LIKE most of the landings on the Hudson, Peekskill is a sort of outstretched hand from the interior of the country. It is about eighty miles from New York, and the produce from the country behind is here handed over to the trading sloops, who return into the waiting palm the equivalent in goods from the city. A sort of town naturally springs up at such a spot, and as a river-side is a great provocative of idleness, all the Dolph Heyligers of the country about seem to be collected at the landing. The neighborhood of this spot is interesting from its association with the history of the Revolution. The headquarters of General Washington were just below, at Verplank’s Point; and the town of Peekskill, half a mile back from the river, was the depot of military stores, which were burned by General Howe in 1777. “On my return southward in 1782,” says the translator of Chastellux, who has not given his name, “I spent a day or two at the American camp at Verplank’s Point, where I had the honor of dining with General Washington. I had suffered severely from an ague, which I could not get quit of, though I had taken the exercise of a hard-trotting horse, and got thus far to the north in the month of October. The General observing it, told me he was sure I had not met with a good glass of wine for some time,—an article then very rare,—but that my disorder must be frightened away. He made me drink three or four of his silver camp-cups of excellent Madeira at noon, and recommended to me to take a generous glass of claret after dinner,—a prescription by no means repugnant to my feelings, and which I most religiously followed. I mounted my horse the next morning, and continued my journey to Massachusetts, without ever experiencing the slightest return of my disorder. “The American camp here presented the most beautiful and picturesque appearance. It extended along the plain, on the neck of land formed by the winding of the Hudson, and had a view of this river to the south. Behind it, the lofty mountains, covered with wood, formed the most sublime background that painting could express. In the front of the tents was a regular continued portico, formed by the boughs of the trees in full verdure, decorated with much taste and fancy. Opposite the camp, and on distinct eminences, stood the tents of some of the general officers, over which towered predominant that of Washington. I had seen all the camps in England, from many of which drawings and engravings have been taken; but this was truly a subject worthy the pencil of the first artist. The French camp, during their stay in Baltimore, was decorated in the same manner. At the camp at Verplank’s Point we distinctly heard the morning and evening gun of the British at Knightsbridge.” The curiosity seizes with avidity upon any accidental information which fills up the bare outline of history. The personal history of Washington more particularly, wherever it has been traced by those who were in contact with him, is full of interest. Some of the sketches given by the Marquis of Chastellux, who passed this point of the Hudson on his way to Washington’s headquarters below, are very graphic. “The weather being fair on the 26th,” he says, “I got on horseback, after breakfasting with the General. He was so attentive as to give me the horse I rode on the day of my arrival. I found him as good as he is handsome; but, above all, perfectly well broke and well trained, having a good mouth, easy in hand, and stopping short in a gallop without bearing the bit. I mention these minute particulars because it is the General himself who breaks all his own horses. He is an excellent and bold horseman, leaping the highest fences, and going extremely quick without standing upon his stirrups, bearing on the bridle, or letting his horse run wild,—circumstances which our young men look upon as so essential a part of English horsemanship, that they would rather break a leg or an arm than renounce them.” After passing some days at headquarters, this young nobleman thus admirably sums up his observations on Washington:— “The strongest characteristic of this great man is the perfect union which reigns between his physical and moral qualities. Brave without temerity, laborious without ambition, generous without prodigality, noble without pride, virtuous without severity,—he seems always to have confined himself within those limits beyond which the virtues, by clothing themselves in more lively but more changeable colors, may be mistaken for faults. It will be said of him hereafter, that at the end of a long civil war he had nothing with which he could reproach himself. His stature is noble and lofty; he is well made and exactly proportioned; his physiognomy mild and agreeable, but such as to render it impossible to speak particularly of any of his features,—so that on quitting him, you have only the recollection of a fine face. He has neither a grave nor a familiar air; his brow is sometimes marked with thought, but never with inquietude; in inspiring respect he inspires confidence, and his smile is always the smile of benevolence.” A SCENE ON THE BANKS OF THE HUDSON. Cool shades and dews are round my way, And silence of the early day; ’Mid the dark rocks that watch his bed Glitters the mighty Hudson spread, Unrippled, save by drops that fall From shrubs that fringe his mountain wall; And o’er the clear still water swells The music of the Sabbath bells. All, save this little nook of land, Circled with trees, on which I stand: All, save that line of hills which lie Suspended in the mimic sky,— Seems a blue void, above, below, Through which the white clouds come and go; And from the green world’s farthest steep I gaze into the airy deep. Loveliest of lovely things are they, On earth, that soonest pass away. The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyond the sculptured flower; Even love, long tried and cherished long, Becomes more tender and more strong, At thought of that insatiate grave From which its yearnings cannot save. River! in this still hour thou hast Too much of heaven on earth to last; Nor long may thy still waters lie An image of the glorious sky. Thy fate and mine are not repose; And ere another evening close, Thou to thy tides shalt turn again, And I to seek the crowd of men. William Cullen Bryant. |