy in his thirty-eighth year ; 
 and " many-sided " as he was, he doubtless would have been a much 
 greater and more comprehensive master had he dwelt nearer the ocean 
 strand. Francis Horn, in his survey of German literature, alludes to 
 this point. " Whatever is indefinite, or seems so, is out of keeping 
 with Goethe's whole frame of mind : every thing with him is terra 
 jwma or an island : there is nothing of the infinitude of the sea. This 
 conviction forced itself upon me, when for the first time, at the north- 
 ernmost extremity of Germany, I felt the sweet thrilling produced by 
 the highest sublimity of Nature. Here Shakspeare alone comes for- 
 ward, whom one finds every where, on mountains and in valleys, in 
 forests, by the. side of rivers and of brooks. Thus far Goethe may 
 accompany him : but in sight of the sea, Shakspeare is by himself." 
 Solger, also dwelling far in the interior, lamented the necessary 
 remoteness of a power, habitual converse with which, a chance view 
 had assured him, would produce the noblest effects. He is speaking 
 of his first sight of the sea : — " Here, for the first time, I felt the 
 impression of the illimitable, as produced by an object of sense, in its 
 full majesty." 
 
SCE N E i: V A X I) M I N l>. 29 
 
 Allien accustomed himself to lonely walks on the wild sea-shore 
 near Marseilles, and those local influences -axe a perpetual tone and 
 energy 1" his mind. Every evening, after plunging in Neptune's 
 domain, he would retreal t<> a recess where the land jutted out, and 
 there \\'>uld he sit, Leaning asrainsl a high rock which concealed from 
 his sighl the land behind him, while before and around he beheld 
 nothing but the sea and the heavens. 
 
 •• Blue roll'd tie waters, blue the sky 
 Spread like an ocean hung on high." 
 
 The sun, sinking into the waves, was lighting up and embellishing 
 these two immensities; and there he passed many an hour in auspicious 
 rumination and mental joy. Happy are they who love the scenl of 
 wild flowers in solitary woods, and with equal gladness listen to the 
 melody. of waters a- they die along the smooth beach., or crash in 
 thunders againsl the craggy coast. Thrice happy are the ardent wor- 
 shipers at some mountain-shrine, whence they may contemplate a 
 scene like this under "the opening eye-lids of the morn," or when the 
 hold outlines of great Nature's temple are thrown into line relief 
 against a sky crimsoned with sunset lines. The rising of day at sea, 
 and descending day on the hills, are the most sublime and suggestive 
 scenes man can view. The sun marries earth and ocean in harmony 
 full of heavenly awe. This w felt at evening, when there is no filmy 
 haze to break the softness of the west, where golden rays spread 
 gently through the highest ether, and all is blended over the vasl and 
 glowing concave; or when in lurid splendor he glides from peak to 
 peak, hi- rays flashed and reflected from cloud to cloud, a- he sinks 
 from hill to hill, presaging coming storms. Not less fascinating is the 
 magic of light on blue unruffled waters sleeping undisturbed at early 
 
30 SCENERY AND MIND. 
 
 dawn, or gently curling their rippling surface to catch the dancing 
 sunbeams and reflect their mimic glories. To one standing on earth, 
 the god of day appears with weary pace to seek repose ; but at sea, 
 he rises all fresh and glowing from his briny couch, not in softened 
 beauty, but full of dazzling splendor, bursting at once across the 
 threshold of the deep, with the firm and conscious step of immortal 
 youth. Then, earth, air, and sky, are all in unison, and their calm 
 snUiine repose is rapture to the grandest souls. With Beattie's Min- 
 strel, they are ready to exclaim, 
 
 " Ob, how canst tliou renounce the boundless store 
 
 Of charms which Nature to her votary yields ! 
 The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, 
 
 The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields ; 
 All that the genial ray of morning gilds, 
 
 And all that echoes to the song of even, 
 All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields, 
 
 And all the dread magnificence of heaven. 
 Oh, how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven ! " 
 
 Lakes, abo, have a marked influence on mind. Switzerland has 
 ever been a favorite resort for those who are rich in native endowment, 
 and whose l>est wealth is elicited by contact with natural greatness. 
 The most tumultuous spirits have greatest need of repose, and with 
 keenest relish enjoy the placid and quiet feelings which belong pecu- 
 liarly to a lake — " as a body of still water under the influence of no 
 current; reflecting therefore the clouds, the light, and all the imagery 
 of the sky and surrounding hills ; expressing also and making visible 
 the changes of the atmosphere, and motions of the lightest breeze, 
 and subject to agitation only from the winds — 
 
S C K \ E K V A \ n MIND. ;; 1 
 
 " The \ isible s< m 
 W ould enter unawares int.. hi- mind 
 "With all lis solemn imagery, its rocks, 
 Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received 
 Into ill.- bosom of Hi.- sir, i, I ii lake ' " 
 
 One cannot easily walk unmoved where water, fresh from moun- 
 tain-springs, "doth makesweel music with th' enameU'd stones," an.! 
 verdant islands Boat far out on a surface resembling molten silver, 
 thus affording the mosl enchanting objects to the excursive view 
 Around this central mirror, prone to the dazzling sun, [el shrubbery 
 and trees wave to ,1,,. touch of zephyrs, terraces display their tan-led 
 beauties, fields and gardens, studded with elegant villas, swell towards 
 bleak hills, surmounted by peerless and brilliant Alps, all magnificently 
 repeated in the limpid wave below, and you have the bright summer 
 scene which glows from th. I,.,.,,,, of Leman in the foreground of 
 -Mont Blanc, and renders supremely beautiful the sacred solitude so 
 delightful at Lucerne. Watt botanized on the fragrant hanks ,,f Loch 
 Lomond, and fortified his severer studies by the rugged majesty of ,1,,. 
 Grampians. Haller, Zimmermann, ami Lavater, sunk manj a sorrow 
 in the lake around Zurich, and Gibbon wrought out his mighty task 
 under the Lofty inspiration enjoyed at Lausanne. The product and 
 proof of this potency are signalized in the memorable passage, where 
 be describes the close of his vast undertaking: -1 have presumed to 
 mark the momenl of conception, (amid the rains of Eome) ; I shall 
 now commemorate the hour of „n final deliverance. It was on the 
 day, or rather night, of the 2?th June, L787, between the hours of 
 eleven .and twelve, that I wrote the last lines of the last page, in a 
 summer-house in my garden. After laying down m\ pen, I took 
 several turns i„ a covered walk of acacias, which commands a prospeel 
 
.".'_> SCENERY AND i\l I N D . 
 
 of tlie country, the lake, and the mountains. The air was temperate, 
 the sky was serene, the silver orb of the moon was reflected upon the 
 w .iters, and all Nature was silent. I will not dissemble the first emo- 
 tions of joy on the recovery of my freedom, and perhaps the establish- 
 ment of my fame." 
 
 Fountains, brooks, and rivers, impart some of the fairest aspects to 
 the landscape, and stamp many valuable impressions on the mind. If 
 the sea most abounds in that salt which seasons substantial and endur- 
 ing thought, those streams, however small, which connect the remotest 
 island therewith, are not entirely devoid of like power. It would 
 seem that a sagacious love of nature was the true Egeria who taught 
 wisdom to Numa in the grotto. When he worshiped the nymph at 
 the fountain, and Narcissus fell in love with his own reflection in the 
 water, they appear to have made that element necessary in the loves 
 of all minds tenderly or profoundly moved. Petrarch sung of it at 
 the source of the Sorgue, Vaucluse, and by the rushing Rhone at 
 Avignon. Rousseau celebrated its inspiring influence in the rural 
 haunts he most loved ; and Byron prolonged the strain over almost 
 every renowned sea, lake, river, and fountain of the world. " Where 
 a spring rises or a river flows, 1 ' said Seneca, " there should we build 
 altars and offer sacrifices," — an impulse which has been felt by the best 
 hearts of every age. A thousand charms gather around one of those 
 little currents of " loosened silver" that sing along the mossy channel, 
 or leap down craggy heights, over which trees throw their protecting 
 arms and imbibe grateful spray. How invigorating, with angle and 
 book, or all alone with one's own thoughts, to trace the wild but glad- 
 some offspring of the hills, now contracted by gloomy firs and half lost 
 in dark ravines, — now sparkling from the deepest shadow, broken 
 into dimples and bounding to the sun, — auon sweeping wild flowers to 
 its bosom, and with augmented wave washing the gnarled and spread- 
 
SCE \ i: i: v a n D Mia i>. 
 
 bag roots which jul <»ut here and there from impending banks, -with 
 fringes of dripping weeds, and finally losing its tributary beautj in 
 a mightier stream. " Laugh of the Mountain," is the title given to a 
 brook by a Spanish poel ; and Bryanl is not less happy in character- 
 izing this fair feature of the world. 
 
 '• The rivulet 
 Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bed 
 Of pehblj sands, or leaping down the rod . 
 Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice 
 In its own being." 
 
 The chief rivers of every clime have ever furnished the favorite 
 themes of leading minds. Darius was so charmed with the river 
 Teams, that lie commemorated his attachment by erecting a votive 
 column on its brink. Where rolled Ilyssus, was the besl school 
 of Athens; and on the shores of Arno and Cam, Milton acquired his 
 best training and enjoyed the happiesl life ; as did Thompson, thrilled 
 with the murmurs of the Jed. The philosophers of Shiraz composed 
 their nio-l celebrated works near the shores of the Rochnabad ; while 
 by the sacred Ganges, near Benares, erudite teachers instruct their 
 pupils, after the manner of Plato, walking in their gardens. Aufidus, 
 the Tiber, and the l'o, had their respective admirers in Horace, Virgil, 
 and Ovid, and the reader need not he told that all tongues unite 
 to celebrate the Rhine. Calimachus lias immortalized the beautiful 
 waters of the [nachus, while the Mincio and the Tagus boasl their 
 Boccacio and Camoens; and the lovers of English letters know full 
 well that tli.' Severn, Trent, Avon, Derwent, Dee, and Thames, have 
 been distinguished by the praises of the mightiesl pens. 
 
 Modern literature, the production of northern regions, is imbued 
 with a wild and romantic element strongly distinguished from the 
 
 :. 
 
34 SCENERY AND MIND. 
 
 severe simplicity of the classic south. This contrast has its counter- 
 part, and much of its producing cause, iu the characteristic scenery 
 of its origin. In old Greece, the lovely climate, hud just vicissitudes 
 enough to impress a happy variety on- the experience and coinage of 
 mind; while their free institutions, and the deep wisdom of their phi- 
 losophers, conduced towards the production of those imperishable 
 monuments of grandeur and beauty before which the genius of 
 humanity still reverently bends. But England, and the kindred 
 regions of Germany, have in their less favored climates a depth of 
 gloom which is known to characterize the northern spirit, in which 
 external nature is admirably harmonious with the intellectual struc- 
 ture, by its influence thereupon eliciting the noblest efforts. The 
 literature of a country is truly national, just so far as it bears upon 
 it the stamp of national character. Among the external causes which 
 tend to create this exalted type of individuality, natural scenery and 
 climate are undoubtedly the most obvious. The features of their 
 native landscape give form and color to the thoughts and words of 
 all creative minds. For instance, through the living speech, and over 
 the speaking page of the Anglo-Saxon, and Anglo-American race, one 
 can easily recognize the daily vicissitudes and fluctuating seasons, — 
 those tints and hues of vernal beauty, summer promise, autumnal 
 wealth, and wintry desolation, — those dimly shrouding mists which 
 alternate with brilliant light, — and which render objects more lovely 
 and harmonious to those who realize the invisible and perceive the 
 spiritual, who unite all worlds in the comprehensive grasp of their 
 imagination, and thus substantiate in effective use that which to others 
 is only shadowy and remote. 
 
 As is the scenery, so are national letters and works of art. We 
 children of mists, clouds, woods, darkening tempests, and weeping 
 rain, produce and prefer the beauty of mystery and indeflniteness, in 
 
SCE \ K B Y A N D M I N 1>. 35 
 
 other words, romantic beauty. If we would cultivate a keen pleasure 
 
 in definite beauty, as it is seen in Homeric literature, and as it s1 1 
 
 mightily exemplified in the severely gorgeous splendor of the Acropo- 
 lis, we must transport cur mind at Least, it' not our person, toother 
 clinics. There we may best emulate the consummate excellence which 
 result- from the coalescence of alacrity with depth, and which was 
 most happily impressed upon the language Plato spoke, and in the 
 symmetry which still survives in the fragmentary Propylsea and 
 Olympeion. But if we would behold at once combined the definite 
 beauty, shapely vastness, instantaneously recognized unity, and cheer- 
 ful grandeur, most characteristic of the scenery, literature, and art of 
 an immortal land, let us for a moment glance at the magnificent pano- 
 rama, as seen from the lofty terrace through the golden-hued colon- 
 nades of the Parthenon. Linger here a while till the eye becomes 
 accustomed to the scene, and imagination is able to refit the mutilated 
 forms, and you will easily understand the spirit of the old religion, 
 and its consecrated works. "There is no mixture of light ami shade, 
 no half-concealing, half-revealing, as in the symbolical cathedral- of 
 the Christian faith. There are no rays of divine darkness running 
 alongside of the ravs of light, and sinking into the ground beneath 
 the altar of the East. All i- open to the unbounded blue ether above 
 and the vertical rays of a noonday sun, and the trembling visitations 
 of the unimpeded moonbeams, a very house of light, unstained by 
 painted glass, undarkened by vaulted roofs, unintercepted by columns 
 and arcades, and with the instantaneous perception of unity unmarred 
 by the cruciform shape." Who can ever forget the electrical effect 
 produced when firsl beholding the blue sky between the columns of a 
 classic ruin I The shape, the tallness, which makes the space seem 
 narrow, tie' straight hard line which renders the perfed contour so 
 definite, all startle the eye with its firm and stable symmetry, even 
 
36 SCESERY AND MIND. 
 
 after one has been long accustomed to the reverently swerving lines 
 of a cathedral, and to the hold and trustful curve of the Gothic arch, 
 throwing itself from pillar to pillar, with its segmental circle, like the 
 unfolding of Christian truth here below, whose perfect whole is in 
 heaven. 
 
 The mental creations of central Europe, and the still more roman- 
 tic regions of the north, are equally characterized by an indefiniteness 
 exactly comporting with the aspects and temperature of the material 
 kingdoms around. The human soul, thirsting after immensity, immu- 
 tability, and unbounded duration, needs some tangible object from 
 which to take its night, — some point whence to soar from the present 
 into the future, from the limited to the infinite, — and is likely to be 
 most vigorous in its capacity and productions where such facilities 
 most abound. Mere space, contemplated under the dome of heaven, 
 prostrates, rather than sustains, the mind; but Alpine heights, seen at 
 a glance where earth and sky mingle, constitute the quickening and 
 fortifying regions where mundane understanding and celestial imagi- 
 nation most happily blend in the suggestion of thoughts such as com- 
 mon language never expressed. Deep caverns, contracted lakes, pro- 
 jecting crags, impending avalanches, and glittering pinnacles, which 
 rise in serene majesty till they are lost in mist and cloud, rolling over 
 their summits like the waves of ocean, realize prospects which seem to 
 conduct the contemplator from this to another world. The magnifi- 
 cence thus poured on the mind naturally imbues its faculties, and will 
 be reproduced in living speech, or for ever glow from a graphic pen. 
 The solitude seems holy where every grand feature constitutes a 
 hymn, and a sublime melancholy impresses itself upon the thoughtful 
 soul. 
 
 Northern legends and apparitions partake much more of the 
 spiritual and infinite than did the sylvan deities and semi-human 
 
>< E \ E i: v \ \ d u i \ i>. 37 
 
 mythology of the classic South; and modem romance, with its pre- 
 vailing gloom and indefinite character, is much more appalling than 
 the sunny and social personifications which antiquity produced. The 
 natural phenomena which abound in a wild, uncultivated country, 
 powerfully conspire to create the illusions of fancy which so much 
 modify reason's severesl works. The preternatural appearances com- 
 monly said tn occui' in the German mountains and Scottish highlands, 
 whose loft] summits and unreclaimed valley- arc shrouded with tem- 
 pestuous clouds, may be explained on the same philosophical principle, 
 whence the most potent local inspiration is derived. That which is 
 strongly felt, is no1 onhj easilj -ecu, but as easily believed; and an 
 appetite for the marvellous, constantly excited, is made keen to cl 
 and multiply visions and prognostics, until each heath or glen has its 
 unearthly visitants, each familj if- omen, each but its boding spectre, 
 and superstition, systematized into a science, is expounded by wizards 
 and gifted seers. The character of a primitive mythology, mingling 
 more or less with the best literature of a nation, is always intimateh 
 connected with that of the scenerj and climate in which it arose. 
 Thus the graceful Nymphs and Naiads of Greece ; the Peris of Persia, 
 gay as the colors of the rainbow, and odorous as flowers; the Fairies 
 of England, who in airy circles "dance their ringlets to the whistling: 
 wind," have forms and functions delicate and beautiful, like the coun- 
 tries in which they dwell; while "the Elves, Bogles, Brownies, and 
 Kelpies, which seem to have legitimately descended, in ancient High- 
 land verse, from the Scandina\ ian Dvergar, Nisser, &c, are of a stunted 
 and malignant aspect, and are celebrated for nothing better than 
 maiming cattle, bewildering the benighted traveller, and conjuring ou1 
 the souls of newborn infants." 
 
 Ji is an occasion lor special gratitude to God thai there are yel 
 wild spots and wildernesses left, unstained fountains and virgin hills. 
 
38 SCENERY AND MIND. 
 
 where avarice has little dominion, and whence thought may take the 
 widest range. These exercise analogous power over the popular mind, 
 furnish the purest stimulus to noble exertion, and have ever developed 
 the strongest patriotism, iutensest energy, and most valuable letters of 
 the world. So far as we can derive capacities from inanimate things, 
 and be impelled by the activities which depend on place, mountains, 
 moors, forests and rocky shores, are the localities most favorable for 
 vigorous and prolific life. The language we speak, and the glorious 
 Literature it has preserved, are the accumulated products and historical 
 proof of this. When the Saxons were called in as friends and allies 
 by the Romanized Britons, they assembled in great numbers with their 
 king Hengist, during the fifth and sixth centuries of the Christian era, 
 and England continued to be peopled by them. But instead of friends 
 they soon became masters, and the ancient inhabitants, the Britons, 
 disappeared; after which, the Saxon tongue, laws, government, and 
 manners soon overspread the land; so that it may literally be said, 
 " the British constitution came out of the woods of Germany." 
 
 The real and ideal are most closely allied in the grandest creations 
 of nature and the finest conceptions of mind. Although hoary dill's 
 and soaring heights are among the most palpable facts of earth, it is 
 on them that we always seem to be most in the domain of fancy. It 
 is impossible to overstate our indebtedness to those gigantic disturban- 
 ces of the solid globe, by which mountains, with all their accompani- 
 ments of wild and rugged features, were upheaved, and substituted, in 
 bold and picturesque beauty, for dead level plains. Without this 
 contrast of expressive objects, earth would have told out little of those 
 sublime truths, of which now every hill is a prophet, every stone a 
 book. The ancients frequently erected temples and statues to the 
 genius of the place; and these were often in retired localities, like 
 Iero, the sacred city of ^Esculapius, occupying a mountain-hollow, the 
 
SCENE El IND MI N 1). 39 
 
 most secluded in Greece. According to Pliny, Ms countrymen, too, 
 fell thai Minerva, as well as Diana, inhabits the forests. Among the 
 woods of Etruria, the ereal lawgiver and ruler to whom Koine was 
 midcr greater obligations than to Romulus, soughl refuge from the 
 cares thai attended the government of a turbulent but growing nation, 
 and was the Qrsl pagan sovereign ever inspired to ered a fane to Peace 
 and Faith. Akenside finely allude- to the sacred awe, with which the 
 wilderness and hidden dells, stretching along the acclivities of a high 
 mountain, are contemplated by persons of refined imagination : 
 
 " Marl: the sable w Is, 
 
 Thai shade sublime von mountain's nodding brow. 
 With what religious awe the solemn scene 
 Commands your steps! as it' the reverend form 
 < >i" Minos, or of Numa, should forsake 
 TV Elysian seats; and down the embowering glade 
 Move to your pausing ej e." 
 
 When we meditate in plains, the globe appears youthful and 
 imbecile; among crags and mountains, it exhibits energy and the 
 gravity of age. All primitive aspects indicate a deep solemnity, and 
 generate invincible power. We feel the spirit of the universe upon 
 us, and are not surprised that when the shepherd in Virgil sought 
 Love, he found him a native of the rocks. Traces of the divinity 
 mosl abound in localities apart from throngs of mankind, where one 
 can besl establish the equilibrium of the soul by that of solitude, feel- 
 ing a life on the surface of things and eternity in their depths. Nature 
 Bheds much of a supernatural influence around the superior soul>, con- 
 stituted in harmony with herself. Physical elements become photic in 
 the hands of such, and receive an impression not less brilliant than 
 
40 SCENERY AND MIND. 
 
 enduring. Their mind is made to act as a prism, under whose influence 
 the simplest elements assume the most exquisite combination of hues ; 
 and thus inanimate kingdoms and artificial lessons are converted into 
 golden visions of thought and feeling. Form, color, light and shade 
 are attendant handmaids, ever ready to impart a graceful and peren- 
 nial utterance to the sublimest conceptions, and adorn rugged strength 
 with charms more real and captivating than that of words. 
 
 This is as often verified in art as in literature. Hogarth began life 
 'a silver-engraver, Chantry a wood-carver, and Raeburn a goldsmith ; 
 but ruled by the love fed in early intercourse with nature, their course 
 was changed, and each was matured in his peculiar department of 
 excellence. Romney, when but a child, studied coloring before the 
 rainbow, the purple perspective and gleaming lake; he took his first 
 lessons in composition through wild woods, fruitful valleys, and over 
 the loftiest mountains within reach. Mortimer with strongest impulse 
 studied the sea, chafed and foaming, fit " to swallow navigation up," 
 with ships driven before tempests, or strown in ruin. These, passion- 
 ately seen and felt, gave him a skilful artistic hand. Richard Cosway 
 was first kindled with a love for painting by a chance glance at two 
 picturesque works from Rubens, at Tiverton; and a beautiful piece of 
 wood is still shown in Suffolk, where the ancient trees, winding glades, 
 and sunny nooks, inspired Gainsborough with the love of art. Thence 
 he emerged the first landscape painter of his age. A few prints, illus- 
 trative of Michael Angelo's genius, found in his father's library, and 
 conned beneath gnarled oaks, made the enthusiastic Fusili a master in 
 his way ; and a perusal of " The Jesuit's Perspective," when only eight 
 years old, led an observant youth into the open fields, and prepared 
 the way for Sir- Joshua Reynolds to become the highest model and 
 most elegant teacher of British art. It is well known that Salvator 
 Rosa once resided with a band of robbers, and that the impressions 
 
SCENE R"X A \ |i MIND. I I 
 
 received from the rocks, caves, .lens, and mountains they inhabited, 
 gave a decided tone and direction to his taste. His original benl was 
 thus so stronglj developed, thai he loved rather to stand on the ruins 
 of nature, than to admire her sof! and beautiful combinations; Inner 
 his imagination became daring and impetuous, his pencil rugged and 
 sublime, from prolific sources armed to throw a savage grandeur over 
 all his works. Claude Lorrain, on the contrary, spent his happiesl 
 days in sunny scene-, w here the earth was enamelled with flowers, and 
 heaven's mild radiance beamed perpetually on his brow. He early 
 learned to mix a pallet of colors from every realm of beauty, and all 
 his pictures teem with loveliness and peace. 
 
 In a fine picture, as in a favorite book, it is easy to identify what 
 we behold -with the life of the author; and probably we shall trace 
 his first impressions in the peculiarity of his style, as well as in the 
 genera] tenor of his thoughts. Milton found his mosl genial inspira- 
 tion amidst the embowered lawns of Vallombrosa ; Gray was perma- 
 nently benefited b\ the solitude of the Chartreuse; and Johnson 
 never rose higher in refined sentiment, than on the sea-beaten rock of 
 Iona. To the ,-reat bard of Paradise Lost, nature ever imparted a 
 clear and steady light, shining brightly through the storms of tumul- 
 tuous life, ami kindling up, when all else was dark, a lustre worth} of 
 Eden in it- iir-t bl< 1. Shakspeare possessed the most intense fond- 
 ness for natural beauty, and displayed it in all his works. " [mages of 
 rural scenes are for ever floating on his mind, and there is scarce an 
 object, from the lofty mountain to the sequestered valley, from the 
 
 • lark tempesl to the -ray dawn and placid n dight, from dreary 
 
 wdnter to warm and fragranl spring, that lie has not depicted ; gentle 
 ••"is. and murmuring rills, and sequestered groves, are feature- as 
 
 prominent in his dramas, as the beings that haunt them; the VOWS 
 of love become indeed silver -oft as they are whispered by nighl 
 
42 SCENERY AND MIND. 
 
 among pomegranate groves ; life is more sweet among trees, and 
 stones, and running brooks, afar from public haunts; the gentle boy 
 sleeps more fitly among embowering woods, watched by fairy forms, 
 and sung to rest by the dirge of affection." Like Milton, Shakspeare 
 seems to have dwelt with sincerest pleasure on the peaceful images of 
 rural life, and no one familiar with his history and thoughts can be 
 surprised that, as soon as he was enabled to escape frorn the artificial- 
 ness of metropolitan life, he hastened to spend the evening of his 
 existence among the quiet hills and vales where in careless youth he 
 had wandered, gathering innumerable germs of the richest and most 
 magnificent thoughts. Sir Walter Scott's great art lay in exact de- 
 scriptions of nature and of character, a facility attained by the con- 
 stant pursuit of some piece of striking scenery, or in watching the 
 spontaneous exhibition of unsophisticated character. Fancy was re- 
 sorted to only for filling up the interstices, or supplying vacancies in 
 the originals which nature furnished. In youth, he read Hool's Tasso 
 and Percy's Reliques of ancient poetry, beneath a huge platamis tree, 
 within the ruins of an old arbor near Kelso, the most beautiful and 
 romantic village in Scotland. In full view lay the Tweed and the 
 Teviot, both famous rivers, the ancient castles of Roxburgh and a 
 ruined abbey, with the modern mansion of Fleurs, a landscape so 
 situated as to combine the ideas of ancient baronial splendor with 
 those of modern taste. These were vividly associated with the grand 
 features of the scene around the young observer; and the historical 
 incidents, or traditional legends connected with them, gave to his im- 
 passioned soul an intense reverence for ancient ruins and chivalrous 
 enterprise. Thenceforth his faculties were all awake, and fitted for 
 their work; giving to every field its battle, and to every rivulet its 
 song. A true man's productions everywhere are the types of his 
 mind, and reveal the scenes and circumstances of his early training. 
 
SOENEKI \ N n MIND. I:'. 
 
 Edmund Burke grew up encompassed bj the gorgeous scenery around 
 flu- castle of Kjlcolnian: and bis great living: successor in Parliament, 
 
 Sheil,* gathered the besl energies of his eloquence near the fine w Is 
 
 of Faithley, and the aoble seal of the Bolton family, when the sullen 
 roar of the ocean used to come over the hills to greel hi> youth, under 
 the shadow of Dunbrodj Abbey in ruins, where the Nbre and the 
 Barrow met in a deep and splendid conflux with his uative Suir. The 
 minds of these great men were the transcripts of the first scenes thej 
 loved; and it is most pertinent to this theme to remind the reader 
 that one, perhaps greater than they, the master statesman and orator 
 of his age, was cradled in the rugged bosom of Alpine New Hamp- 
 shire, where all is cool, colossal, sublime. 
 
 On a flowery morning of spring, or in the stillness of a clear au- 
 tumnal night, — in summer fruitfulness or wintry desolation, — we feel, 
 if we do not hear, the rusldng of that stream of life, which from Orion 
 flows down to the very heart of earth. Hence the declaration of 
 Burns, — " There is scarcely any earthly object gives me more — I do 
 not know how I should call it pleasure — but something which exalts 
 me something "which enraptures m< — than to walk in the sheltered 
 side of the wood, or high plantation, in a cloudy winter-day, and bear 
 the storm}' wind howling among the trees, and roaring over the plain. 
 It is my best season for devotion." Campbell, too, courted the 
 heath-clad wilderness — "bleat — lifeless — and broken into numberless 
 glens — strewn with rocks — and scantily clothed with copse-wood ; 
 from the duskj coveii of which he could observe the wild deer darting 
 forth at interval- and again vanishing in a deeper and more distanl 
 shade. Bold rocks, fringed with wild flowers, rising in huge and often 
 grotesque masses through the purple heath: streams and torrents 
 
 * While thi Qg through the press, news is received of the death of this 
 
 eminent man. 
 
II S C E X E K Y A N L> MIND. 
 
 w inding peacefully through tlie deep grassy glens, or dashing, in clouds 
 of spray, over sonic rugged precipice ; the shrill pipe of the curlew — 
 the blithe carol of the lark over head — the bleating of the goats from 
 the steep pastoral acclivities — the scream of the eagle from his eyrie 
 in the rocks:" — these were the sights and sounds which enlivened his 
 rambles and supplied his worth. The youth of Byron was spent 
 mainly on the sea-shore, the heaths, and the hills, of the Doric north ; 
 and when more secluded in Newstead Abbey, the recollections of 
 childhood moulded his first sonff. 
 
 o 
 
 " When I roved, a young highlander, o'er the dark heath, 
 Am] climb'd thy steep summit, Morven! of snow; 
 To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath, 
 Or the mist of the tempest thai gather'd below." 
 
 Gladsome wanderings in the sunshine among the hills, enlivened 
 by melodious waters and the song of birds, the changeful aspects of 
 fields and woods, gleamings of the far-off sea, and mountains piercing 
 through clouds a pathway to the skies, — this is the paradise of all 
 minds nobly endowed, and not yet entirely debased. It is when thus 
 environed and exercised that lofty impulses are kindled in genial blood. 
 Thus was felt and expressed the grandeur, beauty, pathos, dazzling 
 light and freezing gloom which mingled in the memories of Childe 
 Harold. He had profoundly experienced the truth that, 
 
 " To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, 
 To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, 
 Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, 
 And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been; 
 To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, 
 With the wild flock that never Deeds a fold; 
 Alone o'er steeds and foaming falls to lean ; 
 This is not solitude; 'tis hut to hold 
 Converse with Nature's charms, and view uei stores unroll'd." 
 
SCE N i: R"5 \ \ i> MIND. I .", 
 
 We have purposely avoided copious reference to American 
 scenery, artists and authors, as corroborative of the positions assumed 
 in the foregoing disquisition. We know something of the pictorial 
 illustrations so admirably executed for this work, and would gladh 
 allude to the diversified aspects characteristic of art, literature, and 
 scenery in our land. But that department has been assigned to other 
 and abler pens. Our specific task will conclude with a remark or two 
 on the relation which nature sustain- to religion, as an auxiliary in the 
 highesl culture of mind. 
 
 What scene is more simple, or more sublime, than the vast solitude 
 of untainted nature, cast in a fresh yet giant mould, a silent and mightj 
 temple of the great God, wherein the pure spirit of love reigns and 
 smile-- over all \ Pilgrimages were made to the oaks of Mamre, near 
 Elebron, from the time of Abraham to that of Constantine ; and the 
 nations surrounding the divinely favored tribes conspired to attach the 
 idea of veneration to rivers and fountains, and were accustomed not, 
 onl\ to dedicate trees and groves to their deities, hut ever to sacrifice 
 on high mountains: customs which wrvc practised l>y the .lews them- 
 selves, previous to the building of Solomon's temple. 'Hie beginning 
 of wisdom was among the wilds of Asia, audit was there that the God 
 of nature implanted grand ideas in the minds of shepherds meditating 
 on those antique plains and heights, teaching them to wonder and 
 adore. As the loftiest mountains are surmounted with unsullied snow, 
 so th.' puresl sentiments crowned their exalted souls, and for ever ren- 
 dered them the chief source of fertilizing streams to all lands, through 
 every region of thought. \ 
 
 A httlc child standing under the heaven bright with stars, once 
 
 asked its mother,— " Dear mother, are those yonder tl pen places, 
 
 which the glorj of God shines through \ " Those were the,, Id heavens 
 
 which infancj admired, and tlie\ yet proclaim the glorj of their 
 
46 - C E N EE V A N 1> M 1 N I). 
 
 Maker to the most matured. The bills, the vales, and the ocean, have 
 never grown old, but still have wonders as innumerable as they are 
 lasting. Not a realm of nature is unfolded to our gaze that does not 
 teem -with beauties and sublimities bearing an antiquity more ancient 
 than the pyramids. The evening breeze is yet redolent of the balm 
 shed over Canaan, when Isaac went tbrtb to meditate. Zion's bill has 
 Burvived its temple, and lifts its sacred brow to the same sun that 
 shone upon Thermopylae, and is swept by the same wind which laid 
 the armaments of Xerxes low. The rainbow we to-day admire, is the 
 same that was bent near the portal of the Ark; and the mighty rivers 
 of America boar with their billows a murmur kindred to the Nile, as 
 it moved the bulrushes o\' Egypt iu which the child Moses nestled, 
 watched over by the sisterly love of Miriam. 
 
