A Cataract and a Celebration
The convulsive efforts of the truant
steam, echoing across the harbour, told me I had little
time to lose: so, bidding farewell to friends,
I hurried down to the quay, and was soon bowling over
a lake as smooth and polished as the bald head of
age. The pat of every float in the wheel, as
it struck in the water, echoed with individual distinctness,
and the hubbub created thereby, in the otherwise unruffled
lake, left its trace visible on the mirrory surface
for so great a distance as to justify a disputatious
man in questioning whether the term “trackless
way” was applicable to the course a vessel had
passed over. Here we are, steaming away merrily
for Niagara.
There is nothing interesting in scenery
until you come to the entrance of the river, on the
opposite sides of which stand Lewistown and Queenstown,
and above the latter the ruthlessly mutilated remains
of the monument to the gallant Brock. The miscreant
who perpetrated the vile act in 1841, has since fallen
into the clutches of the law, and has done and,
for aught I know, is now doing penance in
the New York State Prison at Auburn. I believe
the Government are at last repairing it; better
late than never. The precipitous banks on either
side clearly indicate they are the silent and persevering
work of the ever-rolling stream, and leave no doubt
upon any reflecting mind that they must lead to some
fall or cataract, though no reflection can fully realize
the giant cataract of Niagara.
There are several country places on
the banks, and the whole appearance bespeaks comfort
and civilization. Far away in the distance is
to be seen the suspension-bridge, high in mid-air,
and straight as the arrow’s flight. On
either bank rival railroads are in progress; that on
the Canada side is protected from the yawning abyss
by a wall calculated to defy the power of steam.
The boat touches at Queenstown, and thence proceeds
to Lewistown, where a stage is waiting for Niagara
City. No botherations of custom-house what
a blessing! The distance to ride is seven miles,
and the time one hour; but in the United States, you
are aware, every chap will “do as he best pleases;”
consequently, there is a little information to be
obtained from the fresh arrival, a cock-tail with
a friend or two, a quiet piling on of luggage, &c.;
all this takes a long half-hour, and away we go with
four tough little nags. A tremendous long hill
warms their hides and cools their mettle, though by
no means expending it. On we go, merrily; Jehu,
a free-and-easy, well-informed companion, guessing
at certainties and calculating on facts.
At last we reach a spring by the roadside,
the steam rising from the flanks of the team like
mist from a marsh. What do I see? Number
one nag with a pailful of water, swigging away like
a Glasgow baillie at a bowl of punch. He drains
it dry with a rapidity which says “More, more!”
and sure enough they keep on giving pail after pail,
till he has taken in enough to burst the tough hide
of a rhinoceros. I naturally concluded the horse
was an invalid, or a culprit who had got drunk, and
that they were mixing the liquor “black list”
fashion, to save his intestines and to improve his
manners; but no round goes the pailman to
every nag, drenching each to the bursting point.
“Ain’t you afraid,”
I said, “of killing the poor beasts by giving
them such a lot of water?”
“I guess if I was, I shouldn’t
give it ’em,” was the terse reply.
Upon making further inquiries into
this mysterious treatment, he told me that it was
a sulphur spring, and that all tired horses having
exhibited an avidity for it far greater than for common
water, the instinct of the animal had been given a
fair trial, and subsequent experience had so ratified
that instinct that it had become a “known fact.”
An intelligent American, sitting at the feet of a
quadruped Gamaliel, humbly learning from his instincts,
should teach the bigots of every class and clime to
let their prejudices hang more loosely upon them.
But half an hour has passed, and Jehu is again on
the box, the nags as fresh as daisies, and as full
as a corncob. Half an hour more lands us at Niagara.
Avoiding the hum of men, I took refuge for the night
in a snug little cottage handy to the railway, and,
having deposited my traps, started on a moonlight
trip. I need scarce say whither.
Men of the highest and loftiest minds,
men of the humblest and simplest minds, the poet and
the philosopher, the shepherd and the Christian, have
alike borne testimony to the fact, that the solitude
of night tends to solemnize and elevate the thoughts.
