The Pictorial Field-Book of the Revolution, Vol. 1 (of 2): or, Illustrations, by Pen And Pencil, of the History, Biography, Scenery, Relics, and Traditions of the War for IndependenceLossing, Benson John
History
The Pictorial Field-Book of the Revolution, Vol. 1 (of 2): or, Illustrations, by Pen And Pencil, of the History, Biography, Scenery, Relics, and Traditions of the War for Independence
Lossing, Benson John
United States -- History -- Revolution, 1775-1783
Here the whole aspect of things is changed. Hitherto our journey had
been among the quiet and beautiful; now every thing in nature was
turbulent and grand. The placid river was here a foaming cataract, and
gentle slopes, yellow with the ripe harvest, were exchanged for high,
broken hills, some rocky and bare, others green with the oak and pine or
dark with the cedar and spruce. Here nature, history, and romance
combine to interest and please, and geology spreads out one of its most
wonderful pages for the scrutiny of the student and philosopher. All
over those rugged hills Indian warriors and hunters scouted for ages
before the pale face made his advent among them; and the slumbering
echoes were often awakened in the last century by the crack of musketry
and the roar of cannon, mingled with the loud war-hoop of the Huron, the
Iroquois, the Algonquin, the Mohegan, the Delaware, the Adirondack, and
the Mohawk, when the French and English battled for mastery in the vast
forests that skirted the lakes and the St. Lawrence. Here, amid the roar
of this very cataract, if romance may be believed, the voice of Uncas,
the last of the Mohegans, was heard and heeded; here Hawk Eye kept his
vigils; here David breathed his nasal melody; and here Duncan Heyward,
with his lovely and precious wards, Alice and Cora Monroe, fell into the
hands of the dark and bitter Mingo chief. *
* See Cooper's "Last of the Mohicans."
Scenery about the Falls.--"Indian Cave" and "Big Snake".--Departure for
Lake George.
105
The natural scenery about the falls is very picturesque, but the
accompaniments of puny art are exceedingly incongruous, sinking the
grand and beautiful into mere burlesque. How expertly the genius of man,
quickened by acquisitiveness, fuses the beautiful and useful in the
crucible of gain, and, by the subtle alchemy of profit, transmutes the
glorious cascade and its fringes of rock and shrub into broad arable
acres, or lofty houses, or speeding ships, simply by catching the bright
stream in the toils of a mill-wheel. Such meshes are here spread out on
every side to ensnare the leaping Hudson, and the rickety buildings, the
clatter of machinery, and the harsh grating of saws, slabbing the huge
black marble rocks of the shores into city mantels, make horrid
dissonance of that harmony which the eye and ear expect and covet where
nature is thus beautiful and musical.
A bridge, nearly six hundred feet long, and resting in the center upon a
marble island, spans the river at the foot of the falls, and from its
center there is a fine view of the cataract. The entire descent of the
river is about sixty feet. The undivided stream first pours over a
precipice nine hundred feet long, and is then separated into three
channels by rocks piled in confusion, and carved, and furrowed, and
welled, and polished by the rushing waters.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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