 To bob men of the earlier times, the exterior and interior life were 
 brought into perfect harmony, so as to produce that expansion of heart 
 which is the real cause that makes rural existence so dehghtful to men 
 of good will: for so sweel is it to them, that " they whose verse of 
 yore the golden age recorded, and its bliss on the Parnassian moun- 
 tain," seem to have foreseen it in Arcadian dreams. They loved clear 
 waters, aspiring bills, with all the countless forms and tones which 
 each returning spring reproduced more fair than ever to their growing 
 appreciation. Nature prompted purifying tears in their eyes, that 
 they might trace the goodness of their God in these bis lower works, 
 wondering not that the Samaritan woman should have recognized and 
 confessed the Messiah at the fountain, whom Jewish sages knew not in 
 the temple. The fields and level shores were by them connected with 
 religious mysteries; for. ,Ies U s standing by the lake of Genesareth 
 when the multitude pressed upon him, the two boats afloat and the 
 occupation of the fishermen, together with the walk through the corn 
 with the disciples on the Sabbath, were designed to make such an 
 
- I E \ E RY AND MIND. 17 
 
 impression, thai one should never enjoy the beauties of nature, or the 
 recreations of a country life, withoul being reminded of the blessed 
 Redeemer. Bui mountains are especially associated with religion 
 through the remembrance of thai mounl whose name has given a 
 universal fame to the pale verdure of the olive, from that of Tabor, 
 and Sinai, and Ephraim, which fed the holj Samuel. We read in the 
 Iliad that Hector sacrificed on tin- top of Ma: ami the summits of 
 mountains were ever selected, not only bj the Greeks, bu1 by nations 
 taughl direct from heaven, a- tin- mosl appropriate situations whereon 
 their altars should stand. It was on mountains thai the only true God 
 manifested himself to the Hebrews of old, and i1 was on them thai the 
 tremendous mysteries of redemption were accomplished. Connected 
 with these grand objects, and in no small measure by them inspired, 
 was tin' mighty energy which sent the apostle Paul to Mais Hill, 
 preaching Jesus and the resurrection ; ami long afterwards, in a feebler 
 degree, impelled Edward Erving to roll " the rich thunders of hi- aw t'ul 
 voice," wh.-re mute thousands stood enraptured amid the glories of the 
 Frith of Forth. 
 
 Persons accustomed to explore the ruins of religious houses in Eng- 
 land, and the seenei\ peculiar to each, will often lie struck with the 
 
 fact that the several orders consulted their highest happiness, as well 
 a- greatesl good, in fixing the site of their respective foundations. 
 Evidently, mere convenience, or retirement, was not their chief aim; 
 
 the\ f.lt that spiritual culture would be most auspicious, where natural 
 charm- mosl ahound. Thej believed that in the shrine- which Jeho- 
 vah had adorned with the clearest impress of his own attributes, and 
 in which he had bidden nature contribute her richest gifts, — the 
 glittering gems of her mineral stores, the fairest fold- of her tinted 
 drapery, tin- delicate tracery of her interlacing boughs, the incense of 
 her breathing flowers, the music of her gentlesl zephyr-, her sighing 
 
48 SCEKEET AKD MIND. 
 
 foliage, chanting birds, and gliding waters, — they also could most 
 suitably offer adoration. Quiet nooks, shut in by the curving river, as 
 Kirkstall ; rocky banks, encompassed with verdant foliage, as Foun- 
 tains ; umbrageous and sequestered sea-coasts, as Netley ; green plots 
 of smooth sward, traversed by some wild, romantic stream, asTintcrn; 
 cool and solitary valleys, as Furness ; lovely shores, where the swift 
 brook sparkles and bounds to the deep, as Beaulieu ;• — such were the 
 Ik imcs the early Christians loved. And they had their reward. Their 
 persons, their names, and the distinguishing features of their creeds, 
 true and false, have mainly passed away, but the scenes of their earthly 
 devotions are treasured by all the good. Still we visit their ruins, to 
 mourn over their departed glories ; " and still they live in fame, though 
 not in lii'e. , ' We may not adopt the theology of those devout build- 
 ers, but it would be well for us to emulate their taste, knowing that 
 while all sublunary things are transient, "a thing of beauty is a joy 
 for ever ! " 
 
 The enthusiastic painter, Gainsborough, exclaimed on his death- 
 bed, — "We are all going to heaven, and Vandyke will be of the 
 party." May the reader be imbued with something more divine than 
 mere taste, that he may survive anguish or ecstasy in the energies of 
 faith ; and, soaring amid the infinite glories of the universe, at each 
 remove imbibing majestic charms of every hue and form, may he for 
 ever realize the high significancy of our theme, — Sceneey and Mind. 
 

X I E W N E A R M N I) OUT. 
 
 (ill: NT I N G TON.) 
 
 The village of Rondout, founded in 1808, by the Delaware and 
 Hudson ('anal Company, is situated near the Walkil] Creels on the 
 Hudson, about ninety miles above the city of New-York, and two 
 miles distant from Eddyville, where that Canal terminates. 
 
 In the effective and mellow little picture from which our engrav- 
 ing is taken, Mr. Huntington has pleasingly represented a secluded 
 and romantic nook on the creek, near its entrance to the Hudson. 
 In the background is a glimpse of the Catskill mountains. The 
 picture is one of a pair belonging to Gen. John A. Dix, and is one 
 of flie happiest efforts of the artist in this department, especially in 
 its coloring. 
 
AMERICAN AND EUROPEAN SCENERY COMPARED. 
 
 BY J . FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 Eh ert intellectual being has a longing to sec distant lands. We 
 desire t<> ascertain, by actual observation, the peculiarities of nation-, 
 the differences which exist between the stranger and ourselves, and as 
 it might be all that lies beyond our daily experience. This feeling 
 seems implanted in our nature, and few who possess the means of 
 doing so fail to gratify it. Every day increases the amount of the 
 intercourse between the people of different countries, and the happiesl 
 results may be anticipated from this fusion of nations and the hu- 
 manizing influences which are its consequences. Those, however, who 
 are forbidden by circumstances to extend their personal observations 
 beyond the limits of their own homes, musl be content to derive 
 their information on such subjects from the pen, the pencil, and the 
 graver. 
 
 We understand it to be the design of this work to aid in impart- 
 ing a portion of the intelligence, necessary to appease these cravings 
 
 of our nature, and to equalize, as it might be, the knowledge of men 
 and things. Our own task is very simple. It will lie confined to 
 
52 AMERICAN AND EUROPEAN SCENERY. 
 
 showing some of the leading peculiarities of tlie scenery of various 
 nations, and to direct the attention of the reader to the minor circum- 
 stances which give character to the landscape, hut which are seldom 
 alluded to by the writers of graver works. 
 
 The great distinction between American and European scenery, as 
 a whole, is to be found in the greater want of finish in the former than 
 in the latter, and to the greater superfluity of works of art in the 
 old world than in the new. Nature has certainly made some dif- 
 ferences, though there are large portions of continental Europe that, 
 without their artificial accessories, might well pass for districts iu our 
 own region; and which forcibly remind the traveller of his native 
 home. As a whole, it must be admitted that Europe offers to the 
 senses sublimer views and certainly grander, than are to be found 
 within our own holders, unless we resort to the Rocky Mountains, and 
 the ranges hi California and New Mexico. 
 
 In musing on these subjects, the mind of the untravelled American 
 naturally turns first towards England. He has pictured to himself 
 landscapes and scenery on which are impressed the teeming history 
 of the past. We shall endeavor to point out the leading distinc- 
 tions between the scenery of England and that of America, therefore, 
 as the course that will probably be most acceptable to the reader. 
 
 The prevalent characteristic of the English landscape is its air of 
 snugness and comfort. In these respects it differs entirely from its 
 neighbor, France. The English, no doubt, have a great deal of 
 poverty and squalid misery among them. But it is kept surpris- 
 ingly out of the ordinary view. Most of it, indeed, is to be found in 
 the towns, and even in them it is concealed in out of the way places 
 and streets seldom entered by the stranger. 
 
 There are places in America, more especially in the vicinities of 
 the large towns, that have a strong resemblance to the more crowded 
 
A M E I! I A N A N !> E BOP E A N SC E N E U Y. 
 
 portions of England, though the hedge is usually wanting and the 
 stone wall is more in favor among ourselves than it appears ever to 
 have been among our ancestors. The great abundance of wood, in 
 this countiy, too, gives us the rail and the hoard for our fences, objects 
 which the lovers of the picturesque would gladly see supplanted by 
 the brier and the thorn. All thai part of Staten [sland, which lies 
 nearest to the quarantine ground, has a marked resemblance to whal 
 we should term suburban English landscape. The neighborhoods of 
 most of the < >1< 1 towns in the northern States, have more or less of the 
 same character ; it being natural that the descendants of Englishmen 
 should have preserved as many of the usages of their forefathers as 
 was practicable. We know of no portion of this country that bears 
 an\ marked resemblance to the prevalent characteristics of an ordi- 
 nary French landscape. In France there are two great distinctive 
 features that seem to divide the materials of the views between them. 
 One is that of a bald nakedness of formal grandes routes, systematically 
 lined with tree-, a total absence of farm-houses, fences, hedges, and walls, 
 little or no forest, except in particular places, scarcely any pieces of 
 detached woods, and a husbandry that is remarkable for its stiffness 
 and formality. The fields of a French acclivity, when the grain is 
 ripe, or ripening, haveastrong resemblance to an ordinary Manchester 
 pattern-card, in which the different cloths, varying in color, are placed 
 under the eye at one glance. The effect of this is not pleasing. The 
 lines being straight and the fields exhibiting none of the freedom of 
 nature. Stiffness and formality, indeed, impair the beauty of nine- 
 tenths of the French landscapes; though as a whole the country is 
 considered tine, and is certainly very productive. The other distinc- 
 tive feature to which we allude is of a directly contrary character, 
 being remarkable for the affluence of its objects. It often occurs in 
 that country that the traveller finds himself on a heighl that com- 
 
54 AMERICAN AND EUROPEAN SCENERY. 
 
 mands a view of great extent, which is literally covered with b&wrgs 
 or small towns and villages. This occurs particularly in Normandy, 
 in the vicinity of Paris, and as one approaches the Loire. In such 
 places it is no unusual thing for the eye to embrace, as it might be in 
 a single view, some forty or fifty cold, gravedooking, chiselled bourgs 
 and villages, almost invariably erected in stone. The effect is not un- 
 pleasant, for the subdued color of the buildings has a tendency to 
 soften the landscape and to render the whole solemn and imposing. 
 We can recall many of these scenes that have left indelible impres- 
 sions on the mind, and which, if not positively beautiful in a rural 
 sense, are very remarkable. That from the heights of Montmorenci, 
 near Paris, is one of them ; and there is another, from the hill of St. 
 Catharine, near Rouen, that is quite as extraordinary. 
 
 The greater natural freedom that exists in an ordinary American 
 landscape, and the abundance of detached fragments of wood, often 
 render the views of this country strikingly beautiful when they are 
 of sufficient extent to conceal the want of finish in the details, which 
 require time and long-continued labor to accomplish. In this par- 
 ticular we conceive that the older portions of the United States offer to 
 the eye a general outline of view that may well claim to be even of a 
 higher cast, than most of the scenery of the old w< >rld. 
 
 There is one great charm, however, that it must be confessed is 
 uearly wanting among us. We allude to the coast. Our own is, with 
 scarcely an exception, low, monotonous and tame. It wants Alpine 
 rocks, bold promontories, visible heights inland, and all those other 
 glorious accessories of the sort that render the coast of the Mediter- 
 ranean the wonder of the world. It is usual for the American to 
 dilate on the size of his bays and rivers, but objects like these require 
 corresponding elevation in the land. Admirable as is the bay of 
 New- York for the purposes of commerce, it holds but a very subor- 
 
\Mi:UI<AN \ N D El IKU'KAN SCENERY. 
 
 dinate place as a landscape among the other havens of the world. 
 The comparison with Naples that lias so often been made, is singularly 
 unjust, there not being two bays of any extent to be found, that are 
 really less alike than these. It was never our good fortune to see 
 Constantinople or Rio de Janeiro, the two aoblesl and most remarka- 
 ble scenes of this kind, as we have understood, known to the traveller. 
 But we much question it' either will endure the test of rigid and severe 
 examination better than the celebrated Gulf of Napoli. The color of 
 the water, alone, is a peculiar beauty of all the .Mediterranean bays : 
 it is the blue of the deep sea, carried home to the very rocks of the 
 coast. In this respect, the shores of America, also, have less claim to 
 beaut} than those of Europe, generally. The waters are green, the 
 certain sign of their being shallow. Similar tints prevail in the narrow 
 seas between Holland and England. The name of Holland recalls a 
 land, however, that is even lower than any portion of our own with 
 which we are acquainted. There are large districts in Holland that 
 are actually below the level of the high tides of the sea. This country 
 is a proof how much time, civilization, and persevering industry, may 
 add even to the interest of a landscape. While the tameness of the 
 American coast has so little to relieve it or to give it character, in 
 Holland it becomes the source of wonder and admiration. The sight 
 of vast meadows, villages, farm-houses, churches, and other works of 
 art, actually lying below the level of the adjacent canals, and the 
 neighboring seas, wakes in the mind a species of reverence for human 
 industry. This feeling becomes blended with the views, and it is 
 scarcely possible to gaze upon a Dutch landscape without seeing, al 
 the same time, ample pages from the history of the country and the 
 
 character of its people. On this side of the ocean, there are no 
 
 such peculiarities. Time, numbers, and labor are yet wanting to 
 supply the defects of nature, and we must be content, for a while, 
 
56 AMERICAN AND EUROPEAN SCENERY. 
 
 -with the less teeming pictures drawn in our youth and comparative 
 simplicity. 
 
 Ou the American coast the prevailing character is less marked at 
 the northward and eastward than at the southward. At some future 
 day, the Everglades of Florida may have a certain resemblance to 
 Holland. They are the lowest land, we believe, in any part of this 
 country. 
 
 Taking into the account the climate and its productions, the adja- 
 cent mountains, the most picturesque outlines of the lakes, and the 
 works of art which embellish the whole, we think that most lovers of 
 natural scenery would prefer that around the lakes of Como and Mag- 
 giore to that of any other place familiarly known to the traveller. 
 Como is ordinarily conceived to carry off the palm in Europe, and it 
 is not prol >able that the great mountains of the East or any part of 
 the Andes, can assemble as many objects of grandeur, sweetness, mag- 
 nificence and art, as are to be found in this region. Of course, our 
 own country has nothing of the sort to compare with it. The Rocky 
 Mountains, and the other great ranges in the recent accession of terri- 
 tory, must possess many noble views, especially as one proceeds south ; 
 but the accessories are necessarily wanting, for a union of art and 
 nature can alone render scenery perfect. 
 
 In the way of the wild, the terrific, and the grand, nature is suffi- 
 cient of herself ; but Niagara is scarcely more imposing than she is 
 now rendered lovely by the works of man. It is true that this cele- 
 brated cataract has a marked sweetness of expression, if we may use 
 such a term, that singularly softens its magnificence, and now that men 
 are becoming more familiar with its mysteries, and penetrating into its 
 very mists, by means of a small steamboat, — the admirer of nature 
 discovers a character different from that which first strikes the senses. 
 
 We regard it as hypercritical to speak of the want of Alpine scenery 
 
SlMEEICAW AND EUROPEAN SCENEKY. .".7 
 
 around Niagara. On what scale must the mountains be moulded to 
 bear a just comparison, in this view of the matter, with the grandeur 
 of the rataract! The Alps, the Andes, and the Hinunalaya, would 
 scarcely suffice to furnish materials necessary to produce the contrast, 
 on any measurement now known to the world. In fact the accessories, 
 except as thej arc blended with the Falls themselves, as in the won- 
 derful gorge through which the river rushes in an almosl fathomless 
 
 torrent, a- it' frightened a1 its own terrific leap; the Whirl] 1, and 
 
 all that properhj belongs to the stream, from the commencenaenl of 
 the Rapids, or, to be more exact, from the placid, lake-like scenery 
 above these Rapids, down to the point where the waters of this mighl v 
 strait are poured into the bosom of the Ontario, strike ns a- being in 
 singular harmony with the views of the Cataract itself. 
 
 The Americans may well boast of their water-falls, and of their 
 lakes, notwithstanding the admitted superiority of upper Italv and 
 Switzerland in connection with the highest classes of the latter. They 
 form objects of interest over a vast surface of territory, ami greatly 
 relieve the monotony of the inland views. We do not now allude t,, 
 the five greal lakes, which resemble seas ami offer verj much the same 
 assemblage of objects to the eye; but to those of greatly inferior 
 extent, that are sparkling over so much of the surface of the northern 
 States. The east, and New- York in particular, abound in them, though 
 farther west the lover of the picturesque must be content to receive 
 the prairie in their stead. It would l>e a greal mistake, however, to 
 attempt to compare any of these lakes with the finest of the old world; 
 though many of them are M'\y lovely and all contribute to embellish 
 the scenery. Lake George itself could not occupy more than a fourth 
 or fifth position in a justly graduated scale of the lakes of < Ihristendom ; 
 though certainly very charming to the eye, ami of singular variety in 
 its aspects. In one particular, indeed, this lake ha- scarcely an equal. 
 
58 AMERICAN AND EUROPEAN SCENERY. 
 
 We allude to its islands, which are said to equal the number of the 
 days in the year. Points, promontories, and headlands are scarcely 
 ever substitutes for islands, which add inexpressibly to the effect of all 
 water-views. 
 
 It has been a question among the admirers of natural scenery, 
 whether the presence or absence of detached farm-houses, of trees, of 
 hedges, walls and fences, most contribute to the effect of any inland 
 view. As these are the great points of distinction between the conti- 
 nent of Europe and our own country, we shall pause a moment to 
 examine the subject a little more in detail. When the towns and 
 villages are sufficiently numerous to catch the attention of the eye, 
 and there are occasional fragments of forest in sight, one does not so 
 much miss the absence of that appearance of comfort and animated 
 beauty that the other style of embellishment so eminently possesses. 
 A great deal, however, dej^ends, as respects these particulars, on the 
 nature of the architecture and the color of the buildings and fences. 
 It is only in very particular places and under very dull lights, that 
 the contrast between white and green is agreeable. A fence that looks 
 as if it were covered with clothes hung out to dry, does very little 
 towards aiding the picturesque. And he who endeavors to improve 
 his taste in these particulars, will not fad to discover in time that a 
 range of country which gives up its ol gects, chiselled and distinct, but 
 sober, and sometimes sombre, will eventually take stronger hold of his 
 fancy than one that is glittering with the fruits of the paint and white- 
 wash brushes. We are never dissatisfied with the natural tints of 
 stone, for the mind readily submits to the ordering of nature; and 
 though one color may be preferred to another, each and all are accept- 
 able in their proper places. Thus, a marble structure is expected to 
 be white, and as such, if the building he of suitable dimensions and 
 proportions, escapes our criticisms, on account of its richness and uses. 
 
\Mi:i:i( \\ AND EUROPEAN SCENERY. 59 
 
 The same maj be said of other hues, when nol artificial; bu1 we think 
 thai mosl admirers of nature, as thej come to cultivate their tastes, 
 settle down into a preference for the graj and subdued over all the 
 brighter tints thai arl can produce. In this particular, then, we give 
 the preference to the effects of European scenery, over thai of this 
 country, where wood is so mud used for the purposes of building, 
 and where the fashion has long been to color it with white. A better 
 taste, however, or what we esteem as such, is beginning to prevail, and 
 bouses in towns and villages are now not unfrequentlj even painted 
 in subdued colors. We regard the effect as an improvement, though 
 to our taste no hue. iii it- artificial objects, so embellishes a landscape 
 as the -oleum color of the more sober, and less meretricious looking 
 stones. 
 
 We believe that a structure of white, with green Mind-, is almost 
 peculiar to this country. In the most propitious situations, and under 
 the happiest circumstances, the colors are unquestionably unsuited to 
 architecture, which, like statuary, should have but one tint. If, however, 
 it be deemed essential to the flaunting tastes of the mistress of some 
 man-ion. to cause the hues of the edifice in which she resides to be as 
 •ja\ as her toilette, we earnestly protest against the brigb.1 green that 
 is occasionally introduced for such purposes. There is a graver tint, of 
 
 the same color, that entirely changes the express] »f a dwelling. 
 
 Place two of these houses in close proximity, and scarcely an intellec- 
 tual being would pass them, without saying that the owner of the one 
 was much superior to the owner of the other in all that marks the 
 civilized man. Put a third structure in the immediate vicinity of 
 these two. that should have hut one color on its surface, including its 
 blinds, and we think that nine persons in ten, except the very vulgar 
 and uninstructed, would at once jump to the conclusion that the owner 
 of this habitation was in tastes and refinement superior to both his 
 
60 AMERICAN AND EUROPEAN SCENERY. 
 
 neighbors. A great improvement, however, in rural as well as in town 
 architecture, is now in the course of introduction throughout all the 
 northern States. More attention is paid to the picturesque than was 
 formerly the case, and the effects are becoming as numerous as they 
 are pleasing. We should particularize New Haven, as one of those 
 towns that has been thus embellished of late years, and there are 
 other places, of nearly equal size, that might be mentioned as having 
 the same claims to an improved taste. But to return to the great 
 distinctive features between an ordinary American landscape and a 
 similar scene in Europe. Of the artificial accessories it is scarcely 
 necessary to say any more. One does not expect to meet with a 
 ruined castle or abbey, or even fortress, in America ; nor, on the other 
 hand, does the traveller look for the forests of America, or that abun- 
 dance of wood, which gives to nearly every farm a sufficiency for all 
 the common wants of life, on the plains and heights of the old world. 
 Wood there certainly is, and possibly enough to meet the ordinary 
 wants of the different countries, but it is generally in the hands of the 
 governments or the great proprietors, and takes the aspect of forests of 
 greater or less size, that are well cared for, cleared and trimmed like 
 the grounds of a park. 
 
 Germany has, we think, in some respects a strong resemblance to 
 the views of America. It is not so much wanting in detached copses 
 and smaller plantations of trees as the countries farther south and east 
 of it, while it has less of the naked aspect in general that is so remark- 
 aide in France. Detached buildings occur more frequently in Germany 
 than in France especially, and we might add also in Spain. The 
 reader will remember that it is a prevalent usage throughout Europe, 
 with the exception of the British Islands, Holland, and here and there 
 a province in other countries, for the rural population to dwell in 
 villages. This practice gives to the German landscape, in particular, a 
 
\\li.i:ii \\ ami Ki UOPEAN SCENERY. 61 
 
 species <>t' resemblance to what is ordinarilj termed park scenery, 
 though it is necessarilj wanting in much of thai expression which 
 characterizes the embellishments thai properhj belong to the latter. 
 With ns this resemblance is often even stronger, in consequence of the 
 careless graces of nature and the great affluence of detached woods; 
 tlir distinguishing features existing in the farm-house, fences ami out- 
 buildinffs. Of a cloudy day, a distant view in America often bears 
 this likeness to the park, in a very marked degree, for then the graces 
 of the scene are visible to the eye, while the defects of the details are 
 too remote to he detected. 
 
 The mountain scenery of the United States, though wanting in 
 grandeur, and in that wild sublimity which ordinarily belongs to a 
 granite formation, is not without attractions that are singularly its 
 own. The great abundance of forest, the arable qualities of the soil, 
 and the peculiar Mending of what may he termed the agricultural ami 
 the savage, unite to produce landscapes of extraordinary beauty and 
 grace. Vast regions of country possessing this character are to be 
 found in almost all the old States, for after quitting the coast for a 
 greater or less distance, varying from one to two hundred miles, the 
 ranges of the Alleghanies interpose between the monotonous districts 
 of the Atlantic shores and the great plains of the west. We are of 
 opinion that as civilization advances, and the husbandman has brought 
 his lands to the highest state of cultivation, there will be a line of 
 mountain scenery extending from Maine to Georgia, in a north and 
 south direction, and possessing a. general width of from one to two 
 hundred miles, from east to west, that will scarcely have a parallel in 
 any other quarter of the world, in those sylvan upland landscapes, 
 which, while they are wanting in the sublimity of the Alpine regions, 
 share so largely in the striking and effective. 
 
 It is usual for the American to boast of his rivers, no1 only for 
 
62 AMERICAN AND EUROPEAN SCENERY. 
 
 their size and usefulness, but for their beauties. A thousand streams, 
 that in older regions would have been rendered memorable, ages since, 
 by the poet, the painter, art in every form, and the events of a teeming 
 history, flow within the limits of the United States still unsung, aud 
 nearly unknown. As yet, something is ordinarily wanting, in the way 
 of finish, along the banks of these inferior water-courses. But occasion- 
 ally, in places where art has, as it might be, accidentally assisted 
 nature, they come into the landscape with the most pleasing influence 
 <m its charms. In this respect, the peculiarity of the country is rather 
 in a want of uniformity than in any want of material. To us, it would 
 seem that all the northern States of America, at least, are far better 
 watered than common, and that consequently they possess more of this 
 species of beauty. As for the great streams, the largest, perhaps, 
 have the least claims to high character in this respect in both the old 
 and the new world. The Rhine is an exception, however, for it would 
 be difficult to find another river of equal length and with the same 
 flow of water, that possesses the same diversity of character or one 
 so peculiar. At its source it descends from the high glaciers of the 
 Alps a number of brawling brooks, which forcing their way through 
 the upper valleys, unite below in a straggling, rapid, but shallow 
 stream, that finds its way into the lake of Constance, out of which it 
 issues a eon quiet, rapid river, imposing by its volume of water, rather 
 than by its breadth, or any other advantage. Its cataracts, so celebra- 
 ted in the old world, can scarcely claim to be the equal of the Cohoes, 
 or many others of the secondary falls of this country, though the 
 Rhine has always an abundance of water, which the Mohawk has not. 
 On quitting Switzerland, this remarkable stream assumes many aspects, 
 and decorates, beyond a doubt, as much landscape scenery as falls to 
 tlie share of any other stream in the known world. We do not think 
 it, however, in its best parts, equal to the Hudson in its whole length, 
 
AMEBIC AH A X I) EUROPE AN SCENERY. 63 
 
 though the characters of these two risers arc so very different as 
 scarcely to admit of a fair comparison. Perhaps the most remarkable 
 feature of the Rhine is its termination, for after embellishing and 
 serving the purposes of such an extent of country in the verj heart of 
 Europe, it disappears, as it might be, in a number of straggling, unin- 
 teresting, turbid waters, among the marshes of Holland. This is a 
 very different exit from that which characterizes the majestic tkvw of 
 the Hudson to the Atlantic. 
 
 England has no great rivers to boast of, though she has a few of 
 singular claims to notice, on account of the great flow of the tides ami 
 the vast amount of commerce that they bear on their bosom. The 
 Thames, so renowned in history, is as uninteresting as possible, until it 
 passes above the bridges of London, where it becomes an ordinarily 
 pretty sylvan stream. 
 
 The Seine, another river, familiar in name, at least, to every reader, 
 has much higher claims than its neighbor of the British Islands, in the 
 way of natural beauty. This stream, from Rouen to the Channel, is 
 not without some very tine scenery, as well as possessing a verj vari- 
 ant and interesting character, with both natural and artificial accesso- 
 ries, to say nothing of the historical, that draw largely on the atten- 
 tion. 
 
 Italy has man) rivers that are celebrated in song or story, but not 
 
 , we think, that should rank high, on the ground of Landscape 
 
 beauty. Mos1 of her streams are so dependent on the melting of the 
 snows in the Apennines and Alps, a- to be cither brawling torrent-, or 
 meagre, straggling pool-. The Arno, the Po, the Adige, the Tiber, 
 and all the other rivers of that peninsula, are obnoxious to these 
 objections. Even the Tiber, which is navigable a- high a- Rome, for 
 vessels of a, light draft, is cither a tranquil thread, or one of those 
 noisy, turbid streams that overflow their banks, and often appear at a 
 loss to know in which direction to pour their water-. 
 
64 AMERICAN AND EUROPEAN SCENERY. 
 
 The day is not distant, when America must possess a vast extent 
 of territory of a character directly the reverse of that we have described 
 in our mountain scenery, but which, nevertheless, will not be without 
 a certain magnificence from its extent, productions, and fertility. We 
 allude to the great plains of the West ; those which he between the 
 bases of the Alleghanies and the semi-sterile steppes that are known 
 in this part of the world as the great prairies. Lombardy, teeming as 
 she is with population, vines, and all the productions of a fertile soil, 
 in the possession of millions, sinks into insignificance before the vast 
 plains that are destined to be her rivals in this quarter of the world. 
 Perhaps New- York, alone, could furnish nearly as much of this charac- 
 ter of country as is to be found in Upper Italy; for, stretching from 
 the shores of Ontario towards the southern ranges of uplands, and as 
 far east as Utica, is spread to the eye a vast extent of the most fertile 
 plain, slightly relieved in places with a rolling surface of very respecta- 
 ble claims to natural beauty. We question if greater fertility is to be 
 found in any part of the world, than is met with in the region last 
 mentioned, though drainage and the other works of an advanced state 
 of husbandry are still much wanting to bring forth both its fertility 
 and its beauties. 
 
 New- York, indeed, in the way of scenery, has very high claims to 
 variety, gracefulness, and even grandeur, among the mountains of the 
 counties bordering on Champlain. By grandeur, however, let there 
 1 >e no mistake, by receiving the term in any other than a limited sense. 
 Any Avell delineated view of a high-class Swiss scene, must at once 
 convince even the most provincial mind among us that nothing of the 
 sort is to be found in America, east of the Rocky Mountains. Never- 
 theless, the Adirondack has claims to a wild grandeur, which, if it 
 do not approach magnificence, is of a character to impress a region 
 with the seal of a very noble nature. The lovers of the picturesque 
 
\ M i: i: I i \ N \ n D EUROPEAN 3CENEBY. 65 
 
 sustain a greal loss by means of the numerous lines of railroads thai 
 have recently come into existence. This is true of both Europe and 
 America. In the course of time, it will be found that every where a 
 country presents its besl face towards its thoroughfares. Ever} thing 
 that depends on art, naturally takes this aspect, for men are as likelj 
 to put "ii their best appearance along a wayside in the country as on 
 the streets of a town. All that lias Ween done, therefore, in past ages, 
 in thes,- particular-, is being deranged and in some instances deformed 
 by the necessity of preserving levels, and avoiding the more valuable 
 portions of a country, in order to diminish expense. Thus villages and 
 towns are no longer entered by their finest passages, producing the 
 best effects; but the traveller is apt to find his view limited by ranges 
 of sheds, out-houses, and other deformities of that nature. Here and 
 there, some work of art, compelled by necessity, furnishes a relief to 
 this deformity. But on the whole, the recenl system of railroads has 
 as yet done very little towards adding much to the picturesque for 
 the benefit of the traveller. Here and there is to be found an excep- 
 tion, however, to this rule; portions of the Erie railroad, and the 
 whole of the Hudson River, as well as that along the Rhine, necessa- 
 rily possessing the advantage of sharing in the sublimity and -race 
 through which they pass. Time will, of course, remedy the detects of 
 the whole arrangement ; and a new front will be presented, as it ma\ 
 lie, to the traveller throughout the civilized world. Whether human 
 ingenuity will yet succeed in inventing substitutes for the smoke and 
 other unpleasant appliance-, of a railroad train, remains to be seen ; 
 
 luit we think few will lie disposed to differ from us, when we saj that 
 
 in our view of the matter this great improvement of modern inter- 
 course has done very little towards the embellishment of a country in 
 the way of landscapes. The graceful winding curvatures of the old 
 highways, the acclivities ami declivities, tie- copses, meadow- and 
 
66 AMERICAN AND EUROPEAN SCENERY. 
 
 woods, the half-hidden church, nestling among the leaves of its elms 
 and pines, the neat and secluded hamlet, the farm-house, with all its 
 comforts and sober arrangements, so disposed as to greet the eye of 
 the passenger, will long be hopelessly looked for by him who flies 
 through these scenes, which, like a picture placed in a false light, no 
 longer reflects the genius and skill of the artist. 
 
