Gleanings by the Way Part 9

CHAPTER XVI.

WESTERN NEW YORK.

_Fairfield, N. Y., Oct. 1._

Within the last week I have made an excursion into the central part of Western New York. I never fail, while travelling through this region, to be impressed with the conviction, that this is the garden of America! The soil itself has in every field you pa.s.s, and upon every hill-side and vale to which you turn your eye, ten thousand witnesses to attest its astonis.h.i.+ng fertility. And then there are treasures beneath the soil more valuable than silver or gold, in the vast beds of lime and plaster, and the exhaustless saline springs, scattered at different points over this region. Here, also, you have beautiful scenery in ten thousand varied forms: and if you wish to view nature in one of her more awful moods, you have only to draw near and listen to the tremendous roar of Niagara, and see the collected waters of an hundred lakes, dashed headlong in one great, furious tide, down the vast precipice, to the deep, rocky channel below.

I am sure the traveller who pa.s.ses along the old post-road from Utica to Buffalo, and sees the hundred beautiful villages, the n.o.ble forests, the majestic trees, the rich foliage, the luxuriant orchards, the luscious fruits, the crops of yellow wheat, the fields of waving corn, the vast enclosures of dark, fertile soil, the peaceful lakes and silvery streams that everywhere meet the eye, will exclaim, THE GARDEN OF AMERICA! And then when he sees all this beautiful region intersected by ca.n.a.ls and bound together by turnpikes, railroads, and lake and steam navigation, he will feel that Western New York possesses advantages of a most singular and superior character!

Last year in some few sketches of a tour to the West, a brief description was given of Geneva. This sweet village, take it all in all, I must regard as the gem of Western New York. I cannot conceive of a more lovely place for residence than this beautiful village on the banks of Seneca lake.

It was towards the close of the day that I reached this place, a spot with which so many sweet and sacred recollections were connected in my mind. My destination for the night was a few miles beyond it in the country. The road along which I pa.s.sed lay through a scene full of sylvan beauty, disclosing every half mile to the eye of the traveller through the opening of the trees a beautiful view of a portion of the lake, that now slept in the sweet evening calm, tranquil as a sea of gla.s.s. The house of our friends was at length reached--and there were such greetings and gladness of heart, as they only feel who have been long and far separated from each other, with but little hope that they should ever again meet this side of eternity.

CHAPTER XVII.

A SUMMER TOUR.

Retirement--Seneca Lake--Burlington, N. J.--Brooklyn, N. Y.

The following chapters are made up of letters detailing incidents of travel connected with a tour from Philadelphia to Rhode Island, and from thence into Western New York, during the summer of 1840.

_Seneca, July 22._

Although nearly five weeks have elapsed since I left Philadelphia, I have not, till the present time, had an opportunity of redeeming my promise in giving you the sketches I promised. I am now enjoying what I have been sighing for ever since I started on my summer excursion, _quietude_ and _seclusion_. Here I am encompa.s.sed with delightful rural scenery, and pa.s.sing the livelong day undisturbed by the calls of either friends or paris.h.i.+oners making demands upon my time or services.

I cannot understand, how those who reside in the city and who escape for a weeks in summer from the dust, and din, and heat, and ceaseless cares that a.s.sail them amid the scenes of their daily occupation, can from choice fly for recreation to other cities, or to fas.h.i.+onable watering places, where they are sure to encounter all the inconveniences they have left behind, with scarcely any of their home comforts. To me it would seem infinitely more desirable to seek "a lodge in some vast wilderness--some boundless contiguity of shade." Indeed I must say, I very much prefer a wholly rural district, to the most picturesque country village, in which to spend the few weeks during which I am to seek to recruit my health, and prepare for the duties and labors that await me on my return to the city. In such a situation one has not to make a constant effort to be agreeable. You can sit down and vegetate for a while, without being called upon to make any intellectual exertion whatever. Here one can sit or walk, wake or sleep, lounge or ride, as he chooses; he can read or write, or stroll forth amid the quiet fields, or sit beneath the shade of some wide-spreading tree.

There is much in such a scene to hush all stormy pa.s.sions to repose--to tranquilize one's existence, and to lift up the heart in devout aspirations to G.o.d.

