BY EDITH SESSIONS TUPPER.

The Chautauquan takes back to his or her busy life in the school room, the college chair, the pulpit, the sanctum, the parlor, and the kitchen, many beautiful pictures of memory.

In fancy does one often see the branches of grand old trees, fit pillars of one of God’s first temples, cross above one’s head, making a network for the laughing, blue, summer skies; in imagination does one again see a green landscape turn golden in the light of a fast setting sun. Ah! those vistas about the Hall in the Grove; can not you see those leafy avenues bending down to the lovely lake, now in the early morning stretching glassy and waveless, now at noon, tumbling and tossing its white caps abroad, now in the solemn night lying black and motionless, and reflecting the light of stars? Can one who has seen the moon rise over Long Point ever forget the sight? Recall now that midsummer night, when drifting out in your boat you idly watched those masses of clouds shift, part and separate to let the white glory of the moon shine through! How serene and lofty she hung, poised in mid-heaven. Higher and higher she climbed, pouring her wealth of light down upon the clouds heaped beneath her, until they, massed and piled upon each other, seemed like the glittering domes and towers of a city not made with hands. In vivid fancy you could almost trace the shining streets of gold, the gates of pearl, the walls of precious stones. The summer wind sighed softly around; the murmuring waters rippled about the keel of your boat; on the shore the lights danced and flickered like fireflies. Such a night is never to be forgotten. It is a scene of enchantment, a mid-summer night’s dream.

Ah! these beautiful pictures “that hang on memory’s wall,” these day dreams, by their potent magic, heal the heart and brain when life’s fret and worry are hardly to be endured. A writer has truly said:

To all these beautiful pictures of memory many a Chautauquan adds the remembrance of one indescribable scene—a look at the great fall.

A short trip to Niagara is indeed one of the features of a summer’s sojourn at the city in the woods. Every week a crowd of excursionists leaves with reluctance the delights of the fair lake and takes a day’s jaunt to the Falls, which are distant about eighty miles from Chautauqua. Many of you, my readers, remember that trip—the magnificent views of Lake Erie, which you got from time to time, on the way to Buffalo. Then the run down from that city along Niagara River, past Fort Erie and Black Rock, historic names. You remember how your heart beat a little faster when the brakeman called, “Niagara Falls,” and you realized that you were soon to stand in sight of one of the wonders of the world. Of course you remember the clamoring hackmen, once heard not easily forgotten. Then have you forgotten that short walk or drive down a shaded street, past many shops filled with feathers and Indian temptations? Do you recall that dull, booming sound which suddenly broke upon your ear, and can you not now sense that delicious, fresh smell of the water as you turned into Prospect Park, and ah! can you ever forget when you at last stood within hand reach of that awful presence, when your bewildered and startled eyes glanced now at the shouting, leaping, laughing, maddening, scornful rapids; now at that overwhelming mass which flung itself over that tremendous precipice into a seemingly bottomless pit? Was it a pleasant day when you were there? Do you then remember the exquisite coloring of the water, the dazzling white, the vivid green, the pellucid blue? How the sun seemed to catch up every drop of that vast volume, and shine through it, giving a tiny rainbow effect to every crystalline particle? How the rapids called aloud to each other in glee, and chased one another in a mad race, as to which should first make that mighty leap? Or was it a dull, gloomy day? Then did they not shriek aloud in horror, and hurl themselves in black and hissing despair to their awful plunge?

Did you chance at nightfall to drive or walk about Goat Island, and hear the chattering and cawing of myriads of crows, which blackened the tree tops? This is their rendezvous, and the woods are alive with them, and their weird sounds at dusk, added to that ever present, sullen roar, produce an unearthly and fantastic effect. Did not your breath almost forsake your body when you crossed to the three fair sisters lying so peacefully far out in the midst of that seething, tumbling, foaming hell of waters?

At night you saw the electric lights turned on the American Fall, playing now with sulphuric effect, now giving a ghastly, blue appearance, and now turning this white, pure Undine to a very Scarlet Woman. The day on which you first saw these pictures will long be marked with a red letter in your calendar.