 The old world enjoys an advantage as regards the picturesque and 
 pleasing, in connection with its towns, that is wholly unknown, unless 
 it may be in the way of exception, among ourselves. The necessity, 
 in the middle ages, of building for defence, and the want of artillery 
 before the invention of gunpowder, contributed to the construction of 
 military works for the protection of the towns of Europe, that still 
 remain, owing to their durable materials, often producing some of the 
 finest effects that the imagination could invent to embellish a picture. 
 Nothing of the sort, of course, is to be met with here, for we have no 
 castles, have never felt the necessity of fortified towns, and had no 
 existence at the period when works of this nature came within the 
 ordinary appliances of society. On the contrary, the utilitarian spirit 
 of the day labors to erase every inequality from the surface of the 
 American town, substituting convenience for appearance. It is proba- 
 ble there is no one who, in the end, would not give a preference to 
 these new improvements for a permanent residence ; but it is not to 
 be denied that s<> far as the landscape is concerned, the customs of the 
 middle ages constructed much the most picturesque and striking col- 
 lections of human habitations. Indeed, it is scarcely possible for the 
 mind to conceive of objects of this nature, that are thrown together 
 with finer effects, than are to be met with among the mountainous 
 regions, in particular, of Europe. We illustrate one or two that are 
 to be met with in the Apennines, and the Alps, and even in Ger- 
 many, as proofs of what we say. The eye, of itself, will teach the 
 
\ M i: i: 1 c \ N ami 1:1 ROPE AN SCENERY. 6*7 
 
 reader, that Richmond and Boston, and Washington and Baltimore, 
 and half-a-dozen other American towns thai do possess more or less of 
 an unequal surface, musl yield the palm to those gloriously beautiful 
 objects of the old world. When it is remembered, too, how much 
 time has multiplied these last, it can be seen that there are large dis- 
 tricts in the mountain regions of the other hemisphere, that enjoj 
 this superiority over us, if superiority it can be called, to poss e>< the 
 picturesque, at the expense of the convenient. The imagination can 
 scarcely equal the pictures of this nature that often meet the eye in 
 1 lie southern countries of Europe. Villages, with the chiselled outlines 
 of castles, gray, soml ire, but distinct, are often seen, perched on the 
 summits of rocky heights, or adhering, as it might be, to their sides, in 
 situations that are frequently even appalling, and which invariably 
 lend a character of peculiar beauty to the view. There are parts of 
 Europe in which the traveller encounters these objects in great num- 
 bers, and if an American, they never fail to attract his attention, as 
 the wigwam and the hark canoe, and the prairie with lines of bisons, 
 would catch the eye of a wayfarer from the old world. To these 
 humbler mountain pictures, must lie added many a castle and strong- 
 hold of royal, or semi-royal origin, that are met with on the summits 
 of abrupt and rocky eminences farther north. Germany has many of 
 these strong-holds, which are kept up to the present day and which 
 are found to he useful as places of security, as they are certainly pecu- 
 liar and interesting in the landscape. 
 
 It has often been said li\ scientific writers, that this country affords 
 man] signs of an origin more recent than the surface of Europe. The 
 proofs cited are the greater depths of the ravines, wrought bj the 
 
 action of the waters following the courses of the torrents, and the 
 
 greater and general aspect of antiquity that is impressed on natural ob- 
 jects in the other hemisphere. This theory, however, has met with a 
 
68 AMERICAN AND EUROPEAN SCENERY. 
 
 distinguished opponent in our own time. "Without entering at all into 
 the merits of this controversy, we shall admit that to the ordinary eye 
 America generally is impressed with an ah- of freshness, youthfulness, 
 and in many instances, to use a coarse but expressive term, rawness, 
 that are seldom, if ever, met with in Europe. It might perhaps be 
 easy to account for this by the labors of man, alone, though we think 
 that natural objects contribute their full share towards deepening the 
 picture. We know of no mountain summits on this side of the Atlan- 
 tic that wear the hoary hues of hundreds that are seen on the other 
 side of the water ; and nearly everywhere in this country that the eye 
 rests on a mountain-top, it encounters a rounded outline of no very 
 decided tints, unless, indeed, it may actually encounter verdure. To 
 our eye, this character of youthfulness is very strongly perceptible 
 throughout those portions of the republic with which we are per- 
 sonally acquainted, and we say this without reference to the recent 
 settlements, which necessarily partake of this character, but to the 
 oldest and most finished of our own landscapes. The banks of the 
 Hudson, for instance, have not the impress of time as strongly marked 
 on their heights and headlands, and bays, and even mountains, as 
 tlie banks of the Bhine ; and we have often even fancied that 
 this distinguishing feature between the old and new worlds is to be 
 traced on nearly every object of nature or art. Doubtless the latter 
 has been the principal agent in producing these effects ; but it is unde- 
 niable that they form a leading point of distinction in the general 
 character of the scenery of the two continents. As for England, it has 
 a shorn and shaven aspect that reminds one of the husbandman in his 
 Sunday's attire ; for we have seen that island in February, when, owing 
 to the great quantity of its grain and the prevalent humidity of the 
 atmosphere, it really appeared to us to possess more verdure than it 
 did in the subsequent July and August. 
 
\Mi:i:i< \\ AMI EUROPEAN SCENERY. 69 
 
 There is one feature in European scenery, generally, more preva- 
 lent, however, in Catholic than in ether countries, to which we must 
 allude before we close. The bourg, or town, with its gray castellated 
 outlines, ami possibly with walls of the middle ages, is, almosl invaria- 
 bly, clustered around the high, pointed root's ami solemn towers of the 
 church. With us, how different is the effect! Haifa dozen ill-shaped, 
 and \ et pretending' cupolas, and other ambitious objects, half the time 
 in painted wood, just peer above the village, while the most aspiring 
 roof is almost invariably that of the tavern. Id may be easy enough 
 to account for this difference, and to offer a sufficient apology for its 
 e\i-tence. But to the observant lover of the picturesque the effecl is 
 not only unpleasant but often repulsive. No one of ordinary liberality 
 would wish to interfere with freedom of conscience, in order to obtain 
 fine landscapes ; but this is one of the hundred instances in which the 
 thoughtful man finds reason to regret that the church, as it exists 
 anion-- as, is not really more Catholic. 
 
 To conclude, we concede to Europe much the noblest scenery, in its 
 Alps, Pyrenees, and Apennines; in its objects of art, as a matter of 
 course; in all those effects which depend on time and association, in its 
 monuments, and in this impress of the past which may be said to be 
 retlected in its countenance; while we claim for America the freshness 
 of a most promising- youth, and a species of natural radiance that carries 
 the mind with reverence to the source of all that is glorious around us. 
 
•• 
 
THE CATSKILL MOUNTAINS. 
 
 BY WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 The Cat-kill, KatskUl, or Cat River Mountains derived their name, 
 in the time of the Dutch domination, from the Catamounts by 
 which tli<\ urn' infested; and which, with the bear, the wolf, and 
 the dorr, arc still to be found in some of their most difficult recesses. 
 The interior of these mountains is in the highest degree wild and 
 romantic; here are rocky precipices mantled with primeval forests; 
 deep gorges walled in ly beetling clifts, with torrents tumbling as il 
 were from the sky; and savage glens rarely trodden excepting by (lie 
 hunter. With all this internal rudeness, the aspect of these mountains 
 toward the Hudson at times is eminently bland and beautiful, sloping 
 down into a country softened by cultivation, and bearing much of the 
 rich character of Italian sceneiy about the skirts of the Apennines. 
 
 The Catskills form an advanced post, or lateral spur of tin' greal 
 Alleganian or Appalachian system of mountains which sweeps through 
 tie- interior of our continent, from Southwest to Northeast, from 
 Alabama to the extremity of Maine, tor nearly fourteen hundred 
 miles, belting the whole of our original confederacy, and rivalling our 
 
72 T II E CAT8KHL MOUNTAINS. 
 
 greal system of lakes in extent and grandeur. Its vast ramifications 
 comprise a number of parallel chains and lateral groups; such as the 
 Cumberland Mountains, the Blue Ridge, the Allegauies, the Dela- 
 ware and Lehigh, the Highlands of the Hudson, the Green Mountains 
 of Vermont, and the White Mountains of New Hampshire. In many 
 of these vast ranges or sierras, nature still reigns in indomitable wild- 
 ness: their rocky ridges, their rugged clefts and defiles, teem with 
 magnificent vegetation. Here are locked up mighty forests that have 
 never been invaded by the axe; deep umbrageous valleys where the 
 virgin soil has never been outraged by the plough; bright streams 
 flowing in untasked idleness, unburthened by commerce, unchecked 
 by the mill-dam. This mountain zone is in fact the great poetical 
 region of our country; resisting, like the tribes which once inhabited 
 it, the taming hand of cultivation; and maintaining a hallowed ground 
 for fancy and the muses. It is a magnificent and all-pervading feature, 
 that might have given our country a name, and a poetical one, had 
 not the all-controlling powers of common-place determined otherwise. 
 The Catskill Mountains, as I have observed, maintain all the inter- 
 nal wildness of the labyrinth of mountains with which they are con- 
 nected. Their detached position, overlooking a wide lowland region, 
 with the majestic Hudson rolling through it, has given them a distinct 
 character, and rendered them at all times a rallying point for romance 
 and fable. Much of the fanciful associations with which they have 
 been clothed may be owing to their being peculiarly subject to those 
 beautiful atmospherical effects which constitute one of the great 
 charms of Hudson River scenery. To me they have ever been the 
 fairy region of the Hudson. I speak, however, from early impres- 
 sions ; made in the happy days of boyhood ; when all the world had 
 a tinge of fairy land. I shall never forget my first view of these 
 mountains. It was in the course of a voyage up the Hudson in the 
 
'I'll E (' A TS K 1 I. I. M o r \ I A 1 \ s. 7.", 
 
 good old times before steamboats and railroads had driven all poetry 
 and romance oul of travel. A voyage up the Hudson in those days, 
 was equal to a voyage to Europe at present, and cosl almosl as much 
 time : but we enjoyed the river (hen ; we relished it ;l s we did our wine, 
 si]> bj sip, not, as at present, gulping all down at a draughl with. ait 
 tasting it. M\ whole voyage up the Hudson was full of wonder and 
 romance. 1 was ;1 lively boy, somewhat imaginative, of easy faith, and 
 prone to relish everything which partook of the marvellous. Among 
 the passengers on board of the sloop was a veteran Indian trader, on 
 his way to the Ink.-, to traffic with the natives. He had discovered my 
 propensity, and amused himself throughout the voyage by telling me 
 Indian legends and grotesque stories about everj noted place on the 
 river, such as Spuyten Devil Creek, the Tappan Sea, the Devil's Dans- 
 Kammer, and other hobgoblin places. The Catskill Mountains espe- 
 cially called forth a hosl of fanciful traditions. We were all da\ 
 slowly tiding along in sight of them, so that he had full time to weave 
 hi- whimsical narratives. In these mountains he told me, according to 
 Indian belief, was kept the greal treasury of storm and sunshine, for 
 the region of the Hudson. An old squaw spirit had charge of it, who 
 dwelt <,n the highest peak of the mountain. Here she kept Day and 
 Nighl shut up in her wigwam, letting out only one of them at a time. She 
 made new moons every month, and hung them up in the -k\. cutting 
 up the old ones into stars. The greal Manitou, or master spirit, employ- 
 ed her to manufacture clouds; sometimes she wove them out of cob- 
 webs, gossamers, and morning dew, and sent them off (lake after (lake, 
 to tloat iii the air and give light summer showers- sometimes she 
 would brew up Mack thunder-storms, and send down drenching rain-; 
 to -well the streams and sweep everything away. He had mam 
 stories, also, about mischievous spirits who infested the mountains in 
 the shape of animals, and played all kind- of pranks upon Indian 
 
 10 
 
74 THE OAT SKILL MOUNTAINS. 
 
 hunters, decoying tlieni into quagmires and morasses, or to the brinks 
 of torrents and precipices* All these were doled out to me as I lay- 
 on the deck throughout a long summer's day, gazing upon these moun- 
 tains, the ever-changing shapes and hues of which appeared to realize 
 the magical influences in question — sometimes they seemed to ap- 
 proach ; at others to recede ; during the heat of the day they almost 
 melted into a sultry haze ; as the day declined they deepened in tone ; 
 their summits were brightened by the last rays of the sun, and later 
 in the evening their whole outline was printed in deep purple against 
 an amber sky. As I beheld them thus shifting continually before my 
 eye, and listened to the marvellous legends of the trader, a host of 
 fanciful notions concerning them was conjured into my brain, which 
 have haunted it ever since. 
 
 As to the Indian superstitions concerning the treasury of storms 
 and sunshine, and the cloud-weaving spirits, they may have been sug- 
 gested by the atmospherical phenomena of these mountains, the clouds 
 which gather round their summits and the thousand aerial effects which 
 indicate the changes of weather over a great extent of country. They 
 are epitomes of our variable climate, and are stamped with all its 
 vicissitudes. And here let me say a word in favor of those vicissitudes 
 which are too often made the subject of exclusive repining. If they 
 annoy us occasionally by changes from hot to cold, from wet to dry, 
 they give us one of the most beautiful climates in the world. They 
 give us the brilliant sunshine of the south of Europe with the fresh 
 verdure of the north. They float our summer sky with clouds of gor- 
 geous tints or fleecy whiteness, and send down cooling showers to refresh 
 the panting earth and keep it green. Our seasons are all poetical ; the 
 
 * Some of these Indian superstitions about the Catskill Mountains have already been spoken 
 of in a postscript to Rip Van Winkle, in the revised edition of the Sketch Book. 
 
T II 10 CATSKILL .M < > I ' N I A 1 N s . 7 5 
 
 phenomena of our heavens are full of sublimity and beauty. Winter with 
 ii- has none of its pro\ erbial gloom. It may have its howling winds, and 
 thrilling frosts, and whirling snow-storms ; but it has also its long inter- 
 nals of cloudless sunshine, when the snow-clad earth gives redoubled 
 brightness to the day ; when at night the stars beam with intensesl lustre, 
 or the iiicHiu floods the whole landscape with her most limpid radiance 
 
 — and then the joyous outbreak of our spring, bursting a1 once into 
 leaf and blossom, redundant with vegetation, and vociferous with life! 
 
 — and the splendors of our summer ; its morning voluptuousness and 
 r\ ening glorj ; its airy palaces of sun-gilt clouds piled up in a deep azure 
 sky; and its gusts of tempest of almost tropical grandeur, when the forked 
 lightning and the bellowing thunder volley from the battlements of 
 
 heaven and shake the sultry atniosphert and the sublime melancholy 
 
 of our autumn, magnificent in its decay, withering down the pomp and 
 pride of a woodland country, yet reflecting back from its yellow forests 
 the golden serenity of the sky — - surely we may say that in our climate 
 "the heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament showeth 
 forth his handy work: day unto day uttereth speech; and night unto 
 night showeth knowledge." 
 
 A word more concerning the Catskills. It is not the Indians only 
 to whom they have been a kind of wonder-land. In the earlj times 
 of the Dutch dynasty we find them themes of golden speculation 
 among even the sages of New Amsterdam. During the administration 
 of Wilhelmus Kieft there was a meeting between the Director of the 
 New Netherlands and the chiefs of the Mohawk nation to conclude a 
 treaty of peace. On this occasion the Director was accompanied by 
 Mynheer Adriaen Van '\rv Donk, Doctor of Laws, and subsequently 
 historian of the colony. The Indian chiefs, as usual, painted and deco- 
 rated themselves ( ,n the ceremony. One of them in so doing made use 
 of a pigment, the weight and shining appearance of which attracted 
 
76 THE CATSKILI MOUNTAINS. 
 
 the notice of Kieft and his learned companion, who suspected it to be 
 ore. They procured a lump of it, and took it back with them to New 
 Amsterdam. Here it was submitted to the inspection of Iohannes De la 
 Montague, an eminent Huguenot doctor of medicine, one of the counsel- 
 lors of the New Netherlands. The supposed ore was forthwith put in a 
 crucible aud assayed, and to the great exultation of the junto yielded 
 two pieces of gold, worth about three guilders. This golden discovery 
 was kept a profound secret. As soon as the treaty of peace was adjusted 
 with the Mohawks, William Kieft sent a trust}- officer and a party 
 of men under guidance of an Indian, who undertook to conduct them 
 to the place whence the ore had been found. We have no account of 
 this gold-hunting expedition, nor of its whereabouts, excepting that it 
 was somewhere on the Catskill Mountains. The exploring party 
 brought back a 1 mcketful of ore. Like the former specimen it was 
 submitted to the crucible of De la Montagne, and was equally produc- 
 tive of gold. All this we have on the authority of Doctor Van der 
 Donk, who was an eye-witness of the process and its result, and re- 
 cords the whole in his Description of the New Netherlands. 
 
 William Kieft now dispatched a confidential agent, one Arent Cor- 
 sen, to convey a sackful of the precious ore to Holland. Corsen em- 
 barked at New Haven in a British vessel bound to England, whence 
 he was to cross to Rotterdam. The ship set sail about Christmas, 
 but never reached her port. All on board perished. 
 
 In 104*7, when the redoubtable Petrus Stuyvesant took command 
 of the New Netherlands, William Kieft embarked, on his return to 
 Holland, provided with further specimens of the Catskill Mountain 
 ore; from which he doubtless indulged golden anticipations. A similar 
 fate attended him with that which had befallen his agent. The ship in 
 which he had embarked was cast away, and he and his treasure were 
 swallowed in the waves. 
 
 Here closes the golden legend of the Catskills ; but another one <>t' 
 
THE CATSKILX MOUNTAINS. .1 
 
 similar import succeeds. In L649, aboul two years after the ship- 
 wreck of Wilhelmus Kieft, there was again rumor of precious metals 
 in these mountains. Mynheer Brant Arenl Van Slechtenhorst, agenl 
 of the Patroon of Rensselaerswyck, had purchased in behalf of the 
 Patroon a tract of the Cat-kill lands, and leased it out in farms. 
 A Dutch lass in the household of one of the farmers found one daj a 
 glittering substance, which, on being examined, was pronounced silver 
 ore. Branl Van Slechtenhorst forthwith sent his son from Rensselaers- 
 wyck to explore the mountains in quest of' the supposed mines. The 
 young man put up in the farmer's house, which had recently been 
 erected on the margin of a mountain stream. Scarcely was he housed 
 when a furious storm burst forth on the mountains. The thunders 
 rolled, the lightnings Hashed, the rain came down in cataracts; the 
 stream was suddenly swollen to a furious torrent thirtj feel deep; the 
 farm-house and all its contents were swept away, and it was onlj by 
 dint of excellent swimming that young Slechtenhorst saved hi- own 
 life and the lives of his horses. Shortly after this a feud broke out 
 between Peter Stuyvesant and the Patroon of Rensselaerswyck on 
 account of the right and title to the Catskill Mountains, in the 
 course of which the elder Slechtenhorst was taken captive by the 
 Potentate of the New Netherlands and thrown in prison at New Am- 
 sterdam. 
 
 We have met with no record of any further attempt to get at the 
 treasures of the Catskdlls; adventurers may have been discouraged by 
 
 the ill luck which appeared to attend all who meddled with them, as 
 if fchey were under the guardian keep of the same spirits or goblins 
 who once haunted the mountain- and ruled over the weather. 
 
 That gold and silver ore was actually procured from these moun- 
 tain- in days of yore, we have historical evidence to prove, and the re- 
 corded word of Adiiaen Van del' Donk, a man of weight, who was an 
 
78 THE CATSKILL MOUNTAINS. 
 
 eye-witness. If gold and silver were once to be found there, they must 
 be there at present. It remains to be seen, in these gold-hunting days, 
 whether the quest will be renewed, and some daring adventurer, fired 
 with a true Californian spirit, will penetrate the mysteries of these 
 mountains and open a golden region on the borders of the Hudson. 
 
A DISSOLVING VIEW. 
 
 iiv .miss coop e i; . 
 
 Autumn is the season for day-dreams. Wherever, at least, an 
 American landscape shows its wooded heights dyed with the glory of 
 
 ( >cti>l><'r, its lawns and meadows decked with colored groves, its 
 broad and limpid waters reflecting the same bright lines, there the 
 brilliant novelty of the scene, that strange beauty to which the eye 
 never becomes wholly accustomed, would seem to arouse the fancy to 
 unusual activity. Images, quaint and strange, rise unhidden and till 
 the mind, until we pause at length to make sure that, amid the novel 
 aspect of the country, its inhabitants are still the same; we look again 
 to convince ourselves that the pillared cottages, the wooden churches, 
 the brick trading-houses, the long and many-windowed taverns, are still 
 what they were a month earlier. 
 
 The softening haze of the Indian summer, so common at the same 
 season, add- to the illusory character of the view. The mountains 
 have grown higher; their massive forms have acquired a new dignity 
 
 from the airy veil which enfolds them, jusl as the drapery of ancient 
 
 marbles serves to give additional grace to the movement of a limb, or to 
 
80 A DISSOLVING VIEW. 
 
 mark more nobly the proportions of the form over which it is thrown. 
 The different ridges, the lesser knolls, rise before us with new impor- 
 tance ; the distances of the perspective are magnified ; and yet, at the 
 same time, the comparative relations which the different objects bear 
 to each other, are revealed with a beautiful accuracy wanting in a 
 clearer atmosphere, where the unaided eye is more apt to err. 
 
 There is always something of uncertainty, of caprice if you will, 
 connected with our American autumn, which fixes the attention anew, 
 every succeeding year, and adds to the fanciful character of the season. 
 The beauty of spring is of a more assured nature; the same tints rise 
 year after year in her verdure, and in her blossoms, but autumn is 
 what our friends in France call " une beaute journal V 'ere? variable, 
 changeable, not alike twice in succession, gay and brilliant yesterday, 
 more languid and pale to-day. The hill-sides, the different groves, the 
 single trees, vary from year to year under the combined influences of 
 clouds and sunshine, the soft haze, or the clear frost ; the maple or 
 oak, which last October was gorgeous crimson, may choose this season to 
 wear the golden tint of the chestnut, or the pale yellow of duller trees ; 
 the ash, which was straw-color, may become dark purple. One never 
 knows beforehand exactly what to expect ; there is always some varia- 
 tion, < >ccasionally a strange contrast. It is like awaiting the sunset of 
 a brilliant day ; we feel confident that the evening sky will be beauti- 
 ful, but what gorgeous clouds or what pearly tints may appear to 
 delight the eye, no one can foretell. 
 
 It was a soft hazy morning, early in October. The distant hills, 
 with their rounded, dome-like heights, rising in every direction, had 
 assumed on the surface of their crowning woods a rich tint of bronze, 
 as though the swelling summits, gleaming in the sunlight, were 
 wrought in fretted ornaments of that metal. Here and there a scarlet 
 maple stood in full colored beauty, amid surrounding groves of green. 
 
a D [SSO i. V i \<; V i 1: w . 81 
 
 A group of young oaks close a1 hand had also fell the influence of the 
 frosty autumnal dews; their foliage, generally, was a lively green, 
 worthy of June, wholly unlike decay, and yet each tree was touched 
 here and therewith vivid snatches of the brightest red; the -mailer 
 twigs close to the trunk forming brilliant crimson tufts, like knot- of 
 ribbon. One might have fancied them a band of young knights, wear- 
 in-- their ladies' colors over their hearts. A pretty flowering dogwood 
 close at hand, with delicate shaft and airy branches, flushed with it- 
 own peculiar tint of richest lake, was perchance the lady of the grove, 
 the beauty whose colors were fluttering on the breasts of the knightly 
 oaks on either side. The tiny seedling maples, with their delicate 
 leaflets, were also in color, in choice shades of scarlet, crimson, and 
 pink, like a new race of flowers blooming about the roots of the 
 autumnal forest. 
 
 We were sitting upon the trunk of a fallen pine, near a projecting 
 cliff which overlooked the country for some fifteen miles or more; the 
 lake, the rural town, and the farms in the valley beyond, lying at our 
 feet like a beautiful map. A noisy flock of blue jays were chattering 
 among the oak- whose branches overshadowed our seat, and a busy 
 squirrel was dropping his winter store of chestnuts from another tree 
 close at hand. A gentle breeze from the south came rustling through 
 the colored woods, and already there was an autumnal sound in their 
 murmurs. There is a difference in the music of the woods as the 
 seasons change. In winter, when the waving limbs are bare, there is 
 more of unity in the dee]) wail of the winds as they -weep through 
 the forests; in 8ummer the rustling foliage gives some higher and 
 more cheerful notes to the general harmony: and there is alsoachange 
 of kej from the softer murmurs of the fresh foliage of earbj summer, 
 to the sharp tones of the dry and withering lease- in ( >ctober. 
 
 There i> something of a social spirit in the brilliancj of our Ame- 
 
 11 
 
82 A DISSOLVING VIEW. 
 
 rican autumn. All the glory of the colored forest would seem dis- 
 played for human eyes to eujoy ; there is, in its earlier stages, an ah* 
 of festive gayety which accords well with the cheerful labors of the sea- 
 son, and there is a richness in the spectacle worthy of the harvest- 
 home of a fruitful land. I should not care to pass the season in the 
 wilderness which still covers large portions of the country ; either 
 winter or summer should be the time for roaming in those boundless 
 woods ; but with October let us return to a peopled region. A broad 
 extent of forest is no doubt necessary to the magnificent spectacle, 
 but there should also be broken woods, scattered groves, and isolated 
 trees ; and it strikes me that the quiet fields of man, and his cheerful 
 dwellings, should also have a place in the gay picture. Yes ; we felt 
 convinced that an autumn view of the valley at our feet must be finer 
 in its present varied aspect, than in past ages when wholly covered 
 with wood. 
 
 The hand of man generally improves a landscape. The earth has 
 been given to him, and his presence in Eden is natural ; he gives life 
 and spirit to the garden. It is only when he endeavors to rise above 
 his true part of laborer and husbandman, when he assumes the cha- 
 racter of creator, and piles you up hills, pumps you up a river, scatters 
 stones, or sprinkles cascades, that lie is apt to fail. Generally the 
 grassy meadow in the valley, the winding road climbing the hill-side, 
 the cheerful village on the bank of the stream, give a higher addi- 
 tional interest to the view ; or where there is something amiss in the 
 scene, it is when there is some evident want of judgment, or good 
 sense, or perhaps some proof of selfish avarice, or wastefulness, as 
 when a country is stripped of its wood to fill the pockets or feed the 
 fires of one generation. 
 
 It is true there are scenes on so vast a scale, scenes so striking in 
 themselves, that whatever there may be of man in view is at first 
 
A DISSOLVl SO V I E w. 83 
 
 wholly overlooked ; we note the valley, but not his villages : we see the 
 winding stream, but not the fisher's skiff; even in these instances, 
 however, after the firsl vivid impressions produced by the grandeur of 
 the spectacle, we please ourselves by dwelling on the lesser features 
 awhile; ami after wondering on the Righi-Kulm at the sublime arraj 
 of hoarj Alps bounding the distant horizon, we pause to note the 
 smoke curling from the hamlet in the nearest valley, we mark the 
 chalets dotting the mountain-side, or the white sail of the boat making 
 it- w n\ across the lake. 
 
 Even in those sublime scenes, where no trace of man meets the 
 eye, in the cheerless monotony of the steppes of central Asia, in the 
 arid deserts of Africa, a ug the uninhabited Andes, or in the bound- 
 less forests of America, it is the absence of human life which is so 
 highly impressive : and if other portions of the earth were not peopled 
 with intellectual beings, mapped out by them and marked with their 
 works, the contrast of those strange solitudes could not lie felt by 
 the heart of the wanderer. 
 
 All the other innumerable tribes of animated beings inhabiting 
 this world, may crowd a country, and scarcely make an impression on 
 its face which the winds and rains of a few seasons will not wholly 
 obliterate; but man, in his most savage condition, shall raise some 
 fortification, or heap over the bones of his heroes some vast misshapen 
 pile, which outlast- perhaps the existence of a whole race. The south- 
 eastern portion of Europe is a vast level region, resembling in many 
 particulars the steppe- of central Asia, or the great prairies of our 
 own country; until recently it lay a broad unpeopled waste, no pail 
 of which had been brought under cultivation; but in the midst of 
 these grassy solitudes rise rude ancient tumuli, or barrows, whoss 
 origin goes back to periods anterior to historj ; nomadic shepherd 
 tribes passed and repassed the ground forages, but knew nothing of 
 
84 A DISSOLVING VIEW. 
 
 their story. Similar tumuli are numerous in western Asia also, and, 
 like the mounds of our own continent, they doubtless belong to a rude 
 and ancient race. These old works of earth, whose great piles refuse 
 to reveal the names of those who reared them, never fail to excite a 
 peculiar interest ; there is a spirit of mystery hovering over them 
 beyond what is connected with monuments of any later period, even 
 the proudest labors in stone ; so like the works of nature in this re- 
 spect, they seem to possess for us something of the same profound 
 secrecy. These lasting and remarkable tumuli, or mounds, although 
 they produce no very striking effect on the aspect of a country, yet 
 have an important place in the long array of works which give a pe- 
 culiar character to the lands which man has once held as his own. 
 
 The monuments of a succeeding age, raised by a more skilful peo- 
 ple, are much more prominent. Indeed it would seem as if man had 
 no sooner mastered the art of architecture, than he aimed at rivalling 
 the dignity and durability of the works of nature which served as 
 his models ; he resolved that his -nails of vast stones should stand in 
 place as long as the rocks from which they were hewn ; that his col- 
 umns and his arches should live with the trees and branches from 
 which they were copied ; he determined to scale the heavens with his 
 proud towers of Babel. The durability of their architecture still re- 
 mains to the present day one of the most remarkable characteristics 
 of those ancient ages. Such is the wonder excited in the minds of 
 the most skilful architects of the present day at the sight of the im- 
 mense masses of stone transported and uplifted, apparently at will, by 
 those ancient nations, that some have supposed them to have possessed 
 mechanical powers of their own, lost to succeeding ages, and not yet 
 regained by ourselves. Certainly it would appear a well-assured fact, 
 that the oldest works of the first great architects have been the most 
 em lining and the most imposing of all that human art has raised. 
 
A DISSOLVING VI E W. 85 
 
 How many centuries were required to ruin Babylon! Willi the pro- 
 phetic curse of desolation hovering over her towns fur ages, the vio- 
 lence of a dozen generations was aroused against her, nation after 
 nation was brought to the work, ere that curse was fulfilled, and all 
 her pride laid in the dust; and still to-day her shapeless ruins break 
 
 the surface of the level desert which surrounds them. I k at the 
 
 ancient temples of India ; look at Egypt with her ■wonderful works ; 
 all the proudest edifices of modern times may ye1 tall to the ground, 
 
 ere those Pyramids are ruined; they may see the last future acts of 
 the earth's story, as they have stood mute witnesses of a thousand pasl 
 histories. What were thai level country of Egypt, thai muddj Nile, 
 without the Pyramids and the surrounding coeval monuments! 
 
 Look, even later, at the works of Grecian and Roman ait. Al- 
 though Greece and Rome were the chosen prey of barbarous nations 
 for ages, yet not all the fury of millions of savages could utterly de- 
 stroy the monuments they raised. Study the ruined temples, and 
 theatres, and tombs, the aqueducts, the bridges of those ancient na- 
 tions. Wha1 architectural labors have we which for excellence and 
 beauty will compare with them \ For thousands of years they have 
 stood, noble, distinctive features of the lands to which they belong. 
 The little temple of the Sybil seems, to modern eyes, as much an in- 
 tegral part of the surrounding hills, and the valley of Tivoli, as the 
 evergreen oaks and olive trees, ay, as the stream which flings itself 
 over the rocks at its feet. Wha1 were the Campagna, without it- 
 broken aqueducts, its ancient tombs ? What were Rome itself withoul 
 it- ruins? The architectural remains of those old works still give to 
 the seven hills, ami the I. road plain aboul them, a positive beauty, 
 which their modern works, imposing as they are, cannot equal. 
 
 It i- well for us that those races of old undertook such noble 
 labors. Ma\ we not believe that there was something Providential in 
 
86 A DISSOLVING VIEW. 
 
 the feeling which led them to erect such lasting monuments % They 
 built for us. Such works as the Pyramids, and their cotemporary 
 temples, such works as those of Babel, Psestum, the Coliseum, the Par- 
 thenon, belong to the race ; their influence is not confined to the soil 
 on which they stand. As the sun of Time descends to complete its 
 course, their shadows are thrown over the whole earth. 
 
 In the middle ages, after Europe had become Christian, all the 
 edifices of sufficient importance to give character to a country were 
 divided in two great classes; they were the Gothic churches and 
 abbeys of religion, or the fortified castles of war. It is rather singular 
 that the age of the greatest extent of religious houses should also have 
 been peculiarly an age of warfare; but no doubt the very prevalence 
 of this warlike spirit was a cause of the increase of monarchism. If 
 the dozen hills about a valley were each crowned with a castle, and 
 if half a dozen feuds between their different lords laid waste the sur- 
 rounding country, it became a sort of necessity for a Christian society 
 that one house of peace, at least, should lie in the meadows of the 
 valley, in view from the towers. The very violence of the age, united 
 to the superstitious nature of religion at the time, was thus no doubt 
 a cause of the great size and riches of the churches. Louis XI. of 
 France, as a general rule, committed some act of cruelty or treachery 
 every morning, and then sought to buy a pardon in the evening by 
 some pecuniary favor to church or abbey ; and there were in those days 
 many knights and barons bold whose consciences were appeased by 
 the same course of proceeding. 
 
 The durability of the works of the middle ages — although they 
 had lost so much of ancient civilization — is still very remarkable. 
 Some of the cathedrals, the castles, and the bridges of those days are 
 likely, with a few exceptions here and there, to outlast modern works 
 of the same nature ; certainly they may outlast those now standing in 
 
a ]> i sso i. v i x<; v i E w. 81 
 
 this country. There are bridges of thai period in the wildest part- of 
 Europe, so bold in their position, spanning gorges so deep, springing 
 from precipices so abrupt, thai the people of later days gave them a 
 magical origin, calling them " Devils' Bridges." There are feudal castles 
 with walls so massive, that the idea <>t' razing them was abandoned 
 after the orders to do so had been given. Their vasl cathedrals, whose 
 noble spires still rise so grandly above the roofs of the towns to which 
 they belong, were ages in building; some of these, nay, one maj say 
 many of them, required such vasl sums of money, and such a long 
 period of time to carry out the ureal designs of their architects, that 
 tlie\ have remained unfinished to the present hour. They not only 
 built for the future, in those days, but they expected posterity to 
 work with them; and as one generation lay down in their graves, they 
 called another generation to the pious labor. 
 