How greatly must this effect be increased when aided
by the contemplation of so grand a work of nature
as Niagara! In the broad blaze of a noonday sun,
the power of such contemplation is weakened by the
forced admixture of the earthly element, interspersed
as the scene is with the habitations and works of
man. But, in the hushed repose of night, man stands,
as it were, more alone with his Maker. The mere
admirer of the picturesque or the grand will find
much to interest and charm him; but may there not arise
in the Christian’s mind far deeper and higher
thoughts to feed his contemplation? In the cataract’s
mighty roar may he not hear a voice proclaiming the
anger of an unreconciled God? May not the soft
beams of the silvery moon above awaken thoughts of
the mercies of a pardoning God? And as he views
those beams, veiled, as it wore, in tears by the rising
spray, may he not think of Him and his tears, through
whom alone those mercies flow to man? May not
yon mist rising heavenward recal his glorious hopes
through an ascended Saviour; and as it falls again
perpetually and imperceptibly, may it not typify the
dew of the Holy Spirit ever invisible,
ever descending the blessed fruit of that
Holy Ascension? And if the mind be thus insensibly
led into such a train of thought, may not the deep
and rugged cliff, worn away by centuries unnumbered
by man, shadow forth to him ideas of that past Eternity,
compared to which they are but as a span; and may not
the rolling stream, sweeping onward in rapid and unceasing
flight into the abyss beneath his feet, fill his soul
with the contemplation of Time’s flight, which,
alike rapid and continuous, is ever bearing him nearer
and nearer to the brink of that future Eternity in
which all his highest and brightest hopes will be
more than realized in the enjoyment of a happiness
such as “eye hath not seen nor ear heard, neither
hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive.”
Say, then, reader, is not every element of thought
which can arise between a Christian and his Creator
symbolled forth here in equal beauty and grandeur?
One, indeed, is wanting, which, alas! none of Nature’s
works but man can supply that sad element,
which those who search their own hearts the deepest
will feel the most. I feel I have departed
from the legitimate subject of travels; let the majesty
of the scene plead my excuse.
Adieu, Niagara.
Early next morning I put myself into
a railway car, and in due time reached Batavia.
On my arrival, being rather hungry, I made a modest
request for a little brandy and some biscuits; fancy
my astonishment when the “help” said,
“I guess we only give meals at the fixed hours.”
As I disapproved very much of such an unreasonable
and ridiculous refusal, I sought out the chief, and,
preferring my modest request to him, was readily supplied
with my simple luncheon. In the meantime a light
fly had been prepared, and off I started for Geneseo.
The road presented the usual features of rich cultivated
land, a dash of wild forest, a bit of bog, and ruts
like drains; and each hamlet or village exhibited
a permanent or an ambulating daguerreotype shop.
Four hours housed me with my kind and hospitable friends
at Geneseo.
As the chances of travel had brought
me to a small country village at the time of the annual
celebration of the 4th of July, I was unable to witness
the ceremony on the grand scale in which it is conducted
in the large cities of the Union; and, as I think
it is frequently accompanied with circumstances which
are entitled to some consideration, I shall revert,
in a subsequent chapter, to those points which appear
to me calculated to act upon the national character.
On the present occasion I was delighted to find that,
although people all “liquored” freely,
there was scarcely any drunkenness; at all events,
they had their little bit of fun, such as we see at
fairs at home. By way of enabling those who have
a turn for the facetious to share in their jokes, I
insert a couple of specimens:
“ORDER OF THE DAY.
“The vast multitude will be assembled
on the Public Square, in rear of
the Candy Factory, under the direction
of Marshal JOHN A. DITTO, where
they will be formed in procession in the
following order:
“1. Officers of the Day, in
their stocking feet.
“2. Revolutionary Relics, under
the direction of the venerable G.W.S.
Mattocks.
“3. Soldiers of the last War,
looking for Bounty Land Warrants.
“4. The Mayor and Common Council,
drawn in a Willow Wagon, by the
Force of Habit.
