  NEWBURG stands upon a pretty acclivity, rising with a sharp ascent from the west bank of the Hudson; and in point of trade and consequence, it is one of the first towns on the river. In point of scenery Newburg is as felicitously placed, perhaps, as any other spot in the world, having in its immediate neighborhood every element of natural loveliness,—and just below, the sublime and promising Pass of the Highlands. From the summit of the acclivity, the view over Matteawan and Fishkill is full of beauty,—the deep flow of the Hudson lying between, and the pretty villages just named sparkling with their white buildings and cheerful steeples beyond. Newburg has a considerable trade with the back country, and steamboats are running constantly between its pier and New York. If there were wanting an index of the wondrous advance of enterprise and invention in our country, we need not seek further than this simple fact,—a small intermediate town, on one river, supporting such an amount of expensive navigation. About seventy years ago Fulton made his first experiment in steam on the Hudson, amid the unbelief and derision of the whole country. Let any one stand for one hour on the pier at Newburg, and see those superb and swift palaces of motion shoot past, one after the other, like gay and chasing meteors, and then read poor Fulton’s account of his first experiment,—and never again throw discouragement on the kindling fire of genius. “When I was building my first steam-boat,” said he to Judge Story, “the project was viewed by the public at New York either with indifference or contempt, as a visionary scheme. My friends, indeed, were civil, but they were shy. They listened with patience to my explanations, but with a settled cast of incredulity on their countenances. I felt the full force of the lamentation of the poet,— “‘Truths would you teach, to save a sinking land?— All shun, none aid you, and few understand.’ “As I had occasion to pass daily to and from the building-yard while my boat was in progress, I have often loitered, unknown, near the idle groups of strangers gathering in little circles, and heard various inquiries as to the object of this new vehicle. The language was uniformly that of scorn, sneer, or ridicule. The loud laugh rose at my expense, the dry jest, the wise calculation of losses and expenditure, the dull but endless repetition of ‘the Fulton folly.’ Never did a single encouraging remark, a bright hope, or a warm wish, cross my path. “At length the day arrived when the experiment was to be made. To me it was a most trying and interesting occasion. I wanted many friends to go on board to witness the first successful trip. Many of them did me the favor to attend, as a matter of personal respect; but it was manifest they did it with reluctance, fearing to be partners of my mortification and not of my triumph. I was well aware that in my case there were many reasons to doubt of my own success. The machinery was new and ill-made, and many parts of it were constructed by mechanics unacquainted with such work; and unexpected difficulties might reasonably be presumed to present themselves from other causes. The moment arrived in which the word was to be given for the vessel to move. My friends were in groups on the deck. There was anxiety mixed with fear among them; they were silent, sad, and weary; I read in their looks nothing but disaster, and almost repented of my efforts. The signal was given, and the boat moved on a short distance, and then stopped and became immovable. To the silence of the preceding moment now succeeded murmurs of discontent and agitation, and whispers and shrugs. I could hear distinctly repeated, ‘I told you so! It is a foolish scheme; I wish we were well out of it.’ I elevated myself on a platform, and stated that I knew not what was the matter; but if they would be quiet, and indulge me for half an hour, I would either go on or abandon the voyage. I went below, and discovered that a slight maladjustment was the cause. It was obviated. The boat went on. We left New York; we passed through the Highlands; we reached Albany! Yet even then imagination superseded the force of fact. It was doubted if it could be done again, or if it could be made, in any case, of any great value!” What an affecting picture of the struggles of a great mind, and what a vivid lesson of encouragement to genius, is contained in this simple narrative! THE DELAWARE WATER-GAP. Our western land can boast no lovelier spot. The hills which in their ancient grandeur stand Piled to the frowning clouds, the bulwarks seem Of this wild scene, resolved that none but Heaven Shall look upon its beauty. Round their breast A curtained fringe depends of golden mist, Touched by the slanting sunbeams; while below The silent river, with majestic sweep, Pursues his shadowed way,—his glassy face Unbroken, save when stoops the lone wild swan To float in pride, or dip his ruffled wing. Talk ye of solitude? It is not here. Nor silence. Low, deep murmurs are abroad. Those towering hills hold converse with the sky That smiles upon their summits; and the wind Which stirs their wooded sides whispers of life, And bears the burden sweet from leaf to leaf, Bidding the stately forest-boughs look bright, And nod to greet his coming! And the brook, That with its silvery gleam comes leaping down From the hillside, has too a tale to tell; The wild bird’s music mingles with its chime, And gay young flowers that blossom in its path Send forth their perfume as an added gift. The river utters, too, a solemn voice, And tells of deeds long past, in ages gone, When not a sound was heard along his shores, Save the wild tread of savage feet, or shriek Of some expiring captive, and no bark E’er cleft his gloomy waters. Now, his waves Are vocal often with the hunter’s song; Now visit, in their glad and onward course, The abodes of happy men,—gardens and fields, And cultured plains,—still bearing, as they pass, Fertility renewed and fresh delights. ......... Elizabeth F. Ellett. LAKE ERIE. These lovely shores! how lone and still! A hundred years ago The unbroken forest stood above, The waters dashed below,— The waters of a lonely sea Where never sail was furled, Embosomed in a wilderness, Which was itself a world. A hundred years! go back, and, lo! Where, closing in the view, Juts out the shore, with rapid oar Darts round a frail canoe: ’Tis a white voyager, and see, His prow is westward set O’er the calm wave! Hail to thy bold, World-seeking bark, Marquette! The lonely bird, that picks his food Where rise the waves and sink, At their strange coming, with shrill scream, Starts from the sandy brink; The fishhawk, hanging in mid sky, Floats o’er on level wing, And the savage from his covert looks, With arrow on the string. A hundred years are past and gone, And all the rocky coast Is turreted with shining towns,— An empire’s noble boast; And the old wilderness is changed To cultured vale and hill; And the circuit of its mountains An empire’s numbers fill! Ephraim Peabody. |
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