 It is not exactly as a stranger that an American looks at these re- 
 mains of feudal days, that he stands before the halt-ruined walls of 
 their castles ; in one sense we also have an interesl in them. Who knows 
 but ancestors of our own may have been among the squires who 
 crossed that drawbridge, or among the masons who built the walls, 
 or with the peasants who clustered under the protection of the banners 
 
 of yonder ruined hold? At any rate there is 1 ue breathing in 
 
 Christendom who,!' present late, perhaps both for good and for evil, 
 ha- not been in some measure influenced by those days of chivalry and 
 Buperstitious truth, in their bearing upon civilized societj at large. We 
 Americans are as much the children of those European ages, as the pre- 
 senl population of 1< Vance or England. 
 
 The vast extent of the regions over which these ancient monuments 
 are scattered, t he different series of them on the same soil — Druidical, 
 Roman, Gothic, renaissance and modern give one a clearer idea than 
 figures can, of the innumerable throngs of human beings which have 
 
88 A DISSOLVING VIEW. 
 
 preceded the present tenants of the ground, and so fully stamped the 
 impression of man on the face of the old world. The plains, the hills, 
 the valleys, the cliffs, the bare and massive mountains, the islands, the 
 very caves of those regions, all bear ancient human marks. The plains 
 are crowned by remains of Eoman roads ; the valleys and the islands 
 have been the seat of old monasteries, or perhaps still older villas ; the 
 hills, the cliffs, the mountains, are crowned with the ruined towers of 
 feudal days ; the wild gorges and the caves have been the haunts of 
 banded robbers and outlaws, or of solitary hermits. 
 
 The caves of the old world, more especially those of the eastern 
 and southern countries, of Syria, Arabia, Egypt, Greece, Italy, have 
 had a strange story of their own. Many of them have been strong- 
 holds, which have stood siege after siege, as for instance those of Pales- 
 tine and Egypt. Others have been the dens of robbers, or pirates. 
 Many, cut in the face of high and apparently inaccessible cliffs, have 
 been used as tombs, and are more or less carved and sculptured within 
 and without ; such are frequently seen in Syria and other parts of Asia. 
 In southern Italy there are many caves in the face of the cliffs of the 
 Apennines, whose openings are plainly seen from the highways in the 
 valleys below ; those were at one time, when Italy was overrun by 
 barbarous heathen nations, the refuge of Christian hermits. Probably 
 the natural caves of those Eastern lands were the first dwellings of 
 their earliest population. Thus it is that there is not in those old 
 c< mntries a single natural feature of the earth upon which man has not 
 set his seal, from the cave of Machpelah to the summit of the Alpine 
 mountain, where the pale gray hues of the distant cross are faintly 
 drawn against the shy. 
 
 How different from all this is the aspect of our own country! It is 
 true that our fathers, with amazing rapidity, have changed a forest 
 wilderness into a civilized and populous land. But the fresh civiliza- 
 
A DISSOLV] \ Q V tBW, 89 
 
 tion of America Is whollj differenl in asped from thai of the old 
 world: there is no blending of the old and the new in this country; 
 there is nothing old among us. If we were endowed with ruins we 
 should not preserve them; they would be pulled down to make way 
 for some novelty. A. striking instance of this tendency will befound in 
 the fad thai the lasl hutch house in New-York has disappeared. For a 
 long time a number of those historical way-marks existed in the older 
 parts of the town, bul now, we understand thai the lasl high gable, the 
 lasl Dutch walls, have disappeared froiaNew Amsterdam. We might 
 havesupposed thai occupying so little space as they did, standing in 
 streets with Dutch names, owned perhaps by men of Dutch descent, 
 one, at least, of these relics of our own olden time might have been 
 preserved. But no ; we are the reverse of conservators in this coun- 
 try; it was idle perhaps to expect that a single monument of the 
 origin of the town would be left in place. 
 
 We are the borderers of civilization in America, but borderers of 
 the nineteenth century, when all distances are lessened, whether moral 
 or physical. And then, a- borderers, we a Km often act as pioneers ; the 
 peculiar tendencies of the age are -ecu more clearly among us than in 
 Europe. The civilization of the present is far more subtle in its cha- 
 racter than that of the past, and its works are naturally like itself, 
 highly influential, and important, but less dignified, and imposing in 
 aspect. It would be comparatively an easy work to remove from the 
 earth all traces of many of the peculiar merits of modern civilization, 
 jusl as the grand Palace of Glass, now standing in London, that 
 brilliant and characteristic work of the day, mighl in a W-w hours be 
 utterly razed. Look at our lighl suspension bridges, marvellous as 
 thej are. how soon they could be destroyed; looh at our railways, 
 at our ships and manufactories moved by steam; look at the marvel- 
 lous ,-le,tric telegraph, at the wonders Daguerre has showed us — 
 
 12 
 
90 A DISSOLVING VIEW. 
 
 look, in fact, at any of the peculiar and most remarkable of the works 
 of the age, and see how speedily all traces of them could be removed. 
 It will be said that the most important of all arts, that of printing, must 
 suffice in itself to preserve all other discoveries : assuredly ; but remove 
 the art of printing, bring fresh hordes of barbarians to sweep over the 
 civilized world, let them busy themselves with the task of destruction, 
 and say then what traces of our works would remain on the face of the 
 earth as monuments of our period. Perchance, as regards America, 
 the chief proofs that eastern civilization had once passed over this 
 country would then he found in the mingled vegetation, the trees, the 
 plants, ay, the very weeds of the old world. 
 
 We are told by Monsieur Agassiz that, as the surface of the planet 
 now exists, North America is, in reality, the oldest part of the earth. 
 He tells us that in many particulars our vegetation, and our animal 
 life, belong to an older period than those of the eastern hemisphere; 
 he tells us of fossil hickories, and fossil gar-pikes in Europe, while 
 hickories and gar-pikes are now confined to our own part of the world. 
 Rut without doubting this theory, still there are many peculiarities 
 which give to this country an air of youth heyond what is observed 
 in the East. There are man)' parts of Europe, of Asia, of Africa, 
 which have an old, worn-out, exhausted appearance ; sterile moun- 
 tains, unwooded moors, barren deserts and plains. In North 
 America, on the contrary, there is little territory which can be called 
 really sterile. As a general rule, the extent and richness of its forests 
 and its wealth of waters give it naturally a cheerful aspect, while the 
 more rounded forms of the hills and mountains, and their covering of 
 vegetation, leave an impression of youth on the mind, compared with 
 the abrupt, rocky peaks, the smaller streams, and the open unwooded 
 plains of eastern regions. 
 
 The comparatively slight and fugitive character of American archi- 
 
A li I smi |. V I N"G V I E tt . 9 I 
 
 tecture, no doubt, gives additional force to this impression. Seldom 
 indeed are our edifices imposing. The chief merit of our masonrj and 
 carpentry, especially when taken in the ma—, where the details are 
 not critically examined, is a pleasing character of cheerfulness. It is 
 nol the airj elegance of French or Italian art; it is not the gayetj of 
 the Moorish or Arabesque; it is ye1 too unformed, too undecided to 
 claim a character of its own, but the general air of comfort and thrift 
 which shows itself in mos1 of our dwellings, whether <>n a large or a 
 small scale, gives satisfaction in it- way. 
 
 Such were the thoughts which came to us as we sat mi the fallen 
 pine, among the October woods, overlooking the country. Before 
 bending our steps homeward we amused ourselves with a sort of game 
 of architectural consequences, the result of the preceding fancies. I 
 had gathered a sprig of wych-hazel, and, waving it over the valley, de- 
 termined to make a trial of its well-established magical power-. No 
 sooner had the forked branch, garnished with its ragged yellow flow- 
 ers, been waved to and fro, than strange work began! The wooden 
 
 bridge at the entrance of the village fell into the stream and disap- 
 peared; the court-house vanished; the seven taverns were gone; the 
 
 dozen Stores had felt the spell; the churches Were not -pared; the 
 
 hundred dwelling-houses shared the same fate, and vanished like the 
 -moke from their own chimneys. Merely razing a village was not, 
 however, our ambition; so we again had recourse to the leafless twig 
 of wych-hazel. Scarcely hail it passed once more over the valley, 
 when we saw a foresl -tart from the earth, the trees in full maturity, 
 of the same variety of species, and in the same stage of autumnal 
 coloring with the woods aboul us. lint even this reappearance of a 
 foresl on the site of the vanished village did not -ati-!\ the whim of 
 the moment. The branch of wych-hazel was again rapidly waved to- 
 wards the four quarters of the heavens, and so great was the agitation 
 
a DISS :. " : :•" - view. 
 
 of the moveineir. th t a numbe] fits ._ - bro- 
 
 ken 3catl I wind over the country. Perhaps the 
 
 —oms in 'he power of the spell, for in another moment we 
 
 beheld tacle which wholly- across Iteration. We 
 
 d indulging in the wish to have a the valley in the condi- 
 
 it would h:i - aned, had it lain in the * : European civil- 
 
 ization during past . - in such a case, would it hav 
 
 ioned by the hand of man '. To our amazem I - wish v - 
 granted. But it requh - tiny 1 - that 
 
 this was ind of the village which had la mo- 
 
 ment earlie:. thing was - -- _ y altered. "We soon 
 
 vinced that all the natural features of the 1 
 
 anained pre is -we had always know:. I arve 
 
 in the outline of th - change I a knoll was mispla 
 
 The vegetal - had lone been familiar with, and the 
 
 _ 
 
 coloring of the autumnal woods pi what it had in hour 
 
 earlier. But here all resembla:. sed. Manv of the hills had been 
 
 ■ 
 
 wholly shorn of wood. TL f the different farms and that 
 
 of the buildings was entirely changed. Looking down upon the little 
 town we saw it had dwindled to a mere* hamlet : low, picturesque, 
 that'. ttages were irregularly grouped along a wide gi - -" 
 
 and about a broad green which formed tih f the village : in 
 
 this open grassy green stood _ - utifully designed 
 
 and elaborately carved, doubtless : uument f s past :ieal 
 
 s small inn, the only tavern, : the green and the c\ - 
 
 and a 1 s _ swung heavily before the door. The church, the 
 ling in the han.. - evidently very ed a 
 
 I deal of g ts walls . of hew:. -- 
 
 and rich window occup: st _ tul spire rose in 
 
 ii. Two or three small, quiet-] v shops 
 
\ DISSOLVING VIE W. 93 
 
 sented the trade of the place. The bridge was of massive stone, oar- 
 row, and highlj arched, while the ruin- of a tower >i I close al 
 
 hand. The fields were parted bj Ledges, which lined the narrow 
 roads on either side. Several country houses were seen in the neigh- 
 borhood, in various grades of importance. There was a pretty thatched 
 cottage, with one large bay window for front, and surrounded bj a gaj 
 flower-garden. Then just withoul the village was a place of some size, 
 evidently an old country house, dating perhaps some six or eight gen- 
 erations back, with its brick walls, quaint chimneys, angles, cornices, 
 and additions ; this place could boast its park, and deer were grazing 
 on the lawn. Yonder in the distance, upon the western shore of the 
 lake, stood a castle of gray stone, its half dozen towers rising a hun- 
 dred feet from tlif hill-side: there were beautiful lawns and broad 
 masses of wood in this extensive domain; the building itself was in 
 good condition, and apparently inhabited. On a pretty point, pro- 
 jecting into the lake about a league from the village, stood a half- 
 ruined convent, now reduced to a mere farm-house. Something whis- 
 pered to as that a Roman road had once passed iii that direction, thai 
 a villa had formerly stood on the same -pot as the Priory, and that 
 ancient coin- were occasionally dug up there. 'The modern highways 
 running through the valley were the most perfect that can he con- 
 ceived. No less than nine different hamlets were in sight from our 
 position on the cliff; two. in addition to the village at our feet, were 
 seated on the, lake-shore; three more were seen clinging to the hill- 
 sides, grouped aboul sites where feudal castles had 31 1 in former 
 
 time-; another appeared on tin- bank of the river, at a point long 
 used as a ford, and two more occupied different positions in the valley. 
 Prettj graj spire-, or low church towers, were seen rising above 
 of these hamlets. On the farthest hill to the northward, and from 
 it- highest point, the ruin- of an ancient watchtower rose above the 
 wood. 
 
( .»4 A DISSOLVING VIEW. 
 
 I could cany my observations no further. The yellow flowers of 
 the wych-hazel in my hand had attracted a roving bee, bent appa- 
 rently on improving these List warm days, and harvesting the last 
 drops of honey; the little creature had crept close to a finger, and a 
 sharp sting soon recalled my wandering attention, and caused me to 
 did]) the branch and the bee together. The magic wych-hazel thrown 
 aside, the spell was over; the country had resumed its every-day 
 aspect. 
 

THE SCENERY OF PENNSYLVANIA 
 
 BY B A Y A i: D T A 1TLOB. 
 
 There is, perhaps, ao State in the Union which presents a greater 
 variety of landscape than Pennsylvania. This variety does no1 consisl 
 only in the outward configuration of her surface — in the change from 
 mountain to plain, from sterile grandeur to the rich monotony of a 
 level alluvial region — but also in climate, atmosphere, and all those 
 finer influences which arc as the soul to the material forms of Nature. 
 All landscapes, whatever may lie their features, have a distinct indi- 
 viduality, and express a sentimenl of their own. As in .Man, there is 
 no reproduction of the same form or the same peculiar spirit, though 
 in Kelts and broad ranges of scenery — often in entire countries 
 Nature hear- some general distinguishing stamp wherebj the smallesl 
 of her picture- may be recognized. 
 
 It would Ke difficult to presenl any single landscape as being espe- 
 cially Pennsylvanian. Occupying a central position among the Stat.-, 
 Pennsylvania touches both Kelt- of the temperate zone, embracing 
 within her boundaries varieties of climate ranffinsr between those of 
 
 ■ 
 
 Canada and Virginia From the Atlantic tide-water, she crosses the 
 
96 THE SCENERY OF PENNSYLVANIA. 
 
 broad mountain chain which separates its affluents from those whose 
 union forms the Beautiful River of the West, and from her Lake Erie 
 border looks over to the cold shores of Canada. While she is washed 
 by waters that have been thawed from ice-bound Winnipeg, far away 
 towards the Arctic realm, the streams of half her territory find their 
 way to the zone of the orange and the palm, before they reach the 
 sea. In regard to the general characteristics of her scenery, the State 
 may be divided into three districts : the warm agricultural region, 
 lying in the south-eastern part, between the Susquehanna and the 
 Delaware ; the mountain region, embracing all the ranges of the great 
 Appalachian chain, many of which terminate before they reach the 
 New-York frontier ; and the cool, rolling upland plateau of the north- 
 west, with its lakes, forests, and abundant streams. Each of these 
 regions has a separate character, and while no considerable part of 
 the State is absolutely barren or monotonous, the tourist who tra- 
 verses its whole extent is enchanted with the continual change and 
 picturesque variety of scenery through which he passes. 
 
 The only localities which have acquired much celebrity beyond 
 the borders of the State, are the Valley of the Juniata River, (a 
 charming glimpse of which is given in the engraving accompanying 
 this sketch,) and the Vale of Wyoming, renowned through Brandt's 
 Massacre and Campbell's poem; though the description of its bold and 
 beautiful landscapes, as given by the transatlantic bard, is more befit- 
 ting one of the rough barrancas of Mexico. The stranger who visits it 
 with that description in his memory, will see no scarlet flamingoes cir- 
 cling through the air, nor thorny aloes hanging from the crevices of 
 the rocks, neither can he murmur the melodious cadences of Outalissi's 
 death-song "on hillocks by the palm-tree overgrown." But the moun- 
 tain rampart of Wyoming is plumed with the northern fir, and the 
 sweel valley, with the Susquehanna in its lap and its foliage of oak, 
 
rii E sckx 1:1: v o f PEN \- v i, \ \ \ i \. 07 
 
 chesnut, and sycamore, could scarcely fake an additional grace from 
 the aloe or the palm. Yet, because those warm and opulent cham- 
 paigns and those hills veined wiili iron and set on solid foundations of 
 coal, which are the pride of Pennsylvania, are unsung and undescribed, 
 (what part of our country has yet been justly described?) it should 
 
 not be presumed that the State cannol show many a valley as lair as 
 
 the mountain-girdled repose of Wyoming, and many a gorge as freshly 
 and wildly beautiful as those through which leap the sparkling waters 
 ill' the Juniata. 
 
 Most beautiful to our eyes, perhaps because most familiar — more 
 enticing even than the fastnesses of the Alleghanies — is that delightful 
 region lying between them and the Delaware. The mountains, in 
 their passage through the State, deflect gradually from their northern 
 course and curve in the arc of a -rand circle towards its eastern and 
 north-eastern boundary. The firsl ridge rises about forty miles wesl 
 of the Susquehanna, where the river crosses .Mason and Dixon's line. 
 Thence, running northward, it gives place to the Blue Ridge, which 
 has come, with scarcely a break, from its starting-point in the central 
 group of the North Carolina mountain region. Crossing the Susque- 
 hanna near Harrisburg, the Blue Ridge bends away to the north-east, 
 suffering the Schuylkill and Lehigh to slip through its deep gorges, 
 and finally forms the stupendous Water-Gap of the Delaware. Pro- 
 tected from the chill lake-winds by this grand natural barrier and the 
 still higher ridges behind it, and open to the equalizing influence of 
 the neai- Atlantic, this is the richest and most beautiful agricultural 
 district of any of the sea-board States. If. climate is singularly genial 
 and temperate, and the vegetation ^hich covers its softhj undulating 
 hills has something of the rich tints and prodigal luxuriance of the 
 South. The author of Evangeline sings of this region: "There the 
 aii- is all balm and the peach is the emblem of beauty." 
 
 13 
 
98 THE SCENERY OF PENNSYLVANIA. 
 
 The face of the country is diversified with an endless succession of 
 round, open hills, sometimes rising steep and bold from the banks of 
 the rills and rivulets that course through it, sometimes receding so as 
 to form gentle valleys, or spreading into broad upland tracts, rich with 
 forests and pasture fields. Except the Great Valley of Chester, which 
 extends from the Schuylkill to the Conestoga, a distance of forty 
 miles, there are no long reaches of level land, whde there is scarcely a 
 hill which may not be cultivated to its summit. The highest swells 
 south of the Blue Rid^e do not rise more than five hundred feet 
 above the sea-level. Near the mountains the winters are more cold 
 and sharp, but in the southern part but little snow falls, and the 
 autumn frequently stretches its mild reign into December. The great 
 variety and beauty of the native forest-trees gives this region, in sum- 
 mer, an almost tropical wealth of vegetation. The pine, the fir, the 
 ccilar, the hemlock-spruce and the beech come down from the North 
 and clothe the banks of the streams ; the oak, the walnut, the superb 
 tulip-tree, the chesnut, sycamore and linden add their warmer and 
 m< »re luxuriant foliage, and in some sheltered spots the magnolia pours 
 from its snowy goblets a delicious perfume on the airs of early summer. 
 The laurel, towards the end of May, covers whole hill-sides with its 
 crimped pink blossoms, and the crimson rhododendron, scarcely less 
 magnificent than the Cape Azalea, is frequently seen hanging over the 
 clifts of the Schuylkill. 
 
 At the commencement of June, when the leaves are fully ex- 
 panded and retain their first fresh and beautiful green, the warmth, 
 brightness and richness of the landscapes of this region are the very 
 embodiment of the spirit of Summer. The forests are piled masses of 
 gorgeous foliage, now stretching like a rampart over the hills, now 
 following some winding water-course, and now broken into groves and 
 clumps, dotting the undulations of the grain and grass fields. And 
 
THE SCENERY nK PENNSYLVANIA. 99 
 
 those fields ! some rolling with the purple waves of the ripe,juicy 
 clover; some silver-gray with rye, or just tinged with yellow where 
 the wheal has leaned to the sun ; or glittering with the lance-like 
 leaves of the Indian corn: — surely there can be no more imposing 
 exhibition of agricultural wealth, even in older and more productive 
 Lands. In the trim, careful beauty of England and the broad garden 
 of the Rhine plain, one sees nothing of this prodigality of bloom and 
 foliaffi — this Luxury of Nature. 
 
 Here is found almost every variety of scenery which may lie Lad 
 without mountain or prairie. The region is watered by several large 
 streams and their tributaries. In addition to the Schuylkill and 
 Lehigh, which take their rise on the southern slope of the mountains 
 behind Wyoming, there is the Brandywine, made classic by its revolu- 
 tionary memories and deserving of equal renown for the pastoral 
 beauty of its course; the Octorara, a wild and picturesque stream, 
 overhung with bold hills and frequently broken bj rocky barriers ; 
 the Conestoga, watering the agricultural paradise of Lancaster county, 
 and the Swatara, on whose banks the Suabian emigrants might forget 
 their memories of the secluded Fils. Nor are there wanting fitting as- 
 sociations to give the country a deeper interest than it- external 
 beauty ; for nature never speaks to us with a perfect voice till she has 
 received a soul from her connection with Man. The annals of the Re- 
 volution are now old enough to nurture a legend; and what finer 
 personages than Washington, Lafayette and Anthony Wayne on one 
 side, and Howe and Knyphausen on the other I Still further bach we 
 have William Penn, and that wife of his, who sal at the feet of Milton. 
 And this was also the Vinland of Scandinavian Printz, when he 
 brought his vessel, the Key of Calmar, to unlock the portal of a new 
 Swedish Empire in the West. 
 
 I>ut the natural affection of a sun of this region and an heir of 
 
 ' 
 
100 THE SCENERY OF PENNSYLVANIA. 
 
 these memories, lias led me away from the mountains, where we shall 
 find a wholly different sentiment expressed in the scenery. Never 
 rising to such a height as to give the impressions of power and sub- 
 limity which we receive from grander ranges, the Alleghanies still 
 possess a fresh and picturesque beauty of their own. They are never 
 monotonous, even where, as in the southern part of the State, they 
 are drawn into long parallel ridges of level outline, inclosing broad 
 valleys between their bases. The unpruned wildness of the forests 
 with which they are clothed condensates the eye for the absence of 
 cliff, and scar, and spiry pinnacle of naked rock ; while the waters of 
 the Susquehanna and its tributatries, most of which break through 
 them abruptly, at right angles to their course, give a constant variety 
 to their landscapes. The height of the principal chains varies from 
 two to three thousand feet above the sea. In the northern part the 
 mountains are steep and abrupt, with sharp crests, and occasionally a 
 notched and jagged outline. Sharp Mountain, near Pottsville, has 
 along its summit a thin vertical stratum of rock, like a comb or crest, 
 so narrow that one may bestride it in many places. On the other side 
 of the coal-fields, however, and fronting this ridge, rises Broad Moun- 
 tain, whose summit is a nearly level plain. 
 
 The principal ranges in the south have this latter conformation, 
 and their summits are here and there inhabited and cultivated, though, 
 at such a height above the sea, the crops are necessarily scanty. The 
 old stage route from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh — still travelled by 
 drovers and their herds of Western stock for the markets of the East 
 — is one of the most picturesque highways in the United States. Its 
 course for a hundred miles is over these mountains, crossing valleys 
 from ten to twenty miles in width, and climbing the ridges by straight 
 and slowly ascending lines to the pure atmosphere of the summit plain 
 and the splendid landscape which it commands. Leaving the bewil- 
 
THE s < l x ]•: K V OF PENNSYLVANIA. 1 < » 1 
 
 dering view behind him, the traveller is soon whirled on to the oppo- 
 site brink, \\ here he loi ks dew d on another hazy realm of streams and 
 forests, villages and embowered homesteads, bounded by another blue 
 and far-stretching rampart, where a white thread, that seems to have 
 Keen dropped slanthj along the side, marks the further course of his 
 journey. But he is allowed no time to revel in the suggestions of thai 
 airy vision; the horses' feel have touched the descending grade ; they 
 break into a headlong gallop and hurl him downwards into the forest. 
 Down, down, like wild steeds let Loose on a prairie; for the stage rolls 
 by its own weight, and there can be no pause in the mad career. The 
 pine spreads out its arms to catch him, but lie shoots past, careless of 
 the dew it dashes in his face. The mountain drops into a cliff and a 
 gulf yawns on one sulo ; the dust of his passage rolls over the brink, 
 hut he does not stay. And so, for miles down that interminable slope, 
 till the horses are reined up, panting and smoking, on the level of the 
 valley. 
 
 Tin' upper region of the Alleghanies, if it has no such imposing 
 sweeps of landscape and cannot afford such exciting passages of travel, 
 is nioiv broken and rugged. The regularity of the chain ceases ; the 
 mountains are more involved and irregular, and many of the rivers 
 are real labyrinths of scenery, perpetually unfolding in some new and 
 unexpected combination. From the dome of the State House at Ilar- 
 risburg the entrance to the Highlands of the Susquehanna — the gap 
 where the river forces its way through the Blue Ridge, is seen in the 
 distance. Thence, to all the sources of the river and those of all its 
 
 tributaries, it never h>s ( > s sight of the Alleghanies. They step across 
 it as a harrier and break it into rapids; they run by its side and ti\ 
 to shadow it into insignificance; the)- stretch away and look at it from 
 the horizon ; — hut it is a child of their-, and is never so wild and tree 
 and beautiful a- when in their company. It is not to !»• compared 
 
102 TBE SCENERY OF PENNSYLVANIA. 
 
 with any foreign river. It is infinitely more grand and inspiring than 
 the Moselle or the Mense ; it is brighter and fresher than the Rhone, 
 and the character of its scenery is totally different. Although the 
 canal-boat has invaded its primitive silence, it is a picturesque innova- 
 tion, and the mountains could not call to each other in a more fitting 
 voice than is given them by the boatman's bugle, pealing through the 
 morning mists. 
 
 In the heart of the Susquehanna's realm, there are many spots, the 
 record of whose beauty has not yet been wafted over the tops of the 
 mountains that inclose them. Everybody knows the name of Wyo- 
 ming, but few — outside of Pennsylvania, at least — have heard of the 
 Half-Moon Valley in Centre county, or the mountain wildernesses of 
 Clinton and Clearfield ; and though the Juniata, so far as its course 
 has been made the State's highway, is a beaten track, yet its upper 
 waters flow through many a scene of sequestered loveliness. The pre- 
 vailing characteristic of the river is its picturesque beauty, of which 
 the scene chosen by Mr. Tall >ot in the accompanying engraving is an 
 admirable exemplar. Here is nothing grand or aAve-inspiring. The 
 outlines of the mountain in the background, though clearly drawn in 
 the serene air, are soft, graceful and suggestive only of repose ; the 
 nearer crags, though bluff and rude, are mantled with foliage, and the 
 quiet curve of the transparent water, touched with the gleam of a 
 pigmy sail in the distance, whispers of other nooks and more beautiful 
 retreats, far away in the silent solitudes of the hills. The freshness of 
 these scenes has not yet departed ; the dew of the virgin Continent is 
 still moist upon them. The antlered deer track the mazes of their 
 forests and the black bear makes his winter couch in then- deepest and 
 loneliest nooks. 
 
 Leaving this enchanting region and crossing the wild and half- 
 settled tract, which extends through the counties of Clearfield, Elk 
 
THE SCENERY OF PENNSYLVANIA. 103 
 
 and Forest — a cold, central table-land, twelve or fifteen hundred feel 
 above the sea -we reach the Northern agricultural district of the 
 State. In its elevation, its frequent lakes, it- innumerable streams, 
 and the general character of its soil, this countrj resembles the Lake 
 district of Central New-York. The vegetation is no longer so warm 
 and luxuriant as on the Delaware; the oak, hemlock and pine supplant 
 the tulip-tree and the linden, and the maize no longer thrusts up such 
 tall spears and shakes such lusty tassels in the breeze. But the 
 region, nevertheless, has a hold, fresh, vigorous beauty of its own. 
 It is inured to cold winds and keen winters, and if its landscapes 
 ever look bleak, it is that bracing bleakness which exhilarates and 
 strengthens. 
 
 Here our tour is at an end ; we pass the large, clear lakes, most 
 beautiful under a cloudless autumnal sky ; we pass the farms, the trim 
 villages, the pine-crested hills ; and, after leaving the Alleghanies, 
 three days on one of the strong-limbed horses of the country brings 
 as within sight of the silver horizon-line and hearing of the silver surf 
 of Lake Erie. 
 
THE INCH LA N I) TERRACE \l!<>\ i; \\ KST POINT. 
 
 B V N . PA l: K E R W i [/LIS, 
 
 I NT RODUOTION. 
 
 There are threi compulsory and unnatural residents in cities, whom 
 the improvements of the age are aboul to se1 at liberty. Bui for the 
 inconveniences of distance, Taste, Study, am> Luxury, would cave 
 never lived wtllingly i n streets. Silently and insensibly, how- 
 ever, differenl parts of the countrj have become as accessible as diffe- 
 rent parts of the (own. It would be 9afe, perhaps, to Baj that every 
 thing thai is within an hour's reach, is sufficiently a1 hand; and Eng- 
 lish rail-trains now travel regularly sixtj miles an hour, fifty miles 
 from New-Yorl$ will soon be uear enough to its amusements, society 
 and conveniences a1 least, for the greater portion of the year ; and, 
 on the day when this fad shall be recognized, New-Yorkers will be 
 ready for a Btartling and mos1 revolutionizing change, \ix: Ihhik* in 
 iln country and lodgings in town, instead of hunt** in town andlodg- 
 in the country. Industry, necessity, or vice, could alone prefer a 
 house in a "block," among disturbances and gutters, to a home unen 
 croached upon, amid fresh air and gardens. Taste, Study, and Luxury, 
 we repeat, are aboul removing to the country. 
 II 
 
106 THE HIGHLAND TEERACE. 
 
 It will be observed that we anticipate a general preference, only 
 for such rural life as leaves the pleasures and advantages of a city 
 within reach. To be too far in the country, is, for many reasons, a 
 dangerous as well as unpleasant removal from liberalizing and general- 
 izing influences. Its effect on the mind is, perhaps, ultimately, the 
 more important consideration — for it must be a very self-sufficing and 
 anaSsimilating character that does not narrow and grow egotistic with 
 limited associations and intercourse — but its effect on the sensitive- 
 ness as to mental liberty and social position, is sooner to be consider- 
 ed ; for, there is no tyranny like that which is occasionally found in a 
 small village, and no slavery like the efforts sometimes necessary to 
 preserve the good will of small neighborhoods. Country life, even 
 with its best natural charms and advantages, is a doubtful experiment 
 of happiness, unless your main dependence for reciprocity, society and 
 amusements, is beyond the reach of local jealousies and caprices. The 
 great charm of a city is the freedom between neighbors as to any 
 obligation of acquaintance, and the power to pick friends and make 
 visits without fear of offending those not picked nor visited. With 
 the city not farther off than an hour or two hours of locomotion, this 
 privilege can he reasonably and harmlessly asserted in the country; 
 and, with theatres, concerts, galleries of art, churches and promenades 
 also within reach, the advantages of hoth town and country life are 
 combined, while the detects of hoth are modified or avoided. It is 
 with reference to a new era of outer life, therefore — science having so 
 far reduced distance that we may mix town and country life in such 
 proportion as 'pleases us — -that we propose to describe a locality 
 where residence, with this view, would he most desirable for New- 
 Yorker-. 
 
1 II E II 1 G II I. \ \ l> TE RRACE. Id 1 ; 
 
 DESCRIPTION. 
 
 Wes1 Point is Nature's Northern Gate to New-York City. A- 
 -""ii as our rail-trains -hall equal those of England, and travel fifty or 
 sixty miles an hour, the Hudson, as far as Wesl Point, will be but a 
 
 fifty-mile extension of Broadway. The river-banks will have bee e 
 
 a suburban avenue- -a long street of villas, whose busiest residenl 
 will We content that the City Hall is within an hour of his door. 
 From this metropolitan avenue into the agricultural and rural region, 
 the outlet will lie at the city'- Northern (iate, of West Point — a gate 
 whose threshold divides Sea-board from In-land, and whose mountain 
 pillars were heaved up with the changeless masonry of Creation. 
 
 The passage through the Mountain-Gate of West Point is a three- 
 mile Labyrinth, whose clue-thread is the channel of the river — a 
 complex wilderness, of romantic picturesqueness and beauty, which 
 will yet lie the teeming Switzerland <>t' our country's Poetrj and Pen- 
 cil and, at the upper and northern outlet of this labyrinthine portal 
 of the city, there is a formation of hill- which has an expression of 
 most apt significance. // loofoslifa a gestun of welcome from Natwe, 
 Km! 1/1/ invitation to />><'/■■ around you ! From the shoulder-like bluff 
 upon the river, an outspreading range of Highlands extend- hack, 
 Ufa flu curvi of a wavvng arm — the single mountain of Shaw angunk, 
 (connected with the range by a vallej like the bend of a graceful 
 w ri-t |, forming fli< liand at tlu extremity. It is of the area within the 
 curve of this bended arm -a Highland Terrace of ten or twelve 
 miles square, on the Wes1 Bani of the river — that we propose to de- 
 line the capabilities, and probable destiny. 
 