My location for a few weeks is in just such a rural district near the banks of Seneca Lake, a beautiful expanse of water, of which I will tell you more hereafter. Around me are scattered farm-houses and orchards, and smiling fields, interspersed here and there with remaining fragments of that once mighty forest, that in the early history of this country waved in unbroken majesty from the sh.o.r.es of one lake to another. Here we see all the beauty of dark, deep, American foliage, and all the light, glowing brightness of American verdure, so strikingly in contrast with the English. On every side of me, I see from the window where I sit writing, the busy scenes of the hay harvest--the mowers swinging their scythes or pausing for a moment to whet the s.h.i.+ning steel--the young lads, full of the life and spring of joyous youth, spreading the new mown gra.s.s--the rakers gathering up the hay into winnows, or rolling it into heaps; and the loaded wains creaking under the burthen of the fragrant products of the meadow, slowly moving towards the barn or the rising stack. I look across to another field, and there waves in silent beauty the newly ta.s.selled corn; while in a third, I see the golden headed wheat, gently nodding in the breeze, or bowing before the keen stroke of the cradler, or the more slow, but no less sure onward movement of the reaper. Above this rural scene spreads a cloudless canopy, and upon it the great luminary of day is pouring a flood of brightness. The sky, however, is not always cloudless here--the heavens not always serene--nor the day always bright, as I shall have occasion to relate to you before finis.h.i.+ng these sketches.

Having thus informed you something of my present locality, I will return to the commencement of my journey, and if you and your readers will follow me in a tour along a very common-place track, I will endeavor to furnish them and you with such GLEANINGS BY THE WAY as I was able to make.

Our first landing place after turning our backs upon Philadelphia, was Burlington, N. J., where we spent a week in the most delightful manner.

Often as I had pa.s.sed that place by steamboat or rail road car, and much as I had admired its location, a single stroll along the green bank that skirts the Delaware, shaded as it is with luxuriant and full grown trees, convinced me that I had never appreciated one half of the beauties of this sweet spot. The country seat of one of my paris.h.i.+oners, located on GREEN BANK, amid the thickest and tallest cl.u.s.ter of those trees which add so much beauty to the whole extent of the river side, was the hospitable mansion where we spent our time--and from which we could look out and watch the changing phases of the river, the pa.s.sing of the steamers, the garniture of the fields beyond, the glowing tints of the evening sky, and the golden glories of the setting sun. We enjoyed our walks along the verdant bank and over the green lawn--we enjoyed our little excursions across the river in the row-boat--but most of all we enjoyed that sweet Christian converse we were permitted to have with the kind friends beneath whose hospitable roof we lodged.

Strangers in pa.s.sing Burlington are usually attracted by the singular appearance of one particular mansion that stands near the banks of the river, surmounted by a small cross. Although this is sometimes mistaken for a church, I need not tell you it is the residence of the Bishop of New Jersey. This structure to an American eye, at first sight, has rather an uncouth appearance; but this impression will be corrected in the mind of every one who takes the trouble to visit this Episcopal palace. The interior arrangements are delightful, and exhibit great taste. While traversing its s.p.a.cious apartments, we were strikingly reminded of some antiquated structures that we saw in England. During our stay at Burlington, the Bishop was absent. The inst.i.tution of St. Mary's Hall is, of course, one of the things that will be likely to attract the attention of a visitor to this place. I was invited by the superintendant to attend the family wors.h.i.+p of the young ladies connected with this inst.i.tution on Sunday evening. The evening service of the Liturgy was read; after which, by the request of the superintendent, I addressed a few words of Christian counsel to the a.s.sembled group. I have seldom seen a more interesting or intelligent company of young beings than those who then sat before me; and the solemn attention and evident sensibility with which they listened, led me to hope that under the Christian culture they were receiving, in connection with their intellectual training, they would all at last be found among the sheep of Christ's heavenly fold.

Our time pa.s.sed quickly away while we remained at Burlington, and the hour we had fixed for our departure, came by far too soon. But life itself is like a journey, and to all our bright sunny spots here below, we have to bid an adieu almost as soon as we have reached them. Our next stopping place, after leaving Burlington, was Brooklyn, N. Y., where we were welcomed to the hospitalities of the s.p.a.cious domicile of a Christian friend, to whom our hearts were knit in strong attachment, when existence with us was fresher than it now is. O, it is delightful to find, in this cold, heartless, fickle world, one who remains amid all the fluctuations of this changeful scene, the same; one, who, after the lapse of years, and who, though borne high upon the swelling tide of worldly prosperity, continues to the end the same simple, warm-hearted friend and consistent heavenly-minded Christian that he was at the first starting point of life.

Such was the friend in the bosom of whose happy family we were permitted to abide during our stay at Brooklyn.

I shall by no means attempt to enter into a detail of the scenes or incidents connected with our visit to New York, or Brooklyn; but there are two things which I am not disposed to pa.s.s entirely by.