But, sublime as is the physical beauty of Niagara, we have to deal with quite another phase of her character; one of which the tourist, limited by time, seldom thinks. It is only after becoming familiar with every inch of her picturesque surroundings, after spending days and weeks drinking in her superb beauty, content to sit, oblivious of time or space, or sun or sky, that one at last remembers that for many miles around the ground is covered with the footprints of history. Ground that has echoed the thundering tread of armies, that has been drunken with the blood of brave men, that now smiles peacefully, from which violets spring, and on which children play.

To say nothing of the French and Indian wars, the country about Niagara was the scene of many of the fiercest struggles of the war of 1812, and some of the sorest defeats to the American side. The battle of Queenston Heights and Lundy’s Lane, or Bridgewater, were both disastrous to the American cause, while Fort George, at the mouth of Niagara River, a hard earned and costly acquisition of the Americans, was wrested from them by General Drummond, who also laid waste Lewiston, Youngstown, Tuscarora, and Manchester, then called, now the village of Niagara Falls. Those were dark days for the Americans, when they fought not only Englishmen, but crafty and treacherous Indians.

The first great battle of the campaign on the Niagara during the war of 1812, was that of Queenston Heights, on the 13th of October. This was the second attempted invasion of Canada, the first having been the humiliating failure of Hull, at Detroit, in August previous. General Stephen Van Rensselaer determined to capture Queenston Heights, and for that purpose, early in the morning, sent two small columns down the river, most of which succeeded in landing under a brisk fire from the vigilant English. Captain John E. Wool led the Regulars up the hill, and was met by the British on the broad plateau, where a sharp engagement took place, ending in the Americans being forced back to the beach. Here they were reinforced and ordered to scale the Heights. This order was obeyed, and for a short time the Americans had the advantage, when suddenly brave General Brock, who defeated Hull at Detroit, and who was now at Fort George, at the mouth of the river, having ridden from thence at full speed, appeared and took command. A furious contest followed, in which the Americans, though fighting with the bravery of despair, were driven to the extreme edge of the precipice, and in which Brock fell, mortally wounded.

Then General Winfield Scott crossed the river and assumed command of the American forces, expecting to be reinforced by the militia, but through stubbornness and cowardice they fell back on their prerogative, and refused to be taken out of the state. Twice was Scott attacked by the British and Indians, and twice repelled them with the bayonet, but at the third attack the Americans were obliged to retreat. Back, back, further yet, over the edge of that awful chasm they went scrambling from ledge to ledge, leaping from rock to rock, stumbling, falling, blindly catching at twig, branch, stem, blade of grass, even, powder blackened, faint, weary, bleeding, wounded, dying, only to reach the river to find no boats waiting to succor them, compelled at last to surrender. Ah! dead heroes! that was indeed a descent into Avernus.

In this engagement the Americans lost one thousand men.

Let the visitor to Niagara not leave until he has taken the drive to Queenston Heights. It is only seven miles below the cataract, not a long drive for a summer afternoon. A pretty drive, too, past many beautiful farms and country seats. Once there one can drive to the top of the broad plateau, on which the lofty and magnificent monument to General Brock stands. Now leave your carriage, go to the front of the plateau, and look. What a view! Directly at your feet lies old Queenstown; across the river old Lewistown; for seven miles before you, peacefully and languidly, as if weary from its terrible work up above, flows the green river, flecked with foam. Yonder, at its mouth, lies Fort Niagara, on the American side; the ruins of Forts George and Mississaga, on the Canadian side, while beyond, far as the eye can reach, stretches Lake Ontario, flooded with the light of a western sun—a sea of glass, mingled with fire.

In the spring of 1813, Isaac Chauncey, an American Commodore, after a successful expedition against York, now Toronto, which he held for four days and then abandoned, after firing the government buildings, captured Fort George. The Americans held it until the following December, when General Drummond appeared on the peninsula, between Lakes Ontario and Erie. On his approach the American garrison abandoned Fort George and fled across the river to Fort Niagara. As they went they ruthlessly burned the village of Newark. One week after, the British captured Fort Niagara, and killed eighty of the garrison, showing no quarter to the sick in the hospital. Then followed the triumphant march of the British up the American side of the river, burning and sacking Youngstown, Lewistown, Tuscarora, Niagara Falls, even to Black Rock and Buffalo. All the farms were laid waste, and desolation stalked relentlessly through the entire region.

The whole campaign on the Niagara had been a series of blunders, and was most disastrous to the American cause.