 The Highland Terrace we speak of ten miles square, and lying 
 within the curve of this outstretched arm of mountains ha- an ave- 
 rage level of about one hundred and twenty feel above the river. It 
 
108 THE HIGHLAND TERRACE. 
 
 was early settled ; and, the rawness of first clearings having long ago 
 disappeared, the well-distributed second ivoods are full grown, and 
 stand, undisfigured by stumps, in park-like roundness and maturity. 
 The entire area of the Terrace contains several villages, and is divided 
 up into cultivated farms, the walls and fences in good condition, the 
 roads lined with trees, the orchards full, the houses and barns suffi- 
 ciently hidden with foliage to be picturesque — ■ the whole neighbor- 
 hood, in fact, within any driving distance, quite rid of the angularity 
 and well-known ungracefuluess of a newly-settled country. 
 
 Though the Terrace is a ten-mile plain, however, its roads are re- 
 markably varied and beautiful, from the curious multiplicity of deep 
 git ns. These are formed by the many streams which descend from 
 the half-bowl of mountains enclosing the plain, and — their descent 
 being rapid and sudden, and the river into which they empty being 
 one or two hundred feet below the level of the country around — ■ they 
 have gradually worn beds much deeper than ordinary streams, and 
 are, from this and the character of the soil, unusually picturesque. At 
 every mile or so, in driving which way you will, you come to a sudden 
 descent into a richly wooded vale — a bright, winding brook at bot- 
 tom, and romantic recesses constantly tempting to loiter. In a long 
 summer, and with perpetual driving over these ten-mile interlacings of 
 wooded roads and glens, the writer dady found new scenery, and 
 heard of beautiful spots, within reach and still unseen. From every 
 little rise of the road, it must be remembered, the broad bosom of the 
 Hudson is visible, with foreground variously combined and broken; 
 and the lofty mountains, (encircling just about as much scenery as the 
 eye can compass for enjoyment), form an ascending background </>i<l 
 a new horizon which are hardly surpassed in the world for boldness 
 and beauty. To what degree sunsets and sunrises, clouds, moonlight, 
 and storms, are aggrandized and embellished by this peculiar forma- 
 
i ii E 11 io u LAND t i: i: i: a E. L09 
 
 fcion of country, any studeul and Lover of nature will at once under- 
 stand. Life may be, outwardly, as much more beautiful, amid suet 
 scenery, as action amid the scenerj of a stage is mere dramatic than 
 in an unfurnished room. 
 
 LOCAL ADVANTAGES. 
 
 The accessibilities from Highland Terrace arc very desirable. 
 West Point is perhaps a couple of miles below, by the river bank ; 
 and, though mountain-bluffs and precipices now cut off the following 
 of this line by land, a road lias Keen surveyed and commenced alon-- 
 the base of Cro'nest, which, when completed, will be one of the most 
 picturesque drives in the world. A part of it is to be Mown out from 
 the face of the rock ; and, as the lofty eminences will almost com- 
 pletely overhang it, nearly the whole road will be in shade in the 
 afternoon. To pass along this romantic way for an excursion to the 
 superb military grounds of West Point, and to have the parades and 
 music within an easy drive, will be certainly an unusual luxury for a 
 country neighborhood. The communication is already open for 
 vehicles, by means of a steam terry, which runs between Cornwall 
 Landing (at the fool of the Terrace), and Cold Spring and the Mili- 
 tary Wharf — bringing these three beautiful spots within a \\ i \v 
 minutes' reach of each other — Morris the song-writer's triple-view 
 site of " Undercliff," by the way, overlooking the central of these 
 I tighland-Ferry Landings. 
 
 It may be a greater or less attraction to the locality of the Ter- 
 race, but it is no disadvantage, a1 Least, that three of the besl fre- 
 quented summer resorts are within an afternoon drive of any part of 
 it — the West Point Hotkl, Cozzens's, which is a mile below, and 
 Powelton House, which is five or six miles above the Point, at New- 
 
HO THE HIGHLAND TERRACE. 
 
 burgh. For accessibility to these fashionable haunts of strangers and 
 travellers, and the gayeties and hospitalities for which they give oppor- 
 tunity ■ — for enjoyment of military shows and music — for all manner 
 of pleasure excursions by land and water, to glens and mountain-tops, 
 fishing, hunting, and studying of the picturesque — Highland Terrace 
 will prol >ably be a centre of attraction quite unequalled. 
 
 The river-side length of the Terrace is about live miles — Corn- 
 wall at one end and Newbukgii at the other. At both these 
 places there are landings for the steamers, and from both these are 
 steam-ferries to the opposite side of the river, bringing the fine neigh- 
 borhoods of Fishskill and Cold Spring within easy reach. New- 
 burgh is the metropolis of the Terrace — with its city-like markets, 
 hotels, stores, trades and mechanic arts — -an epitome of New- York 
 convenience within the distance of an errand. Downing, one of our 
 most eminent horticulturists, resides here, and Powell, one of the most 
 enterprising of our men of wealth ; and, along one of the high ac- 
 clivities of the Terrace, are the beautiful country seats of Durand, our 
 first landscape painter ; Miller, who has presented the neighborhood 
 with a costly and beautiful church of stone, Verplanck, Sands, and 
 many others whose taste in grounds and improvements adds beauty 
 to the river drive. 
 
 To the class of seekers for sites of rural residence, for whom we are 
 drawing this picture, the fact that the Terrace is beyond svbv/rban dis- 
 tance from JYew- York, will be one of its chief recommendations. 
 What may be understood as "Cockney annoyances" will not reach 
 it. But it will still be sufficiently and variously accessible from the city. 
 On its own side of the river there is a rail-route from Newburgh to 
 Jersey City, whose first station is in the centre of the Terrace, at 
 "Vail's Gate," and by which New- York will eventually be brought 
 within two hours or less. By the two ferries to the opposite side of 
 
r in: ii n, n i. \ \ n i i: i: 1: a o E. I I 1 
 
 the river, the stations of the Hudson Railroad are also accessible, 
 brinerinff the citv within equal time on another route. 'I he many 
 boats upon the river, touching a1 the two landings at all hours of daj 
 and night, enable you to varj the journey to and fro, with sleeping, 
 reading, or tranquil enjoyment of the scenery. Friends may come to 
 vim with positive luxury of locomotion, and without fatigue; and the 
 monotonj of access to a place of residence by any one conveyance — 
 an evil verj commonly complained of — is delightfully removed. 
 
 There is a \er\ important advantage of the Highland Terrace, 
 which we have uot ye1 named. It is tin spot on the Hudson where tlu 
 two greatest thoroughfares of tht North art to cross each other. The 
 intended route from Boston to Lake Erie, here intersects the rail-and- 
 river routes between New-York and Albany. Coming by Plainfield 
 and Hartford to FishMll, it here takes t'eny to Newburgh, and tra- 
 verses the Terrace by the connecting link already completed to the 
 Erie Railroad — thus bringing Boston within six or eight hours of 
 this portion of the river. Western and Eastern travel will then be 
 direct from this spot, like Southern and Northern ; and Albany and 
 New-York, Boston and Buffalo, will be four points, all within reach 
 of an easj excursion. 
 
 To many, the mosl essential charm of Highland Terrace, however, 
 (as a rural residence in connection with life in New-York), will be 
 the fact that it is the nearest accessible point of compleU inland climate. 
 Medical science tells ns that nothing is more salutary than change from 
 the seaboard to the interior, or from the interior to the seaboard ; and. 
 between these two climates, the ridge of mountains at Wes1 Poinl 
 is the first effectual separation. 
 
 The raw east winds of the coast, so unfavorable to some con- 
 stitutions, -Avr stopped by this wall of cloud-touching peak-, and, 
 with the rapid facilities of communication between salt and fresh air, 
 
112 THE HIGHLAND TERRACE. 
 
 the balance can be adjusted without trouble or inconvenience, and as 
 much taken of either as is found healthful or pleasant. The trial of 
 climate which the writer has made, for a long summer, in the neigh- 
 borhood of these mountainous hiding-places of electricity, the improve- 
 ment of health in his own family, and the testimony of many friends 
 who have made the same experiment, warrant him in commending it 
 as a peculiarly salutary and invigorating air. 
 
 We take pains to specify, once more, that it is to a certain class, 
 in view of a certain new phase of the philosophy of life, that these re- 
 marks are addressed. For those who must be in the city late and 
 early on any and every day, the distance will be inconvenient, unless 
 with unforeseen advances in the rate of locomotion. For those who 
 require the night and day dissipations of New-York, ami who have 
 no resources of their own, a nearer residence might also be more 
 desirable. For mere seekers of seclusion and economy, it is too near 
 the city, and the neighborhood would lie too luxurious. But, for 
 those who have their time in some degree at their own disposal — 
 who have competent means or luxurious independence — who have 
 rural tastes and metropolitan refinements rationally blended — who 
 have families which they wish to surround with the healthful and ele- 
 gant belongings of a home, while, at the same time, they wish to keep 
 pace with the world, and enjoy what is properly and only enjoyable 
 in the stir of cities — for this class — the class, as we said before, made 
 up of Leisure, llefinemeut and Luxury — modern and recent changes 
 are preparing a new theory of what is enjoyable in life. It is a mix- 
 ture of city and country, with the home in tlte country. And the spot 
 with the most advantages for the first American trial of this new com- 
 bination, is, we venture confidently to record, the HIGHLAND 
 terrace encircled in the extended arm of the mountains 
 a hove West Point. 
 
WA-W A -VAN -I) A II LAKE, NEW JERSEY. 
 
 (C RO PS ET.) 
 
 W \-\\ \-van-daii Lake is situated on the Wa-wa-yan-dah Mountains, in 
 tli,' township of Vernon, Sussex county, New Jersey, about three and 
 a half miles from the boundary between New York and .New Jersey, 
 and about two miles from the line between Sussex and Passaic coun- 
 ties. The word "Wa-wa-yan-dah," in the Indian language, means 
 " Winding Stream," so that both the lake and the mountain derive 
 their name from this — the Lake and Mountain of the Winding 
 Stream. The outlel of the lake after winding in various directions 
 
 empties in the Wall-kill. The lake is called by the settlers on the 
 
 mountain, the "Double Pond," from the fact that an island nearly 
 separates it into two ponds; the water i> of greal depth, \'r<\ bj cold 
 springs, and produces \ erj tine trout. 
 
 An old man, named Jeremiah Edes, who formerly Lived near the 
 Lake, tells of an old German, who came there with a tradition handed 
 
 down to him fr his grandfather, that a win of precious ore existed 
 
 near a lake, which answered to the description of this one; which ore 
 he was to seek for between four t rees, near the hank ; that he, Edes, 
 
 I 
 
114 WA-WA-YAN-DAII LAKE. 
 
 assisted tlie German in his search, which after several months resulted 
 in the discovery of some shining metal, of which the German took 
 several lumps back to Germany, after carefully hiding the spot, and 
 binding Edes, by a solemn oath, not to reveal the place. 
 
 The lake is about one mile in extent, either way — it is about fif- 
 teen miles from the Chester Depot of the New York and Erie Rail- 
 road, and is usually visited from this place or from Greenwood Lake. 
 
 To the above description, kindly furnished by a friend, we add an 
 extract from a letter from Mr. Cropsey, the artist whose picture we 
 have copied : — 
 
 " The country is mountainous and covered mostly by forests ; but 
 the little ridges and valleys that he between the mountains are culti- 
 vated ; farmhouses dot them here and there, amid apple orchards and 
 luxuriant meadows — brooks wind through the meadows or ' linger 
 with many a fall' down the wooded hill-side, sustaining here and there a 
 mill, and then loosing themselves in some swamp, or spreading out in 
 some placid little lake or pond. All the country, as I passed along, was 
 highly picturesque, possessing to a great extent the wild beauty of the 
 Catskill and White Mountain country, combined with the tame and 
 cultivated Orange county, next which it lies. 
 
 "Near the lake, and supplied by its water, is an iron work 
 with a pretty clearing in the woods around — with numerous neat 
 little cottages for the workmen — a store — the manager's house, 
 and all that kind of incident that indicates a new-made but 
 flourishing place. Upon the high ground near by, and near where 
 my view was taken, can be seen beyond the Sha-wan-gunk Mountains 
 the Catskills, and from another position not far distant is distinctly 
 seen Mount Adam and Mount Eve." 
 
OVER THE MOUNTAINS, 01! THE WESTERN PIONEER. 
 
 BY II i: N l; y T. T U C K E R M A N . 
 
 The peculiar beauty of American mountains is rather incidental than 
 intrinsic; we seldom gaze upon one with the delight awakened by an 
 individual charm, 1 ait usually <>ii account of its grand effect as part of 
 a vasl landscape. Our scenery is on so large a scale as to yield sub- 
 lime rather than distinct impressions; the artist feels that it is requi- 
 site to -elect and combine the materials afforded by uature, in order to 
 produce an effective picture; ami although our countiy is unsurpassed 
 in bold and lovely scenes, no ordinary patience and skill are needed 
 to choose adequate subjects for the pencil. The outline of the moun- 
 tains i- almost invariably rounded ; the peaks of Alpine summits ami 
 the graceful linear curves of die Apennines render them far more pic- 
 turesque. A- we stand on the top of Mount Washington, or the Cat- 
 skill-, the very immensity of the prospect renders it too vague for the 
 limner; it inspires the imagination more frequently than it satisfies 
 the eye. Indeed, general effect is the characteristic of American sce- 
 ner\ ; the levels are diffused into apparently boundless prairies, and 
 the elevations spread in grand bu1 monotonous undulations ; only here 
 
116 OVER THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 and there a nook or a ridge, a spur, a defile or a cliff, forms the nucleus 
 for an impressive sketch, or presents a cluster of attractive features 
 limited enough in extent to be aptly transferred to canvas. " High 
 mountains are a feeling;" hut here it is liable to be expansive rather 
 than intense. The AHeghanies stretch inimitably, and, as it were, 
 beckon forward the enthusiastic wanderer, while the Alps visibly soar 
 and lure him upward ; amid the latter he has but to look through the 
 circle of his hand to behold a picture, while the former awaken a sense 
 of the undefined and limitless, and thus break up continually the per- 
 ception of details. It is remarkable, however, that about the centre 
 of the range, where it intersects the western part of North Carolina, 
 the summits are peaked like the Alps, and are disposed waywardly 
 like the Apennines. Here, too, the French Broad river, as it winds 
 along the turnpike for the distance of forty miles, although not navi- 
 gable, is highly picturesque on account of its numerous rapids and the 
 bluffs that line its course ; and, while the autumnal frost jn'oduces no 
 such gorgeous tints in the foliage around as make the western woods 
 radiant with crimson and gold, the profusion and variety of the ever- 
 greens, render the winter landscape far more attractive. 
 
 A similar discrepancy attaches to the moral ass< >eiation of moun- 
 tains at home and abroad. We follow the track of invading hosts as 
 we cross the Alps, and are thus haunted by memorable events in the 
 history of civilization amid the most desolate heights of nature; every 
 fastness of the Apennines has its legend of Scythian, Gaul, or Roman, 
 and each base its Etrurian sepulchre. The chief moral interest belong- 
 ing to the AHeghanies is that derived from the fact that they consti- 
 tute the natural boundary of the old and new settlements of the conti- 
 nent. The memory of the Indian, the hunter, and especially the pio- 
 neer, consecrate their names; and as Ave contemplate a view taken at 
 the picturesque locality before alluded to, and illustrated by the an- 
 
OVER I II I. MOUNTAINS. I 1 7 
 
 nexed landscape, we naturally revert to the brave and original man 
 who thence wenl " over the mountains," to clear a pathway, build a 
 lodge, and found a Stale in the wilderness. 
 
 There hung, for many months, on the walls of the Art-Union gal- 
 lerj in New-York, a picture bj Ranney, so thoroughly national in its 
 subject and true to nature in its execution, that it was refreshing to 
 contemplate it, after being wearied with far more ambitious yet less 
 successful attempts. It represented a flat ledge of rock, the summit 
 of a high cliff thai projected over a rich, umbrageous country, upon 
 which a band of hunters leaning on their rifles, were gazing with looks 
 of delighted surprise. The foremost, a compact and agile, though not 
 \ei_\ commanding figure, is pointing out the landscape to his comrades, 
 with an air of exultant yet calm satisfaction ; the wind lifts his thick 
 hair from a brow full of energy and perception; his loose hunting 
 shirt, his easy attitude, the fresh brown tint of his cheek, and an in- 
 genuous, cheerful, determined yet benign expression of countenance, 
 proclaim the hunter and pioneer, the Columbus of the woods, the 
 foresl philosopher and brave champion. The picture represents 
 Daniel Boone discovering to his companions the fertile levels of Ken- 
 tucky. This remarkable man, although he does not appear to have 
 originated any great plans or borne the responsibility of an appointed 
 leader in the warlike expeditions in which he was engaged, possessed 
 one of those rarebj balanced natures, and that unpretending efficiency 
 of character which, though seldom invested with historical promi- 
 nence, abound in personal interest. Without political knowledge, he 
 sustained an infant settlement; destitute of a military education, he 
 proved one of the most formidable antagonists the Indians ever en- 
 countered; with no pretensions to a knowledge of civil engineering, 
 he laid out the firsl road through the wilderness of Kentucky ; unfa- 
 miliar with books, he reflected deeply and attained to philosophical 
 
118 OVEll THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 convictions that yielded him equanimity of mind ; devoid of poetical 
 expression, he had an extraordinary feeling for natural beauty, and 
 described his sensations and emotions, amid the wild seclusion of the 
 forest, as prolific of delight ; with manners entirely simple and unob- 
 trusive, there was not the least rudeness in his demeanor ; and relent- 
 less in fight, his disposition was thoroughly humane ; his rifle and his 
 cabin, with the freedom of the woods, satisfied his wants ; the sense 
 of insecurity in which no small portion of his life was passed, only 
 rendered him circumspect ; and his trials induced a serene patience and 
 fortitude ; while his love of adventm'e was a ceaseless inspiration. Such 
 a man forms an admirable progenitor in that nursery of character — 
 the West ; and a fine contrast to the development elsewhere induced 
 by the spirit of trade and political ambition ; like the rudely sculp- 
 tured calumets picked up on the plantations of Kentucky- — memorials 
 of a primitive race, whose mounds and copper utensils yet attest a 
 people antecedent to the Indians that fled before the advancing settle- 
 ments of Boone — his character indicates for the descendants of the 
 hunters and pioneers, a brave, independent and noble ancestry. Thus, as 
 related to the diverse forms of national character in the various sections 
 of the country, as well as on account of its intrinsic attractiveness, the 
 western pioneer is an object of peculiar interest ; and the career of 
 Boone is alike distinguished for its association with romantic adventure 
 and historical fact. 
 
 A consecutive narrative however would yield but an ineffective 
 picture of his life as it exists in the light of sympathetic reflection. The 
 pioneer, like the mariner, alternates between long uneventful periods 
 and moments fraught with excitement ; the forest, like the ocean, is mo- 
 notonous as well as grand ; and its tranquil beauty, for weeks together, 
 may not be sublimated by terror; yet in both spheres there is an 
 undercurrent of suggestive life, and when the spirit of conflict and 
 
V E i: Til E MOD \ T A INS. | |'.i 
 
 vigilance sleeps, that of contemplation is often alive. Perhaps it is 
 
 this very successi I' " moving accident-" ami lonely quiet, of solemn 
 
 repose and intense activity, that constitute- the fascination which the 
 sea and the wilderness possess for imaginative minds. They appeal 
 at once t<> poetical and heroic instincts; and these arc more fre- 
 quently combined in the same individual, than we usually suppose. 
 Before attempting to realize the characteristics of Boone in their unity, 
 we musl note the salient points in his experience; and this is best 
 done by revi\ ing a tew scene, which t\ pity the w hole drama. 
 
 It is midnight in the forest; and, through the interstices of its 
 thickly woven branches, pale moonbeams glimmer on the emerald 
 sward. The only sounds that break upon the brooding silence, are an 
 occasional gust of wind amid the branches of the loftier trees, the hoot- 
 ing of an owl, and, sometimes, the wild crj of a beast disappointed of 
 hi- prey, or scared by the dusky figure of a savage on guard at a 
 watch-fire. Besides its glowing embers, and leaning against the huge 
 trunk of a gigantic hemlock. -it two -ills whose complexion and habili- 
 ments indicate their Anglo-Saxon origin; their hands are clasped 
 together, and one appears to sleep as her head rests upon her com- 
 panion's shoulders. They are very pale, and an expression of anxiety 
 i- evident in tin' very firmness of their resigned looks. A slight 
 rustle in the thick undergrowth near their camp, causes the Indian 
 sentinel to rise quickly to hi- feet and peer in the direction of the 
 sound; a moment after he leaps up, with a piercing shout, and falls 
 Meed in-- upon the ground, while the crack of a rifle echoes through the 
 wood; iji an instant twenty [ndians spring from around the fire, raise 
 the war-whoop, ami brandish their tomahawks ; bu1 three or four in- 
 Btantly drop before the deadly aim of the invaders, several run howl- 
 ing with pain into the depths of the forest, and the remainder set oil' 
 on an opposite trail. Then calmly, but with an earnest joy, revealed 
 
120 OVER THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 1 'V the dying flames upon his features, a robust, compactly knit figure, 
 moves with a few hasty strides towards the females, gazes eagerly into 
 their faces, lifts one in his arms and presses her momently to Lis breast, 
 gives a hasty order, and his seven companions with the three in their 
 midst, rapidly retrace their way over the tangled brushwood and amid 
 the pillared trunks, until they come out, at dawn, upon a clearing, 
 studded with enormous roots, among which waves the tasselled maize, 
 beside a spacious log-dwelling surrounded by a palhsade ; an eager, 
 tearful group rush out to meet them; and the weary and hungry band 
 arc -nun discussing their midnight adventure over a substantial break- 
 fast < >f same. Thus Boone rescued his daughter and her friend when 
 they were taken captive by the Indians, within sight of his primitive 
 dwelling ; — an incident which illustrates more than pages of descrip- 
 tion, how closely pioneer presses upon savage life, and with what peril 
 civilization encroaches upon the domain of nature 
 
 It is the dawn of a spring day in the wildernes> ; as >teals the gray 
 pearly light over the densely waving tree-tops, an eagle majestically 
 rises from a withered bough, and floats through the silent air, beeoru- 
 ing a mere speck on the >ky ere he disappears over the distant moun- 
 tain- ; dew-drops are condensed on the green threads of the pine and 
 the swollen buds of the hickory; pale bulbs and spears of herbage 
 shoot from the black loam, amid the decayed leaves : in the inmo>t re- 
 cesses of the wood, the rabbit's tread is audible, and the chirp of the 
 squirrel; as the sunshine expand-, a thousand notes of birds at work 
 on their nest-, invade the solitude ; tin.' bear fearlessly laps the running 
 stream, and the elk turn- hi- graceful head from the pendant branch 
 he is nibbling, at an unusual sound from the adjacent cane-brake; it is 
 a lonely man rising from his night slumber; with his blanket on In- 
 arm and his rifle grasped in one hand, he approaches the brook and 
 bathes his head and neck; then glancing around, turns aside the in- 
 
V B i: I Hi: MOUNTAINS. 1 2 I 
 
 terwoven thickets near by, and climbs a stony mound shadowed bj a 
 fine clump of oaks, where stands an humble bu1 substantial cabin ; be 
 lights a fire upon the flat stone before the entrance, kneads a cake of 
 maize, while bis venison steak is broiling, and carefully examines the 
 priming of his rifle; the meal dispatched with a hearty relish, he closes 
 the door of bis lodge, and saunters through the wilderness; bis eye 
 roves from the wild flower at his feet, to the cliff that looms afar off; 
 he pauses in admiration before some venerable sylvan monarch, 
 watches the bounding stag: his intrusion has disturbed, or cuts a little 
 spray from the sassafras with the knife in bis girdle; as the sun rises 
 higher, he penetrates deeper into the vast and beautiful forest ; each 
 form of vegetable life, from the enormous fungi to the delicate vine- 
 wreath, the varied structure of the trees, the cries and motions of the 
 wild animals and birds, excite in his mind a delightful sense of infinite 
 power and beauty; he feels, as be walks, in every nerve and vein the 
 "glorious privilege of being independent;" reveries that bathe his 
 soul in a tranquil yet lofty pleasure, succeed each other; and the 
 sighl of seme lovely vista induces him to lie down upon a heap of 
 dead leaves and lose himself in contemplation. Weariness andhunger, 
 or the deepening gloom of approaching night, at length warn him 
 to retrace his steps; on the way, he shoots a wild turkey for his 
 supper, sits over the watch-fire, beneath the solemn firmamenl of 
 stars, and recalls the absent and loved through the first watches of 
 the night. .Months have elapsed since he has thus lived alone in the 
 wilderness, his brother having left him to seek ammunition and pro- 
 vision at distant settlements. Despondency, for awhile, rendered his 
 loneliness oppressive, km such is his love of nature and freedom, 
 his zest for life in the woods and a natural self-reliance, that gra- 
 dually he attains a degree of happiness which De Foe's hero might 
 have envied. Nature is a benign mother, and whispers consoling 
 
 1(5 
 
1 2 2 < ) V E R T II E M O U N T A I N S . 
 
 secrets to attentive ears, and mysteriously clieers the heart of her 
 pine votaries who truthfully cast themselves on her bosom. Not thus 
 serenely however glides away the forest life of our pioneer. He is 
 jealously watched by the Indians, upon whose hunting-grounds he is 
 encroaching; they steal upon his retreat and make him captive, and 
 in this situation a new phase of his character exhibits itself. The soul 
 that lias been in long and intimate communion with natural grandeur 
 and beauty, and learned the scope and quality of its own resources, 
 gains self-possession and foresight. The prophets of old did not resort 
 to the desert iii vain; and the bravery and candor of hunters and sea- 
 men is partly the result of the isolation and hardihood of their lives. 
 Boone excelled as a sportsman; lie won the respect of his savage 
 captors by his skill and fortitude; and more than once, without vio- 
 lence, emancipated himself, revealed their bloody schemes to his couu- 
 trymen, and met them on the battle-field, with a coolness and 
 celerity that awoke their intense astonishment. Again and again, he 
 saw his companions fall before their tomahawks and rifles; his 
 daughter, as we have seen, was stolen from his very door, though 
 fortunately rescued ; his son fell before his eyes in a conflict with the 
 Indians who opposed their emigration to Kentucky; his brother and 
 his dearest friends were victims either to their strategy or violence ; 
 his own immunity is to lie accounted for by the influence he had ac- 
 quired over his foes, which induced them often to spare his life — an in- 
 fluence derived from the extraordinary tact, patience, and facility of 
 action, which his experience and character united to foster. 
 
 Two other scenes of his career are requisite to the picture. On 
 the banks of the Missouri river, less than forty years ago, there stood 
 a few small rude cabins in the shape of a hollow square; in one of 
 these, the now venerable figure of the gallant hunter is listlessly 
 stretched upon a couch; a slice of buck twisted on the ramrod of his 
 
<> V E i: T II K MOUNTAINS. 1 23 
 
 rifle, is roasting by the fire, within reach of his hand; he is -till alone, 
 luit the surrounding cabins arc occupied by his thriving descendants. 
 The vital energies of the pioneer are gradually ebbing away, thoi 
 his thick wliitc lucks, well-knit frame, and the light of his keen eye, 
 evidence the genuineness and prolonged tenure of his life. Over- 
 matched l'\ the conditions of the land law in Kentucky, and annoyed 
 by the march of civilization in the regions he had known in their 
 primitive beauty, he had wandered here, far from the state he founded 
 and the haunts of his manhood, to die with the same adventurous and 
 independent spirit in which he had lived. Tie occupied some of 
 the irksome hours of confinement incident to age, in polishing his own 
 cherrywood coffin ; and it is said lie was found dead in the woods at 
 last, a tew rods from his dwelling. 
 
 I >n an autumn day, six years since, a hearse might have keen seen 
 winding up the main street of Frankfort, Kentucky, drawn by white 
 horses, and garlanded with evergreens. The pall-bearers comprised 
 some of the most distinguished men of the state. It was the second 
 funeral of Daniel Boone. By an act of the legislature, his remains 
 were removed from the banks of the Missouri to the public cemeterj 
 of the capitol of Kentucky, and there deposited with every ceremonial 
 of respeci and love. 
 
 This oblation was in the highest degree just and appropriate, for 
 the name of Boone is identified with the state he originally explored, 
 and his character associates itself readily with that of her people and 
 
 scenery. No part of the countrj is i 'e individual in these respects 
 
 than Kentucky. As the word imports, it was at once the hunting and 
 battle-ground of savage tribes for centuries; and not until the middle 
 of the eighteenth century , was it well-known to Anglo-Saxon explorers. 
 The elk and buffalo held undisputed possession with the Indian ; its 
 dark forests served a- a contested boundary between the Cherokees, 
 
124 nVEl! THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Creeks and Catawbas of tlie South, and the Shawnees, Delawares and 
 Wyandots of the North ; and to these inimical tribes it was indeed " a 
 dark and bloody ground." Unauthenticated expeditions thither we 
 hear of before that of Boone, but with his first visit the history of the 
 region becomes clear and progressive, remarkable for its rapid and 
 steady progress and singular fortunes. The same year that Independ- 
 ence was declared, Virginia made a county of the embryo state, and 
 forts scattered at intervals over the face of the country, alone yielded 
 refusre to the colonists from their barbarian invaders. In 1778, Du 
 Qnesne, with his Canadian and Indian army, met with a vigorous re- 
 pulse at Boonesborough ; in 1778, occurred Roger Clark's brilliant ex- 
 pedition against the English forts of Vincennes ami Kaskaskias ; and 
 the next year, a single blockhouse — the forlorn hope of advancing 
 civilization — was erected by Robert Patterson where Lexington now 
 stands; soon after took place the unfortunate expedition of Col. Bow- 
 man against the Indians of Chilicothe ; and the Virginian legislature 
 passed the celebrated land law. This enactment neglected to provide 
 for a general survey at the expense of the government ; each holder of 
 a warrant located therefore at pleasure, and made his own survey ; 
 yet a special entry was required by the law in order clearly to de- 
 signate boundaries; the vagueness of many entries rendered the titles 
 null; those of Boone and men similarly unacquainted with legal 
 writing, were, of course, destitute of any accuracy of description ; and 
 hence interminable perplexity, disputes and forfeitures. The imme- 
 diate consequences of the law, however, was to induce a flood of 
 emigration; and the fever of land speculation rose and spread to an 
 unexampled height; to obtain patents for rich lands became the ruling 
 passion ; and simultaneous Indian hostilities prevailed — so that Ken- 
 tucky was transformed, all at once, from an agricultural and hunting 
 region thinly peopled, to an arena where rapacity and war swayed a 
 
VEE I II E M OUNTAINS. 1 l'< 
 
 vasl multitude. The conflicts, law-suits, border adventures, and per- 
 sonal feuds growing out of this condition of affairs, would yield memo- 
 rable themes, without number, for the annalist. To lliis epoch suc- 
 ceeded "a labyrinth of conventions." The position of Kentucky was 
 anomalous; the appendage <>l' ;i state unable to protecl her frontier 
 from savage invasion; her future prosperity in a greal measure de- 
 pendent upon the glorious riser thai bounded her domain, and the 
 United States governmenl already proposing to yield the righl of its 
 navigation to a foreign power; separated by the Alleghany mountains 
 from the populous and cultivated East; and the tenure by which 
 estates were held within its limits quite unsettled, it is scarcely to be 
 wondered at, that reckless political adventurers began to look upon 
 Kentucky as a promising sphere for their intrigues. Without advert- 
 ing to anj particular instances, or renewing the inquiry into the mo- 
 tives of prominent actors in those scenes, it is interesting to perceive 
 lmw entirely the intelligence and honor of the people triumphed over 
 selfish ambition and cunning artifice. Foreign governments and 
 domestic traitors failed in their schemes to alienate the isolated state 
 from the growing confederacy ; repulsed as she was again and again 
 in her attempts to secure constitutional freedom, she might have said 
 to the parent government, with the repudiated "lady wedded to the 
 Moor" — 
 
 " LJnkindness may '1" much, 
 And your unkinduess may achieve my life, 
 I'.ui never taurl mj love." 
 
 Kentucky was admitted into the Union on the fourth of Febru- 
 ary, 1791. 
 
 From this outline of her history, we can readily perceive how rich 
 ami varied was the material whence has sprung the Western charac- 
 ter; its highest phase is doubtless to be found in Kentucky ; and, in 
 
l'2(j OVEE THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 our view, best illustrates American in distinction from European 
 civilization. In the North this is essentially modified by the cosmopo- 
 lite influence of the seaboard, and in the South, by a climate which 
 assimilates her people with those of the same latitudes elsewhere; but 
 in the West, and especially in Kentucky, we find the foundation of 
 social existence laid by the hunters — whose love of the woods, equality 
 of condition, habits of sport and agriculture, and distance from con- 
 ventionalities, combine to nourish independence, strength of mind, 
 candor, and a fresh and genial spirit. The ease and freedom of social 
 intercourse, the abeyance of the passion for gain, and the scope given 
 to the play of character, accordingly developed a race of noble apti- 
 tudes ; and we can scarcely imagine a more appropriate figure in the 
 foreground of the picture than Daniel Boone, who embodies the 
 honesty, intelligence, and chivabric spirit of the state. With a popu- 
 lation descended from the extreme sections of the land, from emi- 
 grants of New-England as well as Virginia and North Carolina, and 
 whose immediate progenitors were chiefly agricultural gentlemen, a 
 generous and spirited character might have been prophesied of the 
 natives of Kentucky ; and it is in the highest degree natural for a peo- 
 ple thus descended and with such habits, to cling with entire loyalty 
 to their parent government, and to yield, as they did, ardent though 
 injudicious sympathy to France in the hour of her revolutionary crisis. 
 Impulsive and honorable, her legitimate children belong to the aris- 
 tocracy of nature ; without the general intellectual refinement of the 
 Atlantic states, they possess a far higher physical development and 
 richer social instincts ; familiar with the excessive development of the 
 religious and political sentiments, in all varieties and degrees, their 
 views are more broad though less discriminate than those entertained 
 in older communities. The Catholic from Maryland, the Puritan from 
 Connecticut, and the Churchman of Carolina, amicably flourish to- 
 gether; and the conservative and fanatic are alike undisturbed ; the 
 
(i V E i: I II K M01 N I A INS. 1-7 
 
 convenl and the camp-meeting being, often within sighl of each other, 
 equally respected. 
 