I was present during a portion of the exercises of the commencement of the New York Seminary, and felt particularly interested in the Address of Bishop Ives to the graduating cla.s.s. It contained exceedingly well-timed counsel, calculated to produce a most salutary effect upon the minds, not only of those about to a.s.sume the responsibilities of the sacred office, but of all those engaged in the exercise of its functions. The subject was the indispensable necessity of humility to the clerical character. There was a pathos and force and unction about the Bishop's remarks, that we think must have gone home to every heart.

Had we among us universally that lowliness of mind and gentleness of spirit which the Bishop so happily pourtrayed and so delightfully enforced, we should soon learn, both laity and clergy, in the great essentials to "be all of one mind; to love as brethren; to be courteous; to be patient toward all men, not rendering evil for evil, or railing for railing; but contrarywise blessing." May the Lord speed the happy day when all the members and ministers of our Church may "_be clothed with humility_"--may have as the controlling principle of their lives, dwelling in them and pervading all their thoughts and actions, "_the meekness and gentleness of Christ_."

The other particular to which I referred as worthy of some pa.s.sing notice, I shall have to reserve for my next chapter.

CHAPTER XVIII.

GREEN WOOD CEMETERY.

Brooklyn--Improvements--Ride--Approach to the Cemetery--Views--Beautiful scenes.

_Seneca, July 29th._

In my last I conducted you on my journey as far as Brooklyn, N. Y. My temporary stay there was at South Brooklyn, a portion of that enterprising town which has been but recently built up. Scarcely any thing during my tour has more astonished me than the wonderful growth of this place. From a little rural village, it has grown up, in a few years, to a city, which, though it cannot pretend to rival the mighty metropolis that lies spread out in gigantic dimensions on the other side of the river, can still number its _thirty_ or _forty_ thousand inhabitants. One of the causes that have contributed to the rapid growth of this town, is its vicinity to New York.

Gentlemen engaged in business in New York, find it pleasant and healthful to have their residences located upon the hills of Brooklyn, which look off upon the beautiful bay, and are daily fanned with fresh breezes from the ocean. While Brooklyn is thus increasing in population, I was happy to find that a corresponding increase was observable in its religious inst.i.tutions and houses of public wors.h.i.+p. The temporary edifice occupied by the congregation of Christ Church, of which our friend the Rev. K. G---- is rector, is soon to be abandoned, and a new and beautiful Gothic structure is to be erected for the occupancy of that congregation. I was greatly delighted with what I saw of this congregation. The labours of our brother seem to have been peculiarly blessed. He has gathered around him a most interesting people, and G.o.d has sent among them already multiplied tokens of his converting grace. Whereever the Gospel is faithfully, and earnestly preached, and its holy precepts ill.u.s.trated in the daily walk and conversation of those who "bear the vessels of the Lord," religion will prosper, and the church become like the garden of the Lord.

But I commenced this letter with a view of giving you an account of another matter, referred to in my last--a visit to the Green Wood Cemetery.

The friend with whom I was staying, charged me not to think of leaving Brooklyn without paying a visit to this Cemetery. I had heard something of these picturesque grounds, but had formed no adequate conception of their beauty. Several racy and graphic notices, from time to time, have appeared in the New York papers, as I since learned, of this magnificent ground plot, where is to be constructed a vast subterranean city for the dead.

None of these, however, had fallen under my eye, and I therefore did not go prepared to witness the magnificent scene of wild and sylvan beauty, that a ride over these grounds revealed to me. My visit to this spot almost instantly unfolded to me the origin and propriety of its name, GREEN WOOD CEMETERY--a large portion of the grounds being covered with green wood.

The great interest of this spot arises from the natural beauty of the grounds in connection with the a.s.sociation of the purpose to which it has been devoted: for as yet not a grave has been dug here, nor a monument reared.

It was a bright sunny morning, while a bland balmy sea breeze refreshed the air, in which we started to visit the Green Wood Cemetery. We rode from South Brooklyn along on the margin of the bay, some two miles or more, till we had pa.s.sed the little village of Gowa.n.u.s, before we ascertained the exact locality of this future city of the dead. A short distance beyond the village just named, at a spot signalized in the Revolutionary war as the scene of a b.l.o.o.d.y engagement, we left the road, and entered a lane leading to the grounds of this Cemetery. This lane, from the gate onward, had all the appearance of wild and uncultivated rusticity, being shut in on either side with a sort of rude hedge, and shaded by forest trees and brushwood.