“5. Officers of the Hoodoos,
drawn by 13 Shanghai Chickens, and driven
by Joe Garlinghouse’s Shanghai Quail.
“6. The Bologna Guards, in
new dress, counting their money.
“7. The Ancient Fire Company
expecting their treasurer to chuck 42$
under their windows.
“The procession will then march
to the grove in rear of Smith
Scovell’s barn, where the following
exercises will take place:
“1. The reading of the Declaration
of Independence by the Tinker,
Dan.
“2. Oration by Bill
Garrison.
“3. Hymn There was
three Crows sit on a Tree by the Hoodo Choir.
“4. Benediction by
Elder Bibbins.
“After which the multitude will
repair to Charley Babcock’s old stand
for Refreshments.
“Bill of Fare. 1.
Mud Turtle Sou. Boiled Eggs, har.
Pea-nut. Boiled Eggs, sof.
More Pea-nuts.
“Dessert. Scotch
Herring, drie. Do. do., dea. Do.,
done
brow. Sardines, by special request.
“Wines and Liquors. Hugh
Doty’s Rattle-Belly Po.
Hide-and-go-Seek (a new brand).
“Precisely at 4 o’clock, P.M.,
the Double Oven Air Calorie Engine,
attached to a splendidly decorated Wheel
barrow, will make an
excursion, on the
Conhocton Valley Switch,
to the old Hemp Factory and back.
It is expected that the President
and Directors will go over the Road, and
they are to have the first
chance, strictly under the direction of
the ‘Rolling Stock.’
“Hail, ye freeborn Sons of
Happy America. ‘Arouse, Git up, and Git!’
Music Loud Fifing during the day.
“June, 1853.
“By Order of COMMITTEE.”
“CLEAR THE TRACK FOR THE LIGHTNING
LINE OF MALE AND FEMALE STAGES!!!
“From Perry to Geneseo and
back in a Flash.
“BAGGAGE, PERSONS, AND EYESIGHT
AT RISK OF OWNERS, AND NO QUESTIONS
ANSWERED.
“ Having bought out the
valuable rights of young Master James Howard in
this Line, the subscriber will streak it daily between
Perry and Geneseo, for the conveyance of Uncle Sam’s
Mails and Family; leaving Perry before the Crows
wake up in the morning, and arriving at the first
house on this side Geneseo about the same time; returning,
leave Geneseo after the Crows have gone to roost,
and reach Perry in time to join them. Passengers
will please to keep their mouths shut for fear they
should lose their teeth. No Smoking allowed for
fear of fretting the Horses; no Talking lest it
wake the Driver. Fare to suit passengers.
“The public’s very much obliged
servant, &c. &c.”
A quiet and simple stage of rough
wood was put up at one end of the village, close to
the Court-house, from whence the Declaration of Independence
was read, after which a flowery orator summoned
for the occasion, and who travels about to different
villages in different years with his well-digested
oration addressed the multitude. Of
course similes and figures of rhetoric were lugged
in by the heels in every sentence, as is the all but
universal practice on such occasions in every part
of the world. The moral of his speech was in the
main decidedly good, and he urged upon his audience
strongly, “the undying advantages of cultivating
pluck and education” in preference to “dollars
and shrewdness.” All went off in a very
orderly manner, and in the evening there were fireworks
and a village ball. It was at once a wild and
interesting sight during the fireworks; the mixture
of men, women, and children, some walking, some carried,
some riding, some driving; empty buggies, some with
horses, some without, tied all round; stray dogs looking
for masters as hopelessly as old maids seeking for
their spectacles when raised above their eyes and
forgotten. Fire companies parading ready for
any emergency; the son of mine host tugging away at
the rope of the engine in his red shirt, like a juvenile
Atlas, as proud as Lucifer, as pleased as Punch.
All busy, all excited, all happy; no glimpse of poverty
to mar the scene; all come with one voice and one
heart to celebrate the glorious anniversary of the
birth of a nation, whose past gigantic strides, unparalleled
though they be, are insufficient to enable any mind
to realize what future is in store for her, if she
only prove true to herself.