 Nature, too, has been as Libera] as the social elements in endowing 
 Kentucky with interesting associations. That mysterious fifteen miles 
 of subterranean wonders known as the Mammoth Cave, its wonderful 
 architecture, fossil remains, nitrous atmosphere, echoes, fish with only 
 tli«' rudimenl of an optic nerve, — its chasms and cataracts -is one of 
 the most remarkable objects in the world. The boundaries of the 
 state arc unequalled in beauty; on the east the Laurel Ridge or Cum- 
 berland Mountain, and on the wesl the Father of Waters. In native 
 trees she is peculiarly rich — the glorious magnolia, the prolific sugar- 
 tree, the laurel and the buckeye, the hickory and honey locust, the 
 mulberry, ash, and flowing catalpa, attest in every village and road- 
 side, the sylvan aptitudes of the soil; while the thick buffalo grass 
 and finesl crown-imperial in the world, clothe it with a lovehj garni- 
 ture. The blue limestone formation predominates, and its grotesque 
 cliffs and caverns render much of the geological scenery peculiar and 
 interesting. 
 
 The lover of the picturesque and characteristic, musi often regrel 
 that artistic and literarj genius has not adequately preserved the origi- 
 nal local and social features of our own primitive communities. Facility 
 of intercourse and the assimilating influence of trade are rapidly bring- 
 ing the traits and tendencies of all parts of the country to a common 
 level : yet in the natives of each section in whom strong idiosyncrasies 
 have kept intact the original bias of character, we find the most striking 
 and suggestive diversity. According to the glimpses afforded us bj 
 tradition, letters, and a few meagre biographical data, the early settlers 
 of Kentucky united to the simplicity and honesty of the New-York 
 colonists, a high degree of chivalric feeling; there was an heroic vein 
 induced by familiarity with danger, the necessity of mutual protection 
 ami the healthful excitement of the chase. The absence of an} marked 
 
L28 ( ) V E R T 1 1 E MOUNTAINS. 
 
 distinction of birth or fortune, and the high estimate placed upon 
 society by those who dwell on widely separated plantations, caused a 
 remarkably cordial, hospitable and warm intercourse to prevail, almost 
 unknown at the North and East. Family honor was cherished with 
 peculiar zeal; and the women accustomed to equestrian exercises and 
 1 >r< »ught up in the freedom and isolation of nature — their sex always re- 
 spected and their charms thoroughly appreciated — acquired a spirited 
 and cheerful development quite in contrast to tin- subdued, uniform tone 
 of those educated in the commercial towns ; their mode of life natu- 
 rally generated self-reliance and evoked a spirit of independence. 
 Most articles in use were of domestic manufacture; slavery was more 
 patriarchal in its character than in the other states; the practice of 
 duelling, with its inevitable miseries, had also the effect to give a cer- 
 tain tone to social lite rarely witnessed in agricultural districts; and 
 the Kentucky gentleman was thus early initiated into the manly 
 qualities of a Nimrod and the engaging and reliable one of a man of 
 honor and gallantry — in its best sense. It is to circumstances like 
 these that we attribute the chivalric spirit of the state. She was a 
 somewhat wild member of the confederacy — a kind of spoiled younger 
 child, with the faults and the virtues incident to her age and fortunes ; 
 nerved by long vigils at the outposts of civilization, — the wild cat in- 
 vading her first school-houses and the Indians her scattered cornfields, 
 —and receiving little parental recognition from the central govern- 
 ment, — with a primitive loyalty of heart, she repudiated the intrigues 
 of Genet and Burr, and baptized her counties for such national patriots 
 as Fulton and Gallatin. Passing through a fiery ordeal of Indian 
 warfare, the fever of land speculation, great political vicissitude, 
 unusual legal perplexities, imperfect legislation, and subsequently 
 entire financial derangement, — she has yet maintained a progressive 
 and individual attitude; and seems to us, in her most legitimate 
 specimens of character, more satisfactorily to represent the national 
 
V K i: T HE M o I NT A. INS. L29 
 
 type, than anj other state. Her culture has qoI been as refined, nor 
 her social spirit as versatile and elegant as in older communities, but a 
 raciness, hardihood and genial freshness of nature have, for those verj 
 reasons, more completely survived; as a region whence to transplant 
 or graft, it' we maj applj horticultural terms to humanity, Kentuckj 
 is a rich garden. Nor have these distinctions ceased to be. JI<t 
 greatest statesman, in the nobleness of his character and the extraor- 
 dinary persona] regard he inspires, admirably illustrates the community 
 of which Boone was the characteristic pioneer ; and the volunteers of 
 Kentucky, in the Indian wars, under Harrison, and more recently in 
 Mexico, have continued to vindicate their birthright of valor; while 
 one of her most accomplished daughters sends this year a magnificent 
 bed-quilt, wrought by her own hands, to the World's Fair. 
 
 A Pennsylvanian by birth, Boone early emigrated to North Caro- 
 lina. He appears to have firsl visited Kentucky in 17G9. The 
 bounty lands awarded to the Virginia troops induced surveying expe- 
 dition-, to the Ohio river; and when Col. Henderson, in 1775, pur- 
 chased from the Cherokees, the country south of the Kentucky river, 
 the knowledge which two years exploration had given Boone of the 
 region, and his already established reputation for firmness ami adven- 
 ture, caused him to he employed to survey the country, the fertility 
 and picturesque charm- of which had now become celebrated. Accord- 
 ingly, the pioneer having satisfactorily laid out a road through the 
 wilderness, not without manj fierce encounters with the Aborigines, 
 chose a sp,,t to erect his log-house, which afterwards became the 
 nucleus of a colony, and the germ of a prosperous State, on the site of 
 the present town of Boonsborough. While transporting his family 
 thither, thej were surprised by the Indians, and, after severe Loss, so 
 far discouraged in their enterprise as to return to the nearest settle- 
 ments; and on the firsl summer of their residence in Kentuckj oc- 
 
130 OVER THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 curred the bold abduction of the two young girls, to which we have 
 previously referred. In 1778, while engaged in making salt with 
 thirty men, at the lower Blue Licks, Boone was captured, and while 
 his companions were taken to Detroit on terms of capitulation, he was 
 retained as a prisoner, though kindly treated and allowed to hunt. At 
 Chillieotlie he witnessed the extensive preparations of the Indians to 
 join a Canadian expedition against the infant settlement ; and effecting 
 his escape, succeeded in reaching home in time to warn the garrison 
 and prepare for its defence. For nine days he was besieged by an 
 army of five hundred Indians and whites, when the enemy abandoned 
 their project in despair. In 1782 he was engaged in the memorable 
 and disastrous battle of Blue Licks, and accompanied Gen. Clarke or. 
 his expedition to avenge it. In the succeeding year, peace with Eng- 
 land being declared, the pioneer saw the liberty and civilization of the 
 country he had known as a wilderness, only inhabited by wild beasts 
 and savages, guaranteed and established. In 1779, having laid out 
 the chief of his little property in land warrants, — on his way from 
 Kentucky to Richmond, he was robbed of twenty thousand dollars ; 
 wiser claimants, versed in the legal conditions, deprived him of his 
 lands ; disappointed and impatient, he left the glorious domain he had 
 < iriginally explored and nobly defended, and became a voluntary sub- 
 ject of the King of Spain, by making a new forest home on the banks 
 of the Missouri. An excursion he undertook, in 181G, to Fort Osage, 
 a hundred miles from his lodge, evidences the unimpaired vigor of his 
 declining years. 
 
 So indifferent to gain was Boone that he neglected to secure a tine 
 estate rather than incur the trouble of a visit to New Orleans. An 
 autograph letter, still extant, proves that he was not illiterate ; and 
 Governor Dunmore of Virginia, had such entire confidence in his vigi- 
 lance and integrity that he employed him to conduct surveyors eight 
 
OVER THE MOUNTAINS. 1.', 1 
 
 hundred miles through the foresl fco the falls of the Ohio, gave him 
 command of three frontier stations and sent him to uegotiate treaties 
 with the Cherokees. It. was a fond boasl with him thai the firsl white 
 women that ever stood on the banks of the Kentucky river, were his 
 wife and daughter, and that his axe cleft the firsl tree whose timbers 
 laid the foundation of a permanent settlement in the State; he had 
 the genuine ambition of a pioneer and the native taste for life in the 
 woods embodied in the foresters of Scott and the LeatherstocMne of 
 Cooper. He possessed thai restless impulse — ■ the instinct of adventure 
 -the poetry of action. It lias been justly said that "he was seldom 
 taken by surprise, never shrunk from danger, nor cowered beneath ex- 
 posure and fatigue." So accurate were his woodland observations and 
 memory, that he recognised an ash tree which he had notched twenty 
 years before, to identity a locality ; and proved the accuracy of his de- 
 signation bj stripping oil' the new hark and exposing the marks of his 
 axe beneath. Bis aim was so certain, that during lite, he could with 
 ease bark a squirrel, that is, bring down the animal, when on the top 
 of the loftiest tree, l>\ knocking ofi 7 the bark immediately beneath, kill- 
 ing him by the concussion. 
 
 The union of beauty and terror in the life of a pioneer, of so 
 
 much natural courage and thoughtfulness as Boone, is one of its 
 most significant features. We have followed his musing steps 
 through the wide, umbrageous solitudes he loved, and marked the 
 contentment he experienced in a log-hut and by a camp tire; but 
 
 over this attractive picture there ever impended the shadow of peri] 
 — in the form of ;i stealthy and cruel foe, the wolf, disease, and 
 exposure to the element-. Enraged at the invasion of their ancient 
 hunting-grounds, the Indians hovered near; while asleep in the 
 jungle, following the plough, or at his frugal meal, the pioneer was 
 liable to he shot down \<\ an unseen rifle, and surrounded by an 
 
132 OVER THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 ambush ; from tlie tranquil pursuits of agriculture, at any moment, he 
 niight be summoned to the battle-field, to rescue a neighbor's property 
 or defend a solitary outpost. The senses become acute, the mind vigi- 
 lant, and the tone of feeling chivalric under such discipline. That life 
 has a peculiar dignity, even in the midst of privation and however de- 
 void of refined culture, which is entirely self-dependent both for sus- 
 tainment and protection. It has, too, a singular freshness and anima- 
 tion the more genial from I icing naturally inspired. Compare the 
 spasmodic efforts at hilarity, the forced sjieech and hackneyed expres- 
 sion of the fashionable drawing-room, with the candid mirth and gal- 
 lant spirit bom of the woodland and the chase; — the powerful sinews 
 and well-braced nerves of the. pioneer with the languid pulse of the 
 metropolitan excpiisite ; — and it seems as if the fountain of youth still 
 bubbled up in some deep recess of the forest. Philosophy, too, as well 
 as health, is attainable in the woods, as Shakespeare has illustrated in 
 " As You Like It ;" and Boone by his example and habitual senti- 
 ments. He said to his brother, when they had lived for months in the 
 yet unexplored wilds of Kentucky, " You see how little human nature 
 requires. It is in our own hearts rather than in the things around us, 
 that we are to seek felicity. A man may be happy in any state. It 
 only asks a perfect resignation to the will of Providence." It is re- 
 markable that the two American characters which chiefly interested 
 Byron, were Patrick Henry and Daniel Boone — the one for his gift 
 of oratory, and the other for his philosophical content — both so 
 directly springing from the resources of nature. 
 
 There is an affinity between man and nature which conventional 
 habits keep in abeyance but do not extinguish. It is manifested in the 
 prevalent taste for scenery, and the favor so readily bestowed upon its 
 graphic delineation in art or literature ; but in addition to the poetic 
 love of nature, as addressed to the sense of beauty, or that ardent 
 
\ \: i: 'i ii k MOUNTAINS. 1 33 
 
 curiosity to explore it- laws and phenomena which finds expression in 
 natural science, there is an instincl thai Leads to a keen relish of nature 
 in her primeval state, and a facility in embracing the Life she offers in 
 her wild and solitary haunts ; a feeling that seems to have survived 
 the influences of civilization and developes, when encouraged, by the 
 inevitable law of animal instinct. It is not uncommon to meet with 
 this passion lor nature among those whose lives have been devoted to 
 objects apparently alien to its existence; sportsmen, pedestrians, and 
 citizens of rural propensities, indicate its modified action, while it is 
 more emphatically exhibited by the volunteers who join caravans to 
 the Rocky -Mountains, the deserts of the East and the forests of 
 Central and South America, with no ostensible purpose bu1 Hie 
 gratification arising from intimate contact with nature in her luxu- 
 riant or barren solitudes. 
 
 To one having but an inkling of this sympathy, with a nervous 
 organization and an observant mind, there is, indeed, no restorative of 
 the frame or sweet diversion to the mind like a day in the woods. 
 The etfeet of roaming a treeless plain or riding over a cultivated region 
 is entirely different. There is a certain tranquillity and balm in the 
 foresl that heals and calms the fevered spirit and quickens the Languid 
 pulses of the weary and disheartened with the breath of hope. lt> 
 influence on the animal spirits is remarkable; and the senses, released 
 
 fr the din ami monotonous limits of streets and houses, luxuriate in 
 
 the breadth of vision and the rich variety of form, hue and odor which 
 
 onl\ scenes like these afford. A.S you Walk in the shadow of l,it't\ 
 
 trees, the repose and aw e of hearts that breathe from a sacred temple, 
 gradually lull- the tide of care and exalts despondency into worship. 
 A- your eye tracks the flickering lighl glancing upon the herbage, it 
 brightens to recognize the wild-flowers that are associated with the 
 innocent enjo\ ments of childhood ; to note the delicate blossom of the 
 
134 OVER THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 wild hyacinth, see the purple asters wave in the breeze, and the scarlet 
 ) terries of the winter-green glow among the dead leaves, or mark the 
 circling flight of the startled crow and the sudden leap of the squirrel. 
 You pause unconsciously to feel the springy velvet of the moss-clump, 
 pluck up the bulb of the broad-leaved sanguinaria, or examine the star- 
 like flower of the liverwort, and then lifting your gaze to the canopy 
 beneath which you lovingly stroll, greet as old and endeared acquaint- 
 ances the noble trees in their autumn splendor, — the crimson dogwood, 
 yellow hickory or scarlet maple, whose brilliant hues mingle and glow 
 in the sunshine like the stained windows of an old gothic cathedral ; 
 and you feel that it is as true to fact as to poetry that "the groves 
 were God's first temples." Every fern at your feet is as daintily 
 carved as the frieze of a Grecian column ; every vista down which you 
 look, wears more than Egyptian solemnity; the withered leaves rustle 
 like the sighs of penitents, and the lofty tree-tops send forth a voice 
 like that of prayer. Fresh vines encumber aged trunks, solitary leaves 
 quiver slowly to the earth, a twilight hue chastens the brightness 
 of noon, and, all around, is the charm of a mysterious quietude and 
 seclusion that induces a dreamy and reverential mood ; while health 
 seems wafted from the balsamic pine and the elastic turf, and over all 
 broods the serene blue firmament. 
 
 If such refreshment and inspiration are obtainable from a casual 
 and temporary visit to the woods, we may imagine the effect of a length- 
 ened sojourn in the primeval forest, upon a nature alive to its beauty, 
 wildness and solitude ; and when we add to these, the zest of adventure, 
 the pride of discovery and that feeling of sublimity which arises from 
 a consciousness of danger always impending, it is easy to realize in the 
 experience of a pioneer at once the most romantic and practical ele- 
 ments of life. In our own history, rich as it is in this species of 
 adventure, no individual is so attractive and prominent as Daniel 
 
OVEE THE MOUNTAINS. 135 
 
 Boone. The singular anion in his character of benevolence and hardi- 
 
 hood, hold activity and a meditative disposition, the hazardous enter- 
 prises and narrow escapes recorded of him, and the resolute tact he 
 displayed in all emergencies, arc materials quite adequate to a thrilling 
 narrative; 1 nit when we add to the external phases of interest, that 
 absolute passion for forest life which distinguished him, and the identity 
 of hi- name with the earlj fortunes of the West, he seems to combine 
 the essentia] features of a. genuine historical and thoroughly individual 
 character. 
 
W EST ROC Iv, NEW II AVE X 
 
 II Y M AMY E . FIELD. 
 
 Conspicuous among the lovely places of New England is the elm- 
 shaded city of New Haven. It is a city by virtue of its population 
 and municipal regulations; but its rural appearance, — neat, unpre- 
 tending homes, with their pleasant court-yards and tasteful gardens, 
 open squares and streets overarched with trees, make one hesitate to 
 give it a name associated with glare, and dust, and noise. 'Hie waters 
 of Long Island Sound flow softly to its feet, and in the haven thus 
 formed the mariner finds shelter from outside storms. 
 
 The town is situated on a plain which opens northward into a 
 beautiful valley, whose guarding hill-sides terminate in two rocky 
 heights. When seen from the harbor below, these eminences seem 
 near the city, and look like the sides of some huge portal thrown open 
 in welcome to the traveller. They are known as East and West 
 
 bock. 
 
 It is one of these prominent and most picturesque objects, which the 
 artist has chosen for hi- beautiful picture. How truthful are its outlines 
 when compared with the scene in memory, daguerreotj ped there in those 
 
 18 
 
138 W EST ROOK. 
 
 summer days when the student goes to the woods with his books, — 
 when the angler lies idle 1>\ the brook, — and the poet dreams to a 
 tuneful measure as he gazes on the outline of hills, or watches the 
 clouds which rest over them. There is the hold, red rock, a columned 
 wall, — seamed and scarred, and piled up hall' its height with fragments 
 of stone. There gleams a village spire above the trees; there are the 
 river and meadow shadowed by summer clouds, and there the hay- 
 makers gather their fragrant harvest. 
 
 Bui West Rock has another interest. The artist here gives us not 
 oul\ a beautiful and well-known scene, hut illustrates a passage in 
 colonial history. That rugged pile recalls a story o\' trial and forti- 
 tude, courage and magnanimity, the noblest friendship, and a fear- 
 Less adherence to political principles from religious motives. 
 
 There were troubled da_\s in England. The king had been false 
 to his people, and had been adjudged the death o( a traitor. Then 
 followed the brief rule of Cromwell, his death, and the restoration of 
 the monarchy. The enthronement of Charles II. was the signal of 
 flighl to those who acted as judges on the trial of his father. 
 
 Two of these men, Edward Whalley and William Goffe, arrived at 
 Boston the J T 1 1 1 of -luly, L660, in the very ship which brought the 
 fust tidings oi' the Restoration. The) were particularly obnoxious to 
 the new government from their relation-hip to Cromwell, their political 
 influence in the late Commonwealth, the rank tiny had held in the 
 armies of the Parliament, and the possession of eminent talents whose 
 exercise might again endanger the monarchy. 
 
 For a time the) were safe in Massachusetts, and it was hoped 
 the) might be forgotten in the mother country and suffered to live in 
 peace in these remote regions. But -when, some months later, an act 
 of indemnity arrived, and these men were specially excluded from the 
 general pardon, it became evident that royal vengeance would not 
 
H EST KOCK. 1 .",',1 
 
 overlook theni. Still qo attenipl was made to arrest theiri until 
 February, L661, when a warrant to thai effed arrived from England. 
 Anticipating this, thej had lefl for Connecticul a Pevi days before, and 
 the friendly officers of justice in Massachusetts were careful to look for 
 them in another direction. 
 
 Already had the good Davenport, minister of the New Eaven 
 colony, prepared his people to receive them, teaching them to "Be 
 no1 forgetful t<> entertain strangers;" to "Remember those in bonds as 
 bound with them," ami citing for their direction such passages as 
 "Makethj shadow as the night in the midst of the noonday; hide 
 tin- outcasts; bewray not him that wandereth. Let mine outcasts 
 dwell with thee, Moab ; l>e thou a coverl 1" them from the face of 
 the spoiler." Thus taught, and the people "I' that colony were atten- 
 tive to such instructions, thej were readj to give the fugitives efficienl 
 protection. Etoyalisl officers pursued them, but the "noonday was 
 night" around them. They had been seen at the house of Mr. Daven- 
 port and elsewhere in town, bu1 search was always made lor them in 
 
 the wrong place. 
 
 At last, when no house could longer give them protection and 
 their friends were endangered \>\ their presence, West Rock furnished 
 them a refuge. < >n its summit there are large masses of stone 
 irregularly thrown together, so that the apertures between furnish a 
 recess or small cave, in which the wanderers hid themselves. Trees 
 and bushes grew thick around, concealing the entrance. Thej were 
 not forgotten in this retreat. Every day, ami often both morning and 
 evening, a messenger ascended the height to carry them food, and 
 thej were informed of all thai passed below. There thej were com- 
 paratively safe; bu1 it was told them thai their tried friend, Mr. 
 Davenport, was exposed to danger on their account, and though the 
 certainty of a painful, humiliating death was before them, they de- 
 
140 WEST ROCK. 
 
 mi in UmI to the town with the intention of surrendering them- 
 selves to the royal officers. They preferred any suffering to the tran- 
 sient peril of their friend. This danger was less alarming than they 
 supposed, and they were persuaded to return to their cave. 
 
 What weary days and nights passed over them in that solitude ! 
 Those restless souls, nurtured to battle and the strife of political par- 
 ties, so lately prominent in the terrible struggle at home, were here 
 condemned to inaction, to the slow wearing out of life in loneliness 
 and dread. They could look off' upon the waters, hut seldom came a 
 vessel up that bay ; and when at rare intervals a white sail gleamed 
 there, it only seemed to mock their impatience to know the tidings it 
 brought, — too often saddest news for them. 
 
 They could watch every approach to the mountain, and friends 
 occasionally visited them there. Stories were long told of mysterious 
 appearances on that height, — forms as of human beings seen in mist, 
 hoveling over the edge of the precipice ; tales which have since 
 resolved themselves into the morning or evening stroll on which the 
 lonely outcasts ventured. The messenger who generally carried them 
 food, was ignorant for whom it was intended. There was a strange 
 mystery hi his errand, and he executed it with fear, thinking of appa- 
 ritions the villagers had seen there. The emptied cloth or basket was 
 always in its place, but no human being was visible. 
 
 But the Cave ou West Rock had its own dangers. A security 
 from pursuing men, there was no safety from the tenants of the forest. 
 Wild beasts were around the fugitives. Roused at night by their 
 howling or cries, and waked to see then' glaring eyeballs fixed upon 
 them, they were forced to desert their mountain refuge, and again 
 found a shelter among men. 
 
 Years passed on. Search for them was relinquished at intervals 
 only to be renewed with greater zeal ; but concealed in an inland vil- 
 
VV EST BOCK. Ill 
 
 lage of Massachusetts,* uot all the officers of the crown could trace 
 them out. There fchej died, bul their place of burial was kepi secret, 
 Lesl their ashes should be dishonored. Later developments seem to 
 prove their removal to New Haven, and the stranger standing on 
 Wesl Rock is shown the church in whose shadow thej are believed 
 tn lie buried. 
 
 The panther no longer screams up that rocky height, and the 
 woods art' cut away, but the "Judge's Cave 11 remains. High <>n its 
 front some hand has recorded the political creed of the men who 
 there suffered exile and persecution: " Opposition to tyrants is obe- 
 dience to God." There may it remain, the epitaph of the " Regicides" 
 as the Rock is their memorial! 
 
 Hadley. 
 
T II E ERIE HAIL 110 A J) 
 
 [See Title-page.) 
 
 BY BAY A ltD T A V r, C) |{ . 
 
 W'nii the rapid progress and wider development of the great loco- 
 motive triumphs of the age, steam travel and steam navigation, the 
 vulgar lament over their introduction is beginning to disappear. Sen- 
 timental tourists who once complained that every nook where the 
 poetry of the Past still lives — every hermitage of old and sacred 
 associations would soon be invaded by these merciless embodiments 
 of the Present and the Practical, are now quite content to take then- 
 aid, wherever it may be had, between Ceylon and the North Cape. 
 The shriek of the steam whistle is hardly as musical as the song of 
 the sirens, and a cushioned car is not so romantic as a gondola, yet 
 they pass Calypso's isle with the sound of one ringing in their ears, 
 and ride into Venice over the bridged Lagunes in the other. The 
 fact is, it was only the innovation which alarmed. Once adopted, its 
 miracles of speed, comfort, and safety, soon silenced the repinings of 
 those who depend on outward circumstances and scenes to give those 
 blossoms of thought and sensation, which, without these, their minds 
 are too barren to produce. We now more frequently hear of the 
 
144 THE ERIE RAILROAD. 
 
 power and poetic mystery of the steam-engine. We are called upon 
 to watch those enormous iron arms and listen to the thick throbbing 
 of that unconscious heart, exerting the strength of the Titans and the 
 Anakim to beat down the opposing waves and bear us forward in the 
 teeth of the terrible winds. We have been told, till the likeness has 
 grown commonplace, of the horse that, snorting fire and smoke from 
 his nostrils, and his neck " clothed with thunder," skims over the plain 
 and pierces the mountain's heart, outrunning the swift clouds and 
 leaving the storm in his rear. We shall learn, ere long, that no great 
 gift of science ever diminishes our stores of purer and more spiritual 
 enjoyment, but rather adds to their abundance and gives them a 
 richer zest. Let the changes that must come, come : and be sure they 
 will bring us more than they take away. 
 
 No similar work in the world could contribute more to make the 
 Kail road popular with the class referred to, than the New- York and 
 Erie Railroad. This is by far the most striking enterprise of the kind 
 which has yet been completed. Exceeding in length any single road 
 in the world, the nature of the country through which it passes, the 
 difficulties to be overcome in its construction, and the intrinsic charac- 
 ter of the work itself, invest it with an interest and grandeur which 
 few mechanical enterprises of ancient or modern times possess. Its 
 course represents, on a small scale, the crossing of a continent. It 
 belts four dividing ridges of mountains, separating five different sys- 
 tems of rivers and streams. From the level of tide-water at New- 
 York, it rises to a height of 1,366 feet on crossing the main ridge of 
 the Alleghanies, and yet throughout its whole extent of four hundred 
 and fifty miles, there is neither an inclined plane nor a tunnel. The 
 first direct line of communication between the Atlantic and the great 
 Lakes of the North, it has brought them within the compass of a 
 summer's day. The traveller who sees daybreak glimmer over the 
 
t u i: E i: i E i: a [LRO AD. 1 l"> 
 
 waters of New-York Bay, maj watch the lasl tints of the sunsel -ink 
 behind the horizon of Lake Erie. 
 
 'I'll.' history "i' the Erie Railroad, is like thai of ;ill great under- 
 takings. It began with :i failure; it ended with a triumph. The first 
 charter for it- construction was granted in L832, fixing the >to<-k at 
 ten millions of dollars, bul tor several years little was done excepl to 
 survey the route. It was originally proposed to construct the road on 
 piles instead of -olid embankments, and the ruins of many miles of 
 such skeleton-work still stretch along the valley of the Canisteo. The 
 difficulties whicb beset the enterprise during the first decade of its 
 existence, were innumerable, and would have discouraged less coura- 
 geous and less enthusiastic men than its projectors. The natural 
 obstacles to lie overcome required an enormous outlay; the consent of 
 Pennsylvania was t<> lie obtained to the building of those parts of the 
 road which lay within her borders; owners of capital hesitated to 
 invest it in an uncertain scheme; and to crown all, came the commer- 
 cial revulsions of L837, which for a time prostrated it wholly. After 
 the country had recovered from this shock, another effort was made. 
 The State came to its relief, and after a season of toil and anxiety the 
 work was recommenced and kept alive till the prospect of success 
 brought all the wealth to its aid which had hitherto been held Lack. 
 Ten years more, and the President of the United States and his Cabi- 
 net, with the highest dignitaries of the City and State, were whirled 
 from station to station, from the Ocean to the Lakes, amid the thunder 
 of cannon, the peal of bells, and the shouts of an inauguration grander 
 even in its outward aspects than tin' triumphal processions of old 
 Rome. The cost of this stupendous work was more than twenty 
 millions of dollar.-. 
 
 What distinguishes the Erie Road above all other railroads is its 
 apparent disregai'd of natural difficulties. It disdains to borrow an 
 
 I'.i 
 
146 THE ERIE RAILROAD. 
 
 underground passage through the heart of an opposing mountain, but 
 climbs the steeps, looks over the tops of the pines, and occasionally 
 touches the skirt of a stray cloud. It descends with equal facility, 
 with a slope in some places startlingly perceptible, throws its bridges 
 across rivers, its viaducts over valleys, and sometimes runs along the 
 brink of a giddy precipice, with a fearless security which very much 
 heightens the satisfaction of the traveller. Let us put the airy car of 
 our memory on its track, and we shall run over the whole line before 
 one of its locomotives could pant out fifty of its asthmatic breathings. 
 From Piermont, on the Hudson, the road stretches out an arm, a 
 mile in length, into the Tappan Bay, and receives us from the boat. 
 Behind the village there is a notch in the arc of hills embracing the 
 bay, and through it we pass into the old fields of Rockland, with their 
 old walls and old, red, Dutch farmhouses. A few miles — and the 
 Ion"-, sweeping outline of Ramapo Mountain rises before us; the beau- 
 tiful Ramapo Valley lies below, and the little village, with its foun- 
 dries and forges, nearly two centuries old, stands in the mouth of the 
 only pass whereby the mountain is pierced in all its extent — the 
 Clove of Ramapo. Through this pass, of eight miles in length, winds 
 a rivulet, now spreading into a tiny mountain lake, now fretting over 
 the rocks, and leaping hither and thither in a chain of linked cascades. 
 The road follows the rivulet into the grazing farms of Goshen — rich, 
 upland meadows, dotted with trees and breathing of the cream and 
 milk and butter that load a daily train to the metropolis. This region 
 is passed and again the mountains appear, the Catskills blue in the 
 north, but the rugged Shawangunk lying across our path. Up, up we 
 go, fifty feet to the mile, and are soon high on the side, looking over 
 its forests into the deep basin of the Nevising, which pours its watery 
 into the Delaware. Port Jervis, a station on the line, seems at our 
 feet; it is five hundred feet below us, but sliding down ten miles in 
 almost so many minutes, we are there. 
 
T II E K K 1 I i: ilLKOAD, 117 
 
 The road n<>\\ crosses the Delaware into Pennsylvania, and for a 
 distance of seventy or eighty mile- follows the hank of the river 
 through wild and rugged scenery. For several miles the track lias 
 been laid, with immense Labor and cost, on the top of a precipice 
 nearh one hundred feel in height and falling sheer to the river. Much 
 of the country i- the primitive wilderness, which has never yet been 
 reclaimed. Finally, at Deposit, not far from the source of the Dela- 
 ware, the road turns westward and crosses the Alleghanies to the val- 
 ley of the Susquehanna. Between the two rivers there is also a com- 
 plete wilderness, uninhabited except by the workmen belonging to the 
 l'oad. Notwithstanding a summit cut of 200 feet deep, which cosl 
 $200,000, the ascending and descending grades are very heavy, and 
 some of the mosl remarkable portions of the work are to he found at 
 this point. After striking the Susquehanna, our journey lies tor nearl) 
 one hundred and fifty miles in the rich and picturesque valleys of that 
 river and it- tributaries, the Tioga and the Canisteo, passing through 
 the flourishing towns of Binghamton, Owego, Elinira, and Corning. 
 ( >verlooking the superb meadows and rolling grain-fields, the AHegha- 
 aies or spurs of them are always in sight, and on either side we have 
 a rapidlj unrolling panorama of such rural beauty as would have be- 
 wildered old Cuyp and Rysdael. Another dividing ridge, less steep 
 and rugged than the previous, and we descend through virgin forests, 
 some of which are -wept away li\ tire to make room for the settler, to 
 the Alleghanj River. Hence, to Lake Erie, our course is mainrj 
 through a wild and uncultivated region, or seeming so, after the boun- 
 tiful valleys we have Left. We cross the Indian Reservation; catch a 
 glimpse of some aboriginal idlers in wampum and tnoccason ; again 
 climb a range of hills, several hundred feet in height, from whose sides 
 
 we overlook valleys and Levels of wild w Hand, and at Las1 reach a 
 
 curve, where, beyond the far -weep of the dark forest, we see the 
 
1 18 TH E ERIE ISA II. i: (i A D. 
 
 edge of the sky crossed by a line of deeper blue and know that we 
 behold Lake Erie. Is not" all tins enough for a summer's day? 
 