The old town of Niagara, at the mouth of the river, is to-day an interesting and picturesque place to visit. Here the tourist takes the steamer for Toronto, and if he have an hour or two to wait, let him stroll about through the beautifully shaded streets, past the elegant hotels and private country seats, for the old town is a famous summer resort now, and is likely to be still more attractive, for a little Chautauqua is soon to spring up within stone-throw of the ruined breastworks of old Fort George.

From the round tower of Fort Mississaga, which commanded the harbor, one gets a superb view of the lake and of Fort Niagara, just over the border on the American side. Fort and lighthouse are in capital condition, and the sight of the flutter of the stars and stripes against the blue sky is very dear to the American who stands on British soil, and, thinking of all it has cost to preserve that flag, realizes that it is still there.

In 1814, the Secretary of War having persisted in his project to invade Canada, determined, as a first step, to take Kingston. In order to conceal this movement, and also that there might be no enemy left in the rear, Major-General Brown, of the American forces, commenced operations on the peninsula, between Lakes Erie and Ontario.

On the 2nd of July he left Buffalo, and captured Fort Erie, on the opposite side of the river. He then pursued his way down the river until he reached Chippewa Creek. He then fell back a little to Street’s Creek, and waited for the main body of the force, which arrived on the morning of the 5th.

General Scott’s camp was located on a little plain lying mid-way between these two creeks. In the afternoon he ordered out his brigade for a dress parade. Approaching the bridge he was met by General Brown, who informed him that a battle was imminent. The head of Scott’s column had scarcely reached the bridge when the British opened fire from the extensive forests that surrounded the creek. Riall, the British General, sneered contemptuously at the “Buffalo militia,” as he believed them when they first came in sight, but when he saw them cross the bridge steadily under fire, he discovered they were Regulars. General Peter B. Porter had command on Scott’s left, and his men fought well until charged by the bayonet, when they gave way. Major Jesup, however, covered the exposed flank, and the fighting became hot and furious along the entire front. After a time the right wing of the British disengaged from the line and charged against Jesup. Scott was quick to observe this, and in his turn charged against the exposed flank. Simultaneously Leavenworth attacked the left wing of the British, and through the gap between these two attacking columns, Towson’s battery poured in its canister with speedy effect, and the British soon retreated in great confusion, and the Americans had won their only decisive victory on Niagara.

Chippewa is to-day a tumbledown, uninteresting spot, attractive only to the student of history. There are some beautiful private residences near the town, on the banks of the river, and just below the village the river breaks into the rapids. After the well fought battle of Chippewa, the invasion of Canada seemed more feasible. General Brown was very sanguine of success, providing he could secure Commodore Chauncey’s assistance, with his fleet. He wrote urgently to Chauncey, assuring him that the British force at Kingston was very light, and that between their two forces they could conquer Canada in two months, if they were active and vigilant. But those qualities Chauncey did not possess; besides, he was ill, and thought he had more important business on hand than to carry provisions for the troops, and therefore did nothing. Nearly opposite the American Fall a road runs back over the hill, past the Clifton House and the Canada Southern Railroad Depot. The tourist following this road, and turning to the left after passing the depot, will soon find himself in a beautiful little village. Cottages of quaint and old fashioned design, nearly covered with vines and roses, and narrow lanes in lieu of streets, are its distinguishing features. Up a hill you go past a brick church, and a graveyard, in which you may find many curious inscriptions. The top of the hill is reached. Look back down that pleasant street, where old trees stretch out their long arms to meet each other. See those comfortable happy homes on each side. Hear that group of children laugh at their play; and listen, from that little brick Methodist church, on a soft summer evening, come the solemn strains of an old time hymn. No more peaceful, pastoral scene in the world, and yet the spot on which we stand was the scene of frightful carnage, terrific struggle, horrible bloodshed; here was fought the famous battle of Lundy’s Lane. At noon of July 25, 1814, General Brown received intelligence at Chippewa, that General Drummond had reached Fort George the night previous, with reinforcements, with which he intended to capture the stores of the Americans at Fort Schlosser, which was located just above the rapids, on the American side. Scott—now a Brigadier-General—was ordered forward to divert the enemy from this project. He had advanced about two miles when he was confronted by the entire British force, drawn up in Lundy’s Lane. Scott engaged the right wing of the British, ordering Jesup to look after the left. These movements were successful, Jesup capturing many prisoners, among whom was General Riall. After the battle was well under way, General Brown arrived from Chippewa with reinforcements. The British held an eminence on which were planted seven guns. General Brown saw at once that unless this battery could be captured no impression could be made.