For a while it conducted us through cultivated grounds, and we saw on each side of us, rich fields of grain, and corn growing in all the luxuriance of summer. Soon, however, this lane in its winding and upward course brought us into a scene perfectly sylvan, and woodland in its character. There was a stillness and seclusion around us that impressed us with the idea that we were in the depths of a vast forest,--such as we might expect to find a thousand miles from the great metropolis, whose steeples, and s.h.i.+pping, and scenes of vast activity were visible a few rods from the spot we now occupied. We had already entered upon the grounds of the Cemetery. They consist of about two hundred acres. I never before saw the same extent of territory combining such vast variety of scenery. There is here forest and field, hill and dale, streamlet and lake in such variety, and singular juxtaposition, that in following the circuitous avenue that conducts you over these grounds in a ride of four miles, one is impressed with the idea that he has been travelling over a very extended district of country. It was not only the grounds themselves, but the views we caught of distant objects, from different points of the winding avenue, that helped to give effect to this whole scene. As we proceeded, every turn of the carriage wheel, either brought to view some new developement of striking sylvan beauty, or opened upon us some new feature of loveliness, or grandeur in the surrounding prospect. At one point we were completely embosomed in trees, where all was stillness and deep repose as though we were shut up in some remote dell, amid the lofty and rugged Alleghanies. Then again we emerged into smiling plains, and sunny fields, and smooth lawns of deepest green. Again our path conducted us into a dense forest, and we directly found ourselves upon the wooded brow of a steep declivity, sweeping off down to the margin of a little silent lake, whose dark shaded waters gave back with more than pictorial beauty, every tree and limb, and leaf whose shadow fell upon their surface: and then soon we again emerged from this forest scene, and found gra.s.sy fields, and an extended open country lie stretching around us. The winding avenue which we traced, every few rods brought us to a point of observation, where the surrounding scenery, made up of bays and islands, rivers and mountains, cities and villages, farms and country houses, and forests, put on a new phase, and, like the turn of a kaleidoscope, presented a new and still more beautiful picture to the eye.

The highest elevation of land in these grounds, is near their centre, and is said to be the highest point of land upon Long Island,--it manifestly is the highest point in this part of the Island. It is called Mount Was.h.i.+ngton, from a determination already formed on the part of the proprietors of this ground, to erect upon its summit a lofty and magnificent monument to the Father of his country. From this elevated point, a panoramic view of surpa.s.sing beauty, in almost illimitable perspective, opens upon the eye. In one direction you see the blue waves of the outstretched ocean, upon which are visible all along the margin of the horizon, the whitened canva.s.s of a hundred receding or approaching vessels; while in the intervening s.p.a.ce, are seen the plains of Flatland and Flatbush, covered with grain, and verdure, and orchards, and forests, villages, hamlets, and farm-houses. Turning directly around, the whole bay of New York, with its beauteous islands, and the two magnificent rivers, whose mingled waters form the bay, together with the great metropolis itself, burst upon the view. Or to trace the prospect more leisurely:--at one point, you see in the distance, Sandy Hook, and the Lighthouse; and a little further to the right, Staten Island, the Lazaretto, Brighton, and the Jersey sh.o.r.e: still farther to the right appears Jersey City,--the waters of the broad Hudson, and along its banks, the palisades, and, still higher up, the highlands fading away in the dim distance. At a point in the landscape much nearer us rises to view the city of New York with its canopy of perpetual haze,--its hundred spires, and encircling forests of masts, while in still closer vicinage we can trace the East River, with all its busy show of commerce, and see Brooklyn sitting like a bridal queen upon this sh.o.r.e of the island.

We have often followed the remains of some friend, or paris.h.i.+oner, to the picturesque grounds of our own LAUREL HILL--we have _traced_ each winding walk among the groves and tombs of MOUNT VERNON, and gazed upon the various monuments, the sculptured tombs, the dark shrubbery, and encircling scenery of _Pere la Chaise_; but we have no where seen such combined beauties, and natural advantages for a rural cemetery, as in the grounds which we have here attempted to describe. And what will these grounds be some hundred years hence, when art shall have reared up in every vale, around the margin of every lake, and upon every hill-side a thousand marble monuments, and when a larger population shall be ensepulchred here, than the living ma.s.s of beings that now inhabit New York and Brooklyn? What mult.i.tudes and myriads will those two cities within the next hundred years send to be entombed here! How will the population of this subterranean city go on increasing, till all these acres are covered over with piles of human dust!

And what a scene will be exhibited here, when the last trumpet sounds! What myriads will start up here at that call! "For all that are in their graves shall hear his voice and come forth!" And how solemn the truth which the Saviour subjoins,--"they that have done good unto the resurrection of life, and they that have done evil unto the resurrection of d.a.m.nation!"

I have lingered so long about the grounds of Green Wood Cemetery, that I can tell you nothing in my present letter about our excursion to Rhode Island.

CHAPTER XIX.

RHODE ISLAND.

Sail up the Sound--Burning of the Lexington--Providence--Meeting of old friends--Mr.