 The bold design of this road involved the necessity of a number 
 of grand and costly works. The track itself, in the Pass of Ramapo, 
 and along the Upper Delaware, frequently cost upwards of $100,000 
 per mile. The Starucca Viaduct, an immense structure of hewn stone, 
 crossing the valley at Lansingburg, is the finest work of "the kind in 
 this country. It is 1,200 feet long, consisting of 18 arches 114 feet in 
 height, and was erected at a cost of $300,000. Next to this, in point 
 of importance, and more remarkable in its character, is the bridge 
 over Cascade Ravine, which is crossed in the descent from the summit 
 ridge of the Alleghanies to the Susquehanna. The mountain is here 
 interrupted by a deep gorge or chasm, through the bottom of which 
 a small stream tumbles in its foamy course. Across this gulf, 184 feet 
 in depth, a single arch of 280 feet span has been thrown, its abut- 
 ments resting on the solid crags. This daring arch, which, to the 
 spectator below, seems hung in mid-air, was eighteen months in build- 
 ing, and cost $70,000. A little to the north the gorge opens into the 
 Valley of the Susquehanna, disclosing through its rugged jaws the 
 most beautiful landscape seen on the road. 
 
 It was the good fortune of the writer to he one of the guests in 
 the first train which passed over the Cascade Ravine Bridge. At the 
 close of December, 184s, the line was opened from Port Jervis to 
 Binghamton, a distance of one hundred and twenty-five miles. The 
 incidents of that first journey by steam through the wilderness, in the 
 depth of winter, will not soon be forgotten by those who took part in 
 it. The Shawangunk Mountains were topped with snow as we passed 
 them, and on taking the new track, beyond Port Jervis, the flakes 
 began to fall thick and fast. The Delaware ran at the foot of the 
 wild bluffs choked with masses of ice, and each of its many windings 
 
r ii e k i: i E i: ailboad. I 19 
 
 disclosed a more drear and wintry prospect. The hemlocks benl 
 under their white load; the river ran cold and dark; the frozen cas- 
 cades hung from the rocks, like masses of transparenl spar. For manj 
 m mile there was no sign of human habitation— nothing bu1 the 
 grand ami desolate solitude of the mountains. Ami yet— wonder 
 beyond the tales of Scheherazade! — our superb train carried a bearl 
 of luxury into thai savage realm. We sped along, swiftlj as the bird 
 flies, in a warm and richbj furnished chamber, lounging on sofl seats, 
 
 half arm-chair ami half couch, apparently as disconnected IV tlm 
 
 landscape as a loose leal' blown over it bj the winds. l u that plea- 
 sant climate of our own we heard the keen air whistle without, and 
 the lighl patter of the snow againsl the windows, with a sense of com- 
 forl rendered doubly palpable by the contrast. 
 
 At the little villages on the route, triumphal arches of fir and 
 hemlock boughs were built lor us, upon which antlered buck-, brought 
 in by the hunters, stood straight and still'. Every town which could 
 boast a cannon, gave a hearty salute, and as the early nightfall came 
 on, bonfires were lighted on the hills, it was after dark when we left 
 Deposit, and the -now was a loot deep on tic track, but with two 
 locomotives plowing through the drifts, we toiled slowly to the sum- 
 mit. After we had passed the deep cut and had entered on the de- 
 scending grade, it was found that in consequence of the -now having 
 melted around the rails and afterwards frozen again, the breaks at- 
 tached to the cars would not act. The wheels slipped over the icy 
 surface, and in spite of the amount of snow that had fallen, we -hot 
 down the mountain at the rate of forty miles an hour. The lighl of 
 our lamps showed as the white banks on either hand; the ghostlj 
 3 above and the storm that drove over all: beyond this, all was 
 darkness. Some anxietj was felt a- we approached the Bridge over 
 Cascade Ravine; the time was not auspicious for this lir-t ie-1 of it- 
 
150 THE Ell IE KAILKOAD. 
 
 solidity. Every eye peered into the gloom, watching for the critical 
 spot, as we dashed onwards. At last, in the twinkling of an eye, the 
 mountain-sides above and below us dropped out of sight, and left us 
 looking out on the void air. The lamps enabled us to see for an in- 
 stant, through the falling snow-flakes, the sharp tops of pines far 
 below. For a second or two we hung above them, suspended over 
 the terrible gulf, and then every one drew a deep breath as we touched 
 the solid rock which forms the abutment of the arch. But our course 
 was not checked till we reached the Susquehanna Valley, where we 
 sped on past bonfires blazing redly over the snow, till the boom of 
 minute-guns and the screams of our strong-lunged locomotives startled 
 the inhabitants of Binghamton at midnight. 
 
 On our return, the following day, we reached the Cascade Ravine 
 in the afternoon, and a halt was made to enable us to view the bridge 
 from below. Scrambling through the snow, down the slippery de- 
 clivities, we at last reached the bottom of the gorge and looked up at 
 the wonderful arch, which spanned it as lightly as a rainbow. Firm- 
 set on its base of eternal granite, it gave not the slightest quiver when 
 «>ur train passed over. Although made of perishable materials, it will 
 last as long as they hold together, for its mountain abutments cannot 
 be shaken. Seen from below, the impression it makes upon the eye 
 is most complete and satisfactory, combining the extreme of lightness 
 and grace with strength and inflexible solidity. A few yards further 
 up the mountain, the cloven chasm, over which the gnarled pines hang 
 their sombre boughs, widens to a rocky basin, into which falls a cas- 
 cade seventy feet in height, whence the ravine takes its name. The 
 accompanying engraving, from the view taken by Mr. Talbot, though 
 it may appear exaggerated to one wdio has never beheld the reality, 
 conveys no more than a just idea of the bold and striking character 
 of this work. 
 
THE CHURCH OF THE HOLY INNOCENTS, 
 
 WEST POINT. 
 
 The Church of the Holy Innocents is situated on the wesl bant of 
 the Hudson, in the very heart of the Highlands, and about a mile 
 south of the Military Academy at "West Point. 
 
 It was built in the years '46 and '47, and consecrated in July of 
 the latter year by the Rt. Rev. Bishop Delancey. 
 
 Rumor lias so highly colored the history of its origin, as to enlist 
 in its behalf a degree of interest which may not be materially lessened 
 by a simple statement of the truth. 
 
 While two or three persons at West Point were contemplating a 
 place for the erection of a Church, somewhere near the spot on which 
 the one in question now stands, lor the benefit of the neighboring 
 population, and as a centre of missionary operations in the surround- 
 ing country, embracing a, large section of the Highlands, one of their 
 number — Prof. I!. W. Weir moved l>\ an afflictive dispensation of 
 God's providence, in the death of <i child, made an offering, of that 
 child'- portion, to God, as the beginning of a fund for the building of 
 a Church to be called "The Church of the Hohj Innocents." IP sub- 
 sequently added to this sum Other offerings of his own, and of a few 
 
152 CHURCH OF THE HOLY INNOCENTS. 
 
 other persons at West Point and elsewhere, who felt an interest in the 
 undertaking. The simple, but chaste and beautiful sanctuary, erected 
 to " the honor and glory of God," is the fruit of these offerings. 
 
 The plan of the Church, both in its outline and details, was fur- 
 nished by Mr. Weir, who also superintended its erection. The stone 
 of which it is built was taken from the land on which the Church 
 stands, and which was the gift of Mr. W. B. Cozzens. 
 
 The Church is somewhat in the early English style of architec- 
 ture ; cruciform in plan, the nave being about GO feet by 28 (on the 
 outside), and each of the transepts 10i feet by 10. There is an admi- 
 rably well proportioned Tower at the north-east corner, 48 feet in 
 height, and 14i feet square at the base. One of the most beautiful 
 external features of the sacred edifice, is the low south porcli, which is 
 its principal entrance. Over the door of this porch there is a tablet 
 with the simple inscription, " To the honor and glory of God." Sur- 
 mounting the east end of the nave, and also the porch, are two flori- 
 ated crosses. 
 
 In the position of the Church the rule of orientation has been 
 observed, the chancel pointing towards the east, and the altar being 
 in the eastern end. 
 
 On entering the porch the eye is at once arrested by a text of 
 Holy Scripture written over the inner door : " O ! come let us wor- 
 ship and fall down and kneel before the Lord our Maker." On enter- 
 ing the Church itself, the eye is again met every where with texts of 
 Holy Scripture. Over every door, on every window, over the altar, 
 over the font, on the walls, and in each of the windows, texts chosen 
 with peculiar aptness convey their sacred teachings to the devout wor- 
 shipper: — e. ;/., over the altar are the words, "As often as ye eat this 
 bread and drink this cup, ye show the Lord's death until lie come ;" 
 over the font, "Except a man be horn of water and the Spirit, he 
 
1 111 Kill OF THE llol.Y INNOCENTS. 1 53 
 
 cannol enter the kingdom of God ;" over the door by which the Priesl 
 inter- thr Church to engage in bia holy functions, "As tin Father 
 hath senl me, even so send I you;" over the windows the texts are all 
 words of Thaise. 
 
 In tin' south transept, at tin' entrance of the Church, stands the 
 Baptismal Font, one of the mosl beautiful in this country, octagon 
 shaped, with sacred symbols carved mi the sides, [t is of the granite 
 of tin- Highlands, :s' feet in height, ami the bowl 7\ feet in circumfer- 
 ence. The windows, deeply splayed on the inside, are of stained 
 glass; in the centre of each is a plain white cross, on the tranverse 
 beam of which is a passage of Holy Scripture chosen from the divine 
 sayings of our Lord. 
 
 Tlie seats are plain, open benches, and free to all worshippers. The 
 wainscoting and walls are of a -rave and sober color. The chancel 
 occupies at ]. resent the head of the cross, but this, it is hoped, will lie 
 "iily a temporary arrangement. 
 
 The whole interior, marked by unity of design, by perfed sim- 
 plicity, and by a quiet solemnity, cannot fail to shed its hallowing 
 subduing influence over the soul of every worshipper who enters there, 
 in sincerity and truth, to worship Almighty God ; while, the exterior of 
 the sacred temple, with its gray, unhewn walls, its very irregular out- 
 line, its simple rural aspect, harmonizes most strikingly with the romdi 
 wild mountain scenery in the midst of which it seems to have sprung 
 up, itself a work of nature. And its tower, pointing heavenward, its 
 cruciform outline, its cross-crowned peak, tell unmistakably its holy cha- 
 racter, and serve to remind all who enter or behold it, both of the 
 end and of the faith to which God is calling them* 
 
 For the preceding notice we are indebted to the Rev. W. B. Gibson, the Rector of 
 
 the ' 'lniivli. 
 
 20 
 
THE VALLEY OK THE HOUS ATONIC 
 
 IS V \V 1 LLI A M CUL LE N li K V AN T. 
 
 The landscape of Gignoux, engraved for this volume, representing a 
 winter scene, belongs to a class of subjects which lie always treats 
 well. With him winter is always a season of splendor. The crisp 
 snow lies glittering where it was dropped from the clouds or cast ly 
 the wind, an intense sunshine tills the transparent sky, and is reflected 
 from the white clouds, and penetrates the pellucid ice. The figures he 
 introduces are shown in movements which have all the vivacity be- 
 [i mging to the season. 
 
 Gignoux is a native of France, who for many years has made this 
 country his home, and learned to love its scenerj with all the affection 
 of one who passed his childhood here, lie is never tired of wander- 
 ing by our wild streams, of studying our boundless woods, with their 
 vast variety of foliage, of climbing our rocky mountains and looking 
 down into the pleasanl valleys that stretch away in our clear and 
 glowing atmosphere. To him Nature makes qo reserve of her hidden 
 beauties, and his portfolio, filled with studies of places the image ol 
 
1 56 TIIK VALLEY Oh' THE HOUSATONIC. 
 
 which was never before thrown upon canvas, is one of the richest ever 
 possessed by landscape painter. 
 
 In this view he shows us the Valley of the Ilousatonic at New 
 Milford, where the river, in its passage to the sea, takes its leave of 
 the more "beautiful parts of the country through which its flows. The 
 time is early winter, as is shown by the tufts of sere foliage yet cling- 
 ing to the trees and shrubs. Skaters are pursuing their sport in the 
 foreground, a sleigh is passing swiftly over a rude wooden bridge 
 which crosses one of the tributaries of the Housatonic, and beyond, in 
 the distance, rises the line of cold blue hdls which bound the valley. 
 The snow has fallen through the naked trees to the earth, leaving the 
 sides and sunmiits of the hdls dark with their branches. 
 
 Below New Milford, the valley of the Ilousatonic, if it may still 
 lie called a valley, wears a tamer aspect. Let me, in a few words, 
 trace the river in its progress to the ocean. The Ilousatonic has its 
 birth among the highlands of Berkshire in the State of Massachusetts. 
 Here it sports and sings away its infancy in the woods, leaping in its 
 frolics from one rock to another. Of the brooks that form its current 
 some linger in the rich meadows of Lanesborough, where the lime- 
 stone soil nourishes a thick growth of grass and gives a peculiar dense- 
 ness to the foliage of the trees. If I may trust to my recollection I 
 have never observed the same freshness and brightness of verdure in 
 the fields of any part of our country as in that neighborhood. As 
 the stream increases in volume and strength, its season of play is over, 
 and entering the 1 uoad and beautiful vale of Pittsfield, in what I may 
 call the period of its youth, it is set to toil for man, and drives the 
 machinery of cotton and woollen mills. Escaped from this servitude 
 it murmurs awhile in the narrow and woody valleys of Lenox, where 
 it is only of late that the kingfisher has been startled by the shrill 
 whistle of the railway engine, but it is soon employed in other tasks — 
 
T II E V .V I, I. i: V o I'' THE HO US ATONIC. L51 
 
 to lit'i and Let tall the ponderous hammers of forges and make acres 
 of paper for the daily press. In Stockbridge it begins to put on the 
 majesty of manhood and winds backwards and forwards among the 
 grassy aatural terraces and maple woods, as if unwilling to leave so 
 fair a region. In Great Barrington it Hows slowly through meadows 
 hemmed in by the picturesque summits of craggy mountain ridges. In 
 Sheffield it has formed, by mining the ground for centuries, a vast plain 
 of six miles in width, reaching to the base of the Taconic, the highesl 
 mountain along its course, dark, grand, and sending scores of clear 
 rivulets down his steep sides to swell the current of his own fair river. 
 In Canaan the Housatonic casts its entire volume of amber-colored 
 waters down a precipice of sixty feet in height, an overhanging shelf, 
 as is the case with most of the waterfalls in this country, the layers of 
 rock below having crumbled away, while the uppermost remains firm. 
 It then pursues its way through a sort of glen, bounded east and wesl 
 li\ ridges rich with massive woods, and fields running up their sides 
 into the forest, till it reaches New Milford, the scene of Gignoux's 
 picture. In all the places I have enumerated if turns huge wheels and 
 labors in the mills, hut a \\:w miles below New Milford it lays itself 
 sluggishly down between level hanks and creeps to its final resting 
 place in the ocean. From Derby downward to the Sound it i- navi- 
 gable, passively bearing out and bringing in a vessel now and then — 
 like an aged man, retired lV.nu the active employments of life, and 
 good-naturedly carrying his grandchildren in his arms. 
 
 'Idie tributaries of the Housatonic are no less beautiful than the 
 riser itself. The lake in Stockbridge, a wonder of beauty, which the 
 birth and residence of Mis- Sedgwick in its neighborhood have made 
 classical — I mention the nana' of the lady without reserve as I would 
 thai of any other person held in universal honor, — gives the tribute 
 of its waters to the Housatonic. In Greal Barrington, Green River 
 
l.VS THE VALLEY OF THE HOUSATONIC. 
 
 (■(Hues in from the west through charming pastoral solitudes, with ;i 
 current almost of a grass-green tint. The sister lakes in Salisbury, 
 issue iii a brook which falls into this river. I am not certain whether 
 the stream of Bashpish, so much visited of late, which throws itself 
 down the steep sides of Tacoiiic in a series of tails, ilows into the 
 Housatonic or not, but the cascade by universal consent is reckoned 
 among the beautiful and picturesque tilings of the valley. 
 
 Some of the most remarkable atmospheric appearances observed 
 in this valley do not present themselves to the casual visitor, though 
 he be an artist. 1 remember one of these altogether too glorious to 
 be copied by the pencil. A thunder-shower had arisen after a hot 
 summer day. As the thunderbolts were dropping into the tops of the 
 hills around, and the rain falling in torrents, the sun, then about to 
 set, illuminated the whole mass of clouds and rain, with an orange- 
 colored light, which gradually passed into a deep crimson. The inner 
 rooms of the houses were filled with the same ruddy lustre, which glit- 
 tered reflected from the pools and streams in the road, and from the 
 wet roots of the houses, the grass, and the leaves of the trees. Above, 
 the spectacle was still more extraordinary. The lightnings were run- 
 ning to and fro, appearing like rivulets of molten gold, suddenly 
 poured through the crimson clouds and as suddenly absorbed into 
 them. The crimson glow slowly changed into a purple as the clouds 
 were retiring, and the last Hashes of the lightning and the last tinges 
 of the clouds were Mended with the cool blue light of the full moon 
 shining from a sky of perfect transparency. 
 
 At another time when at Sheffield, 1 was a spectator of a thunder- 
 shower no less remarkable. After a day of extreme sultriness, the 
 clouds began to rise behind Taconic and over its summit, with the 
 mutterings of distant thunder. Up they were heaved, higher and 
 higher, darker and darker, heavier and heavier, till they became o( a 
 
I hi: V A I. I. E V l' I 11 i: II (i i S ATONIC. 159 
 
 deep indigo tint, and seemed a- if the steeps of a far loftier mountain, 
 one of tin' A.lps or the A.ndes, had been heaped upon Taconic. Sud- 
 denly the liuge mass began t<> roll downwards with Louder crashes of 
 thunder, towards the side- of the mountain, as if it had broken over 
 a barrier, carrying with it the strange indigo hue and an intense dark- 
 no-, and sending before it winds which scoured the plain and raised 
 clouds of dust, and tilled the sky with Leaves rent from the trees. I 
 have never seen any aspecl of the clouds so grand and awful a- the 
 approaches of that thunder-shower. 
 
 It was some time aboul the beginning of (he Last century thai the 
 Dutch emigrants from the State of New-York, and the settlers from 
 Connecticut and the eastern part of Massachusetts came at the same 
 time into the \alle\ of the Housatonic. The descendants of the 
 Hollanders chose Greal Barrington ami its neighborhood for their 
 abode, where they had Large farms on the rich lands bordering this 
 river, and kept Large herds of cattle and horses. Their posterity, some- 
 what intermingled with the English race, remain there yet, and 1 
 recollect that twenty-five years since they gave evidence in their per- 
 son — for tin} were Large-limbed men, almost colossal in size of the 
 etl'.ct of a mixture of nation- upon the human stature. In some ot 
 the households Dutch was -.till the language of the fireside, and those 
 who were adopted into them, learned it as a matter of course, 
 
 though the\ were often Laughed at for the imperfect manner in which 
 
 they -poke it. I recollect o| ic , if t hese t all Dutchmen 1 ioa-t ill-' of the 
 
 progress made in the tongue by a little, boy who had come to live 
 in hi- family. I met the same man a few years since, and was inform- 
 ed by him that he had lost hi- wife Long ago and had nearly forgotten 
 his Dutch. I infer that it i> no longer a living Language in Berkshire. 
 
 Bui I have often reflected upon what would have 1 n the conse 
 
 quence if the power of England had met the fate which befell tin- 
 
160 THE VALLEY OF THE II d US A TONIC. 
 
 power of Holland, and if that republic had flourished, while England 
 fell into decay. The Dutch emigration would, of course, have filled 
 the valley of the. Housatonic Bilderdijk would have been at this 
 moment the favorite poet of the people on that river ; the romances 
 of Loosjes would have taken the place of those of Walter Scott ; the 
 more devout would have read the sermons of Van der Palm, and the 
 lovers of mirth would have laughed at the jokes of Weiland. So far 
 as concerns the fine arts, the dwellings would have been more pic- 
 turesque, comfortable Dutch houses with low roofs and spacious stoops, 
 embowered in trees, instead of the grim, naked, and tasteless habitations 
 of the Yankees. The painters who sought their subjects among the 
 inhabitants of the valley would have painted interiors after the man- 
 ner of Teniers, or elaborate and highly finished landscapes, in which 
 fidelity to nature was more regarded than the selection of objects, after 
 the. manner of Cuy] >. 
 
THE A 1)1 U()i\ I) AC K MO I ATA INS 
 
 BY ALFRED II. STREET. 
 
 Upon a beautiful July evening, the writer was passing up Lake 
 Chanaplain in one of the fine steamboats that ply upon it> Lovely 
 waters. Bappening to raise his eyes from the plain of glass which 
 stretched before him, his attention was arrested by a mountain ma" 
 tracing: an irregular line against tin* golden background of the West. 
 Just over the highest peak was the descending sun, and the whole 
 mass was invested with an azure hue soft as a remembered sorrow, 
 and sweet as a hope of flic future. It seemed a- if seraphic music 
 mighl breathe from that dreamy mist, as if on those summits rested 
 the quietude of Leaven. It was the mass of the Ai>ironi>acks. 
 
 These splendid mountains form a group, the loftiest of a range 
 
 which extends, in the Northern section of New-York, fr Little 
 
 Falls on the Mohawk to Trembleau Point on Lake Champlain. The 
 group heaves up into and above the clouds its cone-like peaks ami 
 jagged ridges, which seem, from some commanding view, as it' a stormj 
 ocean had become suddenly fixed in its wildest tossings. The range 
 in which occurs this group runs in a northeasterlj direction, forming 
 
 •_'l 
 
L62 THE ADIRONDACK MOUNTAINS. 
 
 the easterly and most elevated portion of what is denominated the 
 Plateau of Northern New-York — which Plateau is bounded by the 
 waters of the St. Lawrence and Ontario, the Black and Mohawk 
 rivers and Lake Champlain. The group is composed of several 
 summits, the loftiest of which are Mounts Marcy, Mclntyre, McMar- 
 tin and Santanoni, the two latter rising 5000 feet above the tide, and 
 the two former over that elevation. The highest is Mount Marcy 
 (the Indian name being Ta-ha-wus — "He splits the Sky"), the 
 loftiest eminence in our State, raising itself to a mile in height. 
 From its summit of gray rock is a forest prospect, three hundred 
 miles in circumference. The forked lightning darts from clouds far, 
 far below this peak, and the fir which on the sides of the mountain 
 rises to a stately shape, diminishes to a creeping shrub, and at last 
 vanishes from the face of the stern cold summit. Near it springs 
 the most northern source of the Hudson, whilst the whole group, 
 forming the highest portion of the northern watershed, pours its 
 streams, which become majestic rivers, in all directions. 
 
 Manifold lakes lie along the bases of these wild mountains, whose 
 crystal bosoms are only disturbed by the canoe of the Indian hunter, 
 or casual sportsman, the leap of the monster trout, the clip of the 
 screaming diver, or the motions of the swimming deer. Such are 
 lakes Colden, Avalanche, Sanford, and Henderson. 
 
 A dense forest mantles the slopes and valleys of the region, within 
 which live the splendid moose, the lurking panther, the dark heavy 
 bear, and quick timid deer. In a few shaded streams still linger the 
 beaver, the loneliest of the forest habitants, known only to the most 
 indefatigal >le trapper. 
 
 The Adirondack Pass in this group is wild and savage as the 
 imagination can conceive. Situated between Mount Mclntyre and 
 Wallfaee, a perpendicular precipice of a thousand feet reals itself on 
 
THE ADIRONDACK MOUNTAINS. I 63 
 
 one side, upon the summit of which lofty firs appear, like a fringe, 
 a t'rw inches in height, \\ liiUt the gorge itself is piled with rocks upon 
 which grow trees of fifty feet. 
 
 [t is a sublime cathedral of nature, whose stillness awes the soul, 
 and whose voice, supplied by the storm, lift a tremendous anthem to 
 the God whose \\ lerful power was employed in its creation. 
 
 Such is the Adirondack region, surrounded by the smiling civiliza- 
 tion of our Empire Stat.', bu1 remaining still as countless centuries 
 have seen it, probably since the waters of the Deluge. 
 
SCAKOOX 01! SCHROON LAKE. 
 
 (cole.) 
 
 The engraving represents one of the wildest and mosl beautiful 
 Lake iii the State of ISTew York, and probably in tne United States. 
 It i> situated partly in the counties of Warren and Essex, is nine miles 
 long and aboul one mile wide The view is taken from an islam 
 the north end of the Lake, .-it the time wh< 
 
 in 
 
 "Twilight's shad tea stealing on, 
 
 i >'er mountain, wood, and stream, 
 Wrapping the dim, far-stretching Lake 
 in :i lmsli'.l and holy dream." 
 
 Il is peculiarly Aonerican in its character, being both wild and 
 picturesque, and one which the artist delighted to portray. 
 
 Schr , Phwi-aos or Bluebeard Mountain, which is the most pro- 
 
 minenl peak in the picture, is about lour miles from the Lake, and 
 attain- an altitude of 3,200 feet. The more distant are the peaks of 
 the Eastern range of the Mirondacks. Thai at the right of the en 
 o-ravine is the Saddlebach Mountain. The shores of the Lake are 
 covered with the dense foliage as -ecu in the engraving. 
 
166 SCAEOOH OE SCHEOOH LAKE. 
 
 The red cedar in the foreground is one of the noble trees which 
 abound on the borders of the Mountain Lakes in this section of our 
 country, interspersed with the maple, hemlock, and pine. Around the 
 extreme point, jutting into the Lake and seen through the trees, flows 
 the noble Hudson, which at this point is but a very small stream, and 
 which connects Schroon with Paradox Lake. 
 
 The island from which the scene was taken, is owned and is now 
 the residence of Andrew [reland, Esq., formerly of this city, from the 
 north end of which a magnificent view of the whole eastern range of 
 the Adirondack- ma\ lie had. The name of the lamented Cole is 
 identified with American Scenery, and while he continued to paint the 
 scenerj of America, In' was unapproached. lie it was that first gave 
 the American landscape character, and whose genius delighted in por- 
 traying the wild and romantic beauty of her forests, lakes, and water- 
 falls, and who so truthfully presented to the admiring eye the gran- 
 deur of her sunsets, tornadoes, and autumn's gorgeous livery. He it 
 was who first taught us that we need not leave our own wild and 
 beautiful scenery for subjects suitable for pictorial embellishment. 
 The scene here given is but one of America's magnificent Lakes, and 
 it is to be regretted that we have not more views of the Lakes of 
 Essex from the pencil of this favorite artist, The accompanying en- 
 graving is made from the original in the possession of Mrs. Cole, who 
 has many of the remaining productions of this distinguished painter. 
 
\KT IN TIIK UNITED STATES, 
 
 B 5 G E ii. V\ - i: it II ink, D. D. 
 
 The comprehensive title al the head of this page is imt a promise of 
 a formal essay, but has been taken as a convenienl because sufficiently 
 expansible heading, to cover some desultory remarks suggested by the 
 rapid growth among us, during the last few years, of talenl and taste 
 for An. 
 
 The American has frequent occasion to say, in answer to hasty 
 strictures of foreigners, particularly those from Greal Britain, thai 
 thej "do not understand us;" and the reply, irrepressible from its 
 truth, has been much ridiculed by our transatlantic cousins, as if i1 
 were easj to < I i;i \\ conclusions from superficial facts. The reverse is, 
 however, the case, both from the difficulty of knowing all the facts, 
 and the uecessity of having a righl poinl of view. As, because of 
 
 the variety, which gives individuality of character, i ue man can 
 
 thoroughly understand another, bul each has received a distinctness 
 from his peculiar temperament, mental structure, early circumstances, 
 and all those influences which make up his education, so we may well 
 doubl the abilitj of an observer, however candid and intelligent, to 
 
L68 A.RT IN THE UNITED STATES. 
 
 understand the people of another nation. Forms of government, 
 climate, pursuits of life as affected by soil or position, descent whether 
 pure or mixed, seclusion from other portions of mankind or inter- 
 course with them, historical associations, hereditary habits and preju- 
 dices, language, literature, religion, with many other less scrutable but 
 important coalescing causes, render each nation an enigma to all 
 others. Civilization is a mystery to the savage, and the savage no less 
 a mystery to his civilized brother. A Laplander and an Arab, if 
 thrown together, would scarcely agree in aught but the appetites, pas- 
 sions, and faculties common to man. An adult Turk could never be 
 turned into an Anglo-Saxon, nor an Anglo-Saxon into a Turk; they 
 might exchange countries and garments, but, while life lasted, the one 
 would delight to steal away from the bustle around him that he might 
 enjoy in cross-legged repose his revery of trustful fatalism, and the 
 other would shuffle forth in his slippers eager after the latest news. 
 It is hardly more possible for an Englishman to comprehend a 
 Frenchman, or a Frenchman an Englishman, though they have been 
 within a few hours of each other since time immemorial. Solid John 
 Bull looks upon the grimaces of his mercurial neighbor, as upon the 
 tricks of a mountebank's monkey, while he of the Grande Nation, 
 shrugging his elastic shoulders, returns the contempt by muttering, 
 " />'(/< /" How utterly strange to us in this country is the readiness 
 with which the revolutionary masses of the old world, after months of 
 fire and carnage and bluster, subside before the bayonets of an auto- 
 crat! And how far beyond the conception of European statesman- 
 ship is the simple Law by which the very multiplicity of our well- 
 guarded state sovereignties best secures our national union ! 
 
 There are strong reasons why our American characteristics are 
 slowly understood by others; Massed through our reading of histori- 
 cal precedents, we are apt to judge incorrectly of ourselves; nor can 
 
A KT IN Til E D N IT ED ST A T ES. I l>9 
 
 ;iu_\ question touching our manners or tendencies, be properly dis- 
 cussed without going over and carefullj considering the circumstances 
 in which they have been developed. Our origin, situation, constitu- 
 ents, and manner of growth, are so unexampled as almost to exclude 
 analogy. Compared with all others, ancient or modern, our nation is 
 an anomaly. Coming into being when the mind of Europe, especially 
 of Great Britain, had reached a high degree of cultivated strength, 
 the American people sprung Less from the loins than from the brain of 
 her great parent, not, indeed, full-grown, but with a precocious vigor 
 
 far beyond child! d. The early colonists of British race were, for 
 
 the most part, of that stern, indomitable faith, which, loyal to a divine 
 sovereign, unhesitatingly challenged human usurpations. Those from 
 Holland, then just emancipated, after a long struggle with bigol 
 Spain, and the Buguenot exiles, preferring expatriation to apostacy, 
 were of the same liberty-loving, yet severe creed. Religious sympa- 
 thy prepared them for political co-operation; and they, acting really 
 long before they acted formally together, gave, as the predominating 
 element, a unity of purpose to the scattered settlements, which could 
 not otherwise have been expected from their heterogeneous origin. 
 Educated by difficulties in the old world, they were ready to meet, 
 with intelligent, hopeful courage, the difficulties of the new. They 
 were also of equal rank, and, for the most part, equal fortunes. 
 Hereditary nobility and privileged classes were not recognized among 
 them. Such pretensions, where personal labor was required of all, 
 would have been ridiculous. Oppressed, a1 times, ly the imperial ex- 
 actions of the mother country, and the insolence of it- proconsular 
 representatives, they ye1 could not be debarred the filial prerogative 
 of using the English tongue and the unequalled store- of wisdom, po- 
 litical, literary, and religious, already provided by English pens. 
 
 The land in which they sought a new home, seemed to have been 
 
170 ART IN THE UNITED STATES. 
 
 reserved by a predetermining Providence for them. Other great 
 states, established by conquest or colonization, have been founded 
 among pre-resident tribes, who, mingling with the new-comers, have 
 exerted an influence, sometimes not small, upon the character of the 
 future nation. Unless we utterly discredit their traditionary annals, 
 we find Pelasgic names interspersed among the Cecropidse of Athens; 
 and trace the growth of Rome in her successive engorgements of 
 neighboring people. The excellence of the present British character 
 is fairly attributable to the fusion of several bloods in oue. But the 
 aborigines of this country, too few and too savage to cultivate the 
 wilderness, resisted feebly the disciplined invaders, while their color, 
 but still more their singular spirit, forbade amalgamation. < )ur fathers 
 had the whole country to themselves, and found here neither arts, nor 
 customs, nor alliances. Separated by a wide ocean from the inveterate 
 prejudices and hereditary proscriptions which retard older nations, 
 they had opportunity for experiment ; while, at the same time, their 
 commercial enterprise, the main secret of Anglo-Saxon superiority, 
 brought them the stimulants of example and emulation. Their insti- 
 tutions were not indigenous, but having been first selected from what 
 they considered the best stocks of Europe, then modified and adapted 
 to their exigencies and views by various intergraftings, they grew 
 rapidly and fruitfully in the virgin soil. Thus the principles of our 
 government were educed, not from the hypotheses of Utopian philoso- 
 phers, or slavish imitations, or a fortuitous concourse of elements, or 
 even from the mere pressure of circumstances, but from a sturdy com- 
 mon sense, regulated by scriptural faith, improved by study, w r arned 
 by the failures and encouraged by the successes of all antecedent 
 lime, animated by an insatiable thirst for liberty, compelled by the 
 vital necessity of union, and supported by physical strength earned in 
 felling forests and subduing wild farms. In a happy hour the govern- 
 
\ i: I I \ T II K INI I ED - I A T BS. 171 
 
 ment was independently established. Since then, on that broad, and, 
 
 as everj true heart hopes, indestructible liasis, ■ nation has beer 
 
 I »ni 1 1 up from prolific natural increase and emigration to us out of op- 
 pressed and over-peopled countries. Our territories have been wide- 
 ly, \ et safely enlarged, until now a broad region between the sea. on 
 
 whose shores the early settlers landed, and the Pacific, over which the 
 eager eye of our enterprise looks out tor fresh aggrandizements, is 
 inhabited by a brotherhood governed by the one law of their own 
 consent. 
 