Leave-takings do not interest the
public, so the reader will be satisfied to know that
two days after found me in an open carriage on my
way to Rochester. The road lay entirely through
cultivated land, and had no peculiar features.
The only thing I saw worth noticing, was two men in
a light four-wheel one-horse shay, attached to which
were at least a dozen others, some on two wheels,
some on four. I of course thought they were some
country productions going to a city manufacturer.
What was my astonishment at finding upon inquiry,
that it was merely an American phase of hawking.
The driver told me that these people will go away
from home for weeks together, trying to sell their
novel ware at hamlet, village, farm-house, &c., and
that some of the shrewdest of them, the genuine Sam
Slick breed, manage to make a good thing of it.
The shades of evening closed in upon
me as I alighted at a very comfortable hotel at Rochester.
The amiable Morpheus soon claimed me as his own, nor
was I well pleased when ruthlessly dragged from his
soft embrace at 6-1/2 A.M. the following morning;
but railways will not wait for Morpheus or any other
deity of fancy or fiction; so, making the best use
I could of a tub of water and a beefsteak, and calming
my temper with a fragrant weed, I was soon ensconced
in one of their cars, a passenger to New York.
On reaching Albany, we crossed the
river and threw ourselves into the cars of the Hudson
River Railway, which, running close to the margin
nearly all the way, gives you an ever-varying view
of the charming scenery of this magnificent stream.
Yankee industry was most disagreeably prominent at
several of the stations, in the shape of a bevy of
unwashed urchins parading the cars with baskets of
the eternal pea-nut and various varieties of lollipop,
lemonade, &c., all crying out their wares, and finding
as ready a sale for them as they would at any school
in England. The baiting-place was not very tempting;
we all huddled into one room, where everything was
hurry and confusion: besides which, the appetite
was not strengthened by the sight of hands whose
owners seemed to have “registered a vow in heaven,”
to forego the use of soap turning over
the sandwiches, one after another, until they had
made their selection. However, the majority approve
of the system; and as no thought is given to the minority,
“if you don’t like it, you may lump it.”
But the more permanent inconvenience
of this railroad is one for which the majority cannot
be held responsible, i.e., it runs three-fourths
of the way over a bed of granite, and often between
cuts in the solid granite rock, the noise therefore
is perfectly stunning; and when to this you add the
echoing nature of their long wooden cars, destitute
of anything to check the vibrations of sound, except
the human cargo and the cushions they sit upon, and
when you add further the eternal slamming of the doors
at each end by the superintending conductor and the
inquisitive portion of the passengers, you may well
conceive that this combination is enough to rouse
the slumbers of the dead, and rack the brains of the
living. At the same time, I must allow that this
line runs the best pace and keeps the best time of
any in the Union.
On reaching the outskirts of New York,
I asked, “Is this the proper place for me to
get out at?” And being answered in the affirmative,
I alighted, and found myself in a broad open street.
Scarce had I set my foot on the ground, when I saw
the train going on again, and therefore asked for
my luggage. After a few questions and answers,
I ascertained it had gone on in the train about three
miles further; and the only consolation I got, was
being told, “I guess you’d best have gone
on too.” However, all troubles must have
an end; so getting into a hackney, I drove to my hospitable
friend Phelps’ house, where, under the influence
of glorious old Madeira P. had just finished
dinner and most undeniable claret, the
past was soon buried in the present; and by the time
I had knocked the first ash off one of his best “prensados,”
the stray luggage returned from the involuntary trip
it had made on its own account. What a goodly
cheery thing is hospitality, when it flows pure from
a warm heart; nor does it lose aught in my estimation
when viewed through the medium of a first-rate cellar
and the social “Havana.”
Time progresses small hours
approach the front door shuts behind some
of the guests six-foot-two of animal life
may be seen going up-stairs with a bed-candle; the
latter is soon out, and your humble servant is snug
in the former. Reader, good-night!