“Can you take that battery?” he asked Colonel James Miller.

“I’ll try, sir,” was the memorable answer of Miller—and he tried. It was now night, and the approach of Miller’s men was hidden by a high fence. The gunners held their lighted matches in their hands when Miller’s men thrust their muskets through the fence, shot down the men at the guns, rushed forward and captured the battery.

The British made two valiant attempts to retake the battery, but were not successful. Generals Brown, Scott, and Major Jesup were all wounded, and the command devolved upon the inefficient Ripley, who, after idly waiting half an hour, anticipating another attack, instead of following up the advantage already gained, withdrew from the field. The British returned, took possession of the field and the battery which Miller had captured. The American forces were obliged to beat a retreat to Chippewa for food and water, and the British claimed the victory as the last occupants of the field. The loss of men on both sides was about equal.

Drummond followed the Americans to Fort Erie, opposite Buffalo, and there ensued a regular siege until the 17th of September, when the Americans made a sudden sortie and destroyed the works of the enemy. This was accomplished only by terrific fighting on both sides, in which the Americans lost five hundred men, and the British nine hundred. Drummond now abandoned the siege, and in October the Americans destroyed Fort Erie, and returned to their own side of the river. Thus ended the campaign on the Niagara. It had been productive of no results save the digging of thousands of graves, and proving to the British that the raw Yankee troops were able to give the trained English soldiers some hard work.

Just above Goat Island, where the river breaks into rapids, on the American side, the tourist notices the ruins of Fort Schlosser, of which we have spoken before as containing stores and provisions on which General Drummond had designs. Later history has something to say of this fort. Here occurred a circumstance out of which grew results which for a time threatened a third war between England and the United States. In 1837, just after the close of the second Seminole war, a rebellion broke out in Canada. Great sympathy was felt on the American side, for the insurgents. Despite the fact that the United States made great efforts to preserve neutrality, a small American steamer, the “Caroline,” made regular trips across to Navy Island, carrying supplies to a party of five hundred insurgents, who were staying there. In December, one Captain Drew was sent out from Chippewa with a force to capture this steamer. He did not find her at Navy Island, as he expected, and so crossed to Grand Island, which was American territory, boarded her, killed twelve men on board, towed her out in the stream, set her on fire, and left her to drift down the river and go over the Falls.

The United States promptly demanded redress, but could obtain no satisfaction for three years. In 1840, one McLeod, who had boasted of his part in this affair, came over to the American side, where he was under indictment for murder. He was seized and held for trial.

The British government demanded his release on the ground that he had participated in an act of war, and therefore could not for that act be tried before a civil court. The President answered that as yet the United States had received no answer to the question whether the burning of the “Caroline” had been an authorized act of war. In all events the administration could not interfere with a state court, and prevent it from trying any one indicted within its limits. England threatened war unless McLeod was released; but the trial proceeded. The two countries would doubtless have been brought into conflict had not McLeod been acquitted. It was proved that he was asleep in Chippewa at the time the “Caroline” was burned, and that a vain desire for notoriety had caused him to inculpate himself. There was great excitement in 1841, over this trial, which was augmented by the indifferent attitude of acting President Tyler. A District Attorney of New York was allowed to act as McLeod’s counsel, and retain his office, thus presenting the astonishing spectacle of a government officer attempting to prove, in such a question as this, which was liable to result in war, his own government to be in the wrong.

Nothing now remains of Fort Schlosser but a tall, gaunt chimney, which has weathered for many long years the terrific winds which sweep down the river.

Throughout this fair and smiling region there are but few traces of these fierce battles.

No blackened farms and desolated villages; no rattle of musketry and roar of cannon; the sword is turned into plow-share and pruning hook; from the soil watered with the blood of heroes spring thrifty orchards and sweet flowers; in the place of fire from the blazing torch of red handed war rises the smoke of prosperous town and thriving hamlet; Canada and the United States stretching out friendly hands to each other; the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes floating side by side; peace, plenty, and prosperity on both sides the broad river. Everything is changed save the great Falls themselves. Unceasingly they do their awful work; unceasingly their thunders sound; unceasingly their mists roll heavenward.