 Under the pressure of such cares, and struggles, and urgent anxie- 
 ties, there could lie neither time nor desire for the cultivation of those 
 elegant pursuits which are the luxury of leisure, the decoration of 
 wealth, and the charm of refinement. The Puritans and the Presby- 
 terians, together the most influential, were not favorable to the Fine 
 Arts; and the Quakers abjured them. Men living in log cabins and 
 busied all the day in held, workshop, or warehouse, and liable to 
 attack bj savage enemies at any moment, were indisposed to seek 
 after or encourage what was not immediately useful. Their hard- 
 earned ami precarious gains would not justify the indulgence. There 
 were i\'\v, or rather no specimens of artistic skill among them to 
 awaken taste or imitation. It is, therefore, little to he wondered at, if 
 they did not show an appreciation of Art proportionate to their ad- 
 vance in other moral respects; or that they waited until they had 
 secured a substantial prosperity, before they ventured to gratify 
 themselves with the beautiful. The brilliant examples of West and 
 Copley, with some others of inferior note, showed the presence of 
 genius, but those artists found abroad the encouragemenl and instruc- 
 tion not attainable a1 home, thus depriving their country of all share 
 in their fame except the credit of having given them birth. 
 
 A- a sense of security and increasing riches began to be felt, aboul 
 
17*2 ART IN THE UNITED STATES. 
 
 the beginning of the century, we discover tokens of a more generous 
 spirit. Distinguished men returned from honorable missions with an 
 appetite for Art, excited by what they had seen in the capitals of 
 Europe. The enthusiasm and example of Peale, Stuart, Trumbull, 
 and others native-born and foreigners, could not be without effect. 
 Aspirants to the honors of the pencil and burin became numerous 
 enough to form associations for their mutual benefit; and, at least 
 among the better few, a disposition to encourage their efforts was ap- 
 parent. Two valuable collections of casts from the antique were ob- 
 tained ; one for the New-York Academy of Fine Arts, through Chan- 
 cellor Livingston ; the other for the Pennsylvania Academy at Phi- 
 ladelphia, through the zeal of Judge Hopkjnson; some good pictures 
 were imported, and some good, with many inferior, produced at home ; 
 the Academies and Artists' Associations attempted exhibitions, private 
 enterprise opened others, and, doubtless, though not eminently suc- 
 cessful, they all contributed to improve the taste of the public. In- 
 creasing wealth, means of communication with the old world, and the 
 travel of many Americans abroad, rapidly extended a spirit favorable 
 to Art in every form, which was yet more stimulated by the rise 
 among us, almost simultaneously, of men whose genius in several de- 
 partments of painting and of sculpture, startled and delighted us with 
 a galaxy of talent deserving eminence among cotemporaneous com- 
 petitors in any part of the world. Some of them are still living, 
 others have died too soon ; but their brilliant names need not be writ- 
 ten here, for they are inscribed high in the records of their country's 
 fame and on the hearts of us all. Since then, especially since the 
 establishment of the National Academy of Design, (of which our most 
 honorably distinguished but ill-requited fellow-citizen, S. F. B. Morse, 
 was the first President,) in 1826, and more especially within the last 
 
A i; l I \ T II E I N I T E D ST A 1 E8. I 7:'' 
 
 ten years, large advances have been made, and Art has fairly begun 
 to flourish among us, giving rich earnest of yet higher attainments. 
 
 There has been and will be dispute as to the comparative efficiency 
 of the various means which have been adopted for the encouragemenl 
 of Art iu the United States. Institutions and individuals contend for 
 the honor, and sonic deserve more of it than others; bu1 our office is 
 not to settle such quarrels. There should, however, be no recrimina- 
 tions between Artists and the friends (patrons is an ungenerous word) 
 of Art. Each class is necessary to the other. It is a false (and, hap- 
 pily, now nearly obsolete) policy, to force through the fundamental 
 laws of supply and demand. Men will not consent to be scolded or 
 ridiculed out of their money; and if they prefer bull-feasts, or gaudy 
 furniture, or miserly accumulation to pictures or statuary, their money 
 is their own, nor have we a right to take it out of their hands. \\ e 
 may be pained to think that any are disappointed, when we could re- 
 joice in the success of all the deserving; yet it must not be forgotten, 
 that in the compensating distributions of Providence, genius, so libe- 
 rally endowed with its own exquisite pleasures, can rarely expect the 
 profits of trade. It is the duty of the artist to instruct us by his own 
 beautiful and elevating works ; and, when we have been so educated 
 in the high moral uses and noble gratifications to be derived from Art, 
 we should be indeed ungrateful if the due of the master be withheld. 
 The distribution of good specimens through the community, however 
 accomplished, is the only sure method of spreading a desire for more, 
 and the harvest will repay the seed manifold. In the language of 
 II. ,1\ Writ, there ruusi be "a patient continuance in well-doing" by 
 those who -look for glory and honor;" but "in due season they shall 
 reap if they faint not." Nor have the profits of our artists been alto- 
 gether contemptible; for, while we regrel that, owing principally to 
 the smallnessof American fortunes, some of the besl have not broughl 
 
174 ART [H THE UNITED STATES. 
 
 their value, it is also certain that works of art generally meet with 
 fair prices; and there is no country where so large a proportion of its 
 artists are living comfortably on their earnings, or where the gains ot 
 talent in Art compares so favorably with those of equal talent in other 
 pursuits of life, as this. We may rebuke and even lash the stupid indif- 
 ference of those able, yet unwilling, to encourage liberally the efforts 
 of genius ; but it degrades Art to set it whining after patronage, or to 
 confound it with every self-inflated aspirant to the name of artist who 
 has set up an easel, trims his beard a la Van Dyke, and in the very 
 outset imagines himself a compeer of Eafiakle. Happily, the very 
 great majority of our recognized artists are gentlemen in the true 
 sense of the word, shunning the bad taste of eccentricity, and despising 
 charlatanry; while they depend for success on their own generous de- 
 votion to their elevated calling, and patient enthusiasm in the cultiva- 
 tion of the gifts with which the good God lias endowed them. They 
 will not lose their reward. 
 
 The main features of human nature must be radically the same, 
 however various the modifications of which they are capable ; and, 
 though there have been peculiar reasons for the delay of Art among 
 us, yet its history in this country has not been altogether singular. 
 The rise and progress of Art are justly attributable to concurrent and 
 successive natural causes working out, through the agency of man 
 under the economy of a wise providence, the beneficent designs of 
 God. Wealth and political stability have always preceded Art ; but 
 where those have been gained, its progress has been proportionate, 
 because it meets with that innate fondness for beauty and imitation of 
 His divine works which is a universal attribute of the creature made 
 after the image of his Creator. Taste and genius exist among every 
 people, and, where depressing circumstances give place to more favor- 
 able, they will appear and compel regard, whatever be the particular 
 
A.RT IN THE UNITED STATES. 1 7"> 
 
 machinery bj which the end is gained. Even where influences seem 
 mosl adverse, this tendency show- itself, though by feeble efforts; and 
 the growth of arl maj be obscurely traced long before it bursts into 
 sudden splendor. In what degree Greece derived her Arl from the 
 carl_\ Eastern empires it is not easy to guess. Religion, especially 
 under idolatrous forms, would naturally suggest lir-t the structure of 
 imposing temples and representative images. Daedalus, if he be no1 
 a mythical fiction, is the earliesl name in the annals of Grecian art, 
 and lie was a sculptor, mosl probably of wood; but, though we read 
 df a few ethers scattered along the interval, seven or eight centuries 
 must ha\e elapsed between his date and thai of Phidias. Sonic de- 
 scriptions in Homer indicate the existence of designing skill, of which 
 there remained no adequate specimens as indubitable proof. The con- 
 venient quarries of snowy Parian and sparkling Pentelican greatly 
 encouraged the use of marble in building and statuary. Still it is 
 certain that, until after the Persian war, art in Athens and all Greece 
 was in its swaddling clothes ; but, through the magnificent foster-care 
 of the elegant demagogue Pericles, in less than forty years Archi- 
 tecture reached perfection, Sculpture had achieved by the hand of 
 Phidias her most sublime triumphs, and Painting, in the frescoes of 
 the Propylcea, had exhibited strong promise soon to lie fully devel- 
 oped. We are astonished and instructed by the crowd of men emi- 
 nent in these several departments, who nourished in the course of the 
 half century of which Phidias was the Angelo: h tints, Calli- 
 crates, and [itnesicles, architects ; Polycletus, Myron, Alcamenes, 
 
 AYSLADAS (the younger), \l> ,ES, AtHENO tUS (the elder), and 
 
 ( !alamis, sculptors : Pan.i:m s, Polygnoti s, Apollodori s, Parrhasius, 
 Zei sis, and Timanthes, painters. Thirty years after, Sculpture, which 
 could not advance in grandeur beyond the Phidian Jupiter, was car- 
 ried to its highest point of spiritual grace by Praxiteles; ami Paint- 
 
"|7<1 AKT IN THE UNITED STATES. 
 
 ing, iu less than seventy, attained its ancient acme under Apelles and 
 Pbotogenes. From this time Art, though largely practised and illus- 
 trated occasionally by works of great merit, began to decline. 
 
 The revival of Art in Europe is remarkable for similar facts. The 
 first impulse came,, through ecclesiastical associations, from the East, 
 and the monuments of classical genius were overlooked. Buschetto, 
 (or Busciiettus) a Greek, built in the eleventh century the Cathedral 
 of Pisa ; but it was not until the middle of the thirteenth, that we 
 find the Sculptors Giovanni and Nicolo Pisani spreading their really 
 beautiful works through Italy. Donatello and Ghibeeti, about the 
 close of the fourteenth, left behind them achievements which have 
 received admiration from all subsequent ages. Cimabue, in the latter 
 half of the thirteenth century, began the emancipation of Painting 
 from depraved Byzantine taste ; and his superior scholar Giotto pur- 
 sued the good work with admirable courage. Brunellesctii (the 
 architect) introduced clearer notions of perspective ; and Masaccio, 
 making nature his guide, and discarding still more the restrictions 
 which had hindered freedom and breadth, excelled in the spirit of his 
 attitudes and the harmony of his colors. Thus, by slow and arduous 
 steps, did Art ascend from its living tomb during more than two cen- 
 turies until Perugino; but immediately after it shone forth with a 
 lustre which has never since been equalled and can never be surpassed. 
 About this time, under the admirable politics of Lorenzo the Mag- 
 nificent, the balance of power in Italy, which had been so long dis- 
 turbed by cruel and confused wars, became settled ; and the conse- 
 quence was a general prosperity. Lorenzo employed large wealth 
 during the long peace in the encouragement of learning and art. He 
 collected many antique statues and the best pictures then to be found, 
 within a palace, which he opened as an academy. The power of his 
 liberal example, coextensive with that of his statesmanship, was felt 
 
\ i: T I N T II E 1X1 T E I) ST AT K s . 1 77 
 
 at Milan, then under the Sforzas; at Venice, then in Its palmy da\ ; at 
 Rome, then richest and proudest, and even at unhappy Naples. This 
 allluent calm ushered in the greal period of Italian Art, which began 
 with Da Vim 1 and closed with Rafaelle. Within less than fifty 
 years, between 1 1 V < > and L520, flourished Da Vinci, Angelo, Raf- 
 \ 1:1.1.1:, Tm \\, ('01:1:1 (.(.10, Del Sabto, and Giorgione; and, a few years 
 
 later, (ill l.lo RoMANO, TINTORETTO, PaBMEGGIANO, and Pol.. CaEAVAG- 
 
 gio. From this time, Italy being again convulsed, with the brillianl ex- 
 ception of Baeoccio, Art continued to decline, until in another long 
 peace, during the latter half of the sixteenth century, we discover a 
 second constellation only inferior to the first; Paolo Veeohese, the 
 Cabacci, Guldo, Domenichino, and Michael Angelo ( A 1: a \ A.GGIO. The 
 only names of later date worthy to be given with those above, are 
 Salvatob Rosa and Caelo Dolce, who were cotemporaneous about 
 the middle of the seventeenth century. 
 
 France hardly affords us an example in point. Her Art was im- 
 mediately derived from Italy, and her best artists flourished there. 
 We may observe, however, that the prosperous administration of 
 Sully seems first to have given the energy which produced her best 
 masters, and that in the forty years between 1582 and L622, were 
 born YiNKT, the Poussins, Claude Loeeaine, Blanchabd. the Mig- 
 NAEDS, I»i: l'»i:i x, Sakatin, and PuGET. 
 
 Antweep, until the destruction of its harbor, the chief seat of 
 commerce in the Low Countries, had attained the culminating point 
 of its fortunes after the middle of the sixteenth century, and it- 
 
 citizen- vrere proud of their wealth. As a consequence, Art, which, 
 in Flanders, had been struggling upward from Van Eyck (who 
 flourished about the beginning of the fifteenth century), Beeug- 
 m:i., and Van Ort (born 1557), was elevated to a glorious 
 height by the simultaneous excellences of Rubens, Van Dyke, Sny- 
 
 23 
 
ITS ART IN THE UNITED STATES. 
 
 dees, Tenters, and Jordaens, all of whom were born between 1576 
 and 1600. 
 
 The United Provinces, before 1610, bad shown themselves strong 
 enough to maintain their freedom from the yoke of Spain, and estab- 
 lished their admirable government. A similar triumph of Art fol- 
 lowed ; and, accordingly, a multitude of artists appeared in Holland. 
 
 HONTHORST (GlIERARDO DELLE NoTTl), CuTP, REMBRANDT, GERARD 
 
 Douw, Both, the elder Van der Welde, Van Ostade, Wouvermans, 
 Paul Potter, Backhuysen, Jan Steen, Ruysdael, Van der Welde 
 the son, were all born between 1592 and 1636. 
 
 William of Orange ascended the throne of Great Britain in 
 1680. The ecclesiastical buildings of that island contain evidences of 
 Art at an early period, and further down we read of Hilliard, 
 Oi.iyei:, Jameson, Cooper, Wxatt, Grinding Gibbons, and others ; 
 but they are ol tscure, and seldom spoken of compared to those of the 
 foreigners, Holbein, Van Dyke, Lely, Knellee, and the two Van dee 
 Veldes, who were liberally rewarded by royal and noble patrons. The 
 establishment of civil and religious liberty, after the expulsion of the 
 Stuarts, was followed by a general and increasing prosperity. During 
 the reign of George I. and II. the power and wealth of Britain made 
 large progress ; and at the accession of Geoeoe III. she had reached 
 her pre-eminence in Europe. We are not, therefore, disappointed 
 when we look for a correspondently nourishing condition of Art. 
 Hogarth, born in 1608, was at the height of his fame in 1735, and 
 continued to flourish until his death in 1762. Within the time of 
 Hogarth, and in the half century between 1713 and 1764, were born 
 Stuart, Wilson, Reynolds, Gainsborough, Barrett, Romney, Run- 
 
 CIMAN, NoLLEKENS, BANKS, BACON, CoSWAY, BARRY, WyATT, NoRTH- 
 
 cote, Flaxman, Blake, Opie, and Morland. West and Copley also 
 were born in America, 1737-8, the former settling in England, 1763; 
 
A KT I N I'll E \ I I E D - I \ T ES. 170 
 
 the latter, 1 7 7 -~> . This list, it will be perceived, comprises men emi- 
 nent in every department. Under the liberal encouraeemenl of 
 George III. the Royal Acadenij was established in L766, of which 
 the lir-t presidenl was Reynolds, and the second our countryman 
 West. Of Arl in Greal Britain subsequently, there is no need that 
 we should speak. 
 
 These memoranda show that we have great reason for encourage- 
 meni with regard to the progress of Art in this country. It has begun 
 to flourish as early in the historj of our nation as circumstances, ac- 
 cording to all precedent, would allow. Nor should we think that its 
 farther development must necessarily be slow. It is the characteristic 
 of Art, when fairly awakened, to make progress by large strides; and 
 we may well feel the shame of disappointment if this should not be 
 the case in the United States. We are as a people successful in all 
 the pursuits of industry, and as a nation secure in (lie justness and 
 
 stability of our government. The day has therefore < •, when, 
 
 with no neglect of matters vital to our general safety, we should culti- 
 vate liberally those refined tastes which will add grace to our strength, 
 and vindicate our national character from the imputation of an undue 
 lust of gain. The new rich are ordinarily fond of display in costly 
 appliances of luxurious life. They delight in a vulgar ostentation of 
 mere expense before the eyes of the less fortunate, or in rivalling the 
 tinsel splendor of each other. Intoxicated with sudden wealth, they 
 are eager to lavish it, yet know not how to do so elegantly or credita- 
 bly. This childish folly is rife among us. Many (comparatively) 
 large fortunes are now in the hands of successful adventurers, who 
 lack the education which teaches the better value of money. Hence 
 we see on every hand a straining after effecl disproportionate to the 
 
 scale of things. Houses, no1 bej 1 the size of comfortable mansions, 
 
 receive an architectural decoration suitable onlj to large palaces; and 
 
180 ART IN THE UNITED STATES. 
 
 the two or three narrow rooms on the principal floor are so crowded 
 with glaring furniture as to drive the family, when not on exhibition, 
 down into the obscure but more home-like basement. Festivals are 
 given with an extravagant ambition, which can only be carried out by 
 the aid of hired services and supernumerary servants. Robes, fit only 
 for the evening drawing-room, sweep the dust of the pavement. Men, 
 after having drudged all the day in office or counting-house, spend 
 the night in aping the fashions of idle aristocrats, to begin again their 
 necessary toil unrestored by sleep, while their wives and families live 
 only to scatter what they have gathered with anxious industry. It is 
 not surprising that pictures, or other works of Art, should be rare in 
 their houses. They have no leisure even to read, much less to culti- 
 vate taste ; their talk is of money, and they flatter their pride of purse 
 by contemning all who, absorbed in liberal pursuits, have filled their 
 heads rather than their pockets. The evil will not long be so ram- 
 pant. It must grow less as the possession of riches ceases to be a 
 novelty; and, especially, when the next generation, educated from 
 infancy, perhaps enlightened by foreign travel in countries where let- 
 ters and art are regarded as glory, comes upon the stage, a better sen- 
 timent will prevail, and money be devoted to more honorable ends. 
 Even now we are not without pleasing exceptions to the general fault. 
 There are those, who, uncorrupted by the habits and successes of busi- 
 ness, delight to relieve its fatigues, not by animal indulgences, but 
 spiritual enjoyments; with whom the scholar, the man of science, and 
 the artist, are honored guests ; from whose apartments books are not 
 excluded as unfashionable lumber, and on whose walls a picture is not 
 thought to be a deformity. These are the men who have encouraged 
 the artist's zeal, and to whom, next to the artist and scarcely less, we 
 owe a large improvement of the public feeling for Art and its already 
 gratifying achievements. The Art of classical antiquity arose in a 
 
\ i: T IN THE UNITED STATES. 181 
 
 democracy; to the merchant Medici it owed its revival in modern 
 times; in the commercial states of the Netherlands appeared the onbj 
 original school out of Ital\ ; and why should not Art flourish in our 
 republic, where the lounging idler is a nuisance, and skilful occupation 
 a title to respect '. 
 
 In the history of Art we are glad to see refuted a common preju- 
 dice that it demands peculiar condition- of climate, atmosphere, and 
 natural scenerj ; or that it is the endowment of any particular people; 
 or that it flourishes better under superstition than truth. It first ap- 
 peared in the far, sultrj East, where at this late daj are now exhumed 
 its stupendous remains. Tt shone forth under the clear skies of Greece 
 long centuries alter its oblivion in Asia. When Art was splendid in 
 Athens and Rhodes, ami Cos and Corinth, it had no native growth in 
 Italy. The pictures and the statues with which Rome was crowded, 
 were the work of Grecian hands. Puny has barely rescued from for- 
 getfulness the names of two or three countrymen of his, who imitated 
 the Grecian school, bul they scarcely deserved the record. Again, 
 when Art had been irreparably lost to Greece for well nigh a thousand 
 years, Italy became the theatre of its highesl glory, and claimed the 
 prerogative of teaching the world. Even there was there a distinc- 
 tion. If study of antique forms in the clear, dry atmosphere of Home, 
 gave to her school its unequalled perception of form, the moistened 
 air of Venice enabled her artists to study the coloring of nature,* 
 
 - 
 
 *About tli<- year 1824 the writer had the pleasure of a conversation with Gilbert 
 Sti aim, .'Hi. I asked him why it was that the Venetian school so tar excelled the Roman in 
 coloring. II.' ma. I.' no reply, but for a few moments carelessly burnished with his handker 
 chief a plain gold ring on his finger — when turning it t.. the sunlight he sharply said : " < 'an 
 \..u see color in thai ring, sir?" "Very indistinctly." He then breathed u] it, and show- 
 ing ii again, asked: " Do you see color now, sir ?" A happy illustration, characteristic of the 
 i-inin.'iii artist. 
 
182 ART IN THE UNITED STATES. 
 
 while those of Lombard y, holding a middle place, united grace and 
 beauty. Almost alone in Spain we see the star-like lustre of the ex- 
 quisite Mueillo. Then, leaping, as it were, over the space between, 
 Art found another home among the fogs and marshes of the Low 
 Countries, where she exhibited herself in new and striking combina- 
 tions. Thence the transition to our ancestral Britain was easy; and 
 now, go where we will in the civilized world, we find the living artist. 
 Germany, notwithstanding the early inspiration of Albert Durek, is 
 only of late succeeding in the establishment of a school of her own. 
 Batch of Berlin, and Schwanthaler of Munich, have won most 
 enviable fame in the grainiest styles of sculpture; nor should it be 
 forgotten, that the greatest sculptor of the age, the greatest since 
 Angelo, the Scandinavian Thorwaldsen, emerged from the Ultima 
 I'lmh of the ancients. In our land we have every variety of climate 
 and atmosphere, with a commingling of all the cultivated races; 
 genius for each department of skill has appeared among us. Is it then 
 presumption to hope that, as empire marches westward, Art may here 
 attain the lustre reserved for her destined acquisition of universal 
 -way \ 
 
 Too much stress has been laid upon the encouragement of Art by 
 the classical mythology of the ancient world, and the legendary tra- 
 ditions, that cling like parasitic masses about a better creed. These 
 may be favorable, but are not necessary to Art. The ideal of power, 
 beauty, heroic endurance, or moral emotion, is the creature of the 
 artist's soul. He embodies it in form, and but calls that form by a 
 popular name. The anthropinal character of their gods enabled the 
 ancients to approach more nearly their idea of divinity; but no genius 
 has adequately translated into human shape the God of our faith, 
 "whom no man hath seen or can see." Overpowered as we are by 
 other conceptions of Angelo, we are disappointed, if not pained, by 
 
A LIT l\ THE UNITED ST A l l - 1 83 
 
 his figures of the Almighty; and our hope is unsatisfied when we look 
 upon the canvas of Caklo Dolce, or even Rafaelle, for the l>i\init\ 
 whom we adore in the Man Christ Jesus. The Jupiter of the Elian 
 Olympia appears again, though with more noble attributes, in the 
 Jehovah of the Cistine; and the precipitation of the wicked in the 
 tremendous Last Judgment might, with a proper change of the acces- 
 sories, present to the mind of a pagan Greek an overthrow of con- 
 spiring Titans. An adequate personification of Wisdom could uot tail 
 of being a reminiscence of Minerva, though without helmel or aegis. 
 Benjamin West saw the symmetrical strength and graceful energy of 
 a young Mohawk warrior in the Pythian Archer of the Vatican. 
 Were the Satan of Milton wrought in marble, there would be on his 
 thunder-scarred browthe defiant despair of Prometheus bound. Venus, 
 who once in Cyprus struggled with Adonis, has given her cestus to 
 the wife of Potiphar, -coined, nevertheless, like herself; or, converted 
 from liei' sins, weeps with Magdalen in the desert, who, the painters 
 seem unanimously to think, never regained her modesty with her 
 penitence. In the martyr, we discover constancy under suffering, 
 sweetened by forgiving patience and sublimated by celestial hope. 
 The virtues and. the vices, the appetites ami the passions of human 
 nature, are peculiar to no age. As Art is spiritualized, it becomes 
 
 independent of mere outer accidents ; the true type, however exoteri- 
 cally given, is ever the same, and the true artist will ever find it in his 
 soul, though to express it, he may use prevailing associations, as the 
 philosopher teaches in the tongue of his disciples. A like strain of 
 
 remark is applicable to drapery, for it is ever a ] r artifice because 
 
 untruthful (which should be synonymous with unartistic) to clothe an 
 individual of one period in the fashion of another. Washington in a 
 toga is an affront to our common sense; and he who cannol give us 
 the foremosl man of modern times in his own garb, should confess a 
 
184 ART IN THE UNITED STATES. 
 
 genius unequal to the portraiture. An artist is not obliged to coj)y all 
 the fantastic caprices of fashion, but his invention is very weak if, like 
 a country tailor, he can work only after obsolete patterns. He has 
 the right of contrivance in costume, but imagination must be ruled by 
 propriety. So many are the beauties of Rafaelle, that we are apt to 
 overlook the drapery of his figures, not its color or application to the 
 form, but its naturalness, yet it greatly assists the pure harmony 
 which is the superlative charm of his works ; while Guido, charming 
 as he is, and easy in the disposition of the drapery he chooses, has 
 decorated his archangel like a celestial Alcibiades. Our own Hun- 
 tington, who has more of Eafaelle's elevated serenity than any 
 other recent artist, shows, especially in his allegorical pictures, how 
 superior a true artist is to pedantic affectation, when dressing his 
 characters. 
 
 No artists of modern times have had such opportunities for origi- 
 nality, or such untrodden walks opened before them, as ours ; and it 
 should be their honorable aim, so far as is consistent with the peculiar 
 tendency of their genius, to illustrate the country of their birth. 
 Polygnotus, after he had depicted on the walls of the Pcecilo the 
 victories of his compatriots, lived by a vote of the Amphictyonic Coun- 
 cil as the guest of all Greece ; and an American, who should success- 
 fully follow his example, would not remain unhonored. Every petty 
 town of Europe has in its public walks statues of those who have been 
 feared or loved. How few are the memorials of our mighty dead ! 
 It is vain to say that they live in our hearts, when we are too 
 niggard to prove by outward sign the sentiment we profess. Sad 
 would it be, if there were preserved no likeness of our country's 
 Father, and we could not gaze with filial veneration upon that calm 
 majesty of countenance and form which is the visible presentment of 
 his grave and good soul ! Yet how many who have contributed to 
 
AKT IN THE UNITED STATES. Is.") 
 
 our glorious bistory, have been permitted to die, their lineaments for- 
 gotten before they have crumbled to dusl ! Had they been as faith- 
 ful servants of a despotism, they would have stood in marble and 
 bronze upon proudly inscribed pedestals. Should freemen be less 
 grateful than tyrant-; Ii is \>\ such uses thai the moral power of Arl 
 is besl exerted on the popular mind; and we can well pardon the 
 awkward multitude of legs in Trumbull's picture, when we know thai 
 if has carried to every dwelling of our people a perpetuation of the 
 sublime assembly, which declared our national independence. 
 
 What inexhaustible studies are afforded by the aborigines of 
 Northern America, now passing away with noiseless tread that leaves 
 no trail, which the plough will not soon obliterate ! They had no 
 art, and a more than Cimmerian darkness hides their story before the 
 white man came; its fatal catastrophe cannot long be delayed, yet let 
 them not be as though they had never been! We owe this dutj to 
 them and to the inquirers of future centuries. Their physical peculi- 
 arities, their costume, their habits at rest, in war, or in the chase; 
 their moral characteristics, and not a few scene- of their contesl with 
 civilization, supply to both chisel and pencil subject- at once novel 
 ami various for every style of delineation. We are proud of our 
 sculptors, who can achieve no mean distinction in the walk beaten by 
 so many mighty predecessors — of GrREENOUGH, now by no mean- dulj 
 appreciated; of Powers (would that the chain were shivered from the 
 beautiful limbs of his slave ! it i- a paltry method of helping out 
 the story, mos1 unworthy of hi- genius); and of Crawford, whose 
 Orpheus i- like a dream of classic poetry; but we mu-t congratulate 
 I'.uowx upon his having received an inspiration truly American, when 
 he chose the Indian for the model of some recent works. lie has 
 entered an untried and va-t field, which hi- severe education in the 
 antique well lit- him to explore: and it is earnestly to lie hoped that 
 
 •_'l 
 
186 ART IN THE UNITED STATES. 
 
 no withholding of proper sympathy may compel his abandonment of 
 the best chance for high and permanent distinction he conld expect 
 or desire. 
 
 When we consider the distinctive scenery of our country, the 
 undulating outline of our mountains, the majestic flow of our 
 rivers, the thundering cataract and the innumerable cascades, the 
 placid lakes embosomed among the hills, and their multitudinous 
 islands, the contrasts of nature in her wildest grace and most rugged 
 grandeur with the tranquil charms of progressive cultivation, and the 
 gorgeous magnificence of our autumnal forests, the paradise of color, 
 we are not surprised that Landscape painting should have man}- and 
 enthusiastic votaries. Here also there is large scope, and, indeed, 
 a necessity for originality. The fundamental canons of Art must re- 
 main the same, but the painter of American scenery will find himself 
 wanting, however he may study foreign artists, unless he closely and 
 faithfully observe nature as it is displayed here. Our skies, our atmos- 
 phere, the shapes of our trees and the hues of their foliage, our very 
 rocks are so peculiar, that to an eye which has never looked upon the 
 reality, a representation of them may seem false, or at least exagger- 
 ated. The accomplished critic, Mrs. Jamteson, has said, that when she 
 first saw a Claude in England, she thought, " How beautiful !" but 
 when she saw the effects of that magic pencil in Italy, she exclaimed, 
 " How like !" The same thing might occur with a true picture of an 
 American landscape. Here are many various effects not met with 
 elsewhere, and as delightful as they are peculiar. For these and other 
 obvious reasons, next to the painter of portraits who ministers to the 
 proudest affections of our hearts, the painter of landscapes has met 
 with most general favor; and a volume like this in the reader's hand, 
 must be a most welcome contribution to the public taste. We have 
 not a few artists in this line who deserve mention, and some high 
 
\kt in the united states. l&*l 
 
 praise, it' an award of meril was the presumptuous purpose of this 
 essaj ; bu1 no one will forbid a grateful tribute to the memory of him, 
 who has been to America what Giorgione was to Italy, Ri fsdael to 
 Holland, and Gainsborough to England, Thomas Cole, the head of the 
 American school of Landscape painting. The works which he lias left 
 behind him arc his besl eulogy. He revelled amidst the splendors of the 
 frost-touched woodsalmost to intoxication. As we loot upon the scenes 
 he represents we are oftentimes oppressed by the dazzling richness of 
 the hues, while we confess the fidelity of the painter, and thank him 
 for his tribute to the surpassing beauties, which the hand of nature 
 
 ha- scattered so lavishly and on SO grand a scale o\ er the mountains 
 and \ alleys of our native land. Even after such enjoyment, it is most 
 pleasing, if we may turn to a picture of the ever-faithful and ever- 
 judicious Durand, who never applies his pencil without impressing 
 upon the canvas pure and delicious traces of a calm, chastened spirit; 
 or to the charming summer fields of Doughtt, as they swim in silvery 
 brightness before our fortunate eyes. These gentlemen our younger 
 artists have done well to emulate, and some have studied well ; while 
 they show, not by servile imitation, but by following ever their own 
 peculiar tendencies under the teaching of happy example. Among 
 those, who are now daily presenting us with creditable landscapes, it, 
 is perhaps invidious to make particular mention of any; yet it would 
 lie unjusl not to name Cm ECB and Kensett, both of whom are rapidly 
 gaining a high degree of acknowledged distinction, which must yield 
 them a mosl satisfactory return for their well-directed enthusiasm. 
 
 Early youth is naturally imitative, and, for that reason, timid. 
 Our Art lias not passed the period of it- youth, nor acquired suf- 
 ficient boldness and self-reliance. With more maturity we may ex- 
 pect more originality. It were strange indeed if, with so many new 
 lessons from Nature, the great teacher, our artists should content 
 themselves with doing only what has keen done before. 
 
L88 ART IN THE UNITED STATES. 
 
 The history of American Art will one day he a matter of curious 
 interest. Specimens of some, especially among our earlier artists, are 
 already hecoming rare. A permanent collection of pieces, from each 
 hand, would be very instructive, and a happy monument. It could 
 now be made without great difficulty, and continued easily. The cost 
 would not be very great, and its exhibition might defray, at least, the 
 current expenses. An Historical Gallery of National Art ! The sug- 
 gestion is not undeserving of thought. 
 
 THE END. 
 
H22 74 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
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